The Trumpeter Swan

CHAPTER VIII

AN­CES­TORS

I

The Judge and Mr. Flip­pin were fish­ing, with grasshop­pers for bait. The fish that they caught they called “shin­ers.” As an ed­ible prod­uct “shin­ers” were of lit­tle ac­count. But the Judge and Mr. Flip­pin did not fish for food, they fished for sport. It was mild sport com­pared to the fish­ing of oth­er days when the Judge had wad­ed in­to moun­tain streams with the wa­ter com­ing up close to the pock­et of his flan­nel shirt where he kept his cigars, or had been poled by Bob Flip­pin from “rif­fle” to pool. Those had been the days of speck­led trout and small-​mouthed bass, and Bob had been a boy and the Judge at mid­dle age. Now Bob Flip­pin had reached the mid­dle years, and the Judge was old, but they still fished to­geth­er. They were com­rades in a very close and spe­cial sense. What Bob Flip­pin lacked in ed­uca­tion and cul­ture he made up in wis­dom and ado­ra­tion of the Judge. When he talked he had some­thing to say, but as a rule he let the Judge talk and was al­ways an ab­sorbed lis­ten­er.

There was in their re­la­tions, how­ev­er, a com­plete ad­just­ment to the class dis­tinc­tions which sep­arat­ed them. The Judge ac­cept­ed as his right the per­son­al ser­vice with which Bob Flip­pin de­light­ed to hon­or him. It was al­ways Bob who pulled the boat and car­ried the bas­ket. It was Bob who caught the grasshop­pers and cooked the lunch.

There was one dish ded­icat­ed to a day's fish­ing--fried ham and eggs. Bob had a long-​han­dled fry­ing-​pan, and the food was sea­soned with the salt and sa­vor of the out-​of-​doors.

There were al­ways sev­er­al dogs to bear their mas­ters com­pa­ny. The Judge's three were bea­gles--tire­less hunters of rab­bits, and some­what in dis­grace as a species since Ger­many had gone to war with the world. In­di­vid­ual­ly, how­ev­er, they were beloved by the Judge be­cause they were the chil­dren and grand­chil­dren of a cer­tain old Di­nah who had slept in a bas­ket by his bed un­til she died.

Bob Flip­pin had a cou­ple of set­ters, and the five ca­nines formed a wist­ful semi­cir­cle around the lunch bas­ket.

The lunch bas­ket was re­al­ly a fish­ing-​bas­ket, lined with tin. In one end was a re­cep­ta­cle for ice. Af­ter the lunch was eat­en, the fish were put next to the ice, and the bas­ket thus served two pur­pos­es. Among the oth­er ed­ibles there were al­ways corn-​cakes for the dogs. They knew it, and had the pa­tience of as­sured ex­pec­ta­tion.

“Trux­ton comes on Sat­ur­day,” said the Judge as he watched Bob turn the eggs ex­pert­ly in the long-​han­dled pan, “and Clau­dia. I told Becky to ride over this morn­ing and ask your wife if she could help Mandy. Mandy's all right when there's no­body but the fam­ily, but when there's com­pa­ny in prospect she moans and groans.”

“Mol­lie's up at the Wa­ter­mans'; Mrs. Wa­ter­man is worse. They ex­pect­ed to take her to New York, but she is too ill, and they are go­ing to have the doc­tors bring an­oth­er nurse.”

“I had a note from Mr. Dal­ton,” said the Judge, “say­ing they were go­ing. It was rather sud­den, and he was sor­ry. Nice fel­low. He liked to come over and look at my birds.”

Bob Flip­pin's eyes twin­kled. “I reck­on he liked to look at a pret­ty girl----”

The Judge stared at him. “At Becky?”

Flip­pin nod­ded. “Didn't you know it?”

“Bless my soul.” The Judge was un­ques­tion­ably star­tled. “But I don't know any­thing about him. I can't have him run­ning af­ter Becky.”

“Seems to me he's been a-​run­nin'.”

“But what would Clau­dia say? I don't know any­thing about his fam­ily. Maybe he hasn't any fam­ily. How do I know he isn't a for­tune-​hunter?”

“Well, he isn't a bird hunter, I can tell you that. I saw him kick one of your dogs. A man that will kick a dog isn't fit to hold a gun.”

