For two-thirds of a year, Henry Devereux had lived contrary to his
independent taste, and to his education. He had virtually cut himself
adrift from the people he liked and the pleasures he loved; his sole
luxury had been his membership in the Citizens Club; and he had
laboured far more diligently and with far less respite than his uncle
had ever intended. He had overcome great difficulties, of which the
most significant was his own set of social fetiches, and he had
learned his weaknesses by exercise of his strength. He had made new
friends, and brought the old ones closer to him--and this by virtue of
honest plugging, and determination. He was unassumingly proud of
himself, and he was prouder yet of Anna; he knew that the major
portion of his accomplishment--and especially that part of it which
had taken place within himself--was to be put down to Anna's credit.
But the spring was coming towards them, and Henry winced to think of
it. Heretofore, the message of spring, in Henry's estimation, had been
a welcome to new clothes, golf, horseback parties, and out-of-door
flirtations; this season, it meant to him a falling-off in the
motion-picture business.
The spring was calling to him, but Henry had to discipline his ears.
His working hours were from eleven in the morning until midnight; he
sat, day after day, in his constricted office, and glued his mind upon
his problems. The Orpheum was still a sporting proposition to him, but
even in sport, there come periods in which the last atom of nerve and
will-power are barely sufficient to keep the brain in motion. Henry's
nerves were fagged, his muscles were twitching, the inside of his head
felt curiously heavy and red-hot; the spring was calling him, but he
didn't dare to listen. The spirit of his Uncle John Starkweather was
waiting to see if he came to the tape with his head down, and Henry
was going to finish on his nerve.
As a matter of fact, he could easily have spared an hour of two each
day for exercise and recreation, but he wouldn't believe it. He
wouldn't yield to Anna when she implored him to get out of doors, to
freshen his mind and tame his muscles.
The atmosphere of his office almost nauseated him; the endless parade
of petty details was almost unbearably irksome; the book-keeping part
of it alone was soul-disintegrating; but to Henry, ambition had become
a monomania, and to it he was ready to make every conceivable
sacrifice, including--if necessary--his health. There were days when
he told himself that he would pay a thousand dollars merely to have
green turf under his feet, blue sky above, and no worries in his
soul--but he wouldn't sacrifice an hour of supervision over his
theatre. There were days when he felt that he would give up his chance
of salvation if only he could go away with Anna, up into the wooded
country, for a week's vacation--but he wouldn't sacrifice a week from
the Orpheum guardianship. The spring was calling him--the golf course,
the bridle-paths, the lake, the polo--but Henry had put himself in
high speed forward, and there was no reverse. Then, too, he was
constantly thinking of Anna, who without the daily stimulus that
Henry had, was cheerfully performing the function of a domestic
drudge. One of his most frequently repeated slogans was that if Anna
could stick it out, he could.
While the winter favoured it, his monopoly had brought him a splendid
return, but the first warm days had signalled a serious loss of
patronage, and Henry couldn't successfully combat the weather. The
weather was too glorious; it called away Henry's audiences, just
as it tried in vain to inveigle Henry. And then the monopoly had
been double-edged; it had been a good risk--and without it, he
wouldn't have had the slightest chance against the requirements--but
it had been _too_ perfect, too prominent. In the beginning, everybody
had hailed him as a Napoleon because he had vanquished his little
world of competitors; but now that his laurel was old enough to wilt,
he was receiving the natural back-lash of criticism. Naturally, his
personal friends were still delighted, the older men at the club were
still congratulating him for foresight and ingenuity, and Mr.
Archer was still complimentary and confident: but the great mass
of theatre-goers, and the mass of self-appointed arbiters of
business ethics, were pointing to him as a follower of the gods of
grasp and gripe. More disquieting than that, however, were the
indications of a new crusade, led by Mr. Mix, and directed against
the Council. The Mix amendment, which was so sweeping that it
prohibited even Sunday shows for charity, would automatically
checkmate Henry; and the worst of it was that money was being
spent with some effectiveness. Of course, the amendment wouldn't ever
be adopted _in toto_--it was too sweeping, too drastic--but even a
compromise on the subject of Sunday entertainments would be fatal.
