On Saturday evening, Henry gave a special invitation performance, to which only his personal friends and Anna’s were bidden, and if he had cherished any lingering doubt of his place in society, it must have been removed that night. His friends didn’t know the details of the Starkweather trust fund, but they knew that Henry’s future was lashed to his success with the Orpheum, and they came to help tie the knot. Naturally, since the auditorium was filled with young people who had grown up together, and with a few older people who had helped to bring them up, there was plenty of informality––indeed, a large part of it had been scheduled and rehearsed in advance. Henry didn’t have to ask any questions; he knew that Bob Standish was responsible.
With Anna beside him, he had stood for 127 thirty minutes in the foyer, to receive his guests, and as smile after smile encouraged him, and he heard the steady stream of sincere good-wishes, Henry began to grow curiously warm in the region of his heart, and curiously weak in the knees. Anna moved closer to him.
“I told you so,” she whispered. “I told you so. Everybody loves you.”
“It isn’t me,” he whispered back, with ungrammatical fervour. “It’s you.”
They stood together, then, at the rear of the house, to watch the high-jinks going on in front. Standish had ousted the three-piece orchestra, and taken over the piano; two other volunteers had flanked him, and the revelry began with a favourite ditty to proclaim that all reports to the contrary notwithstanding, Henry was style all the while, all the while.
Then, suddenly, there were loud shouts for Henry and Anna, and they were seized and dragged to the top of the centre aisle. Standish swung into the Mendelssohn Wedding March, and through a haze of rose-leaf confetti and paper streamers, the two Devereuxs were forced down to the orchestra-pit. The house 128 was on its feet to them, and Anna, half-laughing, half-crying with happiness, was sorting confetti out of her hair when Standish clambered up on the stage, and waved for silence.
“Listen, everybody.... Old Hank Devereux and wife tried to save the price of a caterer, last spring, and they got away with it. Alas, Hank’s a jealous bird, and he was afraid somebody’d kiss the bride. Furthermore, Anna didn’t want to get any wedding presents, because they clutter up the house so. And when most of your friends live in the same town, it’s hard to get rid of the stuff you don’t want. So they buncoed us out of a party. Well, so far we’ve given ’em Mendelssohn and confetti. Any lady or gent who now desires to kiss the bride, please rise and come forward.... Hey, there! This isn’t any Sinn Fein sociable! Ceremony’s postponed!... And finally, dearly beloved brethren and sistren, we come to the subject of wedding gifts.” He turned to look down at the Devereuxs, and some of the levity went out of his voice. “We thought we’d bring you a little something for good-luck, old man. It’s from all of us. Hope 129 you like it. If you don’t, you can swap it for a few tons of coal.... There she comes!”
It was a magnificent silver tea-service, borne down the aisle by the two men who, next to Standish, were Henry’s best friends.
Anna was utterly speechless, and Henry was coughing diligently. The service was placed on the piano; Henry touched the cool smoothness of a cream-jug, and tried to crystallize his thought into coherence.