Part 6

Helen Ward was quite as admirable and interesting as her brother. The finishing school had done her no harm and she returned to Kernville without airs, assumptions or affectations, understanding perfectly that her parents had done the best they could for her. She was nineteen, tall and straight, fair, with an abundance of brown hair and blue-gray mirthful eyes. The growing inability of her mother to maintain a maid-of-all work, now that Kernville’s eligibles for domestic service preferred the eight-hour day of the factories to house work, did not trouble Helen particularly. She could cook, wash, iron, cut out a dress and sew it together and if the furniture was wobbly and the upholstery faded she was an artist with the glue-pot and her linen covers on the chairs gave the parlor a fresh smart look. The humor that was denied their parents was Helen’s and John’s portion in large measure. They were of the Twentieth Century, spoke its language and knew all its signs and symbols. They were proud of each other, shared their pleasures and consoled each other in their disappointments, and resolutely determined to make the best of a world that wasn’t such a bad place after all.

John reached home from the office on a day early in January and found Helen preparing supper.

“Great scott, sis; has that last girl faded already!”

“Skipped, vamoosed, vanished!” Helen answered, looking up from the gas range on which she was broiling a steak. “The offer of a dollar more a week transferred her to the Kirby’s, where she’ll have nothing to do but cook. The joke’s on them. She’s the worst living cook, and not even a success in hiding her failures.”

“I hope,” said John, helping himself to a stalk of celery and biting it meditatively, “I hope the Kirbys suffer the most frightful tortures before they die of indigestion. Haven’t invited us to the party they’re giving, have they?”

“Not unless our invitations got lost in the mails. And I hear it’s going to be a snappy function with the refreshments and a jazz band imported from Chicago.”

“Look here, sis, that’s rubbing it in pretty hard! I don’t care for myself, but it’s nasty of ’em to cut you. But in a way it’s an act of reprisal. Mother didn’t ask Mrs. Kirby and Jeannette to the tea she threw for that national federation swell just before Christmas. But even at that----”

“Oh, don’t be so analytical! We’re an old family and mama refuses to see any merit in people whose grandparents didn’t settle here before the Indians left. And as we haven’t the money to train with the ancient aristocracy, we’ve got to huddle on the sidelines. Pardon me, dear, but that’s a pound of butter you’re about to sit on! You might cut a slice and place it neatly on yonder plate.”

“Snobbery!” said John, as he cut the butter with exaggerated deliberation;--“snobbery is a malady, a disease. You can’t kill it; you’ve got to feed it its own kind of pabulum. It’s as plain as daylight that we’ve got to do something to get out of the hole or we’re stuck for good.”

“We might bore for oil in the back yard,” said Helen, scrutinizing the steak. “If we struck a gusher we could break into the country club and buy a large purple limousine like the Kirbys.”

“My professional engagements don’t exhaust my brain power at present, and I’m giving considerable thought to ways and means of improving our state, condition or status as a family of exalted but unrecognized merit.”

“You’re doing nobly, John! Tom Reynolds told me they were talking of running you for prosecuting attorney. That would give you a grand boost. And there’s Alice Hovey,--I understand all about that, John. I think you’re mistaken about the Hoveys not liking you.”

“Ah, Alice!” he exclaimed mockingly. “Papa and mama Hovey have quite other ideas for Alice; no penniless barrister need apply! But I won’t deny to you that I’m pretty keen about Alice, only when I go to the house the fond parents create a low temperature that is distinctly chilly. Listen to me, Helen,” he went on with an abrupt change of tone. “You and Ned Shepherd were hitting it off grandly when something happened. He’s a fine chap and I rather got the idea that you two would make a match of it.”

“Oh no!” she protested, quickly but unconvincingly as she transferred the steak to the platter.

“His family’s trying to switch him to Sally Pickett. He hasn’t been here lately, but you do see him occasionally?”

There were tears in her eyes as she swung round from the range.

“I’ve got to stop that, John! I’m ashamed of myself for meeting him as I’ve been doing--walking with him in the back streets and letting him talk to me over the telephone when mama isn’t round. I didn’t know----”

“Well, I just happened to spot you Monday evening, and I meant to speak to you about it. Not exactly nice, sis. I’m sorry about the whole business. Ned’s really a manly chap, and I don’t believe he’ll be bullied into giving you up.”

“All over now, John,” she answered with badly-feigned indifference.

“Well, the course of true love never did run smooth. Father and mother have done their almighty best for us, but changes have come so fast in this burg they haven’t been able to keep up with the procession. Father misses chances now and then, as in refusing the Pickett case when the State went after him for polluting the river with refuse from his strawboard mill. Dad thought the prosecution was justified and foolishly volunteered to assist the State as a public duty. Pickett lost and had to spend a lot of money changing his plant; so he’s knocked us whenever he got a chance.”

“That’s just like papa. I only wish we could do something really splendid for him and mama.”

“We’re going to, sis,” said John confidently. “Take it from me we’re going to do that identical thing. Now give me the potatoes and the coffee-pot. Precede me with the bread and butter. There’s mother at the front door now. Step high as to the strains of a march of triumph. We’ll give a fine exhibition of a happy family, one for all and all for one!”

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.

