Last fall, when news of Mr. Daring’s death and his bankruptcy reached her, Judith had been much distressed. Duty called her to far away Riverdale, to look after Mollie Eliot’s orphaned little ones. She wrote to Lawyer Ferguson for particulars and he frankly informed her of the unfortunate condition of the young Darings. So she “broke camp,” as she said, and as soon as she could complete and deliver the miniatures which she had contracted to paint for a wealthy Englishman, the successful artist abandoned her brilliant career and departed, bag and baggage, for America.
“So they’re pretty wild, are they?” she asked Aunt Hy.
“Wild ’s hawks, Miss Judy, I’s sorrerful to remahk. Marse Phil an’ Miss Phœbe ain’t so bad, kase dey’s old ’nuff to ’member what ther pore deah ma done tell ’em. But Miss Sue uses jus’ drea’fu’ grammer, an’ she dat stubbo’n ’twould make a mule blush. Marse Don, he’s got a good heart, but he can’t ’member jus’ whar it’s locationed, an’ he plagues ever’body mos’ alarmin’. As fer dat flyaway Becky, ’tain’t jus’ no use triflin’ wid her; she kain’t be brung up proper, nohow.”
“Becky is at a difficult age, just now,” mused Judith, smiling at the eloquent old servant.
“All her ages done ben diff’cult, Miss Judy—shuah’s yo’ bohn. Miss Becky don’ seem like a Daring a’ tall. She’s mo’ like dat Topsy in Unc’ Tom’s Cab’n; ’cept’ she ain’t black.”
Then came the subject of finances, wherein Aunt Hyacinth was able to give definite and fairly lucid information. She had managed to feed her flock so far, but the future contained an alarming menace unless more money was forthcoming. When Aunt Hyacinth’s savings were gone, starvation might stare the Darings in the face. It is true both Phil and Phœbe planned to make some money, “but what’s dem helpless chill’ns know ’bout de expensiveness of livin’?” inquired the old mammy, hopelessly.
Judith looked grave, but she was not greatly surprised.
“Miss Phœbe’s ben workin’ right ’long, ev’ry minute she’s out ’n school,” reported Auntie; “but it ain’t sech work as’ll last long. An’ Marse Phil’s goin’ take a place in de bank, when he’s got his schoolin’—’twere all decided no more’n yist’day. But ten dollahs a week ain’t no great ’mount to fill all dem moufs. Lucky we don’ haf to pay rent.”
“I have always thought my uncle—their Grandfather Eliot—a rich man,” remarked Judith, more to herself than to old Hyacinth. “In my girlhood days he was said to be the largest property owner in the county.”
“So he were, Miss Judy. Don’ I ’member when Marse Daring fus’ brung me heah, how Misteh Jonat’n Eliot was de big rich man o’ Riverdale? But he done sold off de hull estate, piece by piece, ’til nuthin’s lef’ but dis yere ol’ house an’ de gahden.”