"T. BRANCH"
I
Dalton felt that Fate had played a shabby trick. He had planned a
graceful exit and the curtain had stuck; he had wanted to run away, and
he could not. Flora was very ill, and it was, of course, out of the
question to desert Oscar.
Madge had been sent for. She was to arrive on the noon train. He had
promised Oscar that he would drive down for her. The house was in a
hubbub. There were two trained nurses, and a half-dozen doctors. The
verdict was unanimous, Flora could not be moved, and an operation was
imperative.
And in the meantime there was the thought of Becky beating at his
heart. With miles between them, the thing would have been easy. Other
interests would have crowded her out. But here she was definitely
within reach--and he wanted her. He wanted her more than he had ever
wanted Madge, more than he had ever wanted any other woman. There had
been a sweetness about her, a dearness.
He thought it over as he lay in bed waiting for his breakfast. Since
waking, he had led Kemp a life of it.
"Of all the fools," he said, when at last the tray came.
"Anything the matter, sir?"
George lifted a silver cover. "That's not what I ordered."
"You said a kidney omelette, sir."
"I wanted the kidney broiled--not in a messy sauce. Take it away."
"I'll get you another."
"I don't want another. Take it away." He flung his napkin on the tray
and turned his face to the wall. "I've got a headache. Tell Waterman
that if he asks for me, that I've told you to go down and meet Miss
MacVeigh."
Kemp stood and looked at the figure humped up under the light silk
cover. He had long patience. He might have been a stick or stone
under his master's abuse. But he was not a stick or a stone. It
seemed too that suddenly his soul expanded. No man had ever called him
a fool, and he had worn a decoration in France. He knew what he was
going to do. And for the first time in many months he felt himself a
free man.
George's decision to have Kemp meet Madge had been founded on the
realization that it would be unbearably awkward if he should pass Becky
on the road. She had sent back his pendant without a word, and there
was no telling how she was taking it. If the thing were ever
renewed--and his mind dwelt daringly on that possibility, explanations
would be easy--but he couldn't make explanation if she saw him first in
a car with another woman.
It was thus that Madge, arriving on the noon train, found Kemp waiting
for her. Kemp was very fond of Miss MacVeigh. She was not a snob and
there were so many snobs among Dalton's friends. She talked to him as
if he were a man and not a mechanical toy. Dalton, on the other hand,
treated his valet as if he were a marionette to be pulled by strings,
an organ controlled by stops, or a typewriter operated by keys.
Major Prime had come down on the same train. Randy, driving Little
Sister, was there to meet him.
"It is good to get back," the Major said. "I've been homesick."
"We missed you a lot. Yesterday we had a barbecue, and you should have
been here----"
"I wanted to be, Randy. I hope you are not going to turn me out with
the rest of the boarders when you roll in affluence."
"Affluence, nothing--but I sold two cars yesterday----"
"Not bad for a poet."
"It is a funny sort of game," said Randy soberly; "all day I run around
in this funny little car, and at night I think big thoughts and try to
put them on paper."
He could not tell the Major that the night before his thoughts had not
been the kind to put on paper. He had been in a white fury. He knew
that if he met Dalton nothing could keep him from knocking him down.
He felt that a stake and burning fagots would be the proper thing, but,
failing that, fists would do. Yet, there was Becky's name to be
considered. Revenge, if he took it, must be a subtle thing--his mind
had worked on it in the darkness of the night.
Kemp was helping Madge into the Waterman car. "Who is she?" the Major
asked. "She came down on my train."
"Miss MacVeigh. Mrs. Waterman is very ill. There is to be an
operation at once."
"I watched her on the train," the Major confessed as he and Randy drove
off. "She read all the way down, and smiled over her book. I saw the
title, and it was 'Pickwick Papers.' Fancy that in these days. Most
young people don't read Dickens."
"Well, she isn't young, is she?"
"Not callow, if that's what you mean, you ungallant cub. But she is
young in contrast to a Methuselah like myself."
Kemp had to look after Miss MacVeigh's trunks, so Randy's little car
went on ahead. Thus again Fate pulled wires, or Providence. If the
big car had had the lead Madge would have gone straight as an arrow to
Hamilton Hill. But as it happened, Little Sister barred the way to the
open road.
