Anna Beaton was left with their only child, Laura, then a ripening girl of eighteen. Her bachelor brother, Tom Wilson, who had inherited the ranch; urged her to come there to live, but Laura had other ideas. Already she knew that she was extraordinarily good-looking. Her mirror confirmed the testimony of the endless sighs and languishments of high-school and college swains. She knew, moreover, that she was lucky enough to have honorably vendible beauty; that is, she sensed that she was a born model, and was eager to go to New York to start earning a living. Her heart was completely her own. Had it been the fashion of the century, twenty boys in Albuquerque would have drowned themselves for her sake, but we live in trifling times, and they had all contented themselves with morose interludes lasting from a week to (in the case of the cadaverous, mustached high-school poet, Ed Hasley) four months, during which they had stupefied themselves with soft or hard drinks and violent jazz dancing, and had then all found other, more grateful loves. The fair Laura could therefore wish to leave Albuquerque without a qualm, since nothing ties down a young girl except family affection or romantic love. Not so her mother; she was as hard to uproot as the birch tree, which seems light and pliable, but has an iron grasp on its few feet of earth. In the clash of wills that resulted, Laura’s character began to emerge from her aura of loveliness. When her mother saw her begin to carry out her threat to go to New York alone–Laura came into the house one afternoon followed by a truck driver carrying an enormous trunk–Mrs. Beaton burst into tears and yielded. Then the girl and the woman, who in that moment exchanged their life roles of protector and protected, fell into each other’s arms and cried. And Laura, conscious of her new mastery, was sweetly penitent and insisted on staying; and her mother, who felt a strange mixture of vexation and warm, flooding relief at bending once again to a beloved will, was just as insistent on going. So the pathetic scene played itself out, and plans for departure were made and soon executed.
And thus, patient reader, we are back in the apartment of mother and daughter Beaton on Seventh Avenue in the upper Fifties in New York, pleasantly furnished with the aid of Laura’s earnings and kept spotless by Mrs. Beaton’s energetic, instinctive neatness; and Laura (now Honey) having completed her toilet, is putting on a simple black frock with a silver clasp at the throat, preparatory to going out to dinner.
“Well, Laura,” says Mrs. Beaton, beaming at her child’s beauty, which gladdened the trim, modernistic bedroom, “I always said you were going to marry a millionaire.” (Indeed she had always said it; by actual count, perhaps five thousand times in the last ten years.) “It looks as though you’re on your way to it, after all.”
Laura turned deep, reproachful eyes at her. “Mother, how can you talk like that?”
“Stranger things happen here in New York,” said the old lady with a very knowing look.
In an emphatic gesture, Laura presented her engagement ring within an inch of her mother’s eyes.
“I haven’t anything against Andrew; he’s a lovely boy,” said Mrs. Beaton in an injured tone, retreating and picking up a sugar wafer from a tray on the night table, “but there’s many a slip–”
“Mother.” A girl can put an exquisite edge on the homely word. “Stephen English is almost old enough to be my father. He only asked me to dinner because Mr. Marquis asked Sandra, and we were all sitting together. And if I so much as thought of him as a rival to Andy I wouldn’t have said yes. I couldn’t very well be rude to Mr. Marquis when we practically live off the account.”
“What was Mr. English doing at the press party?” asked her mother.
“I don’t know.” As she talked, Honey put mysterious touches to her face, hair, and dress that seemed as necessary as colored spotlights on a rainbow. “This is the third time I’ve seen him. Every time Aurora Dawn starts a new program they throw one of these parties for about six awful looking radio critics and ten models and a few of the company bigwigs–and he’s always there. Sandra says his bank owns Aurora Dawn, even though Mr. Marquis is president. Mr. English took Madge Anderson to dinner last time, and she told us he was perfectly lovely to her, and never so much as–you know, a thorough gentleman.”
“I should expect so, with his background,” said her mother. “And it’s only natural for a man who’s divorced to be lonely. They’re really most susceptible then. I do hope you’ll be nice to him. After all–”
“Of course I’ll be nice to him,” cried Laura impatiently. “Would I go to dinner with him if I expected to be unpleasant?”
“You know what I mean,” said her mother. “You needn’t act like an old married woman. I mean, you’re still a young girl.”
“Mother, if you’re suggesting that I should flirt with Stephen English–”
“Laura, why do you always twist my meaning? If a wealthy and cultured gentleman is going to fall in love with you, you don’t have to encourage him. Heavens, no man needs encouragement to do that. I don’t blame Mr. English one bit for feeling as he does. But you should be kind to him.”
“Mr. English is not in love with me,” said Laura vehemently, “but you’re beginning to make me think I’m being disloyal to Andy by going. Maybe I’ll just telephone your precious millionaire and tell him I can’t–”
“You’ll do no such thing,” her mother cried. “How can you dream of being so ill-mannered? Simply because I make a little joke about your marrying a millionaire–you know I’ve always said you would–you fly into the most dreadful temper! Really, Laura!”