“No, he isn't,” said the Judge, sober­ly. “I'm up­set by what you've said, Flip­pin. Dal­ton's all right as far as I can see as a friend of mine. But when any­body comes court­ing at Hunters­field he's got to show cre­den­tials.”

He ate his lunch with­out much ap­petite. He was guilti­ly aware of what Clau­dia would say if she knew what had hap­pened.

But per­haps noth­ing had hap­pened and per­haps she need not know. He cheered up and threw a bit of ham to the wait­ing dogs. Per­haps Becky wasn't in­ter­est­ed. Per­haps, af­ter all, Dal­ton had been gen­uine in his in­ter­est in the stuffed birds.

“Becky's too young for things like that,” he be­gan hope­ful­ly.

But Bob Flip­pin shook his head. “Girls are queer, Judge, and you nev­er can tell what they're goin' to do next. Now, there's my Mary--run­ning off and get­ting mar­ried, and com­ing home and not talk­ing much about it. She--didn't even bring her mar­riage cer­tifi­cate. Said that he had kept it. But she's nev­er lied to me, and I know when she says she's mar­ried, she's--mar­ried--but it's queer. He ain't writ­ten now for weeks, but she ain't wor­ried. She says she knows the rea­son, but she can't tell me. And when I try to ask ques­tions, she just looks me straight in the eye and says, 'I nev­er lied to you, Fa­ther, did I? And it's all right.'”

“He has a good name,” said the Judge. “Branch--it's one of our names--my wife's fam­ily.”

“But I reck­on there ain't nev­er been any Tru­elove Branch­es in your fam­ily tree. I laugh at Mary when she calls him that. '”Tru­elove“ ain't any name for a man, Mary,' I tell her. But she says there couldn't be a bet­ter one. And she in­sist­ed on nam­ing the child 'Fi­deli­ty.' But if any­body had told me that my lit­tle Mary--would take things in­to her own hands like that--why, Judge, be­fore she went away to teach school, she leaned on me and her moth­er--and now she's as stiff as a pok­er when we try to ask about her af­fairs----”

“Does he sup­port her?” the Judge asked.

“Sends her plen­ty of mon­ey. She al­ways seems to have enough, even when he doesn't write. He'll be com­ing one of these days--and then we'll get the thing straight, but in the mean­time there ain't any use in ask­ing Mary.”

He brought out the bag of corn-​cakes and fed the dogs. They were a well-​bred crew and took their share in turn, sit­ting in a row and go­ing through the cer­emo­ny with an air of en­joy­ing not on­ly the food but the at­ten­tion they at­tract­ed from the two men.

“Of course,” said Mr. Flip­pin as he gath­ered up the lunch things, “I'm say­ing to you what I wouldn't say to an­oth­er soul. Mary's my girl, and she's all right. But I nat­ural­ly have the feel­ings of a fa­ther.”

The Judge stretched him­self on the grass, and pulled his hat over his eyes. “Girls are queer, and if that Dal­ton thinks he can court my Becky----” He stopped, and spoke again from un­der his hat, “Oh, what's the use of wor­ry­ing, Bob, on a day like this?”

The Judge al­ways napped af­ter lunch, and Bob Flip­pin, stretched be­side him, lay awake and watched the stream slip by in a sheet of sil­ver, he watched a squir­rel flat­tened on the limb above him, he watched the birds that flut­tered down to the pools to bathe, he watched the buz­zards sail­ing high above the hills.

And present­ly he found him­self watch­ing his own daugh­ter Mary, as she came along the op­po­site bank of the stream.

She was draw­ing Fid­dle-​dee-​dee in a small red cart and was walk­ing slow­ly.

She walked well. Coun­try-​born and coun­try-​bred, there was noth­ing about her of plod­ding peas­ant. All her life she had danced with the Ban­nis­ters and the Beau­forts. Yet she had nev­er been in­vit­ed to the big balls. When the Mer­ri­weath­ers gave their Har­vest Dance, Mary and her moth­er would go over and help bake the cakes, and at night they would sit in the gallery of the great ball­room and watch the dancers, but Mary would not be asked out on the floor.

See­ing the Judge asleep, Mary stopped and beck­oned from the oth­er side.

Flip­pin rose and made his way across the stream, step­ping from stone to stone.