II
The two cars had to pass the Flippins. Mrs. Flippin and Mary were
baking cakes for the feast at Huntersfield. Mrs. Flippin was to go
over in the afternoon and help Mandy, and to-morrow Truxton and his
mother would arrive.
"The Judge is like a boy," said Mrs. Flippin, "he's so glad to have
Truxton home."
"Perhaps he won't be so glad when he gets here----"
"Why not?" Mrs. Flippin turned and stared at her daughter.
Mary was seeding raisins, wetting her fingers now and then in a glass
of water which stood on a table by her side. "Well, Truxton may be
changed--most of the men are, aren't they?"
"Is Randy Paine changed?"
"Yes, Mother."
"How?"
"He's a grown-up."
"Well, he needed to grow, and it wouldn't hurt Truxton either."
"But if Truxton has grown up and wants his own way--the Judge won't
like it. The Judge has always ruled at Huntersfield."
"Well, he supports Truxton; why shouldn't he?"
A bright flush stained Mary's skin. "Truxton has his officer's pay
now."
"He won't have it when he gets out of the Army."
Mary rose and went to the stove. She came back with a kettle and
poured boiling water over a dish of almonds to blanch them.
"We ought to have made this fruit cake a week ago to have it really
good," she said, and shelved the subject of Truxton Beaufort.
"It will be good enough as it is," said Mrs. Flippin; "there isn't
anybody in the county that can beat me when it comes to baking cakes."
"Where's Fiddle," Mary said, suddenly; "can you see her from the
window, Mother?"
Mrs. Flippin could not.
"Well, she's probably sailing her celluloid fish in the chickens' water
pan," said Mary; "I'll go out and look her up in a minute."
But Fiddle was not sailing celluloid fish. Columbus-like she had
decided that there were wider seas than the water pan. Once upon a
time her grandmother had taken her to the bottom of the hill, and at
the bottom of the hill there had been a lot of water, and Fiddle had
walked in it with her bare feet, and had splashed. She had liked it
much better than the chickens' pan.
So she had picked up her three celluloid fish and had trotted down the
path. She wore her pink rompers, and as she bobbed along she was like
a mammoth rose-petal blown by the wind.
At the foot of the hill she came upon a little brown stream. It was
just a thread of a stream, very shallow with a lot of big flat stones.
Fiddle walked straight into it, and the clear water swept over her
toes. She put in her little fish, and quite unexpectedly, they swam
away. She followed and came to where the stream was spanned by a
rail-fence which separated the Flippin farm from the road. The lowest
rail was about as high above the stream as her own fast-beating heart.
She ducked under it and discovered one of her fish whirling in a small
eddy. It was a red fish and she was very fond of it. She made a
sudden grab, caught it, lost her balance and sat down in the water.
After the first shock, she found that she liked it. The other fish had
continued on their journey towards the river. Perhaps some day they
would come to the sea. Fiddle forgot them. She held the little red
fish fast and splashed the water with her heels.
Now on each side of the water was a road, which went up a hill each
way, so that cars coming down put on speed to go up, and forded the
stream which was a mere thread of water except after high rains.
Randy was talking to the Major as he came down the hill. He did not
see Fiddle until he was almost upon her. He was driving at high speed,
and there was only a second in which to jam things down and pull things
up and stop the car.
Kemp was behind him. He was not prepared for Randy's sudden stop. He
swerved sharply to the left, slammed into a telegraph pole--and came
back to life to find somebody bending over him. "Who is looking after
the lady, sir?" he managed to murmur.
"Young Paine and Mr. Flippin are carrying her to the house. You are
cut a bit. Let me tie up your head." The Major gave efficient first
aid and after that Kemp got to his feet, painfully. "Is Miss MacVeigh
badly hurt?"
"She is conscious, and not in great pain. I'm not much of a prop to
lean on, but I think we can make that hill together."
They climbed slowly, the man of crutches and the man with the bound-up
head.
"It's like a little bit of over there, Kemp, isn't it?"
"Yes it as, sir--many's the time I've seen them helping each
other--master and man."
When they got to the house, they found Madge on the sofa, and Mrs.
Flippin bending over her. "My husband has gone for the doctor," she
told the Major. "I think the blood comes from her hand; she must have
put it up to save her face."
