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-The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Magnificent Ambersons, by Booth Tarkington
-#20 in our series by Booth Tarkington
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-Title: The Magnificent Ambersons
-
-Author: Booth Tarkington
-
-Release Date: September, 2005 [EBook #8867]
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-Edition: 10
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-Language: English
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-*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS ***
-
-
-
-
-
-THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
-
-By Booth Tarkington
-
-
-
-Chapter I
-
-
-Major Amberson had "made a fortune" in 1873, when other people were
-losing fortunes, and the magnificence of the Ambersons began then.
-Magnificence, like the size of a fortune, is always comparative, as
-even Magnificent Lorenzo may now perceive, if he has happened to haunt
-New York in 1916; and the Ambersons were magnificent in their day and
-place.  Their splendour lasted throughout all the years that saw their
-Midland town spread and darken into a city, but reached its topmost
-during the period when every prosperous family with children kept a
-Newfoundland dog.
-
-In that town, in those days, all the women who wore silk or velvet
-knew all the other women who wore silk or velvet, and when there was a
-new purchase of sealskin, sick people were got to windows to see it go
-by.  Trotters were out, in the winter afternoons, racing light sleighs
-on National Avenue and Tennessee Street; everybody recognized both the
-trotters and the drivers; and again knew them as well on summer
-evenings, when slim buggies whizzed by in renewals of the snow-time
-rivalry.  For that matter, everybody knew everybody else's family
-horse-and-carriage, could identify such a silhouette half a mile down
-the street, and thereby was sure who was going to market, or to a
-reception, or coming home from office or store to noon dinner or
-evening supper.
-
-During the earlier years of this period, elegance of personal
-appearance was believed to rest more upon the texture of garments than
-upon their shaping.  A silk dress needed no remodelling when it was a
-year or so old; it remained distinguished by merely remaining silk.
-Old men and governors wore broadcloth; "full dress" was broadcloth
-with "doeskin" trousers; and there were seen men of all ages to whom a
-hat meant only that rigid, tall silk thing known to impudence as a
-"stove-pipe."  In town and country these men would wear no other hat,
-and, without self-consciousness, they went rowing in such hats.
-
-Shifting fashions of shape replaced aristocracy of texture:
-dressmakers, shoemakers, hatmakers, and tailors, increasing in cunning
-and in power, found means to make new clothes old.  The long contagion
-of the "Derby" hat arrived: one season the crown of this hat would be
-a bucket; the next it would be a spoon.  Every house still kept its
-bootjack, but high-topped boots gave way to shoes and "congress
-gaiters"; and these were played through fashions that shaped them now
-with toes like box-ends and now with toes like the prows of racing
-shells.
-
-Trousers with a crease were considered plebeian; the crease proved
-that the garment had lain upon a shelf, and hence was "ready-made";
-these betraying trousers were called "hand-me-downs," in allusion to
-the shelf.  In the early 'eighties, while bangs and bustles were
-having their way with women, that variation of dandy known as the
-"dude" was invented: he wore trousers as tight as stockings, dagger-
-pointed shoes, a spoon "Derby," a single-breasted coat called a
-"Chesterfield," with short flaring skirts, a torturing cylindrical
-collar, laundered to a polish and three inches high, while his other
-neckgear might be a heavy, puffed cravat or a tiny bow fit for a
-doll's braids.  With evening dress he wore a tan overcoat so short
-that his black coat-tails hung visible, five inches below the over-
-coat; but after a season or two he lengthened his overcoat till it
-touched his heels, and he passed out of his tight trousers into
-trousers like great bags.  Then, presently, he was seen no more,
-though the word that had been coined for him remained in the
-vocabularies of the impertinent.
-
-It was a hairier day than this.  Beards were to the wearers' fancy,
-and things as strange as the Kaiserliche boar-tusk moustache were
-commonplace.  "Side-burns" found nourishment upon childlike profiles;
-great Dundreary whiskers blew like tippets over young shoulders;
-moustaches were trained as lambrequins over forgotten mouths; and it
-was possible for a Senator of the United States to wear a mist of
-white whisker upon his throat only, not a newspaper in the land
-finding the ornament distinguished enough to warrant a lampoon.
-Surely no more is needed to prove that so short a time ago we were
-living in another age!
-
-At the beginning of the Ambersons' great period most of the houses of
-the Midland town were of a pleasant architecture.  They lacked style,
-but also lacked pretentiousness, and whatever does not pretend at all
-has style enough.  They stood in commodious yards, well shaded by
-leftover forest trees, elm and walnut and beech, with here and there a
-line of tall sycamores where the land had been made by filling bayous
-from the creek.  The house of a "prominent resident," facing Military
-Square, or National Avenue, or Tennessee Street, was built of brick
-upon a stone foundation, or of wood upon a brick foundation.  Usually
-it had a "front porch" and a "back porch"; often a "side porch," too.
-There was a "front hall"; there was a "side hall"; and sometimes a
-"back hall."  From the "front hall" opened three rooms, the "parlour,"
-the "sitting room," and the "library"; and the library could show
-warrant to its title--for some reason these people bought books.
-Commonly, the family sat more in the library than in the "sitting
-room," while callers, when they came formally, were kept to the
-"parlour," a place of formidable polish and discomfort.  The
-upholstery of the library furniture was a little shabby; but the
-hostile chairs and sofa of the "parlour" always looked new.  For all
-the wear and tear they got they should have lasted a thousand years.
-
-Upstairs were the bedrooms; "mother-and-father's room" the largest; a
-smaller room for one or two sons another for one or two daughters;
-each of these rooms containing a double bed, a "washstand," a
-"bureau," a wardrobe, a little table, a rocking-chair, and often a
-chair or two that had been slightly damaged downstairs, but not enough
-to justify either the expense of repair or decisive abandonment in the
-attic.  And there was always a "spare-room," for visitors (where the
-sewing-machine usually was kept), and during the 'seventies there
-developed an appreciation of the necessity for a bathroom.  Therefore
-the architects placed bathrooms in the new houses, and the older
-houses tore out a cupboard or two, set up a boiler beside the kitchen
-stove, and sought a new godliness, each with its own bathroom.  The
-great American plumber joke, that many-branched evergreen, was planted
-at this time.
-
-At the rear of the house, upstairs was a bleak little chamber, called
-"the girl's room," and in the stable there was another bedroom,
-adjoining the hayloft, and called "the hired man's room."  House and
-stable cost seven or eight thousand dollars to build, and people with
-that much money to invest in such comforts were classified as the
-Rich.  They paid the inhabitant of "the girl's room" two dollars a
-week, and, in the latter part of this period, two dollars and a half,
-and finally three dollars a week.  She was Irish, ordinarily, or
-German or it might be Scandinavian, but never native to the land
-unless she happened to be a person of colour.  The man or youth who
-lived in the stable had like wages, and sometimes he, too, was lately
-a steerage voyager, but much oftener he was coloured.
-
-After sunrise, on pleasant mornings, the alleys behind the stables
-were gay; laughter and shouting went up and down their dusty lengths,
-with a lively accompaniment of curry-combs knocking against back
-fences and stable walls, for the darkies loved to curry their horses
-in the alley.  Darkies always prefer to gossip in shouts instead of
-whispers; and they feel that profanity, unless it be vociferous, is
-almost worthless.  Horrible phrases were caught by early rising
-children and carried to older people for definition, sometimes at
-inopportune moments; while less investigative children would often
-merely repeat the phrases in some subsequent flurry of agitation, and
-yet bring about consequences so emphatic as to be recalled with ease
-in middle life.
-
-They have passed, those darky hired-men of the Midland town; and the
-introspective horses they curried and brushed and whacked and amiably
-cursed--those good old horses switch their tails at flies no more.
-For all their seeming permanence they might as well have been
-buffaloes--or the buffalo laprobes that grew bald in patches and used
-to slide from the careless drivers' knees and hang unconcerned, half
-way to the ground.  The stables have been transformed into other
-likenesses, or swept away, like the woodsheds where were kept the
-stove-wood and kindling that the "girl" and the "hired-man" always
-quarrelled over: who should fetch it.  Horse and stable and woodshed,
-and the whole tribe of the "hired-man," all are gone.  They went
-quickly, yet so silently that we whom they served have not yet really
-noticed that they are vanished.
-
-So with other vanishings.  There were the little bunty street-cars on
-the long, single track that went its troubled way among the
-cobblestones.  At the rear door of the car there was no platform, but
-a step where passengers clung in wet clumps when the weather was bad
-and the car crowded.  The patrons--if not too absent-minded--put their
-fares into a slot; and no conductor paced the heaving floor, but the
-driver would rap remindingly with his elbow upon the glass of the door
-to his little open platform if the nickels and the passengers did not
-appear to coincide in number.  A lone mule drew the car, and sometimes
-drew it off the track, when the passengers would get out and push it
-on again.  They really owed it courtesies like this, for the car was
-genially accommodating: a lady could whistle to it from an upstairs
-window, and the car would halt at once and wait for her while she shut
-the window, put on her hat and cloak, went downstairs, found an
-umbrella, told the "girl" what to have for dinner, and came forth from
-the house.
-
-The previous passengers made little objection to such gallantry on the
-part of the car: they were wont to expect as much for themselves on
-like occasion.  In good weather the mule pulled the car a mile in a
-little less than twenty minutes, unless the stops were too long; but
-when the trolley-car came, doing its mile in five minutes and better,
-it would wait for nobody.  Nor could its passengers have endured such
-a thing, because the faster they were carried the less time they had
-to spare!  In the days before deathly contrivances hustled them
-through their lives, and when they had no telephones--another ancient
-vacancy profoundly responsible for leisure--they had time for
-everything: time to think, to talk, time to read, time to wait for a
-lady!
-
-They even had time to dance "square dances," quadrilles, and
-"lancers"; they also danced the "racquette," and schottisches and
-polkas, and such whims as the "Portland Fancy."  They pushed back the
-sliding doors between the "parlour" and the "sitting room," tacked
-down crash over the carpets, hired a few palms in green tubs,
-stationed three or four Italian musicians under the stairway in the
-"front hall"--and had great nights!
-
-But these people were gayest on New Year's Day; they made it a true
-festival--something no longer known.  The women gathered to "assist"
-the hostesses who kept "Open House"; and the carefree men, dandified
-and perfumed, went about in sleighs, or in carriages and ponderous
-"hacks," going from Open House to Open House, leaving fantastic cards
-in fancy baskets as they entered each doorway, and emerging a little
-later, more carefree than ever, if the punch had been to their liking.
-It always was, and, as the afternoon wore on, pedestrians saw great
-gesturing and waving of skin-tight lemon gloves, while ruinous
-fragments of song were dropped behind as the carriages rolled up and
-down the streets.
-
-"Keeping Open House" was a merry custom; it has gone, like the all-day
-picnic in the woods, and like that prettiest of all vanished customs,
-the serenade.  When a lively girl visited the town she did not long go
-unserenaded, though a visitor was not indeed needed to excuse a
-serenade.  Of a summer night, young men would bring an orchestra under
-a pretty girl's window--or, it might be, her father's, or that of an
-ailing maiden aunt--and flute, harp, fiddle, 'cello, cornet, and bass
-viol would presently release to the dulcet stars such melodies as sing
-through "You'll Remember Me," "I Dreamt That I Dwelt in Marble Halls,"
-"Silver Threads Among the Gold," "Kathleen Mavourneen," or "The
-Soldier's Farewell."
-
-They had other music to offer, too, for these were the happy days of
-"Olivette" and "The Macotte" and "The Chimes of Normandy" and
-"Girofle-Girofla" and "Fra Diavola."  Better than that, these were
-the days of "Pinafore" and "The Pirates of Penzance" and of
-"Patience."  This last was needed in the Midland town, as elsewhere,
-for the "aesthetic movement" had reached thus far from London, and
-terrible things were being done to honest old furniture.  Maidens
-sawed what-nots in two, and gilded the remains.  They took the rockers
-from rocking-chairs and gilded the inadequate legs; they gilded the
-easels that supported the crayon portraits of their deceased uncles.
-In the new spirit of art they sold old clocks for new, and threw wax
-flowers and wax fruit, and the protecting glass domes, out upon the
-trash-heap.  They filled vases with peacock feathers, or cattails, or
-sumac, or sunflowers, and set the vases upon mantelpieces and marble-
-topped tables.  They embroidered daisies (which they called
-"marguerites") and sunflowers and sumac and cat-tails and owls and
-peacock feathers upon plush screens and upon heavy cushions, then
-strewed these cushions upon floors where fathers fell over them in the
-dark.  In the teeth of sinful oratory, the daughters went on
-embroidering: they embroidered daisies and sunflowers and sumac and
-cat-tails and owls and peacock feathers upon "throws" which they had
-the courage to drape upon horsehair sofas; they painted owls and
-daisies and sunflowers and sumac and cat-tails and peacock feathers
-upon tambourines.  They hung Chinese umbrellas of paper to the
-chandeliers; they nailed paper fans to the walls.  They "studied"
-painting on china, these girls; they sang Tosti's new songs; they
-sometimes still practiced the old, genteel habit of lady-fainting, and
-were most charming of all when they drove forth, three or four in a
-basket phaeton, on a spring morning.
-
-Croquet and the mildest archery ever known were the sports of people
-still young and active enough for so much exertion; middle-age played
-euchre.  There was a theatre, next door to the Amberson Hotel, and
-when Edwin Booth came for a night, everybody who could afford to buy a
-ticket was there, and all the "hacks" in town were hired.  "The Black
-Crook" also filled the theatre, but the audience then was almost
-entirely of men who looked uneasy as they left for home when the final
-curtain fell upon the shocking girls dressed as fairies.  But the
-theatre did not often do so well; the people of the town were still
-too thrifty.
-
-They were thrifty because they were the sons or grandsons of the
-"early settlers," who had opened the wilderness and had reached it
-from the East and the South with wagons and axes and guns, but with no
-money at all.  The pioneers were thrifty or they would have perished:
-they had to store away food for the winter, or goods to trade for
-food, and they often feared they had not stored enough--they left
-traces of that fear in their sons and grandsons.  In the minds of most
-of these, indeed, their thrift was next to their religion: to save,
-even for the sake of saving, was their earliest lesson and discipline.
-No matter how prosperous they were, they could not spend money either
-upon "art," or upon mere luxury and entertainment, without a sense of
-sin.
-
-Against so homespun a background the magnificence of the Ambersons was
-as conspicuous as a brass band at a funeral.  Major Amberson bought
-two hundred acres of land at the end of National Avenue; and through
-this tract he built broad streets and cross-streets; paved them with
-cedar block, and curbed them with stone.  He set up fountains, here
-and there, where the streets intersected, and at symmetrical intervals
-placed cast-iron statues, painted white, with their titles clear upon
-the pedestals:  Minerva, Mercury, Hercules, Venus, Gladiator, Emperor
-Augustus, Fisher Boy, Stag-hound, Mastiff, Greyhound, Fawn, Antelope,
-Wounded Doe, and Wounded Lion.  Most of the forest trees had been left
-to flourish still, and, at some distance, or by moonlight, the place
-was in truth beautiful; but the ardent citizen, loving to see his city
-grow, wanted neither distance nor moonlight.  He had not seen
-Versailles, but, standing before the Fountain of Neptune in Amberson
-Addition, at bright noon, and quoting the favourite comparison of the
-local newspapers, he declared Versailles outdone.  All this Art showed
-a profit from the start, for the lots sold well and there was
-something like a rush to build in the new Addition.  Its main
-thoroughfare, an oblique continuation of National Avenue, was called
-Amberson Boulevard, and here, at the juncture of the new Boulevard and
-the Avenue, Major Amberson reserved four acres for himself, and built
-his new house--the Amberson Mansion, of course.
-
-This house was the pride of the town. Faced with stone as far back as
-the dining-room windows, it was a house of arches and turrets and
-girdling stone porches: it had the first porte-cochere seen in that
-town.  There was a central "front hall" with a great black walnut
-stairway, and open to a green glass skylight called the "dome," three
-stories above the ground floor.  A ballroom occupied most of the third
-story; and at one end of it was a carved walnut gallery for the
-musicians.  Citizens told strangers that the cost of all this black
-walnut and wood-carving was sixty thousand dollars.  "Sixty thousand
-dollars for the wood-work alone!  Yes, sir, and hardwood floors all
-over the house!  Turkish rugs and no carpets at all, except a Brussels
-carpet in the front parlour--I hear they call it the 'reception-room.'
-Hot and cold water upstairs and down, and stationary washstands in
-every last bedroom in the place!  Their sideboard's built right into
-the house and goes all the way across one end of the dining room.  It
-isn't walnut, it's solid mahogany!  Not veneering--solid mahogany!
-Well, sir, I presume the President of the United States would be
-tickled to swap the White House for the new Amberson Mansion, if the
-Major'd give him the chance--but by the Almighty Dollar, you bet your
-sweet life the Major wouldn't!"
-
-The visitor to the town was certain to receive further enlightenment,
-for there was one form of entertainment never omitted: he was always
-patriotically taken for "a little drive around our city," even if his
-host had to hire a hack, and the climax of the display was the
-Amberson Mansion.  "Look at that greenhouse they've put up there in
-the side yard," the escort would continue.  "And look at that brick
-stable!  Most folks would think that stable plenty big enough and good
-enough to live in; it's got running water and four rooms upstairs for
-two hired men and one of 'em's family to live in.  They keep one hired
-man loafin' in the house, and they got a married hired man out in the
-stable, and his wife does the washing.  They got box-stalls for four
-horses, and they keep a coupay, and some new kinds of fancy rigs you
-never saw the beat of!  'Carts' they call two of 'em--'way up in the
-air they are--too high for me!  I guess they got every new kind of
-fancy rig in there that's been invented.  And harness--well, everybody
-in town can tell when Ambersons are out driving after dark, by the
-jingle.  This town never did see so much style as Ambersons are
-putting on, these days; and I guess it's going to be expensive,
-because a lot of other folks'll try to keep up with 'em.  The Major's
-wife and the daughter's been to Europe, and my wife tells me since
-they got back they make tea there every afternoon about five o'clock,
-and drink it.  Seems to me it would go against a person's stomach,
-just before supper like that, and anyway tea isn't fit for much--not
-unless you're sick or something.  My wife says Ambersons don't make
-lettuce salad the way other people do; they don't chop it up with
-sugar and vinegar at all.  They pour olive oil on it with their
-vinegar, and they have it separate--not along with the rest of the
-meal.  And they eat these olives, too: green things they are,
-something like a hard plum, but a friend of mine told me they tasted a
-good deal like a bad hickory-nut.  My wife says she's going to buy
-some; you got to eat nine and then you get to like 'em, she says.
-Well, I wouldn't eat nine bad hickory-nuts to get to like them, and
-I'm going to let these olives alone.  Kind of a woman's dish, anyway,
-I suspect, but most everybody'll be makin' a stagger to worm through
-nine of 'em, now Ambersons brought 'em to town.  Yes, sir, the rest'll
-eat 'em, whether they get sick or not!  Looks to me like some people
-in this city'd be willing to go crazy if they thought that would help
-'em to be as high-toned as Ambersons.  Old Aleck Minafer--he's about
-the closest old codger we got--he come in my office the other day, and
-he pretty near had a stroke tellin' me about his daughter Fanny.
-Seems Miss Isabel Amberson's got some kind of a dog--they call it a
-Saint Bernard--and Fanny was bound to have one, too.  Well, old Aleck
-told her he didn't like dogs except rat-terriers, because a rat-
-terrier cleans up the mice, but she kept on at him, and finally he
-said all right she could have one.  Then, by George! she says
-Ambersons bought their dog, and you can't get one without paying for
-it: they cost from fifty to a hundred dollars up!  Old Aleck wanted to
-know if I ever heard of anybody buyin' a dog before, because, of
-course, even a Newfoundland or a setter you can usually get somebody
-to give you one.  He says he saw some sense in payin' a nigger a dime,
-or even a quarter, to drown a dog for you, but to pay out fifty
-dollars and maybe more--well, sir, he like to choked himself to death,
-right there in my office!  Of course everybody realizes that Major
-Amberson is a fine business man, but what with throwin' money around
-for dogs, and every which and what, some think all this style's bound
-to break him up, if his family don't quit!"
-
-One citizen, having thus discoursed to a visitor, came to a thoughtful
-pause, and then added, "Does seem pretty much like squandering, yet
-when you see that dog out walking with this Miss Isabel, he seems
-worth the money."
-
-"What's she look like?"
-
-"Well, sir," said the citizen, "she's not more than just about
-eighteen or maybe nineteen years old, and I don't know as I know just
-how to put it--but she's kind of a delightful lookin' young lady!"
-
-
-
-
-Chapter II
-
-
-Another citizen said an eloquent thing about Miss Isabel Amberson's
-looks.  This was Mrs. Henry Franklin Foster, the foremost literary
-authority and intellectual leader of the community---for both the
-daily newspapers thus described Mrs. Foster when she founded the
-Women's Tennyson Club; and her word upon art, letters, and the drama
-was accepted more as law than as opinion.  Naturally, when "Hazel
-Kirke" finally reached the town, after its long triumph in larger
-places, many people waited to hear what Mrs. Henry Franklin Foster
-thought of it before they felt warranted in expressing any estimate of
-the play.  In fact, some of them waited in the lobby of the theatre,
-as they came out, and formed an inquiring group about her.
-
-"I didn't see the play," she informed them.
-
-"What!  Why, we saw you, right in the middle of the fourth row!"
-
-"Yes," she said, smiling, "but I was sitting just behind Isabelle
-Amberson.  I couldn't look at anything except her wavy brown hair and
-the wonderful back of her neck."
-
-The ineligible young men of the town (they were all ineligible) were
-unable to content themselves with the view that had so charmed Mrs.
-Henry Franklin Foster: they spent their time struggling to keep Miss
-Amberson's face turned toward them.  She turned it most often,
-observers said, toward two: one excelling in the general struggle by
-his sparkle, and the other by that winning if not winsome old trait,
-persistence.  The sparkling gentleman "led germans" with her, and sent
-sonnets to her with his bouquets--sonnets lacking neither music nor
-wit.  He was generous, poor, well-dressed, and his amazing
-persuasiveness was one reason why he was always in debt.  No one
-doubted that he would be able to persuade Isabel, but he unfortunately
-joined too merry a party one night, and, during a moonlight serenade
-upon the lawn before the Amberson Mansion, was easily identified from
-the windows as the person who stepped through the bass viol and had to
-be assisted to a waiting carriage.  One of Miss Amberson's brothers
-was among the serenaders, and, when the party had dispersed, remained
-propped against the front door in a state of helpless liveliness; the
-Major going down in a dressing-gown and slippers to bring him in, and
-scolding mildly, while imperfectly concealing strong impulses to
-laughter.  Miss Amberson also laughed at this brother, the next day,
-but for the suitor it was a different matter: she refused to see him
-when he called to apologize.  "You seem to care a great deal about
-bass viols!" he wrote her.  "I promise never to break another."  She
-made no response to the note, unless it was an answer, two weeks
-later, when her engagement was announced.  She took the persistent
-one, Wilbur Minafer, no breaker of bass viols or of hearts, no
-serenader at all.
-
-A few people, who always foresaw everything, claimed that they were
-not surprised, because though Wilbur Minafer "might not be an Apollo,
-as it were," he was "a steady young business man, and a good church-
-goer," and Isabel Amberson was "pretty sensible--for such a showy
-girl."  But the engagement astounded the young people, and most of
-their fathers and mothers, too; and as a topic it supplanted
-literature at the next meeting of the "Women's Tennyson Club."
-
-"Wilbur Minafer!" a member cried, her inflection seeming to imply that
-Wilbur's crime was explained by his surname.  "Wilbur Minafer!  It's
-the queerest thing I ever heard!  To think of her taking Wilbur
-Minafer, just because a man any woman would like a thousand times
-better was a little wild one night at a serenade!"
-
-"No," said Mrs. Henry Franklin Foster.  "It isn't that.  It isn't even
-because she's afraid he'd be a dissipated husband and she wants to be
-safe.  It isn't because she's religious or hates wildness; it isn't
-even because she hates wildness in him."
-
-"Well, but look how she's thrown him over for it."
-
-"No, that wasn't her reason," said the wise Mrs. Henry Franklin
-Foster.  "If men only knew it--and it's a good thing they don't--a
-woman doesn't really care much about whether a man's wild or not, if
-it doesn't affect herself, and Isabel Amberson doesn't care a thing!"
-
-"Mrs. Foster!"
-
-"No, she doesn't.  What she minds is his making a clown of himself in
-her front yard!  It made her think he didn't care much about her.
-She's probably mistaken, but that's what she thinks, and it's too late
-for her to think anything else now, because she's going to be married
-right away--the invitations will be out next week.  It'll be a big
-Amberson-style thing, raw oysters floating in scooped-out blocks of
-ice and a band from out-of-town--champagne, showy presents; a colossal
-present from the Major.  Then Wilbur will take Isabel on the
-carefulest little wedding trip he can manage, and she'll be a good
-wife to him, but they'll have the worst spoiled lot of children this
-town will ever see."
-
-"How on earth do you make that out, Mrs. Foster?"
-
-"She couldn't love Wilbur, could she?"  Mrs. Foster demanded, with no
-challengers.  "Well, it will all go to her children, and she'll ruin
-'em!"
-
-The prophetess proved to be mistaken in a single detail merely: except
-for that, her foresight was accurate.  The wedding was of Ambersonian
-magnificence, even to the floating oysters; and the Major's colossal
-present was a set of architect's designs for a house almost as
-elaborate and impressive as the Mansion, the house to be built in
-Amberson Addition by the Major.  The orchestra was certainly not that
-local one which had suffered the loss of a bass viol; the musicians
-came, according to the prophecy and next morning's paper, from afar;
-and at midnight the bride was still being toasted in champagne, though
-she had departed upon her wedding journey at ten.  Four days later the
-pair had returned to town, which promptness seemed fairly to
-demonstrate that Wilbur had indeed taken Isabel upon the carefulest
-little trip he could manage.  According to every report, she was from
-the start "a good wife to him," but here in a final detail the
-prophecy proved inaccurate.  Wilbur and Isabel did not have children;
-they had only one.
-
-"Only one," Mrs. Henry Franklin Foster admitted.  "But I'd like to
-know if he isn't spoiled enough for a whole carload!"
-
-Again she found none to challenge her.
-
-At the age of nine, George Amberson Minafer, the Major's one
-grandchild, was a princely terror, dreaded not only in Amberson
-Addition but in many other quarters through which he galloped on his
-white pony.  "By golly, I guess you think you own this town!" an
-embittered labourer complained, one day, as Georgie rode the pony
-straight through a pile of sand the man was sieving.  "I will when I
-grow up," the undisturbed child replied.  "I guess my grandpa owns it
-now, you bet!"  And the baffled workman, having no means to controvert
-what seemed a mere exaggeration of the facts could only mutter "Oh,
-pull down your vest!"
-
-"Don't haf to!  Doctor says it ain't healthy!" the boy returned
-promptly.  "But I'll tell you what I'll do: I'll pull down my vest if
-you'll wipe off your chin!"
-
-This was stock and stencil: the accustomed argot of street badinage of
-the period; and in such matters Georgie was an expert.  He had no vest
-to pull down; the incongruous fact was that a fringed sash girdled the
-juncture of his velvet blouse and breeches, for the Fauntleroy period
-had set in, and Georgie's mother had so poor an eye for appropriate
-things, where Georgie was concerned, that she dressed him according to
-the doctrine of that school in boy decoration. Not only did he wear a
-silk sash, and silk stockings, and a broad lace collar, with his
-little black velvet suit: he had long brown curls, and often came home
-with burrs in them.
-
-Except upon the surface (which was not his own work, but his mother's)
-Georgie bore no vivid resemblance to the fabulous little Cedric.  The
-storied boy's famous "Lean on me, grandfather," would have been
-difficult to imagine upon the lips of Georgie.  A month after his
-ninth birthday anniversary, when the Major gave him his pony, he had
-already become acquainted with the toughest boys in various distant
-parts of the town, and had convinced them that the toughness of a rich
-little boy with long curls might be considered in many respects
-superior to their own.  He fought them, learning how to go berserk at
-a certain point in a fight, bursting into tears of anger, reaching for
-rocks, uttering wailed threats of murder and attempting to fulfil
-them.  Fights often led to intimacies, and he acquired the art of
-saying things more exciting than "Don't haf to!" and "Doctor says it
-ain't healthy!"  Thus, on a summer afternoon, a strange boy, sitting
-bored upon the gate-post of the Reverend Malloch Smith, beheld George
-Amberson Minafer rapidly approaching on his white pony, and was
-impelled by bitterness to shout: "Shoot the ole jackass!  Look at the
-girly curls!  Say, bub, where'd you steal your mother's ole sash!"
-
-"Your sister stole it for me!"  Georgie instantly replied, checking
-the pony.  "She stole it off our clo'es-line an' gave it to me."
-
-"You go get your hair cut!" said the stranger hotly.  "Yah! I haven't
-got any sister!"
-
-"I know you haven't at home," Georgie responded.  "I mean the one
-that's in jail."
-
-"I dare you to get down off that pony!"
-
-Georgie jumped to the ground, and the other boy descended from the
-Reverend Mr. Smith's gatepost--but he descended inside the gate.  "I
-dare you outside that gate," said Georgie.
-
-"Yah! I dare you half way here.  I dare you--"
-
-But these were luckless challenges, for Georgie immediately vaulted
-the fence--and four minutes later Mrs. Malloch Smith, hearing strange
-noises, looked forth from a window; then screamed, and dashed for the
-pastor's study.  Mr. Malloch Smith, that grim-bearded Methodist, came
-to the front yard and found his visiting nephew being rapidly prepared
-by Master Minafer to serve as a principal figure in a pageant of
-massacre.  It was with great physical difficulty that Mr. Smith
-managed to give his nephew a chance to escape into the house, for
-Georgie was hard and quick, and, in such matters, remarkably intense;
-but the minister, after a grotesque tussle, got him separated from his
-opponent, and shook him.
-
-"You stop that, you!"  Georgie cried fiercely; and wrenched himself
-away.  "I guess you don't know who I am!"
-
-"Yes, I do know!" the angered Mr. Smith retorted.  "I know who you
-are, and you're a disgrace to your mother!  Your mother ought to be
-ashamed of herself to allow--"
-
-"Shut up about my mother bein' ashamed of herself!"
-
-Mr. Smith, exasperated, was unable to close the dialogue with dignity.
-"She ought to be ashamed," he repeated.  "A woman that lets a bad boy
-like you--"
-
-But Georgie had reached his pony and mounted.  Before setting off at
-his accustomed gallop, he paused to interrupt the Reverend Malloch
-Smith again.  "You pull down your vest, you ole Billygoat, you!" he
-shouted, distinctly.  "Pull down your vest, wipe off your chin--an' go
-to hell!"
-
-Such precocity is less unusual, even in children of the Rich, than
-most grown people imagine.  However, it was a new experience for the
-Reverend Malloch Smith, and left him in a state of excitement.  He at
-once wrote a note to Georgie's mother, describing the crime according
-to his nephew's testimony; and the note reached Mrs. Minafer before
-Georgie did.  When he got home she read it to him sorrowfully.
-
-Dear Madam:
-Your son has caused a painful distress in my household.  He made an
-unprovoked attack upon a little nephew of mine who is visiting in my
-household, insulted him by calling him vicious names and falsehoods,
-stating that ladies of his family were in jail.  He then tried to make
-his pony kick him, and when the child, who is only eleven years old,
-while your son is much older and stronger, endeavoured to avoid his
-indignities and withdraw quietly, he pursued him into the enclosure of
-my property and brutally assaulted him.  When I appeared upon this
-scene he deliberately called insulting words to me, concluding with
-profanity, such as "go to hell," which was heard not only by myself
-but by my wife and the lady who lives next door.  I trust such a state
-of undisciplined behaviour may be remedied for the sake of the
-reputation for propriety, if nothing higher, of the family to which
-this unruly child belongs.
-
-
-Georgie had muttered various interruptions, and as she concluded the
-reading he said: "He's an ole liar!"
-
-"Georgie, you mustn't say 'liar.'  Isn't this letter the truth?"
-
-"Well," said Georgie, "how old am I?"
-
-"Ten."
-
-"Well, look how he says I'm older than a boy eleven years old."
-
-"That's true," said Isabel.  "He does.  But isn't some of it true,
-Georgie?"
-
-Georgie felt himself to be in a difficulty here, and he was silent.
-
-"Georgie, did you say what he says you did?"
-
-"Which one?"
-
-"Did you tell him to--to--Did you say, 'Go to hell?"
-
-Georgie looked worried for a moment longer; then he brightened.
-"Listen here, mamma; grandpa wouldn't wipe his shoe on that ole
-story-teller, would he?"
-
-"Georgie, you mustn't--"
-
-"I mean: none of the Ambersons wouldn't have anything to do with him,
-would they?  He doesn't even know you, does he, mamma?"
-
-"That hasn't anything to do with it."
-
-"Yes, it has!  I mean: none of the Amberson family go to see him, and
-they never have him come in their house; they wouldn't ask him to, and
-they prob'ly wouldn't even let him."
-
-"That isn't what we're talking about."
-
-"I bet," said Georgie emphatically, "I bet if he wanted to see any of
-'em, he'd haf to go around to the side door!"
-
-"No, dear, they--"
-
-"Yes, they would, mamma!  So what does it matter if I did say somep'm'
-to him he didn't like?  That kind o' people, I don't see why you can't
-say anything you want to, to 'em!"
-
-"No, Georgie.  And you haven't answered me whether you said that
-dreadful thing he says you did."
-
-"Well--" said Georgie.  "Anyway, he said somep'm' to me that made me
-mad."  And upon this point he offered no further details; he would not
-explain to his mother that what had made him "mad" was Mr. Smith's
-hasty condemnation of herself:  "Your mother ought to be ashamed,"
-and, "A woman that lets a bad boy like you--" Georgie did not even
-consider excusing himself by quoting these insolences.
-
-Isabel stroked his head.  "They were terrible words for you to use,
-dear.  From his letter he doesn't seem a very tactful person, but--"
-
-"He's just riffraff," said Georgie.
-
-"You mustn't say so," his mother gently agreed "Where did you learn
-those bad words he speaks of?  Where did you hear any one use them?"
-
-"Well, I've heard 'em several places.  I guess Uncle George Amberson
-was the first I ever heard say 'em.  Uncle George Amberson said 'em to
-papa once.  Papa didn't like it, but Uncle George was just laughin' at
-papa, an' then he said 'em while he was laughin'."
-
-"That was wrong of him," she said, but almost instinctively he
-detected the lack of conviction in her tone.  It was Isabel's great
-failing that whatever an Amberson did seemed right to her, especially
-if the Amberson was either her brother George, or her son George.  She
-knew that she should be more severe with the latter now, but severity
-with him was beyond her power; and the Reverend Malloch Smith had
-succeeded only in rousing her resentment against himself.  Georgie's
-symmetrical face--altogether an Amberson face--had looked never more
-beautiful to her.  It always looked unusually beautiful when she tried
-to be severe with him.  "You must promise me," she said feebly, "never
-to use those bad words again."
-
-"I promise not to," he said promptly--and he whispered an immediate
-codicil under his breath: "Unless I get mad at somebody!"  This
-satisfied a code according to which, in his own sincere belief, he
-never told lies.
-
-"That's a good boy," she said, and he ran out to the yard, his
-punishment over.  Some admiring friends were gathered there; they had
-heard of his adventure, knew of the note, and were waiting to see what
-was going to "happen" to him.  They hoped for an account of things,
-and also that he would allow them to "take turns" riding his pony to
-the end of the alley and back.
-
-They were really his henchmen:  Georgie was a lord among boys.  In
-fact, he was a personage among certain sorts of grown people, and was
-often fawned upon; the alley negroes delighted in him, chuckled over
-him, flattered him slavishly.  For that matter, he often heard well-
-dressed people speaking of him admiringly: a group of ladies once
-gathered about him on the pavement where he was spinning a top.  "I
-know this is Georgie!" one exclaimed, and turned to the others with
-the impressiveness of a showman. "Major Amberson's only grandchild!"
-The others said, "It is?" and made clicking sounds with their mouths;
-two of them loudly whispering, "So handsome!"
-
-Georgie, annoyed because they kept standing upon the circle he had
-chalked for his top, looked at them coldly and offered a suggestion:
-
-"Oh, go hire a hall!"
-
-As an Amberson, he was already a public character, and the story of
-his adventure in the Reverend Malloch Smith's front yard became a town
-topic.  Many people glanced at him with great distaste, thereafter,
-when they chanced to encounter him, which meant nothing to Georgie,
-because he innocently believed most grown people to be necessarily
-cross-looking as a normal phenomenon resulting from the adult state;
-and he failed to comprehend that the distasteful glances had any
-personal bearing upon himself.  If he had perceived such a bearing, he
-would have been affected only so far, probably, as to mutter,
-"Riffraff!"  Possibly he would have shouted it; and, certainly, most
-people believed a story that went round the town just after Mrs.
-Amberson's funeral, when Georgie was eleven.  Georgie was reported to
-have differed with the undertaker about the seating of the family; his
-indignant voice had become audible: "Well, who is the most important
-person at my own grandmother's funeral?"  And later he had projected
-his head from the window of the foremost mourners' carriage, as the
-undertaker happened to pass.
-
-"Riffraff!"
-
-There were people--grown people they were--who expressed themselves
-longingly: they did hope to live to see the day, they said, when that
-boy would get his come-upance! (They used that honest word, so much
-better than "deserts," and not until many years later to be more
-clumsily rendered as "what is coming to him.")  Something was bound to
-take him down, some day, and they only wanted to be there!  But
-Georgie heard nothing of this, and the yearners for his taking down
-went unsatisfied, while their yearning grew the greater as the happy
-day of fulfilment was longer and longer postponed.  His grandeur was
-not diminished by the Malloch Smith story; the rather it was
-increased, and among other children (especially among little girls)
-there was added to the prestige of his gilded position that diabolical
-glamour which must inevitably attend a boy who has told a minister to
-go to hell.
-
-
-
-
-Chapter III
-
-
-
-Until he reached the age of twelve, Georgie's education was a domestic
-process; tutors came to the house; and those citizens who yearned for
-his taking down often said: "Just wait till he has to go to public
-school; then he'll get it!"  But at twelve Georgie was sent to a
-private school in the town, and there came from this small and
-dependent institution no report, or even rumour, of Georgie's getting
-anything that he was thought to deserve; therefore the yearning still
-persisted, though growing gaunt with feeding upon itself.  For,
-although Georgie's pomposities and impudence in the little school were
-often almost unbearable, the teachers were fascinated by him.  They
-did not like him--he was too arrogant for that--but he kept them in
-such a state of emotion that they thought more about him than they did
-about all of the other ten pupils.  The emotion he kept them in was
-usually one resulting from injured self-respect, but sometimes it was
-dazzled admiration.  So far as their conscientious observation went,
-he "studied" his lessons sparingly; but sometimes, in class, he
-flashed an admirable answer, with a comprehension not often shown by
-the pupils they taught; and he passed his examinations easily.  In
-all, without discernible effort, he acquired at this school some
-rudiments of a liberal education and learned nothing whatever about
-himself.
-
-The yearners were still yearning when Georgie, at sixteen, was sent
-away to a great "Prep School."  "Now," they said brightly, "he'll get
-it!  He'll find himself among boys just as important in their home
-towns as he is, and they'll knock the stuffing out of him when he puts
-on his airs with them!  Oh, but that would be worth something to see!"
-They were mistaken, it appeared, for when Georgie returned, a few
-months later, he still seemed to have the same stuffing.  He had been
-deported by the authorities, the offense being stated as "insolence
-and profanity"; in fact, he had given the principal of the school
-instructions almost identical with those formerly objected to by the
-Reverend Malloch Smith.
-
-But he had not got his come-upance, and those who counted upon it were
-embittered by his appearance upon the down-town streets driving a dog-
-cart at criminal speed, making pedestrians retreat from the crossings,
-and behaving generally as if he "owned the earth."  A disgusted
-hardware dealer of middle age, one of those who hungered for Georgie's
-downfall, was thus driven back upon the sidewalk to avoid being run
-over, and so far forgot himself as to make use of the pet street
-insult of the year:  "Got 'ny sense!  See here, bub, does your mother
-know you're out?"
-
-Georgie, without even seeming to look at him, flicked the long lash of
-his whip dexterously, and a little spurt of dust came from the
-hardware man's trousers, not far below the waist.  He was not made of
-hardware: he raved, looking for a missile; then, finding none,
-commanded himself sufficiently to shout after the rapid dog-cart:
-"Turn down your pants, you would-be dude!  Raining in dear ole Lunnon!
-Git off the earth!"
-
-Georgie gave him no encouragement to think that he was heard.  The
-dog-cart turned the next corner, causing indignation there, likewise,
-and, having proceeded some distance farther, halted in front of the
-"Amberson Block"--an old-fashioned four-story brick warren of lawyers
-offices, insurance and realestate offices, with a "drygoods store"
-occupying the ground floor.  Georgie tied his lathered trotter to a
-telegraph pole, and stood for a moment looking at the building
-critically: it seemed shabby, and he thought his grandfather ought to
-replace it with a fourteen-story skyscraper, or even a higher one,
-such as he had lately seen in New York--when he stopped there for a
-few days of recreation and rest on his way home from the bereaved
-school.  About the entryway to the stairs were various tin signs,
-announcing the occupation and location of upper-floor tenants, and
-Georgie decided to take some of these with him if he should ever go to
-college.  However, he did not stop to collect them at this time, but
-climbed the worn stairs--there was no elevator--to the fourth floor,
-went down a dark corridor, and rapped three times upon a door.  It was
-a mysterious door, its upper half, of opaque glass, bearing no sign to
-state the business or profession of the occupants within; but
-overhead, upon the lintel, four letters had been smearingly inscribed,
-partly with purple ink and partly with a soft lead pencil, "F. O. T.
-A." and upon the plaster wall, above the lintel, there was a drawing
-dear to male adolescence: a skull and crossbones.
-
-Three raps, similar to Georgie's, sounded from within the room.
-Georgie then rapped four times the rapper within the room rapped
-twice, and Georgie rapped seven times.  This ended precautionary
-measures; and a well-dressed boy of sixteen opened the door; whereupon
-Georgie entered quickly, and the door was closed behind him.  Seven
-boys of congenial age were seated in a semicircular row of damaged
-office chairs, facing a platform whereon stood a solemn, red-haired
-young personage with a table before him.  At one end of the room there
-was a battered sideboard, and upon it were some empty beer bottles, a
-tobacco can about two-thirds full, with a web of mold over the surface
-of the tobacco, a dusty cabinet photograph (not inscribed) of Miss
-Lillian Russell, several withered old pickles, a caseknife, and a
-half-petrified section of icing-cake on a sooty plate.  At the other
-end of the room were two rickety card-tables and a stand of
-bookshelves where were displayed under dust four or five small volumes
-of M. Guy de Maupassant's stories, "Robinson Crusoe," "Sappho," "Mr.
-Barnes of New York," a work by Giovanni Boccaccio, a Bible, "The
-Arabian Nights' Entertainment," "Studies of the Human Form Divine,"
-"The Little Minister," and a clutter of monthly magazines and
-illustrated weeklies of about that crispness one finds in such
-articles upon a doctor's ante-room table.  Upon the wall, above the
-sideboard, was an old framed lithograph of Miss Della Fox in "Wang";
-over the bookshelves there was another lithograph purporting to
-represent Mr. John L. Sullivan in a boxing costume, and beside it a
-halftone reproduction of "A Reading From Horner."  The final
-decoration consisted of damaged papiermache--a round shield with two
-battle-axes and two cross-hilted swords, upon the wall over the little
-platform where stood the red-haired presiding officer.  He addressed
-Georgie in a serious voice:
-
-"Welcome, Friend of the Ace."
-
-"Welcome, Friend of the Ace," Georgie responded, and all of the other
-boys repeated the words, "Welcome, Friend of the Ace."
-
-"Take your seat in the secret semicircle," said the presiding officer.
-"We will now proceed to--"
-
-But Georgie was disposed to be informal.  He interrupted, turning to
-the boy who had admitted him:  "Look here, Charlie Johnson, what's
-Fred Kinney doing in the president's chair?  That's my place, isn't
-it?  What you men been up to here, anyhow?  Didn't you all agree I was
-to be president just the same, even if I was away at school?"
-
-"Well--" said Charlie Johnson uneasily.  "Listen! I didn't have much
-to do with it.  Some of the other members thought that long as you
-weren't in town or anything, and Fred gave the sideboard, why--"
-
-Mr. Kinney, presiding, held in his hand, in lieu of a gavel, and
-considered much more impressive, a Civil War relic known as a "horse-
-pistol."  He rapped loudly for order.  "All Friends of the Ace will
-take their seats!" he said sharply.  "I'm president of the F. O. T. A.
-now, George Minafer, and don't you forget it!  You and Charlie Johnson
-sit down, because I was elected perfectly fair, and we're goin' to
-hold a meeting here."
-
-"Oh, you are, are you?" said George skeptically.
-
-Charlie Johnson thought to mollify him.  "Well, didn't we call this
-meeting just especially because you told us to?  You said yourself we
-ought to have a kind of celebration because you've got back to town,
-George, and that's what we're here for now, and everything.  What do
-you care about being president?  All it amounts to is just calling the
-roll and--"
-
-The president de facto hammered the table.  "This meeting will now
-proceed to--"
-
-"No, it won't," said George, and he advanced to the desk, laughing
-contemptuously.  "Get off that platform."
-
-"This meeting will come to order!"  Mr. Kinney commanded fiercely.
-
-"You put down that gavel," said George. "Whose is it, I'd like to
-know?  It belongs to my grandfather, and you quit hammering it that
-way or you'll break it, and I'll have to knock your head off."
-
-"This meeting will come to order!  I was legally elected here, and I'm
-not going to be bulldozed!"
-
-"All right," said Georgie.  "You're president.  Now we'll hold another
-election."
-
-"We will not!" Fred Kinney shouted.  "We'll have our reg'lar meeting,
-and then we'll play euchre & nickel a corner, what we're here for.
-This meeting will now come to ord--"
-
-Georgie addressed the members.  "I'd like to know who got up this
-thing in the first place," he said.  "Who's the founder of the
-F.O.T.A., if you please?  Who got this room rent free?  Who got the
-janitor to let us have most of this furniture?  You suppose you could
-keep this clubroom a minute if I told my grandfather I didn't want it
-for a literary club any more?  I'd like to say a word on how you
-members been acting, too!  When I went away I said I didn't care if
-you had a vice-president or something while I was gone, but here I
-hardly turned my back and you had to go and elect Fred Kinney
-president!  Well, if that's what you want, you can have it.  I was
-going to have a little celebration down here some night pretty soon,
-and bring some port wine, like we drink at school in our crowd there,
-and I was going to get my grandfather to give the club an extra room
-across the hall, and prob'ly I could get my Uncle George to give us
-his old billiard table, because he's got a new one, and the club could
-put it in the other room.  Well, you got a new president now!"  Here
-Georgie moved toward the door and his tone became plaintive, though
-undeniably there was disdain beneath his sorrow.  "I guess all I
-better do is--resign!"
-
-And he opened the door, apparently intending to withdraw.
-
-"All in favour of having a new election," Charlie Johnson shouted
-hastily, "say, 'Aye'!"
-
-"Aye" was said by everyone present except Mr. Kinney, who began a hot
-protest, but it was immediately smothered.
-
-"All in favour of me being president instead of Fred Kinney," shouted
-Georgie, "say 'Aye.'  The 'Ayes' have it!"
-
- "I resign," said the red-headed boy, gulping as he descended from the
-platform.  "I resign from the club!"
-
-Hot-eyed, he found his hat and departed, jeers echoing after him as he
-plunged down the corridor.  Georgie stepped upon the platform, and
-took up the emblem of office.
-
-"Ole red-head Fred'll be around next week," said the new chairman.
-"He'll be around boot-lickin' to get us to take him back in again, but
-I guess we don't want him: that fellow always was a trouble-maker.  We
-will now proceed with our meeting.  Well, fellows, I suppose you want
-to hear from your president.  I don't know that I have much to say, as
-I have already seen most of you a few times since I got back.  I had a
-good time at the old school, back East, but had a little trouble with
-the faculty and came on home.  My family stood by me as well as I
-could ask, and I expect to stay right here in the old town until
-whenever I decide to enter college.  Now, I don't suppose there's any
-more business before the meeting.  I guess we might as well play
-cards.  Anybody that's game for a little quarter-limit poker or any
-limit they say, why I'd like to have 'em sit at the president's card-
-table."
-
-When the diversions of the Friends of the Ace were concluded for that
-afternoon, Georgie invited his chief supporter, Mr. Charlie Johnson,
-to drive home with him to dinner, and as they jingled up National
-Avenue in the dog-cart, Charlie asked:
-
-"What sort of men did you run up against at that school, George?"
-
-"Best crowd there: finest set of men I ever met."
-
-"How'd you get in with 'em?"
-
-Georgie laughed. "I let them get in with me, Charlie," he said in a
-tone of gentle explanation.  "It's vulgar to do any other way.  Did I
-tell you the nickname they gave me--'King'?  That was what they called
-me at that school, 'King Minafer."
-
-"How'd they happen to do that?" his friend asked innocently.
-
-"Oh, different things," George answered lightly.  "Of course, any of
-'em that came from anywhere out in this part the country knew about
-the family and all that, and so I suppose it was a good deal on
-account of--oh, on account of the family and the way I do things, most
-likely."
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER IV
-
-
-When Mr. George Amberson Minafer came home for the holidays at
-Christmastide, in his sophomore year, probably no great change had
-taken place inside him, but his exterior was visibly altered.  Nothing
-about him encouraged any hope that he had received his come-upance; on
-the contrary, the yearners for that stroke of justice must yearn even
-more itchingly: the gilded youth's manner had become polite, but his
-politeness was of a kind which democratic people found hard to bear.
-In a word, M. le Due had returned from the gay life of the capital to
-show himself for a week among the loyal peasants belonging to the old
-chateau, and their quaint habits and costumes afforded him a mild
-amusement.
-
-Cards were out for a ball in his honour, and this pageant of the
-tenantry was held in the ballroom of the Amberson Mansion the night
-after his arrival.  It was, as Mrs. Henry Franklin Foster said of
-Isabel's wedding, "a big Amberson-style thing," though that wise Mrs.
-Henry Franklin Foster had long ago gone the way of all wisdom, having
-stepped out of the Midland town, unquestionably into heaven--a long
-step, but not beyond her powers.  She had successors, but no
-successor; the town having grown too large to confess that it was
-intellectually led and literarily authoritated by one person; and some
-of these successors were not invited to the ball, for dimensions were
-now so metropolitan that intellectual leaders and literary authorities
-loomed in outlying regions unfamiliar to the Ambersons.  However, all
-"old citizens" recognizable as gentry received cards, and of course so
-did their dancing descendants.
-
-The orchestra and the caterer were brought from away, in the Amberson
-manner, though this was really a gesture--perhaps one more of habit
-than of ostentation--for servitors of gaiety as proficient as these
-importations were nowadays to be found in the town.  Even flowers and
-plants and roped vines were brought from afar--not, however, until the
-stock of the local florists proved insufficient to obliterate the
-interior structure of the big house, in the Amberson way.  It was the
-last of the great, long remembered dances that "everybody talked
-about"--there were getting to be so many people in town that no later
-than the next year there were too many for "everybody" to hear of even
-such a ball as the Ambersons'.
-
-George, white-gloved, with a gardenia in his buttonhole, stood with
-his mother and the Major, embowered in the big red and gold drawing
-room downstairs, to "receive" the guests; and, standing thus together,
-the trio offered a picturesque example of good looks persistent
-through three generations.  The Major, his daughter, and his grandson
-were of a type all Amberson: tall, straight, and regular, with dark
-eyes, short noses, good chins; and the grandfather's expression, no
-less than the grandson's, was one of faintly amused condescension.
-There was a difference, however.  The grandson's unlined young face
-had nothing to offer except this condescension; the grandfather's had
-other things to say.  It was a handsome, worldly old face, conscious
-of its importance, but persuasive rather than arrogant, and not
-without tokens of sufferings withstood.  The Major's short white hair
-was parted in the middle, like his grandson's, and in all he stood as
-briskly equipped to the fashion as exquisite young George.
-
-Isabel, standing between her father and her son caused a vague
-amazement in the mind of the latter.  Her age, just under forty, was
-for George a thought of something as remote as the moons of Jupiter:
-he could not possibly have conceived such an age ever coming to be
-his own: five years was the limit of his thinking in time.  Five years
-ago he had been a child not yet fourteen; and those five years were an
-abyss.  Five years hence he would be almost twenty-four; what the
-girls he knew called "one of the older men."  He could imagine himself
-at twenty-four, but beyond that, his powers staggered and refused the
-task.  He saw little essential difference between thirty-eight and
-eighty-eight, and his mother was to him not a woman but wholly a
-mother.  He had no perception of her other than as an adjunct to
-himself, his mother; nor could he imagine her thinking or doing
-anything--falling in love, walking with a friend, or reading a book--
-as a woman, and not as his mother.  The woman, Isabel, was a stranger
-to her son; as completely a stranger as if he had never in his life
-seen her or heard her voice.  And it was to-night, while he stood with
-her, "receiving," that he caught a disquieting glimpse of this
-stranger whom he thus fleetingly encountered for the first time.
-
-Youth cannot imagine romance apart from youth.  That is why the roles
-of the heroes and heroines of plays are given by the managers to the
-most youthful actors they can find among the competent.  Both middle-
-aged people and young people enjoy a play about young lovers; but only
-middle-aged people will tolerate a play about middle-aged lovers;
-young people will not come to see such a play, because, for them,
-middle-aged lovers are a joke--not a very funny one.  Therefore, to
-bring both the middle-aged people and the young people into his house,
-the manager makes his romance as young as he can.  Youth will indeed
-be served, and its profound instinct is to be not only scornfully
-amused but vaguely angered by middle-age romance.  So, standing beside
-his mother, George was disturbed by a sudden impression, corning upon
-him out of nowhere, so far as he could detect, that her eyes were
-brilliant, that she was graceful and youthful--in a word, that she was
-romantically lovely.
-
-He had one of those curious moments that seem to have neither a cause
-nor any connection with actual things.  While it lasted, he was
-disquieted not by thoughts--for he had no definite thoughts--but by a
-slight emotion like that caused in a dream by the presence of
-something invisible soundless, and yet fantastic.  There was nothing
-different or new about his mother, except her new black and silver
-dress: she was standing there beside him, bending her head a little in
-her greetings, smiling the same smile she had worn for the half-hour
-that people had been passing the "receiving" group.  Her face was
-flushed, but the room was warm; and shaking hands with so many people
-easily accounted for the pretty glow that was upon her.  At any time
-she could have "passed" for twenty-five or twenty-six--a man of fifty
-would have honestly guessed her to be about thirty but possibly two or
-three years younger--and though extraordinary in this, she had been
-extraordinary in it for years.  There was nothing in either her looks
-or her manner to explain George's uncomfortable feeling; and yet it
-increased, becoming suddenly a vague resentment, as if she had done
-something unmotherly to him.
-
-The fantastic moment passed; and even while it lasted, he was doing
-his duty, greeting two pretty girls with whom he had grown up, as
-people say, and warmly assuring them that he remembered them very
-well--an assurance which might have surprised them "in anybody but
-Georgie Minafer!"  It seemed unnecessary, since he had spent many
-hours with them no longer ago than the preceding August,  They had
-with them their parents and an uncle from out of town; and George
-negligently gave the parents the same assurance he had given the
-daughters, but murmured another form of greeting to the out-of-town
-uncle, whom he had never seen before.  This person George absently
-took note of as a "queer-looking duck."  Undergraduates had not yet
-adopted "bird."  It was a period previous to that in which a sophomore
-would have thought of the Sharon girls' uncle as a "queer-looking
-bird," or, perhaps a "funny-face bird."  In George's time, every human
-male was to be defined, at pleasure, as a "duck"; but "duck" was not
-spoken with admiring affection, as in its former feminine use to
-signify a "dear"--on the contrary, "duck" implied the speaker's
-personal detachment and humorous superiority.  An indifferent
-amusement was what George felt when his mother, with a gentle
-emphasis, interrupted his interchange of courtesies with the nieces to
-present him to the queer-looking duck their uncle.  This emphasis of
-Isabel's, though slight, enabled George to perceive that she
-considered the queer-looking duck a person of some importance; but it
-was far from enabling him to understand why.  The duck parted his
-thick and longish black hair on the side; his tie was a forgetful
-looking thing, and his coat, though it fitted a good enough middle-
-aged figure, no product of this year, or of last year either.  One of
-his eyebrows was noticeably higher than the other; and there were
-whimsical lines between them, which gave him an apprehensive
-expression; but his apprehensions were evidently more humorous than
-profound, for his prevailing look was that of a genial man of affairs,
-not much afraid of anything whatever  Nevertheless, observing only his
-unfashionable hair, his eyebrows, his preoccupied tie and his old
-coat, the olympic George set him down as a queer-looking duck, and
-having thus completed his portrait, took no interest in him.
-
-The Sharon girls passed on, taking the queer-looking duck with them,
-and George became pink with mortification as his mother called his
-attention to a white-bearded guest waiting to shake his hand.  This
-was George's great-uncle, old John Minafer: it was old John's boast
-that in spite of his connection by marriage with the Ambersons, he
-never had worn and never would wear a swaller-tail coat. Members of
-his family had exerted their influence uselessly--at eighty-nine
-conservative people seldom form radical new habits, and old John wore
-his "Sunday suit" of black broadcloth to the Amberson ball.  The coat
-was square, with skirts to the knees; old John called it a "Prince
-Albert" and was well enough pleased with it, but his great-nephew
-considered it the next thing to an insult.  George's purpose had been
-to ignore the man, but he had to take his hand for a moment; whereupon
-old John began to tell George that he was looking well, though there
-had been a time, during his fourth month, when he was so puny that
-nobody thought he would live.  The great-nephew, in a fury of blushes,
-dropped old John's hand with some vigour, and seized that of the next
-person in the line.  "Member you v'ry well 'ndeed!" he said fiercely.
