Now after prolonged debate, and a trial of irresistible force (which
was Henry's logic) against an immovable body (which was Anna's
loyalty), she had finally consented to run up into the country for a
week's respite from the hot weather. Before she left, however, she was
first sworn to secrecy, and told of the discovery of the lurking
comma, and of the plan for a militant referendum; she was properly
convulsed, but a little later, when her practical instincts had had a
chance to assert themselves, she inquired of Henry where there was any
benefit to the Orpheum.
"Not a bit," he assured her cheerfully.
"Not even in the Council--"
"Dearest, it doesn't make the difference of the billionth part of a
counterfeit Russian rouble."
She regarded him curiously. "Are you as cheerful as all that just
because you're getting back at Mr. Mix? And maybe spoiling his boom
for Mayor?"
Henry said that he was all as cheerful as that; yea, more so. He was
merely snagging the rope which had already been paid out; and it was
glory in his pocket, because so many people before him had found the
rope twitched out of their hands. She thought that this indication of
a vengeful spirit was out of place in his character, but she forgave
it, because at least it was founded on humour. And when he took her to
the train, she forgave it on another score, because she realized that
not since last autumn had she seen him so fundamentally boyish and
irresponsible. She was glad that so much of his spontaneity had come
back to him, but at the same time she was puzzled, for it didn't seem
altogether like Henry, as she had analyzed him, to gloat so thoroughly
over mere retaliation, humourous or not.
On Monday, he met her at the station, and as soon as she saw him, she
remarked again the extraordinary uplift of his mood. She had read the
_Herald_, and taken deep enjoyment from it; but Henry had a hundred
unpublished incidents to tell her,--one of them concerned his own
escape from possible complications by closing the Orpheum, issuing
passes good for the following week; and spending the day in the
library of the Citizens Club--and in her amusement, and also in her
happiness to be back with him, she didn't notice that Henry was
driving her to the Orpheum instead of to their apartment.
"Why, what are we stopping here for, dear?"
Henry's laugh had a pronounced overtone. "To meet Mr. Archer. I
thought you'd like to be in on it."
"In on what?" She caught his arm. "Henry! Has something happened? Has
it?" She stared at him, and as she recognized what might be hidden
behind his expression of exquisite, unreserved joy, she was almost as
frightened as if he had looked despairing instead of joyful.
"It wasn't settled until last week," he said, still with that wide,
speculative smile, like a baby's. "It _really_ wasn't settled until
Saturday. And it won't be _positively_ settled until we've seen
Archer.... And there he is waiting for us! I couldn't get him
before--he was in the country for the week-end."
* * * * *
With no clear recollection of how she got there, she was sitting in
Henry's tiny office, and Mr. Archer was sitting beside her, and Henry
was standing at his desk, pawing over a heap of ledgers and
cash-books. To Anna, there was something commanding in his attitude,
something more of crest than she had ever seen in him, even during the
early period of his intrepid youth. And yet she could see, too, that
his hands were a trifle unsteady, and that his lips betrayed an
immense excitement.
"Mr. Archer," he said. "There's no use waiting until the first of the
year. Either we've made good by this time, or we never will. Here's
the books. They'll show a net profit, including Saturday's deposit, of
ten thousand five hundred."
Anna turned weak and faint, and she wanted to laugh and cry in the
same breath, but she gripped the arms of her chair, and clung fast to
what was left of her poise. If Henry had a miracle to report, Anna
must hear it.
"It's a matter of interpretation," he went on, with his voice shaking
for an instant. "And you're the interpreter. It came up so suddenly
last week that I couldn't get hold of you. But I took a chance,
anyway.... Does a lease count?"
The lawyer looked very sober. "A lease?"
"Yes. If I leased part of the theatre to somebody, would the income
from that count?"
During the resultant silence, Anna distinctly heard her own heart
beating. She looked at Mr. Archer, and saw that his brows were drawn
down, and that his eyes were distant. Fearfully, she hung on his
reply.
"That's a delicate question, Henry. You were supposed to make your
profit from the operation of the theatre."
Henry was tense. "I don't mean if I leased the _theatre_. I mean if I
leased some _part_ of it--some part that wouldn't interfere with the
show."
Anna closed her eyes. Mr. Archer's brows had risen to normal. "Why,
in that case, I should certainly say that the income would count,
Henry. Let's see the lease?"
Anna wished that Henry would come over to her, and hold her in his
arms while Mr. Archer, with maddening deliberation, glanced through
the long typewritten document--but Henry had turned his back, and was
gazing out of the window.
"Peter McClellan? What's _he_ want so much space for?"
Henry made no response. There was a long hiatus, broken only by the
rustling of the pages.
"Just a minute, Henry. Some of this is all right--and some isn't. The
space you mention is what you're using now for the--er--nursery, I
take it. And the privilege of the lessee to enlarge the upper story at
his own expense is all right." His brows had gone down again, and Anna
shivered. "But even if you've got your whole rental in advance, you
aren't entitled to claim all of it belongs to this year's income. As a
matter of fact, you actually _earn_ a twenty-fourth of that whole
payment every month for twenty-four months."
Henry spoke over his shoulder. "You haven't read far enough."
"Oh!" Mr. Archer laughed, but his voice was no lighter. "Why, how on
earth did you persuade anybody to execute such an agreement as that?"
Henry faced around. "Bob Standish engineered it. Told this chap as
long as he paid in advance anyway, to get a bargain, it wouldn't make
any difference to _him_, and it made a lot to me. Nine hundred and
fifty a month for July and August and fifty a month for the next
twenty-two months."
