II
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.