-
-The large room had filled, and so had the broad hall and the rooms on
-the other side of the hall, where there were tables for whist.  The
-imported orchestra waited in the ballroom on the third floor, but a
-local harp, 'cello, violin, and flute were playing airs from "The
-Fencing Master" in the hall, and people were shouting over the music.
-Old John Minafer's voice was louder and more penetrating than any
-other, because he had been troubled with deafness for twenty-five
-years, heard his own voice but faintly, and liked to hear it.  "Smell
-o' flowers like this always puts me in mind o' funerals," he kept
-telling his niece, Fanny Minafer, who was with him; and he seemed to
-get a great deal of satisfaction out of this reminder.  His tremulous
-yet strident voice cut through the voluminous sound that filled the
-room, and he was heard everywhere: "Always got to think o' funerals
-when I smell so many flowers!"  And, as the pressure of people forced
-Fanny and himself against the white marble mantelpiece, he pursued
-this train of cheery thought, shouting, "Right here's where the
-Major's wife was laid out at her funeral.  They had her in a good
-light from that big bow window."  He paused to chuckle mournfully.  "I
-s'pose that's where they'll put the Major when his time comes."
-
-Presently George's mortification was increased to hear this sawmill
-droning harshly from the midst of the thickening crowd: "Ain't the
-dancin' broke out yet, Fanny? Hoopla! Le's push through and go see the
-young women-folks crack their heels!  Start the circus!  Hoopse-
-daisy!"  Miss Fanny Minafer, in charge of the lively veteran, was
-almost as distressed as her nephew George, but she did her duty and
-managed to get old John through the press and out to the broad
-stairway, which numbers of young people were now ascending to the
-ballroom.  And here the sawmill voice still rose over all others:
-"Solid black walnut every inch of it, balustrades and all.  Sixty
-thousand dollars' worth o' carved woodwork in the house!  Like water!
-Spent money like water!  Always did!  Still do!  Like water!  God
-knows where it all comes from!"
-
-He continued the ascent, barking and coughing among the gleaming young
-heads, white shoulders, jewels, and chiffon, like an old dog slowly
-swimming up the rapids of a sparkling river; while down below, in the
-drawing room, George began to recover from the degradation into which
-this relic of early settler days had dragged him.  What restored him
-completely was a dark-eyed little beauty of nineteen, very knowing in
-lustrous blue and jet; at sight of this dashing advent in the line of
-guests before him, George was fully an Amberson again.
-
-"Remember you very well indeed!" he said, his graciousness more
-earnest than any he had heretofore displayed.  Isabel heard him and
-laughed.
-
-"But you don't, George!" she said.  "You don't remember her yet,
-though of course you will!  Miss Morgan is from out of town, and I'm
-afraid this is the first time you've ever seen her.  You might take
-her up to the dancing; I think you've pretty well done your duty here."
-
-"Be d'lighted," George responded formally, and offered his arm, not
-with a flourish, certainly, but with an impressiveness inspired partly
-by the appearance of the person to whom he offered it, partly by his
-being the hero of this fete, and partly by his youthfulness--for when
-manners are new they are apt to be elaborate.  The little beauty
-entrusted her gloved fingers to his coat-sleeve, and they moved away
-together.
-
-Their progress was necessarily slow, and to George's mind it did not
-lack stateliness.  How could it?  Musicians, hired especially for him,
-were sitting in a grove of palms in the hall and now tenderly playing
-"Oh, Promise Me" for his pleasuring; dozens and scores of flowers had
-been brought to life and tended to this hour that they might sweeten
-the air for him while they died; and the evanescent power that music
-and floral scents hold over youth stirred his appreciation of strange,
-beautiful qualities within his own bosom: he seemed to himself to be
-mysteriously angelic, and about to do something which would overwhelm
-the beautiful young stranger upon his arm.
-
-Elderly people and middle-aged people moved away to let him pass with
-his honoured fair beside him.  Worthy middle-class creatures, they
-seemed, leading dull lives but appreciative of better things when they
-saw them--and George's bosom was fleetingly touched with a pitying
-kindness.  And since the primordial day when caste or heritage first
-set one person, in his own esteem, above his fellow-beings, it is to
-be doubted if anybody ever felt more illustrious, or more negligently
-grand, than George Amberson Minafer felt at this party.
-
-As he conducted Miss Morgan through the hall, toward the stairway,
-they passed the open double doors of a card room, where some squadrons
-of older people were preparing for action, and, leaning gracefully
-upon the mantelpiece of this room, a tall man, handsome, high-
-mannered, and sparklingly point-device, held laughing converse with
-that queer-looking duck, the Sharon girls' uncle.  The tall gentleman
-waved a gracious salutation to George, and Miss Morgan's curiosity was
-stirred.  "Who is that?"
-
-"I didn't catch his name when my mother presented him to me," said
-George.  "You mean the queer-looking duck."
-
-"I mean the aristocratic duck."
-
-"That's my Uncle George  Honourable George Amberson.  I thought
-everybody knew him."
-
-"He looks as though everybody ought to know him," she said.  "It seems
-to run in your family."
-
-If she had any sly intention, it skipped over George harmlessly.
-"Well, of course, I suppose most everybody does," he admitted--"out in
-this part of the country especially.  Besides, Uncle George is in
-Congress; the family like to have someone there."
-
-"Why?"
-
-"Well, it's sort of a good thing in one way.  For instance, my Uncle
-Sydney Amberson and his wife, Aunt Amelia, they haven't got much of
-anything to do with themselves--get bored to death around here, of
-course.  Well, probably Uncle George'll have Uncle Sydney appointed
-minister or ambassador, or something like that, to Russia or Italy or
-somewhere, and that'll make it pleasant when any of the rest of the
-family go travelling, or things like that.  I expect to do a good deal
-of travelling myself when I get out of college."
-
-On the stairway he pointed out this prospective ambassadorial couple,
-Sydney and Amelia.  They were coming down, fronting the ascending
-tide, and as conspicuous over it as a king and queen in a play.
-Moreover, as the clear-eyed Miss Morgan remarked, the very least they
-looked was ambassadorial.  Sydney was an Amberson exaggerated, more
-pompous than gracious; too portly, flushed, starched to a shine, his
-stately jowl furnished with an Edward the Seventh beard.  Amelia,
-likewise full-bodied, showed glittering blond hair exuberantly
-dressed; a pink, fat face cold under a white-hot tiara; a solid, cold
-bosom under a white-hot necklace; great, cold, gloved arms, and the
-rest of her beautifully upholstered.  Amelia was an Amberson born,
-herself, Sydney's second-cousin: they had no children, and Sydney was
-without a business or a profession; thus both found a great deal of
-time to think about the appropriateness of their becoming
-Excellencies.  And as George ascended the broad stairway, they were
-precisely the aunt and uncle he was most pleased to point out, to a
-girl from out of town, as his appurtenances in the way of relatives.
-At sight of them the grandeur of the Amberson family was instantly
-conspicuous as a permanent thing: it was impossible to doubt that the
-Ambersons were entrenched, in their nobility and riches, behind
-polished and glittering barriers which were as solid as they were
-brilliant, and would last.
-
-
-
-
-Chapter V
-
-
-
-The hero of the fete, with the dark-eyed little beauty upon his arm,
-reached the top of the second flight of stairs; and here, beyond a
-spacious landing, where two proud-like darkies tended a crystalline
-punch bowl, four wide archways in a rose-vine lattice framed gliding
-silhouettes of waltzers, already smoothly at it to the castanets of
-"La Paloma."  Old John Minafer, evidently surfeited, was in the act of
-leaving these delights.  "D'want 'ny more o' that!" he barked.  "Just
-slidin' around!  Call that dancin'?  Rather see a jig any day in the
-world!  They ain't very modest, some of 'em.  I don't mind that,
-though.  Not me!"
-
-Miss Fanny Minafer was no longer in charge of him: he emerged from the
-ballroom escorted by a middle-aged man of commonplace appearance.  The
-escort had a dry, lined face upon which, not ornamentally but as a
-matter of course, there grew a business man's short moustache; and his
-thin neck showed an Adam's apple, but not conspicuously, for there was
-nothing conspicuous about him.  Baldish, dim, quiet, he was an
-unnoticeable part of this festival, and although there were a dozen or
-more middle-aged men present, not casually to be distinguished from
-him in general aspect, he was probably the last person in the big
-house at whom a stranger would have glanced twice.  It did not enter
-George's mind to mention to Miss Morgan that this was his father, or
-to say anything whatever about him.
-
-Mr. Minafer shook his son's hand unobtrusively in passing.
-
-"I'll take Uncle John home," he said, in a low voice.  "Then I guess
-I'll go on home myself--I'm not a great hand at parties, you know.
-Good-night, George."
-
-George murmured a friendly enough good-night without pausing.
-Ordinarily he was not ashamed of the Minafers; he seldom thought about
-them at all, for he belonged, as most American children do, to the
-mother's family--but he was anxious not to linger with Miss Morgan in
-the vicinity of old John, whom he felt to be a disgrace.
-
-He pushed brusquely through the fringe of calculating youths who were
-gathered in the arches, watching for chances to dance only with girls
-who would soon be taken off their hands, and led his stranger lady out
-upon the floor.  They caught the time instantly, and were away in the
-waltz.
-
-George danced well, and Miss Morgan seemed to float as part of the
-music, the very dove itself of "La Paloma."  They said nothing as they
-danced; her eyes were cast down all the while--the prettiest gesture
-for a dancer--and there was left in the universe, for each, of them,
-only their companionship in this waltz; while the faces of the other
-dancers, swimming by, denoted not people but merely blurs of colour.
-George became conscious of strange feelings within him: an exaltation
-of soul, tender, but indefinite, and seemingly located in the upper
-part of his diaphragm.
-
-The stopping of the music came upon him like the waking to an alarm
-clock; for instantly six or seven of the calculating persons about the
-entry-ways bore down upon Miss Morgan to secure dances.  George had to
-do with one already established as a belle, it seemed.
-
-"Give me the next and the one after that," he said hurriedly,
-recovering some presence of mind, just as the nearest applicant
-reached them.  "And give me every third one the rest of the evening."
-
-She laughed.  "Are you asking?"
-
-"What do you mean, 'asking'?"
-
-"It sounded as though you were just telling me to give you all those
-dances."
-
-"Well, I want 'em!"  George insisted.
-
-"What about all the other girls it's your duty to dance with?"
-
-"They'll have to go without," he said heartlessly; and then, with
-surprising vehemence: "Here! I want to know: Are you going to give me
-those--"
-
-"Good gracious!" she laughed. "Yes!"
-
-The applicants flocked round her, urging contracts for what remained,
-but they did not dislodge George from her side, though he made it
-evident that they succeeded in annoying him; and presently he
-extricated her from an accumulating siege--she must have connived in
-the extrication--and bore her off to sit beside him upon the stairway
-that led to the musicians' gallery, where they were sufficiently
-retired, yet had a view of the room.
-
-"How'd all those ducks get to know you so quick?"  George inquired,
-with little enthusiasm.
-
-"Oh, I've been here a week."
-
-"Looks as if you'd been pretty busy!" he said.  "Most of those ducks,
-I don't know what my mother wanted to invite 'em here for."
-
-"Oh, I used to see something of a few of 'em.  I was president of a
-club we had here, and some of 'em belonged to it, but I don't care
-much for that sort of thing any more.  I really don't see why my
-mother invited 'em."
-
-"Perhaps it was on account of their parents," Miss Morgan suggested
-mildly.  "Maybe she didn't want to offend their fathers and mothers."
-
-"Oh, hardly!  I don't think my mother need worry much about offending
-anybody in this old town."
-
-"It must be wonderful," said Miss Morgan.  "It must be wonderful, Mr.
-Amberson--Mr. Minafer, I mean."
-
-"What must be wonderful?"
-
-"To be so important as that!"
-
-"That isn't 'important," George assured her.  "Anybody that really is
-anybody ought to be able to do about as they like in their own town, I
-should think!"
-
-She looked at him critically from under her shading lashes--but her
-eyes grew gentler almost at once.  In truth, they became more
-appreciative than critical.  George's imperious good looks were
-altogether manly, yet approached actual beauty as closely as a boy's
-good looks should dare; and dance-music and flowers have some effect
-upon nineteen-year-old girls as well as upon eighteen-year-old boys.
-Miss Morgan turned her eyes slowly from George, and pressed her face
-among the lilies-of-the-valley and violets of the pretty bouquet she
-carried, while, from the gallery above, the music of the next dance
-carolled out merrily in a new two-step.  The musicians made the melody
-gay for the Christmastime with chimes of sleighbells, and the entrance
-to the shadowed stairway framed the passing flushed and lively
-dancers, but neither George nor Miss Morgan suggested moving to join
-the dance.
-
-The stairway was draughty: the steps were narrow and uncomfortable; no
-older person would have remained in such a place.  Moreover, these two
-young people were strangers to each other; neither had said anything
-in which the other had discovered the slightest intrinsic interest;
-there had not arisen between them the beginnings of congeniality, or
-even of friendliness--but stairways near ballrooms have more to answer
-for than have moonlit lakes and mountain sunsets.  Some day the laws
-of glamour must be discovered, because they are so important that the
-world would be wiser now if Sir Isaac Newton had been hit on the head,
-not by an apple, but by a young lady.
-
-Age, confused by its own long accumulation of follies, is
-everlastingly inquiring, "What does she see in him?" as if young love
-came about through thinking--or through conduct.  Age wants to know:
-"What on earth can they talk about?" as if talking had anything to do
-with April rains!  At seventy, one gets up in the morning, finds the
-air sweet under a bright sun, feels lively; thinks, "I am hearty,
-today," and plans to go for a drive.  At eighteen, one goes to a
-dance, sits with a stranger on a stairway, feels peculiar, thinks
-nothing, and becomes incapable of any plan whatever.  Miss Morgan and
-George stayed where they were.
-
-They had agreed to this in silence and without knowing it; certainly
-without exchanging glances of intelligence--they had exchanged no
-glances at all.  Both sat staring vaguely out into the ballroom, and,
-for a time, they did not speak.  Over their heads the music reached a
-climax of vivacity: drums, cymbals, triangle, and sleighbells,
-beating, clashing, tinkling.  Here and there were to be seen couples
-so carried away that, ceasing to move at the decorous, even glide,
-considered most knowing, they pranced and whirled through the throng,
-from wall to wall, galloping bounteously in abandon.  George suffered
-a shock of vague surprise when he perceived that his aunt, Fanny
-Minafer, was the lady-half of one of these wild couples.
-
-Fanny Minafer, who rouged a little, was like fruit which in some
-climates dries with the bloom on.  Her features had remained prettily
-childlike; so had her figure, and there were times when strangers,
-seeing her across the street, took her to be about twenty; they were
-other times when at the same distance they took her to be about sixty,
-instead of forty, as she was.  She had old days and young days; old
-hours and young hours; old minutes and young minutes; for the change
-might be that quick.  An alteration in her expression, or a difference
-in the attitude of her head, would cause astonishing indentations to
-appear--and behold, Fanny was an old lady!  But she had been never
-more childlike than she was tonight as she flew over the floor in the
-capable arms of the queer-looking duck; for this person was her
-partner.
-
-The queer-looking duck had been a real dancer in his day, it appeared;
-and evidently his day was not yet over.  In spite of the headlong, gay
-rapidity with which he bore Miss Fanny about the big room, he danced
-authoritatively, avoiding without effort the lightest collision with
-other couples, maintaining sufficient grace throughout his wildest
-moments, and all the while laughing and talking with his partner.
-What was most remarkable to George, and a little irritating, this
-stranger in the Amberson Mansion had no vestige of the air of
-deference proper to a stranger in such a place: he seemed thoroughly
-at home.  He seemed offensively so, indeed, when, passing the entrance
-to the gallery stairway, he disengaged his hand from Miss Fanny's for
-an instant, and not pausing in the dance, waved a laughing salutation
-more than cordial, then capered lightly out of sight.
-
-George gazed stonily at this manifestation, responding neither by word
-nor sign.  "How's that for a bit of freshness?" he murmured.
-
-"What was?"  Miss Morgan asked.
-
-"That queer-looking duck waving his hand at me like that.  Except he's
-the Sharon girls' uncle I don't know him from Adam."
-
-"You don't need to," she said. "He wasn't waving his hand to you: he
-meant me."
-
-"Oh, he did?"  George was not mollified by the explanation.
-"Everybody seems to mean you!  You certainly do seem to've been pretty
-busy this week you've been here!"
-
-She pressed her bouquet to her face again, and laughed into it, not
-displeased.  She made no other comment, and for another period neither
-spoke.  Meanwhile the music stopped; loud applause insisted upon its
-renewal; an encore was danced; there was an interlude of voices; and
-the changing of partners began.
-
-"Well," said George finally, "I must say you don't seem to be much of
-a prattler.  They say it's a great way to get a reputation for being
-wise, never saying much.  Don't you ever talk any?"
-
-"When people can understand," she answered.
-
-He had been looking moodily out at the ballroom but he turned to her
-quickly, at this, saw that her eyes were sunny and content, over the
-top of her bouquet; and he consented to smile.
-
-"Girls are usually pretty fresh!" he said.  "They ought to go to a
-man's college about a year: they'd get taught a few things about
-freshness!  What you got to do after two o'clock to-morrow afternoon?"
-
-"A whole lot of things.  Every minute filled up."
-
-"All right," said George.  "The snow's fine for sleighing: I'll come
-for you in a cutter at ten minutes after two."
-
-"I can't possibly go."
-
-"If you don't," he said, "I'm going to sit in the cutter in front of
-the gate, wherever you're visiting, all afternoon, and if you try to
-go out with anybody else he's got to whip me before he gets you."  And
-as she laughed--though she blushed a little, too--he continued,
-seriously: "If you think I'm not in earnest you're at liberty to make
-quite a big experiment!"
-
-She laughed again. "I don't think I've often had so large a compliment
-as that," she said, "especially on such short notice--and yet, I don't
-think I'll go with you.
-
-"You be ready at ten minutes after two."
-
-"No, I won't."
-
-"Yes, you will!"
-
-"Yes," she said, "I will!"  And her partner for the next dance
-arrived, breathless with searching.
-
-"Don't forget I've got the third from now," George called after her.
-
-"I won't."
-
-"And every third one after that."
-
-"I know!" she called, over her partner's shoulder, and her voice was
-amused--but meek.
-
-When "the third from now" came, George presented himself before her
-without any greeting, like a brother, or a mannerless old friend.
-Neither did she greet him, but moved away with him, concluding, as she
-went, an exchange of badinage with the preceding partner: she had been
-talkative enough with him, it appeared.  In fact, both George and Miss
-Morgan talked much more to every one else that evening, than to each
-other; and they said nothing at all at this time.  Both looked
-preoccupied, as they began to dance, and preserved a gravity, of
-expression to the end of the number.  And when "the third one after
-that" came, they did not dance, but went back to the gallery stairway,
-seeming to have reached an understanding without any verbal
-consultation, that this suburb was again the place for them.
-
-"Well," said George, coolly, when they were seated, "what did you say
-your name was?"
-
-"Morgan."
-
-"Funny name!"
-
-"Everybody else's name always is."
-
-"I didn't mean it was really funny," George explained.  "That's just
-one of my crowd's bits of horsing at college.  We always say 'funny
-name' no matter what it is.  I guess we're pretty fresh sometimes; but
-I knew your name was Morgan because my mother said so downstairs.  I
-meant: what's the rest of it?"
-
-"Lucy."
-
-He was silent.
-
-"Is 'Lucy' a funny name, too?" she inquired.
-
-"No. Lucy's very much all right!" he said, and he went so far as to
-smile.  Even his Aunt Fanny admitted that when George smiled "in a
-certain way" he was charming.
-
-"Thanks about letting my name be Lucy," she said.
-
-"How old are you?" George asked.
-
-"I don't really know, myself."
-
-"What do you mean: you don't really know yourself?"
-
-"I mean I only know what they tell me.  I believe them, of course, but
-believing isn't really knowing.  You believe some certain day is your
-birthday--at least, I suppose you do--but you don't really know it is
-because you can't remember."
-
-"Look here!" said George.  "Do you always talk like this?"
-
-Miss Lucy Morgan laughed forgivingly, put her young head on one side,
-like a bird, and responded cheerfully: "I'm willing to learn wisdom.
-What are you studying in school?"
-
-"College!"
-
-"At the university!  Yes.  What are you studying there?"
-
-George laughed.  "Lot o' useless guff!"
-
-"Then why don't you study some useful guff?"
-
-"What do you mean: 'useful'?"
-
-"Something you'd use later, in your business or profession?"
-
-George waved his hand impatiently.  "I don't expect to go into any
-'business or profession."
-
-"No?"
-
-"Certainly not!"  George was emphatic, being sincerely annoyed by a
-suggestion which showed how utterly she failed to comprehend the kind
-of person he was.
-
-"Why not?" she asked mildly.
-
-"Just look at 'em!" he said, almost with bitterness, and he made a
-gesture presumably intended to indicate the business and professional
-men now dancing within range of vision.  "That's a fine career for a
-man, isn't it!  Lawyers, bankers, politicians!  What do they get out
-of life, I'd like to know!  What do they ever know about real things?
-Where do they ever get?"
-
-He was so earnest that she was surprised and impressed.  Evidently he
-had deep-seated ambitions, for he seemed to speak with actual emotion
-of these despised things which were so far beneath his planning for
-the future.  She had a vague, momentary vision of Pitt, at twenty-one,
-prime minister of England; and she spoke, involuntarily in a lowered
-voice, with deference:
-
-"What do you want to be?" she asked.
-
-George answered promptly.
-
-"A yachtsman," he said.
-
-
-
-
-Chapter VI
-
-
-
-Having thus, in a word, revealed his ambition for a career above
-courts, marts, and polling booths, George breathed more deeply than
-usual, and, turning his face from the lovely companion whom he had
-just made his confidant, gazed out at the dancers with an expression
-in which there was both sternness and a contempt for the squalid lives
-of the unyachted Midlanders before him.  However, among them, he
-marked his mother; and his sombre grandeur relaxed momentarily; a more
-genial light came into his eyes.
-
-Isabel was dancing with the queer-looking duck; and it was to be noted
-that the lively gentleman's gait was more sedate than it had been with
-Miss Fanny Minafer, but not less dexterous and authoritative.  He was
-talking to Isabel as gaily as he had talked to Miss Fanny, though with
-less laughter, and Isabel listened and answered eagerly: her colour
-was high and her eyes had a look of delight.  She saw George and the
-beautiful Lucy on the stairway, and nodded to them.  George waved his
-hand vaguely: he had a momentary return of that inexplicable
-uneasiness and resentment which had troubled him downstairs.
-
-"How lovely your mother is!"  Lucy said
-
-"I think she is," he agreed gently.
-
-"She's the gracefulest woman in that ballroom.  She dances like a girl
-of sixteen."
-
-"Most girls of sixteen," said George, "are bum dancers.  Anyhow, I
-wouldn't dance with one unless I had to."
-
-"Well, you'd better dance with your mother!  I never saw anybody
-lovelier.  How wonderfully they dance together!"
-
-"Who?"
-
-"Your mother and--and the queer-looking duck," said Lucy.  "I'm going
-to dance with him pretty soon."
-
-"I don't care--so long as you don't give him one of the numbers that
-belong to me."
-
-"I'll try to remember," she said, and thoughtfully lifted to her face
-the bouquet of violets and lilies, a gesture which George noted
-without approval.
-
-"Look here!  Who sent you those flowers you keep makin' such a fuss
-over?"
-
-"He did."
-
-"Who's 'he'?"
-
-"The queer-looking duck."
-
-George feared no such rival; he laughed loudly.  "I s'pose he's some
-old widower!" he said, the object thus described seeming ignominious
-enough to a person of eighteen, without additional characterization.
-"Some old widower!"
-
-Lucy became serious at once.  "Yes, he is a widower," she said.  "I
-ought to have told you before; he's my father."
-
-George stopped laughing abruptly.  "Well, that's a horse on me.  If
-I'd known he was your father, of course I wouldn't have made fun of
-him.  I'm sorry."
-
-"Nobody could make fun of him," she said quietly.
-
-"Why couldn't they?"
-
-"It wouldn't make him funny: it would only make themselves silly."
-
-Upon this, George had a gleam of intelligence.  "Well, I'm not going
-to make myself silly any more, then; I don't want to take chances like
-that with you.  But I thought he was the Sharon girls' uncle.  He came
-with them--"
-
-"Yes," she said, "I'm always late to everything: I wouldn't let them
-wait for me.  We're visiting the Sharons."
-
-"About time I knew that!  You forget my being so fresh about your
-father, will you?  Of course he's a distinguished looking man, in a
-way."
-
-Lucy was still serious.  "In a way?'" she repeated.  "You mean, not in
-your way, don't you?"
-
-George was perplexed.  "How do you mean: not in my way?"
-
-"People pretty often say 'in a way' and 'rather distinguished
-looking,' or 'rather' so-and-so, or 'rather' anything, to show that
-they're superior don't they?  In New York last month I overheard a
-climber sort of woman speaking of me as 'little Miss Morgan,' but she
-didn't mean my height; she meant that she was important.  Her husband
-spoke of a friend of mine as 'little Mr. Pembroke' and 'little Mr.
-Pembroke' is six-feet-three.  This husband and wife were really so
-terribly unimportant that the only way they knew to pretend to be
-important was calling people 'little' Miss or Mister so-and-so.  It's
-a kind of snob slang, I think.  Of course people don't always say
-'rather' or 'in a way' to be superior."
-
-"I should say not!  I use both of 'em a great deal myself," said
-George.  "One thing I don't see though: What's the use of a man being
-six-feet-three? Men that size can't handle themselves as well as a man
-about five-feet-eleven and a half can.  Those long, gangling men,
-they're nearly always too kind of wormy to be any good in athletics,
-and they're so awkward they keep falling over chairs or--"
-
-"Mr. Pembroke is in the army," said Lucy primly.  "He's
-extraordinarily graceful."
-
-"In the army?  Oh, I suppose he's some old friend of your father's."
-
-"They got on very well," she said, "after I introduced them."
-
-George was a straightforward soul, at least.  "See here!" he said.
-"Are you engaged to anybody?"
-
-"No."
-
-Not wholly mollified, he shrugged his shoulders.  "You seem to know a
-good many people!  Do you live in New York?"
-
-"No.  We don't live anywhere."
-
-"What you mean: you don't live anywhere?"
-
-"We've lived all over," she answered.  "Papa used to live here in this
-town, but that was before I was born."
-
-"What do you keep moving around so for?  Is he a promoter?"
-
-"No.  He's an inventor."
-
-"What's he invented?"
-
-"Just lately," said Lucy, "he's been working on a new kind of
-horseless carriage."
-
-"Well, I'm sorry for him," George said, in no unkindly spirit.  "Those
-things are never going to amount to anything.  People aren't going to
-spend their lives lying on their backs in the road and letting grease
-drip in their faces.  Horseless carriages are pretty much a failure,
-and your father better not waste his time on 'em."
-
-"Papa'd be so grateful," she returned, "if he could have your advice."
-
-Instantly George's face became flushed.  "I don't know that I've done
-anything to be insulted for!" he said.  "I don't see that what I said
-was particularly fresh."
-
-"No, indeed!"
-
-"Then what do you--"
-
-She laughed gaily.  "I don't!  And I don't mind your being such a
-lofty person at all.  I think it's ever so interesting--but papa's a
-great man!"
-
-"Is he?"  George decided to be good-natured "Well, let us hope so. I
-hope so, I'm sure."
-
-Looking at him keenly, she saw that the magnificent youth was
-incredibly sincere in this bit of graciousness.  He spoke as a
-tolerant, elderly statesman might speak of a promising young
-politician; and with her eyes still upon him, Lucy shook her head in
-gentle wonder.  "I'm just beginning to understand," she said.
-
-"Understand what?"
-
-"What it means to be a real Amberson in this town.  Papa told me
-something about it before we came, but I see he didn't say half
-enough!"
-
-George superbly took this all for tribute.  "Did your father say he
-knew the family before he left here?"
-
-"Yes. I believe he was particularly a friend of your Uncle George; and
-he didn't say so, but I imagine he must have known your mother very
-well, too.  He wasn't an inventor then; he was a young lawyer.  The
-town was smaller in those days, and I believe he was quite well
-known."
-
-"I dare say.  I've no doubt the family are all very glad to see him
-back, especially if they used to have him at the house a good deal, as
-he told you."
-
-"I don't think he meant to boast of it," she said: "He spoke of it
-quite calmly."
-
-George stared at her for a moment in perplexity, then perceiving that
-her intention was satirical, "Girls really ought to go to a man's
-college," he said--"just a month or two, anyhow; It'd take some of the
-freshness out of 'em!"
-
-"I can't believe it," she retorted, as her partner for the next dance
-arrived.  "It would only make them a little politer on the surface--
-they'd be really just as awful as ever, after you got to know them a
-few minutes."
-
-"What do you mean: 'after you got to know them a--'"
-
-She was departing to the dance.  "Janie and Mary Sharon told me all
-about what sort of a little boy you were," she said, over her
-shoulder.  "You must think it out!"  She took wing away on the breeze
-of the waltz, and George, having stared gloomily after her for a few
-moments, postponed filling an engagement, and strolled round the
-fluctuating outskirts of the dance to where his uncle, George
-Amberson, stood smilingly watching, under one of the rose-vine arches
-at the entrance to the room.
-
-"Hello, young namesake," said the uncle.  "Why lingers the laggard
-heel of the dancer?  Haven't you got a partner?"
-
-"She's sitting around waiting for me somewhere," said George.  "See
-here: Who is this fellow Morgan that Aunt Fanny Minafer was dancing
-with a while?"
-
-Amberson laughed.  "He's a man with a pretty daughter, Georgie.
-Meseemed you've been spending the evening noticing something of that
-sort--or do I err?"
-
-"Never mind!  What sort is he?"
-
-"I think we'll have to give him a character, Georgie.  He's an old
-friend; used to practice law here--perhaps he had more debts than
-cases, but he paid 'em all up before he left town.  Your question is
-purely mercenary, I take it:  you want to know his true worth before
-proceeding further with the daughter.  I cannot inform you, though I
-notice signs of considerable prosperity in that becoming dress of
-hers.  However, you never can tell, it is an age when every sacrifice
-is made for the young, and how your own poor mother managed to provide
-those genuine pearl studs for you out of her allowance from father, I
-can't--"
-
-"Oh, dry up!" said the nephew. "I understand this Morgan--"
-
-"Mr. Eugene Morgan," his uncle suggested.  "Politeness requires that
-the young should--"
-
-"I guess the 'young' didn't know much about politeness in your day,"
-George interrupted.  "I understand that Mr. Eugene Morgan used to be a
-great friend of the family."
-
-"Oh, the Minafers?" the uncle inquired, with apparent innocence.  "No,
-I seem to recall that he and your father were not--"
-
-"I mean the Ambersons," George said impatiently.  "I understand he was
-a good deal around the house here."
-
-"What is your objection to that, George?"
-
-"What do you mean: my objection?"
-
-"You seemed to speak with a certain crossness."
-
-"Well," said George, "I meant he seems to feel awfully at home here.
-The way he was dancing with Aunt Fanny--"
-
-Amberson laughed.  "I'm afraid your Aunt Fanny's heart was stirred by
-ancient recollections, Georgie."
-
-"You mean she used to be silly about him?"
-
-"She wasn't considered singular," said the uncle "He was--he was
-popular.  Could you bear a question?"
-
-"What do you mean: could I bear--"
-
-"I only wanted to ask: Do you take this same passionate interest in
-the parents of every girl you dance with?  Perhaps it's a new fashion
-we old bachelors ought to take up.  Is it the thing this year to--"
-
-"Oh, go on!" said George, moving away. "I only wanted to know--" He
-left the sentence unfinished, and crossed the room to where a girl sat
-waiting for his nobility to find time to fulfil his contract with her
-for this dance.
-
-"Pardon f' keep' wait," he muttered, as she rose brightly to meet him;
-and she seemed pleased that he came at all--but George was used to
-girls' looking radiant when he danced with them, and she had little
-effect upon him.  He danced with her perfunctorily, thinking the while
-of Mr. Eugene Morgan and his daughter.  Strangely enough, his thoughts
-dwelt more upon the father than the daughter, though George could not
-possibly have given a reason--even to himself--for this disturbing
-preponderance.
-
-By a coincidence, though not an odd one, the thoughts and conversation
-of Mr. Eugene Morgan at this very time were concerned with George
-Amberson Minafer, rather casually, it is true.  Mr. Morgan had retired
-to a room set apart for smoking, on the second floor, and had found a
-grizzled gentleman lounging in solitary possession.
-
-"'Gene Morgan!" this person exclaimed, rising with great heartiness.
-"I'd heard you were in town--I don't believe you know me!"
-
-"Yes, I do, Fred Kinney!"  Mr. Morgan returned with equal
-friendliness.  "Your real face-the one I used to know--it's just
-underneath the one you're masquerading in to-night.  You ought to have
-changed it more if you wanted a disguise."
-
-"Twenty years!" said Mr. Kinney.  "It makes some difference in faces,
-but more in behaviour!"
-
-"It does sot" his friend agreed with explosive emphasis.  "My own
-behaviour began to be different about that long ago--quite suddenly."
-
-"I remember," said Mr. Kinney sympathetically. "Well, life's odd enough
-as we look back."
-
-"Probably it's going to be odder still--if we could look forward."
-
-"Probably."
-
-They sat and smoked.
-
-"However," Mr. Morgan remarked presently, "I still dance like an
-Indian.  Don't you?"
-
-"No.  I leave that to my boy Fred.  He does the dancing for the
-family."
-
-"I suppose he's upstairs hard at it?"
-
-"No, he's not here."  Mr. Kinney glanced toward the open door and
-lowered his voice. "He wouldn't come.  It seems that a couple of years
-or so ago he had a row with young Georgie Minafer.  Fred was president
-of a literary club they had, and he said this young Georgie got
-himself elected instead, in an overbearing sort of way.  Fred's red-
-headed, you know--I suppose you remember his mother?  You were at the
-wedding--"
-
-"I remember the wedding," said Mr. Morgan. "And I remember your
-bachelor dinner--most of it, that is."
-
-"Well, my boy Fred's as red-headed now," Mr. Kinney went on, "as his
-mother was then, and he's very bitter about his row with Georgie
-Minafer.  He says he'd rather burn his foot off than set it inside any
-Amberson house or any place else where young Georgie is.  Fact is, the
-boy seemed to have so much feeling over it I had my doubts about
-coming myself, but my wife said it was all nonsense; we mustn't
-humour Fred in a grudge over such a little thing, and while she
-despised that Georgie Minafer, herself, as much as any one else did,
-she wasn't going to miss a big Amberson show just on account of a
-boys' rumpus, and so on and so on; and so we came."
-
-"Do people dislike young Minafer generally?"
-
-"I don't know about 'generally.' I guess he gets plenty of toadying;
-but there's certainly a lot of people that are glad to express their
-opinions about him."
-
-"What's the matter with him?"
-
-"Too much Amberson, I suppose, for one thing.  And for another, his
-mother just fell down and worshipped him from the day he was born
-That's what beats me!  I don't have to tell you what Isabel Amberson
-is, Eugene Morgan.  She's got a touch of the Amberson high stuff about
-her, but you can't get anybody that ever knew her to deny that she's
-just about the finest woman in the world."
-
-"No," said Eugene Morgan.  "You can't get anybody to deny that."
-
-"Then I can't see how she doesn't see the truth about that boy.  He
-thinks he's a little tin god on wheels--and honestly, it makes some
-people weak and sick just to think about him!  Yet that high-spirited,
-intelligent woman, Isabel Amberson, actually sits and worships him!
-You can hear it in her voice when she speaks to him or speaks of him.
-You can see it in her eyes when she looks at him.  My Lord!  What does
-she see when she looks at him?"
-
-Morgan's odd expression of genial apprehension deepened whimsically,
-though it denoted no actual apprehension whatever, and cleared away
-from his face altogether when he smiled; he became surprisingly
-winning and persuasive when he smiled.  He smiled now, after a moment,
-at this question of his old friend.  "She sees something that we don't
-see," he said.
-
-"What does she see?"
-
-"An angel."
-
-Kinney laughed aloud.  "Well, if she sees an angel when she looks at
-Georgie Minafer, she's a funnier woman than I thought she was!"
-
-"Perhaps she is," said Morgan.  "But that's what she sees."
-
-"My Lord!  It's easy to see you've only known him an hour or so.  In
-that time have you looked at Georgie and seen an angel?"
-
-"No.  All I saw was a remarkably good-looking fool-boy with the pride
-of Satan and a set of nice new drawing-room manners that he probably
-couldn't use more than half an hour at a time without busting."
-
-"Then what--"
-
-"Mothers are right," said Morgan.  "Do you think this young George is
-the same sort of creature when he's with his mother that he is when
-he's bulldozing your boy Fred?  Mothers see the angel in us because
-the angel is there.  If it's shown to the mother, the son has got an
-angel to show, hasn't he?  When a son cuts somebody's throat the
-mother only sees it's possible for a misguided angel to act like a
-devil--and she's entirely right about that!"
-
-Kinney laughed, and put his hand on his friend's shoulder.  "I
-remember what a fellow you always were to argue," he said.  "You mean
-Georgie Minafer is as much of an angel as any murderer is, and that
-Georgie's mother is always right."
-
-"I'm afraid she always has been," Morgan said lightly.
-
-The friendly hand remained upon his shoulder.  "She was wrong once,
-old fellow.  At least, so it seemed to me."
-
-"No," said Morgan, a little awkwardly.  "No--"
-
-Kinney relieved the slight embarrassment that had come upon both of
-them: he laughed again.  "Wait till you know young Georgie a little
-better," he said.  "Something tells me you're going to change your
-mind about his having an angel to show, if you see anything of him!"
-
-"You mean beauty's in the eye of the beholder, and the angel is all in
-the eye of the mother.  If you were a painter, Fred, you'd paint
-mothers with angels' eyes holding imps in their laps.  Me.  I'll stick
-to the Old Masters and the cherubs."
-
-Mr. Kinney looked at him musingly.  "Somebody's eyes must have been
-pretty angelic," he said, "if they've been persuading you that Georgie
-Minnafer is a cherub!"
-
-"They are," said Morgan heartily.  "They're more angelic than ever."
-And as a new flourish of music sounded overhead he threw away his
-cigarette, and jumped up briskly.  "Good-bye, I've got this dance with
-her."
-
-"With whom?"
-
-"With Isabel!"
-
-The grizzled Mr. Kinney affected to rub his eyes.  "It startles me,
-your jumping up like that to go and dance with Isabel Amberson!
-Twenty years seem to have passed--but have they?  Tell me, have you
-danced with poor old Fanny, too, this evening?"
-
-"Twice!"
-
-"My Lord!" Kinney groaned, half in earnest.  "Old times starting all
-over again!  My Lord!"
-
-"Old times?"  Morgan laughed gaily from the doorway.  "Not a bit!
-There aren't any old times.  When times are gone they're not old,
-they're dead!  There aren't any times but new times!"
-
-And he vanished in such a manner that he seemed already to have begun
-dancing.
-
-
-
-
-Chapter VII
-
-
-
-The appearance of Miss Lucy Morgan the next day, as she sat in
-George's fast cutter, proved so charming that her escort was stricken
-to soft words instantly, and failed to control a poetic impulse.  Her
-rich little hat was trimmed with black fur; her hair was almost as
-dark as the fur; a great boa of black fur was about her shoulders; her
-hands were vanished into a black muff; and George's laprobe was black.
-"You look like--" he said.  "Your face looks like--it looks like a
-snowflake on a lump of coal. I mean a--a snowflake that would be a
-rose-leaf, too!"
-
-"Perhaps you'd better look at the reins," she returned.  "We almost
-upset just then."
-
-George declined to heed this advice.  "Because there's too much pink
-in your cheeks for a snowflake," he continued.  "What's that fairy
-story about snow-white and rose-red--"
-
-"We're going pretty fast, Mr. Minafer!"
-
-"Well, you see, I'm only here for two weeks."
-
-"I mean the sleigh!" she explained.  "We're not the only people on the
-street, you know."
-
-"Oh, they'll keep out of the way."
-
-"That's very patrician charioteering, but it seems to me a horse like
-this needs guidance.  I'm sure he's going almost twenty miles an
-hour."
-
-"That's nothing," said George; but he consented to look forward again.
-"He can trot under three minutes, all right."  He laughed.  "I suppose
-your father thinks he can build a horseless carriage to go that fast!"
-
-"They go that fast already, sometimes."
-
-"Yes," said George; "they do--for about a hundred feet!  Then they
-give a yell and burn up."
-
-Evidently she decided not to defend her father's faith in horseless
-carriages, for she laughed, and said nothing.  The cold air was polka-
-dotted with snowflakes, and trembled to the loud, continuous jingling
-of sleighbells.  Boys and girls, all aglow and panting jets of vapour,
-darted at the passing sleighs to ride on the runners, or sought to
-rope their sleds to any vehicle whatever, but the fleetest no more
-than just touched the flying cutter, though a hundred soggy mittens
-grasped for it, then reeled and whirled till sometimes the wearers of
-those daring mittens plunged flat in the snow and lay a-sprawl,
-reflecting.  For this was the holiday time, and all the boys and girls
-in town were out, most of them on National Avenue.
-
-But there came panting and chugging up that flat thoroughfare a thing
-which some day was to spoil all their sleigh-time merriment--save for
-the rashest and most disobedient.  It was vaguely like a topless
-surry, but cumbrous with unwholesome excrescences fore and aft, while
-underneath were spinning leather belts and something that whirred and
-howled and seemed to stagger.  The ride-stealers made no attempt to
-fasten their sleds to a contrivance so nonsensical and yet so
-fearsome.  Instead, they gave over their sport and concentrated all
-their energies in their lungs, so that up and down the street the one
-cry shrilled increasingly: "Git a hoss!  Git a hoss!  Git a hoss!
-Mister, why don't you git a hoss?"  But the mahout in charge, sitting
-solitary on the front seat, was unconcerned--he laughed, and now and
-then ducked a snowball without losing any of his good-nature.  It was
-Mr. Eugene Morgan who exhibited so cheerful a countenance between the
-forward visor of a deer-stalker cap and the collar of a fuzzy gray
-ulster.  "Git a hoss!" the children shrieked, and gruffer voices
-joined them.  "Git a hoss!  Git a hoss!  Git a hoss!"
-
-George Minafer was correct thus far: the twelve miles an hour of such
-a machine would never over-take George's trotter.  The cutter was
-already scurrying between the stone pillars at the entrance to
-Amberson Addition.
-
-"That's my grandfather's," said George, nodding toward the Amberson
-Mansion.
-
-"I ought to know that!"  Lucy exclaimed.  "We stayed there late enough
-last night: papa and I were almost the last to go.  He and your mother
-and Miss Fanny Minafer got the musicians to play another waltz when
-everybody else had gone downstairs and the fiddles were being put away
-in their cases.  Papa danced part of it with Miss Minafer and the rest
-with your mother.  Miss Minafer's your aunt, isn't she?"
-
-"Yes; she lives with us.  I tease her a good deal."
-
-"What about?"
-
-"Oh, anything handy--whatever's easy to tease an old maid about."
-
-"Doesn't she mind?"
-
-"She usually has sort of a grouch on me," laughed George.  "Nothing
-much.  That's our house just beyond grandfather's."  He waved a
-sealskin gaunt let to indicate the house Major Amberson had built for
-Isabel as a wedding gift.  "It's almost the same as grandfather's,
-only not as large and hasn't got a regular ballroom.  We gave the
-dance, last night, at grandfather's on account of the ballroom, and
-because I'm the only grandchild, you know.  Of course, some day
-that'll be my house, though I expect my mother will most likely go on
-living where she does now, with father and Aunt Fanny.  I suppose I'll
-probably build a country house, too--somewhere East, I guess."  He
-stopped speaking, and frowned as they passed a closed carriage and
-pair.  The body of this comfortable vehicle sagged slightly to one
-side; the paint was old and seamed with hundreds of minute cracks like
-little rivers on a black map; the coachman, a fat and elderly darky,
-seemed to drowse upon the box; but the open window afforded the
-occupants of the cutter a glimpse of a tired, fine old face, a silk
-hat, a pearl tie, and an astrachan collar, evidently out to take the
-air.
-
-"There's your grandfather now," said Lucy.  "Isn't it?"
-
-George's frown was not relaxed.  "Yes, it is; and he ought to give
-that rat-trap away and sell those old horses.  They're a disgrace, all
-shaggy--not even clipped.  I suppose he doesn't notice it--people get
-awful funny when they get old; they seem to lose their self-respect,
-sort of."
-
-"He seemed a real Brummell to me," she said.
-
-"Oh, he keeps up about what he wears, well enough, but--well, look at
-that!"  He pointed to a statue of Minerva, one of the cast-iron
-sculptures Major Amberson had set up in opening the Addition years
-before.  Minerva was intact, but a blackish streak descended
-unpleasantly from her forehead to the point of her straight nose, and
-a few other streaks were sketched in a repellent dinge upon the folds
-of her drapery.
-
-"That must be from soot," said Lucy.  "There are so many houses around
-here."
-
-"Anyhow, somebody ought to see that these statues are kept clean.  My
-grandfather owns a good many of these houses, I guess, for renting.
-Of course, he sold most of the lots--there aren't any vacant ones, and
-there used to be heaps of 'em when I was a boy.  Another thing I don't
-think he ought to allow a good many of these people bought big lots
-and they built houses on 'em; then the price of the land kept getting
-higher, and they'd sell part of their yards and let the people that
-bought it build houses on it to live in, till they haven't hardly any
-of 'em got big, open yards any more, and it's getting all too much
-built up.  The way it used to be, it was like a gentleman's country
-estate, and that's the way my grandfather ought to keep it.  He lets
-these people take too many liberties: they do anything they want to."
-
-"But how could he stop them?" Lucy asked, surely with reason.  "If he
-sold them the land, it's theirs, isn't it?"
-
-George remained serene in the face of this apparently difficult
-question.  "He ought to have all the trades-people boycott the
-families that sell part of their yards that way.  All he'd have to do
-would be to tell the trades-people they wouldn't get any more orders
-from the family if they didn't do it."
-
-"From 'the family'?  What family?"
-
-"Our family," said George, unperturbed.  "The Ambersons."
-
-"I see!" she murmured, and evidently she did see something that he did
-not, for, as she lifted her muff to her face, he asked:
-
-"What are you laughing at now?"
-
-"Why?"
-
-"You always seem to have some little secret of your own to get happy
-over!"
-
-"Always!" she exclaimed.  "What a big word when we only met last
-night!"
-
-"That's another case of it," he said, with obvious sincerity.  "One of
-the reasons I don't like you--much!--is you've got that way of seeming
-quietly superior to everybody else."
-
-"I!" she cried.  "I have?"
-
-"Oh, you think you keep it sort of confidential to yourself, but it's
-plain enough!  I don't believe in that kind of thing."
-
-"You don't?"
-
-"No," said George emphatically. "Not with me!  I think the world's
-like this: there's a few people that their birth and position, and so
-on, puts them at the top, and they ought to treat each other entirely
-as equals."  His voice betrayed a little emotion as he added, "I
-wouldn't speak like this to everybody."
-
-"You mean you're confiding your deepest creed--or code, whatever it
-is--to me?"
-
-"Go on, make fun of it, then!"  George said bitterly.  "You do think
-you're terribly clever!  It makes me tired!"
-
-"Well, as you don't like my seeming 'quietly superior,' after this
-I'll be noisily superior," she returned cheerfully.  "We aim to
-please!"
-
-"I had a notion before I came for you today that we were going to
-quarrel," he said.
-
-"No, we won't; it takes two!"  She laughed and waved her muff toward a
-new house, not quite completed, standing in a field upon their right.
-They had passed beyond Amberson Addition, and were leaving the
-northern fringes of the town for the open country.  "Isn't that a
-beautiful house!" she exclaimed.  "Papa and I call it our Beautiful
-House."
-
-George was not pleased.  "Does it belong to you?"
-
-"Of course not!  Papa brought me out here the other day, driving in
-his machine, and we both loved it.  It's so spacious and dignified and
-plain."
-
-"Yes, it's plain enough!"  George grunted.
-
-"Yet it's lovely; the gray-green roof and shutters give just enough
-colour, with the trees, for the long white walls.  It seems to me the
-finest house I've seen in this part of the country."
-
-George was outraged by an enthusiasm so ignorant--not ten minutes ago
-they had passed the Amberson Mansion.  "Is that a sample of your taste
-in architecture?" he asked.
-
-"Yes.  Why?"
-
-"Because it strikes me you better go somewhere and study the subject a
-little!"
-
-Lucy looked puzzled.  "What makes you have so much feeling about it?
-Have I offended you?"
-
-"Offended' nothing!"  George returned brusquely.  "Girls usually think
-they know it all as soon as they've learned to dance and dress and
-flirt a little.  They never know anything about things like
-architecture, for instance.  That house is about as bum a house as any
-house I ever saw!"
-
-"Why?"
-
-"Why?"  George repeated. "Did you ask me why?"
-
-"Yes."
-
-"Well, for one thing--" he paused--"for one thing--well, just look at
-it!  I shouldn't think you'd have to do any more than look at it if
-you'd ever given any attention to architecture."
-
-"What is the matter with its architecture, Mr. Minafer?"
-
-"Well, it's this way," said George.  "It's like this.  Well, for
-instance, that house--well, it was built like a town house."  He spoke
-of it in the past tense, because they had now left it far behind them
---a human habit of curious significance.  "It was like a house meant
-for a street in the city.  What kind of a house was that for people of
-any taste to build out here in the country?"
-
-"But papa says it's built that way on purpose.  There are a lot of
-other houses being built in this direction, and papa says the city's
-coming out this way; and in a year or two that house will be right in
-town."
-
-"It was a bum house, anyhow," said George crossly.  "I don't even know
-the people that are building it.  They say a lot of riffraff come to
-town every year nowadays and there's other riffraff that have always
-lived here, and have made a little money, and act as if they owned the
-place.  Uncle Sydney was talking about it yesterday: he says he and
-some of his friends are organizing a country club, and already some of
-these riffraff are worming into it--people he never heard of at all!
-Anyhow, I guess it's pretty clear you don't know a great deal about
-architecture."
-
-She demonstrated the completeness of her amiability by laughing.
-"I'll know something about the North Pole before long," she said, "if
-we keep going much farther in this direction!"
-
-At this he was remorseful.  "All right, we'll turn, and drive south
-awhile till you get warmed up again.  I expect we have been going
-against the wind about long enough.  Indeed, I'm sorry!"
-
-He said, "Indeed, I'm sorry," in a nice way, and looked very
-strikingly handsome when he said it, she thought.  No doubt it is true
-that there is more rejoicing in heaven over one sinner repented than
-over all the saints who consistently remain holy, and the rare, sudden
-gentlenesses of arrogant people have infinitely more effect than the
-continual gentleness of gentle people.  Arrogance turned gentle melts
-the heart; and Lucy gave her companion a little sidelong, sunny nod of
-acknowledgment.  George was dazzled by the quick glow of her eyes, and
-found himself at a loss for something to say.
-
-Having turned about, he kept his horse to a walk, and at this gait the
-sleighbells tinkled but intermittently.  Gleaming wanly through the
-whitish vapour that kept rising from the trotter's body and flanks,
-they were like tiny fog-bells, and made the only sounds in a great
-winter silence.  The white road ran between lonesome rail fences; and
-frozen barnyards beyond the fences showed sometimes a harrow left to
-rust, with its iron seat half filled with stiffened snow, and
-sometimes an old dead buggy, it's  wheels forever set, it seemed, in
-the solid ice of deep ruts.  Chickens scratched the metallic earth
-with an air of protest, and a masterless ragged colt looked up in
-sudden horror at the mild tinkle of the passing bells, then blew
-fierce clouds of steam at the sleigh.  The snow no longer fell, and
-far ahead, in a grayish cloud that lay upon the land, was the town.
-
-Lucy looked at this distant thickening reflection.  "When we get this
-far out we can see there must be quite a little smoke hanging over the
-town," she said.  "I suppose that's because it's growing.  As it grows
-bigger it seems to get ashamed of itself, so it makes this cloud and
-hides in it.  Papa says it used to be a bit nicer when he lived here:
-he always speaks of it differently--he always has a gentle look, a
-particular tone of voice, I've noticed.  He must have been very fond
-of it.  It must have been a lovely place: everybody must have been so
-jolly.  From the way he talks, you'd think life here then was just one
-long midsummer serenade.  He declares it was always sunshine, that the
-air wasn't like the air anywhere else--that, as he remembers it, there
-always seemed to be gold-dust in the air.  I doubt it!  I think it
-doesn't seem to be duller air to him now just on account of having a
-little soot in it sometimes, but probably because he was twenty years
-younger then.  It seems to me the gold-dust he thinks was here is just
-his being young that he remembers.  I think it was just youth.  It is
-pretty pleasant to be young, isn't it?"  She laughed absently, then
-appeared to become wistful.  "I wonder if we really do enjoy it as
-much as we'll look back and think we did!  I don't suppose so.
-Anyhow, for my part I feel as if I must be missing something about it,
-somehow, because I don't ever seem to be thinking about what's
-happening at the present moment; I'm always looking forward to
-something--thinking about things that will happen when I'm older."
-
-"You're a funny girl," George said gently.  "But your voice sounds
-pretty nice when you think and talk along together like that!"
-
-The horse shook himself all over, and the impatient sleighbells made
-his wish audible.  Accordingly, George tightened the reins, and the
-cutter was off again at a three-minute trot, no despicable rate of
-speed.  It was not long before they were again passing Lucy's
-Beautiful House, and here George thought fit to put an appendix to his
-remark.  "You're a funny girl, and you know a lot--but I don't believe
-you know much about architecture!"
-
-Coming toward them, black against the snowy road, was a strange
-silhouette.  It approached moderately and without visible means of
-progression, so the matter seemed from a distance; but as the cutter
-shortened the distance, the silhouette was revealed to be Mr. Morgan's
-horseless carriage, conveying four people atop: Mr. Morgan with
-George's mother beside him, and, in the rear seat, Miss Fanny Minafer
-and the Honorable George Amberson.  All four seemed to be in the
-liveliest humour, like high-spirited people upon a new adventure; and
-Isabel waved her handkerchief dashingly as the cutter flashed by them.
-
-"For the Lord's sake!"  George gasped.
-
-"Your mother's a dear," said Lucy.  "And she does wear the most
-bewitching things!  She looked like a Russian princess, though I doubt
-if they're that handsome."
-
-George said nothing; he drove on till they had crossed Amberson
-Addition and reached the stone pillars at the head of National Avenue.
-There he turned.
-
-"Let's go back and take another look at that old sewing-machine," he
-said.  "It certainly is the weirdest, craziest--"
-
-He left the sentence unfinished, and presently they were again in
-sight of the old sewing-machine.  George shouted mockingly.
-
-Alas! three figures stood in the road, and a pair of legs, with the
-toes turned up, indicated that a fourth figure lay upon its back in
-the snow, beneath a horseless carriage that had decided to need a
-horse.
-
-George became vociferous with laughter, and coming up at his trotter's
-best gait, snow spraying from runners and every hoof, swerved to the
-side of the road and shot by, shouting, "Git a hoss! Git a hoss! Git a
-hoss!"
-
-Three hundred yards away he turned and came back, racing; leaning out
-as he passed, to wave jeeringly at the group about the disabled
-machine: "Git a hoss! Git a hoss! Git a--"
-
-The trotter had broken into a gallop, and Lucy cried a warning: "Be
-careful!" she said.  "Look where you're driving!  There's a ditch on
-that side.  Look--"
-
-George turned too late; the cutter's right runner went into the ditch
-and snapped off; the little sleigh upset, and, after dragging its
-occupants some fifteen yards, left them lying together in a bank of
-snow.  Then the vigorous young horse kicked himself free of all
-annoyances, and disappeared down the road, galloping cheerfully.
-
-
-
-
-Chapter VIII
-
-
-
-When George regained some measure of his presence of mind, Miss Lucy
-Morgan's cheek, snowy and cold, was pressing his nose slightly to one
-side; his right arm was firmly about her neck; and a monstrous amount
-of her fur boa seemed to mingle with an equally unplausible quantity
-of snow in his mouth.  He was confused, but conscious of no objection
-to any of these juxtapositions.  She was apparently uninjured, for she
-sat up, hatless, her hair down, and said mildly:
-
-"Good heavens!"
-
-Though her father had been under his machine when they passed, he was
-the first to reach them.  He threw himself on his knees beside his
-daughter, but found her already laughing, and was reassured.  "They're
-all right," he called to Isabel, who was running toward them, ahead of
-her brother and Fanny Minafer.  "This snowbank's a feather bed--
-nothing the matter with them at all.  Don't look so pale!"
-
-"Georgie!" she gasped.  "Georgie!"
-
-Georgie was on his feet, snow all over him.
-
-"Don't make a fuss, mother!  Nothing's the matter.  That darned silly
-horse--"
-
-Sudden tears stood in Isabel's eyes.  "To see you down underneath--
-dragging--oh--"  Then with shaking hands she began to brush the snow
-from him.
-
-"Let me alone," he protested.  "You'll ruin your gloves.  You're
-getting snow all over you, and--"
-
-"No, no!" she cried.  "You'll catch cold; you mustn't catch cold!"
-And she continued to brush him.
-
-Amberson had brought Lucy's hat; Miss Fanny acted as lady's-maid; and
-both victims of the accident were presently restored to about their
-usual appearance and condition of apparel.  In fact, encouraged by the
-two older gentlemen, the entire party, with one exception, decided
-that the episode was after all a merry one, and began to laugh about
-it.  But George was glummer than the December twilight now swiftly
-closing in.
