His aunt was menacing. “Henry Devereux, if you try to cheat me out of my rightful property 297 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 298 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.... 299 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.