“Now for it,” he said, as she heaped his plate with the nicely browned cakes and covered them with maple syrup. “I’ve been to Washington,—sent for by telegram. The bottom has fallen out.”
“No, really! You haven’t broke with Clarice?” Miss Hansford asked eagerly, her countenance brightening and then falling at Paul’s answer.
“Not a bit of it. Why should I? It’s that rascally Jack. He’s gone to the bad entirely.”
“I knew he would. I always felt it in my bones. What’s he been up to now?” Miss Hansford asked, and Paul replied: “Drinks like a fish. He’s managed to get rid of most of his own money and has used some of Clarice’s that she gave him to invest and supposed he had, for he paid her the interest regularly until lately. He went West while Mrs. Percy and Clarice were in Europe, and they have heard nothing from him since February. Clarice’s interest was due the first of April, and as it didn’t come and she didn’t know where he was, she wrote to the firm in Denver, and they replied that it had been invested in his name and he had collected it and skipped. Naturally this cramps her, as they spent a lot in Europe and Clarice was depending upon a part of the Denver money to defray the expenses of her wedding in Washington. Meant to make a splurge, you know, but can’t now, and has decided to be married in Oak City the last of August. That suits me. I’d rather be married here, but I offered to pay for the wedding in Washington if Clarice would let me. She wouldn’t do it. Said she’d some pride left. She’s all broke up about Jack, for scamp as he is, she has some affection for him. She telegraphed to me to come and talk it over, and has finally settled upon almost as big a spread here as she meant to have had in Washington. We shall send out a great many invitations, and probably rent rooms in some of the cottages as well as at the hotels. I thought of you, and instead of going straight through to Boston from New York came here to ask you not to engage your rooms after the last of July. We shall have a lot of people at our house, and some of them must sleep elsewhere. I thought the boat would never reach the wharf, the waves were so high, and when it did it stormed so that I came here before going to the house, and am glad I did. These cakes are first rate.”
As he talked he was eating, and Miss Hansford was baking, wondering how many his stomach would hold, and if the batter would hold out. He was satisfied at last, and, taking Jim in his lap and stroking his soft fur with one hand, with the other he drew from his pocket a package, which he handed to Miss Hansford, saying: “I have brought you a present, Clarice’s photograph and mine, taken in Washington. Hers was so good I wanted you to have it. Isn’t she a stunner?”
He had opened the Turkish morocco case and was looking admiringly at the beautiful face of the girl who was to be his wife. Miss Hansford admitted that she was a stunner and asked how she was, and thanked Paul for the picture. Then she said: “I seem to have a run on pictures. This is the second I have had in two days.”
Going into the next room, she returned with something carefully wrapped in tissue paper.
“Maybe you didn’t know I had a nephew Roger, a ’Piscopal minister in Montana?” she said.
“Never knew you had a relation in the world,” Paul replied, and Miss Hansford continued: “Well, I have—plenty of ’em somewhere; none very near, though. Roger’s the nearest. His father was my brother John, and I quarrelled with him,—Roger I mean,—because, in spite of all I could say, he would marry Lucy Potter, a pretty little helpless thing, with no sort of get up in her. Her folks lived in Ridgefield same as we did. Respectable enough, but shiftless,—let things go to rack and ruin. The front gate hung on one hinge, the fence lopped over, the blinds swung loose, and for months there was a broken window light in the garret,—sometimes with paper pasted over it and sometimes an old shawl sticking out of it. That’s who the Potters were. Went everywhere and everybody liked ’em, but, my land, how Roger, who wouldn’t drink from a glass some one else had drank from, could marry one of ’em I don’t know. She was just a China doll, and her beauty took him. I guess he’s paid for it. I’ve no doubt her house looks like bedlam, and he so neat and particular! There was some French blood in old Miss Potter ’way back, and her sister, Lucy’s aunt, was on the stage,—an actress!”
Miss Hansford whispered the last word as if afraid the furniture in the room would hear and rise in judgment against her. Paul did not seem at all disturbed, and she continued: “Roger and Lucy went to hear her when she was in Boston, and tried to have me go. Think of it! I in such a place! I went with your folks, I know, to see ‘Uncle Tom,’ but that was different. This play the Potter woman was in was about Lady somebody, who put her husband up to kill somebody.”