"Why, if you _could_ let me have it today, John, I'd appreciate it."

"Make out your note," said Mr. Starkweather, heavily, "Interest at six percent, semi-annually. I'll have the cashier write you out a check."

Ten minutes later Mr. Mix, patting his breast pocket affectionately, bestowed a paternal smile upon the girl at the wicket; and Mr.

Starkweather, alone in his office, drew a prodigious breath and slumped down in his chair, and fell to gazing out over the roof-tops.

It was a fortnight, now, since Henry's last letter. He wished that Henry would write oftener. He told himself that one of Henry's impulsive, buoyant letters would furnish the only efficacious antidote to Mirabelle. And he needed an antidote, and a powerful one, for during the past two weeks Mirabelle had been surpa.s.sing herself. That is, if one can surpa.s.s a superlative.

Judge Barklay, of course, had taken the revelation like a man. Like a philosopher. He was fond of Henry personally; he had objected to him purely for the obvious reasons. He agreed, however, with Mr.

Starkweather--marriage might awaken Henry to complete responsibility.

Indeed he had Mr. Starkweather's guaranty of it. To be sure a secret marriage was somewhat sensational, somewhat indecorous--

"Humph!" Mirabelle had interrupted. "I don't know who's insulted most--you or us. Still I suppose you've got _one_ consolation--and that's if two young fools marry each other instead of somebody else it only leaves just the two of 'em to repent at leisure instead of four."

Mr. Starkweather recalled, with chagrin, his own and the Judge's futile attempts at tact. Mirabelle was tact-proof; you might as well try subtle diplomacy on a locomotive. He took another deep breath, and gazed abstractedly out over the roof-tops. He wished that Henry would write. Henry had his defects, but the house was not quite livable without him. Mr. Starkweather was swept by an emotion which took him wholly by surprise and almost overcame him; he sat up, and began to wonder where he could find some occupation which would c.h.i.n.k up the crevices in his thoughts, and prevent him from introspection.

Eventually he hit upon it, and with a conscious effort, he pulled himself out of his chair, and went over to Masonic Hall to meet his sister Mirabelle.

She had been attending a conference of the Ethical Reform League, and as Mr. Starkweather's car drew in to the curb, the reformers were just emerging to the sidewalk. He surveyed them, disparagingly. First, there was a vanguard of middle-aged women, remarkably short of waist and long of skirt, who looked as though they had stepped directly from the files of G.o.dey's Lady's Book; he recognized a few of them, and judged the others accordingly--these were the militants, the infantry, who bore the brunt of the fighting. Next, there was a group of younger women, and of young men--the men, almost without exception, wore spectacles and white washable ties. These were the skirmishers and the reserves. At one side, there was a little delegation in frock-coats and silk hats, and as Mr. Starkweather beheld them, he lifted his eyebrows; some of those older men he hadn't seen in public for a dozen years--he had forgotten that they were alive. But the majority of them were retired or retiring capitalists; men who in their day, had managed important interests, and even now controlled them. Mr. Starkweather reflected that life must have become very insipid to them; and he further reflected that their place in this organization must be as shock-troops. They would seldom go into action, but when they did, they had the power of consequence to give them an added momentum.

His sister caught sight of him, and waved her hand in greeting; and this astonished him all the more, because since Henry's departure, she had behaved towards him as though his character needed a bath.

Mr. Starkweather made room for her. "Thought I'd give you a lift back to the house," he said.

There was an unusual colour in her cheeks, and her eyes were brilliant. "John, do you know what I am?"

Mr. Starkweather didn't dare to hesitate. "No. What?"

"I'm the--president," she said, and her voice was trembling with pride and bewilderment.

"President? Of the League?"

Transfigured, she nodded again and again. "The nominating committee reported this morning. I'm the only candidate...." She stared at him and stiffened. "Of course, I know you aren't interested in anything helpful or progressive, so I don't expect to be congratulated. Of course not."

Mr. Starkweather made a dutiful struggle to be joyous about it, and succeeded only in producing a feeble smirk. "I'll say one thing--you've got some money represented in that crowd. Those old codgers. I didn't realize it.... Well, what's your program?"

She unbent a little, and began to recite her platform, and as she skipped from plank to plank, her own enthusiasm was multiplied, and Mr. Starkweather was correspondingly encased in gloom. As a mere active member of the League, a private in the ranks, Mirabelle had made his house no more cheerful as a mausoleum; and when he considered what she might accomplish as a president, in charge of a sweeping blue-law campaign, his imagination refused to take the hurdle.

Fortunately, he wasn't expected to say anything. His sister was making a speech. She didn't stop when the car stopped, nor when Mr.