Despite the strain, he was outwardly as blithe and optimistic as
usual. When Anna pleaded with him to take a vacation, he either
laughed her off in his most jovial manner, or riposted that she needed
a vacation far more than he did, which may have been true; when Judge
Barklay attempted to reason with him, he responded with respectful
humour. He had seen victory slip within his grasp, and slip out of
it, so often that he was on the verge of complete demoralization, but
he thought that he alone was aware of it, and because of his pride,
Anna didn't disillusion him.
Nor did Bob Standish disillusion him. Standish tried to bolster him up
with undergraduate slang, and to convey to Henry the fact that all the
hill-folk were solidly behind him, but he knew better than to come out
flat with commiseration. Then, too, Standish was conscious of a vague
cloud which had come up to blur their relationship. He didn't suspect
for an instant the true cause of it, which was his remark, some months
ago, that he wouldn't employ in his office a friend such as Henry; but
he felt it, and was keenly concerned about it. Nevertheless, his own
unselfish interest never faltered, and he waited patiently, because he
knew that between himself and Henry there could be no permanent
misunderstanding.
Nor did Mr. Archer, Henry's firm friend and ally (insofar as Mr.
Archer could separate his personality into two separate entities, one
of which was ally, and the other was impartial trustee) disillusion
him, although Mr. Archer had also eyes to see with. On the contrary,
Mr. Archer put out numerous remarks which he intended as lifebuoys.
"There was a directors' meeting of the Trust and Deposit the other
day, Henry, and somehow they got talking about your account. I
shouldn't wonder--if you ever wanted to change your business--if they
wouldn't give you the opportunity; and if they did, it wouldn't be so
very long before they'd invite you on the Board."
Henry disparaged it. "What as--deputy assistant splinter?"
"You've made rather a hit with the older crowd, Henry. And even if you
aren't a rich man by inheritance next August, I'm not worrying about
your future."
"Neither am I. Not while I've got Anna to think up my best thoughts
for me."
The lawyer nodded. "A girl in a thousand, Henry."
"That's the worst insult I ever heard! The population of the world's
over two billion!"
Mr. Archer laughed, but his eyes showed approval. "It's simply
something for you to keep in mind, my boy--about the bank. It's a
possible career, unless you want to go on with the Orpheum. Of course,
you'd have to start pretty low, at first, but you know as well as I do
that nobody's asked to come into _that_ bank unless he's well thought
of."
Henry didn't repeat this conversation to Bob Standish, because he
thought it would sound too much like saying "Yah!" nor did he repeat
it to his wife, because he thought it would sound too egotistical;
but on the same day he collected another item of news which he
unhesitatingly shared with her.
He said to Anna: "I saw something downtown that'll amuse you. Cigar
store with a sign in front: Trading Stamps, Premium Coupons, and
Orpheum Theatre Stubs Bought and Sold. If _that_ isn't a footprint on
the sands of time I'm going to get measured for glasses."
She laughed a trifle recessively. "I'll be glad when it's all over,
though. Won't you?"
Inspecting her, he realized with a little thrill of self-accusation,
that Anna had worn herself out; she hadn't had a day's freedom from
housework, and she had worked twice as hard as he thought necessary.
She was very tired, and she showed it; but he knew that when she
wanted the year to be over, she wasn't thinking of herself, but of
him. He paid her the compliment of accepting what she said, without
tossing it back as though she had meant it for herself. "Well, I
_told_ you I'd drag in the bearded lady and the wild man of Borneo, if
I had to. What's the matter; don't you like the show business?"
"Of course, we didn't exactly go into it for _fun_."
"I seem to remember your calling it a lark, though."
"I didn't know it was going to be quite as awful as this."
"Awful?"
"You know what I mean--you're worn out, and you look _dreadfully_--and
I _didn't_ know we'd have to do so much--" She fumbled for the word.
"What is it when a man stands outside, and tries to make people come
in and look at the snake-charmer?"
"Ballyhoo. Would you have wanted me to stay out of it, if you'd
known?"
