CHAPTER VIII

THE “ARTICLES OF ADOPTION”

Judith Eliot had been accustomed to act upon her judgment; and to act quickly, and with decision. Aunt Hyacinth was half frightened when the young lady returned and said that Elaine had attempted to bar her out of the vacant rooms, but she was going to occupy one of them, nevertheless. The black mammy was a Daring servant, having followed her nursling Wallace when he married and set up housekeeping at Riverdale. She had nursed, in turn, each of the Daring children and, therefore, was devoted to them and their interests. But Auntie could never understand the favored servant of the Eliots, and through all the years she had known Elaine had seldom exchanged a word with the white woman. Why a housekeeper should be called “Miss” Halliday and allowed to assume airs of superiority was far beyond old Hyacinth’s comprehension. But the fact impressed her with a sense of awe of Elaine which time had never dissipated.

Since the Darings had come to this house to live the two serving women had held aloof from one another as before, and the aggressive, dominant attitude of Miss Halliday held Auntie in sure subjection to her will. She never doubted that Elaine had the power to turn her precious flock out in the cold world, if she chose, and therefore took great care not to annoy her in any way.

It was not clear to her, at this juncture, whether she ought to applaud or deplore Miss Judith’s defiance of the hitherto supreme power of “ol’ Miss Hall’day,” but she willingly followed the energetic young lady up the spiral staircase to show her the vacant rooms.

The east room was sunny and bright, but poorly furnished. In one corner stood several decrepit and damaged chairs, a few old pictures and some bundles of matting. A door, closed and locked, communicated with the room back of it--the room Miss Halliday herself occupied. Aunt Hyacinth, in a whisper, called Judith’s attention to this door.

Perhaps that accounted for the desire of the old woman that Miss Eliot take the west room, which was not nearly so pleasantly situated; but the young lady promptly decided that the east room suited her best. She was accustomed to doing things for herself, and with Auntie’s help dragged the cast-off chairs and other lumber into the west room and made a selection of the best furniture from the two.

Also, she robbed the stately parlor downstairs of a comfortable rocker and the hall of a small stand. When the east room had been swept, dusted and cleaned, it appeared to be quite livable, although Aunt Hy shook her head gravely and declared that it was not nearly as good as the front rooms. In fact, she confided to Judith that the east room “wasn’t fit fo’ ’spectible comp’ny.”

“When Phil and Don come home to lunch,” said Judith, “I’ll get them to help me up with the trunks and bags, and then I’ll unpack and settle.”

At noontime, however, when the children came home from school, Phœbe vetoed the entire carefully planned arrangement. Cousin Judith mustn’t be tucked into that cheerless east room on any account, but should have Phœbe’s own pretty room at the front, with its balcony overlooking the village and the river.

“I’m seldom in my room,” said the girl, “while you, Cousin Judith, will often shut yourself up to paint or write. So, I’ll move into the east room in a jiffy, and rid up the front room so you can take possession.”

Miss Eliot protested against this change, but Phœbe had a will of her own and moreover, was right in her argument. Everyone energetically assisted in transferring Phœbe’s “traps” across the hall, and before school time arrived Cousin Judith’s baggage had all been carried to the big front room and deposited there.

That afternoon Phœbe “settled” her new quarters in five minutes’ time, for she was not very particular about appearances and had the true Southern disposition to leave any article wherever it happened to be. Order was not one of her characteristics, but Phœbe always claimed she could find anything she wanted, just as quickly as those who put them properly away.

Cousin Judith, although an artist, had an inherent aversion to disorder. She wanted her surroundings to look pretty at all times, and a tasteful arrangement of her possessions meant a place for everything and everything in its place. Phœbe was astonished when she came home that afternoon at the transformation effected in her old room. A hundred pretty knickknacks and articles of virtu, brought from foreign parts, had been arranged most effectively. Some choice prints from Paris and Dresden were on the walls; a small bust of Psyche in pure Carrara stood on the mantel. Judith’s well-worn easel was inscribed on every inch of its wooden surface with autographs of more or less famous artists and litterateurs who had visited her studio.

With all this the place looked as cosy and homelike as it was attractive, and thereafter the greatest joy of a Daring, big or little, was to pass an hour in Cousin Judith’s room.

Phœbe’s sleep in the east hall room was as sound and peaceful that night, as it had been before she moved from her more commodious quarters. She glanced more than once at the connecting door, as she undressed, but no sound came from old Miss Halliday’s room on the other side. There was a transom over the door, but probably the glass had long since been broken or removed, for a thin board now covered it, tacked to the frame from Phœbe’s side. There was no ready communication to be had between the two sides of the house, and as far as Phœbe was concerned she was well pleased that this was so.

That Saturday was a great day for the Darings.

“We’re going to have a good long talk together,” announced Cousin Judith at breakfast. “Just as soon as I get my room in order and Phœbe makes your beds we will get together in the parlor and begin to get acquainted.”