-
-"That darned horse!" he said.
-
-"I wouldn't bother about Pendennis, Georgie," said his uncle.  "You
-can send a man out for what's left of the cutter tomorrow, and
-Pendennis will gallop straight home to his stable: he'll be there a
-long while before we will, because all we've got to depend on to get
-us home is Gene Morgan's broken-down chafing-dish yonder."
-
-They were approaching the machine as he spoke, and his friend, again
-underneath it, heard him.  He emerged, smiling.  "She'll go," he said.
-
-"What!"
-
-"All aboard!"
-
-He offered his hand to Isabel.  She was smiling but still pale, and
-her eyes, in spite of the smile, kept upon George in a shocked
-anxiety.  Miss Fanny had already mounted to the rear seat, and George,
-after helping Lucy Morgan to climb up beside his aunt, was following.
-Isabel saw that his shoes were light things of patent leather, and
-that snow was clinging to them.  She made a little rush toward him,
-and, as one of his feet rested on the iron step of the machine, in
-mounting, she began to clean the snow from his shoe with her almost
-aerial lace handkerchief.  "You mustn't catch cold!" she cried.
-
-"Stop that!"  George shouted, and furiously withdrew his foot.
-
-"Then stamp the snow off," she begged.  "You mustn't ride with wet
-feet."
-
-"They're not!" George roared, thoroughly outraged.  "For heaven's
-sake get in!  You're standing in the snow yourself.  Get in!"
-
-Isabel consented, turning to Morgan, whose habitual expression of
-apprehensiveness was somewhat accentuated.  He climbed up after her,
-George Amberson having gone to the other side.  "You're the same
-Isabel I used to know!" he said in a low voice.  "You're a divinely
-ridiculous woman."
-
-"Am I, Eugene?" she said, not displeased.  "'Divinely' and 'ridiculous'
-just counterbalance each other, don't they?  Plus one and minus one
-equal nothing; so you mean I'm nothing in particular?"
-
-"No," he answered, tugging at a lever.  "That doesn't seem to be
-precisely what I meant.  There!"  This exclamation referred to the
-subterranean machinery, for dismaying sounds came from beneath the
-floor, and the vehicle plunged, then rolled noisily forward.
-
-"Behold!"  George Amberson exclaimed.  "She does move!  It must be
-another accident."
-
-"Accident?" Morgan shouted over the din.  "No!  She breathes, she
-stirs; she seems to feel a thrill of life along her keel!"  And he
-began to sing "The Star Spangled Banner."
-
-Amberson joined him lustily, and sang on when Morgan stopped.  The
-twilight sky cleared, discovering a round moon already risen; and the
-musical congressman hailed this bright presence with the complete text
-and melody of "The Danube River."
-
-His nephew, behind, was gloomy.  He had overheard his mother's
-conversation with the inventor: it seemed curious to him that this
-Morgan, of whom he had never heard until last night, should be using
-the name "Isabel" so easily; and George felt that it was not just the
-thing for his mother to call Morgan "Eugene;" the resentment of the
-previous night came upon George again.  Meanwhile, his mother and
-Morgan continued their talk; but he could no longer hear what they
-said; the noise of the car and his uncle's songful mood prevented.  He
-marked how animated Isabel seemed; it was not strange to see his
-mother so gay, but it was strange that a man not of the family should
-be the cause of her gaiety.  And George sat frowning.
-
-Fanny Minafer had begun to talk to Lucy.  "Your father wanted to prove
-that his horseless carriage would run, even in the snow," she said.
-"It really does, too."
-
-"Of course!"
-
-"It's so interesting!  He's been telling us how he's going to change
-it.  He says he's going to have wheels all made of rubber and blown up
-with air.  I don't understand what he means at all; I should think
-they'd explode--but Eugene seems to be very confident.  He always was
-confident, though.  It seems so like old times to hear him talk!"
-
-She became thoughtful, and Lucy turned to George.  "You tried to swing
-underneath me and break the fall for me when we went over," she said.
-"I knew you were doing that, and--it was nice of you."
-
-"Wasn't any fall to speak of," he returned brusquely.  "Couldn't have
-hurt either of us."
-
-"Still it was friendly of you--and awfully quick, too.  I'll not--I'll
-not forget it!"
-
-Her voice had a sound of genuineness, very pleasant; and George began
-to forget his annoyance with her father.  This annoyance of his had
-not been alleviated by the circumstance that neither of the seats of
-the old sewing-machine was designed for three people, but when his
-neighbour spoke thus gratefully, he no longer minded the crowding--in
-fact, it pleased him so much that he began to wish the old sewing-
-machine would go even slower.  And she had spoken no word of blame for
-his letting that darned horse get the cutter into the ditch.  George
-presently addressed her hurriedly, almost tremulously, speaking close
-to her ear:
-
-"I forgot to tell you something: you're pretty nice!  I thought so the
-first second I saw you last night.  I'll come for you tonight and take
-you to the Assembly at the Amberson Hotel.  You're going, aren't you?"
-
-"Yes, but I'm going with papa and the Sharons I'll see you there."
-
-"Looks to me as if you were awfully conventional," George grumbled;
-and his disappointment was deeper than he was willing to let her see--
-though she probably did see.  "Well, we'll dance the cotillion
-together, anyhow."
-
-"I'm afraid not. I promised Mr. Kinney."
-
-"What!"  George's tone was shocked, as at incredible news.  "Well, you
-could break that engagement, I guess, if you wanted to!  Girls always
-can get out of things when they want to.  Won't you?"
-
-"I don't think so."
-
-"Why not?"
-
-"Because I promised him.  Several days ago."
-
-George gulped, and lowered his pride, "I don't--oh, look here!  I only
-want to go to that thing tonight to get to see something of you; and
-if you don't dance the cotillion with me, how can I?  I'll only be
-here two weeks, and the others have got all the rest of your visit to
-see you.  Won't you do it, please?"
-
-"I couldn't."
-
-"See here!" said the stricken George.  "If you're going to decline to
-dance that cotillion with me simply because you've promised a--a--a
-miserable red-headed outsider like Fred Kinney, why we might as well
-quit!"
-
-"Quit what?"
-
-"You know perfectly well what I mean," he said huskily.
-
-"I don't."
-
-"Well, you ought to!"
-
-"But I don't at all!"
-
-George, thoroughly hurt, and not a little embittered, expressed
-himself in a short outburst of laughter: "Well, I ought to have seen
-it!"
-
-"Seen what?"
-
-"That you might turn out to be a girl who'd like a fellow of the red-
-headed Kinney sort.  I ought to have seen it from the first!"
-
-Lucy bore her disgrace lightly.  "Oh, dancing a cotillion with a
-person doesn't mean that you like him--but I don't see anything in
-particular the matter with Mr. Kinney.  What is?"
-
-"If you don't see anything the matter with him for yourself," George
-responded, icily, "I don't think pointing it out would help you.  You
-probably wouldn't understand."
-
-"You might try," she suggested.  "Of course I'm a stranger here, and
-if people have done anything wrong or have something unpleasant about
-them, I wouldn't have any way of knowing it, just at first.  If poor
-Mr. Kinney--"
-
-"I prefer not to discuss it," said George curtly.  "He's an enemy of
-mine."
-
-"Why?"
-
-"I prefer not to discuss it."
-
-"Well, but--"
-
-"I prefer not to discuss it!"
-
-"Very well."  She began to hum the air of the song which Mr. George
-Amberson was now discoursing, "O moon of my delight that knows no
-wane"--and there was no further conversation on the back seat.
-
-They had entered Amberson Addition, and the moon of Mr. Amberson's
-delight was overlaid by a slender Gothic filagree; the branches that
-sprang from the shade trees lining the street.  Through the windows of
-many of the houses rosy lights were flickering; and silver tinsel and
-evergreen wreaths and brilliant little glass globes of silver and wine
-colour could be seen, and glimpses were caught of Christmas trees,
-with people decking them by firelight--reminders that this was
-Christmas Eve.  The ride-stealers had disappeared from the highway,
-though now and then, over the gasping and howling of the horseless
-carriage, there came a shrill jeer from some young passer-by upon the
-sidewalk:
-
-"Mister, fer heaven's sake go an' git a hoss!  Git a hoss!  Git a
-hoss!"
-
-The contrivance stopped with a heart-shaking jerk before Isabel's
-house.  The gentlemen jumped down, helping Isabel and Fanny to
-descend; there were friendly leavetakings--and one that was not
-precisely friendly.
-
-"It's 'au revoir,' till to-night, isn't it?"  Lucy asked, laughing.
-
-"Good afternoon!" said George, and he did not wait, as his relatives
-did, to see the old sewing machine start briskly down the street,
-toward the Sharons'; its lighter load consisting now of only Mr.
-Morgan and his daughter.  George went into the house at once.
-
-He found his father reading the evening paper in the library.  "Where
-are your mother and your Aunt Fanny?"  Mr. Minafer inquired, not
-looking up.
-
-"They're coming," said his son; and, casting himself heavily into a
-chair, stared at the fire.
-
-His prediction was verified a few moments later; the two ladies came
-in cheerfully, unfastening their fur cloaks.  "It's all right,
-Georgie," said Isabel.  "Your Uncle George called to us that Pendennis
-got home safely.  Put your shoes close to the fire, dear, or else go
-and change them."  She went to her husband and patted him lightly on
-the shoulder, an action which George watched with sombre moodiness.
-"You might dress before long," she suggested.  "We're all going to the
-Assembly, after dinner, aren't we?  Brother George said he'd go with
-us."
-
-"Look here," said George abruptly.  "How about this man Morgan and his
-old sewing-machine?  Doesn't he want to get grandfather to put money
-into it?  Isn't he trying to work Uncle George for that?  Isn't that
-what he's up to?"
-
-It was Miss Fanny who responded.  "You little silly!" she cried, with
-surprising sharpness.  "What on earth are you talking about?  Eugene
-Morgan's perfectly able to finance his own inventions these days."
-
-"I'll bet he borrows money of Uncle George," the nephew insisted.
-
-Isabel looked at him in grave perplexity.  "Why do you say such a
-thing, George?" she asked.
-
-"He strikes me as that sort of man," he answered doggedly.  "Isn't he,
-father?"
-
-Minafer set down his paper for the moment.  "He was a fairly wild
-young fellow twenty years ago," he said, glancing at his wife
-absently.  "He was like you in one thing, Georgie; he spent too much
-money--only he didn't have any mother to get money out of a
-grandfather for him, so he was usually in debt.  But I believe I've
-heard he's done fairly well of late years.  No, I can't say I think
-he's a swindler, and I doubt if he needs anybody else's money to back
-his horseless carriage."
-
-"Well, what's he brought the old thing here for, then?  People that
-own elephants don't take them elephants around with 'em when they go
-visiting.  What's he got it here for?"
-
-"I'm sure I don't know," said Mr. Minafer, resuming his paper.  "You
-might ask him."
-
-Isabel laughed, and patted her husband's shoulder again.  "Aren't you
-going to dress?  Aren't we all going to the dance?"
-
-He groaned faintly.  "Aren't your brother and Georgie escorts enough
-for you and Fanny?"
-
-"Wouldn't you enjoy it at all?"
-
-"You know I don't."
-
-Isabel let her hand remain upon his shoulder a moment longer; she
-stood behind him, looking into the fire, and George, watching her
-broodingly, thought there was more colour in her face than the
-reflection of the flames accounted for.  "Well, then," she said
-indulgently, "stay at home and be happy.  We won't urge you if you'd
-really rather not."
-
-"I really wouldn't," he said contentedly.
-
-Half an hour later, George was passing through the upper hall, in a
-bath-robe stage of preparation for the evening's' gaieties, when he
-encountered his Aunt Fanny.  He stopped her.  "Look here!" he said.
-
-"What in the world is the matter with you?" she demanded, regarding
-him with little amiability.  "You look as if you were rehearsing for a
-villain in a play.  Do change your expression!"
-
-His expression gave no sign of yielding to the request; on the
-contrary, its somberness deepened.  "I suppose you don't know why
-father doesn't want to go tonight," he said solemnly.  "You're his
-only sister, and yet you don't know!"
-
-"He never wants to go anywhere that I ever heard of," said Fanny.
-"What is the matter with you?"
-
-"He doesn't want to go because he doesn't like this man Morgan."
-
-"Good gracious!" Fanny cried impatiently.  "Eugene Morgan isn't in
-your father's thoughts at all, one way or the other.  Why should he
-be?"
-
-George hesitated. "Well--it strikes me--Look here, what makes you and
---and everybody--so excited over him?"
-
-"Excited!" she jeered.  "Can't people be glad to see an old friend
-without silly children like you having to make a to-do about it?  I've
-just been in your mother's room suggesting that she might give a
-little dinner for them--"
-
-"For who?"
-
-"For whom, Georgie!  For Mr. Morgan and his daughter."
-
-"Look here!" George said quickly.  "Don't do that!  Mother mustn't do
-that.  It wouldn't look well."
-
-"Wouldn't look well!"  Fanny mocked him; and her suppressed vehemence
-betrayed a surprising acerbity.  "See here, Georgie Minafer, I suggest
-that you just march straight on into your room and finish your
-dressing!  Sometimes you say things that show you have a pretty mean
-little mind!"
-
-George was so astounded by this outburst that his indignation was
-delayed by his curiosity.  "Why, what upsets you this way?" he
-inquired.
-
-"I know what you mean," she said, her voice still lowered, but not
-decreasing in sharpness.  "You're trying to insinuate that I'd get
-your mother to invite Eugene Morgan here on my account because he's a
-widower!"
-
-"I am?"  George gasped, nonplussed.  "I'm trying to insinuate that
-you're setting your cap at him and getting mother to help you?  Is
-that what you mean?"
-
-Beyond a doubt that was what Miss Fanny meant.  She gave him a white-
-hot look.  "You attend to your own affairs!" she whispered fiercely,
-and swept away.
-
-George, dumfounded, returned to his room for meditation.
-
-He had lived for years in the same house with his Aunt Fanny, and it
-now appeared that during all those years he had been thus intimately
-associating with a total stranger.  Never before had he met the
-passionate lady with whom he had just held a conversation in the hall.
-So she wanted to get married!  And wanted George's mother to help her
-with this horseless-carriage widower!
-
-"Well, I will be shot!" he muttered aloud.  "I will--I certainly will
-be shot!"  And he began' to laugh. "Lord 'lmighty!"
-
-But presently, at the thought of the horseless-carriage widower's
-daughter, his grimness returned, and he resolved upon a line of
-conduct for the evening.  He would nod to her carelessly when he
-first saw her; and, after that, he would notice her no more: he would
-not dance with her; he would not favour her in the cotillion--he would
-not go near her!
-
-He descended to dinner upon the third urgent summons of a coloured
-butler, having spent two hours dressing--and rehearsing.
-
-
-
-
-Chapter IX
-
-
-The Honourable George Amberson was a congressman who led cotillions--
-the sort of congressman an Amberson would be.  He did it negligently,
-tonight, yet with infallible dexterity, now and then glancing
-humorously at the spectators, people of his own age.  They were seated
-in a tropical grove at one end of the room whither they had retired at
-the beginning of the cotillion, which they surrendered entirely to the
-twenties and the late 'teens.  And here, grouped with that stately
-pair, Sydney and Amelia Amberson, sat Isabel with Fanny, while Eugene
-Morgan appeared to bestow an amiable devotion impartially upon the
-three sisters-in-law.  Fanny watched his face eagerly, laughing at
-everything he said; Amelia smiled blandly, but rather because of
-graciousness than because of interest; while Isabel, looking out at
-the dancers, rhythmically moved a great fan of blue ostrich feathers,
-listened to Eugene thoughtfully, yet all the while kept her shining
-eyes on Georgie.
-
-Georgie had carried out his rehearsed projects with precision, he had
-given Miss Morgan a nod studied into perfection during his lengthy
-toilet before dinner.  "Oh, yes, I do seem to remember that curious
-little outsider!" this nod seemed to say.  Thereafter, all cognizance
-of her evaporated: the curious little outsider was permitted no
-further existence worth the struggle.  Nevertheless, she flashed in
-the corner of his eye too often.  He was aware of her dancing
-demurely, and of her viciously flirtatious habit of never looking up
-at her partner, but keeping her eyes concealed beneath downcast
-lashes; and he had over-sufficient consciousness of her between the
-dances, though it was not possible to see her at these times, even if
-he had cared to look frankly in her direction--she was invisible in a
-thicket of young dresscoats.  The black thicket moved as she moved and
-her location was hatefully apparent, even if he had not heard her
-voice laughing from the thicket.  It was annoying how her voice,
-though never loud, pursued him.  No matter how vociferous were other
-voices, all about, he seemed unable to prevent himself from constantly
-recognizing hers.  It had a quaver in it, not pathetic--rather
-humorous than pathetic--a quality which annoyed him to the point of
-rage, because it was so difficult to get away from.  She seemed to be
-having a "wonderful time!"
-
-An unbearable soreness accumulated in his chest: his dislike of the
-girl and her conduct increased until he thought of leaving this
-sickening Assembly and going home to bed.  That would show her!  But
-just then he heard her laughing, and decided that it wouldn't show
-her.  So he remained.
-
-When the young couples seated themselves in chairs against the walls,
-round three sides of the room, for the cotillion, George joined a
-brazen-faced group clustering about the doorway--youths with no
-partners, yet eligible to be "called out" and favoured.  He marked
-that his uncle placed the infernal Kinney and Miss Morgan, as the
-leading couple, in the first chairs at the head of the line upon the
-leader's right; and this disloyalty on the part of Uncle George was
-inexcusable, for in the family circle the nephew had often expressed
-his opinion of Fred Kinney.  In his bitterness, George uttered a
-significant monosyllable.
-
-The music flourished; whereupon Mr. Kinney, Miss Morgan, and six of
-their neighbours rose and waltzed knowingly.  Mr. Amberson's whistle
-blew;' then the eight young people went to the favour-table and were
-given toys and trinkets wherewith to delight the new partners it was
-now their privilege to select.  Around the walls, the seated non-
-participants in this ceremony looked rather conscious; some chattered,
-endeavouring not to appear expectant; some tried not to look wistful;
-and others were frankly solemn.  It was a trying moment; and whoever
-secured a favour, this very first shot, might consider the portents
-happy for a successful evening.
-
-Holding their twinkling gewgaws in their hands, those about to bestow
-honour came toward the seated lines, where expressions became
-feverish.  Two of the approaching girls seemed to wander, not finding
-a predetermined object in sight; and these two were Janie Sharon, and
-her cousin, Lucy.  At this, George Amberson Minafer, conceiving that
-he had little to anticipate from either, turned a proud back upon the
-room and affected to converse with his friend, Mr. Charlie Johnson.
-
-The next moment a quick little figure intervened between the two.  It
-was Lucy, gaily offering a silver sleighbell decked with white ribbon.
-
-"I almost couldn't find you!" she cried.
-
-George stared, took her hand, led her forth in silence, danced with
-her.  She seemed content not to talk; but as the whistle blew,
-signalling that this episode was concluded, and he conducted her to
-her seat, she lifted the little bell toward him.  "You haven't taken
-your favour.  You're supposed to pin it on your coat," she said.
-"Don't you want it?"
-
-"If you insist!" said George stiffly.  And he bowed her into her
-chair; then turned and walked away, dropping the sleighbell haughtily
-into his trousers' pocket.
-
-The figure proceeded to its conclusion, and George was given other
-sleighbells, which he easily consented to wear upon his lapel; but, as
-the next figure 'began, he strolled with a bored air to the tropical
-grove, where sat his elders, and seated himself beside his Uncle
-Sydney.  His mother leaned across Miss Fanny, raising her voice over
-the music to speak to him.
-
-"Georgie, nobody will be able to see you here.  You'll not be
-favoured.  You ought to be where you can dance."
-
-"Don't care to," he returned.  "Bore!"
-
-"But you ought--"  She stopped and laughed, waving her fan to direct
-his attention behind him.  "Look!  Over your shoulder!"
-
-He turned, and discovered Miss Lucy Morgan in the act of offering him
-a purple toy balloon.
-
-"I found you!" she laughed.
-
-George was startled. "Well--" he said.
-
-"Would you rather 'sit it out?'"  Lucy asked quickly, as he did not
-move.  "I don't care to dance if you--"
-
-"No," he said, rising.  "It would be better to dance."  His tone was
-solemn, and solemnly he departed with her from the grove.  Solemnly he
-danced with her.
-
-Four times, with not the slightest encouragement, she brought him a
-favour: 'four times in succession.  When the fourth came, "Look here!"
-said George huskily.  "You going to keep this up all' night?  What do
-you mean by it?"
-
-For an instant she seemed confused.  "That's what cotillions are for,
-aren't they?" she murmured.
-
-"What do you mean: what they're for?"
-
-"So that a girl can dance with a person she wants to?"
-
-George's huskiness increased.  "Well, do you mean you--you want to
-dance with me all the time--all evening?"
-
-"Well, this much of it--evidently!" she laughed.
-
-"Is it because you thought I tried to keep you from getting hurt this
-afternoon when we upset?"
-
-She shook her head.
-
-"Was it because you want to even things up for making me angry--I
-mean, for hurting my feelings on the way home?"
-
-With her eyes averted--for girls of nineteen can be as shy as boys,
-sometimes--she said, "Well--you only got angry because I couldn't
-dance the cotillion with you.  I--I didn't feel terribly hurt with you
-for getting angry about that!"
-
-"Was there any other reason?  Did my telling you I liked you have
-anything to do with it?"
-
-She looked up gently, and, as George met her eyes, something
-exquisitely touching, yet queerly delightful, gave him a catch in the
-throat.  She looked instantly away, and, turning, ran out from the
-palm grove, where they stood, to the dancing-floor.
-
-"Come on!" she cried.  "Let's dance!"
-
-He followed her.
-
-"See here--I--I--" he stammered.  "You mean--Do you--"
-
-"No, no!" she laughed.  "Let's dance!"
-
-He put his arm about her almost tremulously, and they began to waltz.
-It was a happy dance for both of them.
-
-Christmas day is the children's, but the holidays are youth's dancing-
-time.  The holidays belong to the early twenties and the 'teens, home
-from school and college.  These years possess the holidays for a
-little while, then possess them only in smiling, wistful memories of
-holly and twinkling lights and dance-music, and charming faces all
-aglow.  It is the liveliest time in life, the happiest of the
-irresponsible times in life.  Mothers echo its happiness--nothing is
-like a mother who has a son home from college, except another mother
-with a son home from college.  Bloom does actually come upon these
-mothers; it is a visible thing; and they run like girls, walk like
-athletes, laugh like sycophants.  Yet they give up their sons to the
-daughters of other mothers, and find it proud rapture enough to be
-allowed to sit and watch.
-
-Thus Isabel watched George and Lucy dancing, as together they danced
-away the holidays of that year into the past.
-
-"They seem to get along better than they did at first, those two
-children," Fanny Minafer said sitting beside her at the Sharons'
-dance, a week after the Assembly.  "They seemed to be always having
-little quarrels of some sort, at first.  At least George did: he
-seemed to be continually pecking at that lovely, dainty, little Lucy,
-and being cross with her over nothing."
-
-"Pecking?" Isabel laughed.  "What a word to use about Georgie!  I
-think I never knew a more angelically amiable disposition in my life!"
-
-Miss Fanny echoed her sister-in-law's laugh, but it was a rueful echo,
-and not sweet.  "He's amiable to you!" she said.  "That's all the side
-of him you ever happen to see.  And why wouldn't he be amiable to
-anybody that simply fell down and worshipped him every minute of her
-life?  Most of us would!"
-
-"Isn't he worth worshipping?  Just look at him!  Isn't he charming
-with Lucy!  See how hard he ran to get it when she dropped her
-handkerchief back there."
-
-"Oh, I'm not going to argue with you about George!" said Miss Fanny.
-"I'm fond enough of him, for that matter.  He can be charming, and
-he's certainly stunning looking, if only--"
-
-"Let the 'if only' go, dear," Isabel suggested good-naturedly.  "Let's
-talk about that dinner you thought I should--"
-
-"I?"  Miss Fanny interrupted quickly.  "Didn't you want to give it
-yourself?"
-
-"Indeed, I did, my dear!" said Isabel heartily.  "I only meant that
-unless you had proposed it, perhaps I wouldn't--"
-
-But here Eugene came for her to dance, and she left the sentence
-uncompleted.  Holiday dances can be happy for youth renewed as well as
-for youth in bud--and yet it was not with the air of a rival that Miss
-Fanny watched her brother's wife dancing with the widower.  Miss
-Fanny's eyes narrowed a little, but only as if her mind engaged in a
-hopeful calculation.  She looked pleased.
-
-
-
-
-Chapter X
-
-
-
-A few days after George's return to the university it became evident
-that not quite everybody had gazed with complete benevolence upon the
-various young collegians at their holiday sports.  The Sunday edition
-of the principal morning paper even expressed some bitterness under
-the heading, "Gilded Youths of the Fin-de-Siecle"--this was considered
-the knowing phrase of the time, especially for Sunday supplements--and
-there is no doubt that from certain references in this bit of writing
-some people drew the conclusion that Mr. George Amberson Minafer had
-not yet got his comeuppance, a postponement still irritating.
-Undeniably, Fanny Minafer was one of the people who drew this
-conclusion, for she cut the article out and enclosed it in a letter to
-her nephew, having written on the border of the clipping, "I wonder
-whom it can mean!"
-
-George read part of it.
-
-We debate sometimes what is to be the future of this nation when we
-think that in a few years public affairs may be in the hands of the
-fin-de-siecle gilded youths we see about us during the Christmas
-holidays.  Such foppery, such luxury, such insolence, was surely never
-practised by the scented, overbearing patricians of the Palatine, even
-in Rome's most decadent epoch.  In all the wild orgy of wastefulness
-and luxury with which the nineteenth century reaches its close, the
-gilded youth has been surely the worst symptom.  With his airs of
-young milord, his fast horses, his gold and silver cigarette-cases,
-his clothes from a New York tailor, his recklessness of money showered
-upon him by indulgent mothers or doting grandfathers, he respects
-nothing and nobody.  He is blase if you please.  Watch him at a social
-function how condescendingly he deigns to select a partner for the
-popular waltz or two step how carelessly he shoulders older people out
-of his way, with what a blank stare he returns the salutation of some
-old acquaintance whom he may choose in his royal whim to forget!  The
-unpleasant part of all this is that the young women he so
-condescendingly selects as partners for the dance greet him with
-seeming rapture, though in their hearts they must feel humiliated by
-his languid hauteur, and many older people beam upon him almost
-fawningly if he unbends so far as to throw them a careless, disdainful
-word!
-
-One wonders what has come over the new generation.  Of such as these
-the Republic was not made.  Let us pray that the future of our country
-is not in the hands of these fin-de-siecle gilded youths, but rather
-in the calloused palms of young men yet unknown, labouring upon the
-farms of the land.  When we compare the young manhood of Abraham
-Lincoln with the specimens we are now producing, we see too well that
-it bodes ill for the twentieth century--
-
-George yawned, and tossed the clipping into his waste-basket,
-wondering why his aunt thought such dull nonsense worth the sending.
-As for her insinuation, pencilled upon the border, he supposed she
-meant to joke--a supposition which neither surprised him nor altered
-his lifelong opinion of her wit.
-
-He read her letter with more interest:
-
-The dinner your mother gave for the Morgans was a lovely affair.  It
-was last Monday evening, just ten days after you left.  It was
-peculiarly appropriate that your mother should give this dinner,
-because her brother George, your uncle, was Mr. Morgan's most intimate
-friend before he left here a number of years ago, and it was a
-pleasant occasion for the formal announcement of some news which you
-heard from Lucy Morgan before you returned to college.  At least she
-told me she had told you the night before you left that her father had
-decided to return here to live.  It was appropriate that your mother,
-herself an old friend, should assemble a representative selection of
-Mr. Morgan's old friends around him at such a time.  He was in great
-spirits and most entertaining.  As your time was so charmingly taken
-up during your visit home with a younger member of his family, you
-probably overlooked opportunities of hearing him talk, and do not know
-what an interesting man he can be.
-
-He will soon begin to build his factory here for the manufacture of
-automobiles, which he says is a term he prefers to "horseless
-carriages."  Your Uncle George told me he would like to invest in this
-factory, as George thinks there is a future for automobiles; perhaps
-not for general use, but as an interesting novelty, which people with
-sufficient means would like to own for their amusement and the sake of
-variety.  However, he said Mr. Morgan laughingly declined his offer,
-as Mr. M. was fully able to finance this venture, though not starting
-in a very large way.  Your uncle said other people are manufacturing
-automobiles in different parts of the country with success.  Your
-father is not very well, though he is not actually ill, and the doctor
-tells him he ought not to be so much at his office, as the long years
-of application indoors with no exercise are beginning to affect him
-unfavourably, but I believe your father would die if he had to give up
-his work, which is all that has ever interested him outside of his
-family.  I never could understand it.  Mr. Morgan took your mother and
-me with Lucy to see Modjeska in "Twelfth Night" yesterday evening, and
-Lucy said she thought the Duke looked rather like you, only much more
-democratic in his manner.  I suppose you will think I have written a
-great deal about the Morgans in this letter, but thought you would be
-interested because of your interest in a younger member of his family.
-Hoping that you are finding college still as attractive as ever,
-             Affectionately,
-                        Aunt Fanny.
-
-George read one sentence in this letter several times.  Then he
-dropped the missive in his wastebasket to join the clipping, and
-strolled down the corridor of his dormitory to borrow a copy of
-"Twelfth Night."  Having secured one, he returned to his study and
-refreshed his memory of the play--but received no enlightenment that
-enabled him to comprehend Lucy's strange remark.  However, he found
-himself impelled in the direction of correspondence, and presently
-wrote a letter--not a reply to his Aunt Fanny.
-
-Dear Lucy:
-No doubt you will be surprised at hearing from me so soon again,
-especially as this makes two in answer to the one received from you
-since getting back to the old place.  I hear you have been making
-comments about me at the theatre, that some actor was more democratic
-in his manners than I am, which I do not understand.  You know my
-theory of life because I explained it to you on our first drive
-together, when I told you I would not talk to everybody about things I
-feel like the way I spoke to you of my theory of life.  I believe
-those who are able should have a true theory of life, and I developed
-my theory of life long, long ago.
-
-Well, here I sit smoking my faithful briar pipe, indulging in the
-fragrance of my tobacco as I look out on the campus from my many-paned
-window, and things are different with me from the way they were way
-back in Freshman year.  I can see now how boyish in many ways I was
-then.  I believe what has changed me as much as anything was my visit
-home at the time I met you.  So I sit here with my faithful briar and
-dream the old dreams over as it were, dreaming of the waltzes we
-waltzed together and of that last night before we parted, and you told
-me the good news you were going to live there, and I would find my
-friend waiting for me, when I get home next summer.
-
-I will be glad my friend will be waiting for me.  I am not capable of
-friendship except for the very few, and, looking back over my life, I
-remember there were times when I doubted if I could feel a great
-friendship for anybody--especially girls.  I do not take a great
-interest in many people, as you know, for I find most of them shallow.
-Here in the old place I do not believe in being hail-fellow-well-met
-with every Tom, Dick, and Harry just because he happens to be a
-classmate, any more than I do at home, where I have always been
-careful who I was seen with, largely on account of the family, but
-also because my disposition ever since my boyhood has been to
-encourage real intimacy from but the few.
-
-What are you reading now?  I have finished both "Henry Esmond" and
-"The Virginians."  I like Thackeray because he is not trashy, and
-because he writes principally of nice people.  My theory of literature
-is an author who does not indulge in trashiness--writes about people
-you could introduce into your own home.  I agree with my Uncle Sydney,
-as I once heard him say he did not care to read a book or go to a play
-about people he would not care to meet at his own dinner table.  I
-believe we should live by certain standards and ideals, as you know
-from my telling you my theory of life.
-
-Well, a letter is no place for deep discussions, so I will not go into
-the subject.  From several letters from my mother, and one from Aunt
-Fanny, I hear you are seeing a good deal of the family since I left.
-I hope sometimes you think of the member who is absent.  I got a
-silver frame for your photograph in New York, and I keep it on my
-desk.  It is the only girl's photograph I ever took the trouble to
-have framed, though, as I told you frankly, I have had any number of
-other girls' photographs, yet all were only passing fancies, and
-oftentimes I have questioned in years past if I was capable of much
-friendship toward the feminine sex, which I usually found shallow
-until our own friendship began.  When I look at your photograph, I say
-to myself, "At last, at last here is one that will not prove shallow."
-
-My faithful briar has gone out. I will have to rise and fill it, then
-once more in the fragrance of My Lady Nicotine, I will sit and dream
-the old dreams over, and think, too, of the true friend at home
-awaiting my return in June for the summer vacation.
-             Friend, this is from your friend,
-                                            G.A.M.
-
-
-George's anticipations were not disappointed.  When he came home in
-June his friend was awaiting him; at least, she was so pleased to see
-him again that for a few minutes after their first encounter she was a
-little breathless, and a great deal glowing, and quiet withal.  Their
-sentimental friendship continued, though sometimes he was irritated by
-her making it less sentimental than he did, and sometimes by what he
-called her "air of superiority."  Her air was usually, in truth, that
-of a fond but amused older sister; and George did not believe such an
-attitude was warranted by her eight months of seniority.
-
-Lucy and her father were living at the Amberson Hotel, while Morgan
-got his small machine-shops built in a western outskirt of the town;
-and George grumbled about the shabbiness and the old-fashioned look of
-the hotel, though it was "still the best in the place, of course."  He
-remonstrated with his grandfather, declaring that the whole Amberson
-Estate would be getting "run-down and out-at-heel, if things weren't
-taken in hand pretty soon."  He urged the general need of rebuilding,
-renovating, varnishing, and lawsuits.  But the Major, declining to
-hear him out, interrupted querulously, saying that he had enough to
-bother him without any advice from George; and retired to his library,
-going so far as to lock the door audibly.
-
-"Second childhood!"  George muttered, shaking his head; and he thought
-sadly that the Major had not long to live.  However, this surmise
-depressed him for only a moment or so.  Of course, people couldn't be
-expected to live forever, and it would be a good thing to have someone
-in charge of the Estate who wouldn't let it get to looking so rusty
-that riffraff dared to make fun of it.  For George had lately
-undergone the annoyance of calling upon the Morgans, in the rather
-stuffy red velours and gilt parlour of their apartment at the hotel,
-one evening when Mr. Frederick Kinney also was a caller, and Mr.
-Kinney had not been tactful.  In fact, though he adopted a humorous
-tone of voice, in expressing his, sympathy for people who, through the
-city's poverty in hotels, were obliged to stay at the Amberson, Mr.
-Kinney's intention was interpreted by the other visitor as not at all
-humorous, but, on the contrary, personal and offensive.
-
-George rose abruptly, his face the colour of wrath.  "Good-night, Miss
-Morgan. Good-night, Mr. Morgan," he said.  "I shall take pleasure in
-calling at some other time when a more courteous sort of people may be
-present."
-
-"Look here!" the hot-headed Fred burst out.  "Don't you try to make me
-out a boor, George Minafer!  I wasn't hinting anything at you; I
-simply forgot all about your grandfather owning this old building.
-Don't you try to put me in the light of a boor!  I won't--"
-
-But George walked out in the very course of this vehement protest, and
-it was necessarily left unfinished.
-
-Mr. Kinney remained only a few moments after George's departure; and
-as the door closed upon him, the distressed Lucy turned to her father.
-She was plaintively surprised to find him in a condition of immoderate
-laughter.
-
-"I didn't--I didn't think I could hold out!" he gasped, and, after
-choking until tears came to his eyes, felt blindly for the chair from
-which he had risen to wish Mr. Kinney an indistinct good-night.  His
-hand found the arm of the chair; he collapsed feebly, and sat uttering
-incoherent sounds.
-
-"Papa!"
-
-"It brings things back so!" he managed to explain, "This very Fred
-Kinney's father and young George's father, Wilbur Minafer, used to do
-just such things when they were at that age--and, for that matter, so
-did George Amberson and I, and all the rest of us!"  And, in spite of
-his exhaustion, he began to imitate: "Don't you try to put me in the
-light of a boor!"  "I shall take pleasure in calling at some time when
-a more courteous sort of people--"  He was unable to go on.
-
-There is a mirth for every age, and Lucy failed to comprehend her
-father's, but tolerated it a little ruefully.
-
-"Papa, I think they were shocking.  Weren't they awful!"
-
-"Just--just boys!" he moaned, wiping his eyes.  But Lucy could not
-smile at all; she was beginning to look indignant.  "I can forgive
-that poor Fred Kinney," she said.  "He's just blundering--but George--
-oh, George behaved outrageously!"
-
-"It's a difficult age," her father observed, his calmness somewhat
-restored.  "Girls don't seem to have to pass through it quite as boys
-do, or their savoir faire is instinctive--or something!"  And he gave
-away to a return of his convulsion.
-
-She came and sat upon the arm of his chair.  "Papa, why should George
-behave like that?"
-
-"He's sensitive."
-
-"Rather!  But why is he?  He does anything he likes to, without any
-regard for what people think.  Then why should he mind so furiously
-when the least little thing reflects upon him, or on anything or
-anybody connected with him?"
-
-Eugene patted her hand.  "That's one of the greatest puzzles of human
-vanity, dear; and I don't pretend to know the answer.  In all my life,
-the most arrogant people that I've known have been the most sensitive.
-The people who have done the most in contempt of other people's
-opinion, and who consider themselves the highest above it, have been
-the most furious if it went against them.  Arrogant and domineering
-people can't stand the least, lightest, faintest breath of criticism.
-It just kills them."
-
-"Papa, do you think George is arrogant and domineering?"
-
-"Oh, he's still only a boy," said Eugene consolingly.  "There's plenty
-of fine stuff in him--can't help but be, because he's Isabel
-Amberson's son."
-
-Lucy stroked his hair, which was still almost as dark as her own.
-"You liked her pretty well once, I guess, papa."
-
-"I do still," he said quietly.
-
-"She's lovely--lovely!  Papa--" she paused, then continued--"I wonder
-sometimes--"
-
-"What?"
-
-"I wonder just how she happened to marry Mr. Minafer."
-
-"Oh, Minafer's all right," said Eugene.  "He's a quiet sort of man,
-but he's a good man and a kind man.  He always was, and those things
-count."
-
-"But in a way--well, I've heard people say there wasn't anything to
-him at all except business and saving money.  Miss Fanny Minafer
-herself told me that everything George and his mother have of their
-own--that is, just to spend as they like--she says it has always come
-from Major Amberson."
-
-"Thrift, Horatio!" said Eugene lightly.  "Thrift's an inheritance, and
-a common enough one here.  The people who settled the country had to
-save, so making and saving were taught as virtues, and the people, to
-the third generation, haven't found out that making and saving are
-only means to an end.  Minafer doesn't believe in money being spent.
-He believes God made it to be invested and saved."
-
-"But George isn't saving.  He's reckless, and even if he is arrogant
-and conceited and bad-tempered, he's awfully generous."
-
-"Oh, he's an Amberson," said her father.  "The Ambersons aren't
-saving.  They're too much the other way, most of them."
-
-"I don't think I should have called George bad-tempered," Lucy said
-thoughtfully.  "No. I don't think he is."
-
-"Only when he's cross about something?"  Morgan suggested, with a
-semblance of sympathetic gravity.
-
-"Yes," she said brightly, not perceiving that his intention was
-humorous.  "All the rest of the time he's really very amiable.  Of
-course, he's much more a perfect child, the whole time, than he
-realizes!  He certainly behaved awfully to-night."  She jumped up, her
-indignation returning.  "He did, indeed, and it won't do to encourage
-him in it.  I think he'll find me pretty cool--for a week or so!"
-
-Whereupon her father suffered a renewal of his attack of uproarious
-laughter.
-
-
-
-
-Chapter XI
-
-
-
-In the matter of coolness, George met Lucy upon her own predetermined
-ground; in fact, he was there first, and, at their next encounter,
-proved loftier and more formal than she did.  Their estrangement
-lasted three weeks, and then disappeared without any preliminary
-treaty: it had worn itself out, and they forgot it.
-
-At times, however, George found other disturbances to the friendship.
-Lucy was "too much the village belle," he complained; and took a
-satiric attitude toward his competitors, referring to them as her
-"local swains and bumpkins," sulking for an afternoon when she
-reminded him that he, too, was at least "local."  She was a belle with
-older people as well; Isabel and Fanny were continually taking her
-driving, bringing her home with them to lunch or dinner, and making a
-hundred little engagements with her, and the Major had taken a great
-fancy to her, insisting upon her presence and her father's at the
-Amberson family dinner at the Mansion every Sunday evening.  She knew
-how to flirt with old people, he said, as she sat next him at the
-table on one of these Sunday occasions; and he had always liked her
-father, even when Eugene was a "terror" long ago.  "Oh, yes, he was!"
-the Major laughed, when she remonstrated.  "He came up here with my
-son George and some others for a serenade one night, and Eugene
-stepped into a bass fiddle, and the poor musicians just gave up!  I
-had a pretty half-hour getting my son George upstairs. I remember!  It
-was the last time Eugene ever touched a drop--but he'd touched plenty
-before that, young lady, and he daren't deny it!  Well, well; there's
-another thing that's changed: hardly anybody drinks nowadays.  Perhaps
-it's just as well, but things used to be livelier.  That serenade was
-just before Isabel was married--and don't you fret, Miss Lucy: your
-father remembers it well enough!"  The old gentleman burst into
-laughter, and shook his finger at Eugene across the table.  "The fact
-is," the Major went on hilariously, "I believe if Eugene hadn't broken
-that bass fiddle and given himself away, Isabel would never have taken
-Wilbur!  I shouldn't be surprised if that was about all the reason
-that Wilbur got her!  What do you think. Wilbur?"
-
-"I shouldn't be surprised," said Wilbur placidly.  "If your notion is
-right, I'm glad 'Gene broke the fiddle.  He was giving me a hard run!"
-
-The Major always drank three glasses of champagne at his Sunday
-dinner, and he was finishing the third.  "What do you say about it,
-Isabel?  By Jove!" he cried, pounding the table.  "She's blushing!"
-
-Isabel did blush, but she laughed.  "Who wouldn't blush!" she cried,
-and her sister-in-law came to her assistance.
-
-"The important thing," said Fanny jovially, "is that Wilbur did get
-her, and not only got her, but kept her!"
-
-Eugene was as pink as Isabel, but he laughed without any sign of
-embarrassment other than his heightened colour.  "There's another
-important thing--that is, for me," he said.  "It's the only thing that
-makes me forgive that bass viol for getting in my way."
-
-"What is it?" the Major asked.
-
-"Lucy," said Morgan gently.
-
-Isabel gave him a quick glance, all warm approval, and there was a
-murmur of friendliness round the table.
-
-George was not one of those who joined in this applause.  He
-considered his grandfather's nonsense indelicate, even for second
-childhood, and he thought that the sooner the subject was dropped the
-better.  However, he had only a slight recurrence of the resentment
-which had assailed him during the winter at every sign of his mother's
-interest in Morgan; though he was still ashamed of his aunt sometimes,
-when it seemed to him that Fanny was almost publicly throwing herself
-at the widower's head.  Fanny and he had one or two arguments in which
-her fierceness again astonished and amused him.
-
-"You drop your criticisms of your relatives," she bade him, hotly, one
-day, "and begin thinking a little about your own behaviour!  You say
-people will 'talk' about my--about my merely being pleasant to an old
-friend!  What do I care how they talk?  I guess if people are talking
-about anybody in this family they're talking about the impertinent
-little snippet that hasn't any respect for anything, and doesn't even
-know enough to attend to his own affairs!"
-
-"Snippet,' Aunt Fanny!" George laughed.  "How elegant!  And 'little
-snippet'--when I'm over five-feet-eleven?"
-
-"I said it!" she snapped, departing.  "I don't see how Lucy can stand
-you!"
-
-"You'd make an amiable stepmother-in-law!" he called after her.  "I'll
-be careful about proposing to Lucy!"
-
-These were but roughish spots in a summer that glided by evenly and
-quickly enough, for the most part, and, at the end, seemed to fly.  On
-the last night before George went back to be a Junior, his mother
-asked him confidently if it had not been a happy summer.
-
-He hadn't thought about it, he answered.  "Oh,' I suppose so.  Why?"
-
-"I just thought it would be: nice to hear you say so," she said,
-smiling.  "I mean, it's pleasant for people of my age to know that
-people of your age realize that they're happy."
-
-"People of your age!" he repeated.  "You know you don't look precisely
-like an old woman, mother.  Not precisely!"
-
-"No," she said.  "And I suppose I feel about as young as you do,
-inside, but it won't be many years before I must begin to look old.
-It does come!"  She sighed, still smiling.  "It's seemed to me that,
-it must have been a happy summer for you--a real 'summer of roses and
-wine'--without the wine, perhaps.  'Gather ye roses while ye may'--or
-was it primroses?  Time does really fly, or perhaps it's more like the
-sky--and smoke--"
-
-George was puzzled.  "What do you mean: time being like the sky and
-smoke?"
-
-"I mean the things that we have and that we think are so solid--
-they're like smoke, and time is like the sky that the smoke disappears
-into.  You know how wreath of smoke goes up from a chimney, and seems
-all thick and black and busy against the sky, as if it were going to
-do such important things and last forever, and you see it getting
-thinner and thinner--and then, in such a little while, it isn't there
-at all; nothing is left but the sky, and the sky keeps on being just
-the same forever."
-
-"It strikes me you're getting mixed up," said George cheerfully.  "I
-don't see much resemblance between time and the sky, or between things
-and smoke-wreaths; but I do see one reason you like 'Lucy Morgan so
-much.  She talks that same kind of wistful, moony way sometimes--I
-don't mean to say I mind it in either of you, because I rather like to
-listen to it, and you've got a very good voice, mother.  It's nice to
-listen to, no matter how much smoke and sky, and so on, you talk.
-So's Lucy's for that matter; and I see why you're congenial.  She
-talks that way to her father, too; and he's right there with the same
-kind of guff.  Well, it's all right with me!"  He laughed, teasingly,
-and allowed her to retain his hand, which she had fondly seized.
-"I've got plenty to think about when people drool along!"
-
-She pressed his hand to her cheek, and a tear made a tiny warm streak
-across one of his knuckles.
-
-"For heaven's sake!" he said.  "What's the matter? Isn't everything
-all right?"
-
-"You're going away!"
-
-"Well, I'm coming back, don't you suppose?  Is that all that worries
-you?"
-
-She cheered up, and smiled again, but shook her head.  "I never can
-bear to see you go--that's the most of it.  I'm a little bothered
-about your father, too."
-
-"Why?"
-
-"It seems to me he looks so badly.  Everybody thinks so."
-
-"What nonsense!"  George laughed. "He's been looking that way all
-summer.  He isn't much different from the way he's looked all his
-life, that I can see.  What's the matter with him?"
-
-"He never talks much about his business to me but I think he's been
-worrying about some investments he made last year.  I think his worry
-has affected his health."
-
-"What investments?" George demanded.  "He hasn't gone into Mr.
-Morgan's automobile concern, has he?"
-
-"No," Isabel smiled.  "The 'automobile concern' is all Eugene's, and
-it's so small I understand it's taken hardly anything.  No; your
-father has always prided himself on making only the most absolutely
-safe investments, but two or three years ago he and your Uncle George
-both put a great deal--pretty much everything they could get together,
-I think--into the stock of rolling-mills some friends of theirs owned,
-and I'm afraid the mills haven't been doing well."
-
-"What of that?  Father needn't worry.  You and I could take care of
-him the rest of his life on what grandfather--"
-
-"Of course," she agreed.  "But your father's always lived so for his
-business and taken such pride in his sound investments; it's a passion
-with him.  I--"
-
-"Pshaw! He needn't worry!  You tell him we'll look after him: we'll
-build him a little stone bank in the backyard, if he busts up, and he
-can go and put his pennies in it every morning.  That'll keep him just
-as happy as he ever was!"  He kissed her.  "Good-night, I'm going to
-tell Lucy good-bye.  Don't sit up for me."
-
-She walked to the front gate with him, still holding his hand, and he
-told her again not to "sit up" for him.
-
-"Yes, I will," she laughed.  "You won't be very late."
-
-"Well--it's my last night."
-
-"But I know Lucy, and she knows I want to see you, too, your last
-night.  You'll see: she'll send you home promptly at eleven!"
-
-But she was mistaken: Lucy sent him home promptly at ten.
-
-
-
-
-Chapter XII
-
-
-
-Isabel's uneasiness about her husbands health--sometimes reflected in
-her letters to George during the winter that followed--had not been
-alleviated when the accredited Senior returned for his next summer
-vacation, and she confided to him in his room, soon after his arrival,
-that "something" the doctor had said to her lately had made her more
-uneasy than ever.
-
-"Still worrying over his rolling-mills investments?" George asked, not
-seriously impressed.
-
-"I'm afraid it's past that stage from what Dr Rainey says.  His
-worries only aggravate his condition now.  Dr. Rainey says we ought to
-get him away."
-
-"Well, let's do it, then."
-
-"He won't go."
-
-"He's a man awfully set in his ways; that's true," said George.  "I
-don't think there's anything much the matter with him, though, and he
-looks just the same to me.  Have you seen Lucy lately?  How is she?"
-
-"Hasn't she written you?"
-
-"Oh, about once a month," he answered carelessly.  "Never says much
-about herself.  How's she look?"
-
-"She looks--pretty!" said Isabel.  "I suppose she wrote you they've
-moved?"
-
-"Yes; I've got her address.  She said they were building."
-
-"They did. It's all finished, and they've been in it a month.  Lucy is
-so capable; she keeps house exquisitely.  It's small, but oh, such a
-pretty little house!"
-
-"Well, that's fortunate," George said.  "One thing I've always felt
-they didn't know a great deal about is architecture."
-
-"Don't they?" asked Isabel, surprised.  "Anyhow, their house is
-charming.  It's way out beyond the end of Amberson Boulevard; it's
-quite near that big white house with a gray-green roof somebody built
-out there a year or so ago.  There are any number of houses going up,
-out that way; and the trolley-line runs within a block of them now, on
-the next street, and the traction people are laying tracks more than
-three miles beyond.  I suppose you'll be driving out to see Lucy to-
-morrow."
-
-"I thought--" George hesitated.  "I thought perhaps I'd go after dinner
-this evening."
-
-At this his mother laughed, not astonished.  "It was only my feeble
-joke about 'to-morrow,' Georgie!  I was pretty sure you couldn't wait
-that long.  Did Lucy write you about the factory?"
-
-"No.  What factory?"
-
-"The automobile shops.  They had rather a dubious time at first, I'm
-afraid, and some of Eugene's experiments turned out badly, but this
-spring they've finished eight automobiles and sold them all, and
-they've got twelve more almost finished, and they're sold already!
-Eugene's so gay over it!"
-
-"What do his old sewing-machines look like?  Like that first one he
-had when they came here?"
-
-"No, indeed!  These have rubber tires blown up with air--pneumatic!
-And they aren't so high; they're very easy to get into, and the
-engine's in front--Eugene thinks that's a great improvement.  They're
-very interesting to look at; behind the driver's seat there's a sort
-of box where four people can sit, with a step and a little door in the
-rear, and--"
-
-"I know all about it," said George. "I've seen any number like that,
-East.  You can see all you want of 'em, if you stand on Fifth Avenue
-half an hour, any afternoon.  I've seen half-a-dozen go by almost at
-the same time--within a few minutes, anyhow; and of course electric
-hansoms are a common sight there any day.  I hired one, myself, the
-last time I was there.  How fast do Mr. Morgan's machines go?"
-
-"Much too fast!  It's very exhilarating--but rather frightening; and
-they do make a fearful uproar.  He says, though, he thinks he sees a
-way to get around the noisiness in time."
-
-"I don't mind the noise," said George.  "Give me a horse, for mine,
-though, any day.  I must get up a race with one of these things:
-Pendennis'll leave it one mile behind in a two-mile run.  How's
-grandfather?"
-
-"He looks well, but he complains sometimes of his heart: I suppose
-that's natural at his age--and it's an Amberson trouble."  Having
-mentioned this, she looked anxious instantly.  "Did you ever feel any
-weakness there, Georgie?"
-
-"No!" he laughed.
-
-"Are you sure, dear?"
-
-"No!"  And he laughed again.  "Did you?"
-
-"Oh, I think not--at least, the doctor told me he thought my heart was
-about all right.  He said I needn't be alarmed."
-
-"I should think not!  Women do seem to be always talking about health:
-I suppose they haven't got enough else to think of!"
-
-"That must be it," she said gayly.  "We're an idle lot!"
-
-George had taken off his coat.  "I don't like to hint to a lady," he
-said, "but I do want to dress before dinner."
-
-"Don't be long; I've got to do a lot of looking at you, dear!"  She
-kissed him and ran away singing.
-
-But his Aunt Fanny was not so fond; and at the dinner-table there came
-a spark of liveliness into her eye when George patronizingly asked her
-what was the news in her own "particular line of sport."
-
-"What do you mean, Georgie?" she asked quietly.
-
-"Oh I mean:  What's the news in the fast set generally?  You been
-causing any divorces lately?"
-
-"No," said Fanny, the spark in her eye getting brighter.  "I haven't
-been causing anything."
-
-"Well, what's the gossip?  You usually hear pretty much everything
-that goes on around the nooks and crannies in this town, I hear.
-What's the last from the gossips' corner, auntie?"
-
-Fanny dropped her eyes, and the spark was concealed, but a movement of
-her lower lip betokened a tendency to laugh, as she replied.  "There
-hasn't been much gossip lately, except the report that Lucy Morgan and
-Fred Kinney are engaged--and that's quite old, by this time."
-
-Undeniably, this bit of mischief was entirely successful, for there
-was a clatter upon George's plate.  "What--what do you think you're
-talking about?" he gasped.
-
-Miss Fanny looked up innocently.  "About the report of Lucy Morgan's
-engagement to Fred Kinney."
-
-George turned dumbly to his mother, and Isabel shook her head
-reassuringly.  "People are always starting rumours," she said.  "I
-haven't paid any attention to this one."
-
-"But you--you've heard it?" he stammered.
-
-"Oh, one hears all sorts of nonsense, dear.  I haven't the slightest
-idea that it's true."
-
-"Then you have heard it!"
-
-"I wouldn't let it take my appetite," his father suggested drily.
-"There are plenty of girls in the world!"
-
-George turned pale.
-
-"Eat your dinner, Georgie," his aunt said sweetly.  "Food will do you
-good. I didn't say I knew this rumour was true. I only said I'd heard
-it."
-
-"When?  When did you hear it!"
-
-"Oh, months ago!"  And Fanny found any further postponement of
-laughter impossible.
-
-"Fanny, you're a hard-hearted creature," Isabel said gently.  "You
-really are.  Don't pay any attention to her, George.  Fred Kinney's
-only a clerk in his uncle's hardware place: he couldn't marry for
-ages--even if anybody would accept him!"
-
-George breathed tumultuously.  "I don't care anything about 'ages'!
-What's that got to do with it?" he said, his thoughts appearing to be
-somewhat disconnected.  "Ages,' don't mean anything!  I only want to
-know--I want to know--I want--"  He stopped.
-
-"What do you want?" his father asked crossly.
-
-"Why don't you say it?  Don't make such a fuss."
-
-"I'm not--not at all," George declared, pushing his chair back from
-the table.
-
-"You must finish your dinner, dear," his mother urged.  "Don't--"
-
-"I have finished.  I've eaten all I want.  I don't want any more than
-I wanted.  I don't want--I--"  He rose, still incoherent.  "I prefer--
-I want--Please excuse me!"
-
-He left the room, and a moment later the screens outside the open
-front door were heard to slam:
-
-"Fanny! You shouldn't--"
-
-"Isabel, don't reproach me, he did have plenty of dinner, and I only
-told the truth: everybody has been saying--"
-
-"But there isn't any truth in it."
-
-"We don't actually know there isn't," Miss Fanny insisted, giggling.
-"We've never asked Lucy."
-
-"I wouldn't ask her anything so absurd!"
-
-"George would," George's father remarked.  "That's what he's gone to
-do."
-
-Mr. Minafer was not mistaken: that was what his son had gone to do.
-Lucy and her father were just rising from their dinner table when the
-stirred youth arrived at the front door of the new house.  It was a
-cottage, however, rather than a house; and Lucy had taken a free hand
-with the architect, achieving results in white and green, outside, and
-white and blue, inside, to such effect of youth and daintiness that
-her father complained of "too much spring-time!"  The whole place,
-including his own bedroom, was a young damsel's boudoir, he said, so
-that nowhere could he smoke a cigar without feeling like a ruffian.
-However, he was smoking when George arrived, and he encouraged George
-to join him in the pastime, but the caller, whose air was both tense
-and preoccupied, declined with something like agitation.
-
-"I never smoke--that is, I'm seldom--I mean, no thanks," he said.  "I
-mean not at all.  I'd rather not."
-
-"Aren't you well, George?"  Eugene asked, looking at him in
-perplexity.  "Have you been overworking at college?  You do look rather
-pa--"
-
-"I don't work," said George.  "I mean I don't work.  I think, but I
-don't work.  I only work at the end of the term.  There isn't much to
-do."
-
-Eugene's perplexity was little decreased, and a tinkle of the door-
-bell afforded him obvious relief.  "It's my foreman," he said, looking
-at his watch.  "I'll take him out in the yard to talk.  This is no
-place for a foreman."  And he departed, leaving the "living room" to
-Lucy and George.  It was a pretty room, white panelled and blue
-curtained--and no place for a foreman, as Eugene said.  There was a
-grand piano, and Lucy stood leaning back against it, looking intently
-at George, while her fingers, behind her, absently struck a chord or
-two.  And her dress was the dress for that room, being of blue and
-white, too; and the high colour in her cheeks was far from interfering
-with the general harmony of things--George saw with dismay that she
-was prettier than ever, and naturally he missed the reassurance he
-might have felt had he been able to guess that Lucy, on her part, was
-finding him better looking than ever.  For, however unusual the scope
-of George's pride, vanity of beauty was not included; he did not think
-about his looks.