She deliberated. "It's funny--but I don't think I would. In a way,
it's been good for both of us. I'll just be glad when it's over....
What sort of house did you have?"
Henry put on his best smile. "Not too good. Fair."
"If we should fall down, after all we've done--oh, we _can't_! Henry,
we just _can't_!"
"I used to know a poem," he said, "that kept asking the question
'Where are the snows of yesteryear?' Well, if I could find out, and
have 'em shovelled back in the street, we'd be in a good position. But
as soon as the snow melted, so did the big crowds. I'll never look a
crocus in the face again. They've croaked us out of a couple of
hundred a week, gross."
"If we _should_ fall down, do you know who I'd be sorry for? The
managers of the other theatres. We'd just have been dogs in the
manger. And every time I think about it, I don't feel nearly as smart
as I did last January. Of course, I suppose it was _fair_ enough,
but--"
"Fair? Oh, yes. That sort of thing'll always be fair--as long as
there's any business. Queer, though, when you come to think of it.
_We_ hadn't any grudge against the other fellows; but they'd have
stolen our idea, so we had to protect it. If they'd stolen our ten
dollar bill, they'd have had to go to jail for it; but they could have
stolen an idea worth ten _thousand_, and we'd just have had to stand
back, and gibber. As long as _that's_ fair, then _we_ were fair."
"I wonder," she said, "if all monopolists go through the same
thing--first, they get such a wonderful scheme that they hardly dare
to go to bed for fear they'll talk in their sleep: then they're crazy
for fear it won't work; then it _does_ work, and they think they're
the Lord's anointed; and bye-and-bye they look around and feel--sort
of apologetic."
"Oh. Do _you_ feel apologetic?"
"I'm looking around, anyway."
"You'd better save your energy. Mix's amendment's coming up pretty
soon, and even if it doesn't pass, I don't see how we're going to
compete with this weather. It's so abominably beautiful that
it's--sickening."
"Oh--Mix!" she said, scornfully. "It gives me the creeps just to hear
his name! He's a nasty hypocrite, and a sneak, and a--How long do you
suppose he'll be hurrying around with that pious air after he gets his
money? Why, he won't even stay in the League!"
Henry grimaced. "You're wrong. If he gets his money, he _will_ stay in
the League, and I'll bet on it."
There was a short silence. "Henry," she burst out, "everything
considered, I believe he wants your uncle's money more than we do!"
"Whichever one of us gets it,--" said Henry grimly, "--He'll _earn_
it!"
* * * * *
When he recalled his previous years of irresponsibility, he was
staggered to realize how little a fifty dollar bill had meant to him.
It had meant a casual request across the breakfast table; now, it
meant that seventy-five or a hundred people were willing to pay him a
few cents apiece for the result of his headaches; and the absence of
those people, and the failure of those receipts, meant the difference
between achievement and bitter downfall.
He had risked everything on his monopoly, and added six thousand
dollars to his quota. For two months, he had carried the double load,
and beaten his schedule; in early May, he was falling behind at the
rate of fifty dollars a week. With twelve weeks ahead, he faced a
deficit of a paltry six hundred dollars--and the Mix amendment was
peeping over the horizon.
He shaved down his expenses to the uttermost penny; he ruthlessly
discarded the last fraction of his class pride, and in emergency, to
save the cost of a substitute, acted in place of his own doorman. He
rearranged the lighting of the auditorium to save half a dollar a day.
When the regular pianist was ill, he permitted Anna, for an entire
fortnight, to play in his stead; and during that fortnight they ate
three meals a day in a quick-lunch restaurant. There was no economy so
trivial that he wouldn't embrace it; and yet his receipts hung
steadily, maddeningly, just below the important average. Meanwhile,
the subject of reform crept out again to the front page of the
morning papers.
