Part 20 (1/2)

”Detectives!”

”Yes. To check up their habits. Suppose we found a man gambling on the sly; we'd hold that over his head and--”

”Humph! I don't like it much, but in a good cause it may be justifiable.”

”And leaflets and circulars and one thing and another.... But if I have to go out and get permission from a finance committee before I can let go of a dime, I can't do _any_thing. I'd have to have the money so I could use it exactly as I needed it. And if I did, I'll bet I could get support you never dreamed of. Get outside people to bring pressure on the Council.” He gazed at the ceiling. ”Why, with a leeway of five thousand, I'd even have the Exhibitor's a.s.sociation with us.

I'd have--”

”Think so?”

”I _know_ so.”

”How?”

”Because long before I was in the League, I was in politics. When I say I know, I _know_. Of course, the a.s.sociation's help would only go to show that they see the light in respect to their own business--it wouldn't cover all the whole scope of the amendment, but even so--”

”Theodore, you know politics and I don't. But both of us know the proverb about what you catch flies with. So we'll try both methods together. You can put out the mola.s.ses, and I'll put out the vinegar; and between us, we ought to get somewhere.”

”We can't fail,” said Mr. Mix, sitting on needles.

Mirabelle went over to her desk, and searched the pigeon-holes. ”I've been told, Theodore, by--people I consider very reliable--that in August, dear John's money will be coming to me.” This was the first time that she had ever broached the delicate subject. ”I always meant to use some of it for the League.” She had unearthed her check book, and was writing words and figures as angular as herself. ”So really,--this is on account.” She came over to hand him the check, and after a slight hesitation, she stooped and pecked him on the forehead, but immediately afterwards she relapsed into her consistently, non-romantic character. ”You better give me an itemized account of how you spend it, though, Theodore. You better give me one every day.

We've got to be businesslike, even if we _are_--engaged.”

CHAPTER XIII

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 members.h.i.+p 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 una.s.sumingly 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 f.a.gged, 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 guardians.h.i.+p. 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 compet.i.tors; 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 ma.s.s of theatre-goers, and the ma.s.s of self-appointed arbiters of business ethics, were pointing to him as a follower of the G.o.ds 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 relations.h.i.+p. 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 ent.i.ties, 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.”