The shrewd reader will guess from our heroine’s irritability that her mother had prodded a tender spot. The fact is, Honey was aware of being a little more elated about this dinner engagement than she had a right to be, and, with feminine logic, she was angry at her mother for exhibiting precisely the same elation. Mr. English had not caused a ripple in her feelings she was sure–for they were a placid, bottomless pool of love for Andrew–but his reputation and wealth dazzled her, and his manner had been pleasant, even attractive, despite his graying hair and somewhat worn face. In the most unaccountable way she had found herself feeling sorry for him and desirous of pleasing him, so she had accepted his invitation to dinner with something like alacrity. This startled her as soon as she was aware of it, for it was the first time since Andrew had won her heart that she had felt anything but boredom in carrying out the social duties necessary to her bread-winning. She had known many moneyed men, if none quite so rich as English, so it was not merely the wealth that excited her, as it did her mother. But, whatever the cause, she knew she was a little disturbed, and was disturbed at the disturbance.
The ringing of the house telephone put an end to the silent soliloquy in which she had been acknowledging some justice in her mother’s reproach. A hasty kiss on her parent’s withered-apple cheek, and she snatched a sable-trimmed black cloth coat from a chair and went out–with the assurance that she would be home early–leaving her mother to answer the telephone and say that Miss Beaton was on her way down.
As she hung up the receiver and wandered into the kitchen to mix herself some chocolate milk, Mrs. Beaton reflected sadly that she would have liked to meet Mr. English. She knew that it was Laura’s rule not to bring into her home gentlemen to whom it was expedient to be pleasant, and she took pride in the knowledge that Honey’s closed apartment door was a jest among the other models; but she felt that the rule might have been waived in the case of the millionaire. (In the sense that he represented infinity in the scale of desirable sons-in-law, logicians would have verified Mrs. Beaton’s instinctive belief that ordinary concepts could not be applied to him.) But how like her father Laura had been, thought the old lady, in her flare of temper at the idea of compromise with principle! The least suggestion of tampering with good faith, and the Beaton blood took to arms. …
Her reverie was interrupted by the sound of the front door opening, and Honey’s voice calling gaily, “Mother, are you dressed? We have a visitor.”
Mrs. Beaton’s heart bounded. She glanced quickly at the
reflection of herself in the glass of the cupboard, brushed a few cracker crumbs off the lace collar of her brown dress, straightened her skirt and trotted out of the kitchen, saying, “Laura, the house is in such a mess!”
“Don’t fuss, Mother.” Laura was playing with her gloves and smiling mischievously. “This is Mr. Stephen English.”
English held out a lean brown hand, and firmly shook the timid little paw that Mrs. Beaton extended. “Don’t blame your daughter, Mrs. Beaton,” he said. “I asked if I might come up to meet you.”
“Oh, I’m delighted, of course, Mr. English,” said Mrs. Beaton. “If you’ll make allowances, do come in and sit down for a moment.”
Saying that he should like to very much, the visitor at once divested himself of a handsome tweed coat, which Laura hung with hers in the hall closet while her mother eyed English covertly. A very distinguished gentleman, she concluded immediately. How easy it was to tell breeding! His healthy, tanned face had something youthful about it, despite a heavy sprinkling of gray at the sides of his head and marked lines around the eyes and on his brow. His mouth was untightened as a boy’s, and his eyes had an inquisitive, humorous look more suitable to a youngster of twenty-eight than to a man in his middle forties. His clothes, too, were youthful: smartly cut tweeds of a greenish brown mixture, with clipped tie and abbreviated collar of self-conscious elegance. He followed Laura into the apartment with an erect, supple gait. Not the least, not the least, bit too old for a girl of twenty-tow. … Laura was old for her age, besides. (Thus Mrs. Beaton, to her inner self.)
“Will you have some sherry wine, Mr. English?” said Mrs. Beaton as they sat down in the living room. “I’m sorry we don’t keep whisky. Mr. Beaton was the leading minister of Albuquerque when he was alive, and so we never–” As she paused, the guest said affably that sherry was his favorite before-dinner drink. He added, looking around at the neat room, “We really didn’t walk in at such a bad time, did we?”
“Oh, that’s Laura for you,” said Mrs. Beaton. “She’s such a wonderful housekeeper, I never lift a finger. Here she straightened the whole place before she left and I never knew. Now don’t you move, dear, I’ll get the wine.” With a radiant smile at her peerless daughter, she vanished into the kitchen.
“So your name is Laura,” said English. “What an immense improvement over Honey! I’ll never call you anything else.”
“ ‘Honey’ was the Pandar Agency’s invention, not mine,” said Laura.
“A good one,” said English. “When you’re your own stock in trade, it’s a good idea to have a brand name; but Laura … Laura–” As he repeated the syllables he smiled at her.
The smile tells all to the knowing eye. Palmistry is cant, handwriting analysis is fallible, and dreams give only a vague sort of information in Freud’s fashionable revival of Joseph’s art, but the smile is the key to character. Let a man but bare his teeth; he bares his soul. Much so-called feminine intuition is a direct, halfconscious estimate based on such subtle clues. English’s smile left Laura in the dark. One corner of his mouth moved more than the other, so that while one side of his face was lit up with friendly amusement, the other side seemed to be waiting reservedly for the mirth to subside into care. His intentions for good or evil, which Laura had often surmised in men, without knowing just how, from a single expression around the mouth–these she could not read. A trace of wistfulness she thought she detected was so incongruous with all she knew of him that she was inclined to suspect his whole manner of being assumed, but she could not be sure. She found herself looking into his eyes and smiling back at him.
