CHAPTER IV

It never occurred to Henry, when he came home in late July, to take his wife to the big brick house which had been his uncle's. He didn't know whether the house would go to Aunt Mirabelle or to himself, and for the time being, it was immaterial; Aunt Mirabelle was welcome to possession of it, undisturbed. Except for his uncle, there would have been open warfare between them long ago; now that the arbitrator was gone, war was inevitable, but Henry wouldn't fight on sacred ground.

He preferred to accept the hospitality of Judge Barklay. The Judge's house was a third the size, and not the least prepossessing, and there really wasn't room for the young Devereuxs in it, but as soon as you stepped inside the door, you knew that you were welcome.

He was sorry for his aunt, and he went to see her immediately, but even in this new situation, she let him know that she disapproved of him thoroughly and permanently. She wasn't reconciled to his marriage; she didn't care to receive Anna; she implied that regardless of Mr. Starkweather's express wishes, Henry was a stony-hearted ingrate for remaining so long abroad. To be sure, his presence at home would have served no purpose whatsoever, but Mirabelle was firm in her opinion. More than that, she succeeded in making Henry feel that by his conduct he had hurried his uncle into an untimely grave; she didn't say this flatly, nor yet by innuendo, but she managed to convey it through the atmosphere.

"Of course," she said, "you've been to call on Mr. Archer, haven't you?"

Henry flushed indignantly. "I hadn't even thought about it."

"Well, when you do, you'll hear some fine news." Her lip curled. "Your friend Bob Standish's bought the business. Some of it, anyway. Bought it on a shoestring's _my_ guess,--but he's bought it."

"I didn't know it, Aunt Mirabelle."

"Well, they only closed the deal a few days ago."

"Good for Bob!" He was thinking that if honest toil were demanded of him, nothing could be more pleasant than an alliance with this same Standish. His uncle had always offered up Standish, subtly, as an ill.u.s.tration of what Henry himself ought to be. And it was a tribute to the mutual affection of all three men that Henry had never been irritated at Mr. Starkweather, nor resentful towards his friend. On the contrary, he admitted that unless he were himself, he would rather be Standish than anyone else. He wondered if his uncle could have planned for him so delightful a penance as a year or two of happy servitude under Bob. He must see Bob and congratulate him. Only twenty-seven, and the head of the most important concern of its type in several counties.

Aunt Mirabelle sniffed. "Good for _nothing_. He's most as scatter-brained as you are."

Henry declined the combat, and after she sensed his intention, she went on, with increasing acridity.

"The rest of the whole estate's tied up for a year in a trust, to see what you're going to do with some piece of property he deeded to you just before he died, but Mr. Archer wouldn't tell me much about it 'till you came home. I _suppose_ it's part of the business--some department of it. If you can make ten thousand dollars out of it, you're to have everything. All _I_ get's a few thousand outright, and what John gave me in a little separate fund, and a year's income from the whole estate. I suppose you think that's perfectly fair and right and just. Naturally, you would."

In his present mood, Henry was immune to astonishment. "I don't believe it's up to me to criticize Uncle John, whatever he did."

"Not under the circ.u.mstances, no. You've got some piece of property--_I_ don't know what it is; he didn't tell me; _I_'m only his sister--and he's fixed things so it's just a gamble for you. You're going to do the gambling; and I sit back and fold my hands and wait a year to see whether you get everything, or I do. Even this house."

"What's that?"

She made a deprecating gesture. "Oh, yes, if you aren't a good enough gambler, then _I_ come into everything. It puts me in such a sweet position, doesn't it? So comfortable for me." Her smile was bitter; she was recalling what her brother had said to her at lunch, on that final day--that he wouldn't listen to her, because already he had heard the worst that she had to say. Originally, as she knew, he had intended to bequeath Henry a fourth of his property, and herself the remainder; and she knew that by her too vigorous indictment of Henry she had egged her brother into a state of mind which, regardless of the cause of it, she still considered to be unfathomable. The memory galled her, and so did the possibility of Henry's triumph. "Well," she said, "I wish you every happiness and success, Henry. I suppose you feel in your conscience you deserve it, don't you?"

When he left her, he was aware that the last tie had been severed.

His friend Bob Standish was a young man who in the past ten years had achieved many different kinds of success by the reason that mere acquaintances, as well as strangers, invariably underestimated him.

For one thing, his skin was so tender, his eyes so blue and innocent, his mouth so wide and sensitive, his forehead so white and high, that he gave the impression of almost childish simplicity and ingenuousness. For another thing, he dressed with such meticulous regard for the fashion, and he moved about with such indolent amiability, that his clothes and his manners distracted attention from what was underneath.