III

“Crazy! You’ve gone plumb stark crazy!” said Helen, as she thrust her arms into the dishwater. “It’s cruel to raise mother’s hopes that way. You know well enough that as things are going we’re just about getting by, with the grocery bill two months behind and that eternal interest on the mortgage hanging over us like the well-known sword of Damocles.”

“The sword is in my hands!” declared John, balancing a plate on the tip of his finger. “How does that old tune go?

The Campbells are coming, tra la, tra la, The Campbells are coming, tra la!

There’s a bit of Scotch in us, and I feel my blood tingle to those blithe martial strains! What’s the rule for drying dishes, sis? Do you make ’em shine like a collar from a Chinese laundry, or is the dull domestic finish in better form?”

“If you break that plate I’ll poison your breakfast coffee! If I didn’t know you for a sober boy I’d think you’d been keeping tryst with a bootlegger! You don’t seem to understand that you sat there at the table spending money like Midas on a spree. You couldn’t borrow a cent if you tried!”

“Borrow!” he mocked. “I’m going to pull this thing off according to specifications, and I’m not going to borrow a cent. I expect to be refusing offers of money gently but firmly within a week. Observe my smoke, dearest one! Watch my fleet sail right up to the big dam in Sycamore River laden like the ships of Tarshish that brought gifts of silver and gold and ivory, apes and peacocks for Solomon’s delight!”

“You’re not calling the Campbells apes and peacocks!”

“Not on your life! All those rich treasures will be yours and mine, O Helen of Kernville! The Campbells are rich enough. We’re not going to embarrass them by piling any more wealth on ’em. But the magic of the name of Walter Scott Campbell, if properly invoked, manipulated and flaunted will put us all on the high road to fame and fortune.”

“You’ll break mama’s heart if you begin bragging about her acquaintance with this woman she hasn’t seen for a quarter of a century! She’s already warned you against vulgar boasting.”

“Keep mother busy planning for the care and entertainment of our guests! I’ll hold father steady. This being Thursday I’ve got time enough to plan the campaign before Sunday. I’ll lay down a barrage and throw myself upon the enemy. To the cheering strains of ‘The Campbells are Coming!’ we’ll cross the valley of death and plant our flag on the battlements without a scratch or the loss of a man.”

By the time the kitchen was in order he had her laughing and quite won to his idea that it was perfectly legitimate to avail themselves fully of the great opportunity offered by the Campbells’ visit.

“Nothing undignified at all! The Campbells will never be conscious of my proceedings as they don’t read the Kernville papers and will linger only a day. By the way, it happens that Billy Townley, a fraternity brother of mine, has just been made city editor of the _Journal_ and Billy and I used to pull some good stunts when we were together at the ’varsity. When I hiss the password in his ear and tell him I’ll need a little space daily for a few weeks he’ll go right down the line for me. And the boys on the _Evening Sun_ are friends of mine, too. They have less space but they make up for it with bigger headlines.”

“You’re a dear boy, John, if you are crazy! I believe you can do most anything you tackle, and I’ll stand by you whether you land us in jail or in the poorhouse.”

“Bully for you, sis!” And then lowering his voice, “This chance may never come again! I’m going to wring every possible drop out of it even as you wring out that dish rag. By-the-way, if it isn’t impertinent, when did you see Ned last?”

“Not since the day you saw me walking with him--for the last time. But he telephoned this afternoon. He wanted to come up this evening.”

“Well, he’s of age and the curfew law can’t touch him. What was the answer?”

“I told him I wouldn’t be at home. I’m not going to have him calling here when his mother barely speaks to me! Ned didn’t say so, but I suspect she gave him a good scolding for taking me instead of Sally to the Seebrings’ dance.”

“How do you get that? If he didn’t tell you----!”

“Of course not! But Sally had to go with her mother and there were more girls than men; so Sally only had about half the dances and the rest of the time sat on the sidelines with her mother and Mrs. Kirby. I caught a look now and then that was quite suggestive of murder in the first degree.”

“Helen,” said John, lifting his eyes dreamily to the ceiling, “I’ll wager a diamond tiara against one of your delicious buckwheat cakes that you and I will get an invitation to the Kirby party.”

“Taken! The cards went out yesterday. I met some of the girls downtown this morning, and they were buzzing about it.”

“Let ’em buzz! Ours will probably come special delivery with a note of explanation that in copying the list or something of the kind we were regrettably omitted. And let me see,” he went on, rubbing his chin reflectively, “I rather think Ned will ask you to go to the party with him. It occurs to me that old man Shepherd owns some land he’s trying to sell to the Transcontinental, and the railway people are shy of it because it’s below the flood line on our perverse river. Yes; I think we may jar the Shepherds a little too.”

“Why, John!” she laughed as she hung up her apron, “you almost persuade me that you’ve already got free swing at the Campbell boodle!”

“I look at it this way, Helen. We can all spend our own money; it’s getting the benefit of other people’s money that requires genius. I must now step down to the public library and to the _Journal_ office to get some dope on the Campbells. Also I’ll have to sneak mother’s photograph of Mrs. Campbell out of the house. A few illustrations will give tone to our publicity stuff.”

“Be bold, John, but not too bold!”

“‘The Campbells are coming, tra la!’” he sang mockingly, and spiking her hands, hummed the air and danced back and forth across the kitchen. “By jing, that tune’s wonderful for the toddle!” he cried exultantly. “We’ll make all Kernville step to it.”

IV