"I bent my head," murmured Madge, "and my hat was broad. Think what
might have happened if I had worn a little hat."
She had started the sentence lightly but she stopped with a gasp of
pain. "Oh--my foot----" she said, "the pain--is--dreadful----"
The Major drew up a chair, and handed his crutches to Randy. "If
you'll let us take off your shoe, it might help till the doctor comes."
She fainted dead away while they did it, and came back to life to find
her foot bandaged, and her uncut hand held in the firm clasp of the man
with the crutches. He was regarding her with grave gray eyes, but his
face lighted as she looked up at him.
"Drink this," he told her. "The doctor is on the way, and I think it
will help the pain until he comes."
She liked his voice--it had a deep and musical quality. She was glad
he was there. Something in his strength seemed to reach out to her and
give her courage.
When the pain began again, he gave her another drink from the glass,
and when she drifted off, she came back to the echo of a
softly-whistled tune.
"I beg your pardon," the Major said as she opened her eyes; "it is a
bad habit that I permit myself when I have things on my mind. My men
said they always knew by the tune I whistled the mood I was in. And
that there was only one tune they were afraid of."
"What was that?"
"'Good-night, Ladies----'" He threw back his head and laughed. "When
I began on that they knew it was all up with them----"
She tried to laugh with him, but it was a twisted grin. "Oh," she said
and began to tremble. She saw his eyes melt to tenderness. "Oh, you
poor little thing."
She was conscious after that of the firm hand which held hers. The
deep voice which soothed. Through all that blinding agony she was
conscious of his call to courage--she wondered if he had called his men
like that--over there----
When the doctor came, he shook his head. "We'd better keep her here.
She is in no condition to be moved to Hamilton Hill, not over these
roads. Can you make room for her, Mrs. Flippin?"
"She can have my room," said Mary; "Fiddle and I can go up-stairs----"
They moved Madge, and Mrs. Flippin and Mary got her to bed. The Major
sat in the sitting-room and talked to Randy, and as he talked he held
Madge's hat in his hand. It had a brim of straw and a crown of mauve
silk. The Major, turning it round and round on a meditative finger,
thought of the woman who had worn it. She was a pretty woman, a very
oddly pretty woman.
"Is she related to Mrs. Waterman, Kemp?" he asked.
"No, sir. But she's been there all summer. And then she went away,
and they sent for her because Mrs. Waterman is ill."
Randy rather indiscreetly flung out, "It seems as if the trail of that
Waterman crowd is over our world. I suppose we shall have to get the
news of this up to them somehow."
"I can telephone Mr. Dalton, sir."
"Is Dalton still there?"
"Yes, sir. And he had a headache this morning, and stayed in bed, or
he would have been in the car, sir----"
Randy wished bloodthirstily that Dalton had been in the car. Why
couldn't Dalton have been smashed instead of Madge?
"I might call up Mr. Waterman instead of Mr. Dalton," Kemp suggested.
"If Mr. Dalton's in bed, he'll hate to be disturbed."
"Are you afraid of him, Kemp?"
Kemp's honest eyes met Randy's burning glance. "No, I am not afraid.
I am leaving his service, sir."
They stared at him. "Leaving his service, why?" Randy demanded.
"He called me a fool this morning. And I am not a fool, sir."
"What made him say that?" Randy asked, with interest.
"He ordered a kidney omelette for breakfast, and I brought it, and he
wouldn't eat it, and blamed me. I am willing to serve any man, but not
without self-respect, sir."
"What are you going to do now, Kemp?" the Major asked.
"Find a better man to work for."
"It won't be hard," Randy interpolated.
"Work for me," said the Major.
Kemp was eager----! "For you, sir?"
"Yes. I need somebody to be legs for me--I'm only half a man. The
place is open for you if you want it."
"I shall want it in a week;" said Kemp; "I shall have to give him
notice."
"There will be three musketeers in the old Schoolhouse, Paine. We have
all seen service."
"It will be the best thing that ever happened to me sir," said Kemp
ecstatically, "to know that I can wait on a fighting man." He swung
down the hall to the telephone as if he marched to the swirl of pipes.
"Isn't Dalton a brute?" said Randy.