“Moth­er wants you to come right up to the Wa­ter­mans', Fa­ther. Mrs. Wa­ter­man is to have an op­er­ation, and you are to di­rect the ser­vants in fit­ting up a room for the sur­geons. The nurse will tell you what to do.”

Mr. Flip­pin rubbed his face with his hand­ker­chief. “I don't like to wake the Judge.”

“I'll stay here and tell him,” Mary said. “And you can send Calvin down to car­ry the bas­ket.”

She was stand­ing be­side him, and sud­den­ly she laid her cheek against his arm. “I love you,” she said, “you are a dar­ling, Dad­dy.”

He pat­ted her cheek. “That sounds like my lit­tle Mary.”

“Don't I al­ways sound like your lit­tle Mary?”

“Not al­ways.”

“Well--I've had things on my mind.” Her blue eyes met his, and she flushed a bit. “Not things that I am sor­ry for, but things that I am wor­ried about. But now--well, I am very hap­py in my heart, Dad­dy.”

He smiled down at her. “Have you heard from T. Branch?”

“Yes, by wire­less----”

He looked his as­ton­ish­ment. “Wire­less?”

“Heart-​wire­less, Dad­dy. Didn't you get mes­sages that way when you were young--from Moth­er?”

“How do I know? It's been twen­ty-​five years since then, and we haven't had to send mes­sages. We've just held on to each oth­er's hands, thank God.” He bent and kissed her. “You stay and tell the Judge, Mary. He'll sleep for a half-​hour yet; he's as reg­ular as the clock.”

His own two dogs fol­lowed him, but the Judge's bea­gles lay with their noses on their paws at their mas­ter's feet. Now and then they snapped at flies but oth­er­wise they were mo­tion­less.

Be­fore the half hour was up Fid­dle-​dee-​dee fell asleep, and the Judge wak­ing, saw on the oth­er side of a stream propped against the gray old oak, the young moth­er cool in her white dress, her child in her arms.

“Fa­ther had to go,” she told him, and ex­plained the need; “he'll send Calvin for the bas­ket.”

“I can car­ry my own bas­ket, Mary; I'm not a thou­sand years old.”

“It isn't that. But you've nev­er car­ried bas­kets, Judge.”

The Judge chuck­led. “You say that is if it were an ac­cu­sa­tion.”

“It isn't. On­ly some of us seem born to car­ry bas­kets and oth­ers are born to--let us car­ry them.” Her smile re­deemed her words from im­per­ti­nence.

“Are you a Bol­she­vik, Mary?”

“No. I be­lieve in the di­vine rights of kings and--Judges. I'd hate to see you car­ry a bas­ket. It would rob you of some­thing--just as I would hate to see a king with­out his crown or a queen with­out her scepter.”

“Oh, Mary, Mary, your fa­ther has nev­er said things like that to me.”

“He doesn't feel them. Fa­ther be­lieves in The God of Things as They are----”

“And don't you?”

“I be­lieve in you,” she rose and car­ry­ing her sleep­ing child, crossed the stream on the stones as eas­ily as if she car­ried no bur­den; “you know I be­lieve in you, don't you--and in all the Ban­nis­ters?”

It was said so light­ly that he took it light­ly. No one was so touchy as the Judge about his dig­ni­ty if it were dis­re­gard­ed. But here was lit­tle Mary smil­ing up at him and telling him that he was a king with a crown and she liked it.

“Well, well. Let's sit down, Mary.”

“Fish, if you want to, and I'll watch.”

He bait­ed his hook and cast his line in­to the stream. It had a bob­bing red cork which fas­ci­nat­ed Fid­dle-​dee-​dee. She tried to wade out and get it, and had to be held by her very short skirts lest she drown in the at­tempt.

“So I'm a con­found­ed au­to­crat,” the Judge chuck­led. “No­body ev­er said that to me be­fore, but maybe some of them have been think­ing it.”

“Maybe they have,” said Mary grave­ly, “but they haven't re­al­ly cared. Hav­ing the Ban­nis­ters at Hunters­field is like the En­glish hav­ing a Vic­to­ria or an Ed­ward or a George at Buck­ing­ham Palace or at Wind­sor; it adds fla­vor to their--democ­ra­cy----”

“Mary--who's been say­ing all this to you?” he de­mand­ed.