Starkweather climbed down stiffly, and held open the door for her, nor even when they had reached the portico of the big brick house. He told himself, dumbly, that if the world would ever listen to Mirabelle, it would certainly reform. Not necessarily in contrition, but in self-defence.

And yet when he sat opposite her, at lunch, his expression was as calm and untroubled as though she had fashioned for him an ideal existence.

He was seeing a vision of Mirabelle as a soap-box orator; he was seeing humorous stories about her in the newspapers; he was shuddering at all the publicity which he knew would be her portion, and yet he could smile across the table at her, and speak in his normal voice. Physically, he was distressed and joyless, but he found it easier to rise above his body than above his mind. His smile was a tribute to a dual heroism.

"Got a little present for you," said Mr. Starkweather, suddenly. He tossed a slip of paper to her, and watched her as she examined it.

"There's a string to it, though--I want you to hold it awhile."

She looked up, sceptically. "Suppose it's good?"

"Oh, it's perfectly good. Mix is all right. Only I don't want you to press him for awhile. Not for three, four months, anyhow." He pushed away his dessert, untasted. "You know why I'm givin' you these little dibs and dabs every now and then, don't you? So if anything ever happens to me, all of a sudden, you'll have somethin' to draw on.

Let's see, I've put about forty in the little trust fund I been buildin' up for you, and given you twelve--" He broke off abruptly; his own symptoms puzzled him. As though somebody had tried to throttle him.

His sister had already been sitting bolt upright, but now she achieved an even greater rigidity. "Did you take my advice about your will? I don't suppose you did."

"I made some changes in it this morning," said Mr. Starkweather, uncomfortably.

"Did you do what I told you to--about Henry?"

He was struggling to keep a grip on himself. "Well, no--not exactly."

"Oh, you didn't?" she said tartly. "Well, what _did_ you do?"

"Mirabelle," said her brother, "don't you think that's--just a little mite personal?"

"Well--I should hope so. I meant it to be. After the way Henry's acted, he don't deserve one bit of sympathy, or one dollar from anybody. And if _I_'ve got anything to say, he won't get it, either."

Mr. Starkweather's round, fat face, wore an expression which his sister hadn't seen before. He stood up, and held the back of his chair for support. "Mirabelle, you haven't got a _word_ to say about it.

I've made some changes in my will, but it's n.o.body's d.a.m.ned business outside of mine."

She reached for her handkerchief. "John! To think that you'd _swear_--at _me_--"

He wet his lips. "I didn't swear at you, but it's a holy wonder I don't. I've stood this just about as long as I'm goin' to. Henry's my own flesh and blood. And furthermore he wouldn't waste my money a minute quicker'n _you_ would. He'd do a d.a.m.n sight better with it.

He'd have a good time with it, and make everybody in the neighbourhood happy, and you'd burn it up in one of your confounded reform clubs.

Well, all I've got's a sister and a nephew, so I guess the money's goin' to be wasted anyhow. But one way's as good's another, and Henry's goin' to get a fair break, and don't you forget it." He took a gla.s.s of water from the table, and spilled half of it. "Don't you forget it."

At last, she had perception. "John, you don't know what you're saying!

What's the matter? Are you sick?"

He was swallowing repeatedly. "Yes, I am. Sick of the whole thing."

His eyes, and the hue of his cheeks, genuinely alarmed her; she went to him, but he avoided her. "No, I don't want anything except to be let alone.... Is the car out there?"

"But John--_listen_ to me--"

He waved her off. "I listened to you the day Henry came home, Mirabelle. That's enough to last me quite some time. I ain't forgot a word you said--not a word. Where's my hat?" He rushed past her, and out of the house, and left her gaping after him.

Half an hour later, young Mr. Standish telephoned to her.

"Miss Starkweather?... Your brother isn't feeling any too well, and I've just sent him home. He looks to me as if he's in pretty bad shape. Wouldn't be a bad idea to have your doctor there, seems to me."

She had the doctor there, and before the night was over, there was another doctor in consultation. There were also two nurses. And to both doctors, both nurses and Mirabelle, Mr. Starkweather, who knew his destiny, whispered the same message at intervals of fifteen minutes. "Don't have Henry come back--don't have Henry come back--no sense his comin' back 'till August. Tell him I said so. Tell him I want him to stay over there--'till August."

And then, in the cool, fresh morning, Mr. Starkweather, who hadn't stirred a muscle for several hours, suddenly tried to sit up.

"Postman!" said Mr. Starkweather, with much difficulty.

He was waiting for a letter from Henry, and when they put it into his hands, he smiled and was content. He hadn't the strength to open it, and he wouldn't let anyone else touch it; he was satisfied to know that Henry had written. And after that, there was nothing worth waiting for.