Miss Mirabelle Starkweather lifted up her cup of tea, and with the
little finger of her right hand stiffly extended to Mr. Mix's good
health. Mr. Mix, sitting upright in a gilded chair which was three
sizes too small for him, bowed with a courtliness which belonged to
the same historical period as the chair, and also drank. Over the rim
of his cup, his eyes met Mirabelle's.
"Seems to me you've got on some kind of a new costume, haven't you?"
asked Mr. Mix gallantly. "Looks very festive to me--very."
For the first time since bustles went out of fashion, Miss Starkweather
blushed; and when she blushed, she was quite as uncompromising about
it as she was about everything else. It wasn't that she had a grain
of romance in her, but that she was confused to be caught in the act of
flagging a beau; to hide her confusion, she rose, and went over to the
furthest window and flung it wide open. The month was February, and
the air was chill and raw, but Mirabelle could think of no other
pretext for turning her back and cooling her cheeks. And yet,
although she would have perjured herself a thousand times before she
would admit it, she felt a certain strange, spring-like pleasure to
know that Mr. Mix was only pretending to be deceived.
"Oh, my, no," she said over her shoulder. "I've had this since the
Flood."
Mr. Mix had also risen, to hand her back to her seat, and now he stood
looking down at her. She was wearing a gown of rustling, plum-coloured
taffeta, with cut-steel buttons; and at her belt there was a Dutch
silver chatelaine which had been ultra-smart when she had last worn
it. Vaguely, she supposed that it was ultra-smart today, and that was
the reason she had attached it to her. From the chatelaine depended a
silver pencil, a gold watch, a vinaigrette with gold-enamelled top,
and a silver-mesh change-purse. At her throat, she had a cameo, and on
her left hand, an amethyst set in tiny pearls. Mr. Mix, finishing the
inventory, seated himself and began to tap one foot on the floor,
reflectively. He was a man of perception, and he knew warpaint when he
saw it.
"Makes you look so much younger," said Mr. Mix, and sighed a little.
"Don't be a fool," said Miss Starkweather, and to dissemble her
pleasure, she put an extra-sharp edge on her voice. "I don't wear
clothes to make me look younger; I wear 'em to cover me up."
"That's more than I can say for the present generation."
"Ugh!" said Miss Starkweather. "Don't speak of it! Shameless little
trollops! But the _worst_ comment you could make about this present
day is that men _like_ it. They _like_ to see those disgraceful
get-ups. They _marry_ those girls. Beyond _me_."
Mr. Mix sneezed unexpectedly. There was a cold draught on the back of
his neck, but as Mirabelle said nothing about closing the window, he
hesitated to ask permission. "I've always wondered what effect it
would have had on your--public career--if you hadn't preferred to
remain single."
"My opinions aren't annuals, Mr. Mix. They're hardy perennials."
"I know, but do you think a married woman ought to devote herself
entirely to public affairs? Shouldn't she consider marriage almost a
profession in itself?"
"Well, I don't know about that. Duty's duty."
"Oh, to be sure. But would marriage have interfered with your career?
Would you have let it? Or is marriage really the higher duty of the
two?"
"There's something in that, Mr. Mix. I never did believe a married
woman ought to be in the road _all_ the time."
"It _was_ a question of your career, then?"
Mirabelle put down her cup. "Humph! No, it wasn't. Right man never
asked me."
Mr. Mix's mind was on tiptoe. "But your standards are so
lofty--naturally, they _would_ be." He paused. "I wonder what your
standard really is. Is it--unapproachable? Or do you see some good in
most of us?"
Mirabelle sat primly erect, but her voice had an unusual overtone.
"Oh, no, I'm not a ninny. But good husbands don't grow on goose-berry
bushes. If I'd ever found a man that had the right principles, and the
respect of everybody, and not too much tom-foolishness--a good, solid,
earnest citizen I could be proud of--"
Mr. Mix interpolated a wary comment. "You didn't mention money."
She sniffed. "Do I look like the kind of a woman that would marry for
money?"
"And in all these--I mean to say, haven't you ever met a man who
complied with these conditions?"
She made no intelligible response, but as Mr. Mix watched her, he was
desperately aware that his moment had come. His next sentence would
define his future.
He was absolutely convinced, through his private source of information,
that Henry was due to fall short of his quota by four or five
thousand dollars; nothing but a miracle could save him, and Mr. Mix
was a sceptic in regard to miracles. He was positive that in a brief
six months Miss Starkweather would receive at least a half million; and
Mr. Mix, at fifty-five, wasn't the type of man who could expect to
have lovely and plutocratic debutantes thrown at his head. He
believed--and his belief was cousin to a prayer--that Mirabelle was
absorbed in reform only because no one was absorbed in Mirabelle.
