Oh, Money! Money! A Novel. Элинор Портер

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СКАЧАТЬ I think it's perfectly lovely here."

      "Pa don't."

      "Indeed I do, Benny," corrected his father hastily. "It's very nice indeed here, of course. But I don't think we can afford it. We had to squeeze every penny before, and how we're going to meet this rent I don't know." He drew a profound sigh.

      "You'll earn it, just being here—more business," asserted his wife firmly. "Anyhow, we've just got to be here, Jim! We owe it to ourselves and our family. Look at Fred to-night!"

      "Oh, yes, where is Fred?" queried Miss Flora.

      "He's over to Gussie Pennock's, playing tennis," interposed Bessie, with a pout. "The mean old thing wouldn't ask me!"

      "But you ain't old enough, my dear," soothed her aunt. "Wait; your turn will come by and by."

      "Yes, that's exactly it," triumphed the mother. "Her turn WILL come—if we live here. Do you suppose Fred would have got an invitation to Gussie Pennock's if we'd still been living on the East Side? Not much he would! Why, Mr. Pennock's worth fifty thousand, if he's worth a dollar! They are some of our very first people."

      "But, Hattie, money isn't everything, dear," remonstrated her husband gently. "We had friends, and good friends, before."

      "Yes; but you wait and see what kind of friends we have now!"

      "But we can't keep up with such people, dear, on our income; and—"

      "Ma, here's a man. I guess he wants—somebody." It was a husky whisper from Benny.

      James Blaisdell stopped abruptly. Bessie Blaisdell and the little dressmaker cocked their heads interestedly. Mrs. Blaisdell rose to her feet and advanced toward the steps to meet the man coming up the walk.

      He was a tall, rather slender man, with a close-cropped, sandy beard, and an air of diffidence and apology. As he took off his hat and came nearer, it was seen that his eyes were blue and friendly, and that his hair was reddish-brown, and rather scanty on top of his head.

      "I am looking for Mr. Blaisdell—Mr. James Blaisdell," he murmured hesitatingly.

      Something in the stranger's deferential manner sent a warm glow of importance to the woman's heart. Mrs. Blaisdell was suddenly reminded that she was Mrs. James D. Blaisdell of the West Side.

      "I am Mrs. Blaisdell," she replied a bit pompously. "What can we do for you, my good man?" She swelled again, half unconsciously. She had never called a person "my good man" before. She rather liked the experience.

      The man on the steps coughed slightly behind his hand—a sudden spasmodic little cough. Then very gravely he reached into his pocket and produced a letter.

      "From Mr. Robert Chalmers—a note to your husband," he bowed, presenting the letter.

      A look of gratified surprise came into the woman's face.

      "Mr. Robert Chalmers, of the First National? Jim!" She turned to her husband joyously. "Here's a note from Mr. Chalmers. Quick—read it!"

      Her husband, already on his feet, whisked the sheet of paper from the unsealed envelope, and adjusted his glasses. A moment later he held out a cordial hand to the stranger.

      "Ah, Mr. Smith, I'm glad to see you. I'm glad to see any friend of Bob

       Chalmers'. Come up and sit down. My wife and children, and my sister,

       Miss Blaisdell. Mr. Smith, ladies—Mr. John Smith." (Glancing at the

       open note in his hand.) "He is sent to us by Mr. Chalmers, of the First

       National."

      "Yes, thank you. Mr. Chalmers was so kind." Still with that deference so delightfully heart-warming, the newcomer bowed low to the ladies, and made his way to the offered chair. "I will explain at once my business," he said then. "I am a genealogist."

      "What's that?" It was an eager question from Benny on the veranda railing. "Pa isn't anything, but ma's a Congregationalist."

      "Hush, child!" protested a duet of feminine voices softly; but the stranger, apparently ignoring the interruption, continued speaking.

      "I am gathering material for a book on the Blaisdell family."

      "The Blaisdell family!" repeated Mr. James Blaisdell, with cordial interest.

      "Yes," bowed the other. "It is my purpose to remain some time in your town. I am told there are valuable records here, and an old burying-ground of particular interest in this connection. The neighboring towns, too, have much Blaisdell data, I understand. As I said, I am intending to make this place my headquarters, and I am looking for an attractive boarding-place. Mr. Chalmers was good enough to refer me to you."

      "To us—for a BOARDING-place!" There was an unmistakable frown on Mrs.

       James D. Blaisdell's countenance as she said the words. "Well, I'm sure

       I don't see why he should. WE don't keep boarders!"

      "But, Hattie, we could," interposed her husband eagerly. "There's that big front room that we don't need a bit. And it would help a lot if—" At the wrathful warning in his wife's eyes he fell back silenced.

      "I said that we didn't keep boarders," reiterated the lady distinctly.

       "Furthermore, we do need the room ourselves."

      "Yes, yes, of course; I understand," broke in Mr. Smith, as if in hasty conciliation. "I think Mr. Chalmers meant that perhaps one of you"—he glanced uncertainly at the anxious-eyed little woman at his left—"might—er—accommodate me. Perhaps you, now—" He turned his eyes full upon Miss Flora Blaisdell, and waited.

      The little dressmaker blushed painfully.

      "Me? Oh, mercy, no! Why, I live all alone—that is, I mean, I couldn't, you know," she stammered confusedly. "I dressmake, and I don't get any sort of meals—not fit for a man, I mean. Just women's things—tea, toast, and riz biscuit. I'm so fond of riz biscuit! But, of course, you—" She came to an expressive pause.

      "Oh, I could stand the biscuit, so long as they're not health biscuit," laughed Mr. Smith genially. "You see, I've been living on those and hot water quite long enough as it is."

      "Oh, ain't your health good, sir?" The little dressmaker's face wore the deepest concern.

      "Well, it's better than it was, thank you. I think I can promise to be a good boarder, all right."

      "Why don't you go to a hotel?" Mrs. James D. Blaisdell still spoke with a slightly injured air.

      Mr. Smith lifted a deprecatory hand.

      "Oh, indeed, that would not do at all—for my purpose," he murmured. "I wish to be very quiet. I fear I should find it quite disturbing—the noise and confusion of a public place like that. Besides, for my work, it seemed eminently fitting, as well as remarkably convenient, if I could make my home with one of the Blaisdell family."

      With a sudden exclamation the little dressmaker sat erect.

      "Say, СКАЧАТЬ