Part 15 (2/2)
”You ought to be ashamed to take their money if that's what you think of them.”
”My dear, I have a wife to support.”
Beaton intervened with a question. ”Do you mean that Miss Leighton isn't standing it very well?”
”How do I know? She isn't the kind that bends; she's the kind that breaks.”
After a little silence Mrs. Wetmore asked, ”Won't you come home with us, Mr. Beaton?”
”Thank you; no. I have an engagement.”
”I don't see why that should prevent you,” said Wetmore. ”But you always were a punctilious cuss. Well!”
Beaton lingered over his cigar; but no one else whom he knew came in, and he yielded to the threefold impulse of conscience, of curiosity, of inclination, in going to call at the Leightons'. He asked for the ladies, and the maid showed him into the parlor, where he found Mrs. Leighton and Miss Woodburn.
The widow met him with a welcome neatly marked by resentment; she meant him to feel that his not coming sooner had been noticed. Miss Woodburn bubbled and gurgled on, and did what she could to mitigate his punishment, but she did not feel authorized to stay it, till Mrs.
Leighton, by studied avoidance of her daughter's name, obliged Beaton to ask for her. Then Miss Woodburn caught up her work, and said, ”Ah'll go and tell her, Mrs. Leighton.” At the top of the stairs she found Alma, and Alma tried to make it seem as if she had not been standing there.
”Mah goodness, chald! there's the handsomest young man asking for you down there you evah saw. Alh told you' mothah Ah would come up fo' you.”
”What--who is it?”
”Don't you know? But bo' could you? He's got the most beautiful eyes, and he wea's his hai' in a bang, and he talks English like it was something else, and his name's Mr. Beaton.”
”Did he-ask for me?” said Alma, with a dreamy tone. She put her hand on the stairs rail, and a little s.h.i.+ver ran over her.
”Didn't I tell you? Of coase he did! And you ought to go raght down if you want to save the poo' fellah's lahfe; you' mothah's just freezin' him to death.”
V.
”She is?” cried Alma. ”Tchk!” She flew downstairs, and flitted swiftly into the room, and fluttered up to Beaton, and gave him a crus.h.i.+ng hand-shake.
”How very kind, of you to come and see us, Mr. Beaton! When did you come to New York? Don't you find it warm here? We've only just lighted the furnace, but with this mild weather it seems too early. Mamma does keep it so hot!” She rushed about opening doors and shutting registers, and then came back and sat facing him from the sofa with a mask of radiant cordiality. ”How have you been since we saw you?”
”Very well,” said Beaton. ”I hope you're well, Miss Leighton?”
”Oh, perfectly! I think New York agrees with us both wonderfully. I never knew such air. And to think of our not having snow yet! I should think everybody would want to come here! Why don't you come, Mr. Beaton?”
Beaton lifted his eyes and looked at her. ”I--I live in New York,” he faltered.
”In New York City!” she exclaimed.
”Surely, Alma,” said her mother, ”you remember Mr. Beaton's telling us he lived in New York.”
”But I thought you came from Rochester; or was it Syracuse? I always get those places mixed up.”
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