-
-"What's wrong, George?" she asked softly.
-
-"What do you mean: 'What's wrong?"
-
-"You're awfully upset about something.  Didn't you get though your
-examination all right?"
-
-"Certainly I did.  What makes you think anything's 'wrong' with me?"
-
-"You do look pale, as papa said, and it seemed to me that the way you
-talked sounded--well, a little confused."
-
-"Confused'! I said I didn't care to smoke.  What in the world is
-confused about that?"
-
-"Nothing.  But--"
-
-"See here!"  George stepped close to her.  "Are you glad to see me?"
-
-"You needn't be so fierce about it!"  Lucy protested, laughing at his
-dramatic intensity.  "Of course I am!  How long have I been looking
-forward to it?"
-
-"I don't know," he said sharply, abating nothing of his fierceness.
-"How long have you?"
-
-"Why--ever since you went away!"
-
-"Is that true?  Lucy, is that true?"
-
-"You are funny!" she said.  "Of course it's true.  Do tell me what's
-the matter with you, George!"
-
-"I will!" he exclaimed.  "I was a boy when I saw you last.  I see that
-now, though I didn't then.  Well, I'm not a boy any longer.  I'm a
-man, and a man has a right to demand a totally different treatment."
-
-"Why has he?"
-
-"What?"
-
-"I don't seem to be able to understand you at all, George.  Why
-shouldn't a boy be treated just as well as a man?"
-
-George seemed to find himself at a loss.  "Why shouldn't--Well, he
-shouldn't, because a man has a right to certain explanations."
-
-"What explanations?"
-
-"Whether he's been made a toy of!"  George almost shouted.  "That's
-what I want to know!"
-
-Lucy shook her head despairingly.  "You are the queerest person!  You
-say you're a man now, but you talk more like a boy than ever.  What
-does make you so excited?"
-
-"'Excited!'" he stormed.  "Do you dare to stand there and call me
-'excited'?  I tell you, I never have been more calm or calmer in my
-life!  I don't know that a person needs to be called 'excited' because
-he demands explanations that are his simple due!"
-
-"What in the world do you want me to explain?"
-
-"Your conduct with Fred Kinney!" George shouted.
-
-Lucy uttered a sudden cry of laughter; she was delighted.  "It's been
-awful!" she said.  "I don't know that I ever heard of worse
-misbehaviour!  Papa and I have been twice to dinner with his family,
-and I've been three times to church with Fred--and once to the circus!
-I don't know when they'll be here to arrest me!"
-
-"Stop that!" George commanded fiercely.  "I want to know just one
-thing, and I mean to know it, too!"
-
-"Whether I enjoyed the circus?"
-
-"I want to know if you're engaged to him!"
-
-"No!" she cried and lifting her face close to his for the shortest
-instant possible, she gave him a look half merry, half defiant, but
-all fond.  It was an adorable look.
-
-"Lucy!" he said huskily.
-
-But she turned quickly from him, and ran to the other end of the room.
-He followed awkwardly, stammering:
-
-"Lucy, I want--I want to ask you.  Will you--will you--will you be
-engaged to me?"
-
-She stood at a window, seeming to look out into the summer darkness,
-her back to him.
-
-"Will you, Lucy?"
-
-"No," she murmured, just audibly.
-
-"Why not?"
-
-"I'm older than you."
-
-"Eight months!"
-
-"You're too young."
-
-"Is that--" he said, gulping--"is that the only reason you won't?"
-
-She did not answer.
-
-As she stood, persistently staring out of the window, with her back to
-him, she did not see how humble his attitude had become; but his voice
-was low, and it shook so that she could have no doubt of his emotion.
-"Lucy, please forgive me for making such a row," he said, thus gently.
-"I've been--I've been terribly upset--terribly!  You know how I feel
-about you, and always have felt about you.  I've shown it in every
-single thing I've done since the first time I met you, and I know you
-know it.  Don't you?"
-
-Still she did not move or speak.
-
-"Is the only reason you won't be engaged to me you think I'm too
-young, Lucy?"
-
-"It's--it's reason enough," she said faintly.
-
-At that he caught one of her hands, and she turned to him: there were
-tears in her eyes, tears which he did not understand at all.
-
-"Lucy, you little dear!" he cried.  "I knew you--"
-
-"No, no!" she said, and she pushed him away, withdrawing her hand.
-"George, let's not talk of solemn things."
-
-"Solemn things!' Like what?"
-
-"Like--being engaged."
-
-But George had become altogether jubilant, and he laughed
-triumphantly.  "Good gracious, that isn't solemn!"
-
-"It is, too!" she said, wiping her eyes.  "It's too solemn for us."
-
-"No, it isn't! I--"
-
-"Let's sit down and be sensible, dear," she said.  "You sit over
-there--"
-
-"I will if you'll call me, 'dear' again."
-
-"No," she said.  "I'll only call you that once again this summer--the
-night before you go away."
-
-"That will have to do, then," he laughed, "so long as I know we're
-engaged."
-
-"But we're not!" she protested.  "And we never will be, if you don't
-promise not to speak of it again until--until I tell you to!"
-
-"I won't promise that," said the happy George.  "I'll only promise not
-to speak of it till the next time you call me 'dear'; and you've
-promised to call me that the night before I leave for my senior year."
-
-"Oh, but I didn't!" she said earnestly, then hesitated.  "Did I?"
-
-"Didn't you?"
-
-"I don't think I meant it," she murmured, her wet lashes flickering
-above troubled eyes.
-
-"I know one thing about you," he said gayly, his triumph increasing.
-"You never went back on anything you said, yet, and I'm not afraid of
-this being the first time!"
-
-"But we mustn't let--" she faltered; then went on tremulously,
-"George, we've got on so well together, we won't let this make a
-difference between us, will we?"  And she joined in his laughter.
-
-"It will all depend on what you tell me the night before I go away.
-You agree we're going to settle things then, don't you, Lucy?"
-
-"I don't promise."
-
-"Yes, you do!  Don't you?"
-
-"Well--"
-
-
-
-
-Chapter  XIII
-
-
-
-Tonight George began a jubilant warfare upon his Aunt Fanny, opening
-the campaign upon his return home at about eleven o'clock.  Fanny had
-retired, and was presumably asleep, but George, on the way to his own
-room, paused before her door, and serenaded her in a full baritone:
-
-    "As I walk along the Boy de Balong
-     With my independent air,
-     The people all declare,
-     'He must be a millionaire!'
-     Oh, you hear them sigh, and wish to die,
-     And see them wink the other eye.
-     At the man that broke the bank at Monte Carlo!"
-
-Isabel came from George's room, where she had been reading, waiting
-for him.  "I'm afraid you'll disturb your father, dear. I wish you'd
-sing more, though--in the daytime!  You have a splendid voice."
-
-"Good-night, old lady!"
-
-"I thought perhaps I--Didn't you want me to come in with you and
-talk a little?"
-
-"Not to-night.  You go to bed.  Good-night, old lady!"
-
-He kissed her hilariously, entered his room with a skip, closed his
-door noisily; and then he could be heard tossing things about, loudly
-humming "The Man that Broke the Bank at Monte Carlo."
-
-Smiling, his mother knelt outside his door to pray; then, with her
-"Amen," pressed her lips to the bronze door-knob; and went silently to
-her own apartment.
-
-After breakfasting in bed, George spent the next morning at his
-grandfather's and did not encounter his Aunt Fanny until lunch, when
-she seemed to be ready for him.
-
-"Thank you so much for the serenade, George!" she said.  "Your poor
-father tells me he'd just got to sleep for the first time in two
-nights, but after your kind attentions he lay awake the rest of last
-night."
-
-"Perfectly true," Mr. Minafer said grimly.
-
-"Of course, I didn't know, sir," George hastened to assure him.  "I'm
-awfully sorry.  But Aunt Fanny was so gloomy and excited before I went
-out, last evening, I thought she needed cheering up."
-
-"I!"  Fanny jeered.  "I was gloomy?  I was excited?  You mean about
-that engagement?"
-
-"Yes.  Weren't you?  I thought I heard you worrying over somebody's
-being engaged.  Didn't I hear you say you'd heard Mr. Eugene Morgan
-was engaged to marry some pretty little seventeen-year-old girl?"
-
-Fanny was stung, but she made a brave effort.  "Did you ask Lucy?" she
-said, her voice almost refusing the teasing laugh she tried to make it
-utter.  "Did you ask her when Fred Kinney and she--"
-
-"Yes.  That story wasn't true.  But the other one--"  Here he stared at
-Fanny, and then affected dismay.  "Why, what's the matter with your
-face, Aunt Fanny?  It seems agitated!"
-
-"Agitated!"  Fanny said disdainfully, but her voice undeniably lacked
-steadiness.  "Agitated!"
-
-"Oh, come!"  Mr. Minafer interposed.  "Let's have a little peace!"
-
-"I'm willing," said George.  "I don't want to see poor Aunt Fanny all
-stirred up over a rumour I just this minute invented myself.  She's so
-excitable--about certain subjects--it's hard to control her."  He
-turned to his mother.  "What's the matter with grandfather?"
-
-"Didn't you see him this morning?" Isabel asked.
-
-"Yes.  He was glad to see me, and all that, but he seemed pretty
-fidgety.  Has he been having trouble with his heart again?"
-
-"Not lately.  No."
-
-"Well, he's not himself.  I tried to talk to him about the estate; it's
-disgraceful--it really is--the way things are looking.  He wouldn't
-listen, and he seemed upset.  What's he upset over?"
-
-Isabel looked serious; however, it was her husband who suggested
-gloomily, "I suppose the Major's bothered about this Sydney and Amelia
-business, most likely."
-
-"What Sydney and Amelia business?" George asked.
-
-"Your mother can tell you, if she wants to," Minafer said.  "It's not
-my side of the family, so I keep off."
-
-"It's rather disagreeable for all of us, Georgie," Isabel began.  "You
-see, your Uncle Sydney wanted a diplomatic position, and he thought
-brother George, being in Congress, could arrange it.  George did get
-him the offer of a South American ministry, but Sydney wanted a
-European ambassadorship, and he got quite indignant with poor George
-for thinking he'd take anything smaller--and he believes George didn't
-work hard enough for him.  George had done his best, of course, and
-now he's out of Congress, and won't run again--so there's Sydney's
-idea of a big diplomatic position gone for good.  Well, Sydney and
-your Aunt Amelia are terribly disappointed, and they say they've been
-thinking for years that this town isn't really fit to live in--'for a
-gentleman,' Sydney says--and it is getting rather big and dirty.  So
-they've sold their house and decided to go abroad to live permanently;
-there's a villa near Florence they've often talked of buying. And they
-want father to let them have their share of the estate now, instead of
-waiting for him to leave it to them in his will."
-
-"Well, I suppose that's fair enough," George said.  "That is, in case
-he intended to leave them a certain amount in his will."
-
-"Of course that's understood, Georgie.  Father explained his will to
-us long ago; a third to them, and a third to brother George, and a
-third to us."
-
-Her son made a simple calculation in his mind. Uncle George was a
-bachelor, and probably would never marry; Sydney and Amelia were
-childless.  The Major's only grandchild appeared to remain the
-eventual heir of the entire property, no matter if the Major did turn
-over to Sydney a third of it now.  And George had a fragmentary vision
-of himself, in mourning, arriving to take possession of a historic
-Florentine villa--he saw himself walking up a cypress-bordered path,
-with ancient carven stone balustrades in the distance, and servants in
-mourning livery greeting the new signore.  "Well, I suppose it's
-grandfather's own affair.  He can do it or not, just as he likes.  I
-don't see why he'd mind much."
-
-"He seemed rather confused and pained about it," Isabel said.  "I
-think they oughtn't to urge it.  George says that the estate won't
-stand taking out the third that Sydney wants, and that Sydney and
-Amelia are behaving like a couple of pigs."  She laughed, continuing,
-"Of course I don't know whether they are or not: I never have
-understood any more about business myself than a little pig would!
-But I'm on George's side, whether he's right or wrong; I always was
-from the time we were children: and Sydney and Amelia are hurt with me
-about it, I'm afraid.  They've stopped speaking to George entirely.
-Poor father Family rows at his time of life."
-
-George became thoughtful.  If Sydney and Amelia were behaving like
-pigs, things might not be so simple as at first they seemed to be.
-Uncle Sydney and Aunt Amelia might live an awful long while, he
-thought; and besides, people didn't always leave their fortunes to
-relatives.  Sydney might die first, leaving everything to his widow,
-and some curly-haired Italian adventurer might get round her, over
-there in Florence; she might be fool enough to marry again--or even
-adopt somebody!
-
-He became more and more thoughtful, forgetting entirely a plan he had
-formed for the continued teasing of his Aunt Fanny; and, an hour after
-lunch, he strolled over to his grandfather's, intending to apply for
-further information, as a party rightfully interested.
-
-He did not carry out this intention, however.  Going into the big
-house by a side entrance, he was informed that the Major was upstairs
-in his bedroom, that his sons Sydney and George were both with him,
-and that a serious argument was in progress.  "You kin stan' right in
-de middle dat big, sta'y-way," said Old Sam, the ancient negro, who
-was his informant, "an' you kin heah all you a-mind to wivout goin' on
-up no fudda.  Mist' Sydney an' Mist' Jawge talkin' louduh'n I evuh
-heah nobody ca'y on in nish heah house! Quollin', honey, big
-quollin'!"
-
-"All right," said George shortly.  "You go on back to your own part of
-the house, and don't make any talk.  Hear me?"
-
-"Yessuh, yessuh," Sam chuckled, as he shuffled away.  "Plenty talkin'
-wivout Sam!  Yessuh!"
-
-George went to the foot of the great stairway.  He could hear angry
-voices overhead--those of his two uncles--and a plaintive murmur, as
-if the Major tried to keep the peace.  Such sounds were far from
-encouraging to callers, and George decided not to go upstairs until
-this interview was over.  His decision was the result of no timidity,
-nor of a too sensitive delicacy.  What he felt was, that if he
-interrupted the scene in his grandfather's room, just at this time,
-one of the three gentlemen engaging in it might speak to him in a
-peremptory manner (in the heat of the moment) and George saw no reason
-for exposing his dignity to such mischances.  Therefore he turned from
-the stairway, and going quietly into the library, picked up a
-magazine--but he did not open it, for his attention was instantly
-arrested by his Aunt Amelia's voice, speaking in the next room.  The
-door was open and George heard her distinctly.
-
-"Isabel does?  Isabel!" she exclaimed, her tone high and shrewish.
-"You needn't tell me anything about Isabel Minafer, I guess, my dear
-old Frank Bronson!  I know her a little better than you do, don't you
-think?"
-
-George heard the voice of Mr. Bronson replying--a voice familiar to
-him as that of his grandfather's attorney-in-chief and chief intimate
-as well.  He was a contemporary of the Major's, being over seventy,
-and they had been through three years of the War in the same regiment.
-Amelia addressed him now, with an effect of angry mockery, as "my dear
-old Frank Bronson"; but that (without the mockery) was how the
-Amberson family almost always spoke of him: "dear old Frank Bronson."
-He was a hale, thin old man, six feet three inches tall, and without a
-stoop.
-
-"I doubt your knowing Isabel," he said stiffly.  "You speak of her as
-you do because she sides with her brother George, instead of with you
-and Sydney."
-
-"Pooh!"  Aunt Amelia was evidently in a passion.  "You know what's
-been going on over there, well enough, Frank Bronson!"
-
-"I don't even know what you're talking about."
-
-"Oh, you don't?  You don't know that Isabel takes George's side simply
-because he's Eugene Morgan's best friend?"
-
-"It seems to me you're talking pure nonsense," said Bronson sharply.
-"Not impure nonsense, I hope!"
-
-Amelia became shrill.  "I thought you were a man of the world: don't
-tell me you're blind!  For nearly two years Isabel's been pretending
-to chaperone Fanny Minafer with Eugene, and all the time she's been
-dragging that poor fool Fanny around to chaperone her and Eugene!
-Under the circumstances, she knows people will get to thinking Fanny's
-a pretty slim kind of chaperone, and Isabel wants to please George
-because she thinks there'll be less talk if she can keep her own
-brother around, seeming to approve.  'Talk!'  She'd better look out!
-The whole town will be talking, the first thing she knows!  She--"
-
-Amelia stopped, and stared at the doorway in a panic, for her nephew
-stood there.
-
-She kept her eyes upon his white face for a few strained moments,
-then, regaining her nerve, looked away and shrugged her shoulders.
-
- "You weren't intended to hear what I've been saying, George," she
-said quietly.  "But since you seem to--"
-
-"Yes, I did."
-
-"So!" She shrugged her shoulders again.  "After all, I don't know but
-it's just as well, in the long run."
-
-He walked up to where she sat.  "You--you--" he said thickly.  "It
-seems--it seems to me you're--you're pretty common!"
-
-Amelia tried to give the impression of an unconcerned person laughing
-with complete indifference, but the sounds she produced were
-disjointed and uneasy.  She fanned herself, looking out of the open
-window near her.  "Of course, if you want to make more trouble in the
-family than we've already got, George, with your eavesdropping, you
-can go and repeat--"
-
-Old Bronson had risen from his chair in great distress.  "Your aunt
-was talking nonsense because she's piqued over a business matter,
-George," he said.  "She doesn't mean what she said, and neither she
-nor any one else gives the slightest credit to such foolishness--no
-one in the world!"
-
-George gulped, and wet lines shone suddenly along his lower eyelids.
-"They--they'd better not!" he said, then stalked out of the room, and
-out of the house.  He stamped fiercely across the stone slabs of the
-front porch, descended the steps, and halted abruptly, blinking in the
-strong sunshine.
-
-In front of his own gate, beyond the Major's broad lawn, his mother
-was just getting into her victoria, where sat already his Aunt Fanny
-and Lucy Morgan.  It was a summer fashion-picture: the three ladies
-charmingly dressed, delicate parasols aloft; the lines of the victoria
-graceful as those of a violin; the trim pair of bays in glistening
-harness picked out with silver, and the serious black driver whom
-Isabel, being an Amberson, dared even in that town to put into a black
-livery coat, boots, white breeches, and cockaded hat.  They jingled
-smartly away, and, seeing George standing on the Major's lawn, Lucy
-waved, and Isabel threw him a kiss.
-
-But George shuddered, pretending not to see them, and stooped as if
-searching for something lost in the grass, protracting that posture
-until the victoria was out of hearing.  And ten minutes later, George
-Amberson, somewhat in the semblance of an angry person plunging out of
-the Mansion, found a pale nephew waiting to accost him.
-
-"I haven't time to talk, Georgie."
-
-"Yes, you have. You'd better!"
-
-"What's the matter, then?"
-
-His namesake drew him away from the vicinity of the house.  "I want to
-tell you something I just heard Aunt Amelia say, in there."
-
-"I don't want to hear it," said Amberson.  "I've been hearing entirely
-too much of what 'Aunt Amelia, says, lately."
-
-"She says my mother's on your side about this division of the property
-because you're Eugene Morgan's best friend."
-
-"What in the name of heaven has that got to do with your mother's
-being on my side?"
-
-"She said--" George paused to swallow.  "She said--"  He faltered.
-
-"You look sick," said his uncle; and laughed shortly.  "If it's
-because of anything Amelia's been saying, I don't blame you!  What
-else did she say?"
-
-George swallowed again, as with nausea, but under his uncle's
-encouragement he was able to be explicit.  "She said my mother wanted
-you to be friendly to her about Eugene Morgan.  She said my mother had
-been using Aunt Fanny as a chaperone."
-
-Amberson emitted a laugh of disgust.  "It's wonderful what tommy-rot a
-woman in a state of spite can think of!  I suppose you don't doubt
-that Amelia Amberson created this specimen of tommy-rot herself?"
-
-"I know she did."
-
-"Then what's the matter?"
-
-"She said--"  George faltered again.  "She said--she implied people
-were--were talking about it."
-
-"Of all the damn nonsense!" his uncle exclaimed.  George looked at him
-haggardly.  "You're sure they're not?"
-
-"Rubbish!  Your mother's on my side about this division because she
-knows Sydney's a pig and always has been a pig, and so has his
-spiteful wife.  I'm trying to keep them from getting the better of
-your mother as well as from getting the better of me, don't you
-suppose?  Well, they're in a rage because Sydney always could do what
-he liked with father unless your mother interfered, and they know I
-got Isabel to ask him not to do what they wanted.  They're keeping up
-the fight and they're sore--and Amelia's a woman who always says any
-damn thing that comes into her head!  That's all there is to it."
-
-"But she said," George persisted wretchedly; "she said there was talk.
-She said--"
-
-"Look here, young fellow!"  Amberson laughed good-naturedly.  "There
-probably is some harmless talk about the way your Aunt Fanny goes
-after poor Eugene, and I've no doubt I've abetted it myself.  People
-can't help being amused by a thing like that.  Fanny was always
-languishing at him, twenty-odd years ago, before he left here.  Well,
-we can't blame the poor thing if she's got her hopes up again, and I
-don't know that I blame her, myself, for using your mother the way she
-does."
-
-"How do you mean?"
-
-Amberson put his hand on George's shoulder.  "You like to tease
-Fanny," he said, "but I wouldn't tease her about this, if I were you.
-Fanny hasn't got much in her life.  You know, Georgie, just being an
-aunt isn't really the great career it may sometimes appear to you!  In
-fact, I don't know of anything much that Fanny has got, except her
-feeling about Eugene.  She's always had it--and what's funny to us is
-pretty much life-and-death to her, I suspect.  Now, I'll not deny that
-Eugene Morgan is attracted to your mother.  He is; and that's another
-case of 'always was'; but I know him, and he's a knight, George--a
-crazy one, perhaps, if you've read 'Don Quixote.'  And I think your
-mother likes him better than she likes any man outside her own family,
-and that he interests her more than anybody else--and 'always has.'
-And that's all there is to it, except--"
-
-"Except what?"  George asked quickly, as he paused.
-
-"Except that I suspect--" Amberson chuckled, and began over: "I'll
-tell you in confidence. I think Fanny's a fairly tricky customer, for
-such an innocent old girl!  There isn't any real harm in her, but
-she's a great diplomatist--lots of cards up her lace sleeves, Georgie!
-By the way, did you ever notice how proud she is of her arms?  Always
-flashing 'em at poor Eugene!"  And he stopped to laugh again.
-
-"I don't see anything confidential about that," George complained.  "I
-thought--"
-
-"Wait a minute!  My idea is--don't forget it's a confidential one, but
-I'm devilish right about it, young Georgie!--it's this: Fanny uses
-your mother for a decoy duck.  She does everything in the world she
-can to keep your mother's friendship with Eugene going, because she
-thinks that's what keeps Eugene about the place, so to speak.  Fanny's
-always with your mother, you see; and whenever he sees Isabel he sees
-Fanny.  Fanny thinks he'll get used to the idea of her being around,
-and some day her chance may come!  You see, she's probably afraid--
-perhaps she even knows, poor thing!--that she wouldn't get to see much
-of Eugene if it weren't for Isabel's being such a friend of his.
-There!  D'you see?"
-
-"Well--I suppose so."  George's brow was still dark, however.  "If
-you're sure whatever talk there is, is about Aunt Fanny.  If that's
-so--"
-
-"Don't be an ass," his uncle advised him lightly, moving away.  "I'm
-off for a week's fishing to forget that woman in there, and her pig of
-a husband."  (His gesture toward the Mansion indicated Mr. and Mrs.
-Sydney Amberson.)  "I recommend a like course to you, if you're silly
-enough to pay any attention to such rubbishings!  Good-bye!"
-
-George was partially reassured, but still troubled: a word haunted
-him like the recollection of a nightmare.  "Talk!"
-
-He stood looking at the houses across the street from the Mansion; and
-though the sunshine was bright upon them, they seemed mysteriously
-threatening.  He had always despised them, except the largest of them,
-which was the home of his henchman, Charlie Johnson.  The Johnsons had
-originally owned a lot three hundred feet wide, but they had sold all
-of it except the meager frontage before the house itself, and five
-houses were now crowded into the space where one used to squire it so
-spaciously.  Up and down the street, the same transformation had taken
-place: every big, comfortable old brick house now had two or three
-smaller frame neighbours crowding up to it on each side, cheap-looking
-neighbours, most of them needing paint and not clean--and yet, though
-they were cheap looking, they had cost as much to build as the big
-brick houses, whose former ample yards they occupied.  Only where
-George stood was there left a sward as of yore; the great, level,
-green lawn that served for both the Major's house and his daughter's.
-This serene domain--unbroken, except for the two gravelled carriage-
-drives--alone remained as it had been during the early glories of the
-Amberson Addition.
-
-George stared at the ugly houses opposite, and hated them more than
-ever; but he shivered.  Perhaps the riffraff living in those houses
-sat at the windows to watch their betters; perhaps they dared to
-gossip--
-
-He uttered an exclamation, and walked rapidly toward his own front
-gate.  The victoria had returned with Miss Fanny alone; she jumped
-out briskly and the victoria waited.
-
-"Where's mother?"  George asked sharply, as he met her.
-
-"At Lucy's.  I only came back to get some embroidery, because we found
-the sun too hot for driving.  I'm in a hurry."
-
-But, going into the house with her, he detained her when she would
-have hastened upstairs.
-
-"I haven't time to talk now, Georgie; I'm going right back.  I
-promised your mother--"
-
-"You listen!" said George.
-
-"What on earth--"
-
-He repeated what Amelia had said.  This time, however, he spoke
-coldly, and without the emotion he had exhibited during the recital to
-his uncle: Fanny was the one who showed agitation during this
-interview, for she grew fiery red, and her eyes dilated.  "What on
-earth do you want to bring such trash to me for?" she demanded,
-breathing fast.
-
-"I merely wished to know two things: whether it is your duty or mine
-to speak to father of what Aunt Amelia--"
-
-Fanny stamped her foot.  "You little fool!" she cried.  "You awful
-little fool!"
-
-"I decline--"
-
-"Decline, my hat!  Your father's a sick man, and you--"
-
-"He doesn't seem so to me."
-
-"Well, he does to me!  And you want to go troubling him with an
-Amberson family row!  It's just what that cat would love you to do!"
-
-"Well, I--"
-
-"Tell your father if you like!  It will only make him a little sicker
-to think he's got a son silly enough to listen to such craziness!"
-
-"Then you're sure there isn't any talk?"  Fanny disdained a reply in
-words.  She made a hissing sound of utter contempt and snapped her
-fingers.  Then she asked scornfully: "What's the other thing you
-wanted to know?"
-
-George's pallor increased.  "Whether it mightn't be better, under the
-circumstances," he said, "if this family were not so intimate with the
-Morgan family--at least for a time.  It might be better--"
-
-Fanny stared at him incredulously.  "You mean you'd quit seeing Lucy?"
-
-"I hadn't thought of that side of it, but if such a thing were
-necessary on account of talk about my mother, I--I--"  He hesitated
-unhappily.  "I suggested that if all of us--for a time--perhaps only
-for a time--it might be better if--"
-
-"See here," she interrupted.  "We'll settle this nonsense right now.
-If Eugene Morgan comes to this house, for instance, to see me, your
-mother can't get up and leave the place the minute he gets here, can
-she?  What do you want her to do: insult him?  Or perhaps you'd prefer
-she'd insult Lucy?  That would do just as well.  What is it you're up
-to, anyhow?  Do you really love your Aunt Amelia so much that you want
-to please her?  Or do you really hate your Aunt Fanny so much that you
-want to--that you want to--"
-
-She choked and sought for her handkerchief; suddenly she began to cry.
-
-"Oh, see here," George said.  "I don't hate you," Aunt Fanny.  "That's
-silly.  I don't--"
-
-"You do!  You do!   You want to--you want to destroy the only thing--
-that I--that I ever--"  And, unable to continue, she became inaudible
-in her handkerchief.
-
-George felt remorseful, and his own troubles were lightened: all at
-once it became clear to him that he had been worrying about nothing.
-He perceived that his Aunt Amelia was indeed an old cat, and that to
-give her scandalous meanderings another thought would be the height of
-folly.  By no means unsusceptible to such pathos as that now exposed
-before him, he did not lack pity for Fanny, whose almost spoken
-confession was lamentable; and he was granted the vision to understand
-that his mother also pitied Fanny infinitely more than he did.  This
-seemed to explain everything.
-
-He patted the unhappy lady awkwardly upon her shoulder.  "There,
-there!" he said.  "I didn't mean anything.  Of course the only thing
-to do about Aunt Amelia is to pay no attention to her.  It's all
-right, Aunt Fanny.  Don't cry.  I feel a lot better now, myself.  Come
-on; I'll drive back there with you.  It's all over, and nothing's the
-matter.  Can't you cheer up?"
-
-Fanny cheered up; and presently the customarily hostile aunt and
-nephew were driving out Amberson Boulevard amiably together in the hot
-sunshine.
-
-
-
-
-Chapter XIV
-
-
-
-"Almost" was Lucy's last word on the last night of George's vacation--
-that vital evening which she had half consented to agree upon for
-"settling things" between them.  "Almost engaged," she meant.  And
-George, discontented with the "almost," but contented that she seemed
-glad to wear a sapphire locket with a tiny photograph of George
-Amberson Minafer inside it, found himself wonderful in a new world at
-the final instant of their parting.  For, after declining to let him
-kiss her "good-bye," as if his desire for such a ceremony were the
-most preposterous absurdity in the world, she had leaned suddenly
-close to him and left upon his cheek the veriest feather from a
-fairy's wing.
-
-She wrote him a month later:
-
-No.  It must keep on being almost.
-
-Isn't almost pretty pleasant?  You know well enough that I care for
-you.  I did from the first minute I saw you, and I'm pretty sure you
-knew it--I'm afraid you did.  I'm afraid you always knew it.  I'm not
-conventional and cautious about being engaged, as you say I am, dear.
-(I always read over the "dears" in your letters a time or two, as you
-say you do in mine--only I read all of your letters a time or two!)
-But it's such a solemn thing it scares me.  It means a good deal to a
-lot of people besides you and me, and that scares me, too.  You write
-that I take your feeling for me "too lightly" and that I "take the
-whole affair too lightly."  Isn't that odd!  Because to myself I seem
-to take it as something so much more solemn than you do.  I shouldn't
-be a bit surprised to find myself an old lady, some day, still
-thinking of you--while you'd be away and away with somebody else
-perhaps, and me forgotten ages ago!  "Lucy Morgan," you'd say, when
-you saw my obituary.  "Lucy Morgan? Let me see: I seem to remember the
-name.  Didn't I know some Lucy Morgan or other, once upon a time?"
-Then you'd shake your big white head and stroke your long white beard
---you'd have such a distinguished long white beard! and you'd say,
-'No. I don't seem to remember any Lucy Morgan; I wonder what made me
-think I did?'  And poor me!  I'd be deep in the ground, wondering if
-you'd heard about it and what you were saying!  Good-bye for to-day.
-Don't work too hard--dear!
-
-George immediately seized pen and paper, plaintively but vigorously
-requesting Lucy not to imagine him with a beard, distinguished or
-otherwise, even in the extremities of age.  Then, after inscribing his
-protest in the matter of this visioned beard, he concluded his missive
-in a tone mollified to tenderness, and proceeded to read a letter from
-his mother which had reached him simultaneously with Lucy's.  Isabel
-wrote from Asheville, where she had just arrived with her husband.
-
-I think your father looks better already, darling, though we've been
-here only a few hours  It may be we've found just the place to build
-him up.  The doctors said they hoped it would prove to be, and if it
-is, it would be worth the long struggle we had with him to get him to
-give up and come.  Poor dear man, he was so blue, not about his health
-but about giving up the worries down at his office and forgetting them
-for a time--if he only will forget them!  It took the pressure of the
-family and all his best friends, to get him to come--but father and
-brother George and Fanny and Eugene Morgan all kept at him so
-constantly that he just had to give in.  I'm afraid that in my anxiety
-to get him to do what the doctors wanted him to, I wasn't able to back
-up brother George as I should in his difficulty with Sydney and
-Amelia.  I'm so sorry!  George is more upset than I've ever seen him--
-they've got what they wanted, and they're sailing before long,  I
-hear, to live in Florence.  Father said he couldn't stand the constant
-persuading--I'm afraid the word he used was "nagging."  I can't
-understand people behaving like that.  George says they may be
-Ambersons, but they're vulgar!  I'm afraid I almost agree with him.
-At least, I think they were inconsiderate.  But I don't see why I'm
-unburdening myself of all this to you, poor darling!  We'll have
-forgotten all about it long before you come home for the holidays, and
-it should mean little or nothing to you, anyway.  Forget that I've
-been so foolish!
-
-Your father is waiting for me to take a walk with him--that's a
-splendid sign, because he hasn't felt he could walk much, at home,
-lately. I mustn't keep him waiting.  Be careful to wear your
-mackintosh and rubbers in rainy weather, and, as soon as it begins to
-get colder, your ulster.  Wish you could see your father now. Looks so
-much better!  We plan to stay six weeks if the place agrees with him.
-It does really seem to already!  He's just called in the door to say
-he's waiting.  Don't smoke too much, darling boy.
-
-Devotedly, your mother
-Isabel.
-
-But she did not keep her husband there for the six weeks she
-anticipated.  She did not keep him anywhere that long.  Three weeks
-after writing this letter, she telegraphed suddenly to George that
-they were leaving for home at once; and four days later, when he and a
-friend came whistling into his study, from lunch at the club, he found
-another telegram upon his desk.
-
-He read it twice before he comprehended its import.
-
-Papa left us at ten this morning, dearest.
-Mother.
-
-The friend saw the change in his face.  "Not bad news?"
-
-George lifted utterly dumfounded eyes from the yellow paper.
-
-"My father," he said weakly.  "She says--she says he's dead.  I've got
-to go home."
-
-His Uncle George and the Major met him at the station when he arrived
---the first time the Major had ever come to meet his grandson.  The old
-gentleman sat in his closed carriage (which still needed paint) at the
-entrance to the station, but he got out and advanced to grasp George's
-hand tremulously, when the latter appeared.  "Poor fellow!" he said,
-and patted him repeatedly upon the shoulder.  "Poor fellow!  Poor
-Georgie!"
-
-George had not yet come to a full realization of his loss: so far, his
-condition was merely dazed; and as the Major continued to pat him,
-murmuring "Poor fellow!" over and over, George was seized by an almost
-irresistible impulse to tell his grandfather that he was not a poodle.
-But he said "Thanks," in a low voice, and got into the carriage, his
-two relatives following with deferential sympathy.  He noticed that
-the Major's tremulousness did not disappear, as they drove up the
-street, and that he seemed much feebler than during the summer.
-Principally, however, George was concerned with his own emotion, or
-rather, with his lack of emotion; and the anxious sympathy of his
-grandfather and his uncle made him feel hypocritical.  He was not
-grief-stricken; but he felt that he ought to be, and, with a secret
-shame, concealed his callousness beneath an affectation of solemnity.
-
-But when he was taken into the room where lay what was left of Wilbur
-Minafer, George had no longer to pretend; his grief was sufficient.
-It needed only the sight of that forever inert semblance of the quiet
-man who had been always so quiet a part of his son's life--so quiet a
-part that George had seldom been consciously aware that his father was
-indeed a. part of his life.  As the figure lay there, its very
-quietness was what was most lifelike; and suddenly it struck George
-hard.  And in that unexpected, racking grief of his son, Wilbur
-Minafer became more vividly George's father than he had ever been in
-life.
-
-When George left the room, his arm was about his black-robed mother,
-his shoulders were still shaken with sobs.  He leaned upon his mother;
-she gently comforted him; and presently he recovered his composure and
-became self-conscious enough to wonder if he had not been making an
-unmanly display of himself.  "I'm all right again, mother," he said
-awkwardly.  "Don't worry about me: you'd better go lie down, or
-something; you look pretty pale."
-
-Isabel did look pretty pale, but not ghastly pale, as Fanny did.
-Fanny's grief was overwhelming; she stayed in her room, and George did
-not see her until the next day, a few minutes before the funeral, when
-her haggard face appalled him.  But by this time he was quite himself
-again, and during the short service in the cemetery his thoughts even
-wandered so far as to permit him a feeling of regret not directly
-connected with his father.  Beyond the open flower-walled grave was a
-mound where new grass grew; and here lay his great-uncle, old John
-Minafer, who had died the previous autumn; and beyond this were the
-graves of George's grandfather and grandmother Minafer, and of his
-grandfather Minafer's second wife, and her three sons, George's half-
-uncles, who had been drowned together in a canoe accident when George
-was a child--Fanny was the last of the family.  Next beyond was the
-Amberson family lot, where lay the Major's wife and their sons Henry
-and Milton, uncles whom George dimly remembered; and beside them lay
-Isabel's older sister, his Aunt Estelle, who had died, in her
-girlhood, long before George was born.  The Minafer monument was a
-granite block, with the name chiseled upon its one polished side, and
-the Amberson monument was a white marble shaft taller than any other
-in that neighbourhood.  But farther on there was a newer section of
-the cemetery, an addition which had been thrown open to occupancy only
-a few years before, after dexterous modern treatment by a landscape
-specialist.  There were some large new mausoleums here, and shafts
-taller than the Ambersons', as well as a number of monuments of some
-sculptural pretentiousness; and altogether the new section appeared to
-be a more fashionable and important quarter than that older one which
-contained the Amberson and Minafer lots.  This was what caused
-George's regret, during the moment or two when his mind strayed from
-his father and the reading of the service.
-
-On the train, going back to college, ten days later, this regret
-(though it was as much an annoyance as a regret) recurred to his mind,
-and a feeling developed within him that the new quarter of the
-cemetery was in bad taste--not architecturally or sculpturally
-perhaps, but in presumption: it seemed to flaunt a kind of parvenu
-ignorance, as if it were actually pleased to be unaware that all the
-aristocratic and really important families were buried in the old
-section.
-
-The annoyance gave way before a recollection of the sweet mournfulness
-of his mother's face, as she had said good-bye to him at the station,
-and of how lovely she looked in her mourning.  He thought of Lucy,
-whom he had seen only twice, and he could not help feeling that in
-these quiet interviews he had appeared to her as tinged with heroism--
-she had shown, rather than said, how brave she thought him in his
-sorrow.  But what came most vividly to George's mind, during these
-retrospections, was the despairing face of his Aunt Fanny.  Again and
-again he thought of it; he could not avoid its haunting.  And for
-days, after he got back to college, the stricken likeness of Fanny
-would appear before him unexpectedly, and without a cause that he
-could trace in his immediately previous thoughts.  Her grief had been
-so silent, yet it had so amazed him.
-
-George felt more and more compassion for this ancient antagonist of
-his, and he wrote to his mother about her:
-
-I'm afraid poor Aunt Fanny might think now father's gone we won't want
-her to live with us any longer and because I always teased her so much
-she might think I'd be for turning her out.  I don't know where on
-earth she'd go or what she could live on if we did do something like
-this, and of course we never would do such a thing, but I'm pretty
-sure she had something of the kind on her mind.  She didn't say
-anything, but the way she looked is what makes me think so.  Honestly,
-to me she looked just scared sick.  You tell her there isn't any
-danger in the world of my treating her like that.  Tell her everything
-is to go on just as it always has.  Tell her to cheer up!
-
-
-
-
-Chapter XV
-
-
-
-Isabel did more for Fanny than telling her to cheer up. Everything
-that Fanny inherited from her father, old Aleck Minafer, had been
-invested in Wilbur's business; and Wilbur's business, after a period
-of illness corresponding in dates to the illness of Wilbur's body, had
-died just before Wilbur did.  George Amberson and Fanny were both
-"wiped out to a miracle of precision," as Amberson said.  They "owned
-not a penny and owed not a penny," he continued, explaining his
-phrase.  "It's like the moment just before drowning: you're not under
-water and you're not out of it.  All you know is that you're not dead
-yet."
-
-He spoke philosophically, having his "prospects" from his father to
-fall back upon; but Fanny had neither "prospects" nor philosophy.
-However, a legal survey of Wilbur's estate revealed the fact that his
-life insurance was left clear of the wreck; and Isabel, with the
-cheerful consent of her son, promptly turned this salvage over to her
-sister-in-law.  Invested, it would yield something better than nine
-hundred dollars a year, and thus she was assured of becoming neither a
-pauper nor a dependent, but proved to be, as Amberson said, adding his
-efforts to the cheering up of Fanny, "an heiress, after all, in spite
-of rolling mills and the devil."  She was unable to smile, and he
-continued his humane gayeties.  "See what a wonderfully desirable
-income nine hundred dollars is, Fanny: a bachelor, to be in your
-class, must have exactly forty-nine thousand one hundred a year.
-Then, you see, all you need to do, in order to have fifty thousand a
-year, is to be a little encouraging when some bachelor in your class
-begins to show by his haberdashery what he wants you to think about
-him!"
-
-She looked at him wanly, murmured a desolate response--she had "sewing
-to do"--and left the room; while Amberson shook his head ruefully at
-his sister.  "I've often thought that humor was not my forte," he
-sighed.  "Lord!  She doesn't 'cheer up' much!"
-
-The collegian did not return to his home for the holidays.  Instead,
-Isabel joined him, and they went South for the two weeks.  She was
-proud of her stalwart, good-looking son at the hotel where they
-stayed, and it was meat and drink to her when she saw how people
-stared at him in the lobby and on the big verandas--indeed, her vanity
-in him was so dominant that she was unaware of their staring at her
-with more interest and an admiration friendlier than George evoked.
-Happy to have him to herself for this fortnight, she loved to walk
-with him, leaning upon his arm, to read with him, to watch the sea
-with him--perhaps most of all she liked to enter the big dining room
-with him.
-
-Yet both of them felt constantly the difference between this
-Christmastime and other Christmas-times of theirs--in all, it was a
-sorrowful holiday.  But when Isabel came East for George's
-commencement, in June, she brought Lucy with her--and things began to
-seem different, especially when George Amberson arrived with Lucy's
-father on Class Day.  Eugene had been in New York, on business;
-Amberson easily persuaded him to this outing; and they made a cheerful
-party of it, with the new graduate of course the hero and center of it
-all.
-
-His uncle was a fellow alumnus.  "Yonder was where I roomed when I was
-here," he said, pointing out one of the university buildings to
-Eugene.  "I don't know whether George would let my admirers place a
-tablet to mark the spot, or not.  He owns all these buildings now, you
-know."
-
-"Didn't you, when you were here?  Like uncle, like nephew."
-
-"Don't tell George you think he's like me.  Just at this time we
-should be careful of the young gentleman's feelings."
-
-"Yes," said Eugene.  "If we weren't he mightn't let us exist at all."
-
-"I'm sure I didn't have it so badly at his age," Amberson said
-reflectively, as they strolled on through the commencement crowd.
-"For one thing, I had brothers and sisters, and my mother didn't just
-sit at my feet as George's does; and I wasn't an only grandchild,
-either.  Father's always spoiled Georgie a lot more than he did any of
-his own' children."
-
-Eugene laughed.  "You need only three things to explain all that's
-good and bad about Georgie."
-
-"Three?"
-
-"He's Isabel's only child.  He's an Amberson.  He's a boy."
-
-"Well, Mister Bones, of these three things which are the good ones and
-which are the bad ones?"
-
-"All of them," said Eugene.
-
-It happened that just then they came in sight of the subject of their
-discourse.  George was walking under the elms with Lucy, swinging a
-stick and pointing out to her various objects and localities which had
-attained historical value during the last four years.  The two older
-men marked his gestures, careless and graceful; they observed his
-attitude, unconsciously noble, his easy proprietorship of the ground
-beneath his feet and round about, of the branches overhead, of the old
-buildings beyond, and of Lucy.
-
-"I don't know," Eugene said, smiling whimsically.  "I don't know.
-When I spoke of his being a human being--I don't know.  Perhaps it's
-more like deity."
-
-"I wonder if I was like that!"  'Amberson groaned.'  "You don't
-suppose every Amberson has had to go through it, do you?"
-
-"Don't worry!  At least half of it is a combination of youth, good
-looks, and college; and even the noblest Ambersons get over their
-nobility and come to, be people in time.  It takes more than time,
-though."
-
-"I should say it did take more than time!" his friend agreed, shaking
-a rueful head.
-
-Then they walked over to join the loveliest Amberson, whom neither
-time nor trouble seemed to have touched.  She stood alone, thoughtful
-under the great trees, chaperoning George and Lucy at a distance; but,
-seeing the two friends approaching, she came to meet them.
-
-"It's charming, isn't it!" she said, moving her black-gloved hand to
-indicate the summery dressed crowd strolling about them, or clustering
-in groups, each with its own hero.  "They seem so eager and so
-confident, all these boys--it's touching.  But of course youth doesn't
-know it's touching."
-
-Amberson coughed.  "No, it doesn't seem to take itself as pathetic,
-precisely!  Eugene and I were just speaking of something like that.
-Do you know what I think whenever I see these smooth, triumphal young
-faces?  I always think:  'Oh, how you're going to catch it'!"
-
-"George!"
-
-"Oh, yes," he said.  "Life's most ingenious: it's got a special
-walloping for every mother's son of 'em!"
-
-"Maybe," said Isabel, troubled--"maybe some of the mothers can take
-the walloping for them."
-
-"Not one!" her brother assured her, with emphasis.  "Not any more than
-she can take on her own face the lines that are bound to come on her
-son's.  I suppose you know that all these young faces have got to get
-lines on 'em?"
-
-"Maybe they won't," she said, smiling wistfully.  "Maybe times will
-change, and nobody will have to wear lines."
-
-"Times have changed like that for only one person that I know," Eugene
-said.  And as Isabel looked inquiring, he laughed, and she saw that
-she was the "only one person."  His implication was justified,
-moreover, and she knew it.  She blushed charmingly.
-
-"Which is it puts the lines on the faces?"  Amberson asked.  "Is it
-age or trouble?  Of course we can't decide that wisdom does it--we
-must be polite to Isabel."
-
-"I'll tell you what puts the lines there," Eugene said.  "Age puts
-some, and trouble puts some, and work puts some, but the deepest are
-carved by lack of faith.  The serenest brow is the one that believes
-the most."
-
-"In what?" Isabel asked gently.
-
-"In everything!"
-
-She looked at him inquiringly, and he laughed as he had a moment
-before, when she looked at him that way.  "Oh, yes, you do!" he said.
-
-She continued to look at him inquiringly a moment or two longer, and
-there was an unconscious earnestness in her glance, something trustful
-as well as inquiring, as if she knew that whatever he meant it was all
-right.  Then her eyes drooped thoughtfully, and she seemed to address
-some inquiries to herself.  She looked up suddenly.  "Why, I believe,"
-she said, in a tone of surprise, "I believe I do!"
-
-And at that both men laughed.  "Isabel!" her brother exclaimed.
-"You're a foolish person!  There are times when you look exactly
-fourteen years old!"
-
-But this reminded her of her real affair in that part of the world.
-"Good gracious!" she said.  "Where have the children got to?  We must
-take Lucy pretty soon, so that George can go and sit with the Class.
-We must catch up with them."
-
-She took her brother's arm, and the three moved on, looking about them
-in the crowd.
-
-"Curious," Amberson remarked, as they did not immediately discover the
-young people they sought.  "Even in such a concourse one would think
-we couldn't fail to see the proprietor."
-
-"Several hundred proprietors today," Eugene suggested.
-
-"No; they're only proprietors of the university," said George's uncle.
-"We're looking for the proprietor of the universe."
-
-"There he is!" cried Isabel fondly, not minding this satire at all.
-"And doesn't he look it!"
-
-Her escorts were still laughing at her when they joined the proprietor
-of the universe and his pretty friend, and though both Amberson and
-Eugene declined to explain the cause of their mirth, even upon Lucy's
-urgent request, the portents of the day were amiable, and the five
-made a happy party--that is to say, four of them made a happy audience
-for the fifth, and the mood of this fifth was gracious and cheerful.
-
-George took no conspicuous part in either the academic or the social
-celebrations of his class; he seemed to regard both sets of exercises
-with a tolerant amusement, his own "crowd" "not going in much for
-either of those sorts of things," as he explained to Lucy.  What his
-crowd had gone in for remained ambiguous; some negligent testimony
-indicating that, except for an astonishing reliability which they all
-seemed to have attained in matters relating to musical comedy, they
-had not gone in for anything.  Certainly the question one of them put
-to Lucy, in response to investigations of hers, seemed to point that
-way:  "Don't you think," he said, "really, don't you think that being
-things is rather better than doing things?"
-
-He said "rahthuh bettuh" for "rather better," and seemed to do it
-deliberately, with perfect knowledge of what he was doing.  Later,
-Lucy mocked him to George, and George refused to smile: he somewhat
-inclined to such pronunciations, himself.  This inclination was one of
-the things that he had acquired in the four years.
-
-What else he had acquired, it might have puzzled him to state, had
-anybody asked him and required a direct reply within a reasonable
-space of time.  He had learned how to pass examinations by "cramming";
-that is, in three or four days and nights he could get into his head
-enough of a selected fragment of some scientific or philosophical or
-literary or linguistic subject to reply plausibly to six questions out
-of ten.  He could retain the information necessary for such a feat
-just long enough to give a successful performance; then it would
-evaporate utterly from his brain, and leave him undisturbed.  George,
-like his "crowd," not only preferred "being things" to "doing things,"
-but had contented himself with four years of "being things" as a
-preparation for going on "being things."  And when Lucy rather shyly
-pressed him for his friend's probable definition of the "things" it
-seemed so superior and beautiful to be, George raised his eyebrows
-slightly, meaning that she should have understood without explanation;
-but he did explain:  "Oh, family and all that--being a gentleman, I
-suppose."
-
-Lucy gave the horizon a long look, but offered no comment.
-
-
-
-
-Chapter XVI
-
-
-"Aunt Fanny doesn't look much better," George said to his mother, a few
-minutes after their arrival, on the night they got home.  He stood
-with a towel in her doorway, concluding some sketchy ablutions before
-going downstairs to a supper which Fanny was hastily preparing for
-them.  Isabel had not telegraphed;  Fanny was taken by surprise when
-they drove up in a station cab at eleven o'clock; and George instantly
-demanded "a little decent food."  (Some criticisms of his had publicly
-disturbed the composure of the dining-car steward four hours
-previously.)  "I never saw anybody take things so hard as she seems
-to," he observed, his voice muffled by the towel.  "Doesn't she get
-over it at all?  I thought she'd feel better when we turned over the
-insurance to her--gave it to her absolutely, without any strings to
-it.  She looks about a thousand years old!"
-
-"She looks quite girlish, sometimes, though," his mother said.
-
-"Has she looked that way much since father--"
-
-"Not so much," Isabel said thoughtfully.  "But she will, as times goes
-on."
-
-"Time'll have to hurry, then, it seems to me," George observed,
-returning to his own room.
-
-When they went down to the dining room, he pronounced acceptable the
-salmon salad, cold beef, cheese, and cake which Fanny made ready for
-them without disturbing the servants.  The journey had fatigued
-Isabel, she ate nothing, but sat to observe with tired pleasure the
-manifestations of her son's appetite, meanwhile giving her sister-in-
-law a brief summary of the events of commencement.  But presently she
-kissed them both good-night--taking care to kiss George lightly upon
-the side of his head, so as not to disturb his eating--and left aunt
-and nephew alone together.
-
-"It never was becoming to her to look pale," Fanny said absently, a
-few moments after Isabel's departure.
-
-"Wha'd you say, Aunt Fanny?"
-
-"Nothing. I suppose your mother's been being pretty gay?  Going a
-lot?"
-
-"How could she?" George asked cheerfully.  "In mourning, of course all
-she could do was just sit around and look on.  That's all Lucy could
-do either, for the matter of that."
-
-"I suppose so," his aunt assented.  "How did Lucy get home?"
-
-George regarded her with astonishment.  "Why, on the train with the
-rest of us, of course."
-
-"I didn't mean that," Fanny explained.  "I meant from the station.
-Did you drive out to their house with her before you came here?"
-
-"No.  She drove home with her father, of course."
-
-"Oh, I see.  So Eugene came to the station to meet you."
-
-"To meet us?"  George echoed, renewing his attack upon the salmon
-salad.  "How could he?"
-
-"I don't know what you mean," Fanny said drearily, in the desolate
-voice that had become her habit.  "I haven't seen him while your
-mother's been away."
-
-"Naturally," said George.  "He's been East himself."
-
-At this Fanny's drooping eyelids opened wide.
-
-"Did you see him?"
-
-"Well, naturally, since he made the trip home with us!"
-
-"He did?" she said sharply.  "He's been with you all the time?"
-
-"No; only on the train and the last three days before we left.  Uncle
-George got him to come."
-
-Fanny's eyelids drooped again, and she sat silent until George pushed
-back his chair and lit a cigarette, declaring his satisfaction with
-what she had provided.  "You're a fine housekeeper," he said
-benevolently.  "You know how to make things look dainty as well as
-taste the right way. I don't believe you'd stay single very long if
-some of the bachelors and widowers around town could just once see--"
-
-She did not hear him.  "It's a little odd," she said.
-
-"What's odd?"
-
-"Your mother's not mentioning that Mr. Morgan had been with you."
-
-"Didn't think of it, I suppose," said George carelessly; and, his
-benevolent mood increasing, he conceived the idea that a little
-harmless rallying might serve to elevate his aunt's drooping spirits.
-"I'll tell you something, in confidence," he said solemnly.
-
-She looked up, startled. "What?"
-
-"Well, it struck me that Mr. Morgan was looking pretty absent-minded,
-most of the time; and he certainly is dressing better than he used to.
-Uncle George told me he heard that the automobile factory had been
-doing quite well--won a race, too!  I shouldn't be a bit surprised if
-all the young fellow had been waiting for was to know he had an
-assured income before he proposed."
-
-"What 'young fellow'?"
-
-"This young fellow Morgan," laughed George; "Honestly, Aunt Fanny, I
-shouldn't be a bit surprised to have him request an interview with me
-any day, and declare that his intentions are honourable, and ask my
-permission to pay his addresses to you.  What had I better tell him?"
-
-Fanny burst into tears.
-
-"Good heavens!" George cried.  "I was only teasing. I didn't mean--"
-
-"Let me alone," she said lifelessly; and, continuing to weep, rose and
-began to clear away the dishes.
-
-"Please, Aunt Fanny--"
-
-"Just let me alone."
-
-George was distressed.  "I didn't mean anything, Aunt Fanny!  I didn't
-know you'd got so sensitive as all that."
-
-"You'd better go up to bed," she said desolately, going on with her
-work and her weeping.
-
-"Anyhow," he insisted, "do let these things wait.  Let the servants
-'tend to the table in the morning."
-
-"No."
-
-"But, why not?"
-
-"Just let me alone."
-
-"Oh, Lord!"  George groaned, going to the door.  There he turned.
-"See here, Aunt Fanny, there's not a bit of use your bothering about
-those dishes tonight.  What's the use of a butler and three maids if--"
-
-"Just let me alone."
-
-He obeyed, and could still hear a pathetic sniffing from the dining
-room as he went up the stairs.
-
-"By George!" he grunted, as he reached his own room; and his thought
-was that living with a person so sensitive to kindly raillery might
-prove lugubrious.  He whistled, long and low, then went to the window
-and looked through the darkness to the great silhouette of his
-grandfather's house.  Lights were burning over there, upstairs;
-probably his newly arrived uncle was engaged in talk with the Major.
-
-George's glance lowered, resting casually upon the indistinct ground,
-and he beheld some vague shapes, unfamiliar to him.  Formless heaps,
-they seemed; but, without much curiosity, he supposed that sewer
-connections or water pipes might be out of order, making necessary
-some excavations.  He hoped the work would not take long; he hated to
-see that sweep of lawn made unsightly by trenches and lines of dirt,
-even temporarily.  Not greatly disturbed, however, he pulled down the
-shade, yawned, and began to, undress, leaving further investigation
-for the morning.
-
-But in the morning he had forgotten all about it, and raised his
-shade, to let in the light, without even glancing toward the ground.
-Not until he had finished dressing did he look forth from his window,
-and then his glance was casual.  The next instant his attitude became
-electric, and he gave utterance to a bellow of dismay.  He ran from
-his room, plunged down the stairs, out of the front door, and, upon a
-nearer view of the destroyed lawn, began to release profanity upon the
-breezeless summer air, which remained unaffected.  Between his
-mother's house and his grandfather's, excavations for the cellars of
-five new houses were in process, each within a few feet of its
-neighbour.  Foundations of brick were being laid; everywhere were
-piles of brick and stacked lumber, and sand heaps and mortar' beds.
-
-It was Sunday, and so the workmen implicated in these defacings were
-denied what unquestionably; they would have considered a treat; but as
-the fanatic orator continued the monologue, a gentleman in flannels
-emerged upward from one of the excavations, and regarded him
-contemplatively.
-
-"Obtaining any relief, nephew?" he inquired with some interest.  "You
-must have learned quite a number of those expressions in childhood--
-it's so long since I'd heard them I fancied they were obsolete."
-
-"Who wouldn't swear?"  George demanded hotly.  "In the name of God,
-what does grandfather mean, doing such things?"
-
-"My private opinion is," said Amberson gravely, "he desires to
-increase his income by building these houses to rent."
-
-"Well, in the name of God, can't he increase his income any other way
-but this?"
-
-"In the name of God, it would appear he couldn't."
-
-"It's beastly!  It's a damn degradation!  It's a crime!"
-
-"I don't know about its being a crime," said his uncle, stepping over
-some planks to join him.  "It might be a mistake, though.  Your mother
-said not to tell you until we got home, so as not to spoil
-commencement for you.  She rather feared you'd be upset."
-
-"Upset!  Oh, my Lord, I should think I would be upset!  He's in his
-second childhood.  What did you let him do it for, in the name of--"
-
-"Make it in the name of heaven this time, George; it's Sunday.  Well,
-I thought, myself, it was a mistake."
-
-"I should say so!"
-
-"Yes," said Amberson.  "I wanted him to put up an apartment building
-instead of these houses."
-
-"An apartment building!  Here?"
-
-"Yes; that was my idea."
