(“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——”