“I like your suit,” she said.
“Thank you. I like your dress,” answered English with a glance that backed up the remark with much sincerity.
Mrs. Beaton came brightly into the room, bearing a tray with a bottle of imported sherry, three tapering glasses and a tray of crackers. “Well, are you two growing impatient?” she said, setting the tray down on a low table in front of the sofa where Laura and her guest were lolling at ease. “Laura, you sit back, I’ll pour.” Laura had not moved, but Mrs. Beaton gave her a loving little push and proceeded to fill the glasses. “Heavens, if I left it to her I’d never stir, Mr. English. I suppose it’s the Wilson in her. I was that way with my mother. It never occurred to me to do anything but wait hand and foot on her, that is, until I married Reverend Beaton. Then he became the whole world, of course. Very old-fashioned, I suppose, but that’s what we all are, just old-fashioned folks. Why, when President Wilson stopped at our ranch for three whole days–he did, you know, during his second campaign; father and he were first cousins–he was just the same. Plain? ‘Fred,’ he said to my father, ‘if I find you putting yourself out I’ll move into a hotel immediately. I want to eat when you eat, sleep when you sleep. I’m not the President here, I’m just one of the family.’ That was a Wilson for you. I was just a youngster, but I remember it as though it were yesterday. You know, I’ve always thought Laura looked a little bit like Woodrow Wilson. Only around the eyes, of course. But that same keen, spiritual look–”
“Oh, Mother, really,” cried Laura, gradually crimsoning through this discourse.
“Laura, you’re so modest it’s aggravating,” declared her mother. “Honestly, now, Mr. English, for a girl who was voted the most beautiful in New York at the Photographers’ Convention only last August, you’d think she was Plain Jane, and ready to die of shame. Of course it’s becoming in a way, a Christian girl should always be humble in her heart, as her dear father used to say, but Laura carries it to such an extreme–”
“Well, I hardly blame her for disclaiming the resemblance to Woodrow Wilson,” said English. “Still, I think I see what you mean about her eyes.” Whereupon he availed himself of the opportunity to gaze so deeply into the fair Honey’s orbs, that the girl felt no more blood could possibly crowd its way into her face.
“Of course, just look at them,” said Mrs. Beaton (which suggestion was superfluous). “Reverend Beaton and I had decided before she was born to name her Woodrow; but wouldn’t you know, she came along and fooled us,” she added with an arch giggle.
“This conversation is embarrassing me very much,” protested Laura truthfully, but not looking terribly displeased, as she sipped her wine.
“Well, you two young people had just better run along then,” replied Mrs. Beaton with mock severity. “I’m sure Mr. English has other ideas than to sit around all night talking to an old lady. Although it was very thoughtful to pay me a visit,” she said, glancing demurely at the guest.
“I am thoroughly enjoying myself,” he returned, emptying his glass and settling back on the sofa. “Tell me more about Laura, Mrs. Beaton. Was she a pretty baby?”
“Well,” began the mother, drawing a long breath, “you won’t believe it, but for the first two months she was ugly as a monkey. Dear me, I’ll never forget her Uncle Tom saying–” But here she was interrupted by Laura, who jumped to her feet, exclaiming, “We had better go. I am not going to agonize through the stories of my childhood.”
English rose with her. “Some other time, I’d like to hear what Uncle Tom said,” he smiled at Mrs. Beaton. “Thank you for the wine. I’m glad Laura brought me up for a moment.”
“Do come again,” said the mother, as English helped Laura with her coat and then donned his own. “You have no idea how seldom I have visitors. I don’t know anybody in New York, and Laura almost never brings anyone here. Oh, a girl friend occasionally, but she’s such a homebody she usually prefers just to set with her old mother; of course I like it that way myself. As for young men, she simply never lets them cross the threshold. I can’t remember when I’ve seen one–well, I’m sorry you must go,” she broke off, seeing Laura pull open the front door with noisy haste. “Good-by, Mr. English. Good-by, dear.”
“Good-by, Mother,” said Laura, with a wrathful overtone that escaped English but not her fond parent. English graciously repeated his thanks and Mrs. Beaton her invitation;
and the door closed on the young people.
In silence they rode down the elevator, walked out into the street and stepped into a heavy Cadillac limousine. English gave the chauffeur the name of a little French restaurant built on the New Jersey palisades; the car nosed its way through the downtown traffic until it reached the Henry Hudson Parkway, then it moved smoothly along the black river strung with lights. Neither had spoken a word for perhaps ten minutes when Honey suddenly turned and looked at the reposeful English with determination. That gentleman was apparently deriving great pleasure from the spectacle of the George Washington Bridge, flung across the gorge of the Hudson like a great cobweb spangled with luminous dew.