-
-George struck his hands together despairingly.  "An apartment house!
-Oh, my Lord!"
-
-"Don't worry!  Your grandfather wouldn't listen to me, but he'll wish
-he had, some day.  He says that people aren't going to live in
-miserable little flats when they can get a whole house with some grass
-in front and plenty of backyard behind.  He sticks it out that
-apartment houses will never do in a town of this type, and when I
-pointed out to him that a dozen or so of 'em already are doing, he
-claimed it was just the novelty, and that they'd all be empty as soon
-as people got used to 'em.  So he's putting up these houses."
-
-"Is he getting miserly in his old age?"
-
-"Hardly!  Look what he gave Sydney and Amelia!"
-
-"I don't mean he's a miser, of course," said George.  "Heaven knows
-he's liberal enough with mother and me; but why on earth didn't he
-sell something or other rather than do a thing like this?"
-
-"As a matter of fact," Amberson returned coolly, "I believe he has
-sold something or other, from time to time."
-
-"Well, in heaven's name," George cried, "what did he do it for?"
-
-"To get money," his uncle mildly replied.  "That's my deduction."
-
-"I suppose you're joking--or trying to!"
-
-"That's the best way to look at it," Amberson said amiably.  "Take the
-whole thing as a joke--and in the meantime, if you haven't had your
-breakfast--"
-
-"I haven't!"
-
-"Then if I were you I'd go in and gets some.  And"--he paused,
-becoming serious--"and if I were you I wouldn't say anything to your
-grandfather about this."
-
-"I don't think I could trust myself to speak to him about it," said
-George.  "I want to treat him respectfully, because he is my
-grandfather, but I don't believe I could if I talked to him about such
-a thing as this!"
-
-And with a gesture of despair, plainly signifying that all too soon
-after leaving bright college years behind him he had entered into the
-full tragedy of life, George turned bitterly upon his heel and went
-into the house for his breakfast.
-
-His uncle, with his head whimsically upon one side, gazed after him
-not altogether unsympathetically, then descended again into the
-excavation whence he had lately emerged.  Being a philosopher he was
-not surprised, that afternoon, in the course of a drive he took in the
-old carriage with the Major, when, George was encountered upon the
-highway, flashing along in his runabout with Lucy beside him and
-Pendennis doing better than three minutes.
-
-"He seems to have recovered," Amberson remarked:  "Looks in the
-highest good spirits."
-
-"I beg your pardon."
-
-"Your grandson," Amberson explained.  "He was inclined to melancholy
-this morning, but seemed jolly enough just now when they passed us."
-
-"What was he melancholy about?  Not getting remorseful about all the
-money he's spent at college, was he?"  The Major chuckled feebly, but
-with sufficient grimness.  "I wonder what he thinks I'm made of," he
-concluded querulously.
-
-"Gold," his son suggested, adding gently, "And he's right about part
-of you, father."
-
-"What part?"
-
-"Your heart."
-
-The Major laughed ruefully.  "I suppose that may account for how heavy
-it feels, sometimes, nowadays.  This town seems to be rolling right
-over that old heart you mentioned, George--rolling over it and burying
-it under!  When I think of those devilish workmen digging up my lawn,
-yelling around my house--"
-
-"Never mind, father.  Don't think of it.  When things are a nuisance
-it's a good idea not to keep remembering 'em."
-
-"I try not to," the old gentleman murmured.  "I try to keep
-remembering that I won't be remembering anything very long."  And,
-somehow convinced that this thought was a mirthful one, he laughed
-loudly, and slapped his knee.  "Not so very long now, my boy!" he
-chuckled, continuing to echo his own amusement.  "Not so very long.
-Not so very long!"
-
-
-
-
-Chapter XVII
-
-
-
-Young George paid his respects to his grandfather the following
-morning, having been occupied with various affairs and engagements on
-Sunday until after the Major's bedtime; and topics concerned with
-building or excavations were not introduced into the conversation,
-which was a cheerful one until George lightly mentioned some new plans
-of his.  He was a skillful driver, as the Major knew, and he spoke of
-his desire to extend his proficiency in this art: in fact, be
-entertained the ambition to drive a four-in-hand.  However, as the
-Major said nothing, and merely sat still, looking surprised, George
-went on to say that he did not propose to "go in for coaching just at
-the start"; he thought it would be better to begin with a tandem.  He
-was sure Pendennis could be trained to work as a leader; and all that
-one needed to buy at present, he said, would be "comparatively
-inexpensive--a new trap, and the harness, of course, and a good bay to
-match Pendennis."  He did not care for a special groom; one of the
-stablemen would do.
-
-At this point the Major decided to speak.  "You say one of the
-stablemen would do?" he inquired, his widened eyes remaining fixed
-upon his grandson.  "That's lucky, because one's all there is, just at
-present, George.  Old fat Tom does it all.  Didn't you notice, when
-you took Pendennis out, yesterday?"
-
-"Oh, that will be all right, sir.  My mother can lend me her man."
-
-"Can she?"  The old gentleman smiled faintly.  "I wonder--"  He
-paused.
-
-"What, sir?"
-
-"Whether you mightn't care to go to law-school somewhere perhaps.  I'd
-be glad to set aside a sum that would see you through."
-
-This senile divergence from the topic in hand surprised George
-painfully.  "I have no interest whatever in the law," he said.  "I
-don't care for it, and the idea of being a professional man has never
-appealed to me.  None of the family has ever gone in for that sort of
-thing, to my knowledge, and I don't care to be the first. I was
-speaking of driving a tandem--"
-
-"I know you were," the Major said quietly.
-
-George looked hurt.  "I beg your pardon.  Of course if the idea
-doesn't appeal to you--"  And he rose to go.
-
-The Major ran a tremulous hand through his hair, sighing deeply.  "I--
-I don't like to refuse you anything, Georgie," he said.  "I don't know
-that I often have refused you whatever you wanted--in reason--"
-
-"You've always been more than generous, sir," George interrupted
-quickly.  "And if the idea of a tandem doesn't appeal to you, why--of
-course--"  And he waved his hand, heroically dismissing the tandem.
-
-The Major's distress became obvious.  "Georgie, I'd like to, but--but
-I've an idea tandems are dangerous to drive, and your mother might be
-anxious.  She--"
-
-"No, sir; I think not.  She felt it would be rather a good thing--help
-to keep me out in the open air.  But if perhaps your finances--"
-
-"Oh, it isn't that so much," the old gentleman said hurriedly.  "I
-wasn't thinking of that altogether."  He laughed uncomfortably.  "I
-guess we could still afford a new horse or two, if need be--"
-
- "I thought you said--"
-
-The Major waved his hand airily.  "Oh, a few retrenchments where
-things were useless; nothing gained by a raft of idle darkies in the
-stable--nor by a lot of extra land that might as well be put to work
-for us in rentals.  And if you want this thing so very much--"
-
-"It's not important enough to bother about, really, of course."
-
-"Well, let's wait till autumn then," said the Major in a tone of
-relief.  "We'll see about it in the autumn, if you're still in the
-mind for it then.  That will be a great deal better.  You remind me of
-it, along in September--or October.  We'll see what can be done."  He
-rubbed his hands cheerfully.  "We'll see what can be done about it
-then, Georgie.  We'll see."
-
-And George, in reporting this conversation to his mother, was ruefully
-humorous.  "In fact, the old boy cheered up so much," he told her,
-"you'd have thought he'd got a real load off his mind.  He seemed to
-think he'd fixed me up perfectly, and that I was just as good as
-driving a tandem around his library right that minute!  Of course I
-know he's anything but miserly; still I can't help thinking he must be
-salting a lot of money away.  I know prices are higher than they used
-to be, but he doesn't spend within thousands of what he used to, and we
-certainly can't be spending more than we always have spent.  Where
-does it all go to?  Uncle George told me grandfather had sold some
-pieces of property, and it looks a little queer.  If he's really
-'property poor,' of course we ought to be more saving than we are, and
-help him out.  I don't mind giving up a tandem if it seems a little
-too expensive just now.  I'm perfectly willing to live quietly till he
-gets his bank balance where he wants it.  But I have a faint
-suspicion, not that he's getting miserly--not that at all--but that
-old age has begun to make him timid about money.  There's no doubt
-about it, he's getting a little queer: he can't keep his mind on a
-subject long.  Right in the middle of talking about one thing he'll
-wander off to something else; and I shouldn't be surprised if he
-turned out to be a lot better off than any of us guess.  It's entirely
-possible that whatever he's sold just went into government bonds, or
-even his safety deposit box.  There was a friend of mine in college
-had an old uncle like that: made the whole family think he was poor as
-dirt--and then left seven millions.  People get terribly queer as they
-get old, sometimes, and grandfather certainly doesn't act the way he
-used to.  He seems to be a totally different man.  For instance, he
-said he thought tandem driving might be dangerous--"
-
-"Did he?" Isabel asked quickly.  "Then I'm glad he doesn't want you to
-have one.  I didn't dream--"
-
-"But it's not.  There isn't the slightest--"
-
-Isabel had a bright idea.  "Georgie!  Instead of a tandem wouldn't it
-interest you to get one of Eugene's automobiles?"
-
-"I don't think so.  They're fast enough, of course.  In fact, running
-one of those things is getting to be quite on the cards for sport, and
-people go all over the country in 'em.  But they're dirty things, and
-they keep getting out of order, so that you're always lying down on
-your back in the mud, and--"
-
-"Oh, no," she interrupted eagerly.  "Haven't you noticed?  You don't
-see nearly so many people doing that nowadays as you did two or three
-years ago, and, when you do, Eugene says it's apt to be one of the
-older patterns.  The way they make them now, you can get at most of
-the machinery from the top.  I do think you'd be interested, dear."
-
-George remained indifferent.  "Possibly--but I hardly think so.  I
-know a lot of good people are really taking them up, but still--"
-
-"But still' what?" she said as he paused.
-
-"But still--well, I suppose I'm a little old-fashioned and fastidious,
-but I'm afraid being a sort of engine driver never will  appeal to me,
-mother.  It's exciting, and I'd like that part of it, but still it
-doesn't seem to me precisely the thing a gentleman ought to do.  Too
-much overalls and monkey-wrenches and grease!"
-
-"But Eugene says people are hiring mechanics to do all that sort of
-thing for them.  They're beginning to have them just the way they have
-coachmen; and he says it's developing into quite a profession."
-
-"I know that, mother, of course; but I've seen some of these
-mechanics, and they're not very satisfactory.  For one thing, most of
-them only pretend to understand the machinery and they let people
-break down a hundred miles from nowhere, so that about all these
-fellows are good for is to hunt up a farmer and hire a horse to pull
-the automobile.  And friends of mine at college that've had a good
-deal of experience tell me the mechanics who do understand the engines
-have no training at all as servants.  They're awful!  They say
-anything they like, and usually speak to members of the family as
-'Say!'  No, I believe I'd rather wait for September and a tandem,
-mother."
-
-Nevertheless, George sometimes consented to sit in an automobile,
-while waiting for September, and he frequently went driving in one of
-Eugene's cars with Lucy and her father.  He even allowed himself to be
-escorted with his mother and Fanny through the growing factory, which
-was now, as the foreman of the paint shop informed the visitors,
-"turning out a car and a quarter a day."  George had seldom been more
-excessively bored, but his mother showed a lively interest in
-everything, wishing to have all the machinery explained to her.  It
-was Lucy who did most of the explaining, while her father looked on
-and laughed at the mistakes she made, and Fanny remained in the
-background with George, exhibiting a bleakness that overmatched his
-boredom.
-
-From the factory Eugene took them to lunch at a new restaurant, just
-opened in the town, a place which surprised Isabel with its
-metropolitan air, and, though George made fun of it to her, in a
-whisper, she offered everything the tribute of pleased exclamations;
-and her gayety helped Eugene's to make the little occasion almost a
-festive one.
-
-George's ennui disappeared in spite of himself, and he laughed to see
-his mother in such spirits.  "I didn't know mineral waters could go to
-a person's head," he said.  "Or perhaps it's this place.  It might pay
-to have a new restaurant opened somewhere in town every time you get
-the blues."
-
-Fanny turned to him with a wan smile.  "Oh, she doesn't 'get the
-blues,' George!"  Then she added, as if fearing her remark might be
-thought unpleasantly significant, "I never knew a person of a more
-even disposition. I wish I could be like that!"  And though the tone
-of this afterthought was not so enthusiastic as she tried to make it,
-she succeeded in producing a fairly amiable effect.
-
-"No," Isabel said, reverting to George's remark, and overlooking
-Fanny's.  "What makes me laugh so much at nothing is Eugene's factory.
-Wouldn't anybody be delighted to see an old friend take an idea out of
-the air like that--an idea that most people laughed at him for--
-wouldn't any old friend of his be happy to see how he'd made his idea
-into such a splendid, humming thing as that factory--all shiny steel,
-clicking and buzzing away, and with all those workmen, such muscled
-looking men and yet so intelligent looking?"
-
-"Hear! Hear!"  George applauded.  "We seem to have a lady orator among
-us.  I hope the waiters won't mind."
-
-Isabel laughed, not discouraged.  "It's beautiful to see such a
-thing," she said.  "It makes us all happy, dear old Eugene!"
-
-And with a brave gesture she stretched out her hand to him across the
-small table.  He took it quickly, giving her a look in which his
-laughter tried to remain, but vanished before a gratitude threatening
-to become emotional in spite of him.  Isabel, however, turned
-instantly to Fanny.  "Give him your hand, Fanny," she said gayly; and,
-as Fanny mechanically obeyed, "There!"  Isabel cried.  "If brother
-George were here, Eugene would have his three oldest and best friends
-congratulating him all at once.  We know what brother George thinks
-about it, though.  It's just beautiful, Eugene!"
-
-Probably if her brother George had been with them at the little table,
-he would have made known what he thought about herself, for it must
-inevitably have struck him that she was in the midst of one of those
-"times" when she looked "exactly fourteen years old."  Lucy served as
-a proxy for Amberson, perhaps, when she leaned toward George and
-whispered:  "Did you ever see anything so lovely?"
-
-"As what?"  George inquired, not because he misunderstood, but because
-he wished to prolong the pleasant neighbourliness of whispering.
-
-"As your mother!  Think of her doing that!  She's a darling!  And
-papa"--here she imperfectly repressed a tendency to laugh--"papa
-looks as if he were either going to explode or utter loud sobs!"
-
-Eugene commanded his features, however, and they resumed their
-customary apprehensiveness.  "I used to write verse," he said--"if you
-remember--"
-
-"Yes," Isabel interrupted gently.  "I remember."
-
-"I don't recall that I've written any for twenty years or so," he
-continued.  "But I'm almost thinking I could do it again, to thank
-you for making a factory visit into such a kind celebration."
-
-"Gracious!"  Lucy whispered, giggling.  "Aren't they sentimental"
-
-"People that age always are," George returned.  "They get sentimental
-over anything at all.  Factories or restaurants, it doesn't matter
-what!"
-
-And both of them were seized with fits of laughter which they managed
-to cover under the general movement of departure, as Isabel had risen
-to go.
-
-Outside, upon the crowded street, George helped Lucy into his
-runabout, and drove off, waving triumphantly, and laughing at Eugene
-who was struggling with the engine of his car, in the tonneau of which
-Isabel and Fanny had established themselves.  "Looks like a hand-organ
-man grinding away for pennies," said George, as the runabout turned
-the corner and into National Avenue.  "I'll still take a horse, any
-day."
-
-He was not so cocksure, half an hour later, on an open road, when a
-siren whistle wailed behind him, and before the sound had died away,
-Eugene's car, coming from behind with what seemed fairly like one long
-leap, went by the runabout and dwindled almost instantaneously in
-perspective, with a lace handkerchief in a black-gloved hand
-fluttering sweet derision as it was swept onward into minuteness--a
-mere white speck--and then out of sight.
-
-George was undoubtedly impressed.  "Your Father does know how to drive
-some," the dashing exhibition forced him to admit.  "Of course
-Pendennis isn't as young as he was, and I don't care to push him too
-hard.  I wouldn't mind handling one of those machines on the road like
-that, myself, if that was all there was to it--no cranking to do, or
-fooling with the engine.  Well, I enjoyed part of that lunch quite a
-lot, Lucy."
-
-"The salad?"
-
-"No.  Your whispering to me."
-
-"Blarney!"
-
-George made no response, but checked Pendennis to a walk.  Whereupon
-Lucy protested quickly:  "Oh, don't!"
-
-"Why?  Do you want him to trot his legs off?"
-
-"No, but--"
-
-"No, but'--what?"
-
-She spoke with apparent gravity:  "I know when you make him walk it's
-so you can give all your attention to--to proposing to me again!"
-
-And as she turned a face of exaggerated color to him, "By the Lord,
-but you're a little witch!"  George cried.
-
-"George, do let Pendennis trot again!"
-
-"I won't!"
-
-She clucked to the horse.  "Get up, Pendennis!  Trot!  Go on!
-Commence!"
-
-Pendennis paid no attention; she meant nothing to him, and George
-laughed at her fondly.  "You are the prettiest thing in this world,
-Lucy!" he exclaimed.  "When I see you in winter, in furs, with your
-cheeks red, I think you're prettiest then, but when I see you in
-summer, in a straw hat and a shirtwaist and a duck skirt and white
-gloves and those little silver buckled slippers, and your rose-
-coloured parasol, and your cheeks not red but with a kind of pinky
-glow about them, then I see I must have been wrong about the winter!
-When are you going to drop the 'almost' and say we're really engaged?"
-
-"Oh, not for years!  So there's the answer, and Let's trot again."
-
-But George was persistent; moreover, he had become serious during the
-last minute or two.  "I want to know," he said.  "I really mean it."
-
-"Let's don't be serious, George," she begged him hopefully.  "Let's
-talk of something pleasant."
-
-He was a little offended.  "Then it isn't pleasant for you to know
-that I want to marry you?"
-
-At this she became as serious as he could have asked; she looked down,
-and her lip quivered like that of a child about to cry.  Suddenly she
-put her hand upon one of his for just an instant, and then withdrew
-it.
-
-"Lucy!" he said huskily.  "Dear, what's the matter?  You look as if
-you were going to cry.  You always do that," he went on plaintively,
-"whenever I can get you to talk about marrying me."
-
-"I know it," she murmured.
-
-"Well, why do you?"
-
-Her eyelids flickered, and then she looked up at him with a sad
-gravity, tears seeming just at the poise.  "One reason's because I
-have a feeling that it's never going to be."
-
-"Why?"
-
-"It's just a feeling."
-
-"You haven't any reason or--"
-
-"It's just a feeling."
-
-"Well, if that's all," George said, reassured, and laughing
-confidently, "I guess I won't be very much troubled!"  But at once he
-became serious again, adopting the tone of argument.  "Lucy, how is
-anything ever going to get a chance to come of it, so long as you keep
-sticking to 'almost'?  Doesn't it strike you as unreasonable to have a
-'feeling' that we'll never be married, when what principally stands
-between us is the fact that you won't be really engaged to me?  That
-does seem pretty absurd!  Don't you care enough about me to marry me?"
-
-She looked down again, pathetically troubled.  "Yes."
-
-"Won't you always care that much about me?"
-
-"I'm--yes--I'm afraid so, George.  I never do change much about
-anything."
-
-"Well, then, why in the world won't you drop the 'almost'?"
-
-Her distress increased.  "Everything is--everything--"
-
-"What about 'everything'?"
-
-"Everything is so--so unsettled."
-
-And at that he uttered an exclamation of impatience.  "If you aren't
-the queerest girl!  What is 'unsettled'?"
-
-"Well, for one thing," she said, able to smile at his vehemence, "you
-haven't settled on anything to do.  At least, if you have you've never
-spoken of it."
-
-As she spoke, she gave him the quickest possible side glance of
-hopeful scrutiny; then looked away, not happily.  Surprise and
-displeasure were intentionally visible upon the countenance of her
-companion; and he permitted a significant period of silence to elapse
-before making any response.  "Lucy," he said, finally, with cold
-dignity, "I should like to ask you a few questions."
-
-"Yes?"
-
-"The first is: Haven't you perfectly well understood that I don't mean
-to go into business or adopt a profession?"
-
-"I wasn't quite sure," she said gently.  "I really didn't know--
-quite."
-
-"Then of course it's time I did tell you.  I never have been able to
-see any occasion for a man's going into trade, or being a lawyer, or
-any of those things if his position and family were such that he
-didn't need to.  You know, yourself, there are a lot of people in the
-East--in the South, too, for that matter--that don't think we've got
-any particular family or position or culture in this part of the
-country.  I've met plenty of that kind of provincial snobs myself, and
-they're pretty galling.  There were one or two men in my crowd at
-college, their families had lived on their income for three
-generations, and they never dreamed there was anybody in their class
-out here.  I had to show them a thing or two, right at the start, and
-I guess they won't forget it!  Well, I think it's time all their sort
-found out that three generations can mean just as much out here as
-anywhere else.  That's the way I feel about it, and let me tell you I
-feel it pretty deeply!"
-
-"But what are you going to do, George?" she cried.
-
-George's earnestness surpassed hers; he had become flushed and his
-breathing was emotional.  As he confessed, with simple genuineness, he
-did feel what he was saying "pretty deeply"; and in truth his state
-approached the tremulous.  "I expect to live an honourable life," he
-said.  "I expect to contribute my share to charities, and to take part
-in--in movements."
-
-"What kind?"
-
-"Whatever appeals to me," he said.
-
-Lucy looked at him with grieved wonder.  "But you really don't mean to
-have any regular business or profession at all?"
-
-"I certainly do not!"  George returned promptly and emphatically.
-
-"I was afraid so," she said in a low voice.
-
-George continued to breathe deeply throughout another protracted
-interval of silence.  Then he said, "I should like to revert to the
-questions I was asking you, if you don't mind."
-
-"No, George.  I think we'd better--"
-
-"Your father is a business man--"
-
-"He's a mechanical genius," Lucy interrupted quickly.  "Of course he's
-both.  And he was a lawyer once--he's done all sorts of things."
-
-"Very well.  I merely wished to ask if it's his influence that makes
-you think I ought to 'do' something?"
-
-Lucy frowned slightly.  "Why, I suppose almost everything I think or
-say must be owing to his influence in one way or another.  We haven't
-had anybody but each other for so many years, and we always think
-about alike, so of course--"
-
-"I see!"  And George's brow darkened with resentment.  "So that's it,
-is it?  It's your father's idea that I ought to go into business and
-that you oughtn't to be engaged to me until I do."
-
-Lucy gave a start, her denial was so quick.  "No! I've never once
-spoken to him about it.  Never!"
-
-George looked at her keenly, and he jumped to a conclusion not far
-from the truth.  "But you know without talking to him that it's the
-way he does feel about it?  I see."
-
-She nodded gravely.  "Yes."
-
-George's brow grew darker still.  "Do you think I'd be much of a man,"
-he said, slowly, "if I let any other man dictate to me my own way of
-life?"
-
-"George! Who's 'dictating' your--"
-
-"It seems to me it amounts to that!" he returned.
-
-"Oh, no!  I only know how papa thinks about things.  He's never, never
-spoken unkindly, or 'dictatingly' of you."  She lifted her hand in
-protest, and her face was so touching in its distress that for the
-moment George forgot his anger.  He seized that small, troubled hand.
-
-"Lucy," he said huskily.  "Don't you know that I love you?"
-
-"Yes--I do."
-
-"Don't you love me?"
-
-"Yes--I do."
-
-"Then what does it matter what your father thinks about my doing
-something or not doing anything?  He has his way, and I have mine.  I
-don't believe in the whole world scrubbing dishes and selling potatoes
-and trying law cases.  Why, look at your father's best friend, my
-Uncle George Amberson--he's never done anything in his life, and--"
-
-"Oh, yes, he has," she interrupted.  "He was in politics."
-
-"Well, I'm glad he's out," George said.  "Politics is a dirty business
-for a gentleman, and Uncle George would tell you that himself.  Lucy,
-let's not talk any more about it.  Let me tell mother when I get home
-that we're engaged. Won't you, dear?"
-
-She shook her head.
-
-"Is it because--"
-
-For a fleeting instant she touched to her cheek the hand that held
-hers.  "No," she said, and gave him a sudden little look of renewed
-gayety.  "Let's let it stay 'almost'."
-
-"Because your father--"
-
-"Oh, because it's better!"
-
-George's voice shook.  "Isn't it your father?"
-
-"It's his ideals I'm thinking of--yes."
-
-George dropped her hand abruptly and anger narrowed his eyes.  "I know
-what you mean," he said.  "I dare say I don't care for your father's
-ideals any more than he does for mine!"
-
-He tightened the reins, Pendennis quickening eagerly to the trot; and
-when George jumped out of the runabout before Lucy's gate, and
-assisted her to descend, the silence in which they parted was the same
-that had begun when Fendennis began to trot.
-
-
-
-
-Chapter XVIII
-
-
-
-That evening, after dinner, George sat with his mother and his Aunt
-Fanny upon the veranda.  In former summers, when they sat outdoors in
-the evening, they had customarily used an open terrace at the side of
-the house, looking toward the Major's, but that more private retreat
-now afforded too blank and abrupt a view of the nearest of the new
-houses; so, without consultation, they had abandoned it for the
-Romanesque stone structure in front, an oppressive place.
-
-Its oppression seemed congenial to George; he sat upon the copestone
-of the stone parapet, his back against a stone pilaster; his attitude
-not comfortable, but rigid, and his silence not comfortable, either,
-but heavy.  However, to the eyes of his mother and his aunt, who
-occupied wicker chairs at a little distance, he was almost
-indistinguishable except for the stiff white shield of his evening
-frontage.
-
-"It's so nice of you always to dress in the evening, Georgie," his
-mother said, her glance resting upon this surface.  "Your Uncle George
-always used to, and so did father, for years; but they both stopped
-quite a long time ago.  Unless there's some special occasion, it seems
-to me we don't see it done any more, except on the stage and in the
-magazines."
-
-He made no response, and Isabel, after waiting a little while, as if
-she expected one, appeared to acquiesce in his mood for silence, and
-turned her head to gaze thoughtfully out at the street.
-
-There, in the highway, the evening life of the Midland city had begun.
-A rising moon was bright upon the tops of the shade trees, where their
-branches met overhead, arching across the street, but only filtered
-splashings of moonlight reached the block pavement below; and through
-this darkness flashed the firefly lights of silent bicycles gliding by
-in pairs and trios--or sometimes a dozen at a time might come, and not
-so silent, striking their little bells; the riders' voices calling and
-laughing; while now and then a pair of invisible experts would pass,
-playing mandolin and guitar as if handle-bars were of no account in
-the world--their music would come swiftly, and then too swiftly die
-away.  Surreys rumbled lightly by, with the plod-plod of honest old
-horses, and frequently there was the glitter of whizzing spokes from a
-runabout or a sporting buggy, and the sharp, decisive hoof-beats of a
-trotter.  Then, like a cowboy shooting up a peaceful camp, a frantic
-devil would hurtle out of the distance, bellowing, exhaust racketing
-like a machine gun gone amuck--and at these horrid sounds the surreys
-and buggies would hug the curbstone, and the bicycles scatter to
-cover, cursing; while children rushed from the sidewalks to drag pet
-dogs from the street.  The thing would roar by, leaving a long wake of
-turbulence; then the indignant street would quiet down for a few
-minutes--till another came.
-
-"There are a great many more than there used to be," Miss Fanny
-observed, in her lifeless voice, as the lull fell after one of these
-visitations.  "Eugene is right about that; there seem to be at least
-three or four times as many as there were last summer, and you never
-hear the ragamuffins shouting 'Get a horse!' nowadays; but I think he
-may be mistaken about their going on increasing after this.  I don't
-believe we'll see so many next summer as we do now."
-
-"Why?" asked Isabel.
-
-"Because I've begun to agree with George about their being more a fad
-than anything else, and I think it must be the height of the fad just
-now.  You know how roller-skating came in--everybody in the world
-seemed to be crowding to the rinks--and now only a few children use
-rollers for getting to school.  Besides, people won't permit the
-automobiles to be used.  Really, I think they'll make laws against
-them.  You see how they spoil the bicycling and the driving; people
-just seem to hate them!  They'll never stand it--never in the world!
-Of course I'd be sorry to see such a thing happen to Eugene, but I
-shouldn't be really surprised to see a law passed forbidding the sale
-of automobiles, just the way there is with concealed weapons."
-
-"Fanny!" exclaimed her sister-in-law.  "You're not in earnest?"
-
-"I am, though!"
-
-Isabel's sweet-toned laugh came out of the dusk where she sat.  "Then
-you didn't mean it when you told Eugene you'd enjoyed the drive this
-afternoon?"
-
-"I didn't say it so very enthusiastically, did I?"
-
-"Perhaps not, but he certainly thought he'd pleased you."
-
-"I don't think I gave him any right to think he'd pleased me"  Fanny
-said slowly.
-
-"Why not?  Why shouldn't you, Fanny?"
-
-Fanny did not reply at once, and when she did, her voice was almost
-inaudible, but much more reproachful than plaintive.  "I hardly think
-I'd want any one to get the notion he'd pleased me just now.  It
-hardly seems time, yet--to me."
-
-Isabel made no response, and for a time the only sound upon the dark
-veranda was the creaking of the wicker rocking-chair in which Fanny
-sat--a creaking which seemed to denote content and placidity on the
-part of the chair's occupant, though at this juncture a series of
-human shrieks could have been little more eloquent of emotional
-disturbance.  However, the creaking gave its hearer one great
-advantage: it could be ignored.
-
-"Have you given up smoking, George?" Isabel asked presently.
-
-"No."
-
-"I hoped perhaps you had, because you've not smoked since dinner.  We
-shan't mind if you care to."
-
-"No, thanks."
-
-There was silence again, except for the creaking of the rocking-chair;
-then a low, clear whistle, singularly musical, was heard softly
-rendering an old air from "Fra Diavolo."  The creaking stopped.
-
-"Is that you, George?"  Fanny asked abruptly.
-
-"Is that me what?"
-
-"Whistling 'On Yonder Rock Reclining'?"
-
-"It's I," said Isabel.
-
-"Oh,"  Fanny said dryly.
-
-"Does it disturb you?"
-
-"Not at all. I had an idea George was depressed about something, and
-merely wondered if he could be making such a cheerful sound."  And
-Fanny resumed her creaking.
-
-"Is she right, George?" his mother asked quickly, leaning forward in
-her chair to peer at him through the dusk.  "You didn't eat a very
-hearty dinner, but I thought it was probably because of the warm
-weather.  Are you troubled about anything?"
-
-"No!" he said angrily.
-
-"That's good. I thought we had such a nice day, didn't you?"
-
-"I suppose so," he muttered, and, satisfied, she leaned back in her
-chair; but "Fra Diavolo" was not revived.  After a time she rose, went
-to the steps, and stood for several minutes looking across the street.
-Then her laughter was faintly heard.
-
-"Are you laughing about something?"  Fanny inquired.
-
-"Pardon?" Isabel did not turn, but continued her observation of what
-had interested her upon the opposite side of the street.
-
-"I asked:  Were you laughing at something?"
-
-"Yes, I was!"  And she laughed again.  "It's that funny, fat old Mrs.
-Johnson.  She has a habit of sitting at her bedroom window with a pair
-of opera-glasses."
-
-"Really!"
-
-"Really.  You can see the window through the place that was left when
-we had the dead walnut tree cut down.  She looks up and down the
-street, but mostly at father's and over here.  Sometimes she forgets
-to put out the light in her room, and there she is, spying away for
-all the world to see!"
-
-However, Fanny made no effort to observe this spectacle, but continued
-her creaking.  "I've always thought her a very good woman," she said
-primly.
-
-"So she is," Isabel agreed.  "She's a good, friendly old thing, a
-little too intimate in her manner, sometimes, and if her poor old
-opera-glasses afford her the quiet happiness of knowing what sort of
-young man our new cook is walking out with, I'm the last to begrudge
-it to her!  Don't you want to come and look at her, George?"
-
-"What?  I beg your pardon.  I hadn't noticed what you were talking
-about."
-
-"It's nothing," she laughed.  "Only a funny old lady--and she's gone
-now.  I'm going, too--at least, I'm going indoors to read.  It's
-cooler in the house, but the heat's really not bad anywhere, since
-nightfall.  Summer's dying.  How quickly it goes, once it begins to
-die."
-
-When she had gone into the house, Fanny stopped rocking, and, leaning
-forward, drew her black gauze wrap about her shoulders and shivered.
-"Isn't it queer," she said drearily, "how your mother can use such
-words?"
-
-"What words are you talking about?"  George asked.
-
-"Words like 'die' and 'dying.'  I don't see how she can bear to use
-them so soon after your poor father--"  She shivered again.
-
-"It's almost a year," George said absently, and he added:  "It seems
-to me you're using them yourself."
-
-"I?  Never!"
-
-"Yes, you did."
-
-"When?"
-
-"Just this minute."
-
-"Oh!" said Fanny.  "You mean when I repeated what she said?  That's
-hardly the same thing, George."
-
-He was not enough interested to argue the point.  "I don't think
-you'll convince anybody that mother's unfeeling," he said
-indifferently.
-
-"I'm not trying to convince anybody. I mean merely that in my opinion
---well, perhaps it may be just as wise for me to keep my opinions to
-myself."
-
-She paused expectantly, but her possible anticipation that George
-would urge her to discard wisdom and reveal her opinion was not
-fulfilled.  His back was toward her, and he occupied himself with
-opinions of his own about other matters.  Fanny may have felt some
-disappointment as she rose to withdraw.
-
-However, at the last moment she halted with her hand upon the latch of
-the screen door.
-
-"There's one thing I hope," she said.  "I hope at least she won't
-leave off her full mourning on the very anniversary of Wilbur's
-death!"
-
-The light door clanged behind her, and the sound annoyed her nephew.
-He had no idea why she thus used inoffensive wood and wire to
-dramatize her departure from the veranda, the impression remaining
-with him being that she was critical of his mother upon some point of
-funeral millinery.  Throughout the desultory conversation he had been
-profoundly concerned with his own disturbing affairs, and now was
-preoccupied with a dialogue taking place (in his mind) between himself
-and Miss Lucy Morgan.  As he beheld the vision, Lucy had just thrown
-herself at his feet.  "George, you must forgive me!" she cried.  "Papa
-was utterly wrong!  I have told him so, and the truth is that I have
-come to rather dislike him as you do, and as you always have, in your
-heart of hearts. George, I understand you: thy people shall be my
-people and thy gods my gods.  George, won't you take me back?"
-
-"Lucy, are you sure you understand me?"  And in the darkness George's
-bodily lips moved in unison with those which uttered the words in his
-imaginary rendering of this scene.  An eavesdropper, concealed behind
-the column, could have heard the whispered word "sure," the emphasis
-put upon it in the vision was so poignant.  "You say you understand
-me, but are you sure?"
-
-Weeping, her head bowed almost to her waist, the ethereal Lucy made
-reply:  "Oh, so sure!  I will never listen to father's opinions again.
-I do not even care if I never see him again!"
-
-"Then I pardon you," he said gently.
-
-This softened mood lasted for several moments--until he realized that
-it had been brought about by processes strikingly lacking in
-substance.  Abruptly he swung his feet down from the copestone to the
-floor of the veranda.  "Pardon nothing!"  No meek Lucy had thrown
-herself in remorse at his feet; and now he pictured her as she
-probably really was at this moment: sitting on the white steps of her
-own front porch in the moonlight, with red-headed Fred Kinney and
-silly Charlie Johnson and four or five others--all of them laughing,
-most likely, and some idiot playing the guitar!
-
-George spoke aloud: "Riffraff!"
-
-And because of an impish but all too natural reaction of the mind, he
-could see Lucy with much greater distinctness in this vision than in
-his former pleasing one.  For a moment she was miraculously real
-before him, every line and colour of her.  He saw the moonlight
-shimmering in the chiffon of her skirts brightest on her crossed knee
-and the tip of her slipper; saw the blue curve of the characteristic
-shadow behind her, as she leaned back against the white step; saw the
-watery twinkling of sequins in the gauze wrap over her white shoulders
-as she moved, and the faint, symmetrical lights in her black hair--and
-not one alluring, exasperating twentieth-of-an-inch of her laughing
-profile was spared him as she seemed to turn to the infernal Kinney--
-
-"Riffraff!"  And George began furiously to pace the stone floor.
-"Riffraff!"  By this hard term--a favourite with him since childhood's
-scornful hour--he meant to indicate, not Lucy, but the young gentlemen
-who, in his vision, surrounded her.  "Riffraff!" he said again, aloud,
-and again:
-
-"Riffraff!"
-
-At that moment, as it happened, Lucy was playing chess with her
-father; and her heart, though not remorseful, was as heavy as George
-could have wished.  But she did not let Eugene see that she was
-troubled, and he was pleased when he won three games of her.  Usually
-she beat him.
-
-
-
-
-Chapter XIX
-
-
-George went driving the next afternoon alone, and, encountering Lucy
-and her father on the road, in one of Morgan's cars, lifted his hat,
-but nowise relaxed his formal countenance as they passed.  Eugene
-waved a cordial hand quickly returned to the steering-wheel; but Lucy
-only nodded gravely and smiled no more than George did.  Nor did she
-accompany Eugene to the Major's for dinner, the following Sunday
-evening, though both were bidden to attend that feast, which was
-already reduced in numbers and gayety by the absence of George
-Amberson.  Eugene explained to his host that Lucy had gone away to
-visit a school-friend.
-
-The information, delivered in the library, just before old Sam's
-appearance to announce dinner, set Miss Minafer in quite a flutter.
-"Why, George!" she said, turning to her nephew.  "How does it happen
-you didn't tell us?"  And with both hands opening, as if to express
-her innocence of some conspiracy, she exclaimed to the others, "He's
-never said one word to us about Lucy's planning to go away!"
-
-"Probably afraid to," the Major suggested.  "Didn't know but he might
-break down and cry if he tried to speak of it!"  He clapped his
-grandson on the shoulder, inquiring jocularly, "That it, Georgie?"
-
-Georgie made no reply, but he was red enough to justify the Major's
-developing a chuckle into laughter; though Miss Fanny, observing her
-nephew keenly, got an impression that this fiery blush was in truth
-more fiery than tender.  She caught a glint in his eye less like
-confusion than resentment, and saw a dilation of his nostrils which
-might have indicated not so much a sweet agitation as an inaudible
-snort.  Fanny had never been lacking in curiosity, and, since her
-brother's death, this quality was more than ever alert.  The fact that
-George had spent all the evenings of the past week at home had not
-been lost upon her, nor had she failed to ascertain, by diplomatic
-inquiries, that since the day of the visit to Eugene's shops George
-had gone driving alone.
-
-At the dinner-table she continued to observe him, sidelong; and toward
-the conclusion of the meal she was not startled by an episode which
-brought discomfort to the others.  After the arrival of coffee the
-Major was rallying Eugene upon some rival automobile shops lately
-built in a suburb, and already promising to flourish.
-
-"I suppose they'll either drive you out of the business," said the old
-gentleman, "or else the two of you'll drive all the rest of us off the
-streets."
-
-"If we do, we'll even things up by making the streets five or ten
-times as long as they are now," Eugene returned.
-
-"How do you propose to do that?"
-
-"It isn't the distance from the center of a town that counts," said
-Eugene; "it's the time it takes to get there.  This town's already
-spreading; bicycles and trolleys have been doing their share, but the
-automobile is going to carry city streets clear out to the county
-line."
-
-The Major was skeptical.  "Dream on, fair son!" he said.  "It's lucky
-for us that you're only dreaming; because if people go to moving that
-far, real estate values in the old residence part of town are going to
-be stretched pretty thin."
-
-"I'm afraid so," Eugene assented.  "Unless you keep things so bright
-and clean that the old section will stay more attractive than the new
-ones."
-
-"Not very likely!  How are things going to be kept 'bright and clean'
-with soft coal, and our kind of city government?"
-
-"They aren't," Eugene replied quickly.  "There's no hope of it, and
-already the boarding-house is marching up National Avenue.  There are
-two in the next block below here, and there are a dozen in the half-
-mile below that.  My relatives, the Sharons, have sold their house and
-are building in the country--at least, they call it 'the country.'  It
-will be city in two or three years."
-
-"Good gracious!" the Major exclaimed, affecting 'dismay.  "So your
-little shops are going to ruin all your old friends, Eugene!"
-
-"Unless my old friends take warning in time, or abolish smoke and get
-a new kind of city government.  I should say the best chance is to
-take Warning."
-
-"Well, well!" the Major laughed.  "You have enough faith in miracles,
-Eugene--granting that trolleys and bicycles and automobiles are
-miracles.  So you think they're to change the face of the land, do
-you?"
-
-"They're already doing it, Major; and it can't be stopped.
-Automobiles--"
-
-At this point he was interrupted.  George was the interrupter.  He had
-said nothing since entering the dining room, but now he spoke in a
-loud and peremptory voice, using the tone of one in authority who
-checks idle prattle and settles a matter forever.
-
-"Automobiles are a useless nuisance," he said.
-
-There fell a moment's silence.
-
-Isabel gazed incredulously at George, colour slowly heightening upon
-her cheeks and temples, while Fanny watched him with a quick
-eagerness, her eyes alert and bright.  But Eugene seemed merely
-quizzical, as if not taking this brusquerie to himself.  The Major was
-seriously disturbed.
-
-"What did you say, George?" he asked, though George had spoken but too
-distinctly.
-
-"I said all automobiles were a nuisance," George answered, repeating
-not only the words but the tone in which he had uttered them.  And he
-added, "They'll never amount to anything but a nuisance.  They had no
-business to be invented."
-
-The Major frowned.  "Of course you forget that Mr. Morgan makes them,
-and also did his share in inventing them.  If you weren't so
-thoughtless he might think you rather offensive."
-
-"That would be too bad," said George coolly.  "I don't think I could
-survive it."
-
-Again there was a silence, while the Major stared at his grandson,
-aghast.  But Eugene began to laugh cheerfully.
-
-"I'm not sure he's wrong about automobiles," he said.  "With all their
-speed forward they may be a step backward in civilization--that is, in
-spiritual civilization.  It may be that they will not add to the
-beauty of the world, nor to the life of men's souls.  I am not sure.
-But automobiles have come, and they bring a greater change in our life
-than most of us suspect.  They are here, and almost all outward things
-are going to be different because of what they bring.  They are going
-to alter war, and they are going to alter peace.  I think men's minds
-are going to be changed in subtle ways because of automobiles; just
-how, though, I could hardly guess.  But you can't have the immense
-outward changes that they will cause without some inward ones, and it
-may be that George is right, and that the spiritual alteration will be
-bad for us.  Perhaps, ten or twenty years from now, if we can see the
-inward change in men by that time, I shouldn't be able to defend the
-gasoline engine, but would have to agree with him that automobiles
-'had no business to be invented.'"  He laughed good-naturedly, and
-looking at his watch, apologized for having an engagement which made
-his departure necessary when he would so much prefer to linger.  Then
-he shook hands with the Major, and bade Isabel, George, and Fanny a
-cheerful good-night--a collective farewell cordially addressed to all
-three of them together--and left them at the table.
-
-Isabel turned wondering, hurt eyes upon her son.  "George, dear!" she
-said.  "What did you mean?"
-
-"Just what I said," he returned, lighting one of the Major's cigars,
-and his manner was imperturbable enough to warrant the definition
-(sometimes merited by imperturbability) of stubbornness.
-
-Isabel's hand, pale and slender, upon the tablecloth, touched one of
-the fine silver candlesticks aimlessly: the fingers were seen to
-tremble.  "Oh, he was hurt!" she murmured.
-
-"I don't see why he should be," George said.  "I didn't say anything
-about him.  He didn't seem to me to be hurt--seemed perfectly
-cheerful.  What made you think he was hurt?"
-
-"I know him!" was all of her reply, half whispered.
-
-The Major stared hard at George from under his white eyebrows.  "You
-didn't mean 'him,' you say, George?  I suppose if we had a clergyman
-as a guest here you'd expect him not to be offended, and to understand
-that your remarks were neither personal nor untactful, if you said the
-church was a nuisance and ought never to have been invented.  By Jove,
-but you're a puzzle!"
-
-"In what way, may I ask, sir?"
-
-"We seem to have a new kind of young people these days," the old
-gentleman returned, shaking his head.  "It's a new style of courting a
-pretty girl, certainly, for a young fellow to go deliberately out of
-his way to try and make an enemy of her father by attacking his
-business!  By Jove!  That's a new way to win a woman!"
-
-George flushed angrily and seemed about to offer a retort, but held
-his breath for a moment; and then held his peace.  It was Isabel who
-responded to the Major.  "Oh, no!" she said.  "Eugene would never be
-anybody's enemy--he couldn't!--and last of all Georgie's.  I'm afraid
-he was hurt, but I don't fear his not having understood that George
-spoke without thinking of what he was saying--I mean, with-out
-realizing its bearing on Eugene."
-
-Again George seemed upon the point of speech, and again controlled the
-impulse.  He thrust his hands in his pockets, leaned back in his
-chair, and smoked, staring inflexibly at the ceiling.
-
-"Well, well," said his grandfather, rising.  "It wasn't a very
-successful little dinner!"
-
-Thereupon he offered his arm to his daughter, who took it fondly, and
-they left the room, Isabel assuring him that all his little dinners
-were pleasant, and that this one was no exception.
-
-George did not move, and Fanny, following the other two, came round
-the table, and paused close beside his chair; but George remained
-posed in his great imperturbability, cigar between teeth, eyes upon
-ceiling, and paid no attention to her.  Fanny waited until the sound
-of Isabel's and the Major's voices became inaudible in the hall.  Then
-she said quickly, and in a low voice so eager that it was unsteady:
-
-"George, you've struck just the treatment to adopt: you're doing the
-right thing!"
-
-She hurried out, scurrying after the others with a faint rustling of
-her black skirts, leaving George mystified but incurious.  He did not
-understand why she should bestow her approbation upon him in the
-matter, and cared so little whether she did or not that he spared
-himself even the trouble of being puzzled about it.
-
-In truth, however, he was neither so comfortable nor so imperturbable
-as he appeared.  He felt some gratification: he had done a little to
-put the man in his place--that man whose influence upon his daughter
-was precisely the same thing as a contemptuous criticism of George
-Amberson Minafer, and of George Amberson Minafer's "ideals of life."
-Lucy's going away without a word was intended, he supposed, as a bit
-of punishment.  Well, he wasn't the sort of man that people were
-allowed to punish: he could demonstrate that to them--since they
-started it!
-
-It appeared to him as almost a kind of insolence, this abrupt
-departure--not even telephoning!  Probably she wondered how he would
-take it; she even might have supposed he would show some betraying
-chagrin when he heard of it.
-
-He had no idea that this was just what he had shown; and he was
-satisfied with his evening's performance.  Nevertheless, he was not
-comfortable in his mind; though he could not have explained his inward
-perturbations, for he was convinced, without any confirmation from his
-Aunt Fanny, that he had done "just the right thing."
-
-
-
-
-Chapter XX
-
-
-
-Isabel came to George's door that night, and when she had kissed him
-good-night she remained in the open doorway with her hand upon his
-shoulder and her eyes thoughtfully lowered, so that her wish to say
-something more than good-night was evident.  Not less obvious was her
-perplexity about the manner of saying it; and George, divining her
-thought, amiably made an opening for her.
-
-"Well, old lady," he said indulgently, "you needn't look so worried.
-I won't be tactless with Morgan again.  After this I'll just keep out
-of his way."
-
-Isabel looked up, searching his face with the fond puzzlement which
-her eyes sometimes showed when they rested upon him; then she glanced
-down the hall toward Fanny's room, and, after another moment of
-hesitation, came quickly in, and closed the door.
-
-"Dear," she said, "I wish you'd tell me something: Why don't you like
-Eugene?"
-
-"Oh, I like him well enough," George returned, with a short laugh, as
-he sat down and began to unlace his shoes.  "I like him well enough--
-in his place."
-
-"No, dear," she said hurriedly.  "I've had a feeling from the very
-first that you didn't really like him--that you really never liked
-him.  Sometimes you've seemed to be friendly with him, and you'd laugh
-with him over something in a jolly, companionable way, and I'd think I
-was wrong, and that you really did like him, after all; but to-night
-I'm sure my other feeling was the right one: you don't like him.  I
-can't understand it, dear; I don't see what can be the matter."
-
-"Nothing's the matter."
-
-This easy declaration naturally failed to carry great weight, and
-Isabel went on, in her troubled voice, "It seems so queer, especially
-when you feel as you do about his daughter."
-
-At this, George stopped unlacing his shoes abruptly, and sat up.  "How
-do I feel about his daughter?" he demanded.
-
-"Well, it's seemed--as if--as if--" Isabel began timidly.  "It did
-seem--At least, you haven't looked at any other girl, ever since they
-came here and--and certainly you've seemed very much interested in
-her.  Certainly you've been very great friends?"
-
-"Well, what of that?"
-
-"It's only that I'm like your grandfather: I can't see how you could
-be so much interested in a girl and--and not feel very pleasantly
-toward her father."
-
-"Well, I'll tell you something," George said slowly; and a frown of
-concentration could be seen upon his brow, as from a profound effort
-at self-examination.  "I haven't ever thought much on that particular
-point, but I admit there may be a little something in what you say.
-The truth is, I don't believe I've ever thought of the two together,
-exactly--at least, not until lately.  I've always thought of Lucy just
-as Lucy, and of Morgan just as Morgan.  I've always thought of her as
-a person herself, not as anybody's daughter. I don't see what's very
-extraordinary about that.  You've probably got plenty of friends, for
-instance, that don't care much about your son--"
-
-"No, indeed!" she protested quickly.  "And if I knew anybody who felt
-like that, I wouldn't--"
-
-"Never mind," he interrupted.  "I'll try to explain a little more.  If
-I have a friend, I don't see that it's incumbent upon me to like that
-friend's relatives.  If I didn't like them, and pretended to, I'd be a
-hypocrite.  If that friend likes me and wants to stay my friend 'he'll
-have to stand my not liking his relatives, or else he can quit.  I
-decline to be a hypocrite about it; that's all.  Now, suppose I have
-certain ideas or ideals which I have chosen for the regulation of my
-own conduct in life.  Suppose some friend of mine has a relative with
-ideals directly the opposite of mine, and my friend believes more in
-the relative's ideals than in mine:  Do you think I ought to give up
-my own just to please a person who's taken up ideals that I really
-despise?"
-
-"No, dear; of course people can't give up their ideals; but I don't
-see what this has to do with dear little Lucy and--"
-
-"I didn't say it had anything to do with them," he interrupted.  "I
-was merely putting a case to show how a person would be justified in
-being a friend of one member of a family, and feeling anything but
-friendly toward another.  I don't say, though, that I feel unfriendly
-to Mr. Morgan.  I don't say that I feel friendly to him, and I don't
-say that I feel unfriendly; but if you really think that I was rude to
-him to-night--"
-
-"Just thoughtless, dear.  You didn't see that what you said to-night--"
-
-"Well, I'll not say anything of that sort again where he can hear it.
-There, isn't that enough?"
-
-This question, delivered with large indulgence, met with no response;
-for Isabel, still searching his face with her troubled and perplexed
-gaze, seemed not to have heard it.  On that account, George repeated
-it, and rising, went to her and patted her reassuringly upon the
-shoulder.  "There, old lady, you needn't fear my tactlessness will
-worry you again.  I can't quite promise to like people I don't care
-about one way or another, but you can be sure I'll be careful, after
-this, not to let them see it.  It's all right, and you'd better toddle
-along to bed, because I want to undress."
-
-"But, George," she said earnestly, "you would like him, if you'd just
-let yourself.  You say you don't dislike him.  Why don't you like him?
-I can't understand at all.  What is it that you don't--"
-
-"There, there!" he said.  "It's all right, and you toddle along."
-
-"But, George, dear--"
-
-"Now, now!  I really do want to get into bed.  Good-night, old lady."
-
-"Good-night, dear.  But--"
-
-"Let's not talk of it any more," he said.  "It's all right, and
-nothing in the world to worry about.  So good-night, old lady.  I'll
-be polite enough to him, never fear--if we happen to be thrown
-together.  So good-night!"
-
-"But, George, dear--"
-
-"I'm going to bed, old lady; so good-night."'
-
-Thus the interview closed perforce.  She kissed him again before going
-slowly to her own room, her perplexity evidently not dispersed; but
-the subject was not renewed between them the next day or subsequently.
-Nor did Fanny make any allusion to the cryptic approbation she had
-bestowed upon her nephew after the Major's "not very successful little
-dinner"; though she annoyed George by looking at him oftener and
-longer than he cared to be looked at by an aunt.  He could not glance
-her way, it seemed, without finding her red-rimmed eyes fixed upon him
-eagerly, with an alert and hopeful calculation in them which he
-declared would send a nervous man, into fits.  For thus, one day, he
-broke out, in protest:
-
-"It would!" he repeated vehemently.  "Given time it would--straight
-into fits!  What do you find the matter with me?  Is my tie always
-slipping up behind?  Can't you look at something else?  My Lord!  We'd
-better buy a cat for you to stare at, Aunt Fanny!  A cat could stand
-it, maybe.  What in the name of goodness do you expect to see?"
-
-But Fanny laughed good-naturedly, and was not offended.  "It's more as
-if I expected you to see something, isn't it?" she said quietly, still
-laughing.
-
-"Now, what do you mean by that?"
-
-"Never mind!"
-
-"All right, I don't.  But for heaven's sake stare at somebody else
-awhile.  Try it on the house-maid!"
-
-"Well, well," Fanny said indulgently, and then chose to be more
-obscure in her meaning than ever, for she adopted a tone of deep
-sympathy for her final remark, as she left him:  "I don't wonder
-you're nervous these days, poor boy!"
-
-And George indignantly supposed that she referred to the ordeal of
-Lucy's continued absence.  During this period he successfully avoided
-contact with Lucy's father, though Eugene came frequently to the
-house, and spent several evenings with Isabel and Fanny; and sometimes
-persuaded them and the Major to go for an afternoon's motoring.  He
-did not, however, come again to the Major's Sunday evening dinner,
-even when George Amberson returned.  Sunday evening was the time, he
-explained, for going over the week's work with his factory managers.
-
-When Lucy came home the autumn was far enough advanced to smell of
-burning leaves, and for the annual editorials, in the papers, on the
-purple haze, the golden branches, the ruddy fruit, and the pleasure of
-long tramps in the brown forest.  George had not heard of her arrival,
-and he met her, on the afternoon following that event, at the
-Sharons', where he had gone in the secret hope that he might hear
-something about her.  Janie Sharon had just begun to tell him that
-she heard Lucy was expected home soon, after having "a perfectly
-gorgeous time"--information which George received with no responsive
-enthusiasm--when Lucy came demurely in, a proper little autumn figure
-in green and brown.
-
-Her cheeks were flushed, and her dark eyes were bright indeed;
-evidences, as George supposed, of the excitement incidental to the
-perfectly gorgeous time just concluded; though Janie and Mary Sharon
-both thought they were the effect of Lucy's having seen George's
-runabout in front of the house as she came in.  George took on colour,
-himself, as, he rose and nodded indifferently; and the hot suffusion
-to which he became subject extended its area to include his neck and
-ears.  Nothing could have made him much more indignant than his
-consciousness of these symptoms of the icy indifference which it was
-his purpose not only to show but to feel.
-
-She kissed her cousins, gave George her hand, said "How d'you do," and
-took a chair beside Janie with a composure which augmented George's
-indignation.
-
-"How d'you do," he said.  "I trust that ah--I trust--I do trust--"
-
-He stopped, for it seemed to him that the word "trust" sounded
-idiotic.  Then, to cover his awkwardness, he coughed, and even to his
-own rosy ears his cough was ostentatiously a false one.  Whereupon,
-seeking to be plausible, he coughed again, and instantly hated
-himself: the sound he made was an atrocity.  Meanwhile, Lucy sat
-silent, and the two Sharon girls leaned forward, staring at him with
-strained eyes, their lips tightly compressed; and both were but too
-easily diagnosed as subject to an agitation which threatened their
-self-control.  He began again.
-
-"I er--I hope you have had a--a pleasant time.  I er--I hope you are
-well.  I hope you are extremely--I hope extremely--extremely--"  And
-again he stopped in the midst of his floundering, not knowing how to
-progress beyond "extremely," and unable to understand why the infernal
-word kept getting into his mouth.
-
-"I beg your pardon?" Lucy said.
-
-George was never more furious; he felt that he was "making a spectacle
-of himself"; and no young gentleman in the world was more loath than
-George Amberson Minafer to look a figure of fun.  And while he stood
-there, undeniably such a figure, with Janie and Mary Sharon
-threatening to burst at any moment, if laughter were longer denied
-them.  Lucy sat looking at him with her eyebrows delicately lifted in
-casual, polite inquiry.  Her own complete composure was what most
-galled him.
-
-"Nothing of the slightest importance!" he managed to say.  "I was just
-leaving. Good afternoon!"  And with long strides he reached the door
-and hastened through the hall; but before he closed the front door he
-heard from Janie and Mary Sharon the outburst of wild, irrepressible
-emotion which his performance had inspired.
-
-He drove home in a tumultuous mood, and almost ran down two ladies who
-were engaged in absorbing conversation at a crossing.  They were his
-Aunt Fanny and the stout Mrs. Johnson; a jerk of the reins at the last
-instant saved them by a few inches; but their conversation was so
-interesting that they were unaware of their danger, and did not notice
-the runabout, nor how close it came to them.  George was so furious
-with himself and with the girl whose unexpected coming into a room
-could make him look such a fool, that it might have soothed him a
-little if he had actually run over the two absorbed ladies without
-injuring them beyond repair.  At least, he said to himself that he
-wished he had; it might have taken his mind off of himself for a few
-minutes.  For, in truth, to be ridiculous (and know it) was one of
-several things that George was unable to endure.  He was savage.
-
-He drove into the Major's stable too fast, the sagacious Pendennis
-saving himself from going through a partition by a swerve which
-splintered a shaft of the runabout and almost threw the driver to the
-floor.  George swore, and then swore again at the fat old darkey, Tom,
-for giggling at his swearing.
