He found Mrs. Heeny sitting in a pink armchair, her bonnet perched on a pink-shaded electric lamp and her numerous implements spread out on an immense pink toilet-table. Vague as his recollection of her was, she gave him at once a sense of reassurance that nothing else in the house conveyed, and after he had examined all her scissors and pastes and nail-polishers he turned to the bag, which stood on the carpet at her feet as if she were waiting for a train.
“My, my!” she said, “do you want to get into that again? How you used to hunt in it for taffy, to be sure, when your Pa brought you up to Grandma Spragg’s o’ Saturdays! Well, I’m afraid there ain’t any taffy in it now; but there’s piles and piles of lovely new clippings you ain’t seen.”
“My Papa?” He paused, his hand among the strips of newspaper. “My Papa never saw my Grandma Spragg. He never went to America.”
“Never went to America? Your Pa never—? Why, land alive!” Mrs. Heeny gasped, a blush empurpling her large warm face. “Why, Paul Marvell, don’t you remember your own father, you that bear his name?” she exclaimed.
The boy blushed also, conscious that it must have been wrong to forget, and yet not seeing how he was to blame.
“That one died a long long time ago, didn’t he? I was thinking of my French father,” he explained.
“Oh, mercy,” ejaculated Mrs. Heeny; and as if to cut the conversation short she stooped over, creaking like a ship, and thrust her plump strong hand into the bag.
“Here, now, just you look at these clippings—I guess you’ll find a lot in them about your Ma.—Where do they come from? Why, out of the papers, of course,” she added, in response to Paul’s enquiry. “You’d oughter start a scrap-book yourself—you’re plenty old enough. You could make a beauty just about your Ma, with her picture pasted in the front—and another about Mr. Moffatt and his collections. There’s one I cut out the other day that says he’s the greatest collector in America.”
Paul listened, fascinated. He had the feeling that Mrs. Heeny’s clippings, aside from their great intrinsic interest, might furnish him the clue to many things he didn’t understand, and that nobody had ever had time to explain to him. His mother’s marriages, for instance: he was sure there was a great deal to find out about them. But she always said: “I’ll tell you all about it when I come back”—and when she came back it was invariably to rush off somewhere else. So he had remained without a key to her transitions, and had had to take for granted numberless things that seemed to have no parallel in the experience of the other boys he knew.
“Here—here it is,” said Mrs. Heeny, adjusting the big tortoiseshell spectacles she had taken to wearing, and reading out in a slow chant that seemed to Paul to come out of some lost remoteness of his infancy.
“‘It is reported in London that the price paid by Mr. Elmer Moffatt for the celebrated Grey Boy is the largest sum ever given for a Vandyck. Since Mr. Moffatt began to buy extensively it is estimated in art circles that values have gone up at least seventy-five per cent.’”
But the price of the Grey Boy did not interest Paul, and he said a little impatiently: “I’d rather hear about my mother.”
“To be sure you would! You wait now.” Mrs. Heeny made another dive, and again began to spread her clippings on her lap like cards on a big black table.
“Here’s one about her last portrait—no, here’s a better one about her pearl necklace, the one Mr. Moffatt gave her last Christmas. ‘The necklace, which was formerly the property of an Austrian Archduchess, is composed of five hundred perfectly matched pearls that took thirty years to collect. It is estimated among dealers in precious stones that since Mr. Moffatt began to buy the price of pearls has gone up over fifty per cent.’”
Even this did not fix Paul’s attention. He wanted to hear about his mother and Mr. Moffatt, and not about their things; and he didn’t quite know how to frame his question. But Mrs. Heeny looked kindly at him and he tried. “Why is mother married to Mr. Moffatt now?”
“Why, you must know that much, Paul.” Mrs. Heeny again looked warm and worried. “She’s married to him because she got a divorce—that’s why.” And suddenly she had another inspiration. “Didn’t she ever send you over any of those splendid clippings that came out the time they were married? Why, I declare, that’s a shame; but I must have some of ‘em right here.”
She dived again, shuffled, sorted, and pulled out a long discoloured strip. “I’ve carried this round with me ever since, and so many’s wanted to read it, it’s all torn.” She smoothed out the paper and began:
“‘Divorce and remarriage of Mrs. Undine Spragg-de Chelles. American Marquise renounces ancient French title to wed Railroad King. Quick work untying and tying. Boy and girl romance renewed. “‘Reno, November 23d. The Marquise de Chelles, of Paris, France, formerly Mrs. Undine Spragg Marvell, of Apex City and New York, got a decree of divorce at a special session of the Court last night, and was remarried fifteen minutes later to Mr. Elmer Moffatt, the billionaire Railroad King, who was the Marquise’s first husband.
“‘No case has ever been railroaded through the divorce courts of this State at a higher rate of speed: as Mr. Moffatt said last night, before he and his bride jumped onto their east-bound special, every record has been broken. It was just six months ago yesterday that the present Mrs. Moffatt came to Reno to look for her divorce. Owing to a delayed train, her counsel was late yesterday in receiving some necessary papers, and it was feared the decision would have to be held over; but Judge Toomey, who is a personal friend of Mr. Moffatt’s, held a night session and rushed it through so that the happy couple could have the knot tied and board their special in time for Mrs. Moffatt to spend Thanksgiving in New York with her aged parents. The hearing began at seven ten p. m. and at eight o’clock the bridal couple were steaming out of the station.
“‘At the trial Mrs. Spragg-de Chelles, who wore copper velvet and sables, gave evidence as to the brutality of her French husband, but she had to talk fast as time pressed, and Judge Toomey wrote the entry at top speed, and then jumped into a motor with the happy couple and drove to the Justice of the Peace, where he acted as best man to the bridegroom. The latter is said to be one of the six wealthiest men east of the Rockies. His gifts to the bride are a necklace and tiara of pigeon-blood rubies belonging to Queen Marie Antoinette, a million dollar cheque and a house in New York. The happy pair will pass the honeymoon in Mrs. Moffatt’s new home, 5009 Fifth Avenue, which is an exact copy of the Pitti Palace, Florence. They plan to spend their springs in France.’”
Mrs. Heeny drew a long breath, folded the paper and took off her spectacles. “There,” she said, with a benignant smile and a tap on Paul’s cheek, “now you see how it all happened….”
Paul was not sure he did; but he made no answer. His mind was too full of troubled thoughts. In the dazzling description of his mother’s latest nuptials one fact alone stood out for him—that she had said things that weren’t true of his French father. Something he had half-guessed in her, and averted his frightened thoughts from, took his little heart in an iron grasp. She said things that weren’t true…. That was what he had always feared to find out…. She had got up and said before a lot of people things that were awfully false about his dear French father….
The sound of a motor turning in at the gates made Mrs. Heeny exclaim “Here they are!” and a moment later Paul heard his mother calling to him. He got up reluctantly, and stood wavering till he felt Mrs. Heeny’s astonished eye upon him. Then he heard Mr. Moffatt’s jovial shout of “Paul Marvell, ahoy there!” and roused himself to run downstairs.