The Trumpeter Swan

CHAPTER IX

“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 is, 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. Flip­pin's 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 see 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 bed­time 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 down-​stairs 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 comp'ny 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 the 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 him. “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 you. 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 you 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 hill 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.”