From his first introduction to her Roger became interested. He knew her history and, because he knew it, he was very kind to her. He could read the human heart better than his aunt, and he felt sure that in Clarice’s there was a pain she was trying to hide, and he was sorry for her. He did not know how much the interest she began at once to manifest in church matters was feigned, nor how much real. Nor did he care. If she were willing to help, he was very willing to have her, and, knowing it would divert her mind, he put upon her a good deal of work, which she accepted cheerfully. This threw them together a good deal, and before winter was half over people began to gossip. When this reached Miss Hansford she gave Roger a rather unpleasant half hour, and the next day wrote a long letter to Elithe, telling her to come home and see to her father, who was making a fool of himself in more ways than one.
“He’s got a vested choir of girls and boys,—thirty of ’em,” she wrote, “gathered from all over town. Seems as if folks were crazy. They want the training for their children, they say. Training! I should say it was general training; the way they march down one aisle and up another. Your brother Rob leads the van with a big cross. They call him something which sounds like an aconite. ’Tain’t that, of course, but I’m so disgusted I won’t ask any questions. Artie is in it, and you know he can’t sing a note. But he is small and pretty and makes his mouth go, and that pleases the people. They have candles on the altar in broad daylight. Symbols Roger calls them, and tries to convince me it is all right. Maybe it is, but it looks to me like a show. Give me a good, plain meeting, I say, with now and then an Amen that is an Amen, without a broad a in it. Candles and cottas and cassocks ain’t all. I could stand them if I wan’t afraid your father had a notion after——. You’ll never guess who in the world, so I may as well tell you and done with it. Clarice! Did you ever! You know they are staying here all winter, and as there ain’t any carousin’ or dancing going on, she’s turned religious, and really does seem different. The way she teeters round Roger makes me sick. She plays the organ,—helps him train the children,—and he goes home with her from rehearsal. She teaches in Sunday school, too. No more fit to teach than a cat. Artie is in her class and says she tells them stories mostly, which he likes, of course. I’ve given Roger my opinion, and he laughed me in my face, told me I needn’t worry and asked if I s’posed he could ever forget Lucy. Lucy, indeed! I don’t think she stands much chance with Clarice Percy purrin’ round. I b’lieve she thinks Roger is to be my heir, but she’s mistaken. I’ve made my will and left everything to the boys. Bless their hearts! I never thought much of boys, but I could not live without these four, and can hardly live with them. Such a noise as they make, with balls and kites and dogs and cats. There’s two here now, besides Jim, and I expect they’ll bring a litter of kittens they have found somewhere in the woods. They have wonderful stomachs and are always wanting something to eat, and a pie is nothing to them. I make one every day,—sometimes two. Everybody likes Roger, and he seems to be more like a son than nephew, if he is cracked on ritualism, but I’ll never take in Clarice,—never!”
When Elithe, who was in Rome, read this letter she cried out loud and Paul laughed louder than she cried.
“Clarice, your stepmother! My stepmother-in-law! that would be rich,” he said.
Then, when he saw how really distressed Elithe was, he tried to comfort her, but she would not be comforted.
“Oh, Paul,” she sobbed, “we must go home and stop it!”
“Stop what?” he asked. “The vested choir?”
“No-o,” Elithe replied.
“Do you want to blow out the candles?”
“No. I don’t care if they have a hundred!”