"He that calleth his brother a fool----" mused the Major. He was still
turning the mauve hat in his hands. "It is queer," he said
unexpectedly, "how some women make you think of some flowers. Did you
notice everything Miss MacVeigh wore was lilac--and there's the perfume
of it about her things----"
"Becky's a rose," said Randy, "from her own garden. She's as fresh and
sweet," his voice caught. "Oh, hang Dalton," he said, "I hate the
whole tribe of them----"
Kemp came back to say that Oscar Waterman would be down at once. He
insisted that Miss MacVeigh should be brought up to Hamilton Hill.
"He must talk with the doctor."
"He is bringing a doctor of his own. One who came down for Mrs.
Waterman."
Randy picked up his hat. "I'm going home. The same house won't hold
us----"
Kemp was discreet. "Can I help you with your car, sir?"
"I'll come over later and look at it." Randy, escaping by the back
way, walked over the hills.
The Major stayed, and was in the sitting-room with the county doctor
when the others arrived.
Dr. Dabney, the county doctor, was not old. He rode to hounds and he
enjoyed life. But he was none the less a good doctor and a wise one.
Waterman's physician confirmed the diagnosis. It would be very unwise
to move Miss MacVeigh.
"But she can't stay here," said Dalton.
"Why not?"
"She can't be made comfortable." Dalton surveyed the Flippin
sitting-room critically. He was aware that Mr. Flippin was in the
doorway, and that Mrs. Flippin and Mary could not fail to catch his
words. But he did not care who heard what he said. All was wrong with
his world. It was bad enough to have Flora ill, but to have Madge out
of commission would be to forge another chain to hold him to Hamilton
Hill.
"She can be made very comfortable here," said Dr. Dabney. "Mrs.
Flippin is a famous housekeeper. And anyone who has ever slept in that
east room in summer knows that there is nothing better."
Dalton ignored him. "What do you think?" He turned to the Washington
doctor. "What do you think?"
"I think it best not to move her. We can send a nurse, and with Dr.
Dabney on the case, she will be in good hands."
"The only trouble is," said Dr. Dabney, unexpectedly, "that we may
impose too much on Mrs. Flippins' hospitality."
"We will pay----" said Dalton with a touch of insolence.
From the doorway, Mr. Flippin answered him. "We don't want pay----
Neighbors don't ask for money when they--help out----"
There was a fine dignity about him. He was a rough farmer in overalls,
but Dalton would never match the simple grace of his fine gesture of
hospitality.
The Major, who had been silent, now spoke up. "You are having more
than your share of trouble, Mr. Waterman. First your wife, and now
your guest."
"Oh, I am, I am," said Oscar, brokenly. "I don't get what I've done to
deserve it."
He was a pathetic figure. Whatever else he lacked, he loved his wife.
If she died--he felt that he could not bear it. For the first time in
his life Oscar faced a situation in which money did not count. He
could not buy off Death--all the money in the world would not hold back
for one moment the shadow of the Dark Angel from his wife's door.
III
The window of the east room looked out on the old orchard. There was a
screened door which opened upon a porch and a stretch of lawn beyond
which was the dairy.
Within the room there was a wide white bed, and a mahogany dresser with
a scarf with crocheted trimming, above the dresser was an old steel
engraving of Samson destroying the temple. The floor was spotless, a
soft breeze shook the curtains. Madge, relieved from pain and propped
on her pillows, watched a mother cat who with her kittens sat just
outside the door.
She was a gray cat with white paws and breast, not fat at the moment
but with a comfortable well-fed look. She alternately washed herself
and washed her offspring. There were four of them, a rollicking lot
not easy to keep in order.
"Aren't they--ripping?" Madge said to Mary.
"They always come up on the step about this time in the afternoon; they
are waiting for the men to bring the milk to the dairy."
A little later Madge saw the men coming--two of them, with the foaming
pails. The mother cat rose and went to meet them. Her tail was
straight up and the kittens danced after her.
"They will get a big dish of it, and then they will go around to the
kitchen door to wait for supper and the table scraps. And after that
Bessie will coax the kittens out to the barn and go hunting for the
night."
"Is that her name--Bessie?"
"Yes; there has always been a Bessie-cat here. And we cling to old
customs."
"I like old customs," said Madge, "and old houses."