For nine months, Mr. Mix and Henry had occupied, mentally, the end
seats on a see-saw, and as Henry's mood went down, Mr. Mix's mood went
up. By strict fidelity to his own affairs, Mr. Mix had kept himself in
the public eye as a reformer of the best and broadest type, and he had
done this by winning first Mirabelle, and then the rest of the League,
to his theory that organization must come before attack. Needless to
say, he had found many impediments in the way of organization;
Mirabelle had often betrayed impatience, but Mr. Mix had been able, so
far, to hold her in check. He had realized very clearly, however, that
Mirabelle wasn't to be put off indefinitely; and he had been glad that
he had a readymade ruse which he could employ as a blinder whenever
she began to fidget. This ruse was his amendment; and although he
could no longer see any value in it for the purposes of his private
feud, yet he was passing it for two reasons; Mirabelle was one, and
the public was the other. Even a reformer must occasionally justify
his title; and besides, it wasn't the sort of thing which could
injure the majesty of his reputation.
On this, then, Mr. Mix had laboured with unceasing diligence, and he
had spent Mirabelle's money so craftily that thirty five hundred
dollars had done the work of five thousand (and the balance had gone
into his own pocket, and thence into a disastrous speculation in
cotton), but as the year came into June, he told himself cheerfully
that amendment or no amendment, he was justified in buying Mirabelle a
wedding-ring. And when a belated epidemic of influenza rode into town,
on the wings of an untimely spell of weather, and the Health
Department closed all theatres for five days, Mr. Mix told himself,
further, that the end of his career as a reformer was in sight, and
that the beginning of his career of statecraft was just over the hill.
Once the minister had said "Amen," and once his bride had made him her
treasurer, and helped him into the Mayor's chair, the Reform League
was at liberty to go to the devil.
Mirabelle had persisted in keeping the wedding-journey a surprise from
him. She had hinted at a trip which would dazzle him, and also at a
wedding gift which would stun him by its magnificence; Mr. Mix had
visions on the one hand, of Narragansett, Alaska or the Canadian
Rockies, and on the other hand, of a double fistful of government
bonds. Mr. Mix didn't dare to tease her about the gift, but he did
dare to tease her about the journey, and eventually she relented.
"I'll tell you," said Mirabelle, archly. "We're going to the
convention."
Mr. Mix looked blank. "Convention?"
She nodded proudly. "The national convention of reform clubs, in
Chicago. Aren't you surprised?"
Mr. Mix swallowed, and made himself smile, but it was a hazardous
undertaking. "Surprised? I--I'm--I'm knocked endways!"
"You see," she said, "we'll be married on the fourth and be in Chicago
on the sixth and be home again on the fourteenth and the Council won't
vote on the amendment until the sixteenth. Could anything have been
nicer? Now, Theodore, you _had_n't guessed it, had you?"
"Guessed it?" he stammered. "I should say not. I don't see how you
ever thought of it. It's--why, I'm paralyzed!"
"You could be a little more enthusiastic without hurting yourself
any," she said suspiciously.
"I was thinking. I used to fancy I was pretty good at making plans
myself, but this beats _me_. The way those dates all dovetail like the
tiles on a roof. I never heard of anything like it. Only--well, if you
_will_ be so quick at reading my mind, I was wondering if we ought to
leave town before the Council meets."
"That's mighty unselfish of you, Theodore, but you said only a couple
of days ago you'd done all you could. And the Exhibitors'll still be
working--"
"I don't believe they'll work any too hard. It's taken too long to get
under way. If the amendment passes, you see they'll only have the
advantage of six weeks of fair competition. I mean, Henry'd lose only
six weeks of his _un_fair competition. And then we've got to see about
getting new quarters for the League, when our Masonic Hall lease runs
out, and--"
"But our advertising'll be running just the same, and the League'll
still have its public meetings, and all. And everywhere I go I hear
the same thing; the people really want this passed. And _any_body can
find us a new hall. I'll appoint somebody. No, you're just as
unselfish as you can be, but we'll be back in time. Truly, Theodore,
didn't you guess?"
Much of the jauntiness had gone out of Mr. Mix, but he consoled
himself with the certainty that in another two months, he would be in
a position to become masterful. The week in Chicago would bore him
excessively, but after all, it was only a small part of a lifetime. He
reflected that to any prisoner, the last few days before release, and
freedom, are probably the hardest.
"How could I, my dear?"