“My hus­band.”

“Tru­elove Branch?”

She nod­ded.

“I'd like to meet him, by Jove, I'd like to meet him. He has been teach­ing his wife to poke fun at her old friend----”

She faced him fear­less­ly. “I'm not pok­ing fun. I--I'd hate to have the Ban­nis­ters lose one lit­tle bit of their beau­ti­ful tra­di­tions. I--I---- Some day I'm go­ing to teach lit­tle Fid­dle those tra­di­tions, and tell her what it means when--when peo­ple have race back of them. You see, I haven't it, Judge, but I know what it's worth.”

He was touched by her earnest­ness. “My dear Mary,” he said, “I wish my own grand­son looked at it that way. His let­ters of late have been very dis­turb­ing.”

A lit­tle flush crept in­to her cheeks. “Dis­turb­ing?”

“He writes that we Amer­icans have got to fit our prac­tice to our the­ories. He says that we shout democ­ra­cy and prac­tice au­toc­ra­cy. That we don't be­lieve that all men are free and equal, and that, well, in your words, Mary--we let oth­er peo­ple car­ry our bas­kets.”

Mary was smil­ing to her­self. “You are glad he is com­ing home?”

“Trux­ton? Yes. On Sat­ur­day.”

“Becky told me. She rode over to get Moth­er to help Mandy.”

“I am go­ing to have a lot of peo­ple to dine the day he ar­rives,” said the Judge, “and next week there'll be the Mer­ri­weath­ers' ball. He will have a chance to see his old friends.”

“Yes,” said Mary, “he will.”

They talked a great deal about Trux­ton af­ter that.

“I wish he bore the Ban­nis­ter name,” said the Judge. “Becky is the on­ly Ban­nis­ter.”

Af­ter the death of her hus­band Mrs. Beau­fort had come to live with the Judge. Trux­ton's boy­hood had been spent on the old es­tate. The Judge's in­come was small, and Trux­ton had known few lux­uries. Like the rest of the boys of the Ban­nis­ter fam­ily he was study­ing law at the Uni­ver­si­ty. He and Randy had been class­mates, but had gone in­to dif­fer­ent branch­es of the ser­vice.

“When he comes back,” the Judge told Mary, “he must show the stuff he is made of. I can't have him sell­ing cars around the coun­ty like Randy Paine.”

“Well, Randy has sold a lot of them,” said Mary. “Fa­ther has giv­en him an or­der----”

“You don't mean to say that Bob Flip­pin is go­ing to buy a car----”

“He is.”

“He didn't dare tell me,” the Judge said; “what's he go­ing to do with his hors­es?”

“Keep them,” said Mary serene­ly; “the car is for Moth­er--she's go­ing to drive it her­self.”

The Judge, with a vi­sion of Mol­lie Flip­pin's mid­dle-​aged plump­ness up­on him, ex­claimed: “You don't mean that your moth­er is go­ing to--drive a car?”

“Yes,” said Mary, “she is.”

“I would as soon think of Clau­dia----”

“No,” said Mary, “Mrs. Beau­fort will nev­er drive her own car. She has the coach­man habit, and if she ev­er gets a car, there'll be a man at the wheel.”

She brought the con­ver­sa­tion back to Trux­ton. “Do you re­mem­ber how we had a pic­nic here years ago, Moth­er packed the lunch, and Trux­ton ate up all the rasp­ber­ry tarts?”

“He loved tarts,” said the Judge, “and choco­late cake. Well, well, I shall be glad to see him.”

“Per­haps--per­haps when he gets here you'll be dis­ap­point­ed.”

“Why,” sharply, “why should I?”

Mary did not an­swer. She stood up with Fid­dle in her arms. “Calvin's com­ing for the bas­ket,” she said, “and I shall have to go up on the oth­er side--I left the cart.”

She said “good-​bye” and crossed by the step­ping-​stones. The Judge wound up his fish­ing tack­le. The day's sport re­sult­ed in three small “shin­ers.” But he had en­joyed the day--there had been the still­ness and the sun­light, and the good com­pa­ny of Bob Flip­pin and his daugh­ter Mary.