After a little she asked, "Who makes the butter?"
"I do. It's great fun."
"Oh, when I am well, may I help?"
"You----?" Mary came over and stood looking down at her; "of course
you may help. But perhaps you wouldn't like it."
"I am sure I should. And I don't think I am going to get well very
soon----"
Mary was solicitous. "Why not?"
"I don't want to get well. I want to stay here. I think this place
is--heavenly."
Mary laughed. "It is just a plain farmhouse. If you want the show
places you should go to Huntersfield and King's Crest----"
"I want just this. Do you know I am almost afraid to go to sleep for
fear I shall wake up and find it a--dream----"
A little later, she asked, "Are those apples in the orchard ripe?"
"Yes."
"May I have one?"
"The doctor may not want you to have it," said her anxious nurse.
"Just to hold in my hand," begged Madge.
So Mary picked a golden apple, and when the doctor came after dark, he
found the room in all the dimness of shaded lamplight, and the golden
girl asleep with that golden globe in her hand.
Up-stairs the mulatto girl, Daisy, was putting Fiddle-dee-dee to sleep.
"You be good, and Daisy gwine tell you a story."
Fiddle liked songs better. "Sing 'Jack-Sam-bye.'"
Daisy, without her corsets and in disreputable slippers, settled
herself to an hour of ease. She had the negro's love of the white
child, and a sensuous appreciation of the pleasant twilight, the
bed-time song, the rhythm of the rocking-chair.
"Well, you lissen," she said, and rocked in time to the tune.
Bye, oh, bye, little Jack-Sam, bye.
Bye, oh, bye, my baby,
When you wake, you shall have a cake--
And all the pretty little horses--
Her voice was low and pleasant, with queer, quavering minor cadences.
But Fiddle-dee-dee was not sleepy.
"'Tory," she begged, when the song was ended.
So Daisy told the story of the three bears. Fiddle was too young to
fully comprehend, but she liked the sound of Daisy's voice at the
climaxes, "Who's been sittin' in _my_ chair?" and "Who's been sleepin'
in _my_ bed?" and "Who's been eatin' _my_ soup?" Daisy was dramatic or
nothing, and she entered into the spirit of her tale. It was such an
exciting performance altogether that Fiddle was wider awake than ever
when the story was finished.
"'Ain' you evah gwine shut yo' eyes?"
"Daisy, sing," said Fiddle.
"I'se sung twel my th'oat's dry," said Daisy. And just then Mary came
in. "Isn't she asleep, Daisy?--I'll take her. Bannister's John is
downstairs and wants to see you."
"Well, I ain' wantin' to see him," Daisy tossed her head; "you jus'
take Miss Fiddle whilst I goes down and settles _him_. I ain' dressed
and I ain' ready, Miss Mary. You jes' look at them feet." She stuck
them out for inspection. Her shoes were out at the toes and down at
the heels. "This ain' my company night." As she went down-stairs, her
voice died away in a querulous murmur.
Mary, with her child in her arms, sat by the window and looked out upon
the quiet scene. There was faint rose in the sky, and a silver star.
But while she watched the rose faded.
Fiddle, warm and heavy in her arms, slept finally. Then Mary took off
her dress and donned a thin white kimono. She let down her hair and
braided it----
There was no light in the room, and her mother, coming up, asked
softly, "Are you there?"
"Yes."
"Fiddle asleep?"
"Yes, Mother."
Mrs. Flippin found her way to the window and sat down. "The nurse is
here, and a lot of clothes and things just came over for Miss MacVeigh
from Hamilton Hill. Mary, I wish you could see them."
"I shall in the morning, Mother."
"The nurse got her into a satin nightgown before I came up, with
nothing but straps for sleeves--but she looked like a Princess----"
"Aren't you tired to death, dear?"
Mrs. Flippin laughed. "Me? I like it. I am sorry to have Miss
MacVeigh hurt, but having her in the house with all those pretty things
and people coming and going is better than a circus."
Mary laughed a little. "You are such a darling--making the best of
things----"
"Well, making the best is the easiest way," said Mrs. Flippin. "I ain't
taking any credit, Mary."
"You've had a hard day. You'd better go to bed."
