The Trumpeter Swan

CHAPTER VII

MADE­MOI­SELLE MI­DAS

I

There came to Hunters­field the next morn­ing at about the same mo­ment, Kemp in his lit­tle car with a small par­cel for Becky, and Calvin with a big box from the ex­press of­fice.

Becky was in her room at break­fast when Calvin brought the box­es up to her. It was a sun­shiny morn­ing, and the Judge had gone a-​fish­ing with Mr. Flip­pin. Becky, in a lace cap and a robe that was del­icate­ly blue, sat in a big chair with a low ta­ble in front of her.

There were white ros­es on the ta­ble in a sil­ver bowl. The Judge had sent them to her. The Judge had for the wom­en of his fam­ily a feel­ing that was al­most youth­ful­ly ro­man­tic, and which was, un­ques­tion­ably, old-​fash­ioned. He liked to think that they had ros­es for their lit­tle noses, rib­bons and laces for their pret­ty faces. He want­ed no harsh winds to blow on them. And in re­turn for the soft­ness and ease with which he would sur­round them, he want­ed their def­er­ence to his mas­cu­line point of view.

With the box which George sent was a note. It was the first that Becky had ev­er re­ceived from her lover. George's code did not in­clude much cor­re­spon­dence. Flam­ing sen­ti­ment on pa­per was apt to look sil­ly when the af­fair end­ed.

To Becky, her name on the out­side of the en­ve­lope seemed writ­ten in gold. She was all blush­ing ex­pec­ta­tion.

“There ain't no an­swer,” Calvin said, and she wait­ed for him to go be­fore she opened it.

She read it and sat there drained of all feel­ing. She was as white as the ros­es on her ta­ble. She read the note again and her hands shook.

“Flo­ra is very ill. We are tak­ing her up to New York. Af­ter that we shall go to the North Shore. There isn't time for me to come and say, 'Good-​bye.' Per­haps it is bet­ter not to come. It has been a won­der­ful sum­mer, and it is you who have made it won­der­ful for me. The mem­ory will linger with me al­ways--like a sweet dream or a rare old tale. I am send­ing you a lit­tle to­ken--for re­mem­brance. Think of me some­times, Becky.”

That was all, ex­cept a scrawled “G. D.” at the end. No word of com­ing back. No word of writ­ing to her again. No word of any fu­ture in which she would have a part.

She opened the box. With­in on a slen­der chain was a pen­dant--a square sap­phire set in plat­inum, and sur­round­ed by di­amonds. George had or­dered it in an­tic­ipa­tion of this cri­sis. He had, hith­er­to, found such things rather ef­fec­tive in the cure of bro­ken hearts.

Now, had George but known it, Becky had jew­els in leather cas­es in the vaults of her bank which put his sap­phire trin­ket to shame. There were the di­amonds in which a Mered­ith great-​grand­moth­er had been pre­sent­ed at the Court of St. James, and there were the pearls of which her own string was a small part. There were emer­alds and ru­bies, old corals and jade--not for noth­ing had the Ad­mi­ral sailed the seas, bring­ing back from Chi­na and In­dia love­ly things for the wom­an he loved. And now the jew­els were Becky's, and she had not cared for them in the least. If George had loved her she would have cher­ished his sap­phire more than all the rest.

But he did not love her. She knew it in that mo­ment. All of her doubts were con­firmed.

The thing that had hap­pened to her seemed in­cred­ible.

She put the sap­phire back in its box, wrapped it, tied the string care­ful­ly and called Mandy.

“Tell Calvin to take this to Mr. Dal­ton.”

Mandy knew at once that some­thing was wrong. But this was not a mo­ment for words. The Ban­nis­ters did not talk about things that trou­bled them. They held their heads high. And Becky's was high at this mo­ment, and her eyes were blaz­ing.

As she sat there, tense, Becky won­dered what Dal­ton could have thought of her. If she had not had a jew­el in the world, she would not have kept his sap­phire. Didn't he know that?

But how could he know? To him it had been “a sweet dream--a rare old tale,” and she had thought him a Romeo ready to die for her sake, an Au­cassin--will­ing to brave Hell rather than give her up, a Lo­hen­grin sent from Heav­en!

She shud­dered and hid her face in her hands. At last she crept in­to bed. Mandy, com­ing in to straight­en the room, was told to low­er the cur­tains.

“My--my head aches, Mandy.”

