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Updated: June 25, 2025
"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.
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."
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 "
It was while she was reading Truxton's letter that the Flippins came by Mr. Flippin and his wife, Mary, and little Fidelity. A slender mulatto woman followed with a basket. The Flippins were one of the "second families." Between them and the Paines of King's Crest and the Bannisters of Huntersfield stretched a deep chasm of social prejudice.
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.
And at last she sent him away. And when he had gone she sat there a long time and thought about him. There had been look in his eyes which made her almost sorry. It seemed incredible as she came to think of it that anybody should ever be sorry for Georgie. Since that night with Becky in the garden at Huntersfield George had been torn by conflicting emotions. He knew himself at last in love.
She had often tiptoed down in the night, expecting to see his case empty, and to hear his trumpet sounding high up near the moon. There was a moon to-night. Dinner was always late at Huntersfield. In the old days three o'clock had been the fashionable hour for dining in the county, with a hot supper at eight.
Becky was not well. Aunt Claudia, perceiving her listlessness, decided that she needed a change. Letters were written to the Nantucket grandfather, and plans made for Becky's departure. She was to spend a month on the island, come back to Boston to the Admiral's big old house on the water-side of Beacon Street, and return to Huntersfield for Christmas.
Back among the shadows twinkled a priceless mirror; shutting off Calvin's serving table was a painted screen worth its weight in gold. It was a far cry from the catsup bottles and squalid service of George's early days. The Bannisters of Huntersfield wore their poverty like a plume! The Judge carried Dalton off presently to the Bird Boom. George went with reluctance.
That was the time when she had come down for Hallowe'en, and it was on Sunday evening that they had talked it over in the Bird Room at Huntersfield. There had been a smouldering fire on the wide hearth, and the Trumpeter Swan had stared down at them with shining eyes. They had been to church that morning and the text had been, "The harvest is past, the summer is ended, and we are not saved."
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