"I'll have a harder one to-morrow. Nothing would do but I must go back
to Huntersfield. Mandy's off her head, and the Judge wants this whole
house turned upside down for Truxton."
"And Truxton comes--on the noon train."
"Yes."
There was a long silence. Then Mary said in a queer voice, "Mother,
I've got to tell you something--to-night----"
"You ain't got anything to tell me, honey."
"But I have--something--I should have told you--months ago."
"There isn't anything you can tell me that I don't know."
"_Mother_----"
"Girls can't fool their mothers, Mary. Do you think that when Fiddle
grows up, she is going to fool you?"
IV
The next morning Mr. Flippin was at the foot of the stairs when his
daughter came down.
"So you lied to me, Mary."
She shook her head, "No."
"You said his name was Truelove Branch."
"He is my true love, Father. And his name is T. Branch--Truxton Branch
Beaufort."
"What do you think the Judge is going to say about this?"
"He is going to hate it. He is going to think that your daughter isn't
good enough for his grandson."
"You are good enough for anybody, Mary. But this wasn't the right way."
"It was the only way. Didn't Mother tell you that he begged me to let
him write to you and go to the Judge, and I wouldn't?"
"Why not?"
"I wanted to have him here, so that we might face it together."
"Your mother says she guessed it long ago. But she didn't say
anything. Talking might make it worse."
"Talking would have made it worse, Dad. We had done it--and I'd do it
again," there was a lift of her head, a light in her eyes, "but it
hasn't been easy--to know that you wondered--that other people
wondered. But it wouldn't have been any better if I had told. Truxton
had to be here to make it right if he could."
"Why didn't he come a-runnin' to you as soon as he got on this side?"
"He couldn't. His orders kept him in New York, and he wanted me to
come. But I wouldn't. I made him ask his mother. I could spare him
for three weeks,--he will be mine for the rest of his life--and he is
to tell her before they get here."
"I wouldn't have had it happen for a thousand dollars," said troubled
Bob Flippin. "I've always done everything on the square with the
Judge."
"I know," said Mary, with the sudden realization of how her act had
affected others, "I know. That's the only thing I am sorry about.
But--I don't believe the Judge would be so silly as to let anything I
did make any difference about you----"
"Where are you going to live?"
For the first time Mary's air of assurance left her. "He is hoping his
grandfather will want us at Huntersfield----"
"He can keep on a-hoping," said Bob Flippin. "I know the Judge."
Mary flared. "We can find a little house of our own----"
Her father laid his hand on her shoulder. "Look at me, daughter," he
said, and turned her face up to aim. "Our house is yours, Mary," he
said. "I don't like the way you did it, and I hate to think what will
happen when the Judge finds out. But our home is yours, and it's your
husband's. As long as you like to stay----"
And now Mary sobbed--a little slip of a thing in her father's arms.
All the long months she had kept her secret, holding it safe in her
heart, dreading yet longing for the moment when she could tell the
world that she was the wife of Truxton Beaufort, whom she had adored
from babyhood.
"I would have married him, Dad, if--if I had had to tramp the road."
Truxton came on the noon train. He drove at once to Huntersfield with
his mother, was embraced by the Judge, kissed Becky, and suddenly
disappeared.
"Where's he gone?" the Judge asked, irritably. "Where has he gone,
Claudia?"
"He will be back in time for lunch," said Mrs. Beaufort. "May I speak
to you in the library, Father?"
Becky, from the moment of her aunt's arrival, had known that something
was wrong. She had expected to see Mrs. Beaufort glowing with renewed
youth, radiant. Instead, she looked as if a blight had come upon her,
shrivelled--old. When she smiled it was without joy; she was dull and
flat.
It was a half hour before Aunt Claudia came out from the library. "My
dear," she said, finding Becky still on the porch, "I have something to
tell yon. Will you go up-stairs with me?--I--think I should like
to--lie down----"
Becky put a strong young arm about her and they went up together.
"It's--it's about Truxton," Aunt Claudia said, prone on the couch in
her room. "Becky--he's married----"
"_Married?_"
"Married, my dear. He did not tell me until--last night. He wanted me
to be happy--as long as I could. He's a dear boy, Becky--but--he's
married----" She went on presently with an effort. "He has been
married over two years--and, Becky--he has married--Mary Flippin."