Mandy, wise old Mandy, knew of course that it was her heart. “You res' an' sleep, hon­ey,” she said, and moved about qui­et­ly set­ting things in or­der.

But Becky did not sleep. She lay wide awake, and tried to get the thing straight in her mind. How had it hap­pened? Where had she failed? Oh, why hadn't Sis­ter Loret­to told her that there were men like this? Why hadn't Aunt Clau­dia re­turned in time?

In the big box which Mandy had brought up were clothes--exquisite things which Becky had or­dered from New York. She had thought it a mir­acle that George should have fall­en in love with her be­liev­ing her poor. It showed, she felt, his splen­did­ness, his king­ly in­dif­fer­ence to--pover­ty. Yet she had planned a mo­ment when he should know. When their love was pro­claimed to the world he should see her in a splen­dor which matched his own. He had loved her in spite of her fad­ed cot­tons, in spite of her shab­by shoes. She had made up her list care­ful­ly, think­ing of his sparkling eyes when he be­held her.

She got out of bed and opened the box. The love­ly gar­ments were wrapped in rosy tis­sue pa­per, and tied with rib­bons to match. It seemed to Becky as if those rosy wrap­pings held the last faint glow of her dreams.

She un­tied the rib­bons of the top par­cel, and dis­closed a frock of fine white lace--there was cloth of sil­ver for a pet­ti­coat, and sil­ver slip­pers. She would have worn her pearls, and George and she would have danced to­geth­er at the Har­vest Ball at the Mer­ri­weath­ers. It was an an­nu­al and very ex­clu­sive af­fair in the coun­ty. It was not like­ly that the Wa­ter­mans and their guests would be in­vit­ed, but there would have been a wel­come for Dal­ton as her friend--her more than friend.

There was a white lace wrap with puffs of pink taffe­ta and knots of sil­ver rib­bon which went with the gown. Becky with a sud­den im­pulse put it on. She stripped the cap from her head, and wound her bronze locks in a high knot. She sur­veyed her­self.

Well, she was Becky Ban­nis­ter of Hunters­field--and the mir­ror showed her beau­ty. And Dal­ton had not known or cared. He thought her poor, and had thrown her aside like an old glove!

Down-​stairs the tele­phone rang. Old Mandy, com­ing up to say that Mr. Randy was on the wire, stood in amaze­ment at the sight of Becky in the rosy wrap with her hair peaked up to a top­knot.

“Ain' you in baid?” she asked, su­per­flu­ous­ly.

“No. Who wants me, Mandy?”

“I tole you--Mr. Randy.”

Becky de­lib­er­at­ed. “I'll go down. When I come up we'll un­pack all this, Mandy.”

Randy at the oth­er end of the wire was ask­ing Becky to go to a bar­be­cue the next day.

“The board­ers are giv­ing it--it is Moth­er's birth­day and they want to cel­ebrate. It is to be on Pavil­ion Hill. They want you and the Judge----”

“To-​mor­row? Oh, I don't know, Randy.”

“Why not? Have you an­oth­er en­gage­ment?”

“No.”

“Then what's the mat­ter? Can't you tear your­self away from your shin­ing knight?”

Si­lence.

“Becky--oh, I didn't mean that. I'm sor­ry--_Becky_----”

Her an­swer came faint­ly, “I'll come.”

“What's the mat­ter with the wire? I can't hear you.”

There was noth­ing the mat­ter with the wire. The thing that was the mat­ter was Becky's voice. She found it sud­den­ly un­man­age­able. “We'll come,” she told him fi­nal­ly, and hung up the re­ceiv­er.

She as­cend­ed the stairs as if she car­ried a bur­den on her back. Mandy was on her knees be­fore the ham­per, un­ty­ing the rosy pack­ages.

“Is you goin' to try 'em on, hon­ey?” she asked.

Becky stood in the door­way, the lace wrap hang­ing from her shoul­ders and show­ing the del­icate blue of the neg­ligee be­neath--her face was like chalk but her eyes shone. “Yes,” she said, “there's a pink ging­ham I want to wear to the bar­be­cue to-​mor­row. There ought to be a hat to match. Did the hats come, Mandy?”

“Calvin he say there's an­oth­er box, but he ain' brought it up from the deepot. He was ridin' dat Jo-​mule, and this yer bas­ket was all he could ca'y.”

In the pink frock Becky looked like a love­ly child.