"No, you must have thought I'd want you to traipse off on some
perfectly aimless, nonsensical trip like a pair of sentimental
idiots."
"Oh, you know me better than that," he murmured.
"Yes, but I didn't know how well you knew _me_. Sometimes I've been
afraid you think I'm too--gushing."
"Oh, Mirabelle!"
"Just because I chatter along to you as any innocent young girl
might--"
She continued to chatter for some minutes, but Mr. Mix was absent-minded.
He had chewed the cud of his own virtue for too long a time, and it had
given him a sour stomach. He was thinking that if her gift to him were
in money (and from her hints he rather expected it) he might even manage
to find, in Chicago, a type of unascetic diversion which would remove the
taste of the convention from his spirit. But it was better to be safe
than sorry, and therefore Mr. Mix decided to make a flying trip to New
York, for his bachelor celebration.
To Mirabelle he said that he was going to confer with his friend, the
head of the Watch-and-Ward Society. Mirabelle promptly volunteered to
go along too, but Mr. Mix told her, as delicately as he could, that it
wouldn't look proper, and Mirabelle, who worshipped propriety as all
gods in one, withdrew the suggestion.
"But before you go," she said, "You've _got_ to do something about the
state-wide campaign. You've got to write the literature, anyway."
Mr. Mix felt that he was protected by the calendar, and promised.
* * * * *
Before he went to New York, he wrote three pamphlets which were
marvels of circumlocution, as far as reform was concerned, and
masterpieces of political writing, as far as his own interests were
concerned. He had borrowed freely, and without credit, from the
speeches of every orator from Everett to Choate, and when he delivered
the manuscripts to Mirabelle, and went off on his solitary junket, he
was convinced that he had helped his own personal cause, and satisfied
the League, without risking the smallest part of his reputation.
On his return, he stopped first at the Citizens Club, and when he came
into the great living-room he was aware that several members looked
up at him and smiled. Over in a corner, Henry Devereux and Judge
Barklay had been conversing in undertones; but they, too, had glanced
up, and their smiles were among the broadest.
Mr. Mix had an uncomfortable intuition that something had blown. Could
he have been spotted, in New York, by any one from home?
"What's the joke?" he inquired of the nearest member.
"Got a new name for you--Pitchfork Mix." Mr. Mix spread a thin smile
over his lips. "Supposed to be funny, is it?"
"Some folks think so."
"Where'd it originate? Let me in on the joke."
"Where _would_ it originate? You're some strenuous author--aren't you?
Didn't know you had that much acid in your system."
"Author? Author?"
From the table at his side, the man picked up three pamphlets. One was
entitled The Model Statute, the second was Local Problems, and the
third was Reform and Regeneration. To each of the three, Mr. Mix's
name was signed. He took them up, and scrutinized them closely.
"Why, what's so remarkable about these?"
"Well, that one on Local Problems isn't so bad, but you know, Mix,
when you come out in print and tell us that sooner or later you're
going to stop the manufacture and sale of playing-cards, and--"
"What?"
"And stop all public dancing, and--"
Mr. Mix looked moonstruck. "Who ever said _that_?"
"And hand us out sumptuary laws--regulate the length of women's skirts
and--"
Mr. Mix caught his breath sharply. "Where's _that_? Where is it? Show
it to me! Show it to me!"
Obligingly, the member showed him; and as Mr. Mix stared at the pages,
one by one, the veins in his cheeks grew purple. Mirabelle had edited
his manuscript,--thank Heaven she hadn't tampered with the Mix
amendment of the blue-law ordinance, which Mr. Mix had so carefully
phrased to checkmate Henry, without at the same time seeming to do
more than provide conservative Sunday regulation,--but in the other
articles Mirabelle had shovelled in a wealth of her own precious
thoughts, clad in her own bleak style, and as soon as he had read two
consecutive paragraphs, Mr. Mix knew that the worst wasn't yet to
come--it had arrived.
The other man was amusedly calm. "Well, you're not going to deny you
wrote it, are you? Too bad, in a way, though. Oh, I don't blame you
for getting it off your chest, if you really mean it--a man might as
well come out in the open--but I'm afraid too many people'll think it
just funny."