"_Aunt Claudia----_"
"He married her in Petersburg--before he went to France with the first
ambulance corps. They decided not to tell anyone. Mary took Truxton's
middle name. When the baby came, Truxton was wild to write us, but
Mary--wouldn't. She felt if he was here when it was told that we would
forgive him---- If anything--happened to him--she didn't want him to
die feeling that we had--blamed him---- I must say that Mary--was
wise--but--to think that my son has married--Mary Flippin."
"Mary's a dear," said Becky stoutly.
"Yes," Aunt Claudia agreed, "but not a wife for my son. I had such
hopes for him, Becky. He could have married anybody."
Becky knew the kind of woman that Aunt Claudia had wanted Truxton to
marry--one whose ancestors were like those whose portraits hung in the
hall at Huntersfield--a woman with a high-held head--a woman whose
family traditions paralleled those of the Bannisters and Beauforts.
"Then Fiddle is Truxton's child."
"And I am a grandmother, Becky. Mrs. Flippin and I are
grandmothers----" She said it with a sort of bitter mirth.
"What did Grandfather say?"
"I left him--raging. It was--very hard on me. I had hoped--he would
make it easy. He declares that Mary Flippin shan't step inside of his
front door. That he is going to recall all the invitations that he had
sent out for to-night. I tried to show him that now that the thing is
done--we might as well--accept it. But he wouldn't listen. If he
keeps it up like this, I don't want Truxton to come back--to lunch. I
had hoped that he might bring Mary with him---- She's his wife,
Becky--and I've got to love her----"
"Aunt Claudia," Becky came over and put her arms about the pitiful
black figure, "you are the best sport--ever----"
"No, I'm not," but Aunt Claudia kissed her, and for a moment they clung
together; "you mustn't make me cry, Becky."
But she did cry a little, wiping her eyes with her black-bordered
handkerchief, and saying all the time, "He's my son, Becky. I--I can't
put him away from me----"
"He loved her," said Becky, with a catch of her breath. "I--I think
that counts a great deal, Aunt Claudia."
"Yes, it does. And they did no wrong. They were only foolish
children."
"If anyone was to blame," she went on steadily, "it was Truxton. He
had been brought up a--gentleman. He knew what was expected of a man
of his birth and breeding. Secrecy is never honorable and I told
him--last night--that I was sorry to be less proud of my son than of
the men who had gone before him."
"Did you tell him that?"
"Yes. If pride of family means anything, Becky, it means holding on to
the finest of your traditions. If you break the rules--you are a
little less fine--a little less worthy----"
What a stern little thing she was. Yet one felt the stimulus of her
strength. "Aunt Claudia," said Becky, tremulously, "if I could only be
as sure of things as yon are----"
"What things?"
"Of right and wrong and all the rest of it."
"I don't know what you mean by all the rest. But right is right, and
wrong is wrong, my dear. There is no half-way, in spite of all the
sophistries with which people try to salve their consciences."
She stopped, and plunged again into the discussion of her problem. "I
must telephone to Truxton--he mustn't come--not until his grandfather
asks him, Becky."
"He is coming now," said Becky, who sat by the window. "Look, Aunt
Claudia."
Tramping up the hail towards the second gate was a tall figure in
khaki. Resting like a rose-petal on one shoulder was a mite of a child
in pink rompers.
"He is bringing Fiddle with him," Becky gasped. "Oh, Aunt Claudia, he
is bringing Fiddle."
Aunt Claudia rose and looked out---- "Well," she said, "let her come.
She's his child. If Father turns them out, I'll go with them."
Truxton saw them at the window and waved. "Shall we go down?" Becky
said.
"No--wait a minute. Father's in the hall." Aunt Claudia stood tensely
in the middle of the room. "Becky, listen over the stair rail to what
they are saying."
"But----"
"Go on," Aunt Claudia insisted; "there are times when--one breaks the
rules, Becky. I've got to know what they are saying----"
The voices floated up. Truxton's a lilting tenor----
"Are you going to forgive us, Grandfather?"
"I am not the grandfather of Mary Flippin's child," the Judge spoke
evidently without heat.
"You are the grandfather of Fidelity Branch Beaufort," said Truxton
coolly; "you can't get away from that----"
"The neighborhood calls her Fiddle Flippin," the Judge reminded him.
