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 42 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 43 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 44 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.