"But my dear boy, you still don't _earn_ more than a twenty-fourth of
the whole rental each month. That's ordinary book-keeping. I should
have thought you'd have learned it. It makes no difference _when_ the
lessee pays. All you can credit yourself in July and August is--"
"Oh, no, Mr. Archer. There's a consideration. You'll find it on the
next page. I'm to keep the theatre closed every afternoon in July and
August so the lessee can make his alterations to the second story. And
the extra price for those months is to pay me for loss of revenue. So
it _does_ count on this year's income. Maybe I'm no impresario, but by
gosh, I can keep a set of books."
Mr. Archer nodded briskly. "That _is_ different. Why, Henry, as far as
I can see ... what's this? 300 Chestnut Street? But the Orpheum's on
Main."
"300 Chestnut is the back entrance," said Henry. He smiled across at
Anna, and she stood up and came a perilous step towards him. "Well,
old lady," said Henry, and the same wide, foolish smile of utter joy
was on his lips. "I guess this fixes it. I--"
He was rudely interrupted by the violent opening of the door. His Aunt
Mirabelle stood there, dynamic, and behind her, in a great fluster of
dismay and apprehension, stood the chairman of the Quarters Committee
of the Reform League.
"Henry! Henry Devereux! You--you swindler!" Her speech was seriously
impeded by her wrath. "You--you--you." She flung a savage gesture
towards the little man in the background. "You had an agent show
him--show Mr. McClellan--this place through the back door!--_He_
didn't know I--Henry Devereux, you've got _my_ three thousand dollars,
and you're going to give it straight back to me! This minute! Do you
_hear_?"
Anna stared at her, and at Henry, and sat down plump and cried into
her handkerchief, from sheer hysterical reaction.
"Oh, yes," said Henry. "Through the back door, if you say so. But
that's the regular business entrance. I suppose the agent thought it
looked better, too."
"The agent! That Standish man! You _conspired_. You--"
Henry's chin went up. "Excuse me, Aunt Mirabelle, but I didn't know
the first thing about it until Bob Standish told me he had a client
ready to close, and to pay in advance. I didn't even know your man by
sight. I'd have rented it to anybody on earth on the same terms."
The little chairman edged forward. "Miss Starkweather--Mrs. Mix--I
knew how you feel about motion pictures, of course, but how could _I_
know you wouldn't even want to be in the same building with--"
"Oh, dry up!" She whirled on the lawyer. "Is that fair? Do you call
that fair? _Do_ you?"
Mr. Archer put his hand on Henry's shoulder, and nodded benignly. "To
tell the truth, Mrs. Mix, I can't see where this concerns you
personally at all. It's a straightforward commercial transaction
between Henry and Mr. McClellan."
"It isn't, either! Mr. McClellan had authority from the League to get
us a hall and sign a lease in his own name. I had the directors give
it to him, myself. And it was _my_ money that paid for it! Mine!"
Henry grinned at the lawyer. "I didn't know it until last Saturday.
Bob told me if I'd make a dirt-low rent I could get it in advance, and
up to Saturday I didn't even know who I was dickering with."
His aunt was menacing. "Henry Devereux, if you try to cheat me out of
my rightful property by any such flim-flam as this, I ... I ... I
don't know _what_ I'll do!"
"Oh, don't, Aunt Mirabelle," said Henry compassionately. "You know I
won't be a hog about it."
Some of the fury went out of her expression, and Mirabelle was on the
verge of sniffling. "That's just exactly it. I _know_ you won't. And
the humiliation of it to _me_. When you know perfectly well if
_I_'d--"
She stopped there, with her mouth wide open. They all waited,
courteously, for her to speak, but Mirabelle was speechless. She was
thinking partly of the past, and partly of the future, but chiefly of
the present--the hideous, unnecessary present in which Mr. Mix was
motoring serenely about the city, paying out good money to theatre
managers. Mirabelle's money, not to be replaced. And then--she nearly
collapsed!--the unspeakable humiliation of retracting her pledge to
the national convention. Her pledge through Mr. Mix of twenty-five
thousand dollars. How could she ever offer an excuse that would hold
water? And how could she tell the truth? And to think of Mr. Mix's
place in the community when it was shown--as inevitably it would be
shown--that he had acted merely as a toy balloon, inflated by
Mirabelle's vain expectations.
"Humph!" she said at length, and her voice was a hoarse, thin whisper.
"Well--you just wait--'till I get hold of him!"
* * * * *
The door had closed behind her: the door had been closed behind Mr.
Archer, whose kindly congratulations had been the more affecting
because he had learned to love and respect the boy who had won them:
Henry and his wife stood gazing into each other's eyes. He took a step
forward and held out his arms, and she ran to him, and held tightly to
him, and sobbed a little for a postscript.
He stroked her hair, gently. "Well--Archer says it's going to be about
seven hundred thousand. And I deserve about thirty cents. And you're
responsible for all the rest of it.... What do you want first? Those
golden pheasants, or humming-birds' wings?"
She lifted her face. "Both--b-_because I won't have to cook 'em_. Oh,
my dear, my dear, I've l-loved it, I've loved it, I've loved working
and saving and being poor with you and everything--b-but look at my
h-hands, Henry, and _don't_ laugh at me--but I'm going to have a cook!
I'm going to have a cook! I'm going to have a cook!"
He kissed her hands.
"It's all over, isn't it? All over, and _we_'re doing the shouting. No
more wild men of Borneo, no more dishes to wash, no more Orpheum.
Remember what Aunt Mirabelle said a year ago? She was dead right.
Look! See the writing on the wall, baby?"
He swung her towards the door! she brushed away her tears, and beheld
the writing. It was in large red letters, and what it said was very
brief and very appropriate. It said: EXIT.