Mr. Mix produced a smile which was a sickly attempt to register
nonchalant poise. "What do you hear about it?"
"Oh, what I said. Say Mix, do you honestly mean all that
blood-and-thunder?"
Mr. Mix smiled again, and hoped that his expression was taken to be
non-committal. To save his life, he couldn't have helped looking
towards the corner where Henry and Judge Barklay sat, and his fury and
chagrin were multiplied when he saw that they were still affected by
humour.
He went out, with vast dignity--even the doorman had a twinkle in his
eye--and made for Masonic Hall. Mirabelle was there, in the committee
room, and at sight of him, she had a temporary fit of maidenly
diffidence. He wanted to slap her; but he didn't even dare to use a
tone of voice which was more than disapproving.
"Those pamphlets--" he began, censoriously.
"Oh, yes, Theodore, I took the liberty of making a few slight
changes."
"Slight changes! Sleight of _hand_ changes!"
Mirabelle drew herself up. "Do you mean to say you criticise what I
did? _I_ couldn't see the sense of being milk-and-watery, even if
_you_ could. All I put in was what you've said to me a hundred times
over. We've wasted too much time already. I thought we'd better show
our true colours."
Mr. Mix stood and gaped at her. Underground politician that he was, he
knew that Mirabelle had utterly destroyed the half of his ambition.
She had made him a laughing-stock, a buffoon, a political joke. To
think that his name was connected with a crusade against short-skirts
and dancing--Ugh! Not even the average run of church-goers would
swallow it. "Mayor!" he thought bitterly. "President of Council! I
couldn't get elected second deputy assistant dog-catcher!"
Aloud, he said slowly: "I'm afraid it was premature, that's all."
"Oh, no, it wasn't! You've no _idea_ how people are talking about
it."
"Oh, yes, I have," said Mr. Mix, but he hadn't the temerity to put a
sarcastic stress on it. He was wondering whether, if he issued a
statement to assure the public that what was in those pamphlets was
pure idealism, and not to be taken as his outline of any immediate
campaign, he could remove at least the outer layer of the bad
impression, and save his amendment from the wreck. He had thought,
earlier, that he wouldn't need that amendment as a personal weapon
against Henry, but the value of it had appreciated by the possibility
of losing it. As to the state-wide law, Mr. Mix was totally
unconcerned. "Oh, yes, I have," he said.
"Don't get too conceited, though, Theodore. The _best_ part of it was
mine."
Mr. Mix's eagle eye saw a loophole. "You don't think I'm going to take
praise for what belongs to _you_, do you?" he demanded.
"Why--"
"No, sir!" said Mr. Mix. "Not exactly. I'm going to tell the truth
about it at our next meeting, and I'm going to send a statement to the
_Herald_."
"Oh, it doesn't matter."
"It matters to me. Maybe I'm too finicky, but that's the kind of man I
am."
"You're too generous," she murmured.
Mr. Mix wiped away a stray bead of perspiration, and breathed more
freely. With Mirabelle's money to back him, and the stigma of those
two pamphlets removed, perhaps he had a fighting chance for the
mayoralty yet.
* * * * *
It was a house-wedding, with very few guests, no decorations, and
perfectly digestible refreshments. When the last of the party had
gone down the steps, Mirabelle, in a travelling-suit which was new in
comparison with the rest of her wardrobe, approached the bridegroom.
"Theodore, I want you to have your gift before we start. I don't want
you to feel too dependent on me. Maybe after next month I'll make some
kind of a settlement on you, but that's neither here nor there. So ...
take it, and I hope it's what you wanted."
He took it, and his fingers trembled. A check? And for what generous
amount?
"_Well_--aren't you going to thank me?"
Mr. Mix tried to speak, but the lump in his throat prevented him. She
had given him what was the legal equivalent of five thousand dollars,
but it wasn't in the form of a check. It was his own demand note,
payable to John Starkweather and endorsed by him to Mirabelle. The
word "Cancelled" was written, in Mirabelle's angular hand, across the
face of it.