Aurora Dawn (4 page)

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–”