Mrs. Ward, detained by a club committee meeting, began to apologize for
not getting home in time to assist with the supper.
“Oh, John did all the heavy work! And we had a fine talk into the
bargain,” Helen replied cheerfully.
As her father was tired and didn’t know the latest domestic had
departed hence, she went on with an ironic description of the frailties
and incapacity of that person and pictured the gloom of the Kirbys as
they ate her initial meal. Mrs. Ward had brought the afternoon mail to
the table. She was the corresponding secretary of a state federation
which used the mails freely. She ate in silence, absorbed in her
letters, while her husband praised Helen’s cooking.
Ward found a real joy in his children. It was not lost upon him that
they were making the best of circumstances for which in a somewhat
bewildered fashion he felt himself responsible. Their very kindness,
their disposition to make the best of things, hurt him and deepened
his growing sense of defeat. John began talking of a case they were to
try shortly. He had found some decisions that supported the contention
of their client. They were explaining it to Helen, who teased them by
perversely taking the opposite view, when they were silenced by an
exclamation from Mrs. Ward.
“Here’s news indeed! This is a note from Mrs. Campbell, the Ruth
Sanders who was my best friend at school,--Mrs. Walter Scott Campbell,”
she added impressively, looking round at them over her glasses. “It’s
short; I’ll just read it:
“DEAREST IPHIGENIA:--
(“You know the girls at Miss Woodburn’s school always called me
Iphigenia--due to a stupid answer I once gave in the literature
class.)
“It’s so sweet of you to remember me year after year with a Christmas
card. The very thought of you always brings up all the jolly times
we had at Miss Woodburn’s. We parted with a promise to meet every
year; and I have never set eyes on you since we sat side by side at
the closing exercises! The class letter doesn’t come around any more,
but your children must be grown up. Mine are very much so and getting
married and leaving Walter and me quite forlorn.
(“Her daughter Angela married into that Thornton family of Rhode
Island--or maybe it was the Connecticut branch--who are so terribly
rich; made it in copper; no, I believe it was rubber.)
“Don’t be startled, but Mr. Campbell and I are planning to go to
California next month, and as we have to pass right across your
state, it seems absurd not to stop and see you. I’ve looked up the
timetables and we can easily leave the Limited at Cleveland and run
down to Kernville. Now don’t go to any trouble for us, but treat us
just as old friends and if it isn’t convenient to stay with you for
a night--we just must have a night to gossip about the old days--we
can put up at the hotel. We shan’t leave here until February 17,
but wishing to acknowledge your card--I never can remember to send
Christmas cards--I thought I’d give you fair warning of our approach.
Always, dear Iphigenia, your affectionate,
RUTH.”
“That’s a charming letter!” Helen volunteered, as her mother’s gaze
invited approval of Mrs. Campbell’s graciousness in promising a visit.
“She must be lovely!”
“Ruth was the dearest of all my girlhood friends! When she had typhoid
and her family were in Europe I was able to do little things for
her;--nothing really of importance--but she has never forgotten. She
was so appreciative and generous and always wanted her friends to share
her good times!”
All their lives John and Helen had heard their mother sing the praises
of Mrs. Walter Scott Campbell, née Sanders, until that lady had assumed
something of the splendor of a mythical figure in their imaginations.
She had been the richest girl in the Hudson River school Mrs. Ward had
attended, and she had married wealth. The particular Campbell of her
choice had inherited a fortune which he had vastly augmented. When
occasionally a New York newspaper drifted into the house Mrs. Ward
scanned the financial advertisements for the name of Walter Scott
Campbell set out in bold type as the director of the most august
institutions.
“I suppose----” Mrs. Ward’s tone expressed awe in all its
connotations;--“I suppose Mr. Campbell is worth fifty million at the
lowest calculation. I met him years ago at one of the school dances.
He was quite wild about Ruth then, and they were married, John, just
a year before we were. I still have the invitation, and Ruth sent me
a piece of the wedding cake. And from the photograph she sent me at
Christmas two years ago, I judge that time has dealt lightly with her.”
“Campbell’s one of the most important men in Wall Street,” Ward
assented. “One of his institutions, The Sutphen Loan & Trust, financed
the Kernville Water Power Company, a small item of course for so big a
concern. Campbell probably never heard of it.”
“Well, men of his calibre usually know where the dollars go,” said
John, whose wits were functioning rapidly.
“Of course we simply can’t let them go to the hotel,” continued Mrs.
Ward; “the Kipperly House is a disgrace. And if Ruth hasn’t changed
a lot in twenty-six years she’ll accept us as she finds us. Our
guest-room needs redecorating, and we can hardly keep the jackets on
the parlor furniture right in the middle of winter; and the bathroom
fixtures ought to be replaced----”
She paused, seeing the look of dejection on her husband’s face. He
was well aware that all these things were old needs which the coming
of important guests now made imperative. Mrs. Ward carefully thrust
the note back into its envelope. John exchanged telegraphic glances
with Helen. His eyes brightened with the stress of his thoughts but he
buttered a bit of bread before he spoke.
