The atmosphere of his office almost nauseated him; the endless parade of petty details was almost unbearably irksome; the book-keeping part of it alone was soul-disintegrating; but to Henry, ambition had become a monomania, and to it he was ready to make every conceivable sacrifice, including––if necessary––his health. There were days when he told himself that he would pay a thousand dollars merely to have green turf under his feet, blue sky above, and no worries in his soul––but he wouldn’t sacrifice an hour of supervision over his theatre. There were days when he felt that he would give up his chance of salvation if only he could go away with Anna, up into the wooded country, for a week’s vacation––but he wouldn’t sacrifice a week from the Orpheum guardianship. The spring was calling him––the golf course, the bridle-paths, the lake, the polo––but Henry had put himself in high speed forward, and there was no reverse. Then, too, he was constantly thinking of Anna, 232 who without the daily stimulus that Henry had, was cheerfully performing the function of a domestic drudge. One of his most frequently repeated slogans was that if Anna could stick it out, he could.
While the winter favoured it, his monopoly had brought him a splendid return, but the first warm days had signalled a serious loss of patronage, and Henry couldn’t successfully combat the weather. The weather was too glorious; it called away Henry’s audiences, just as it tried in vain to inveigle Henry. And then the monopoly had been double-edged; it had been a good risk––and without it, he wouldn’t have had the slightest chance against the requirements––but it had been too perfect, too prominent. In the beginning, everybody had hailed him as a Napoleon because he had vanquished his little world of competitors; but now that his laurel was old enough to wilt, he was receiving the natural back-lash of criticism. Naturally, his personal friends were still delighted, the older men at the club were still congratulating him for foresight and ingenuity, and Mr. Archer was still complimentary and 233 confident: but the great mass of theatre-goers, and the mass of self-appointed arbiters of business ethics, were pointing to him as a follower of the gods of grasp and gripe. More disquieting than that, however, were the indications of a new crusade, led by Mr. Mix, and directed against the Council. The Mix amendment, which was so sweeping that it prohibited even Sunday shows for charity, would automatically checkmate Henry; and the worst of it was that money was being spent with some effectiveness. Of course, the amendment wouldn’t ever be adopted in toto––it was too sweeping, too drastic––but even a compromise on the subject of Sunday entertainments would be fatal.
Despite the strain, he was outwardly as blithe and optimistic as usual. When Anna pleaded with him to take a vacation, he either laughed her off in his most jovial manner, or riposted that she needed a vacation far more than he did, which may have been true; when Judge Barklay attempted to reason with him, he responded with respectful humour. He had seen victory slip within his grasp, and slip out of it, 234 so often that he was on the verge of complete demoralization, but he thought that he alone was aware of it, and because of his pride, Anna didn’t disillusion him.
Nor did Bob Standish disillusion him. Standish tried to bolster him up with undergraduate slang, and to convey to Henry the fact that all the hill-folk were solidly behind him, but he knew better than to come out flat with commiseration. Then, too, Standish was conscious of a vague cloud which had come up to blur their relationship. He didn’t suspect for an instant the true cause of it, which was his remark, some months ago, that he wouldn’t employ in his office a friend such as Henry; but he felt it, and was keenly concerned about it. Nevertheless, his own unselfish interest never faltered, and he waited patiently, because he knew that between himself and Henry there could be no permanent misunderstanding.
Nor did Mr. Archer, Henry’s firm friend and ally (insofar as Mr. Archer could separate his personality into two separate entities, one of which was ally, and the other was impartial trustee) disillusion him, although Mr. Archer 235 had also eyes to see with. On the contrary, Mr. Archer put out numerous remarks which he intended as lifebuoys.
“There was a directors’ meeting of the Trust and Deposit the other day, Henry, and somehow they got talking about your account. I shouldn’t wonder––if you ever wanted to change your business––if they wouldn’t give you the opportunity; and if they did, it wouldn’t be so very long before they’d invite you on the Board.”
Henry disparaged it. “What as––deputy assistant splinter?”
“You’ve made rather a hit with the older crowd, Henry. And even if you aren’t a rich man by inheritance next August, I’m not worrying about your future.”
“Neither am I. Not while I’ve got Anna to think up my best thoughts for me.”
The lawyer nodded. “A girl in a thousand, Henry.”