“Huc-​cum you-​all get­tin' eve'y thing pink, Miss Becky?” Mandy asked.

“For a change,” said Becky.

And how could she tell old Mandy that she had felt that in a rose-​col­ored world ev­ery­thing should be rose-​col­or?

She tried on each frock de­lib­er­ate­ly. She tried on ev­ery pair of slip­pers. She tried on the wraps, and the hats which came up fi­nal­ly with Calvin stag­ger­ing be­neath the bulk­iness of the box. She was love­ly in ev­ery­thing. And she was no longer the lit­tle Becky Ban­nis­ter whom Dal­ton had wooed. She was Made­moi­selle Mi­das, ap­prais­ing her beau­ty in her love­ly clothes, and won­der­ing what Dal­ton would think if he could see her.

II

Becky did not, af­ter all, wear the pink ging­ham. The Judge elect­ed to go on horse­back, so Becky rode forth by his side cor­rect­ly and smart­ly at­tired in a gray habit, with a straight black sailor and a high stock and boots that made her look like a charm­ing boy.

They came to Pavil­ion Hill to find the board­ers like the cho­rus in light opera very pic­turesque in sum­mer dress­es and sum­mer flan­nels, and with Mrs. Paine in a broad hat play­ing the part of lead­ing la­dy. Mr. Flip­pin, who was high-​priest at all of the coun­ty bar­be­cues, was su­per­in­tend­ing the roast­ing of a whole pig, and Mrs. Flip­pin had her mind on hot bis­cuits. The young mu­lat­to, Daisy, and Mandy's John, with the ne­groes from the Paine house­hold, were set­ting the long ta­bles un­der the trees. There was the good smell of cof­fee, much laugh­ter, and a gen­er­al­ly fes­tive at­mo­sphere.

The Judge, en­throned present­ly in the Pavil­ion, was the piv­otal cen­ter of the crowd. Ev­ery­body want­ed to hear his sto­ries, and with this fresh au­di­ence to stim­ulate him, he dom­inat­ed the scene. He wore a sack suit and a Pana­ma hat and his thin, fine face, the puff of curled white hair at the back of his neck, the gayety of his glance gave an al­most the­atric touch to his ap­pear­ance, so that one felt he might at any mo­ment come down stage and sing a top­ical song in the best Gilber­tian man­ner.

It was an old scene with a new set­ting. It was not the first time that Pavil­ion Hill had been the back­grounds of a bar­be­cue. But it was the first time that a Paine of King's Crest had ac­cept­ed hos­pi­tal­ity on its own land. It was the first time that it had echoed to the voic­es of an alien group. It was the first time that it had seen a fight­ing black man home from France. The old or­der had changed in­deed. No more would there be feu­dal lords of Albe­mar­le acres.

Yet old loy­al­ties die hard. It was the Judge and Mrs. Paine and Becky and Randy who stood first in the hearts of the dusky folk who served at the long ta­bles. The board­ers were not in any sense “qual­ity.” What­ev­er they might be, North, East and West, their names were not known on Vir­ginia records. And what was any fam­ily tree worth if it was not root­ed in Vir­ginia soil?

“Ef­fen the Jedge was a king and wo' a crown,” said Mandy's John to Daisy, “he couldn't look mo' bawn to a th'one.”

Daisy nod­ded. “Set­tin' at the head o' that ta­ble minds me o' whut my old Mam­my used to say, 'han'some is as han'some does.' The Ban­nis­ters _done_ han'some and they _is_ han'some.”

“They sure is,” John agreed; “that-​all's whut makes you so good-​lookin', Daisy.”

He came close to her and she drew away. “You put yo' min' on passin' them plates,” she said with sever­ity, “or you'll be spillin' po'k gravy on they haids.” Her smile took away the sting of her ad­mo­ni­tion. John moved on, mur­mur­ing, “Well, yo' does han'some and yo' is han'some, Daisy, and that's why I loves you.”

There were speech­es af­ter din­ner. One from Randy, in which he thanked them in the name of his moth­er, and found him­self quite sud­den­ly and un­ex­pect­ed­ly be­ing fond of the board­ers. Ma­jor Prime was not there. He had been sum­moned back to Wash­ing­ton, but would re­turn, he hoped, for the week-​end.

It was af­ter lunch that Randy and Becky walked in the woods. Nel­lie Custis fol­lowed them. They sat down at last at the foot of a hick­ory tree. Becky took off her hat and the wind blew her shin­ing hair about her face. She was pale and wore an air of deep pre­oc­cu­pa­tion.