-
-"Hoopee!" said old Tom.  "Mus' been some white lady use Mist' Jawge
-mighty bad!  White lady say, 'No, suh, I ain' go'n out ridin' 'ith
-Mist' Jawge no mo'!'  Mist' Jawge drive in.  'Dam de dam worl'!  Dam
-de dam hoss!  Dam de dam nigga'!  Dam de dam dam!'  Hoopee!"
-
-"That'll do!"  George said sternly.
-
-"Yessuh!"
-
-George strode from the stable, crossed the Major's back yard, then
-passed behind the new houses, on his way home.  These structures were
-now approaching completion, but still in a state of rawness hideous to
-George--though, for that matter, they were never to be anything except
-hideous to him.  Behind them, stray planks, bricks, refuse of plaster
-and lath, shingles, straw, empty barrels, strips of twisted tin and
-broken tiles were strewn everywhere over the dried and pitted gray mud
-where once the suave lawn had lain like a green lake around those
-stately islands, the two Amberson houses.  And George's state of mind
-was not improved by his present view of this repulsive area, nor by
-his sensations when he kicked an uptilted shingle only to discover
-that what uptilted it was a brickbat on the other side of it.  After
-that, the whole world seemed to be one solid conspiracy of
-malevolence.
-
-In this temper he emerged from behind the house nearest to his own,
-and, glancing toward the street, saw his mother standing with Eugene
-Morgan upon the cement path that led to the front gate.  She was
-bareheaded, and Eugene held his hat and stick in his hand; evidently
-he had been calling upon her, and she had come from the house with
-him, continuing their conversation and delaying their parting.
-
-They had paused in their slow walk from the front door to the gate,
-yet still stood side by side, their shoulders almost touching, as
-though neither Isabel nor Eugene quite realized that their feet had
-ceased to bear them forward; and they were not looking at each other,
-but at some indefinite point before them, as people do who consider
-together thoughtfully and in harmony.  The conversation was evidently
-serious; his head was bent, and Isabel's lifted left hand rested
-against her cheek; but all the significances of their thoughtful
-attitude denoted companionableness and a shared understanding.  Yet, a
-stranger, passing, would not have thought them married: somewhere
-about Eugene, not quite to be located, there was a romantic gravity;
-and Isabel, tall and graceful, with high colour and absorbed eyes, was
-visibly no wife walking down to the gate with her husband.
-
-George stared at them.  A hot dislike struck him at the sight of
-Eugene; and a vague revulsion, like a strange, unpleasant taste in his
-mouth, came over him as he looked at his mother: her manner was
-eloquent of so much thought about her companion and of such reliance
-upon him.  And the picture the two thus made was a vivid one indeed,
-to George, whose angry eyes, for some reason, fixed themselves most
-intently upon Isabel's lifted hand, upon the white ruffle at her
-wrist, bordering the graceful black sleeve, and upon the little
-indentations in her cheek where the tips of her fingers rested.  She
-should not have worn white at her wrist, or at the throat either,
-George felt; and then, strangely, his resentment concentrated upon
-those tiny indentations at the tips of her fingers--actual changes,
-however slight and fleeting, in his mother's face, made because of Mr.
-Eugene Morgan.  For the moment, it seemed to George that Morgan might
-have claimed the ownership of a face that changed for him. . It was as
-if he owned Isabel.
-
-The two began to walk on toward the gate, where they stopped again,
-turning to face each other, and Isabel's glance, passing Eugene, fell
-upon George.  Instantly she smiled and waved her hand to him; while
-Eugene turned and nodded; but George, standing as in some rigid
-trance, and staring straight at them, gave these signals of greeting
-no sign of recognition whatever.  Upon this, Isabel called to him,
-waving her hand again.
-
-"Georgie!" she called, laughing.  "Wake up, dear!  Georgie, hello!"
-
-George turned away as if he had neither seen nor heard, and stalked
-into the house by the side door.
-
-
-
-
-Chapter XXI
-
-
-He went to his room, threw off his coat, waistcoat, collar, and tie,
-letting them lie where they chanced to fall, and then, having
-violently enveloped himself in a black velvet dressing-gown, continued
-this action by lying down with a vehemence that brought a wheeze of
-protest from his bed.  His repose was only a momentary semblance,
-however, for it lasted no longer than the time it took him to groan
-"Riffraff!" between his teeth.  Then he sat up, swung his feet to the
-floor, rose, and began to pace up and down the large room.
-
-He had just been consciously rude to his mother for the first time in
-his life; for, with all his riding down of populace and riffraff, he
-had never before been either deliberately or impulsively disregardful
-of her.  When he had hurt her it had been accidental; and his remorse
-for such an accident was always adequate compensation--and more--to
-Isabel.  But now he had done a rough thing to her; and he did not
-repent; rather he was the more irritated with her.  And when he heard
-her presently go by his door with a light step, singing cheerfully to
-herself as she went to her room, he perceived that she had mistaken
-his intention altogether, or, indeed, had failed to perceive that he
-had any intention at all.  Evidently she had concluded that he refused
-to speak to her and Morgan out of sheer absent-mindedness, supposing
-him so immersed in some preoccupation that he had not seen them or
-heard her calling to him.  Therefore there was nothing of which to
-repent, even if he had been so minded; and probably Eugene himself was
-unaware that any disapproval had recently been expressed. George
-snorted.  What sort of a dreamy loon did they take him to be?
-
-There came a delicate, eager tapping at his door, not done with a
-knuckle but with the tip of a fingernail, which was instantly
-clarified to George's mind's eye as plainly as if he saw it: the long
-and polished white-mooned pink shield on the end of his Aunt Fanny's
-right forefinger.  But George was in no mood for human communications,
-and even when things went well he had little pleasure in Fanny's
-society.  Therefore it is not surprising that at the sound of her
-tapping, instead of bidding her enter, he immediately crossed the room
-with the intention of locking the door to keep her out.
-
-Fanny was too eager, and, opening the door before he reached it, came
-quickly in, and closed it behind her.  She was in a street dress and a
-black hat, with a black umbrella in her black-gloved hand--for Fanny's
-heavy mourning, at least, was nowhere tempered with a glimpse of
-white, though the anniversary of Wilbur's death had passed.  An
-infinitesimal perspiration gleamed upon her pale skin; she breathed
-fast, as if she had run up the stairs; and excitement was sharp in her
-widened eyes.  Her look was that of a person who had just seen
-something extraordinary or heard thrilling news.
-
-"Now, what on earth do you want?" her chilling nephew demanded.
-
-"George," she said hurriedly, "I saw what you did when you wouldn't
-speak to them.  I was sitting with Mrs. Johnson at her front window,
-across the street, and I saw it all."
-
-"Well, what of it?"
-
-"You did right!" Fanny said with a vehemence not the less spirited
-because she suppressed her voice almost to a whisper.  "You did
-exactly right!  You're behaving splendidly about the whole thing, and
-I want to tell you I know your father would thank you if he could see
-what you're doing."
-
-"My Lord!"  George broke out at her.  "You make me dizzy!  For
-heaven's sake quit the mysterious detective business--at least do quit
-it around me!  Go and try it on somebody else, if you like; but I
-don't want to hear it!"
-
-She began to tremble, regarding him with a fixed gaze.  "You don't
-care to hear then," she said huskily, "that I approve of what you're
-doing?"
-
-"Certainly not!  Since I haven't the faintest idea what you think I'm
-'doing,' naturally I don't care whether you approve of it or not.  All
-I'd like, if you please, is to be alone.  I'm not giving a tea here,
-this afternoon, if you'll permit me to mention it!"
-
-Fanny's gaze wavered; she began to blink; then suddenly she sank into
-a chair and wept silently, but with a terrible desolation.
-
-"Oh, for the Lord's sake!" he moaned.  "What in the world is wrong
-with you?"
-
-"You're always picking on me," she quavered wretchedly, her voice
-indistinct with the wetness that bubbled into it from her tears.  "You
-do--you always pick on me!  You've always done it--always--ever since
-you were a little boy!  Whenever anything goes wrong with you, you
-take it out on me!  You do! You always--"
-
-George flung to heaven a gesture of despair; it seemed to him the last
-straw that Fanny should have chosen this particular time to come and
-sob in his room over his mistreatment of her!
-
-"Oh, my Lord!" he whispered; then, with a great effort, addressed her
-in a reasonable tone: "Look here, Aunt Fanny; I don't see what you're
-making all this fuss about.  Of course I know I've teased you
-sometimes, but--"
-
-"Teased' me?" she wailed.  "Teased' me!  Oh, it does seem too hard,
-sometimes--this mean old life of mine does seem too hard!  I don't
-think I can stand it!  Honestly, I don't think I can!  I came in here
-just to show you I sympathized with you--just to say something
-pleasant to you, and you treat me as if I were--oh, no, you wouldn't
-treat a servant the way you treat me!  You wouldn't treat anybody in
-the world like this except old Fanny!  'Old Fanny' you say.  'It's
-nobody but old Fanny, so I'll kick her--nobody will resent it.  I'll
-kick her all I want to!'  You do!  That's how you think of me-I know
-it!  And you're right: I haven't got anything in the world, since my
-brother died--nobody--nothing--nothing!"
-
-"Oh my Lord!"  George groaned.
-
-Fanny spread out her small, soaked handkerchief, and shook it in the
-air to dry it a little, crying as damply and as wretchedly during this
-operation' as before--a sight which gave George a curious shock to add
-to his other agitations, it seemed so strange.  "I ought not to have
-come," she went on, "because I might have known it would only give you
-an excuse to pick on me again!  I'm sorry enough I came, I can tell
-you! I didn't mean to speak of it again to you, at all; and I wouldn't
-have, but I saw how you treated them, and I guess I got excited about
-it, and couldn't help following the impulse--but I'll know better next
-time, I can tell you!  I'll keep my mouth shut as I meant to, and as I
-would have, if I hadn't got excited and if I hadn't felt sorry for
-you.  But what does it matter to anybody if I'm sorry for them?  I'm
-only old Fanny!"
-
-"Oh, good gracious!  How can it matter to me who's sorry for me when I
-don't know what they're sorry about!"
-
-"You're so proud," she quavered, "and so hard!  I tell you I didn't
-mean to speak of it to you, and I never, never in the world would have
-told you about it, nor have made the faintest reference to it, if I
-hadn't seen that somebody else had told you, or you'd found out for
-yourself some way.  I--"
-
-In despair of her intelligence, and in some doubt of his own, George
-struck the palms of his hands together.  "Somebody else had told me
-what?  I'd found what out for myself?"
-
-"How people are talking about your mother."
-
-Except for the incidental teariness of her voice, her tone was casual,
-as though she mentioned a subject previously discussed and understood;
-for Fanny had no doubt that George had only pretended to be mystified
-because, in his pride, he would not in words admit that he knew what
-he knew.
-
-"What did you say?" he asked incredulously.
-
-"Of course I understood what you were doing," Fanny went on, drying
-her handkerchief again.  "It puzzled other people when you began to be
-rude to Eugene, because they couldn't see how you could treat him as
-you did when you were so interested in Lucy.  But I remembered how you
-came to me, that other time when there was so much talk about Isabel;
-and I knew you'd give Lucy up in a minute, if it came to a question of
-your mother's reputation, because you said then that--"
-
-"Look here," George interrupted in a shaking voice.  "Look here, I'd
-like--"  He stopped, unable to go on, his agitation was so great.  His
-chest heaved as from hard running, and his complexion, pallid at
-first, had become mottled; fiery splotches appearing at his temples
-and cheeks.  "What do you mean by telling me--telling me there's talk
-about--about--"  He gulped, and began again: "What do you mean by
-using such words as 'reputation'?  What do you mean, speaking of a
-'question' of my--my mother's reputation?"
-
-Fanny looked up at him woefully over the handkerchief which she now
-applied to her reddened nose.  "God knows I'm sorry for you, George,"
-she murmured.  "I wanted to say so, but it's only old Fanny, so
-whatever she says--even when it's sympathy--pick on her for it!
-Hammer her!"  She sobbed.  "Hammer her!  It's only poor old lonely
-Fanny!"
-
-"You look here!"  George said harshly.  "When I spoke to my Uncle
-George after that rotten thing I heard Aunt Amelia say about my
-mother, he said if there was any gossip it was about you!  He said
-people might be laughing about the way you ran after Morgan, but that
-was all."
-
-Fanny lifted her hands, clenched them, and struck them upon her knees.
-"Yes; it's always Fanny!" she sobbed.  "Ridiculous old Fanny--always,
-always!"
-
-"You listen!" George said.  "After I'd talked to Uncle George I saw
-you; and you said I had a mean little mind for thinking there might be
-truth in what Aunt Amelia said about people talking.  You denied it.
-And that wasn't the only time; you'd attacked me before then, because
-I intimated that Morgan might be coming here too often.  You made me
-believe that mother let him come entirely on your account, and now you
-say--"
-
-"I think he did," Fanny interrupted desolately.  "I think he did come
-as much to see me as anything--for a while it looked like it.  Anyhow,
-he liked to dance with me.  He danced with me as much as he danced
-with her, and he acted as if he came on my account at least as much as
-he did on hers.  He did act a good deal that way--and if Wilbur hadn't
-died--"
-
-"You told me there wasn't any talk."
-
-"I didn't think there was much, then," Fanny protested.  "I didn't
-know how much there was."
-
-"What!"
-
-"People don't come and tell such things to a person's family, you
-know.  You don't suppose anybody was going to say to George Amberson
-that his sister was getting herself talked about, do you?  Or that
-they were going to say much to me?"
-
-"You told me," said George, fiercely, "that mother never saw him
-except when she was chaperoning you."
-
-"They weren't much alone together, then," Fanny returned.  "Hardly
-ever, before Wilbur died.  But you don't suppose that stops people
-from talking, do you?  Your father never went anywhere, and people saw
-Eugene with her everywhere she went--and though I was with them people
-just thought"--she choked--"they just thought I didn't count!  'Only
-old Fanny Minafer,' I suppose they'd say!  Besides, everybody knew
-that he'd been engaged to her--"
-
-"What's that?"  George cried.
-
-"Everybody knows it.  Don't you remember your grandfather speaking of
-it at the Sunday dinner one night?"
-
-"He didn't say they were engaged or--"
-
-"Well, they were!  Everybody knows it; and she broke it off on account
-of that serenade when Eugene didn't know what he was doing.  He drank
-when he was a young man, and she wouldn't stand it, but everybody in
-this town knows that Isabel has never really cared for any other man
-in her life!  Poor Wilbur!  He was the only soul alive that didn't
-know it!"
-
-Nightmare had descended upon the unfortunate George; he leaned back
-against the foot-board of his bed, gazing wildly at his aunt.  "I
-believe I'm going crazy," he said.  "You mean when you told me there
-wasn't any talk, you told me a falsehood?"
-
-"No!"  Fanny gasped.
-
-"You did!"
-
-"I tell you I didn't know how much talk there was, and it wouldn't
-have amounted to much if Wilbur had lived."  And Fanny completed this
-with a fatal admission:  "I didn't want you to interfere."
-
-George overlooked the admission; his mind was not now occupied with
-analysis.  "What do you mean," he asked, "when you say that if father
-had lived, the talk wouldn't have amounted to anything?"
-
-"Things might have been--they might have been different."
-
-"You mean Morgan might have married you?"
-
-Fanny gulped.  "No. Because I don't know that I'd have accepted him."
-She had ceased to weep, and now she sat up stiffly.  "I certainly
-didn't care enough about him to marry him; I wouldn't have let myself
-care that much until he showed that he wished to marry me.  I'm not
-that sort of person!"  The poor lady paid her vanity this piteous
-little tribute.  "What I mean is, if Wilbur hadn't died, people
-wouldn't have had it proved before their very eyes that what they'd
-been talking about was true!"
-
-"You say--you say that people believe--"  George shuddered, then
-forced himself to continue, in a sick voice:  "They believe my mother
-is--is in love with that man?"
-
-"Of course!"
-
-"And because he comes here--and they see her with him driving--and all
-that--they think they were right when they said she was in--in love
-with him before--before my father died?"
-
-She looked at him gravely with her eyes now dry between their reddened
-lids.  "Why, George," she said, gently, "don't you know that's what
-they say?  You must know that everybody in town thinks they're going
-to be married very soon."
-
-George uttered an incoherent cry; and sections of him appeared to
-writhe.  He was upon the verge of actual nausea.
-
-"You know it!"  Fanny cried, getting up.  "You don't think I'd have
-spoken of it to you unless I was sure you knew it?"  Her voice was
-wholly genuine, as it had been throughout the wretched interview:
-Fanny's sincerity was unquestionable.  "George, I wouldn't have told
-you, if you didn't know.  What other reason could you have for
-treating Eugene as you did, or for refusing to speak to them like that
-a while ago in the yard?  Somebody must have told you?"
-
-"Who told you?" he said.
-
-"What?"
-
-"Who told you there was talk?  Where is this talk?  Where does it come
-from?  Who does it?"
-
-"Why, I suppose pretty much everybody," she said.  "I know it must be
-pretty general."
-
-"Who said so?"
-
-"What?"
-
-George stepped close to her.  "You say people don't speak to a person
-of gossip about that person's family.  Well, how did you hear it,
-then?  How did you get hold of it?  Answer me!"
-
-Fanny looked thoughtful. "Well, of course nobody not one's most
-intimate friends would speak to them about such things, and then only
-in the kindest, most considerate way."
-
-"Who's spoken of it to you in any way at all?"  George demanded.
-
-"Why--"  Fanny hesitated.
-
-"You answer me!"
-
-"I hardly think it would be fair to give names."
-
-"Look here," said George.  "One of your most intimate friends is that
-mother of Charlie Johnson's, for instance.  Has she ever mentioned
-this to you?  You say everybody is talking.  Is she one?"
-
-"Oh, she may have intimated--"
-
-"I'm asking you:  Has she ever spoken of it to you?"
-
-"She's a very kind, discreet woman, George; but she may have
-intimated--"
-
-George had a sudden intuition, as there flickered into his mind the
-picture of a street-crossing and two absorbed ladies almost run down
-by a fast horse.  "You and she have been talking about it to-day!" he
-cried.  "You were talking about it with her not two hours ago.  Do you
-deny it?"
-
-"I--"
-
-"Do you deny it?"
-
-"No!"
-
-"All right," said George.  "That's enough!"
-
-She caught at his arm as he turned away.  "What are you going to do,
-George?"
-
-"I'll not talk about it, now," he said heavily.  "I think you've done
-a good deal for one day, Aunt Fanny!"
-
-And Fanny, seeing the passion in his face, began to be alarmed.  She
-tried to retain possession of the black velvet sleeve which her
-fingers had clutched, and he suffered her to do so, but used this
-leverage to urge her to the door.  "George, you know I'm sorry for
-you, whether you care or not," she whimpered.  "I never in the world
-would have spoken of it, if I hadn't thought you knew all about it. I
-wouldn't have--"
-
-But he had opened the door with his free hand.  "Never mind!" he said,
-and she was obliged to pass out into the hall, the door closing
-quickly behind her.
-
-
-
-
-Chapter XXII
-
-
-George took off his dressing-gown and put on a collar and a tie, his
-fingers shaking so that the tie was not his usual success; then he
-picked up his coat and waistcoat, and left the room while still in
-process of donning them, fastening the buttons, as he ran down the
-front stairs to the door.  It was not until he reached the middle of
-the street that he realized that he had forgotten his hat; and he
-paused for an irresolute moment, during which his eye wandered, for no
-reason, to the Fountain of Neptune.  This castiron replica of too
-elaborate sculpture stood at the next corner, where the Major had
-placed it when the Addition was laid out so long ago.  The street
-corners had been shaped to conform with the great octagonal basin,
-which was no great inconvenience for horse-drawn vehicles, but a
-nuisance to speeding automobiles; and, even as George looked, one of
-the latter, coming too fast, saved itself only by a dangerous skid as
-it rounded the fountain.  This skid was to George's liking, though he
-would have been more pleased to see the car go over, for he was
-wishing grief and destruction, just then, upon all the automobiles in
-the world.
-
-His eyes rested a second or two longer upon the Fountain of Neptune,
-not an enlivening sight even in the shielding haze of autumn twilight.
-For more than a year no water had run in the fountain: the connections
-had been broken, and the Major was evasive about restorations, even
-when reminded by his grandson that a dry fountain is as gay as a dry
-fish.  Soot streaks and a thousand pits gave Neptune the distinction,
-at least, of leprosy, which the mermaids associated with him had been
-consistent in catching; and his trident had been so deeply affected as
-to drop its prongs.  Altogether, this heavy work of heavy art, smoked
-dry, hugely scabbed, cracked, and crumbling, was a dismal sight to the
-distracted eye of George Amberson Minafer, and its present condition
-of craziness may have added a mite to his own.  His own was
-sufficient, with no additions, however, as he stood looking at the
-Johnsons' house and those houses on both sides of it--that row of
-riffraff dwellings he had thought so damnable, the day when he stood
-in his grandfather's yard, staring at them, after hearing what his
-Aunt Amelia said of the "talk" about his mother.
-
-He decided that he needed no hat for the sort of call he intended to
-make, and went forward hurriedly.  Mrs. Johnson was at home, the Irish
-girl who came to the door informed him, and he was left to await the
-lady, in a room like an elegant well--the Johnsons' "reception room":
-floor space, nothing to mention; walls, blue calcimined; ceiling,
-twelve feet from the floor; inside shutters and gray lace curtains;
-five gilt chairs, a brocaded sofa, soiled, and an inlaid walnut table,
-supporting two tall alabaster vases; a palm, with two leaves, dying in
-a corner.
-
-Mrs. Johnson came in, breathing noticeably; and her round head,
-smoothly but economically decorated with the hair of an honest woman,
-seemed to be lingering far in the background of the Alpine bosom which
-took precedence of the rest of her everywhere; but when she was all in
-the room, it was to be seen that her breathing was the result of
-hospitable haste to greet the visitor, and her hand, not so dry as
-Neptune's Fountain, suggested that she had paused for only the
-briefest ablutions.  George accepted this cold, damp lump
-mechanically.
-
-"Mr. Amberson--I mean Mr. Minafer!" she exclaimed.  "I'm really
-delighted: I understood you asked for me.  Mr. Johnson's out of the
-city, but Charlie's downtown and I'm looking for him at any minute,
-now, and he'll be so pleased that you--"
-
-"I didn't want to see Charlie," George said.  "I want"
-
-"Do sit down," the hospitable lady urged him, seating herself upon the
-sofa.  "Do sit down."
-
-"No, I thank you. I wish--"
-
-"Surely you're not going to run away again, when you've just come.  Do
-sit down, Mr. Minafer.  I hope you're all well at your house and at
-the dear old Major's, too.  He's looking--"
-
-"Mrs. Johnson" George said, in a strained loud voice which arrested
-her attention immediately, so that she was abruptly silent, leaving
-her surprised mouth open.  She had already been concealing some
-astonishment at this unexampled visit, however, and the condition of
-George's ordinarily smooth hair (for he had overlooked more than his
-hat) had not alleviated her perplexity.  "Mrs. Johnson," he said, "I
-have come to ask you a few questions which I would like you to answer,
-if you please."
-
-She became grave at once.  "Certainly, Mr. Minafer. Anything I can--"
-
-He interrupted sternly, yet his voice shook in spite of its sternness.
-"You were talking with my Aunt Fanny about my mother this afternoon."
-
-At this Mrs. Johnson uttered an involuntary gasp, but she recovered
-herself.  "Then I'm sure our conversation was a very pleasant one, if
-we were talking of your mother, because--"
-
-Again he interrupted.  "My aunt has told me what the conversation
-virtually was, and I don't mean to waste any time, Mrs. Johnson.  You
-were talking about a--"  George's shoulders suddenly heaved
-uncontrollably; but he went fiercely on: "You were discussing a
-scandal that involved my mother's name."
-
-"Mr. Minafer!"
-
-"Isn't that the truth?"
-
-"I don't feel called upon to answer, Mr. Minafer," she said with
-visible agitation.  "I do not consider that you have any right--"
-
-"My aunt told me you repeated this scandal to her."
-
-"I don't think your aunt can have said that," Mrs. Johnson returned
-sharply.  "I did not repeat a scandal of any kind to your aunt and I
-think you are mistaken in saying she told you I did.  We may, have
-discussed some matters that have been a topic of comment about town--"
-
-"Yes!" George cried.  "I think you may have!  That's what I'm here
-about, and what I intend to--"
-
-"Don't tell me what you intend, please," Mrs. Johnson interrupted
-crisply.  "And I should prefer that you would not make your voice
-quite so loud in this house, which I happen to own.  Your aunt may
-have told you--though I think it would have been very unwise in her if
-she did, and not very considerate of me--she may have told you that we
-discussed some such topic as I have mentioned, and possibly that would
-have been true.  If I talked it over with her, you may be sure I spoke
-in the most charitable spirit, and without sharing in other people's
-disposition to put an evil interpretation on what may, be nothing more
-than unfortunate appearances and--"
-
-"My God!" said George.  "I can't stand this!"
-
-"You have the option of dropping the subject," Mrs. Johnson suggested
-tartly, and she added:  "Or of leaving the house."
-
-"I'll do that soon enough, but first I mean to know--"
-
-"I am perfectly willing to tell you anything you wish if you will
-remember to ask it quietly.  I'll also take the liberty of reminding
-you that I had a perfect right to discuss the subject with your aunt.
-Other people may be less considerate in not confining their discussion
-of it, as I have, to charitable views expressed only to a member of
-the family.  Other people--"
-
-"Other people!" the unhappy George repeated viciously.  "That's what I
-want to know about--these other people!"
-
-"I beg your pardon."
-
-"I want to ask you about them.  You say you know of other people who
-talk about this."
-
-"I presume they do."
-
-"How many?"
-
-"What?"
-
-"I want to know how many other people talk about it?"
-
-"Dear, dear!" she protested.  "How should I know that?"
-
-"Haven't you heard anybody mention it?"
-
-"I presume so."
-
-"Well, how many have you heard?"
-
-Mrs. Johnson was becoming more annoyed than apprehensive, and she
-showed it.  "Really, this isn't a court-room," she said.  "And I'm not
-a defendant in a libel-suit, either!"
-
-The unfortunate young man lost what remained of his balance.  "You may
-be!" he cried.  "I intend to know just who's dared to say these
-things, if I have to force my way into every house in town, and I'm
-going to make them take every word of it back!  I mean to know the
-name of every slanderer that's spoken of this matter to you and of
-every tattler you've passed it on to yourself. I mean to know--"
-
-"You'll know something pretty quick!" she said, rising with
-difficulty; and her voice was thick with the sense of insult.  "You'll
-know that you're out in the street.  Please to leave my house!"
-
-George stiffened sharply.  Then he bowed, and strode out of the door.
-
-Three minutes later, disheveled and perspiring, but cold all over, he
-burst into his Uncle George's room at the Major's without knocking.
-Amberson was dressing.
-
-"Good gracious, Georgie!" he exclaimed.  "What's up?"
-
-"I've just come from Mrs. Johnson's--across the street," George
-panted.
-
-"You have your own tastes!" was Amberson's comment.  "But curious as
-they are, you ought to do something better with your hair, and button
-your waistcoat to the right buttons--even for Mrs. Johnson!  What were
-you doing over there?"
-
-"She told me to leave the house," George said desperately.  "I went
-there because Aunt Fanny told me the whole town was talking about my
-mother and that man Morgan--that they say my mother is going to marry
-him and that proves she was too fond of him before my father died--she
-said this Mrs. Johnson was one that talked about it, and I went to her
-to ask who were the others."
-
-Amberson's jaw fell in dismay.  "Don't tell me you did that!" he said,
-in a low voice; and then, seeing that it was true, "Oh, now you have
-done it!"
-
-
-
-
-Chapter XXIII
-
-
-
-"I've 'done it'?" George cried.  "What do you mean: I've done it?  And
-what have I done?"
-
-Amberson had collapsed into an easy chair beside his dressing-table,
-the white evening tie he had been about to put on dangling from his
-hand, which had fallen limply on the arm of the chair.  The tie
-dropped to the floor before he replied; and the hand that had held it
-was lifted to stroke his graying hair reflectively.  "By Jove!" he
-muttered.  "That is too bad!"
-
-George folded his arms bitterly.  "Will you kindly answer my question?
-What have I done that wasn't honourable and right?  Do you think these
-riffraff can go about bandying my mother's name--"
-
-"They can now," said Amberson.  "I don't know if they could before,
-but they certainly can now!"
-
-"What do you mean by that?"
-
-His uncle sighed profoundly, picked up his tie and, preoccupied with
-despondency, twisted the strip of white lawn till it became
-unwearable.  Meanwhile, he tried to enlighten his nephew.  "Gossip is
-never fatal, Georgie," he said, "until it is denied.  Gossip goes on
-about every human being alive and about all the dead that are alive
-enough to be remembered, and yet almost never does any harm until some
-defender makes a controversy.  Gossip's a nasty thing, but it's
-sickly, and if people of good intentions will let it entirely alone,
-it will die, ninety-nine times out of a hundred."
-
-"See here," George said: "I didn't come to listen to any generalizing
-dose of philosophy!  I ask you--"
-
-"You asked me what you've done, and I'm telling you."  Amberson gave
-him a melancholy smile, continuing: "Suffer me to do it in my own way.
-Fanny says there's been talk about your mother, and that Mrs. Johnson
-does some of it.  I don't know, because naturally nobody would come to
-me with such stuff or mention it before me; but it's presumably true--
-I suppose it is.  I've seen Fanny with Mrs. Johnson quite a lot; and
-that old lady is a notorious gossip, and that's why she ordered you
-out of her house when you pinned her down that she'd been gossiping.
-I have a suspicion Mrs. Johnson has been quite a comfort to Fanny in
-their long talks; but she'll probably quit speaking to her over this,
-because Fanny told you. I suppose it's true that the 'whole town,' a
-lot of others, that is, do share in the gossip.  In this town,
-naturally, anything about any Amberson has always been a stone dropped
-into the centre of a pond, and a lie would send the ripples as far as
-a truth would.  I've been on a steamer when the story went all over
-the boat, the second day out,' that the prettiest girl on board didn't
-have any ears; and you can take it as a rule that when a woman's past
-thirty-five the prettier her hair is, the more certain you are to meet
-somebody with reliable information that it's a wig.  You can be sure
-that for many years there's been more gossip in this place about the
-Ambersons than about any other family.  I dare say it isn't so much so
-now as it used to be, because the town got too big long ago, but it's
-the truth that the more prominent you are the more gossip there is
-about you, and the more people would like to pull you down.  Well,
-they can't do it as long as you refuse to know what gossip there is
-about you.  But the minute you notice it, it's got you!  I'm not
-speaking of certain kinds of slander that sometimes people have got to
-take to the courts; I'm talking of the wretched buzzing the Mrs. John-
-sons do--the thing you seem to have such a horror of--people
-'talking'--the kind of thing that has assailed your mother.  People
-who have repeated a slander either get ashamed or forget it, if
-they're let alone.  Challenge them, and in self-defense they believe
-everything they've said: they'd rather believe you a sinner than
-believe themselves liars, naturally.  Submit to gossip and you kill
-it; fight it and you make it strong.  People will forget almost any
-slander except one that's been fought."
-
-"Is that all?"  George asked.
-
-"I suppose so," his uncle murmured sadly.
-
-"Well, then, may I ask what you'd have done, in my place?"
-
-"I'm not sure, Georgie.  When I was your age I was like you in many
-ways, especially in not being very cool-headed, so I can't say.  Youth
-can't be trusted for much, except asserting itself and fighting and
-making love."
-
-"Indeed!" George snorted.  "May I ask what you think I ought to have
-done?"
-
-"Nothing."
-
-"'Nothing?"  George echoed, mocking bitterly "I suppose you think I
-mean to let my mother's good name--"
-
-"Your mother's good name!"  Amberson cut him off impatiently.  "Nobody
-has a good name in a bad mouth.  Nobody has a good name in a silly
-mouth, either.  Well, your mother's name was in some silly mouths, and
-all you've done was to go and have a scene with the worst old woman
-gossip in the town--a scene that's going to make her into a partisan
-against your mother, whereas she was a mere prattler before.  Don't
-you suppose she'll be all over town with this to-morrow?  To-morrow?
-Why, she'll have her telephone going to-night as long as any of her
-friends are up!  People that never heard anything about this are going
-to bear it all now, with embellishments.  And she'll see to it that
-everybody who's hinted anything about poor Isabel will know that
-you're on the warpath; and that will put them on the defensive and
-make them vicious.  The story will grow as it spreads and--"
-
-George unfolded his arms to strike his right fist into his left palm.
-"But do you suppose I'm going to tolerate such things?" he shouted.
-"What do you suppose I'll be doing?"
-
-"Nothing helpful."
-
-"Oh, you think so, do you?"
-
-"You can do absolutely nothing," said Amberson.  "Nothing of any use.
-The more you do the more harm you'll do."
-
-"You'll see!  I'm going to stop this thing if I have to force my way
-into every house on National Avenue and Amberson Boulevard!"
-
-His uncle laughed rather sourly, but made no other comment.
-
-"Well, what do you propose to do?" George demanded.  "Do you propose
-to sit there--"
-
-"Yes."
-
-"--and let this riffraff bandy my mother's good name back and forth
-among them?  Is that what you propose to do?"
-
-"It's all I can do," Amberson returned.  "It's all any of us can do
-now: just sit still and hope that the thing may die down in time, in
-spite of your stirring up that awful old woman."
-
-George drew a long breath, then advanced and stood close before his
-uncle.  "Didn't you understand me when I told you that people are
-saying my mother means to marry this man?"
-
-"Yes, I understood you."
-
-"You say that my going over there has made matters worse," George went
-on.  "How about it if such a--such an unspeakable marriage did take
-place?  Do you think that would make people believe they'd been wrong
-in saying--you know what they say."
-
-"No," said Amberson deliberately; "I don't believe it would.  There'd
-be more badness in the bad mouths and more silliness in the silly
-mouths, I dare say.  But it wouldn't hurt Isabel and Eugene, if they
-never heard of it; and if they did hear of it, then they could take
-their choice between placating gossip or living for their own
-happiness.  If they have decided to marry--"
-
-George almost staggered.  "Good God!" he gasped.  "You speak of it
-calmly!"
-
-Amberson looked up at him inquiringly.  "Why shouldn't they marry if
-they want to?" he asked.  "It's their own affair."
-
-"Why shouldn't they?" George echoed.  "Why shouldn't they?"
-
-"Yes.  Why shouldn't they?  I don't see anything precisely monstrous
-about two people getting married when they're both free and care about
-each other.  What's the matter with their marrying?"
-
-"It would be monstrous!" George shouted.  "Monstrous even if this
-horrible thing hadn't happened, but now in the face of this--oh, that
-you can sit there and even speak of it!  Your own sister!  O God!
-Oh--"  He became incoherent, swinging away from Amberson and making for
-the door, wildly gesturing.
-
-"For heaven's sake, don't be so theatrical!" said his uncle, and then,
-seeing that George was leaving the room: "Come back here.  You mustn't
-speak to your mother of this!"
-
-"Don't 'tend to," George said indistinctly; and he plunged out into
-the big dimly lit hall.  He passed his grandfather's room on the way
-to the stairs; and the Major was visible within, his white head
-brightly illumined by a lamp, as he bent low over a ledger upon his
-roll-top desk.  He did not look up, and his grandson strode by the
-door, not really conscious of the old figure stooping at its tremulous
-work with long additions and subtractions that refused to balance as
-they used to.  George went home and got a hat and overcoat without
-seeing either his mother or Fanny.  Then he left word that he would be
-out for dinner, and hurried away from the house.
-
-He walked the dark streets of Amberson Addition for an hour, then went
-downtown and got coffee at a restaurant.  After that he walked through
-the lighted parts of the town until ten o'clock, when he turned north
-and came back to the purlieus of the Addition.  He strode through the
-length and breadth of it again, his hat pulled down over his forehead,
-his overcoat collar turned up behind.  He walked fiercely, though his
-feet ached, but by and by he turned homeward, and, when he reached the
-Major's, went in and sat upon the steps of the huge stone veranda in
-front--an obscure figure in that lonely and repellent place.  All
-lights were out at the Major's, and finally, after twelve, he saw his
-mother's window darken at home.
-
-He waited half an hour longer, then crossed the front yards of the new
-houses and let himself noiselessly in the front door.  The light in
-the hall had been left burning, and another in his own room, as he
-discovered when he got there.  He locked the door quickly and without
-noise, but his fingers were still upon the key when there was a quick
-footfall in the hall outside.
-
-"Georgie, dear?"
-
-He went to the other end of the room before replying.
-
-"Yes?"
-
-"I'd been wondering where you were, dear."
-
-"Had you?"
-
-There was a pause; then she said timidly:  "Wherever it was, I hope
-you had a pleasant evening."
-
-After a silence, "Thank you," he said, without expression.
-
-Another silence followed before she spoke again.
-
-"You wouldn't care to be kissed good-night, I suppose?"  And with a
-little flurry of placative laughter, she added: "At your age, of
-course!"
-
-"I'm going to bed, now," he said.  "Goodnight."
-
-Another silence seemed blanker than those which had preceded it, and
-finally her voice came--it was blank, too.
-
-"Good-night."
-
-After he was in bed his thoughts became more tumultuous than ever;
-while among all the inchoate and fragmentary sketches of this dreadful
-day, now rising before him, the clearest was of his uncle collapsed in
-a big chair with a white tie dangling from his hand; and one
-conviction, following upon that picture, became definite in George's
-mind: that his Uncle George Amberson was a hopeless dreamer from whom
-no help need be expected, an amiable imbecile lacking in normal
-impulses, and wholly useless in a struggle which required honour to be
-defended by a man of action.
-
-Then would return a vision of Mrs. Johnson's furious round head, set
-behind her great bosom like the sun far sunk on the horizon of a
-mountain plateau--and her crackling, asthmatic voice. . . "Without
-sharing in other people's disposition to put an evil interpretation on
-what may be nothing more than unfortunate appearances." . . . "Other
-people may be less considerate in not confirming their discussion of
-it, as I have, to charitable views." . . . "you'll know something pretty
-quick!  You'll know you're out in the street." . . . And then George
-would get up again--and again--and pace the floor in his bare feet.
-
-That was what the tormented young man was doing when daylight came
-gauntly in at his window--pacing the floor, rubbing his head in his
-hands, and muttering:
-
-"It can't be true: this can't be happening to me!"
-
-
-
-
-Chapter XXIV
-
-
-
-Breakfast was brought to him in his room, as usual; but he did not
-make his normal healthy raid upon the dainty tray: the food remained
-untouched, and he sustained himself upon coffee--four cups of it,
-which left nothing of value inside the glistening little percolator.
-During this process he heard his mother being summoned to the
-telephone in the hall, not far from his door, and then her voice
-responding: "Yes?  Oh, it's you!  Indeed I should! . . . Of course. .
-. . Then I'll expect you about three. . . Yes.  Good-bye till then."
-A few minutes later he heard her speaking to someone beneath his
-window and, looking out, saw her directing the removal of plants from
-a small garden bed to the Major's conservatory for the winter.  There
-was an air of briskness about her; as she turned away to go into the
-house, she laughed gaily with the Major's gardener over something he
-said, and this unconcerned cheerfulness of her was terrible to her
-son.
-
-He went to his desk, and, searching the jumbled contents of a drawer,
-brought forth a large, unframed photograph of his father, upon which
-he gazed long and piteously, till at last hot tears stood in his eyes.
-It was strange how the inconsequent face of Wilbur seemed to increase
-in high significance during this belated interview between father and
-son; and how it seemed to take on a reproachful nobility--and yet,
-under the circumstances, nothing could have been more natural than
-that George, having paid but the slightest attention to his father in
-life, should begin to deify him, now that he was dead.  "Poor, poor
-father!" the son whispered brokenly.  "Poor man, I'm glad you didn't
-know!"
-
-He wrapped the picture in a sheet of newspaper, put it under his arm,
-and, leaving the house hurriedly and stealthily, went downtown to the
-shop of a silversmith, where he spent sixty dollars on a resplendently
-festooned silver frame for the picture.  Having lunched upon more
-coffee, he returned to the house at two o'clock, carrying the framed
-photograph with him, and placed it upon the centre-table in the
-library, the room most used by Isabel and Fanny and himself.  Then he
-went to a front window of the long "reception room," and sat looking
-out through the lace curtains.
-
-The house was quiet, though once or twice he heard his mother and
-Fanny moving about upstairs, and a ripple of song in the voice of
-Isabel--a fragment from the romantic ballad of Lord Bateman.
-
-"Lord Bateman was a noble lord,
-A noble lord of high degree;
-And he sailed West and he sailed East,
-Far countries for to see. . . ."
-
-The words became indistinct; the air was hummed absently; the humming
-shifted to a whistle, then drifted out of hearing, and the place was
-still again.
-
-George looked often at his watch, but his vigil did not last an hour.
-At ten minutes of three, peering through the curtain, he saw an
-automobile stop in front of the house and Eugene Morgan jump lightly
-down from it.  The car was of a new pattern, low and long, with an
-ample seat in the tonneau, facing forward; and a professional driver
-sat at the wheel, a strange figure in leather, goggled out of all
-personality and seemingly part of the mechanism.
-
-Eugene himself, as he came up the cement path to the house, was a
-figure of the new era which was in time to be so disastrous to stiff
-hats and skirted coats; and his appearance afforded a debonair
-contrast to that of the queer-looking duck capering: at the Amberson
-Ball in an old dress coat, and chugging up National Avenue through the
-snow in his nightmare of a sewing-machine.  Eugene, this afternoon,
-was richly in the new outdoor mode: motoring coat was soft gray fur;
-his cap and gloves were of gray suede; and though Lucy's hand may have
-shown itself in the selection of these garnitures, he wore them
-easily, even with becoming hint of jauntiness.  Some change might be
-his face, too, for a successful man is seldom to be mistaken,
-especially if his temper be genial.  Eugene had begun to look like a
-millionaire.
-
-But above everything else, what was most evident about him, as he came
-up the path, was confidence in the happiness promised by his errand;
-the anticipation in his eyes could have been read by a stranger.  His
-look at the door of Isabel's house was the look of a man who is quite
-certain that the next moment will reveal something ineffably charming,
-inexpressibly dear.
-
-When the bell rang, George waited at the entrance of the "reception
-room" until a housemaid came through the hall on her way to answer the
-summons.
-
-"You needn't mind, Mary," he told her.  "I'll see who it is and what
-they want.  Probably it's only a pedlar."
-
-"Thank you, sir, Mister George," said Mary; and returned to the rear
-of the house.
-
-George went slowly to the front door, and halted, regarding the misty
-silhouette of the caller upon the ornamental frosted glass.  After a
-minute of waiting, this silhouette changed outline so that an arm
-could be distinguished--an arm outstretched toward the bell, as if the
-gentleman outside doubted whether or not it had sounded, and were
-minded to try again.  But before the gesture was completed George
-abruptly threw open the door, and stepped squarely upon the middle of
-the threshold.
-
-A slight change shadowed the face of Eugene; his look of happy
-anticipation gave way to something formal and polite.  "How do you do,
-George," he said.  "Mrs. Minafer expects to go driving with me, I
-believe--if you'll be so kind as to send her word that I'm here."
-
-George made not the slightest movement.
-
-"No," he said.
-
-Eugene was incredulous, even when his second glance revealed how hot
-of eye was the haggard young man before him.  "I beg your pardon.  I
-said--"
-
-"I heard you," said George.  "You said you had an engagement with my
-mother, and I told you, No!"
-
-Eugene gave him a steady look, and then he quietly:  "What is the--the
-difficulty?"
-
-George kept his own voice quiet enough, but that, did not mitigate the
-vibrant fury of it.  "My--mother will have no interest in knowing that
-you came her to-day," he said.  "Or any other day!"
-
-Eugene continued to look at him with a scrutiny in which began to
-gleam a profound anger, none less powerful because it was so quiet.
-"I am afraid I do not understand you."
-
-"I doubt if I could make it much plainer," George said, raising his
-voice slightly, "but I'll try.  You're not wanted in this house, Mr.
-Morgan, now or at any other time.  Perhaps you'll understand--this!"
-
-And with the last word he closed the door in Eugene's face.
-
-Then, not moving away, he stood just inside door, and noted that the
-misty silhouette remained upon the frosted glass for several moments,
-as if the forbidden gentleman debated in his mind what course to
-pursue.  "Let him ring again!"  George thought grimly.  "Or try the
-side door--or the kitchen!"
-
-But Eugene made no further attempt; the silhouette disappeared;
-footsteps could be heard withdrawing across the floor of the veranda;
-and George, returning to the window in the "reception room," was
-rewarded by the sight of an automobile manufacturer in baffled
-retreat, with all his wooing furs and fineries mocking him.  Eugene
-got into his car slowly, not looking back at the house which had just
-taught him such a lesson; and it was easily visible--even from a
-window seventy feet distant--that he was not the same light suitor who
-had jumped so gallantly from the car only a few minutes earlier.
-Observing the heaviness of his movements as he climbed into the
-tonneau, George indulged in a sickish throat rumble which bore a
-distant cousinship to mirth.
-
-The car was quicker than its owner; it shot away as soon as he had
-sunk into his seat; and George, having watched its impetuous
-disappearance from his field of vision, ceased to haunt the window.
-He went to the library, and, seating himself beside the table whereon
-he had placed the photograph of his father, picked up a book, and
-pretended to been engaged in reading it.
-
-Presently Isabel's buoyant step was heard descending the stairs, and
-her low, sweet whistling, renewing the air of "Lord Bateman."  She
-came into the library, still whistling thoughtfully, a fur coat over
-her arm, ready to put on, and two veils round her small black hat, her
-right hand engaged in buttoning the glove upon her left; and, as the
-large room contained too many pieces of heavy furniture, and the
-inside shutters excluded most of the light of day, she did not at once
-perceive George's presence.  Instead, she went to the bay window at
-the end of the room, which afforded a view of the street, and glanced
-out expectantly; then bent her attention upon her glove; after that,
-looked out toward the street again, ceased to whistle, and turned
-toward the interior of the room.
-
-"Why, Georgie!"
-
-She came, leaned over from behind him, and there was a faint,
-exquisite odour as from distant apple blossoms as she kissed his
-cheek.  "Dear, I waited lunch almost an hour for you, but you didn't
-come!  Did you lunch out somewhere?"
-
-"Yes."  He did not look up from the book.
-
-"Did you have plenty to eat?"
-
-"Yes."
-
-"Are you sure?  Wouldn't you like to have Maggie get you something now
-in the dining room?  Or they could bring it to you here, if you think
-it would be cozier.  Shan't I--"
-
-A tinkling bell was audible, and she moved to the doorway into the
-hall.  "I'm going out driving, dear.  I--"  She interrupted herself to
-address the housemaid, who was passing through the hall: "I think it's
-Mr. Morgan, Mary.  Tell him I'll be there at once."
-
-"Yes, ma'am."
-
-Mary returned.  "Twas a pedlar, ma'am."
-
-"Another one?"  Isabel said, surprised.  "I thought you said it was a
-pedlar when the bell rang a little while ago."
-
-"Mister George said it was, ma'am; he went to the door," Mary informed
-her, disappearing.
-
-"There seem to be a great many of them," Isabel mused.  "What did
-yours want to sell, George?"
-
-"He didn't say."
-
-"You must have cut him off short!" she laughed; and then, still
-standing in the doorway, she noticed the big silver frame upon the
-table beside him.  "Gracious, Georgie!" she exclaimed.  "You have been
-investing!" and as she came across the room for a closer view, "Is it
---is it Lucy?" she asked half timidly, half archly.  But the next
-instant she saw whose likeness was thus set forth in elegiac
-splendour--and she was silent, except for a long, just-audible "Oh!"
-
-He neither looked up nor moved.
-
-"That was nice of you, Georgie," she said, in a low voice presently.
-"I ought to have had it framed, myself, when I gave it to you."
-
-He said nothing, and, standing beside him, she put her hand gently
-upon his shoulder, then as gently withdrew it, and went out of the
-room.  But she did not go upstairs; he heard the faint rustle of her
-dress in the hall, and then the sound of her footsteps in the
-"reception room."  After a time, silence succeeded even these slight
-tokens of her presence; whereupon George rose and went warily into the
-hall, taking care to make no noise, and he obtained an oblique view of
-her through the open double doors of the "reception room."  She was
-sitting in the chair which he had occupied so long; and she was
-looking out of the window expectantly--a little troubled.
-
-He went back to the library, waited an interminable half hour, then
-returned noiselessly to the same position in the hall, where he could
-see her.  She was still sitting patiently by the window.
-
-Waiting for that man, was she?  Well, it might be quite a long wait!
-And the grim George silently ascended the stairs to his own room, and
-began to pace his suffering floor.
-
-
-
-
-Chapter XXV
-
-
-
-He left his door open, however, and when he heard the front door-bell
-ring, by and by, he went half way down the stairs and stood to listen.
-He was not much afraid that Morgan would return, but he wished to make
-sure.
-
-Mary appeared in the hall below him, but, after a glance toward the
-front of the house, turned back, and withdrew.  Evidently Isabel had
-gone to the door.  Then a murmur was heard, and George Amberson's
-voice, quick and serious: "I want to talk to you, Isabel" . . . and
-another murmur; then Isabel and her brother passed the foot of the
-broad, dark stairway, but did not look up, and remained unconscious of
-the watchful presence above them.  Isabel still carried her cloak upon
-her arm, but Amberson had taken her hand, and retained it; and as he
-led her silently into the library there was something about her
-attitude, and the pose of her slightly bent head, that was both
-startled and meek.  Thus they quickly disappeared from George's sight,
-hand in hand; and Amberson at once closed the massive double doors of
-the library.
-
-For a time all that George could hear was the indistinct sound of his
-uncle's voice: what he was saying could not be surmised, though the
-troubled brotherliness of his tone was evident.  He seemed to be
-explaining something at considerable length, and there were moments
-when he paused, and George guessed that his mother was speaking, but
-her voice must have been very low, for it was entirely inaudible to
-him.
-
-Suddenly he did hear her.  Through the heavy doors her outcry came,
-clear and loud:
-
-"Oh, no!"
-
-It was a cry of protest, as if something her brother told her must be
-untrue, or, if it were true, the fact he stated must be undone; and it
-was a sound of sheer pain.
-
-Another sound of pain, close to George, followed it; this was a
-vehement sniffling which broke out just above him, and, looking up, he
-saw Fanny Minafer on the landing, leaning over the banisters and
-applying her handkerchief to her eyes and nose.
-
-"I can guess what that was about," she whispered huskily.  "He's just
-told her what you did to Eugene!"
-
-George gave her a dark look over his shoulder.  "You go on back to
-your room!" he said; and he began to descend the stairs; but Fanny,
-guessing his purpose, rushed down and caught his arm, detaining him.
-
-"You're not going in there?", she whispered huskily.  "You don't--"
-
-"Let go of me!"
-
-But she clung to him savagely.  "No, you don't, Georgie Minafer!
-You'll keep away from there!  You will!"
-
-"You let go of--"
-
-"I won't!  You come back here!  You'll come upstairs and let them
-alone; that's what you'll do!"  And with such passionate determination
-did she clutch and tug, never losing a grip of him somewhere, though
-George tried as much as he could, without hurting her, to wrench away
---with such utter forgetfulness of her maiden dignity did she assault
-him, that she forced him, stumbling upward, to the landing.
-
-"Of all the ridiculous--" he began furiously; but she spared one hand
-from its grasp of his sleeve and clapped it over his mouth.
-
-"Hush up!" Never for an instant in this grotesque struggle did Fanny
-raise her voice above a husky whisper.  "Hush up!  It's indecent--like
-squabbling outside the door of an operating-room!  Go on to the top of
-the stairs--go on!"
-
-And when George had most unwillingly obeyed, she planted herself in
-his way, on the top step.  "There!" she said.  "The idea of your going
-in there now!  I never heard of such a thing!"  And with the sudden
-departure of the nervous vigour she had shown so amazingly, she began
-to cry again.  "I was an awful fool!  I thought you knew what was
-going on or I never, never would have done it.  Do you suppose I
-dreamed you'd go making everything into such a tragedy?  Do you?"
-
-"I don't care what you dreamed," George muttered.
-
-But Fanny went on, always taking care to keep her voice from getting
-too loud, in spite of her most grievous agitation.  "Do you dream I
-thought you'd go making such a fool of yourself at Mrs. Johnson's?
-Oh, I saw her this morning!  She wouldn't talk to me, but I met George
-Amberson on my way back, and he told me what you'd done over there!
-And do you dream I thought you'd do what you've done here this
-afternoon to Eugene?  Oh, I knew that, too!  I was looking out of the
-front bedroom window, and I saw him drive up, and then go away again,
-and I knew you'd been to the door.  Of course he went to George
-Amberson about it, and that's why George is here.  He's got to tell
-Isabel the whole thing now, and you wanted to go in there interfering
---God knows what!  You stay here and let her brother tell her; he's got
-some consideration for her!"
-
-"I suppose you think I haven't!"  George said, challenging her, and at
-that Fanny laughed witheringly.
-
-"You!  Considerate of anybody!"
-
-"I'm considerate of her good name!" he said hotly.  "It seems to me
-that's about the first thing to be considerate of, in being
-considerate of a person!  And look here: it strikes me you're taking a
-pretty different tack from what you did yesterday afternoon!"
-
-Fanny wrung her hands. "I did a terrible thing!" she lamented.  "Now
-that it's done and too late I know what it was!  I didn't have sense
-enough just to let things go on.  I didn't have any business to
-interfere, and I didn't mean to interfere--I only wanted to talk, and
-let out a little!  I did think you already knew everything I told you.
-I did!  And I'd rather have cut my hand off than stir you up to doing
-what you have done!  I was just suffering so that I wanted to let out
-a little--I didn't mean any real harm.  But now I see what's happened
---oh, I was a fool!  I hadn't any business interfering.  Eugene never
-would have looked at me, anyhow, and, oh, why couldn't I have seen
-that before!  He never came here a single time in his life except on
-her account, never! and I might have let them alone, because he
-wouldn't have looked at me even if he'd never seen Isabel.  And they
-haven't done any harm: she made Wilbur happy, and she was a true wife
-to him as long as he lived.  It wasn't a crime for her to care for
-Eugene all the time; she certainly never told him she did--and she
-gave me every chance in the world!  She left us alone together every
-time she could--even since Wilbur died--but what was the use?  And
-here I go, not doing myself a bit of good by it, and just"--Fanny
-wrung her hands again--"just ruining them!"
-
-"I suppose you mean I'm doing that," George said bitterly.
-
-"Yes, I do!" she sobbed, and drooped upon the stairway railing,
-exhausted.
-
-"On the contrary, I mean to save my mother from a calamity."
-
-Fanny looked at him wanly, in a tired despair; then she stepped by him
-and went slowly to her own door, where she paused and beckoned to him.
-
-"What do you want?"
-
-"Just come here a minute."
-
-"What for?" he asked impatiently.
-
-"I just wanted to say something to you."
-
-"Well, for heaven's sake, say it!  There's nobody to hear."
-Nevertheless, after a moment, as she beckoned him again, he went to
-her, profoundly annoyed.  "Well, what is it?"
-
-"George," she said in a low voice, "I think you ought to be told
-something.  If I were you, I'd let my mother alone."
-
-"Oh, my Lord!" he groaned.  "I'm doing these things for her, not
-against her!"
-
-A mildness had come upon Fanny, and she had controlled her weeping.
-She shook her head gently.  "No, I'd let her alone if I were you.  I
-don't think she's very well, George."
-
-"She!  I never saw a healthier person in my life."
-
-"No.  She doesn't let anybody know, but she goes to the doctor
-regularly."
-
-"Women are always going to doctors regularly."
-
-"No.  He told her to."
-
-George was not impressed.  "It's nothing at all; she spoke of it to me
-years ago--some kind of family failing.  She said grandfather had it,
-too; and look at him!  Hasn't proved very serious with him!  You act
-as if I'd done something wrong in sending that man about his business,
-and as if I were going to persecute my mother, instead of protecting
-her.  By Jove, it's sickening!  You told me how all the riffraff in
-town were busy with her name, and then the minute I lift my hand to
-protect her, you begin to attack me and--"
-
-"Sh!"  Fanny checked him, laying her hand on his arm.  "Your uncle is
-going."
-
-The library doors were heard opening, and a moment later there came
-the sound of the front door closing.
-
-George moved toward the head of the stairs, then stood listening; but
-the house was silent.
-
-Fanny made a slight noise with her lips to attract his attention, and,
-when he glanced toward her, shook her head at him urgently.  "Let her
-alone," she whispered.  "She's down there by herself.  Don't go down.
-Let her alone."
-
-She moved a few steps toward him and halted, her face pallid and
-awestruck, and then both stood listening for anything that might break
-the silence downstairs.  No sound came to them; that poignant silence
-was continued throughout long, long minutes, while the two listeners
-stood there under its mysterious spell; and in its plaintive
-eloquence--speaking, as it did, of the figure alone in the big, dark
-library, where dead Wilbur's new silver frame gleamed in the dimness--
-there was something that checked even George.
-
-Above the aunt and nephew, as they kept this strange vigil, there was
-a triple window of stained glass, to illumine the landing and upper
-reaches of the stairway.  Figures in blue and amber garments posed
-gracefully in panels, conceived by some craftsman of the Eighties to
-represent Love and Purity and Beauty, and these figures, leaded to
-unalterable attitudes, were little more motionless than the two human
-beings upon whom fell the mottled faint light of the window.  The
-colours were growing dull; evening was coming on.
-
-Fanny Minafer broke the long silence with a sound from her throat, a
-stilled gasp; and with that great companion of hers, her handkerchief,
-retired softly to the loneliness of her own chamber.  After she had
-gone George looked about him bleakly, then on tiptoe crossed the hall
-and went into his own room, which was filled with twilight.  Still
-tiptoeing, though he could not have said why, he-went across the room
-and sat down heavily in a chair facing the window.  Outside there was
-nothing but the darkening air and the wall of the nearest of the new
-houses.  He had not slept at all, the night before, and he had eaten
-nothing since the preceding day at lunch, but he felt neither
-drowsiness nor hunger.  His set determination filled him, kept him but
-too wide awake, and his gaze at the grayness beyond the window was
-wide--eyed and bitter.