Indeed, she had implied, a few moments ago, that marriage would cramp
her activities; but it was significant that she hadn't belittled the
institution. Perhaps if she were skilfully managed, she might even be
modernized. Certainly she had been content, so far, to be guided by
Mr. Mix's conservatism. He hoped that he was right, and he trusted
in his own strategy even if he were wrong. And every day that he
continued moderate in his public utterances, and in his actions, he
was a day nearer to the golden ambition of an elective office.
He was threatened with vertigo but he mastered himself, and drew a
long, long breath in farewell to his bachelorhood.
"You have heartened me more than you know," said Mr. Mix, with
ecclesiastical soberness. "Because--it has been my poverty--which has
kept me silent." He bent forward. "Mirabelle, am _I_ the right man?"
Almost by sheer will-power, he rose and came to her, and took her
hand. She shrank away, in maiden modesty, but her fingers remained
quiescent. Mr. Mix sneezed again, and stooped to kiss her cheek, but
Mirabelle avoided him.
"No," she said, with a short laugh. "That don't signify--I don't
approve of it much." She wavered, and relented. "Still, I guess it's
customary--Theodore."
* * * * *
Before he left her, they had staged their first altercation--it
could hardly be called a quarrel, because it was too one-sided.
Mirabelle had asked him without the slightest trace of shyness, to
telephone the glad tidings to the _Herald_; and of a sudden, Mr.
Mix was afflicted with self-consciousness. Unfortunately, he couldn't
give a valid reason for it; he couldn't tell her that illogically,
but instinctively, he wanted to keep the matter as a locked
secret--and especially to keep it locked from Henry Devereux--until
the minister had said: Amen. He admitted to himself that this was
probably a foolish whim, a needless precaution, but nevertheless it
obsessed him, so that he tried to argue Mirabelle away from the
_Herald_. His most cogent argument was that the announcement might
weaken their position in the League--the League might be too much
interested in watching the romance to pay strict attention to reform.
"Humph!" said Mirabelle. "_I_'m not ashamed of being congratulated.
Are you? But if you're so finicky about it, I'll do the telephoning
myself."
Whereupon Mr. Mix went back to his room, and drank two highballs, and
communed with himself until long past midnight.
In the morning, with emotions which puzzled him, he turned to the
society column of the _Herald_; and when he saw the flattering
paragraph in type,--with the veiled hint that he might be the next
candidate for Mayor, on a reform ticket--he sat very still for a
moment or two, while his hand shook slightly. No backward step, now!
His head was in the noose. He wondered, with a fresh burst of
self-effacement, what people would say about it. One thing--they
wouldn't accuse him of the truth. Nobody but Mr. Mix himself knew the
whole truth--unless perhaps it were Henry Devereux. Henry had
developed a knowing eye. But Henry didn't count--Henry was beaten
already. Still, if Henry should actually come out and accuse Mr. Mix
of--why, what _could_ Henry accuse him of? Simply marrying for money?
If it didn't make any difference to Mirabelle, it certainly didn't to
Mr. Mix. And what booted the rest of the world? Why should he concern
himself with all the petty spite and gossip of a town which wasn't
even progressive enough to have an art museum or a flying field, to
say nothing of a good fight-club? Let 'em gossip.... But just the
same, he wished that Mirabelle had been willing to keep the engagement
a secret. Mr. Mix was sure to encounter Henry, once in a while, at the
Citizens Club, and he didn't like to visualize Henry's smile.
He was in the act of tossing away the paper when his attention was
snatched back by a half-page advertisement; in which the name of the
Orpheum Theatre stood out like a red flag. Mr. Mix glanced at it,
superciliously, but a moment later, his whole soul was strung on it.
THE ORPHEUM
Educational Motion Pictures
FREE! FREE! FREE!
Every Sunday afternoon and evening
ESPECIALLY HIGH-CLASS ENTERTAINMENT
of instructive and educational features
With Sacred Music
ABSOLUTELY FREE
to all those who present at the door ticket-stubs from the previous
week's performances (bargain matinees excepted) showing a total
expenditure of Three Dollars.
IN OTHER WORDS
Two people coming twice during the week,
in 75 cent seats, come FREE Sunday
Three people coming twice during the week,
in 50 cent seats, come FREE Sunday
A PURELY VOLUNTARY COLLECTION
will be taken up and divided between
The Associated Charities
The Starving Children of Belgium _and_
The Chinese Famine Fund
This Sunday
THE SWORDMAKER'S SON--an absorbing drama
of Biblical days
Next Sunday
BEN-HUR, in seven reels
NO ADMISSION FEE BEING CHARGED, AND
ALL VOLUNTARY CONTRIBUTIONS BEING DEVOTED
TO CHARITY, THIS ENTERTAINMENT
DOES _NOT_ FALL WITHIN ANY CITY ORDINANCE
PROHIBITING SUNDAY PERFORMANCES
THE ORPHEUM
Motion Pictures
Mr. Mix, goggle-eyed, jumped for the telephone, and called the City
Hall, but as soon as the Mayor was on the wire, Mr. Mix wrestled down
his excitement, and spoke in his embassy voice. "Hello--Rowland? This
is Mix. I want to ask you if you've seen an ad of the Orpheum Theatre
in this morning's paper?... Well, what do you propose to do about
it?"