The dogs fol­lowed, and Mary from the oth­er side of the stream watched the lit­tle pro­ces­sion, Calvin in the lead with the load, the Judge straight and slim with his fluff of white hair, the three lit­tle dogs pad­dling on their short legs.

“Judge Ban­nis­ter of Hunters­field,” said Mary Flip­pin. Then she raised Fid­dle high in her arms. “Say _Grand­dad_, Fid­dle,” she whis­pered, “say _Grand­dad_.”

II

The Flip­pin farm­house was wide and ram­bling. It had none of the clas­sic el­egance of the old Colo­nial man­sions, but it had a hall in the mid­dle with the sit­ting-​room on one side and on the oth­er an old-​fash­ioned par­lor with a bed­room back of it. The din­ing-​room was back of the sit­ting-​room, and be­yond that was the kitchen, and a suc­ces­sion of de­tached build­ings which served as dairy, gra­nary, tool-​house and car­riage house in the old fash­ion. There was much sun­light and clean­li­ness in the farm­house, and beau­ty of a kind, for the Flip­pins had been con­tent with sim­ple things, and Mary's taste was ev­idenced in the re­straint with which the new had been com­bined with the old. She and her moth­er did most of the work. It was not easy in these days to get ne­groes to help. Daisy, the mu­lat­to, had come down for the sum­mer, but they had no as­sur­ance that when the win­ter came they could keep her. Di­vest­ed of her high heels and city af­fec­ta­tions, Daisy was just a dark­ey, of a rather plain, com­fort­able, ef­fi­cient type. When Mary went in, she was get­ting sup­per.

“Has Moth­er come, Daisy?”

“No, Miss, she ain', an' yo' Pop­pa ain' come. An' me makin' bis­cuits.”

“Your bis­cuits are al­ways de­li­cious, Daisy.”

“An' me and John wants to go to the movies, Miss Mary. An' efen the sup­per is late.”

“You can leave the dish­es un­til mornin', Daisy.”

Mary smiled and sighed as she went on with Fid­dle to her own room. The good old days of or­dered ser­vice were over.

She went in­to the par­lor bed­room. It was the one which she and Fid­dle oc­cu­pied. She bathed and dressed her ba­by, and changed her own frock. Then she en­tered the long, dim par­lor. There was a fam­ily Bible on the ta­ble. It was a great vol­ume with steel en­grav­ings. It had be­longed to her fa­ther's fa­ther. In the mid­dle of the book were pages for births and deaths. The records were writ­ten leg­ibly but not el­egant­ly. They went back for two gen­er­ations. Be­yond that the Flip­pins had no fam­ily tree.

Mary had seen the fam­ily tree at Hunters­field. It was root­ed in aris­to­crat­ic soil. There were Huguenot branch­es and Roy­al­ist branch­es--D'Aubignes and Mon­cures, Pey­tons and Carys, Ran­dolphs and Lees. And to match ev­ery name there was more than one por­trait on the walls of Hunters­field.

Mary re­mem­bered a day when she and Trux­ton Beau­fort had stood in the wide hall.

“A great old bunch,” Trux­ton had said.

“If they were my an­ces­tors I should be afraid of them.”

“Why, Mary?”

“Oh, they'd ex­pect so much of me.”

“Oh, that,” Trux­ton said air­ily, “who cares what they ex­pect?”

Mr. and Mrs. Flip­pin came home in time for sup­per. The nurse had ar­rived and the sur­geons would fol­low in the morn­ing. “It's dread­ful, Mary,” Mrs. Flip­pin said, “to see her poor hus­band; mon­ey isn't ev­ery­thing. And he loves her as much as if they were poor.”

Daisy washed the dish­es in a per­fect whirl of en­er­gy, donned her high-​heeled slip­pers and her Wash­ing­ton man­ner, and went off with John. It was late that night when Mrs. Flip­pin went out to find Mary busy.

“My dear,” she said, “what are you do­ing?”

Mary was rolling out pas­try, with ice in a gin­ger-​ale bot­tle. “I am go­ing to make some tarts. There was a can of rasp­ber­ries left--and--and well--I'm just hun­gry for--rasp­ber­ry tarts, Moth­er.”

III

It was the Judge who told Becky that Dal­ton had not gone. “Mrs. Wa­ter­man is very ill, and they are all stay­ing down.”