"What's in a name?" said Truxton, and swung his baby high in the air.
"Do you love your daddy, Fiddle-dee-dee?"
"'Ess," said Fiddle, having accepted him at once on the strength of
sweet chocolate, and an adorable doll.
"What are they saying?" whispered Aunt Claudia, still tense in the
middle of the room.
"Hush," Becky waved a warning hand.
"There is," said the Judge, in a declamatory manner, "everything in a
name. The Bannisters of Huntersfield, the Paines of King's Crest, the
Randolphs of Cloverdale, do you think these things don't count,
Truxton?"
"I think there's a lot of rot in it," said young Beaufort, "when we
were fighting for democracy over there----"
The shot told. "Democracy has nothing to do with it----"
"Democracy," said Truxton, "has a great deal to do with it. The days
of kings and queens are dead, they have married each other for
generations and have produced offspring like--William of Germany.
Class assumptions of superiority are withered branches on the tree of
civilization. Mary is as good as I am any day."
"You wrote things like this," said the Judge, interested in spite of
himself, and loving argument.
"I wrote them because I believed them. I am ready to apologize for not
telling you of my marriage before this. I have no apologies to make
for my wife----
"I have no apologies to make for my wife," Truxton repeated. "I fought
for democratic ideals. I am practising them. Mary is a lady. You
must admit that, Grandfather."
"I do admit it," said the Judge slowly, "in the sense that you mean it.
But in the county sense? Do you think the Merriweathers will ask her
to their ball? Do you think Bob Flippin will dine with my friends
to-night?"
"I don't think he will expect to dine with you, Grandfather. I think
if you ask him, he will refuse. But if you take your friendship from
him it will break his heart----"
"Who said I would take my friendship away from Bob Flippin?"
"He is afraid--you may----"
"Because you married Mary?"
"Yes."
The Judge was breathing hard. "Whom does he think I'd go fishing with?"
"Do you think he'll want to go fishing with you if you cast off Mary?"
The Judge had a vision of life without Bob Flippin. On sunshiny days
there would be no one to cut bait for him, no one to laugh with him at
the dogs as they sat waiting for their corn-cakes, no one to listen
with flattering attention to his old, old tales.
It had not occurred to him that Bob Flippin, too, might have his pride.
He sat down heavily in a porch chair.
"Go and get Mary," he exploded; "bring her here. The thing is done.
The milk is spilled. And there's no use crying over it. And if you
think you two young people can separate me and Bob Flippin----"
Mrs. Beaufort and Becky came down presently, to find the old man
gazing, frowning, into space.
"I have told him to bring Mary, Claudia, but I must say that I am
bitterly disappointed."
"Mary is a good little thing, Father." Aunt Claudia's voice shook.
The old man looked up at her. "It is hardest for you, my dear. And I
have helped to make it hard."
He reached out his hand to her. She took it. "He is my son--and I
love him----"
"And I love you, Claudia."
"May I get the blue room ready?"
The blue room was the bridal chamber at Huntersfield; kept rather
sacredly at other times for formal purposes.
"Do as you please. The house is yours, my dear."
And so that night the lights of the blue room shone on Fiddle Flippin
and her new grandmother.
"Do you think she would let me put her to bed?" Mrs. Beaufort had asked
Mary.
"If you will sing, 'Jack-Sam Bye.'"
Mary pulled the last little garment from the pink plump body, and
Fiddle, like a rosy Cupid, counted her toes gleefully in the middle of
the wide bed.
"I told Truxton," Mary said suddenly, "that he might not want to call
her 'Fiddle.' The whole neighborhood says 'Fiddle Flippin.'"
"It is a dear little name," Aunt Claudia was bending adoringly over the
baby, "but Fidelity is better--Fidelity Branch Beaufort----"
"I want her to be as proud of her name as I am," Mary's voice had a
thrilling note. "It is a great thing to know that my child has in her
the blood of all those wonderful people whose portraits hang in the
hall. I want her to be worthy of her name."
She could have said nothing better. Aunt Claudia's face was lighted by
the warmth in her heart. "Such a lot of ancestors for one little fat
Fidelity," she said; "put on her nightgown, Mary, and I'll rock her to
sleep."