The Mayor answered him in a single word: Mr. Mix started, and gripped
the receiver more tightly. "_Nothing!_... Why, I don't quite get you
on that.... It's an open and shut proposition--No, I most certainly
am _not_ trying to make a pun; I'm calling you up in my official
capacity. That's the most flagrant, barefaced attempt to evade a
law--Why, an _idiot_ could see it! It's to drive the crowd into the
Orpheum during the week, so that--"
He listened, with increasing consternation. "_Who_ says it isn't a
violation? Who? The City Attorney?" Mr. Mix was pale; and this was
quite as uncommon as for his fiancee to blush. "When did he say so?...
What's that? What's his grounds?... Repeat it, if you don't
mind--Practically a charitable performance by _invitation_--"
"Why, sure," said the Mayor. He realized perfectly that Mr. Mix had
the League and another thousand people of small discernment behind
him, but the Mayor didn't want to be re-elected, and did want to
retire from politics. "The Orpheum doesn't say a fellow that comes
Sunday has got to prove _he_ spent the money for the tickets, does it?
Anybody that's got the stubs can come. They're just as much
invitations as if they were engraved cards sent around in swell
envelopes. If you've got one--whether you paid for the _invitation_
or not, or if you got it in the mail or picked it up on the street,
you can go on in. And as long's no money's taken in over the counter,
the City Attorney says it's O.K. Of course, you can petition the
Council, if you want to."
Mr. Mix was licking his lips feverishly. "I'm obliged to you for your
advice. We _will_ petition the Council--I'll have it signed, sealed
and delivered by noon today.... And if that don't do, we'll apply for
an injunction.... And we'll carry this to the _Governor_ before we're
done with it, Rowland, and you know what state laws we've got to
_compel_ a Mayor of an incorporated city to do his duty!... This is
where we part company, Rowland. You'll hear from me later!" He slammed
down the receiver, rattled the hook impetuously, and called
Mirabelle's number.
"Mirabelle ... good-morning; have you ... No, I'm not cross at you,
but--Oh! Good-morning, _dear_.... This is important. Have you seen the
Orpheum's ad in the _Herald_? Isn't that the most barefaced thing you
ever _saw_? Don't we want to rush in and--"
She interrupted him. "Why, no, not when it's for charity, do we?"
Mr. Mix nearly dropped the receiver. "Charity! Charity your
grandmother! It's a cheap trick to attract people during the week, so
they'll have a show on Sunday in _spite_ of the law!"
"Oh, I don't doubt there's _some_ catch in it. That's Henry all over.
But if the League went out and interfered with an educational and sort
of religious program with a collection for charity, we'd----"
"Yes, but my dear woman, would we sanction a _dance_ for charity? A
poker-party? A wine-supper? We----"
"But there won't be any dancing or drinking or card-playing at the
Orpheum, will there?"
He lost his temper. "What's the matter with you? Can't you _see_--?"
"No, but I can hear pretty well," said Mirabelle. "I'm not deaf. And
seems to me--" She sniffled. "Seems to me you're making an awful funny
start of things, Theodore."
"My dear girl--"
"What?"
"I just said 'my dear girl.' I----"
"Say it again, Theodore!"
To himself, Mr. Mix said something else, but for Mirabelle's benefit,
he began a third time. "My dear girl, it's simply to evade the law,
and----"
"But Theodore, if we lift one finger to stop the raising of money for
the poor starving children in foreign countries, we'd lose every scrap
of influence we've gained."
"But this means that _all_ the theatres can open again!"
"Well, maybe you'd better get to work and frame the amendment to
Ordinance 147 we've been talking about, then. And the new statute,
too. We've wasted too much time. But under the old one, we can't go
flirting with trouble. And if all they do is show pictures like
Ben-Hur, and The Swordmaker's Son, why ... don't you see? We just
won't notice this thing of Henry's. We can't afford to act too
narrow.... And I'm not cross with you any more. You _were_ all worked
up, weren't you? I'll excuse you. And I could just _hug_ you for being
so worked up in the interests of the League. I didn't understand....
When are you coming up to see me? I've been awfully lonesome--since
yesterday."
Mr. Mix hung up, and sat staring into vacancy. Out of the wild tumult
of his thoughts, there arose one picture, clear and distinct--the
picture of his five thousand dollar note. Whatever else happened, he
couldn't financially afford, now or in the immediate future, to break
with Mirabelle. She would impale him with bankruptcy as ruthlessly as
she would swat a fly; she would pursue him, in outraged pride, until
he slept in his grave. And on the other hand, if certain things _did_
happen--at the Orpheum--how could he spiritually afford to pass the
remainder of his life with a militant reformer who wouldn't even have
money to sweeten her disposition--and Mr. Mix's. He wished that he had
put off until tomorrow what he had done, with such conscious
foresight, only yesterday.