“Well, mother,” he began briskly, “I’m sure we’re all tickled that your
old friend’s coming. I can just see you sitting up all night talking
of the midnight spreads you had, and how you fooled the teachers. Now
don’t worry about the house--you or father, either; I’m going to manage
that.”
“But, John, we mustn’t add to your father’s worries. I realize
perfectly that we’re in debt and can’t spend money we haven’t got. Ruth
was always a dear--so considerate of every one--and we’ll hope it’s me
and my family and not the house she’s coming to see.”
“That’s all right, mother, but this strikes me as something more than a
casual visit. I see in it the hand of Providence!” he cried eagerly.
“If they carry a maid and valet as part of their scenery we’re
lost--hopelessly lost!” Helen suggested.
“Oh, not necessarily!” John replied. “We’ll stow ’em away somewhere. In
a pinch, you and I can move to the attic. Anyhow, we’ve got a month to
work in. When we begin to get publicity for the coming of the rich and
distinguished Campbells, I miss my guess if things don’t begin to look
a lot easier.”
“But, John,” his mother began, shaking her head with disapproval, “you
wouldn’t do anything that would look--vulgar?”
“Certainly not, but the Sunday _Journal’s_ always keen for news of
impending visitors in our midst, and no people of the Campbells’ social
and financial standing have ever honored our city with their presence.
The president of the Transcontinental did park his private car in the
yards last summer, but before the Chamber of Commerce could tackle him
about building a new freight house he faded away.”
“Walter Scott Campbell is a director in the Transcontinental,” remarked
Mrs. Ward. “I happened to see his name in the list when I looked up
the name of the company’s secretary to send on the resolutions of the
Women’s Municipal Union complaining of the vile condition of the depot.”
“Such matters are never passed on in the New York offices,” Ward
suggested mildly. “Our business organizations have worked on the
General Manager for years without getting anywhere.”
“Just a word, from a man of Mr. Campbell’s power will be enough,”
replied John spaciously. “For another thing the train schedule ought
to be changed to give us a local sleeper to Chicago. We’ll stir up the
whole service of the Transcontinental when we get Walter here!”
“Walter!” exclaimed Mrs. Ward, aghast at this familiarity.
“Better call him Walt, John, to make him feel at home,” suggested Helen.
“The directors of the Water Power Company want to refund their bonds. I
suppose Mr. Campbell could help about that,” Ward remarked, interested
in spite of himself in the potentialities of the impending visit.
“But it would be a betrayal of hospitality,” Mrs. Ward protested, “and
we mustn’t do anything to spoil their visit.”
“Oh, that visit’s going to be a great thing for Kernville! It grows on
me the more I think of it,” said John loftily. “It’s our big chance
to do something for the town. And the Campbells can’t object. They
will pass on, never knowing the vast benefits they have conferred upon
mankind.”
“Your imagination’s running away with you, John,” said his father.
“With only one day here to renew their acquaintance with your mother
they’ll hardly care to be dragged through the factories and over the
railway yards.”
“While mother and Helen are entertaining Mrs. Campbell, we’ll borrow
the largest car in town and show Walter the sights. And it will be
up to us to prove to him that Kernville’s the best little town of
the seventy-five thousand class in the whole rich valley of the
Mississippi. All Walter will have to do will be to send a few wires in
a casual manner to the right parties and everything the town needs will
be forthcoming.”
“But why should we worry about the town when it isn’t worrying
particularly about us?” asked Helen as she began to clear the table.
“I don’t quite follow you either,” said his mother. “You can’t, you
really mustn’t----”
“Such matters are for the male of the species to grapple with. You and
Helen arrange a tea or dinner or whatever you please, making something
small and select of the function, and I’ll do all the rest.”
“In some way John and I will manage the money,” said Mr. Ward, slowly,
and then catching a meaningful look in John’s eyes, he added with
unwonted confidence: “Where there’s a will there’s a way. I want the
Campbells’ visit to be a happy occasion. You are entitled to it,
Margaret--you and Helen must get all the pleasure possible from meeting
a woman of Mrs. Campbell’s large experience of life.”
“Mama will need a new frock,” said Helen, a remark which precipitated
at once a lively debate with her mother as to which--if any item of her
existing wardrobe would lend itself to the process of reconstruction.
This question seemed susceptible of endless discussion, and was only
ended by John’s firm declaration that there should be new raiment for
both his mother and Helen.
“Father, we’ll show these upstarts from New York what real American
women are like!”
“We shall be ruined!” cried Helen tragically, as she disappeared
through the swing door with a pile of plates.
“Please, John, don’t do anything foolish,” his mother pleaded, but she
smiled happily under the compulsion of his enthusiasm.
“Trust me for that!” he replied, laying his hands on her shoulders.
“We’re all too humble; that’s what’s the matter with the Ward family.
And for once I want you to step right out!”
He waved her into the sitting room and darted into the kitchen, where
he threw off his coat and donned an apron.