“Oh, not the parlor, please,” protested Don. “It’s so gloomy there.”

“The pahlah will spoil all our fun,” added Sue.

“Then you must come to my own room,” decided Cousin Judith.

Becky went out on the porch while the preparations were pending and saw the Randolph children, faultlessly attired, standing hand in hand just across the street.

“Hello, Becky!” shouted Allerton. “Come on over.”

Doris turned to him reprovingly. Then she raised her voice to Becky and said:

“My brother wishes to invite you to join us.”

“Can’t go you,” returned Becky, carelessly. “My Cousin Judith’s come, an’ we’re goin’ to have some chin music.”

“May I inquire what sort of an entertainment you refer to?” asked Doris, coming a little nearer.

“You may,” said Becky, graciously.

Doris waited, still holding her brother’s hand. To Becky it seemed absurd that such a big boy and girl should act so much like infants. So far, her acquaintance with the Randolphs had only interested her because she could “guy them” unmercifully, without their discovering it.

Allerton’s patience was not equal to that of his demure sister.

“Please tell us,” he pleaded.

“If you had a good chance, Al, you’d soon blossom into a boy--quite a decent boy,” remarked Becky, reflectively. “The trouble is, you’ll never get a chance in that stuck-up crowd you train with. Why don’t you run away and be a man?”

“I am scarcely old enough, I fear,” he sighed.

“Then be a bootblack, or a chimney sweep, or a robber, or--or--_any_thing!”

“Oh, Rebecca!” wailed Doris, greatly shocked. “How sadly the lightness of your mind is reflected in your words!”

“By cracky, you’ve got _me_ going,” returned Becky, despondently. “What does it, Doris; religion, or Boston kindergartens?”

“You have not yet told us what ‘chin music’ means,” suggested Allerton, with much interest. “It is a new term to us.”

“It means a confab, that’s all.”

“You must pardon our ignorance,” Doris observed, in her most proper manner. “Our vocabulary, you know, is limited to authorized words; yet with you the English language seems to have been amplified, and the grammatical construction of many sentences altered. Is it an idiom peculiar to this section of the country, or have you authority for the use of such unusual expressions?”

Somehow, Becky felt distinctly abashed. She might laugh at the proper speech of Doris Randolph and regard it in the light of a good joke; but, after all, she experienced a humiliating sense of her own crudeness and lack of refinement whenever the new neighbors engaged her in conversation.

Of course she resented this feeling, which intruded itself, unasked. The Darings were as good as the Randolphs, any day, she mentally declared, knowing all the time the thought was an admission of inferiority. Becky had had careful training once upon a time, and her dead mother’s injunction never to forget her personal dignity, nor give to others an opportunity to disparage it, was not wholly forgotten by the girl. She well knew that she had cultivated the slang of the streets and their rabble because some of her village associates considered it amusing and had encouraged her by their laughter. So, although the reproaches of the carefully trained Randolph children were only implied, through their complete ignorance of such phrases, the girl felt them nevertheless, and this made her bitter and more reckless than ever.

Fortunately, Phœbe called to her just then and with a shout of “So long, bully Bostoners!” she ran in to attend the gathering in Cousin Judith’s room.

Now it chanced that Miss Eliot had overheard, through her open window, the conversation exchanged across the street by Becky and her neighbors, and her sweet face flushed painfully while she listened. That a daughter of gentle, refined Molly Eliot should exhibit coarseness and vulgarity amazed and annoyed her. More than once during the brief day since her arrival she had winced at the rude sallies of Becky and Don, and even little Sue had sometimes offended her sensitive ears.

“There are many difficulties to be surmounted and plenty of hard work ahead of me, I fear,” she thought, with a sigh of regret. “But my duty to these waifs is plain, and I must pray for strength and wisdom to accomplish it.”

Then she turned and showed a smiling face as the Darings trooped in, an eager group. Many were their exclamations of pleasure as they examined Cousin Judith’s “pretty things,” and even Becky was so thoroughly delighted and turned her clear hazel eyes so adoringly upon her cousin that her recent rudeness was almost condoned.

Judith began with a relation of her own history, including many incidents of her life abroad and the hard struggle she had faced to win recognition as an artist. Then she told them of the deep affection that had always existed between her and “Cousin Molly,” the mother of the absorbed audience. She had been deeply pained at Molly’s death, and when, three years later, Molly’s children lost their father--their only natural protector--Judith had remembered that she was their nearest relative, next to Gran’pa Eliot, and it seemed her duty to go to them and help them to face the world and become the noble men and women their dear mother so fondly wished them to be.

The Darings were duly impressed and affected. Sue and Phœbe sobbed a little, and Phil wiped his eyes more than once. Donald was not so emotional but looked grave and thoughtful, while Becky’s face was white and set as she realized how little credit she had thus far reflected on the sweet, gentle mother who had been prematurely taken from them.

