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.
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."