And so, at college, a full battalion of kindly soph.o.m.ores had volunteered to teach him poker, and couldn't understand why the profits went not to the teacher, but to the pupil. Immature professors, who liked to score off idlers and fat-brained sons of plutocrats, had selected him as the perfect target, and some of them had required several terms to realize that Standish, always baby-eyed, beau-attired and apparently dreaming of far distant things, was never lower in rank than the top twenty of his cla.s.s. Out on the Field, visiting ends and tackles, meeting him for the first time, had nearly laughed in his face, and prepared to slaughter him, only to discover, with alarm and horror which steadily increased from the first whistle to the last, that Standish could explode his muscles with such a burst of dynamic energy that his hundred and sixty pounds felt like two hundred and ten. It was equally discouraging to learn, from breathless experience, that when he was in his stride he was as unpursueable as a coyote; and that he could diagnose the other fellow's tactics even before the other fellow had quite decided what to do next.

In commerce, he had merely continued the same species of career; and by virtue of being thoroughly depreciated, and even pitied, by his customers, he had risen in six years from the grade of city insurance solicitor to that of Mr. Starkweather's princ.i.p.al a.s.sistant. And now, as casually as he had ever raked in a jack-pot from the bewildered soph.o.m.ores, he had bought the Starkweather business, and not on a shoestring, either, as Mirabelle had suspected.

He had roomed with Henry at college; he had been his inseparable companion, out of office hours, ever since; he knew him too well to proffer any trite condolence. But his sympathy was firm and warm in his fingers when he shook hands and Henry got the message.

"Thought probably you'd rather not have me at the train," said Standish, "so I didn't come. Right or wrong?"

"Right, Bob.... Allow smoking in your sanctum?"

"Don't allow anybody _not_ to smoke. What are you doing--borrowing or offering?"

Henry glanced at Standish's brand. "Neither one. Every man for himself--and you've got vile taste. Well, I hear you're the big boss around here. Please, mister, gimme a job?"

"Nothing I'd like better," said Standish. "I've got just the thing for you. Sit over on the window-sill and be a lily. Flowers brighten up an office so."

"You basely misjudge me. Didn't you know I'm going to work?"

Standish's eyes were round and guileless. "See any sea-serpents on your way over? I've heard there _are_ such things."

"Fact, though, I am. And you know it, too. I'm hoping it's here."

His friend shook his head. "Not here, Henry."

"No?"

"No, and I'm sorry. I'd make you clean inkwells and say 'sir,' and you'd get to be almost as democratic as I am.... Haven't you seen Archer?"

"Not yet."

"Why not?"

"Oh, just squeamish, I suppose. You sort of hate to think of the--cash end of it."

"That's right, too. But as long as you're in the building, you'd better drop in there. From all the talk there is, you've picked up a mystery."

"Mystery? In what way?"

"Not for me to say. Go find out. And say--you and Anna come and dine with me tonight, will you? I just want to have you all to myself.

Mind?"

"Not noticeably."

"Good. Seven o'clock. Now get out of here and see Archer. Come back afterwards, if you want to; but do that first."

As if from pressure of business, he projected Henry into the corridor; and then, meditatively, he returned to his desk. Young Mr. Standish had watched his employer very closely, during those last few days, and in witnessing Mr. Starkweather's will, he had sensed, intuitively, that it contained a stick of dynamite for Henry.

Mr. Archer, who had known Henry since the Fauntleroy days, greeted him with the proper mixture of repression and cordiality. "But I'm afraid," owned Mr. Archer, "I'm afraid you're going to be a little disappointed."

Henry shook his head. "Then you've sized me up all wrong," he said, much subdued. "Because no matter what I get, I'm going to be satisfied that Uncle John wanted me to have it. Besides, I've apparently got to hump myself, or I don't get anything at all. Aunt Mirabelle gave me some idea of it--I'd thought it was probably an interest in the business, but Bob Standish says it isn't."

"No, it's a building. 361 Main Street. But it's rather more than a mere building; it _is_ a business. It's leased until next Monday; after that it's yours to operate. The deed's recorded now. It's yours outright. Did your aunt tell you what the conditions are?"

"All or nothing!"

"Yes. Oh, he made a separate provision for Miss Starkweather; she'll never go hungry; but the bulk of the estate depends on what you do with the business in the next year. And strictly between ourselves, your uncle expected you to finish with a bit to spare."