Becky showed no sign of what the news meant to her, but that night pride and love fought in the last ditch. It seemed to Becky that with Dal­ton at King's Crest the agony of the sit­ua­tion was in­ten­si­fied.

“Oh, why should I care?” she kept ask­ing her­self as she sat late by her win­dow. “He doesn't. And I have known him on­ly three weeks. Why should he count so much?”

She knew that he count­ed to the mea­sure of her own con­stan­cy. “I can't bear it,” she said over and over again piti­ful­ly, as the hours passed. “I think I shall--die.”

It seemed to her that she want­ed more than any­thing in the whole wide world to see him for a mo­ment--to hear the quick voice--to meet the sparkle of his glance.

Well, why not? If she called him--he would come. She was sure of that. He was stay­ing away be­cause he thought that she cared. And he didn't want her to care. But he was not re­al­ly--cru­el--and if she called him----

She wan­dered around the room, stop­ping at a win­dow and go­ing on, stop­ping at an­oth­er to stare out in­to the star­less night. There had been rain, and there was that haunt­ing wet fra­grance from the gar­den. “I must see him,” she said, and put her hand to her throat.

She went down-​stairs. Ev­ery­body was in bed. There was no one to hear. Her grand­fa­ther's room was over the li­brary; Mandy and Calvin slept in ser­vants' quar­ters out­side. To-​mor­row the house would be full of ears--and it would be too late.

A faint light burned in the low­er hall. The stair­way swept down from a sort of up­per gallery, and all around the gallery and on the stairs and along the low­er hall were the por­traits of Becky's dead and gone an­ces­tors.

They were re­al­ly very worth-​while an­ces­tors, not as sol­id and sub­stan­tial per­haps as those whose por­traits hung in the Mered­ith house on Main Street in Nan­tuck­et, but none the less aris­to­crat­ic, with a bit of dare-​dev­il about the men, and a hint of frivoli­ty about the wom­en--with a pink coat here and a black patch there, with the sheen of satin and the sparkle of jew­els--a Cav­alier crowd, with the great­est an­ces­tor of all in his curly wig and his sweep­ing plumes.

They stared at Becky as she went down-​stairs, a lit­tle white fig­ure in her thin blue dress­ing-​gown, her bronze hair twist­ed in­to a curly top­knot, her feet in small blue slip­pers.

The tele­phone was on a small ta­ble un­der the por­trait of the great­est grand­fa­ther. He had a high nose, and a fine clear com­plex­ion, and he looked re­al­ly very much alive as he gazed down at Becky.

She found the King's Crest num­ber. It was a dread­ful thing that she was about to do. Yet she was go­ing to do it.

She reached for the re­ceiv­er. Then sud­den­ly her hand was stayed, for it seemed to her that in­to the si­lence her great­est grand­fa­ther shout­ed ac­cus­ing­ly:

_“Where is your pride?”_

She found her­self try­ing to ex­plain. “But, Grand­fa­ther----”

The clam­our of oth­er voic­es as­sailed her:

_“Where is your pride?”_

They were fling­ing the ques­tion at her from all sides, those gen­tle­men in ruf­fles, those ladies in shin­ing gowns.

Becky stood be­fore them like a pris­on­er at the bar--a slight child, yet with the look about her of those love­ly ladies, and with eyes as clear as those of the old Gov­er­nor who had ac­cused her.

“But I love him----”

It was no de­fense and she knew it. Not one of those love­ly ladies would have tried to call a lover back, not one of them but would have died rather than show her hurt. Not one of those slen­der and sparkling gen­tle­men but would have found swords or pis­tols the on­ly set­tle­ment for Dal­ton's with­draw­al at such a mo­ment.

And she was one of them--one of that pride­ful group. There came to her a sense of strength in that as­so­ci­ation. What had been done could be done again. Oth­er wom­en had hid­den bro­ken hearts. Oth­er wom­en had held their heads high in the face of dis­ap­point­ment and de­feat. There were tra­di­tions of the stead­fast­ness of those smil­ing men and wom­en. Some day, per­haps, she would have her por­trait paint­ed, and she would be--smil­ing.

She had no fear now of their glances, as she passed them on the stairs, as she met them in the up­per hall. What she had to bear she must bear in si­lence, and bear it like a Ban­nis­ter.