-
-Darkness had closed in when there was a step in the room behind him.
-Then someone knelt beside the chair, two arms went round him with
-infinite compassion, a gentle head rested against his shoulder, and
-there came the faint scent as of apple-blossoms far away.
-
-"You mustn't be troubled, darling," his mother whispered.
-
-
-
-
-Chapter XXVI
-
-
-George choked.  For an instant he was on the point of breaking down,
-but he commanded himself, bravely dismissing the self-pity roused by
-her compassion.  "How can I help but be?" he said.
-
-"No, no."  She soothed him.  "You mustn't.  You mustn't be troubled,
-no matter what happens."
-
-"That's easy enough to say!" he protested; and he moved as if to rise.
-
-"Just let's stay like this a little while, dear.  Just a minute or
-two.  I want to tell you: brother George has been here, and he told me
-everything about--about how unhappy you'd been--and how you went so
-gallantly to that old woman with the operaglasses."  Isabel gave a sad
-little laugh.  "What a terrible old woman she is!  What a really
-terrible thing a vulgar old woman can be!"
-
-"Mother, I--"  And again he moved to rise.
-
-"Must you?  It seemed to me such a comfortable way to talk.  Well--"
-She yielded; he rose, helped her to her feet, and pressed the light
-into being.
-
-As the room took life from the sudden lines of fire within the bulbs
-Isabel made a deprecatory gesture, and, with a faint laugh of
-apologetic protest, turned quickly away from George.  What she meant
-was:  "You mustn't see my face until I've made it nicer for you."
-Then she turned again to him, her eyes downcast, but no sign of tears
-in them, and she contrived to show him that there was the semblance of
-a smile upon her lips.  She still wore her hat, and in her unsteady
-fingers she held a white envelope, somewhat crumpled.
-
-"Now, mother--"
-
-"Wait, dearest," she said; and though he stood stone cold, she lifted
-her arms, put them round him again, and pressed her cheek lightly to
-his.  "Oh, you do look so troubled, poor dear!  One thing you couldn't
-doubt, beloved boy: you know I could never care for anything in the
-world as I care for you--never, never!"
-
-"Now, mother--"
-
-She released him, and stepped back.  "Just a moment more, dearest. I
-want you to read this first.  We can get at things better."  She
-pressed into his hand the envelope she had brought with her, and as he
-opened it, and began to read the long enclosure, she walked slowly to
-the other end of the room; then stood there, with her back to him, and
-her head drooping a little, until he had finished.
-
-The sheets of paper were covered with Eugene's handwriting.
-
-George Amberson will bring you this, dear Isabel.  He is waiting while
-I write.  He and I have talked things over, and before he gives this
-to you he will tell you what has happened.  Of course I'm rather
-confused, and haven't had time to think matters out very definitely,
-and yet I believe I should have been better prepared for what took
-place to-day--I ought to have known it was coming, because I have
-understood for quite a long time that young George was getting to
-dislike me more and more.  Somehow, I've never been able to get his
-friendship; he's always had a latent distrust of me--or something like
-distrust--and perhaps that's made me sometimes a little awkward and
-diffident with him.  I think it may be he felt from the first that I
-cared a great deal about you, and he naturally resented it.  I think
-perhaps he felt this even during all the time when I was so careful--
-at least I thought I was--not to show, even to you, how immensely I
-did care.  And he may have feared that you were thinking too much
-about me--even when you weren't and only liked me as an old friend.
-It's perfectly comprehensible to me, also, that at his age one gets
-excited about gossip.  Dear Isabel, what I'm trying to get at, in my
-confused way, is that you and I don't care about this nonsensical
-gossip, ourselves, at all.  Yesterday I thought the time had come when
-I could ask you to marry me, and you were dear enough to tell me
-"sometime it might come to that."  Well, you and I, left to ourselves,
-and knowing what we have been and what we are, we'd pay as much
-attention to "talk" as we would to any other kind of old cats' mewing!
-We'd not be very apt to let such things keep us from the plenty of
-life we have left to us for making up to ourselves for old
-unhappinesses and mistakes.  But now we're faced with--not the slander
-and not our own fear of it, because we haven't any, but someone else's
-fear of it--your son's.  And, oh, dearest woman in the world, I know
-what your son is to you, and it frightens me!  Let me explain a
-little: I don't think he'll change--at twenty-one or twenty-two so
-many things appear solid and permanent and terrible which forty sees
-are nothing but disappearing miasma.  Forty can't tell twenty about
-this; that's the pity of it!  Twenty can find out only by getting to
-be forty.  And so we come to this, dear:  Will you live your own life
-your way, or George's way?  I'm going a little further, because it
-would be fatal not to be wholly frank now.  George will act toward you
-only as your long worship of him, your sacrifices--all the unseen
-little ones every day since he was born--will make him act.  Dear, it
-breaks my heart for you, but what you have to oppose now is the
-history of your own selfless and perfect motherhood.  I remember
-saying once that what you worshipped in your son was the angel you saw
-in him--and I still believe that is true of every mother.  But in a
-mother's worship she may not see that the Will in her son should not
-always be offered incense along with the angel.  I grow sick with fear
-for you--for both you and me--when I think how the Will against us two
-has grown strong through the love you have given the angel--and how
-long your own sweet Will has served that other.  Are you strong
-enough, Isabel?  Can you make the fight?  I promise you that if you
-will take heart for it, you will find so quickly that it has all
-amounted to nothing.  You shall have happiness, and, in a little
-while, only happiness.  You need only to write me a line--I can't come
-to your house--and tell me where you will meet me.  We will come back
-in a month, and the angel in your son will bring him to you; I promise
-it.  What is good in him will grow so fine, once you have beaten the
-turbulent Will--but it must be beaten!
-
-Your brother, that good friend, is waiting with such patience; I
-should not keep him longer--and I am saying too much for wisdom, I
-fear.  But, oh, my dear, won't you be strong--such a little short
-strength it would need!  Don't strike my life down twice, dear--this
-time I've not deserved it.
-                                  Eugene.
-
-Concluding this missive, George tossed it abruptly from him so that
-one sheet fell upon his bed and the others upon the floor; and at the
-faint noise of their falling Isabel came, and, kneeling, began to
-gather them up.
-
-"Did you read it, dear?"
-
-George's face was pale no longer, but pink with fury.  "Yes, I did."
-
-"All of it?" she asked gently, as she rose.
-
-"Certainly!"
-
-She did not look at him, but kept her eyes downcast upon the letter in
-her hands, tremulously rearranging the sheets in order as she spoke--
-and though she smiled, her smile was as tremulous as her hands.
-Nervousness and an irresistible timidity possessed her.  "I--I wanted
-to say, George," she faltered.  "I felt that if--if some day it should
-happen--I mean, if you came to feel differently about it, and Eugene
-and I--that is if we found that it seemed the most sensible thing to
-do--I was afraid you might think it would be a little queer about--
-Lucy, I mean if--if she were your step-sister.  Of course, she'd not
-be even legally related to you, and if you--if you cared for her--"
-
-Thus far she got stumblingly with what she wanted to say, while George
-watched her with a gaze that grew harder and hotter; but here he cut
-her off.  "I have already given up all idea of Lucy," he said.
-"Naturally, I couldn't have treated her father as I deliberately did
-treat him--I could hardly have done that and expected his daughter
-ever to speak to me again."
-
-Isabel gave a quick cry of compassion, but he allowed her no
-opportunity to speak.  "You needn't think I'm making any particular
-sacrifice," he said sharply, "though I would, quickly enough, if I
-thought it necessary in a matter of honour like this.  I was
-interested in her, and I could even say I did care for her; but she
-proved pretty satisfactorily that she cared little enough about me!
-She went away right in the midst of a--of a difference of opinion we
-were having; she didn't even let me know she was going, and never
-wrote a line to me, and then came back telling everybody she'd had 'a
-perfectly gorgeous time!'  That's quite enough for me.  I'm not
-precisely the sort to arrange for that kind of thing to be done to me
-more than once!  The truth is, we're not congenial and we'd found that
-much out, at least, before she left.  We should never have been happy;
-she was 'superior' all the time, and critical of me--not very
-pleasant, that!  I was disappointed in her, and I might as well say
-it.  I don't think she has the very deepest nature in the world, and--"
-
-But Isabel put her hand timidly on his arm.  "Georgie, dear, this is
-only a quarrel: all young people have them before they get adjusted,
-and you mustn't let--"
-
-"If you please!" he said emphatically, moving back from her.  "This
-isn't that kind.  It's all over, and I don't care to speak of it
-again.  It's settled.  Don't you understand?"
-
-"But, dear--"
-
-"No. I want to talk to you about this letter of her father's."
-
-"Yes, dear, that's why--"
-
-"It's simply the most offensive piece of writing that I've ever held
-in my hands!"
-
-She stepped back from him, startled.  "But, dear, I thought--"
-
-"I can't understand your even showing me such a thing!" he cried.
-"How did you happen to bring it to me?"
-
-"Your uncle thought I'd better.  He thought it was the simplest thing
-to do, and he said that he'd suggested it to Eugene, and Eugene had
-agreed.  They thought--"
-
-"Yes!"  George said bitterly.  "I should like to hear what they
-thought!"
-
-"They thought it would be the most straightforward thing."
-
-George drew a long breath.  "Well, what do you think, mother?"
-
-"I thought it would be the simplest and most straightforward thing; I
-thought they were right."
-
-"Very well!  We'll agree it was simple and straightforward.  Now, what
-do you think of that letter itself?"
-
-She hesitated, looking away.  "I--of course I don't agree with him in
-the way he speaks of you, dear--except about the angel!  I don't agree
-with some of the things he implies.  You've always been unselfish--
-nobody knows that better than your mother.  When Fanny was left with
-nothing, you were so quick and generous to give up what really should
-have come to you, and--"
-
-"And yet," George broke in, "you see what he implies about me.  Don't
-you think, really, that this was a pretty insulting letter for that
-man to be asking you to hand your son?"
-
-"Oh, no!" she cried.  "You can see how fair he means to be, and he
-didn't ask for me to give it to you.  It was brother George who--"
-
-"Never mind that, now!  You say he tries to be fair, and yet do you
-suppose it ever occurs to him that I'm doing my simple duty?  That I'm
-doing what my father would do if he were alive?  That I'm doing what
-my father would ask me to do if he could speak from his grave out
-yonder?  Do you suppose it ever occurs to that man for one minute that
-I'm protecting my mother?"  George raised his voice, advancing upon
-the helpless lady fiercely; and she could only bend her head before
-him.  "He talks about my 'Will'--how it must be beaten down; yes, and
-he asks my mother to do that little thing to please him!  What for?
-Why does he want me 'beaten' by my mother?  Because I'm trying to
-protect her name!  He's got my mother's name bandied up and down the
-streets of this town till I can't step in those streets without
-wondering what every soul I meet is thinking of me and of my family,
-and now he wants you to marry him so that every gossip in town will
-say 'There!  What did I tell you?  I guess that proves it's true!'
-You can't get away from it; that's exactly what they'd say, and this
-man pretends he cares for you, and yet asks you to marry him and give
-them the right to say it.  He says he and you don't care what they
-say, but I know better!  He may not care-probably he's that kind--but
-you do.  There never was an Amberson yet that would let the Amberson
-name go trailing in the dust like that!  It's the proudest name in
-this town and it's going to stay the proudest; and I tell you that's
-the deepest thing in my nature-not that I'd expect Eugene Morgan to
-understand--the very deepest thing in my nature is to protect that
-name, and to fight for it to the last breath when danger threatens it,
-as it does now--through my mother!"  He turned from her, striding up
-and down and tossing his arms about, in a tumult of gesture.  "I can't
-believe it of you, that you'd think of such a sacrilege!  That's what
-it would be--sacrilege!  When he talks about your unselfishness toward
-me, he's right--you have been unselfish and you have been a perfect
-mother.  But what about him?  Is it unselfish of him to want you to
-throw away your good name just to please him?  That's all he asks of
-you--and to quit being my mother!  Do you think I can believe you
-really care for him?  I don't!  You are my mother and you're an
-Amberson--and I believe you're too proud!  You're too proud to care
-for a man who could write such a letter as that!"  He stopped, faced
-her, and spoke with more self-control:  "Well, what are you going to
-do about it, mother?"
-
-George was right about his mother's being proud.  And even when she
-laughed with a negro gardener, or even those few times in her life
-when people saw her weep, Isabel had a proud look--something that was
-independent and graceful and strong.  But she did not have it now: she
-leaned against the wall, beside his dressing-table, and seemed beset
-with humility and with weakness.  Her head drooped.
-
-"What answer are you going to make to such a letter?"  George
-demanded, like a judge on the bench.
-
-"I--I don't quite know, dear," she murmured.
-
-"Wait," she begged him.  "I'm so--confused."
-
-"I want to know what you're going to write him.  Do you think if you
-did what he wants you to I could bear to stay another day in this
-town, mother?  Do you think I could ever bear even to see you again if
-you married him?  I'd want to, but you surely know I just--couldn't!"
-
-She made a futile gesture, and seemed to breathe with difficulty.
-"I--I wasn't--quite sure," she faltered, "about--about it's being wise
-for us to be married--even before knowing how you feel about it.  I
-wasn't even sure it was quite fair to--to Eugene.  I have--I seem to
-have that family trouble--like father's--that I spoke to you about
-once."  She managed a deprecatory little dry laugh.  "Not that it
-amounts to much, but I wasn't at all sure that it would be fair to
-him.  Marrying doesn't mean so much, after all--not at my age.  It's
-enough to know that--that people think of you--and to see them.  I
-thought we were all--oh, pretty happy the way things were, and I don't
-think it would mean giving up a great deal for him or me, either, if
-we just went on as we have been.  I--I see him almost every day, and--"
-
-"Mother!"  George's voice was loud and stern.  "Do you think you could
-go on seeing him after this!"
-
-She had been talking helplessly enough before; her tone was little
-more broken now.  "Not--not even--see him?"
-
-"How could you?"  George cried.  "Mother, it seems to me that if he
-ever set foot in this house again--oh!  I can't speak of it!  Could
-you see him, knowing what talk it makes every time he turns into this
-street, and knowing what that means to me?  Oh, I don't understand all
-this--I don't!  If you'd told me, a year ago, that such things were
-going to happen, I'd have thought you were insane--and now I believe I
-am!"
-
-Then, after a preliminary gesture of despair, as though he meant harm
-to the ceiling, he flung himself heavily, face downward, upon the bed.
-his anguish was none the less real for its vehemence; and the stricken
-lady came to him instantly and bent over him, once more enfolding him
-in her arms.  She said nothing, but suddenly her tears fell upon his
-head; she saw them, and seemed to be startled.
-
-"Oh, this won't do!" she said.  "I've never let you see me cry before,
-except when your father died. I mustn't!"
-
-And she ran from the room.
-
-. . .A little while after she had gone, George rose and began solemnly
-to dress for dinner.  At one stage of these conscientious proceedings
-he put on, temporarily, his long black velvet dressing-gown, and,
-happening to catch sight in his pier glass of the picturesque and
-medieval figure thus presented, he paused to regard it; and something
-profoundly theatrical in his nature came to the surface.
-
-His lips moved; he whispered, half-aloud, some famous fragments:
-
-"Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother,
-Nor customary suits of solemn black . . ."
-
-For, in truth, the mirrored princely image, with hair dishevelled on
-the white brow, and the long tragic fall of black velvet from the
-shoulders, had brought about (in his thought at least) some
-comparisons of his own times, so out of joint, with those of that
-other gentle prince and heir whose widowed mother was minded to marry
-again.
-
-"But I have that within which passeth show;
-These but the trappings and the suits of Woe."
-
-Not less like Hamlet did he feel and look as he sat gauntly at the
-dinner table with Fanny to partake of a meal throughout which neither
-spoke.  Isabel had sent word "not to wait" for her, an injunction it
-was as well they obeyed, for she did not come at all.  But with the
-renewal of sustenance furnished to his system, some relaxation must
-have occurred within the high-strung George.  Dinner was not quite
-finished when, without warning, sleep hit him hard.  His burning eyes
-could no longer restrain the lids above them; his head sagged beyond
-control; and he got to his feet, and went lurching upstairs, yawning
-with exhaustion.  From the door of his room, which he closed
-mechanically, with his eyes shut, he went blindly to his bed, fell
-upon it soddenly, and slept--with his face full upturned to the light.
-
-It was after midnight when he woke, and the room was dark.  He had not
-dreamed, but he woke with the sense that somebody or something had
-been with him while he slept--somebody or something infinitely
-compassionate; somebody or something infinitely protective, that would
-let him come to no harm and to no grief.
-
-He got up, and pressed the light on.  Pinned to the cover of his
-dressing-table was a square envelope, with the words, "For you, dear,"
-written in pencil upon it.  But the message inside was in ink, a
-little smudged here and there.
-
-I have been out to the mail-box, darling, with a letter I've written
-to Eugene, and he'll have it in the morning.  It would be unfair not
-to let him know at once, and my decision could not change if I waited.
-It would always be the same.  I think it, is a little better for me to
-write to you, like this, instead of waiting till you wake up and then
-telling you, because I'm foolish and might cry again, and I took a vow
-once, long ago, that you should never see me cry.  Not that I'll feel
-like crying when we talk things over tomorrow.  I'll be "all right and
-fine" (as you say so often) by that time--don't fear.  I think what
-makes me most ready to cry now is the thought of the terrible
-suffering in your poor face, and the unhappy knowledge that it is I,
-your mother who put it there.  It shall never come again!  I love you
-better than anything and everything else on earth.  God gave you to
-me--and oh! how thankful I have been every day of my life for that
-sacred gift--and nothing can ever come between me and God's gift.  I
-cannot hurt you, and I cannot let you stay hurt as you have been--not
-another instant after you wake up, my darling boy!  It is beyond my
-power.  And Eugene was right--I know you couldn't change about this.
-Your suffering shows how deep-seated the feeling is within you.  So
-I've written him just about what I think you would like me to--though
-I told him I would always be fond of him and always his best friend,
-and I hoped his dearest friend.  He'll understand about not seeing
-him.  He'll understand that, though I didn't say it in so many words.
-You mustn't trouble about that--he'll understand.  Good-night, my
-darling, my beloved, my beloved!  You mustn't be troubled. I think I
-shouldn't mind anything very much so long as I have you "all to
-myself"--as people say--to make up for your long years away from me at
-college.  We'll talk of what's best to do in the morning, shan't we?
-And for all this pain you'll forgive your loving and devoted mother.
-
-Isabel.
-
-
-
-
-Chapter XXVII
-
-
-Having finished some errands downtown, the next afternoon, George
-Amberson Minafer was walking up National Avenue on his homeward way
-when he saw in the distance, coming toward him, upon the same side of
-the street, the figure of a young lady--a figure just under the middle
-height, comely indeed, and to be mistaken for none other in the world
---even at two hundred yards.  To his sharp discomfiture his heart
-immediately forced upon him the consciousness of its acceleration; a
-sudden warmth about his neck made him aware that he had turned red,
-and then, departing, left him pale.  For a panicky moment he thought
-of facing about in actual flight; he had little doubt that Lucy would
-meet him with no token of recognition, and all at once this
-probability struck him as unendurable.  And if she did not speak, was
-it the proper part of chivalry to lift his hat and take the cut
-bareheaded?  Or should the finer gentleman acquiesce in the lady's
-desire for no further acquaintance, and pass her with stony mien and
-eyes constrained forward?  George was a young man badly flustered.
-
-But the girl approaching him was unaware of his trepidation, being
-perhaps somewhat preoccupied with her own.  She saw only that he was
-pale, and that his eyes were darkly circled.  But here he was
-advantaged with her, for the finest touch to his good looks was given
-by this toning down; neither pallor nor dark circles detracting from
-them, but rather adding to them a melancholy favour of distinction.
-George had retained his mourning, a tribute completed down to the
-final details of black gloves and a polished ebony cane (which he
-would have been pained to name otherwise than as a "walking-stick")
-and in the aura of this sombre elegance his straight figure and drawn
-face were not without a tristful and appealing dignity.
-
-In everything outward he was cause enough for a girl's cheek to flush,
-her heart to beat faster, and her eyes to warm with the soft light
-that came into Lucy's now, whether she would or no.  If his spirit had
-been what his looks proclaimed it, she would have rejoiced to let the
-light glow forth which now shone in spite of her.  For a long time,
-thinking of that spirit of his, and what she felt it should be, she
-had a persistent sense: "It must be there!" but she had determined to
-believe this folly no longer.  Nevertheless, when she met him at the
-Sharons', she had been far less calm than she seemed.
-
-People speaking casually of Lucy were apt to define her as "a little
-beauty," a definition short of the mark.  She was "a little beauty,"
-but an independent, masterful, sell-reliant little American, of whom
-her father's earlier gipsyings and her own sturdiness had made a woman
-ever since she was fifteen.  But though she was the mistress of her
-own ways and no slave to any lamp save that of her own conscience, she
-had a weakness: she had fallen in love with George Amberson Minafer at
-first sight, and no matter how she disciplined herself, she had never
-been able to climb out.  The thing had happened to her; that was all.
-George had looked just the way she had always wanted someone to look--
-the riskiest of all the moonshine ambushes wherein tricky romance
-snares credulous young love.  But what was fatal to Lucy was that this
-thing having happened to her, she could not change it.  No matter what
-she discovered in George's nature she was unable to take away what she
-had given him; and though she could think differently about him, she
-could not feel differently about him, for she was one of those too
-faithful victims of glamour.  When she managed to keep the picture of
-George away from her mind's eye, she did well enough; but when she let
-him become visible, she could not choose but love what she disdained.
-She was a little angel who had fallen in love with high-handed
-Lucifer; quite an experience, and not apt to be soon succeeded by any
-falling in love with a tamer party--and the unhappy truth was that
-George did make better men seem tame.  But though she was a victim,
-she was a heroic one, anything but helpless.
-
-As they drew nearer, George tried to prepare himself to meet her with
-some remnants of aplomb.  He decided that he would keep on looking
-straight ahead, and lift his hand toward his hat at the very last
-moment when it would be possible for her to see him out of the corner
-of her eye: then when she thought it over later, she would not be sure
-whether he had saluted her or merely rubbed his forehead.  And there
-was the added benefit that any third person who might chance to look
-from a window, or from a passing carriage, would not think that he was
-receiving a snub, because he did not intend to lift his hat, but,
-timing the gesture properly, would in fact actually rub his forehead.
-These were the hasty plans which occupied his thoughts until he was
-within about fifty feet of her--when he ceased to have either plans or
-thoughts, he had kept his eyes from looking full at her until then,
-and as he saw her, thus close at hand, and coming nearer, a regret
-that was dumfounding took possession of him.  For the first time he
-had the sense of having lost something of overwhelming importance.
-
-Lucy did not keep to the right, but came straight to meet him,
-smiling, and with her hand offered to him.
-
-"Why--you--" he stammered, as he took it.  "Haven't you--"  What he
-meant to say was, "Haven't you heard?"
-
-"Haven't I what?" she asked; and he saw that Eugene had not yet told
-her.
-
-"Nothing!" he gasped.  "May I--may I turn and walk with you a little
-way?"
-
-"Yes, indeed!" she said cordially.
-
-He would not have altered what had been done: he was satisfied with all
-that--satisfied that it was right, and that his own course was right.
-But he began to perceive a striking inaccuracy in some remarks he had
-made to his mother.  Now when he had put matters in such shape that
-even by the relinquishment of his "ideals of life" he could not have
-Lucy, knew that he could never have her, and knew that when Eugene
-told her the history of yesterday he could not have a glance or word
-even friendly from her--now when he must in good truth "give up all
-idea of Lucy," he was amazed that he could have used such words as "no
-particular sacrifice," and believed them when he said them!  She had
-looked never in his life so bewitchingly pretty as she did today; and
-as he walked beside her he was sure that she was the most exquisite
-thing in the world.
-
-"Lucy," he said huskily, "I want to tell you something.  Something
-that matters."
-
-"I hope it's a lively something then," she said; and laughed.  "Papa's
-been so glum to-day he's scarcely spoken to me.  Your Uncle George
-Amberson came to see him an hour ago and they shut themselves up in
-the library, and your uncle looked as glum as papa.  I'd be glad if
-you'll tell me a funny story, George."
-
-"Well, it may seem one to you," he said bitterly, "Just to begin with:
-when you went away you didn't let me know; not even a word--not a
-line--"
-
-Her manner persisted in being inconsequent.  "Why, no," she said.  "I
-just trotted off for some visits."
-
-"Well, at least you might have--"
-
-"Why, no," she said again briskly.  "Don't you remember, George?  We'd
-had a grand quarrel, and didn't speak to each other all the way home
-from a long, long drive!  So, as we couldn't play together like good
-children, of course it was plain that we oughtn't to play at all."
-
-"Play!" he cried.
-
-"Yes.  What I mean is that we'd come to the point where it was time to
-quit playing--well, what we were playing."
-
-"At being lovers, you mean, don't you?"
-
-"Something like that," she said lightly.  "For us two, playing at
-being lovers was just the same as playing at cross-purposes.  I had
-all the purposes, and that gave you all the crossness: things weren't
-getting along at all.  It was absurd!"
-
-"Well, have it your own way," he said.  "It needn't have been absurd."
-
-"No, it couldn't help but be!" she informed him cheerfully.  "The way
-I am and the way you are, it couldn't ever be anything else.  So what
-was the use?"
-
-"I don't know," he sighed, and his sigh was abysmal.  "But what I wanted
-to tell you is this: when you went away, you didn't let me know and didn't
-care how or when I heard it, but I'm not like that with you.  This time,
-I'm going away.  That's what I wanted to tell you.  I'm going away
-tomorrow night--indefinitely."
-
-She nodded sunnily.  "That's nice for you. I hope you'll have ever so
-jolly a time, George."
-
-"I don't expect to have a particularly jolly time."
-
-"Well, then," she laughed, "if I were you I don't think I'd go."
-
-It seemed impossible to impress this distracting creature, to make her
-serious.  "Lucy," he said desperately, "this is our last walk
-together."
-
-"Evidently!" she said, "if you're going away tomorrow night."
-
-"Lucy--this may be the last time I'll see you--ever--ever in my life."
-
-At that she looked at him quickly, across her shoulder, but she smiled
-as brightly as before, and with the same cordial inconsequence: "Oh, I
-can hardly think that!" she said.  "And of course I'd be awfully sorry
-to think it.  You're not moving away, are you, to live?"
-
-"No."
-
-"And even if you were, of course you'd be coming back to visit your
-relatives every now and then."
-
-"I don't know when I'm coming back.  Mother and I are starting to-
-morrow night for a trip around the world."
-
-At this she did look thoughtful.  "Your mother is going with you?"
-
-"Good heavens!" he groaned.  "Lucy, doesn't it make any difference to
-you that I am going?"
-
-At this her cordial smile instantly appeared again.  "Yes, of course,"
-she said.  "I'm sure I'll miss you ever so much.  Are you to be gone
-long?"
-
-He stared at her wanly.  "I told you indefinitely," he said.  "We've
-made no plans--at all--for coming back."
-
-"That does sound like a long trip!" she exclaimed admiringly.  "Do you
-plan to be travelling all the time, or will you stay in some one place
-the greater part of it?  I think it would be lovely to--"
-
-"Lucy!"
-
-He halted; and she stopped with him.  They had come to a corner at the
-edge of the "business section" of the city, and people were everywhere
-about them, brushing against them, sometimes, in passing.
-
-"I can't stand this," George said, in a low voice.  "I'm just about
-ready to go in this drug-store here, and ask the clerk for something
-to keep me from dying in my tracks!  It's quite a shock, you see,
-Lucy!"
-
-"What is?"
-
-"To find out certainly, at last, how deeply you've cared for me!  To
-see how much difference this makes to you!  By Jove, I have mattered
-to you!"
-
-Her cordial smile was tempered now with good-nature.  "George!"  She
-laughed indulgently.  "Surely you don't want me to do pathos on a
-downtown corner!"
-
-"You wouldn't 'do pathos' anywhere!"
-
-"Well--don't you think pathos is generally rather fooling?"
-
-"I can't stand this any longer," he said.  "I can't!  Good-bye, Lucy!"
-He took her hand.  "It's good-bye--I think it's good-bye for good,
-Lucy!"
-
-"Good-bye!  I do hope you'll have the most splendid trip."  She gave
-his hand a cordial little grip, then released it lightly.  "Give my
-love to your mother.  Good-bye!"
-
-He turned heavily away, and a moment later glanced back over his
-shoulder.  She had not gone on, but stood watching him, that same
-casual, cordial smile on her face to the very last; and now, as he
-looked back, she emphasized her friendly unconcern by waving her small
-hand to him cheerily, though perhaps with the slightest hint of
-preoccupation, as if she had begun to think of the errand that brought
-her downtown.
-
-In his mind, George had already explained her to his own poignant
-dissatisfaction--some blond pup, probably, whom she had met during
-that "perfectly gorgeous time!"  And he strode savagely onward, not
-looking back again.
-
-But Lucy remained where she was until he was out of sight.  Then she
-went slowly into the drugstore which had struck George as a possible
-source of stimulant for himself.
-
-"Please let me have a few drops of aromatic spirits of ammonia in a
-glass of water," she said, with the utmost composure.
-
-"Yes, ma'am!" said the impressionable clerk, who had been looking at
-her through the display window as she stood on the corner.
-
-But a moment later, as he turned from the shelves of glass jars
-against the wall, with the potion she had asked for in his hand, he
-uttered an exclamation: "For goshes' sake, Miss!"  And, describing
-this adventure to his fellow-boarders, that evening, "Sagged pretty
-near to the counter, she was," he said.  "If I hadn't been a bright,
-quick, ready-for-anything young fella she'd 'a' flummixed plum!  I was
-watchin' her out the window--talkin' to some young s'iety fella, and
-she was all right then.  She was all right when she come in the store,
-too.  Yes, sir; the prettiest girl that ever walked in our place and
-took one good look at me.  I reckon it must be the truth what some you
-town wags say about my face!"
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER XXVIII
-
-
-At that hour the heroine of the susceptible clerk's romance was
-engaged in brightening the rosy little coal fire under the white
-mantelpiece in her pretty white-and-blue boudoir.  Four photographs
-all framed in decorous plain silver went to the anthracite's fierce
-destruction--frames and all--and three packets of letters and notes in
-a charming Florentine treasure-box of painted wood; nor was the box,
-any more than the silver frames, spared this rousing finish.  Thrown
-heartily upon live coal, the fine wood sparkled forth in stars, then
-burst into an alarming blaze which scorched the white mantelpiece, but
-Lucy stood and looked on without moving.
-
-It was not Eugene who told her what had happened at Isabel's door.
-When she got home, she found Fanny Minafer waiting for her--a secret
-excursion of Fanny's for the purpose, presumably, of "letting out"
-again; because that was what she did.  She told Lucy everything
-(except her own lamentable part in the production of the recent
-miseries) and concluded with a tribute to George:  "The worst of it
-is, he thinks he's been such a hero, and Isabel does, too, and that
-makes him more than twice as awful.  It's been the same all his life:
-everything he did was noble and perfect.  He had a domineering nature
-to begin with, and she let it go on, and fostered it till it
-absolutely ruled her.  I never saw a plainer case of a person's fault
-making them pay for having it!  She goes about, overseeing the packing
-and praising George and pretending to be perfectly cheerful about what
-he's making her do and about the dreadful things he's done.  She
-pretends he did such a fine thing--so manly and protective--going to
-Mrs. Johnson.  And so heroic--doing what his 'principles' made him--
-even though he knew what it would cost him with you!  And all the
-while it's almost killing her--what he said to your father!  She's
-always been lofty enough, so to speak, and had the greatest idea of
-the Ambersons being superior to the rest of the world, and all that,
-but rudeness, or anything like a 'scene,' or any bad manners--they
-always just made her sick!  But she could never see what George's
-manners were--oh, it's been a terrible adulation! . . . It's going to
-be a task for me, living in that big house, all alone: you must come
-and see me--I mean after they've gone, of course.  I'll go crazy if I
-don't see something of people.  I'm sure you'll come as often as you
-can.  I know you too well to think you'll be sensitive about coming
-there, or being reminded of George.  Thank heaven you're too well-
-balanced," Miss Fanny concluded, with a profound fervour, "you're too
-well-balanced to let anything affect you deeply about that--that
-monkey!"
-
-The four photographs and the painted Florentine box went to their
-cremation within the same hour that Miss Fanny spoke; and a little
-later Lucy called her father in, as he passed her door, and pointed to
-the blackened area on the underside of the mantelpiece, and to the
-burnt heap upon the coal, where some metallic shapes still retained
-outline.  She flung her arms about his neck in passionate sympathy,
-telling him that she knew what had happened to him; and presently he
-began to comfort her and managed an embarrassed laugh.
-
-"Well, well--" he said.  "I was too old for such foolishness to be
-getting into my head, anyhow."
-
-"No, no!" she sobbed.  "And if you knew how I despise myself for--for
-ever having thought one instant about--oh, Miss Fanny called him the
-right name: that monkey!  He is!"
-
-"There, I think I agree with you," Eugene said grimly, and in his eyes
-there was a steady light of anger that was to last.  "Yes, I think I
-agree with you about that!"
-
-"There's only one thing to do with such a person," she said
-vehemently.  "That's to put him out of our thoughts forever--forever!"
-
-And yet, the next day, at six o'clock, which was the hour, Fanny had
-told her, when George and his mother were to leave upon their long
-journey, Lucy touched that scorched place on her mantel with her hand
-just as the little clock above it struck.  Then, after this odd,
-unconscious gesture, she went to a window and stood between the
-curtains, looking out into the cold November dusk; and in spite of
-every reasoning and reasonable power within her, a pain of loneliness
-struck through her heart.  The dim street below her window, the dark
-houses across the way, the vague air itself--all looked empty, and
-cold and (most of all) uninteresting.  Something more sombre than
-November dusk took the colour from them and gave them that air of
-desertion.
-
-The light of her fire, flickering up behind her showed suddenly a
-flying group of tiny snowflakes nearing the window-pane; and for an
-instant she felt the sensation of being dragged through a snows drift
-under a broken cutter, with a boy's arms about her--an arrogant,
-handsome, too-conquering boy, who nevertheless did his best to get
-hurt himself, keeping her from any possible harm.
-
-She shook the picture out of her eyes indignantly, then came and sat
-before her fire, and looked long and long at the blackened
-mantelpiece.  She did not have the mantelpiece repainted--and, since
-she did not, might as well have kept his photographs.  One forgets
-what made the scar upon his hand but not what made the scar upon his
-wall.
-
-She played no marche funebre upon her piano, even though Chopin's
-romantic lamentation was then at the top of nine-tenths of the music-
-racks in the country, American youth having recently discovered the
-distinguished congeniality between itself and this deathless bit of
-deathly gloom.  She did not even play "Robin Adair"; she played
-"Bedelia" and all the new cake-walks, for she was her father's
-housekeeper, and rightly looked upon the office as being the same as
-that of his heart-keeper.  Therefore it was her affair to keep both
-house and heart in what state of cheerfulness might be contrived.  She
-made him "go out" more than ever; made him take her to all the
-gayeties of that winter, declining to go herself unless he took her,
-and, though Eugene danced no more, and quoted Shakespeare to prove all
-lightfoot caperings beneath the dignity of his age, she broke his
-resolution for him at the New Year's Eve "Assembly" and half coaxed,
-half dragged him forth upon the floor, and made him dance the New Year
-in with her.
-
-New faces appeared at the dances of the winter; new faces had been
-appearing everywhere, for that matter, and familiar ones were
-disappearing, merged in the increasing crowd, or gone forever and
-missed a little and not long; for the town was growing and changing as
-it never had grown and changed before.
-
-It was heaving up in the middle incredibly; it was spreading
-incredibly; and as it heaved and spread, it befouled itself and
-darkened its sky.  Its boundary was mere shapelessness on the run; a
-raw, new house would appear on a country road; four or five others
-would presently be built at intervals between it and the outskirts of
-the town; the country road would turn into an asphalt street with a
-brick-faced drugstore and a frame grocery at a corner; then bungalows
-and six-room cottages would swiftly speckle the open green spaces--and
-a farm had become a suburb which would immediately shoot out other
-suburbs into the country, on one side, and, on the other, join itself
-solidly to the city.  You drove between pleasant fields and woodland
-groves one spring day; and in the autumn, passing over the same
-ground, you were warned off the tracks by an interurban trolley-car's
-gonging, and beheld, beyond cement sidewalks just dry, new house-
-owners busy "moving in."  Gasoline and electricity were performing the
-miracles Eugene had predicted.
-
-But the great change was in the citizenry itself.  What was left of
-the patriotic old-stock generation that had fought the Civil War, and
-subsequently controlled politics, had become venerable and was little
-heeded.  The descendants of the pioneers and early settlers were
-merging into the new crowd, becoming part of it, little to be
-distinguished from it.  What happened to Boston and to Broadway
-happened in degree to the Midland city; the old stock became less and
-less typical, and of the grown people who called the place home, less
-than a third had been born in it.  There was a German quarter; there
-was a Jewish quarter; there was a negro quarter--square miles of it--
-called "Bucktown"; there were many Irish neighbourhoods; and there
-were large settlements of Italians, and of Hungarians, and of
-Rumanians, and of Serbians and other Balkan peoples.  But not the
-emigrants, themselves, were the almost dominant type on the streets
-downtown.  That type was the emigrant's prosperous offspring:
-descendant of the emigrations of the Seventies and Eighties and
-Nineties, those great folk-journeyings in search not so directly of
-freedom and democracy as of more money for the same labour.  A new
-Midlander--in fact, a new American--was beginning dimly to emerge.
-
-A new spirit of citizenship had already sharply defined itself.  It
-was idealistic, and its ideals were expressed in the new kind of young
-men in business downtown.  They were optimists--optimists to the point
-of belligerence--their motto being "Boost! Don't Knock!"  And they
-were hustlers, believing in hustling and in honesty because both paid.
-They loved their city and worked for it with a plutonic energy which
-was always ardently vocal.  They were viciously governed, but they
-sometimes went so far to struggle for better government on account of
-the helpful effect of good government on the price of real estate and
-"betterment" generally; the politicians could not go too far with
-them, and knew it.  The idealists planned and strove and shouted that
-their city should become a better, better, and better city--and what
-they meant, when they used the word "better," was "more prosperous,"
-and the core of their idealism was this:  "The more prosperous my
-beloved city, the more prosperous beloved I!"  They had one supreme
-theory: that the perfect beauty and happiness of cities and of human
-life was to be brought about by more factories; they had a mania for
-factories; there was nothing they would not do to cajole a factory
-away from another city; and they were never more piteously embittered
-than when another city cajoled one away from them.
-
-What they meant by Prosperity was credit at the bank; but in exchange
-for this credit they got nothing that was not dirty, and, therefore,
-to a sane mind, valueless; since whatever was cleaned was dirty again
-before the cleaning was half done.  For, as the town grew, it grew
-dirty with an incredible completeness.  The idealists put up
-magnificent business buildings and boasted of them, but the buildings
-were begrimed before they were finished.  They boasted of their
-libraries, of their monuments and statues; and poured soot on them.
-They boasted of their schools, but the schools were dirty, like the
-children within them.  This was not the fault of the children or their
-mothers.  It was the fault of the idealists, who said:  "The more
-dirt, the more prosperity."  They drew patriotic, optimistic breaths
-of the flying powdered filth of the streets, and took the foul and
-heavy smoke with gusto into the profundities of their lungs.  "Boost!
-Don't knock!" they said.  And every year or so they boomed a great
-Clean-up Week, when everybody was supposed to get rid of the tin cans
-in his backyard.
-
-They were happiest when the tearing down and building up were most
-riotous, and when new factory districts were thundering into life.  In
-truth, the city came to be like the body of a great dirty man,
-skinned, to show his busy works, yet wearing a few barbaric ornaments;
-and such a figure carved, coloured, and discoloured, and set up in the
-market-place, would have done well enough as the god of the new
-people.  Such a god they had indeed made in their own image, as all
-peoples make the god they truly serve; though of course certain of the
-idealists went to church on Sunday, and there knelt to Another,
-considered to be impractical in business.  But while the Growing went
-on, this god of their market-place was their true god, their familiar
-and spirit-control.  They did not know that they were his helplessly
-obedient slaves, nor could they ever hope to realize their serfdom (as
-the first step toward becoming free men) until they should make the
-strange and hard discovery that matter should serve man's spirit.
-
-"Prosperity" meant good credit at the bank, black lungs, and
-housewives' Purgatory.  The women fought the dirt all they could; but
-if they let the air into their houses they let in the dirt.  It
-shortened their lives, and kept them from the happiness of ever seeing
-anything white.  And thus, as the city grew, the time came when Lucy,
-after a hard struggle, had to give up her blue-and-white curtains and
-her white walls.  Indoors, she put everything into dull gray and
-brown, and outside had the little house painted the dark green nearest
-to black.  Then she knew, of course, that everything was as dirty as
-ever, but was a little less distressed because it no longer looked so
-dirty as it was.
-
-These were bad times for Amberson Addition.  This quarter, already
-old, lay within a mile of the centre of the town, but business moved
-in other directions; and the Addition's share of Prosperity was only
-the smoke and dirt, with the bank credit left out.  The owners of the
-original big houses sold them, or rented them to boarding-house
-keepers, and the tenants of the multitude of small houses moved
-"farther out" (where the smoke was thinner) or into apartment houses,
-which were built by dozens now.  Cheaper tenants took their places,
-and the rents were lower and lower, and the houses shabbier and
-shabbier--for all these shabby houses, burning soft coal, did their
-best to help in the destruction of their own value.  They helped to
-make the quarter so dingy and the air so foul to breathe that no one
-would live there who had money enough to get "farther out" where there
-were glimpses of ungrayed sky and breaths of cleaner winds.  And with
-the coming of the new speed, "farther out" was now as close to
-business as the Addition had been in the days of its prosperity.
-Distances had ceased to matter.
-
-The five new houses, built so closely where had been the fine lawn of
-the Amberson Mansion, did not look new.  When they were a year old
-they looked as old as they would ever look; and two of them were
-vacant, having never been rented, for the Major's mistake about
-apartment houses had been a disastrous one.  "He guessed wrong,"
-George Amberson said..  "He guessed wrong at just the wrong time!
-Housekeeping in a house is harder than in an apartment; and where the
-smoke and dirt are as thick as they are in the Addition, women can't
-stand it.  People were crazy for apartments--too bad he couldn't have
-seen it in time.  Poor man! he digs away at his ledgers by his old gas
-drop-light lamp almost every night--he still refuses to let the
-Mansion be torn up for wiring, you know.  But he had one painful
-satisfaction this spring: he got his taxes lowered!"
-
-Amberson laughed ruefully, and Fanny Minafer asked how the Major could
-have managed such an economy.  They were sitting upon the veranda at
-Isabel's one evening during the third summer of the absence of their
-nephew and his mother; and the conversation had turned toward Amberson
-finances.
-
-"I said it was a 'painful satisfaction,' Fanny," he explained.  "The
-property has gone down in value, and they assessed it lower than they
-did fifteen years ago."
-
-"But farther out--"
-
-"Oh, yes, 'farther out!'  Prices are magnificent 'farther out,' and
-farther in, too!  We just happen to be the wrong spot, that's all.
-Not that I don't think something could be done if father would let me
-have a hand; but he won't.  He can't, I suppose I ought to say.  He's
-'always done his own figuring,' he says; and it's his lifelong habit
-to keep his affairs: and even his books, to himself, and just hand us
-out the money.  Heaven knows he's done enough of that!"
-
-He sighed; and both were silent, looking out at the long flares of the
-constantly passing automobile headlights, shifting in vast geometric
-demonstrations against the darkness.  Now and then a bicycle wound
-its nervous way among these portents, or, at long intervals, a surrey
-or buggy plodded forlornly by.
-
-"There seem to be so many ways of making money nowadays," Fanny said
-thoughtfully.  "Every day I hear of a new fortune some person has got
-hold of, one way or another--nearly always it's somebody you never
-heard of.  It doesn't seem all to be in just making motor cars; I hear
-there's a great deal in manufacturing these things that motor cars
-use--new inventions particularly.  I met dear old Frank Bronson the
-other day, and he told me--"
-
-"Oh, yes, even dear old Frank's got the fever," Amberson laughed.
-"He's as wild as any of them.  He told me about this invention he's
-gone into, too.  'Millions in it!'  Some new electric headlight better
-than anything yet--'every car in America can't help but have 'em,' and
-all that.  He's putting half he's laid by into it, and the fact is, he
-almost talked me into getting father to 'finance me' enough for me to
-go into it.  Poor father! he's financed me before!  I suppose he would
-again if I had the heart to ask him; and this seems to be a good
-thing, though probably old Frank is a little too sanguine.  At any
-rate, I've been thinking it over."
-
-"So have I," Fanny admitted.  "He seemed to be certain it would pay
-twenty-five per cent. the first year, and enormously more after that;
-and I'm only getting four on my little principal.  People are making
-such enormous fortunes out of everything to do with motor cars, it
-does seem as if--" She paused.  "Well, I told him I'd think it over
-seriously."
-
-"We may turn out to be partners and millionaires then," Amberson
-laughed.  "I thought I'd ask Eugene's advice."
-
-"I wish you would," said Fanny.  "He probably knows exactly how much
-profit there would be in this."
-
-Eugene's advice was to "go slow": he thought electric lights for
-automobiles were "coming--someday but probably not until certain
-difficulties could be overcome."  Altogether, he was discouraging, but
-by this time his two friends "had the fever" as thoroughly as old
-Frank Bronson himself had it; for they had been with Bronson to see
-the light working beautifully in a machine shop.  They were already
-enthusiastic, and after asking Eugene's opinion they argued with him,
-telling him how they had seen with their own eyes that the
-difficulties he mentioned had been overcome.  "Perfectly!" Fanny
-cried. "And if it worked in the shop it's bound to work any place
-else, isn't it?"
-
-He would not agree that it was "bound to"--yet, being pressed, was
-driven to admit that "it might," and, retiring from what was
-developing into an oratorical contest, repeated a warning about not
-"putting too much into it."
-
-George Amberson also laid stress on this caution later, though the
-Major had "financed him" again, and he was "going in."  "You must be
-careful to leave yourself a 'margin of safety,' Fanny," he said.  "I'm
-confident that is a pretty conservative investment of its kind, and
-all the chances are with us, but you must be careful to leave yourself
-enough to fall back on, in case anything should go wrong."
-
-Fanny deceived him.  In the impossible event of "anything going wrong"
-she would have enough left to "live on," she declared, and laughed
-excitedly, for she was having the best time that had come to her since
-Wilbur's death.  Like so many women for whom money has always been
-provided without their understanding how, she was prepared to be a
-thorough and irresponsible plunger.
-
-Amberson, in his wearier way, shared her excitement, and in the
-winter, when the exploiting company had been formed, and he brought
-Fanny, her importantly engraved shares of stock, he reverted to his
-prediction of possibilities, made when they first spoke of the new
-light.
-
-"We seem to be partners, all right," he laughed.  "Now let's go ahead
-and be millionaires before Isabel and young George come home."
-
-"When they come home!" she echoed sorrowfully--and it was a phrase
-which found an evasive echo in Isabel's letters.  In these letters
-Isabel was always planning pleasant things that she and Fanny and the
-Major and George and "brother George" would do--when she and her son
-came home.  "They'll find things pretty changed, I'm afraid," Fanny
-said.  "If they ever do come home!"
-
-Amberson went over, the next summer, and joined his sister and nephew
-in Paris, where they were living.  "Isabel does want to come home," he
-told Fanny gravely, on the day of his return, in October.  "She's
-wanted to for a long while--and she ought to come while she can stand
-the journey--"  And he amplified this statement, leaving Fanny looking
-startled and solemn when Lucy came by to drive him out to dinner at
-the new house Eugene had just completed.
-
-This was no white-and-blue cottage, but a great Georgian picture in
-brick, five miles north of Amberson Addition, with four acres of its
-own hedged land between it and its next neighbour; and Amberson
-laughed wistfully as they turned in between the stone and brick gate
-pillars, and rolled up the crushed stone driveway.  "I wonder, Lucy,
-if history's going on forever repeating itself," he said.  "I wonder
-if this town's going on building up things and rolling over them, as
-poor father once said it was rolling over his poor old heart.  It
-looks like it: here's the Amberson Mansion again, only it's Georgian
-instead of nondescript Romanesque; but it's just the same Amberson
-Mansion that my father built long before you were born.  The only
-difference is that it's your father who's built this one now.  It's
-all the same, in the long run."
-
-Lucy did not quite understand, but she laughed as a friend should,
-and, taking his arm, showed him through vast rooms where ivory-
-panelled walls and trim window hangings were reflected dimly in dark,
-rugless floors, and the sparse furniture showed that Lucy had been
-"collecting" with a long purse.  "By Jove!" he said.  "You have been
-going it!  Fanny tells me you had a great 'house-warming' dance, and
-you keep right on being the belle of the ball, not any softer-hearted
-than you used to be.  Fred Kinney's father says you've refused Fred so
-often that he got engaged to Janie Sharon just to prove that someone
-would have him in spite of his hair.  Well, the material world do
-move, and you've got the new kind of house it moves into nowadays--if
-it has the new price!  And even the grand old expanses of plate glass
-we used to be so proud of at the other Amberson Mansion--they've gone,
-too, with the crowded heavy gold and red stuff.  Curious!  We've still
-got the plate glass windows, though all we can see out of 'em is the
-smoke and the old Johnson house, which is a counter-jumper's
-boardinghouse now, while you've got a view, and you cut it all up into
-little panes.  Well, you're pretty refreshingly out of the smoke up
-here."
-
-"Yes, for a while," Lucy laughed.  "Until it comes and we have to move
-out farther."
-
-"No, you'll stay here," he assured her.  "It will be somebody else
-who'll move out farther."
-
-He continued to talk of the house after Eugene arrived, and gave them
-no account of his journey until they had retired from the dinner table
-to Eugene's library, a gray and shadowy room, where their coffee was
-brought.  Then, equipped with a cigar, which seemed to occupy his
-attention, Amberson spoke in a casual tone of his sister and her son.
-
-"I found Isabel as well as usual," he said, "only I'm afraid 'as
-usual' isn't particularly well.  Sydney and Amelia had been up to
-Paris in the spring, but she hadn't seen them.  Somebody told her they
-were there, it seems.  They'd left Florence and were living in Rome;
-Amelia's become a Catholic and is said to give great sums to charity
-and to go about with the gentry in consequence, but Sydney's ailing
-and lives in a wheel-chair most of the time.  It struck me Isabel
-ought to be doing the same thing."
-
-He paused, bestowing minute care upon the removal of the little band
-from his cigar; and as he seemed to have concluded his narrative,
-Eugene spoke out of the shadow beyond a heavily shaded lamp:  "What do
-you mean by that?" he asked quietly.
-
-"Oh, she's cheerful enough," said Amberson, still not looking at
-either his young hostess or her father.  "At least," he added, "she
-manages to seem so.  I'm afraid she hasn't been really well for
-several years.  She isn't stout you know--she hasn't changed in looks
-much--and she seems rather alarmingly short of breath for a slender
-person.  Father's been that way for years, of course; but never nearly
-so much as Isabel is now.  Of course she makes nothing of it, but it
-seemed rather serious to me when I noticed she had to stop and rest
-twice to get up the one short flight of stairs in their two-floor
-apartment.  I told her I thought she ought to make George let her come
-home."
-
-"Let her?"  Eugene repeated, in a low voice.  "Does she want to?"
-
-"She doesn't urge it.  George seems to like the life there-in his
-grand, gloomy, and peculiar way; and of course she'll never change
-about being proud of him and all that--he's quite a swell.  But in
-spite of anything she said, rather than because, I know she does
-indeed want to come.  She'd like to be with father, of course; and I
-think she's--well, she intimated one day that she feared it might even
-happen that she wouldn't get to see him again.  At the time I thought
-she referred to his age and feebleness, but on the boat, coming home,
-I remembered the little look of wistfulness, yet of resignation, with
-which she said it, and it struck me all at once that I'd been
-mistaken:  I saw she was really thinking of her own state of health."
-
-"I see," Eugene said, his voice even lower than it had been before.
-"And you say he won't 'let' her come home?"
-
-Amberson laughed, but still continued to be interested in his cigar.
-"Oh, I don't think he uses force!  He's very gentle with her.  I doubt
-if the subject is mentioned between them, and yet--and yet, knowing my
-interesting nephew as you do, wouldn't you think that was about the
-way to put it?"
-
-"Knowing him as I do-yes," said Eugene slowly.  "Yes, I should think
-that was about the way to put it."
-
-A murmur out of the shadows beyond him--a faint sound, musical and
-feminine, yet expressive of a notable intensity--seemed to indicate
-that Lucy was of the same opinion.
-
-
-
-
-Chapter XXIX
-
-
-
-"Let her" was correct; but the time came--and it came in the spring of
-the next year when it was no longer a question of George's letting his
-mother come home.  He had to bring her, and to bring her quickly if
-she was to see her father again; and Amberson had been right: her
-danger of never seeing him again lay not in the Major's feebleness of
-heart but in her own.  As it was, George telegraphed his uncle to have
-a wheeled chair at the station, for the journey had been disasterous,
-and to this hybrid vehicle, placed close to the platform, her son
-carried her in his arms when she arrived.  She was unable to speak,
-but patted her brother's and Fanny's hands and looked "very sweet,"
-Fanny found the desperate courage to tell her.  She was lifted from
-the chair into a carriage, and seemed a little stronger as they drove
-home; for once she took her hand from George's, and waved it feebly
-toward the carriage window.
-
-"Changed," she whispered.  "So changed."
-
-"You mean the town," Amberson said.  "You mean the old place is
-changed, don't you, dear?"
-
-She smiled and moved her lips: "Yes."
-
-"It'll change to a happier place, old dear," he said, "now that you're
-back in it, and going to get well again."
-
-But she only looked at him wistfully, her eyes a little frightened.
-
-When the carriage stopped, her son carried her into the house, and up
-the stairs to her own room, where a nurse was waiting; and he came out
-a moment later, as the doctor went in.  At the end of the hall a
-stricken group was clustered: Amberson, and Fanny, and the Major.
-George, deathly pale and speechless, took his grandfather's hand, but
-the old gentleman did not seem to notice his action.
-
-"When are they going to let me see my daughter?" he asked querulously.
-"They told me to keep out of the way while they carried her in,
-because it might upset her.  I wish they'd let me go in and speak to
-my daughter.  I think she wants to see me."
-
-He was right--presently the doctor came out and beckoned to him; and
-the Major shuffled forward, leaning on a shaking cane; his figure,
-after all its Years of proud soldierliness, had grown stooping at
-last, and his untrimmed white hair straggled over the back of his
-collar.  He looked old--old and divested of the world--as he crept
-toward his daughter's room.  Her voice was stronger, for the waiting
-group heard a low cry of tenderness and welcome as the old man reached
-the open doorway.  Then the door was closed.
-
-Fanny touched her nephew's arm.  "George, you must need something to
-eat--I know she'd want you to.  I've had things ready: I knew she'd
-want me to.  You'd better go down to the dining room:  there's plenty
-on the table, waiting for you.  She'd want you to eat something."
-
-He turned a ghastly face to her, it was so panic-stricken.  "I don't
-want anything to eat!" he said savagely.  And he began to pace the
-floor, taking care not to go near Isabel's door, and that his
-footsteps were muffled by the long, thick hall rug.  After a while he
-went to where Amberson, with folded arms and bowed head, had seated
-himself near the front window.  "Uncle George," he said hoarsely. "I
-didn't--"
-
-"Well?"
-
-"Oh, my God, I didn't think this thing the matter with her could ever
-be serious! I--" He gasped.  "When that doctor I had meet us at the
-boat--"  He could not go on.
-
-Amberson only nodded his head, and did not otherwise change his
-attitude.
-
-Isabel lived through the night.  At eleven O'clock Fanny came timidly
-to George in his room.  "Eugene is here," she whispered.  "He's
-downstairs.  He wants--" She gulped.  "He wants to know if he can't
-see her.  I didn't know what to say.  I said I'd see.  I didn't know--
-the doctor said--"
-
-"The doctor said we 'must keep her peaceful,'" George said sharply.
-"Do you think that man's coming would be very soothing?  My God! if it
-hadn't been for him this mightn't have happened: we could have gone on
-living here quietly, and--why, it would be like taking a stranger into
-her room!  She hasn't even spoken of him more than twice in all the
-time we've been away.  Doesn't he know how sick she is?  You tell him
-the doctor said she had to be quiet and peaceful.  That's what he did
-say, isn't it?"
-
-Fanny acquiesced tearfully.  "I'll tell him.  I'll tell him the doctor
-said she was to be kept very quiet.  I--I didn't know--"  And she
-pottered out.
-
-An hour later the nurse appeared in George's doorway; she came
-noiselessly, and his back was toward her; but he jumped as if he had
-been shot, and his jaw fell, he so feared what she was going to say.
-
-"She wants to see you."
-
-The terrified mouth shut with a click; and he nodded and followed her;
-but she remained outside his mother's room while he went in.
-
-Isabel's eyes were closed, and she did not open them or move her head,
-but she smiled and edged her hand toward him as he sat on a stool
-beside the bed.  He took that slender, cold hand, and put it to his
-cheek.
-
-"Darling, did you--get something to eat?"  She could only whisper,
-slowly and with difficulty.  It was as if Isabel herself were far
-away, and only able to signal what she wanted to say.
-
-"Yes, mother."
-
-"All you--needed?"
-
-"Yes, mother."
-
-She did not speak again for a time; then, "Are you sure you didn't--
-didn't catch cold coming home?"