“What I wish,” said Judith, wistfully, “is to become a second mother to dear Molly’s children; to do for them what I think Molly would have done, had she lived. But I cannot acquire such a proud position, my dears, without your full and free consent. You must talk this over among yourselves and decide if you are willing to adopt me.”

Phœbe wrapped her arms around the speaker and kissed her cheek, while tears trembled on her dark lashes.

“Oh, Cousin Judith!” she said; “we’re so happy, and so grateful!”

Becky knelt at Judith’s feet and buried her head in her lap. Sue came like a dainty fairy to find a refuge in Judith’s embrace.

“I’d like another mamma--awful well!” she whispered; “and I couldn’t find a lovelier one than you, Cousin Judith.”

“You’ve given up a good deal for us,” Phil remarked in a husky voice, “and I’m afraid we’re not worth it, at all. But the--the youngsters need some sort of a mother, Cousin, and Phœbe and I need some one to advise us and help us in our times of trouble and worry. So we--we haven’t the courage to refuse your generous offer.”

“It won’t need a vote,” asserted Don, scowling darkly to keep from crying. “You’re elected unanimous, Little Mother; an’ that settles it.”

Judith smiled and kissed them all in turn, big and little. Then she said, very seriously:

“This alliance, my dears, means a good deal to all of us, and must not be undertaken lightly. We must have a fair and square agreement, on both sides, setting forth and defining what we have undertaken.”

They were very attentive, at this.

“First,” she continued, “I want to tell you that I am going to love each one of you, dearly, and I want you to promise you will try to love me in return.”

“Why, we do already!” exclaimed Sue, and Judith felt that she answered for all.

“The duty of a mother,” she explained, “is not only to love her children, but to train them properly. She must correct their faults, direct their amusements, attend to their deportment, laugh when they are glad and grieve over their sorrows. And they, in turn, must be content to be guided by her larger experience in life and willing to obey her in everything.”

“Of course,” said Becky, nodding. “We’ll agree to all that, Cousin Judith.”

“I long to have you grow up to be admired and respected by all you meet, as your father and mother were. Do you realize how proud a thing it is to be a Daring? You bear an honored name, my dears--a name that has always stood for nobility, truth, generosity and culture. You must guard that name, jealously, so as not only to reflect credit upon your parentage, but to win for yourselves the approval of the world.”

The awed silence that greeted this speech was broken by Donald. Perhaps he was really more affected than any of the others; I think his very soul was stirred by a desire to be a credit to his name and to himself. But he said bluntly and with a mischievous grin:

“You girls needn’t worry. You’ll change your names some day--if you’re lucky!”

It relieved the tense situation and they all laughed, including Judith. But she meant the lesson to be impressive and not easily forgotten, so she hailed a suggestion from Becky, which was perhaps intended to be as flippant as Donald’s remark.

“Let’s draw up an agreement, and all sign it,” cried the girl. “Phœbe has a typewriter, and we won’t need any lawyer.”

“A good idea,” said Miss Eliot. “Phœbe and I will go to her room and draw up the Articles of Adoption.”

This was done, and the others waited restlessly enough for a full hour for them to return, although Phil took occasion to point out how fortunate they all were to secure a friend and protector in this, their hour of greatest need.

After all, the Articles of Adoption proved quite simple and brief, although they had taken so long to prepare. Most of the paper was devoted to Cousin Judith’s agreement to love and watch over the five Darings, to correct their errors, promote their happiness and fill the place of a real mother to them, so far as she was able. The Darings, for their part, merely agreed to obey her as they would have done their natural parents. But at the last was a little clause that was destined to prove very important--more important than it then seemed. It stipulated that if any of the signers revolted from the letter or spirit of the agreement, or in other words broke the contract, the culprit should submit the case to any two of the others he or she might select; and, if they decided the offender was wrong, then he or she must either accept proper punishment, or become divorced from these Articles of Adoption.

The Darings signed the papers with enthusiastic glee; Phœbe first, because she was five minutes older than her twin; then Phil and Becky, and Don and Sue. Two copies had been made, one for Phœbe to keep and one for Cousin Judith; and to make it appear more legal and binding, Aunt Hyacinth was called in as a witness and made an inky impression of her thumb on both documents by way of signature.

By this time dinner was ready, for the Darings ate their heartiest meal in the middle of the day, in good Southern fashion.

While they dined, Cousin Judith said she would devote the afternoon to long private talks with each of her adopted children. She wanted them to tell her all about themselves, their hopes and trials and longings, and then she would be able to help them, individually, to better advantage.

Sue was closeted with the Little Mother first, because she was the youngest and most impatient. She emerged from Cousin Judith’s room bright-eyed and smiling, and then Don went in. One by one they had heart to heart talks with their newly adopted counsellor, the sessions of Phil and Phœbe being much the longest because they were older and had more to explain. When the conferences finally ended, Judith had gleaned much valuable information concerning the Daring household, and was prepared to assume her new duties with proper intelligence.