“Randy,” she asked sud­den­ly out of a long si­lence, “did you ev­er kiss a girl?”

Her ques­tion did not sur­prise him. He and Becky had ar­gued many mat­ters. And they usu­al­ly plunged in with­out pre­lim­inar­ies. He fan­cied that Becky was dis­cussing kiss­es in the ab­stract. It nev­er oc­curred to him that the prob­lem was per­son­al.

“Yes,” he said, “I have. What about it?”

“Did you--ask her to mar­ry you?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

He pulled Nel­lie Custis' ears. “One of them wasn't a nice sort of girl--not the kind that I should have cared to in­tro­duce to--you.”

“Yet you cared to--kiss her?”

Randy flushed faint­ly. “I know how it looks to you. I hat­ed it af­ter­wards, but I couldn't mar­ry a girl--like that----”

“Who was the oth­er girl?”

For a mo­ment he did not re­ply, then he said with some­thing of an ef­fort, “It was you, Becky.”

“Me? When?” She turned on him her star­tled gaze.

“Do you re­mem­ber at Christ­mas--oh, ten years ago--and your grand­fa­ther had a par­ty for you. There was mistle­toe in the hall, and we danced and stopped un­der the mistle­toe----”

“I re­mem­ber, Randy--how long ago it seems.”

“Yet ten years isn't re­al­ly such a long time, is it, Becky? I was on­ly a lit­tle boy, but I told my­self then that I would nev­er kiss any oth­er girl. I thought then that--that some day I might ask you to mar­ry me. I--I had a wild dream that I might try to make you love me. I didn't know then that pover­ty is a mill­stone about a man's neck.” He gave a bit­ter laugh.

Becky's breath came quick­ly. “Oh, Randy,” she said, “pover­ty wouldn't have had any­thing to do with it--not if we had--cared----”

“I care,” said Randy, “and I think the first time I knew how much I cared was when I kissed that oth­er girl. Some­how you came to me that night, a lit­tle white thing, so fine and dif­fer­ent, and I loathed her.”

He was stand­ing now--tall and lean and black-​haired, but with the look of race on his thin face, a rather prince­ly chap in spite of his shab­by clothes. “Of course you don't care,” he said; “I think if I had mon­ey I should try to make you. But I haven't the right. I had thought that, per­haps, if no oth­er man came that some time I might----”

Becky picked up her rid­ing crop, and as she talked she tapped her boot in a sort of stac­ca­to ac­com­pa­ni­ment.

“That oth­er man has come,” _tap-​tap_, “he kissed me,” _tap-​tap_, “and made me love him,” _tap-​tap_, “and he has gone away--and he hasn't asked me to mar­ry him.”

One saw the In­di­an in Randy now, in the lift­ed head, the square-​set jaw, the al­most cru­el keen­ness of the eyes.

“Of course it is George Dal­ton,” he said.

“Yes.”

“I could kill him, Becky.”

She laughed, rue­ful­ly. “For what? Per­haps he thinks I'm not a nice sort of girl--like the one you kissed----”

“For God's sake, Becky.”

He sat down on a flat rock. He was white, and shak­ing a lit­tle. He want­ed more than any­thing else in the wide world to kill George Dal­ton. Of course in these days such things were pre­pos­ter­ous. But he had mur­der in his heart.

“I blame my­self,” Becky said, _tap-​tap_, “I should have known that a man doesn't re­spect,” _tap-​tap_, “a wom­an he can kiss.”

He took the rid­ing crop forcibly out of her hands. “Look at me, look at me, Becky, do you love him?”

She whis­pered, “Yes.”

“Then he's got to mar­ry you.”

But her pride was up. “Do you think I want him if he doesn't want--me?”

“He shall want you,” said Randy Paine; “the day shall come when he shall beg on his knees.”

Randy had stud­ied law. But there are laws back of the laws of the white man. The In­di­an knows no rest un­til his en­emy is in his hands. Randy lay awake late that night think­ing it out. But he was not think­ing on­ly of Georgie. He was think­ing of Becky and her self-​re­spect. “She will nev­er get it back,” he said, “un­til that dog asks her to mar­ry him.”

He had faith enough in her to be­lieve that she would not mar­ry Dal­ton now if he asked her. But she must be giv­en the chance.