-
-"I'm all right, mother."
-
-"That's good.  It's sweet--it's sweet--"
-
-"What is, mother darling?"
-
-"To feel--my hand on your cheek.  I--I can feel it."
-
-But this frightened him horribly--that she seemed so glad she could
-feel it, like a child proud of some miraculous seeming thing
-accomplished.  It frightened him so that he could not speak, and he
-feared that she would know how he trembled; but she was unaware, and
-again was silent.  Finally she spoke again:
-
-"I wonder if--if Eugene and Lucy know that we've come--home."
-
-"I'm sure they do."
-
-"Has he--asked about me?"
-
-"Yes, he was here."
-
-"Has he--gone?"
-
-"Yes, mother."
-
-She sighed faintly.  "I'd like--"
-
-"What, mother?"
-
-"I'd like to have--seen him."  It was just audible, this little
-regretful murmur.  Several minutes passed before there was another.
-"Just--just once," she whispered, and then was still.
-
-She seemed to have fallen asleep, and George moved to go, but a faint
-pressure upon his fingers detained him, and he remained, with her hand
-still pressed against his cheek.  After a while he made sure she was
-asleep, and moved again, to let the nurse come in, and this time there
-was no pressure of the fingers to keep him.  She was not asleep, but
-thinking that if he went he might get some rest, and be better
-prepared for what she knew was coming, she commanded those longing
-fingers of hers--and let him go.
-
-He found the doctor standing with the nurse in the hall; and, telling
-them that his mother was drowsing now, George went back to his own
-room, where he was startled to find his grandfather lying on the bed,
-and his uncle leaning against the wall.  They had gone home two hours
-before, and he did not know they had returned.
-
-"The doctor thought we'd better come over," Amberson said, then was
-silent, and George, shaking violently, sat down on the edge of the
-bed.  His shaking continued, and from time to time he wiped heavy
-sweat from his forehead.
-
-The hours passed, and sometimes the old man upon the bed would snore a
-little, stop suddenly, and move as if to rise, but George Amberson
-would set a hand upon his shoulder, and murmur a reassuring word or
-two.  Now and then, either uncle or nephew would tiptoe into the hall
-and look toward Isabel's room, then come tiptoeing back, the other
-watching him haggardly.
-
-Once George gasped defiantly: "That doctor in New York said she might
-get better!  Don't you know he did?  Don't you know he said she
-might?"
-
-Amberson made no answer.
-
-Dawn had been murking through the smoky windows, growing stronger for
-half an hour, when both men started violently at a sound in the hall;
-and the Major sat up on the bed, unchecked.  It was the voice of the
-nurse speaking to Fanny Minafer, and the next moment, Fanny appeared
-in the doorway, making contorted efforts to speak.
-
-Amberson said weakly:  "Does she want us--to come in?"
-
-But Fanny found her voice, and uttered a long, loud cry.  She threw
-her arms about George, and sobbed in an agony of loss and compassion:
-
-"She loved you!" she wailed.  "She loved you!  She loved you!  Oh, how
-she did love you!"
-
-Isabel had just left them.
-
-
-
-
-Chapter XXX
-
-
-Major Amberson remained dry-eyed through the time that followed: he
-knew that this separation from his daughter would be short, that the
-separation which had preceded it was the long one.  He worked at his
-ledgers no more under his old gas drop-light, but would sit all
-evening staring into the fire, in his bedroom, and not speaking unless
-someone asked him a question.  He seemed almost unaware of what went
-on around him, and those who were with him thought him dazed by
-Isabel's death, guessing that he was lost in reminiscences and vague
-dreams.  "Probably his mind is full of pictures of his youth, or the
-Civil War, and the days when he and mother were young married people
-and all of us children were jolly little things--and the city was a
-small town with one cobbled street and the others just dirt roads with
-board sidewalks."  This was George Amberson's conjecture, and the
-others agreed; but they were mistaken.  The Major was engaged in the
-profoundest thinking of his life.  No business plans which had ever
-absorbed him could compare in momentousness with the plans that
-absorbed him now, for he had to plan how to enter the unknown country
-where he was not even sure of being recognized as an Amberson--not
-sure of anything, except that Isabel would help him if she could.  His
-absorption produced the outward effect of reverie, but of course it
-was not.  The Major was occupied with the first really important
-matter that had taken his attention since he came home invalided,
-after the Gettysburg campaign, and went into business; and he realized
-that everything which had worried him or delighted him during this
-lifetime between then and to-day--all his buying and building and
-trading and banking--that it all was trifling and waste beside what
-concerned him now.
-
-He seldom went out of his room, and often left untouched the meals
-they brought to him there; and this neglect caused them to shake their
-heads mournfully, again mistaking for dazedness the profound
-concentration of his mind.  Meanwhile, the life of the little bereft
-group still forlornly centering upon him began to pick up again, as
-life will, and to emerge from its own period of dazedness.  It was not
-Isabel's father but her son who was really dazed.
-
-A month after her death he walked abruptly into Fanny's room, one
-night, and found her at her desk, eagerly adding columns of figures
-with which she had covered several sheets of paper.  This mathematical
-computation was concerned with her future income to be produced by the
-electric headlight, now just placed on the general market; but Fanny
-was ashamed to be discovered doing anything except mourning, and
-hastily pushed the sheets aside, even as she looked over her shoulder
-to greet her hollow-eyed visitor.
-
-"George!  You startled me."
-
-"I beg your pardon for not knocking," he said huskily.  "I didn't
-think."
-
-She turned in her chair and looked at him solicitously.  "Sit down,
-George, won't you?"
-
-"No. I just wanted--"
-
-"I could hear you walking up and down in your room," said Fanny.  "You
-were doing it ever since dinner, and it seems to me you're at it
-almost every evening.  I don't believe it's good for you--and I know
-it would worry your mother terribly if she--" Fanny hesitated.
-
-"See here," George said, breathing fast, "I want to tell you once more
-that what I did was right.  How could I have done anything else but
-what I did do?"
-
-"About what, George?"
-
-"About everything!" he exclaimed; and he became vehement.  "I did the
-right thing, I tell you!  In heaven's name, I'd like to know what else
-there was for anybody in my position to do!  It would have been a
-dreadful thing for me to just let matters go on and not interfere--it
-would have been terrible!  What else on earth was there for me to do?
-I had to stop that talk, didn't I?  Could a son do less than I did?
-Didn't it cost me something to do it?  Lucy and I'd had a quarrel, but
-that would have come round in time--and it meant the end forever when
-I turned her father back from our door.  I knew what it meant, yet I
-went ahead and did it because knew it had to be done if the talk was
-to be stopped.  I took mother away for the same reason.  I knew that
-would help to stop it.  And she was happy over there--she was
-perfectly happy. I tell you, I think she had a happy life, and that's
-my only consolation.  She didn't live to be old; she was still
-beautiful and young looking, and I feel she'd rather have gone before
-she got old.  She'd had a good husband, and all the comfort and luxury
-that anybody could have--and how could it be called anything but a
-happy life?  She was always cheerful, and when I think of her I can
-always see her laughing--I can always hear that pretty laugh of hers.
-When I can keep my mind off of the trip home, and that last night, I
-always think of her gay and laughing.  So how on earth could she have
-had anything but a happy life?  People that aren't happy don't look
-cheerful all the time, do they?  They look unhappy if they are
-unhappy; that's how they look!  See here"--he faced her challengingly
---"do you deny that I did the right thing?"
-
-"Oh, I don't pretend to judge," Fanny said soothingly, for his voice
-and gesture both partook of wildness.  "I know you think you did,
-George."
-
-"Think I did!" he echoed violently.  "My God in heaven!"  And he began
-to walk up and down the floor.  "What else was there to do?  What,
-choice did I have?  Was there any other way of stopping the talk?"  He
-stopped, close in front of her, gesticulating, his voice harsh and
-loud: "Don't you hear me?  I'm asking you: Was there any other way on
-earth of protecting her from the talk?"
-
-Miss Fanny looked away.  "It died down before long, I think," she said
-nervously.
-
-"That shows I was right, doesn't it?" he cried.  "If I hadn't acted as
-I did, that slanderous old Johnson woman would have kept on with her
-slanders--she'd still be--"
-
-"No," Fanny interrupted.  "She's dead.  She dropped dead with apoplexy
-one day about six weeks after you left.  I didn't mention it in my
-letters because I didn't want--I thought--"
-
-"Well, the other people would have kept on, then.  They'd have--"
-
-"I don't know," said Fanny, still averting her troubled eyes.  "Things
-are so changed here, George.  The other people you speak of--one
-hardly knows what's become of them.  Of course not a great many were
-doing the talking, and they--well, some of them are dead, and some
-might as well be--you never see them any more--and the rest, whoever
-they were, are probably so mixed in with the crowds of new people that
-seem never even to have heard of us--and I'm sure we certainly never
-heard of them--and people seem to forget things so soon--they seem to
-forget anything.  You can't imagine how things have changed here!"
-
-George gulped painfully before he could speak.  "You--you mean to sit
-there and tell me that if I'd just let things go on--Oh!"  He swung
-away, walking the floor again.  "I tell you I did the only right
-thing!  If you don't think so, why in the name of heaven can't you say
-what else I should have done?  It's easy enough to criticize, but the
-person who criticizes a man ought at least to tell him what else he
-should have done!  You think I was wrong!"
-
-"I'm not saying so," she said.
-
-"You did at the time!" he cried.  "You said enough then, I think!
-Well, what have you to say now, if you're so sure I was wrong?"
-
-"Nothing, George."
-
-"It's only because you're afraid to!" he said, and he went on with a
-sudden bitter divination: "You're reproaching yourself with what you
-had to do with all that; and you're trying to make up for it by doing
-and saying what you think mother would want you to, and you think I
-couldn't stand it if I got to thinking I might have done differently.
-Oh, I know!  That's exactly what's in your mind: you do think I was
-wrong!  So does Uncle George. I challenged him about it the other day,
-and he answered just as you're answering--evaded, and tried to be
-gentler I don't care to be handled with gloves!  I tell you I was
-right, and I don't need any coddling by people that think I wasn't!
-And I suppose you believe I was wrong not to let Morgan see her that
-last night when he came here, and she--she was dying.  If you do, why
-in the name of God did you come and ask me?  You could have taken him
-in!  She did want to see him.  She--"
-
-Miss Fanny looked startled.  "You think--"
-
-"She told me so!"  And the tortured young man choked.  "She said--
-'just once.'  She said 'I'd like to have seen him--just once!'  She
-meant--to tell him good-bye!  That's what she meant!  And you put this
-on me, too; you put this responsibility on me!  But I tell you, and I
-told Uncle George, that the responsibility isn't all mine!  If you
-were so sure I was wrong all the time--when I took her away, and when
-I turned Morgan out--if you were so sure, what did you let me do it
-for?  You and Uncle George were grown people, both of you, weren't
-you?  You were older than I, and if you were so sure you were wiser
-than I, why did you just stand around with your hands hanging down,
-and let me go ahead?  You could have stopped it if it was wrong,
-couldn't you?"
-
-Fanny shook her head.  "No, George," she said slowly.  "Nobody could
-have stopped you.  You were too strong, and--"
-
-"And what?" he demanded loudly.
-
-"And she loved you--too well."
-
-George stared at her hard, then his lower lip began to move
-convulsively, and he set his teeth upon it but could not check its
-frantic twitching.
-
-He ran out of the room.
-
-She sat still, listening.  He had plunged into his mother's room, but
-no sound came to Fanny's ears after the sharp closing of the door; and
-presently she rose and stepped out into the hall--but could hear
-nothing.  The heavy black walnut door of Isabel's room, as Fanny's
-troubled eyes remained fixed upon it, seemed to become darker and
-vaguer; the polished wood took the distant ceiling light, at the end
-of the hall, in dim reflections which became mysterious; and to
-Fanny's disturbed mind the single sharp point of light on the bronze
-door-knob was like a continuous sharp cry in the stillness of night.
-What interview was sealed away from human eye and ear within the
-lonely darkness on the other side of that door--in that darkness where
-Isabel's own special chairs were, and her own special books, and the
-two great walnut wardrobes filled with her dresses and wraps?  What
-tragic argument might be there vainly striving to confute the gentle
-dead?  "In God's name, what else could I have done?"  For his mother's
-immutable silence was surely answering him as Isabel in life would
-never have answered him, and he was beginning to understand how
-eloquent the dead can be.  They cannot stop their eloquence, no matter
-how they have loved the living: they cannot choose.  And so, no matter
-in what agony George should cry out, "What else could I have done?"
-and to the end of his life no matter how often he made that wild
-appeal, Isabel was doomed to answer him with the wistful, faint
-murmur:
-
-"I'd like to have-seen him.  Just--just once."
-
-A cheerful darkey went by the house, loudly and tunelessly whistling
-some broken thoughts upon women, fried food and gin; then a group of
-high school boys, returning homeward after important initiations, were
-heard skylarking along the sidewalk, rattling sticks on the fences,
-squawking hoarsely, and even attempting to sing in the shocking new
-voices of uncompleted adolescence.  For no reason, and just as a
-poultry yard falls into causeless agitation, they stopped in front of
-the house, and for half an hour produced the effect of a noisy
-multitude in full riot.
-
-To the woman standing upstairs in the hall, this was almost
-unbearable; and she felt that she would have to go down and call to
-them to stop; but she was too timid, and after a time went back to her
-room, and sat at her desk again.  She left the door open, and
-frequently glanced out into the hall, but gradually became once more
-absorbed in the figures which represented her prospective income from
-her great plunge in electric lights for automobiles.  She did not hear
-George return to his own room.
-
-A superstitious person might have thought it unfortunate that her
-partner in this speculative industry (as in Wilbur's disastrous
-rolling-mills) was that charming but too haphazardous man of the world,
-George Amberson.  He was one of those optimists who believe that if
-you put money into a great many enterprises one of them is sure to
-turn out a fortune, and therefore, in order to find the lucky one, it
-is only necessary to go into a large enough number of them.
-Altogether gallant in spirit, and beautifully game under catastrophe,
-he had gone into a great many, and the unanimity of their "bad luck,"
-as he called it, gave him one claim to be a distinguished person, if
-he had no other.  In business he was ill fated with a consistency
-which made him, in that alone, a remarkable man; and he declared, with
-some earnestness, that there was no accounting for it except by the
-fact that there had been so much good luck in his family before he was
-born that something had to balance it.
-
-"You ought to have thought of my record and stayed out," he told
-Fanny, one day the next spring, when the affairs of the headlight
-company had begun to look discouraging.  "I feel the old familiar
-sinking that's attended all my previous efforts to prove myself a
-business genius.  I think it must be something like the feeling an
-aeronaut has when his balloon bursts, and, looking down, he sees below
-him the old home farm where he used to live--I mean the feeling he'd
-have just before he flattened out in that same old clay barnyard.
-Things do look bleak, and I'm only glad you didn't go into this
-confounded thing to the extent I did."
-
-Miss Fanny grew pink.  "But it must go right!" she protested.  "We saw
-with our own eyes how perfectly it worked in the shop.  The light was
-so bright no one could face it, and so there can't be any reason for
-it not to work.  It simply--"
-
-"Oh, you're right about that," Amberson said.  "It certainly was a
-perfect thing--in the shop!  The only thing we didn't know was how
-fast an automobile had to go to keep the light going.  It appears that
-this was a matter of some importance."
-
-"Well, how fast does one have to--"
-
-"To keep the light from going entirely out," he informed her with
-elaborate deliberation, "it is computed by those enthusiasts who have
-bought our product--and subsequently returned it to us and got their
-money back--they compute that a motor car must maintain a speed of
-twenty-five miles an hour, or else there won't be any light at all.
-To make the illumination bright enough to be noticed by an approaching
-automobile, they state the speed must be more than thirty miles an
-hour.  At thirty-five, objects in the path of the light begin to
-become visible; at forty they are revealed distinctly; and at fifty
-and above we have a real headlight.  Unfortunately many people don't
-care to drive that fast at all times after dusk, especially in the
-traffic, or where policemen are likely to become objectionable."
-
-"But think of that test on the road when we--"
-
-"That test was lovely," he admitted.  "The inventor made us happy with
-his oratory, and you and Frank Bronson and I went whirling through the
-night at a speed that thrilled us.  It was an intoxicating sensation:
-we were intoxicated by the lights, the lights and the music.  We must
-never forget that drive, with the cool wind kissing our cheeks and the
-road lit up for miles ahead.  We must never forget it and we never
-shall. It cost--"
-
-"But something's got to be done."
-
-"It has, indeed!  My something would seem to be leaving my watch at my
-uncle's.  Luckily, you--"
-
-The pink of Fanny's cheeks became deeper.  "But isn't that man going
-to do anything to remedy it? can't he try to--"
-
-"He can try," said Amberson.  "He is trying, in fact. I've sat in the
-shop watching him try for several beautiful afternoons, while outside
-the windows all Nature was fragrant with spring and smoke.  He hums
-ragtime to himself as he tries, and I think his mind is wandering to
-something else less tedious--to some new invention in which he'd take
-more interest."
-
-"But you mustn't let him," she cried.  "You must make him keep on
-trying!"
-
-"Oh, yes.  He understands that's what I sit there for.  I'll keep
-sitting!"
-
-However, in spite of the time he spent sitting in the shop, worrying
-the inventor of the fractious light, Amberson found opportunity to
-worry himself about another matter of business.  This was the
-settlement of Isabel's estate.
-
-"It's curious about the deed to her house," he said to his nephew.
-"You're absolutely sure it wasn't among her papers?"
-
-"Mother didn't have any papers," George told him.  "None at all.  All
-she ever had to do with business was to deposit the cheques
-grandfather gave her and then write her own cheques against them."
-
-"The deed to the house was never recorded," Amberson said
-thoughtfully.  "I've been over to the courthouse to see.  I asked
-father if he never gave her one, and he didn't seem able to understand
-me at first.  Then he finally said he thought he must have given her a
-deed long ago; but he wasn't sure.  I rather think he never did.  I
-think it would be just as well to get him to execute one now in your
-favour.  I'll speak to him about it."
-
-George sighed.  "I don't think I'd bother him about it: the house is
-mine, and you and I understand that it is.  That's enough for me, and
-there isn't likely to be much trouble between you and me when we come
-to settling poor grandfather's estate.  I've just been with him, and I
-think it would only confuse him for you to speak to him about it
-again.  I notice he seems distressed if anybody tries to get his
-attention--he's a long way off, somewhere, and he likes to stay that
-way.  I think--I think mother wouldn't want us to bother him about it;
-I'm sure she'd tell us to let him alone.  He looks so white and
-queer."
-
-Amberson shook his head.  "Not much whiter and queerer than you do,
-young fellow!  You'd better begin to get some air and exercise and
-quit hanging about in the house all day.  I won't bother him any more
-than I can help; but I'll have the deed made out ready for his
-signature."
-
-"I wouldn't bother him at all.  I don't see--"
-
-"You might see," said his uncle uneasily.  "The estate is just about
-as involved and mixed-up as an estate can well get, to the best of my
-knowledge; and I haven't helped it any by what he let me have for this
-infernal headlight scheme which has finally gone trolloping forever to
-where the woodbine twineth.  Leaves me flat, and poor old Frank
-Bronson just half flat, and Fanny--well, thank heaven!  I kept her
-from going in so deep that it would leave her flat.  It's rough on her
-as it is, I suspect.  You ought to have that deed."
-
-"No.  Don't bother him."
-
-"I'll bother him as little as possible.  I'll wait till some day when
-he seems to brighten up a little."
-
-But Amberson waited too long.  The Major had already taken eleven
-months since his daughter's death to think important things out.  He
-had got as far with them as he could, and there was nothing to detain
-him longer in the world.  One evening his grandson sat with him--the
-Major seemed to like best to have young George with him, so far as
-they were able to guess his preferences--and the old gentleman made a
-queer gesture: he slapped his knee as if he had made a sudden
-discovery, or else remembered that he had forgotten something.
-
-George looked at him with an air of inquiry, but said nothing.  He had
-grown to be almost as silent as his grandfather.  However, the Major
-spoke without being questioned.
-
-"It must be in the sun," he said.  "There wasn't anything here but the
-sun in the first place, and the earth came out of the sun, and we came
-out of the earth.  So, whatever we are, we must have been in the sun.
-We go back to the earth we came out of, so the earth will go back to
-the sun that it came out of.  And time means nothing--nothing at all--
-so in a little while we'll all be back in the sun together.  I wish--"
-
-He moved his hand uncertainly as if reaching for something, and George
-jumped up.  "Did you want anything, grandfather?"
-
-"What?"
-
-"Would you like a glass of water?"
-
-"No--no.  No; I don't want anything."  The reaching hand dropped back
-upon the arm of his chair, and he relapsed into silence; but a few
-minutes later he finished the sentence he had begun:
-
-"I wish--somebody could tell me!"
-
-The next day he had a slight cold, but he seemed annoyed when his son
-suggested calling the doctor, and Amberson let him have his own way so
-far, in fact, that after he had got up and dressed, the following
-morning, he was all alone when he went away to find out what he hadn't
-been able to think out--all those things he had wished "somebody"
-would tell him.
-
-Old Sam, shuffling in with the breakfast tray, found the Major in his
-accustomed easy-chair by the fireplace--and yet even the old darkey
-could see instantly that the Major was not there.
-
-
-
-
-Chapter XXXI
-
-
-
-When the great Amberson Estate went into court for settlement, "there
-wasn't any," George Amberson said--that is, when the settlement was
-concluded there was no estate.  "I guessed it," Amberson went on.  "As
-an expert on prosperity, my career is disreputable, but as a prophet
-of calamity I deserve a testimonial banquet."  He reproached himself
-bitterly for not having long ago discovered that his father had never
-given Isabel a deed to her house.  "And those pigs, Sydney and
-Amelia!" he added, for this was another thing he was bitter about.
-"They won't do anything.  I'm sorry I gave them the opportunity of
-making a polished refusal.  Amelia's letter was about half in Italian;
-she couldn't remember enough ways of saying no in English.  One has to
-live quite a long while to realize there are people like that!  The
-estate was badly crippled, even before they took out their 'third,'
-and the 'third' they took was the only good part of the rotten apple.
-Well, I didn't ask them for restitution on my own account, and at
-least it will save you some trouble, young George.  Never waste any
-time writing to them; you mustn't count on them."
-
-"I don't," George said quietly.  "I don't count on anything."
-
-"Oh, we'll not feel that things are quite desperate," Amberson
-laughed, but not with great cheerfulness.  "We'll survive, Georgie--
-you will, especially.  For my part I'm a little too old and too
-accustomed to fall back on somebody else for supplies to start a big
-fight with life: I'll be content with just surviving, and I can do it
-on an eighteen-hundred-dollar--a-year consulship.  An ex-congressman
-can always be pretty sure of getting some such job, and I hear from
-Washington the matter's about settled.  I'll live pleasantly enough
-with a pitcher of ice under a palm tree, and black folks to wait on
-me--that part of it will be like home--and I'll manage to send you
-fifty dollars every now and then, after I once get settled.  So much
-for me!  But you--of course you've had a poor training for making your
-own way, but you're only a boy after all, and the stuff of the old
-stock is in you.  It'll come out and do something.  I'll never forgive
-myself about that deed: it would have given you something substantial
-to start with.  Still, you have a little tiny bit, and you'll have a
-little tiny salary, too; and of course your Aunt Fanny's here, and
-she's got something you can fall back on if you get too pinched, until
-I can begin to send you a dribble now and then."
-
-George's "little tiny bit" was six hundred dollars which had come to
-him from the sale of his mother's furniture; and the "little tiny
-salary" was eight dollars a week which old Frank Bronson was to pay
-him for services as a clerk and student-at-law.  Old Frank would have
-offered more to the Major's grandson, but since the death of that best
-of clients and his own experience with automobile headlights, he was
-not certain of being able to pay more and at the same time settle his
-own small bills for board and lodging.  George had accepted haughtily,
-and thereby removed a burden from his uncle's mind.
-
-Amberson himself, however, had not even a "tiny bit"; though he got
-his consular appointment; and to take him to his post he found it
-necessary to borrow two hundred of his nephew's six hundred dollars.
-"It makes me sick, George," he said.  "But I'd better get there and
-get that salary started.  Of course Eugene would do anything in the
-world, and the fact is he wanted to, but I felt that--ah--under the
-circumstances--"
-
-"Never!"  George exclaimed, growing red.  "I can't imagine one of the
-family--"  He paused, not finding it necessary to explain that "the
-family" shouldn't turn a man from the door and then accept favours
-from him.  "I wish you'd take more."
-
-Amberson declined.  "One thing I'll say for you, young George; you
-haven't a stingy bone in your body.  That's the Amberson stock in you
---and I like it!"
-
-He added something to this praise of his nephew on the day he left for
-Washington.  He was not to return, but to set forth from the capital
-on the long journey to his post.  George went with him to the station,
-and their farewell was lengthened by the train's being several minutes
-late.
-
-"I may not see you again, Georgie," Amberson said; and his voice was a
-little husky as he set a kind hand on the young man's shoulder.  "It's
-quite probable that from this time on we'll only know each other by
-letter--until you're notified as my next of kin that there's an old
-valise to be forwarded to you, and perhaps some dusty curios from the
-consulate mantelpiece.  Well, it's an odd way for us to be saying
-good-bye: one wouldn't have thought it, even a few years ago, but here
-we are, two gentlemen of elegant appearance in a state of bustitude.
-We can't ever tell what will happen at all, can we?  Once I stood
-where we're standing now, to say good-bye to a pretty girl--only it
-was in the old station before this was built, and we called it the
-'depot.'  She'd been visiting your mother, before Isabel was married,
-and I was wild about her, and she admitted she didn't mind that.  In
-fact, we decided we couldn't live without each other, and we were to
-be married.  But she had to go abroad first with her father, and when
-we came to say good-bye we knew we wouldn't see each other again for
-almost a year.  I thought I couldn't live through it--and she stood
-here crying.  Well, I don't even know where she lives now, or if she
-is living--and I only happen to think of her sometimes when I'm here
-at the station waiting for a train.  If she ever thinks of me she
-probably imagines I'm still dancing in the ballroom at the Amberson
-Mansion, and she probably thinks of the Mansion as still beautiful--
-still the finest house in town.  Life and money both behave like loose
-quicksilver in a nest of cracks.  And when they're gone we can't tell
-where--or what the devil we did with 'em!  But I believe I'll say now
---while there isn't much time left for either of us to get embarrassed
-about it--I believe I'll say that I've always been fond of you,
-Georgie, but I can't say that I always liked you.  Sometimes I've felt
-you were distinctly not an acquired taste.  Until lately, one had to
-be fond of you just naturally--this isn't very 'tactful,' of course--
-for if he didn't, well, he wouldn't!  We all spoiled you terribly when
-you were a little boy and let you grow up en prince--and I must say
-you took to it!  But you've received a pretty heavy jolt, and I had
-enough of your disposition, myself, at your age, to understand a
-little of what cocksure youth has to go through inside when it finds
-that it can make terrible mistakes.  Poor old fellow!  You get both
-kinds of jolts together, spiritual and material--and you've taken them
-pretty quietly and--well, with my train coming into the shed, you'll
-forgive me for saying that there have been times when I thought you
-ought to be hanged--but I've always been fond of you, and now I like
-you!  And just for a last word: there may be somebody else in this
-town who's always felt about you like that--fond of you, I mean, no
-matter how much it seemed you ought to be hanged.  You might try--
-Hello, I must run.  I'll send back the money as fast as they pay me--
-so, good-bye and God bless you, Georgie!"
-
-He passed through the gates, waved his hat cheerily from the other
-side of the iron screen, and was lost from sight in the hurrying
-crowd.  And as he disappeared, an unexpected poignant loneliness fell
-upon his nephew so heavily and so suddenly that he had no energy to
-recoil from the shock.  It seemed to him that the last fragment of his
-familiar world had disappeared, leaving him all alone forever.
-
-He walked homeward slowly through what appeared to be the strange
-streets of a strange city; and, as a matter of fact, the city was
-strange to him.  He had seen little of it during his years in college,
-and then had followed the long absence and his tragic return.  Since
-that he had been "scarcely outdoors at all," as Fanny complained,
-warning him that his health would suffer, and he had been downtown
-only in a closed carriage.  He had not realized the great change.
-
-The streets were thunderous; a vast energy heaved under the universal
-coating of dinginess.  George walked through the begrimed crowds of
-hurrying strangers and saw no face that he remembered.  Great numbers
-of the faces were even of a kind he did not remember ever to have
-seen; they were partly like the old type that his boyhood knew, and
-partly like types he knew abroad.  He saw German eyes with American
-wrinkles at their corners; he saw Irish eyes and Neapolitan eyes,
-Roman eyes, Tuscan eyes, eyes of Lombardy, of Savoy, Hungarian eyes,
-Balkan eyes, Scandinavian eyes--all with a queer American look in
-them.  He saw Jews who had been German Jews, Jews who had been Russian
-Jews, Jews who had been Polish Jews but were no longer German or
-Russian or Polish Jews.  All the people were soiled by the smoke-mist
-through which they hurried, under the heavy sky that hung close upon
-the new skyscrapers; and nearly all seemed harried by something
-impending, though here and there a women with bundles would be
-laughing to a companion about some adventure of the department stores,
-or perhaps an escape from the charging traffic of the streets--and not
-infrequently a girl, or a free-and-easy young matron, found time to
-throw an encouraging look to George.
-
-He took no note of these, and, leaving the crowded sidewalks, turned
-north into National Avenue, and presently reached the quieter but no
-less begrimed region of smaller shops and old-fashioned houses.  Those
-latter had been the homes of his boyhood playmates; old friends of his
-grandfather had lived here;--in this alley he had fought with two boys
-at the same time, and whipped them; in that front yard he had been
-successfully teased into temporary insanity by a. Sunday-school class
-of pinky little girls.  On that sagging porch a laughing woman had fed
-him and other boys with doughnuts and gingerbread; yonder he saw the
-staggered relics of the iron picket fence he had made his white pony
-jump, on a dare, and in the shabby, stone-faced house behind the fence
-he had gone to children's parties, and, when he was a little older he
-had danced there often, and fallen in love with Mary Sharon, and
-kissed her, apparently by force, under the stairs in the hall.  The
-double front doors, of meaninglessly carved walnut, once so glossily
-varnished, had been painted smoke gray, but the smoke grime showed
-repulsively, even on the smoke gray; and over the doors a smoked sign
-proclaimed the place to be a "Stag Hotel."
-
-Other houses had become boarding-houses too genteel for signs, but
-many were franker, some offering "board by the day, week or meal," and
-some, more laconic, contenting themselves with the label:  "Rooms."
-One, having torn out part of an old stone-trimmed bay window for
-purposes of commercial display, showed forth two suspended petticoats
-and a pair of oyster-coloured flannel trousers to prove the claims of
-its black-and-gilt sign: "French Cleaning and Dye House."  Its next
-neighbour also sported a remodelled front and permitted no doubt that
-its mission in life was to attend cosily upon death: "J. M. Rolsener.
-Caskets.  The Funeral Home."  And beyond that, a plain old honest
-four-square gray-painted brick house was flamboyantly decorated with a
-great gilt scroll on the railing of the old-fashioned veranda:
-"Mutual Benev't Order Cavaliers and Dames of Purity."  This was the
-old Minafer house.
-
-George passed it without perceptibly wincing; in fact, he held his
-head up, and except for his gravity of countenance and the prison
-pallor he had acquired by too constantly remaining indoors, there was
-little to warn an acquaintance that he was not precisely the same
-George Amberson Minafer known aforetime.  He was still so magnificent,
-indeed, that there came to his ears a waft of comment from a passing
-automobile.  This was a fearsome red car, glittering in brass, with
-half-a-dozen young people in it whose motorism had reached an extreme
-manifestation in dress.  The ladies of this party were favourably
-affected at sight of the pedestrian upon the sidewalk, and, as the
-machine was moving slowly, and close to the curb, they had time to
-observe him in detail, which they did with a frankness not pleasing to
-the object of their attentions.  "One sees so many nice-looking people
-one doesn't know nowadays," said the youngest of the young ladies.
-"This old town of ours is really getting enormous. I shouldn't mind
-knowing who he is."
-
-"I don't know," the youth beside her said, loudly enough to be heard
-at a considerable distance.  "I don't know who he is, but from his
-looks I know who he thinks he is: he thinks he's the Grand Duke
-Cuthbert!"  There was a burst of tittering as the car gathered speed
-and rolled away, with the girl continuing to look back until her
-scandalized companions forced her to turn by pulling her hood over her
-face.  She made an impression upon George, so deep a one, in fact,
-that he unconsciously put his emotion into a muttered word:
-
-Riffraff!
-
-This was the last "walk home" he was ever to take by the route he was
-now following: up National Avenue to Amberson Addition and the two big
-old houses at the foot of Amberson Boulevard; for tonight would be the
-last night that he and Fanny were to spend in the house which the
-Major had forgotten to deed to Isabel.  To-morrow they were to "move
-out," and George was to begin his work in Bronson's office.  He had
-not come to this collapse without a fierce struggle--but the struggle
-was inward, and the rolling world was not agitated by it, and rolled
-calmly on.  For of all the "ideals of life" which the world, in its
-rolling, inconsiderately flattens out to nothingness, the least likely
-to retain a profile is that ideal which depends upon inheriting money.
-George Amberson, in spite of his record of failures in business, had
-spoken shrewdly when he realized at last that money, like life, was
-"like quicksilver in a nest of cracks."  And his nephew had the
-awakening experience of seeing the great Amberson Estate vanishing
-into such a nest--in a twinkling, it seemed, now that it was indeed so
-utterly vanished.
-
-His uncle had suggested that he might write to college friends;
-perhaps they could help him to something better than the prospect
-offered by Bronson's office; but George flushed and shook his head,
-without explaining.  In that small and quietly superior "crowd" of his
-he had too emphatically supported the ideal of being rather than
-doing.  He could not appeal to one of its members now to help him to a
-job.  Besides, they were not precisely the warmest-hearted crew in the
-world, and he had long ago dropped the last affectation of a
-correspondence with any of them.  He was as aloof from any survival of
-intimacy with his boyhood friends in the city, and, in truth, had lost
-track of most of them.  "The Friends of the Ace," once bound by oath
-to succour one another in peril or poverty, were long ago dispersed;
-one or two had died; one or two had gone to live elsewhere; the others
-were disappeared into the smoky bigness of the heavy city.  Of the
-brethren, there remained within his present cognizance only his old
-enemy, the red-haired Kinney, now married to Janie Sharon, and Charlie
-Johnson, who, out of deference to his mother's memory, had passed the
-Amberson Mansion one day, when George stood upon the front steps, and,
-looking in fiercely, had looked away with continued fierceness--his
-only token of recognition.
-
-On this last homeward walk of his, when George reached the entrance
-to Amberson Addition--that is, when he came to where the entrance had
-formerly been--he gave a little start, and halted for a moment to
-stare.  This was the first time he had noticed that the stone pillars,
-marking the entrance, had been removed.  Then he realized that for a
-long time he had been conscious of a queerness about this corner
-without being aware of what made the difference.  National Avenue met
-Amberson Boulevard here at an obtuse angle, and the removal of the
-pillars made the Boulevard seem a cross-street of no overpowering
-importance--certainly it did not seem to be a boulevard!
-
-At the next corner Neptune's Fountain remained, and one could still
-determine with accuracy what its designer's intentions had been.  It
-stood in sore need of just one last kindness; and if the thing had
-possessed any friends they would have done that doleful shovelling
-after dark.
-
-George did not let his eyes linger upon the relic; nor did he look
-steadfastly at the Amberson Mansion.  Massive as the old house was, it
-managed to look gaunt: its windows stared with the skull emptiness of
-all windows in empty houses that are to be lived in no more.  Of
-course the rowdy boys of the neighbourhood had been at work: many of
-these haggard windows were broken; the front door stood ajar, forced
-open; and idiot salacity, in white chalk, was smeared everywhere upon
-the pillars and stonework of the verandas.
-
-George walked by the Mansion hurriedly, and came home to his mother's
-house for the last time.
-
-Emptiness was there, too, and the closing of the door resounded
-through bare rooms; for downstairs there was no furniture in the house
-except a kitchen table in the dining room, which Fanny had kept "for
-dinner," she said, though as she was to cook and serve that meal
-herself George had his doubts about her name for it.  Upstairs, she
-had retained her own furniture, and George had been living in his
-mother's room, having sent everything from his own to the auction.
-Isabel's room was still as it had been, but the furniture would be
-moved with Fanny's to new quarters in the morning.  Fanny had made
-plans for her nephew as well as herself; she had found a three-room
-"kitchenette apartment" in an apartment house where several old friends
-of hers had established themselves--elderly widows of citizens once
-"prominent" and other retired gentry.  People used their own
-"kitchenettes" for breakfast and lunch, but there was a table-d'hote
-arrangement for dinner on the ground floor; and after dinner bridge
-was played all evening, an attraction powerful with Fanny.  She had
-"made all the arrangements," she reported, and nervously appealed for
-approval, asking if she hadn't shown herself "pretty practical" in
-such matters.  George acquiesced absent-mindedly, not thinking of what
-she said and not realizing to what it committed him.
-
-He began to realize it now, as he wandered about the dismantled house;
-he was far from sure that he was willing to go and live in a "three-
-room apartment" with Fanny and eat breakfast and lunch with her
-(prepared by herself in the "kitchenette") and dinner at the table
-d'hote in "such a pretty Colonial dining room" (so Fanny described it)
-at a little round table they would have all to themselves in the midst
-of a dozen little round tables which other relics of disrupted
-families would have all to themselves.  For the first time, now that
-the change was imminent, George began to develop before his mind's eye
-pictures of what he was in for; and they appalled him.  He decided
-that such a life verged upon the sheerly unbearable, and that after
-all there were some things left that he just couldn't stand.  So he
-made up his mind to speak to his aunt about it at "dinner," and tell
-her that he preferred to ask Bronson to let him put a sofa-bed, a
-trunk, and a folding rubber bathtub behind a screen in the dark rear
-room of the office.  George felt that this would be infinitely more
-tolerable; and he could eat at restaurants, especially as about all he
-ever wanted nowadays was coffee.
-
-But at "dinner" he decided to put off telling Fanny of his plan until
-later: she was so nervous, and so distressed about the failure of her
-efforts with sweetbreads and macaroni; and she was so eager in her
-talk of how comfortable they would be "by this time to-morrow night."
-She fluttered on, her nervousness increasing, saying how "nice" it
-would be for him, when he came from work in the evenings, to be among
-"nice people--people who know who we are," and to have a pleasant game
-of bridge with "people who are really old friends of the family?"
-
-When they stopped probing among the scorched fragments she had set
-forth, George lingered downstairs, waiting for a better opportunity to
-introduce his own subject, but when he heard dismaying sounds from the
-kitchen he gave up.  There was a crash, then a shower of crashes;
-falling tin clamoured to be heard above the shattering of porcelain;
-and over all rose Fanny's wail of lamentation for the treasures saved
-from the sale, but now lost forever to the "kitchenette."  Fanny was
-nervous indeed; so nervous that she could not trust her hands.
-
-For a moment George thought she might have been injured, but, before
-he reached the kitchen, he heard her sweeping at the fragments, and
-turned back.  He put off speaking to Fanny until morning.
-
-Things more insistent than his vague plans for a sofa-bed in Bronson's
-office had possession of his mind as he went upstairs, moving his hand
-slowly along the smooth walnut railing of the balustrade.  Half way to
-the landing he stopped, turned, and stood looking down at the heavy
-doors masking the black emptiness that had been the library.  Here he
-had stood on what he now knew was the worst day of his life; here he
-had stood when his mother passed through that doorway, hand-in-hand
-with her brother, to learn what her son had done.
-
-He went on more heavily, more slowly; and, more heavily and slowly
-still, entered Isabel's room and shut the door.  He did not come forth
-again, and bade Fanny good-night through the closed door when she
-stopped outside it later.
-
-"I've put all the lights out, George," she said.  "Everything's all
-right."
-
-"Very well," he called.  "Good-night."
-
-She did not go.  "I'm sure we're going to enjoy the new little home,
-George," she said timidly.  "I'll try hard to make things nice for
-you, and the people really are lovely.  You mustn't feel as if things
-are altogether gloomy, George. I know everything's going to turn out
-all right.  You're young and strong and you have a good mind and I'm
-sure--" she hesitated--"I'm sure your mother's watching over you,
-Georgie.  Good-night, dear."
-
-"Good-night, Aunt Fanny."
-
-His voice had a strangled sound in spite of him; but she seemed not to
-notice it, and he heard her go to her own room and lock herself in
-with bolt and key against burglars.  She had said the one thing she
-should not have said just then:  "I'm sure your mother's watching over
-you, Georgie."  She had meant to be kind, but it destroyed his last
-chance for sleep that night.  He would have slept little if she had
-not said it, but since she had said it, he could not sleep at all.
-For he knew that it was true--if it could be true--and that his
-mother, if she still lived in spirit, would be weeping on the other
-side of the wall of silence, weeping and seeking for some gate to let
-her through so that she could come and "watch over him."
-
-He felt that if there were such gates they were surely barred: they
-were like those awful library doors downstairs, which had shut her in
-to begin the suffering to which he had consigned her.
-
-The room was still Isabel's.  Nothing had been changed: even the
-photographs of George, of the Major, and of "brother George" still
-stood on her dressing-table, and in a drawer of her desk was an old
-picture of Eugene and Lucy, taken together, which George had found,
-but had slowly closed away again from sight, not touching it.  To-
-morrow everything would be gone; and he had heard there was not long
-to wait before the house itself would be demolished.  The very space
-which tonight was still Isabel's room would be cut into new shapes by
-new walls and floors and ceilings; yet the room would always live, for
-it could not die out of George's memory.  It would live as long as he
-did, and it would always be murmurous with a tragic, wistful
-whispering.
-
-And if space itself can be haunted, as memory is haunted, then some
-time, when the space that was Isabel's room came to be made into the
-small bedrooms and "kitchenettes" already designed as its destiny,
-that space might well be haunted and the new occupants come to feel
-that some seemingly causeless depression hung about it--a wraith of
-the passion that filled it throughout the last night that George
-Minafer spent there.
-
-Whatever remnants of the old high-handed arrogance were still within
-him, he did penance for his deepest sin that night--and it may be that
-to this day some impressionable, overworked woman in a "kitchenette,"
-after turning out the light will seem to see a young man kneeling in
-the darkness, shaking convulsively, and, with arms outstretched
-through the wall, clutching at the covers of a shadowy bed.  It may
-seem to her that she hears the faint cry, over and over:
-
-"Mother, forgive me!  God, forgive me!"
-
-
-
-
-Chapter XXXII
-
-
-
-At least, it may be claimed for George that his last night in the
-house where he had been born was not occupied with his own
-disheartening future, but with sorrow for what sacrifices his pride
-and youth had demanded of others.  And early in the morning he came
-downstairs and tried to help Fanny make coffee on the kitchen range.
-
-"There was something I wanted to say to you last night, Aunt Fanny,"
-he said, as she finally discovered that an amber fluid, more like tea
-than coffee, was as near ready to be taken into the human system as it
-would ever be.  "I think I'd better do it now."
-
-She set the coffee-pot back upon the stove with a little crash, and,
-looking at him in a desperate anxiety, began to twist her dainty apron
-between her fingers without any consciousness of what she was doing.
-
-"Why--why--" she stammered; but she knew what he was going to say, and
-that was why she had been more and more nervous.  "Hadn't--perhaps--
-perhaps we'd better get the--the things moved to the little new home
-first, George.  Let's--"
-
-He interrupted quietly, though at her phrase, "the little new home,"
-his pungent impulse was to utter one loud shout and run.  "It was
-about this new place that I wanted to speak.  I've been thinking it
-over, and I've decided. I want you to take all the things from
-mother's room and use them and keep them for me, and I'm sure the
-little apartment will be just what you like; and with the extra
-bedroom probably you could find some woman friend to come and live
-there, and share the expense with you.  But I've decided on another
-arrangement for myself, and so I'm not going with you.  I don't
-suppose you'll mind much, and I don't see why you should mind--
-particularly, that is.  I'm not very lively company these days, or any
-days, for that matter.  I can't imagine you, or any one else, being
-much attached to me, so--"
-
-He stopped in amazement: no chair had been left in the kitchen, but
-Fanny gave a despairing glance around her, in search of one, then
-sank abruptly, and sat flat upon the floor.
-
-"You're going to leave me in the lurch!" she gasped.
-
-"What on earth--" George sprang to her.  "Get up, Aunt Fanny!"
-
-"I can't. I'm too weak.  Let me alone, George!"  And as he released
-the wrist he had seized to help her, she repeated the dismal prophecy
-which for days she had been matching against her hopes: "You're going
-to leave me--in the lurch!"
-
-"Why no, Aunt Fanny!" he protested.  "At first I'd have been something
-of a burden on you.  I'm to get eight dollars a week; about thirty-two
-a month.  The rent's thirty-six dollars a month, and the table-d'hote
-dinner runs up to over twenty-two dollars apiece, so with my half of
-the rent--eighteen dollars--I'd have less than nothing left out of my
-salary to pay my share of the groceries for all the breakfasts and
-luncheons.  You see you'd not only be doing all the housework and
-cooking, but you'd be paying more of the expenses than I would."
-
-She stared at him with such a forlorn blankness as he had never seen.
-"I'd be paying--" she said feebly.  "I'd be paying--"
-
-"Certainly you would.  You'd be using more of your money than--"
-
-"My money!"  Fanny's chin drooped upon her thin chest, and she laughed
-miserably.  "I've got twenty-eight dollars.  That's all."
-
-"You mean until the interest is due again?"
-
-"I mean that's all," Fanny said.  "I mean that's all there is.  There
-won't be any more interest because there isn't any principal."
-
-"Why, you told--"
-
-She shook her head.  "No, I haven't told you anything."
-
-"Then it was Uncle George.  He told me you had enough to fall back on.
-That's just what he said: 'to fall back on.'  He said you'd lost more
-than you should, in the headlight company, but he'd insisted that you
-should hold out enough to live on, and you'd very wisely followed his
-advice."
-
-"I know," she said weakly.  "I told him so.  He didn't know, or else
-he'd forgotten, how much Wilbur's insurance amounted to, and I--oh, it
-seemed such a sure way to make a real fortune out of a little--and I
-thought I could do something for you, George, if you ever came to need
-it--and it all looked so bright I just thought I'd put it all in.  I
-did--every cent except my last interest payment--and it's gone."
-
-"Good Lord!" George began to pace up and down on the worn planks of
-the bare floor.  "Why on earth did you wait till now to tell such a
-thing as this?"
-
-"I couldn't tell till I had to," she said piteously.  "I couldn't till
-George Amberson went away.  He couldn't do anything to help, anyhow,
-and I just didn't want him to talk to me about it--he's been at me so
-much about not putting more in than I could afford to lose, and said
-he considered he had my--my word I wasn't putting more than that in
-it.  So I thought: What was the use?  What was the use of going over
-it all with him and having him reproach me, and probably reproach
-himself?  It wouldn't do any good--not any good on earth."  She got
-out her lace handkerchief and began to cry.  "Nothing does any good, I
-guess, in this old world.  Oh, how tired of this old world I am!  I
-didn't know what to do.  I just tried to go ahead and be as practical
-as I could, and arrange some way for us to live.  Oh, I knew you
-didn't want me, George!  You always teased me and berated me whenever
-you had a chance from the time you were a little boy--you did so!
-Later, you've tried to be kinder to me, but you don't want me around--
-oh, I can see that much!  You don't suppose I want to thrust myself on
-you, do you?  It isn't very pleasant to be thrusting yourself on a
-person you know doesn't want you--but I knew you oughtn't to be left
-all alone in the world; it isn't good.  I knew your mother'd want me
-to watch over you and try to have something like a home for you--I
-know she'd want me to do what I tried to do!"  Fanny's tears were
-bitter now, and her voice, hoarse and wet, was tragically sincere.  "I
-tried--I tried to be practical--to look after your interests--to make
-things as nice for you as I could--I walked my heels down looking for
-a place for us to live--I walked and walked over this town--I didn't
-ride one block on a street-car--I wouldn't use five cents no matter
-how tired I--Oh!"  She sobbed uncontrollably.  "Oh! and now--you don't
-want--you want--you want to leave me in the lurch!  You--"
-
-George stopped walking.  "In God's name, Aunt Fanny," he said, "quit
-spreading out your handkerchief and drying it and then getting it all
-wet again!  I mean stop crying!  Do!  And for heaven's sake, get up.
-Don't sit there with your back against the boiler and--"
-
-"It's not hot," Fanny sniffled.  "It's cold; the; plumbers
-disconnected it.  I wouldn't mind if they hadn't.  I wouldn't mind if
-it burned me, George."
-
-"Oh, my Lord!"  He went to her, and lifted her.  "For God's sake, get
-up!  Come, let's take the coffee into the other room, and see what's
-to be done."
-
-He got her to her feet; she leaned upon him, already somewhat
-comforted, and, with his arm about her, he conducted her to the dining
-room and seated her in one of the two kitchen chairs which had been
-placed at the rough table.  "There!" he said, "get over it!"  Then he
-brought the coffee-pot, some lumps of sugar in a tin pan, and, finding
-that all the coffee-cups were broken, set water glasses upon the
-table, and poured some of the pale coffee into them.  By this time
-Fanny's spirits had revived appreciably: she looked up with a
-plaintive eagerness.  "I had bought all my fall clothes, George," she
-said; "and I paid every bill I owed. I don't owe a cent for clothes,
-George."
-
-"That's good," he said wanly, and he had a moment of physical
-dizziness that decided him to sit down quickly.  For an instant it
-seemed to him that he was not Fanny's nephew, but married to her.  He
-passed his pale hand over his paler forehead.  "Well, let's see where
-we stand," he said feebly.  "Let's see if we can afford this place
-you've selected."
-
-Fanny continued to brighten.  "I'm sure it's the most practical plan
-we could possibly have worked out, George--and it is a comfort to be
-among nice people.  I think we'll both enjoy it, because the truth is
-we've been keeping too much to ourselves for a long while.  It isn't
-good for people."
-
-"I was thinking about the money, Aunt Fanny.  You see--"
-
-"I'm sure we can manage it," she interrupted quickly.  "There really
-isn't a cheaper place in town that we could actually live in and be--"
-Here she interrupted herself.  "Oh! There's one great economy I forgot
-to tell you, and it's especially an economy for you, because you're
-always too generous about such things: they don't allow any tipping.
-They have signs that prohibit it."
-
-"That's good," he said grimly.  "But the rent is thirty-six dollars a
-month; the dinner is twenty-two and a half for each of us, and we've
-got to have some provision for other food.  We won't need any clothes
-for a year, perhaps--"
-
-"Oh, longer!" she exclaimed.  "So you see--"
-
-"I see that forty-five and thirty-six make eighty-one," he said.  "At
-the lowest, we need a hundred dollars a month--and I'm going to make
-thirty-two."
-
-"I thought of that, George," she said confidently, "and I'm sure it
-will be all right.  You'll be earning a great deal more than that very
-soon."
-
-"I don't see any prospect of it--not till I'm admitted to the bar, and
-that will be two years at the earliest."
-
-Fanny's confidence was not shaken.  "I know you'll be getting on
-faster than--"
-
-"Faster?" George echoed gravely.  "We've got to have more than that to
-start with."
-
-"Well, there's the six hundred dollars from the sale.  Six hundred and
-twelve dollars it was."
-
-"It isn't six hundred and twelve now," said George.  "It's about one
-hundred and sixty."
-
-Fanny showed a momentary dismay.  "Why, how--"
-
-"I lent Uncle George two hundred; I gave fifty apiece to old Sam and
-those two other old darkies that worked for grandfather so long, and
-ten to each of the servants here--"
-
-"And you gave me thirty-six," she said thoughtfully, "for the first
-month's rent, in advance."
-
-"Did I?  I'd forgotten.  Well, with about a hundred and sixty in bank
-and our expenses a hundred a month, it doesn't seem as if this new
-place--"
-
-"Still," she interrupted, "we have paid the first month's rent in
-advance, and it does seem to be the most practical--"
-
-George rose.  "See here, Aunt Fanny," he said decisively.  "You stay
-here and look after the moving.  Old Frank doesn't expect me until
-afternoon, this first day, but I'll go and see him now."
-
-It was early, and old Frank, just established at his big, flat-topped
-desk, was surprised when his prospective assistant and pupil walked
-in.  He was pleased, as well as surprised, however, and rose, offering
-a cordial old hand.  "The real flare!" he said.  "The real flare for
-the law.  That's right!  Couldn't wait till afternoon to begin!  I'm
-delighted that you--"
-
-"I wanted to say--" George began, but his patron cut him off.
-
-"Wait just a minute, my boy.  I've prepared a little speech of
-welcome, and even though you're five hours ahead of time, I mean to
-deliver it.  First of all, your grandfather was my old war-comrade and
-my best client; for years I prospered through my connection with his
-business, and his grandson is welcome in my office and to my best
-efforts in his behalf.  But I want to confess, Georgie, that during
-your earlier youth I may have had some slight feeling of--well,
-prejudice, not altogether in your favour; but whatever slight feeling
-it was, it began to vanish on that afternoon, a good while ago, when
-you stood up to your Aunt Amelia Amberson as you did in the Major's
-library, and talked to her as a man and a gentleman should.  I saw
-then what good stuff was in you--and I always wanted to mention it.
-If my prejudice hadn't altogether vanished after that, the last
-vestiges disappeared during these trying times that have come upon you
-this past year, when I have been a witness to the depth of feeling
-you've shown and your quiet consideration for your grandfather and for
-everyone else around you.  I just want to add that I think you'll find
-an honest pleasure now in industry and frugality that wouldn't have
-come to you in a more frivolous career.  The law is a jealous mistress
-and a stern mistress, but a--"
-
-George had stood before him in great and increasing embarrassment; and
-he was unable to allow the address to proceed to its conclusion.
-
-"I can't do it!" he burst out.  "I can't take her for my mistress."
-
-"What?"
-
-"I've come to tell you, I've got to find something that's quicker. I
-can't--"
-
-Old Frank got a little red.  "Let's sit down," he said.  "What's the
-trouble?"
-
-George told him.
-
-The old gentleman listened sympathetically, only murmuring:  "Well,
-well!" from time to time, and nodding acquiescence.
-
-"You see she's set her mind on this apartment," George explained.
-"She's got some old cronies there, and I guess she's been looking
-forward to the games of bridge and the kind of harmless gossip that
-goes on in such places.  Really, it's a life she'd like better than
-anything else--better than that she's lived at home, I really believe.
-It struck me she's just about got to have it, and after all she could
-hardly have anything less."
-
-"This comes pretty heavily upon me, you know," said old Frank.  "I got
-her into that headlight company, and she fooled me about her resources
-as much as she did your Uncle George.  I was never your father's
-adviser, if you remember, and when the insurance was turned over to
-her some other lawyer arranged it--probably your father's.  But it
-comes pretty heavily on me, and I feel a certain responsibility."
-
-"Not at all.  I'm taking the responsibility."
-
-And George smiled with one corner of his mouth.  "She's not your aunt,
-you know, sir."
-
-"Well, I'm unable to see, even if she's yours, that a young man is
-morally called upon to give up a career at the law to provide his aunt
-with a favourable opportunity to play bridge whist!"
-
-"No," George agreed.  "But I haven't begun my 'career at the law' so
-it can't be said I'm making any considerable sacrifice.  I'll tell you
-how it is, sir."  He flushed, and, looking out of the streaked and
-smoky window beside which he was sitting, spoke with difficulty.  "I
-feel as if--as if perhaps I had one or two pretty important things in
-my life to make up for.  Well, I can't.  I can't make them up to--to
-whom I would.  It's struck me that, as I couldn't, I might be a little
-decent to somebody else, perhaps--if I could manage it!  I never have
-been particularly decent to poor old Aunt Fanny."
-
-"Oh, I don't know: I shouldn't say that.  A little youthful teasing--I
-doubt if she's minded so much.  She felt your father's death
-terrifically, of course, but it seems to me she's had a fairly
-comfortable life-up to now--if she was disposed to take it that way."
-
-"But 'up to now' is the important thing," George said.  "Now is now--
-and you see I can't wait two years to be admitted to the bar and begin
-to practice.  I've got to start in at something else that pays from
-the start, and that's what I've come to you about.  I have an idea,
-you see."
-
-"Well, I'm glad of that!" said old Frank, smiling.  "I can't think of
-anything just at this minute that pays from the start."
-
-"I only know of one thing, myself."
-
-"What is it?"
-
-George flushed again, but managed to laugh at his own embarrassment.
-"I suppose I'm about as ignorant of business as anybody in the world,"
-he said.  "But I've heard they pay very high wages to people in
-dangerous trades; I've always heard they did, and I'm sure it must be
-true.  I mean people that handle touchy chemicals or high explosives--
-men in dynamite factories, or who take things of that sort about the
-country in wagons, and shoot oil wells.  I thought I'd see if you
-couldn't tell me something more about it, or else introduce me to
-someone who could, and then I thought I'd see if I couldn't get
-something of the kind to do as soon as possible.  My nerves are good;
-I'm muscular, and I've got a steady hand; it seemed to me that this
-was about the only line of work in the world that I'm fitted for.  I
-wanted to get started to-day if I could."
-
-Old Frank gave him a long stare.  At first this scrutiny was sharply
-incredulous; then it was grave; finally it developed into a threat of
-overwhelming laughter; a forked vein in his forehead became more
-visible and his eyes seemed about to protrude.
-
-But he controlled his impulse; and, rising, took up his hat and
-overcoat.  "All right," he said.  "If you'll promise not to get blown
-up, I'll go with you to see if we can find the job."  Then, meaning
-what he said, but amazed that he did mean it, he added: "You certainly
-are the most practical young man I ever met!"
-
-
-
-
-Chapter XXXIII
-
-
-They found the job.  It needed an apprenticeship of only six weeks,
-during which period George was to receive fifteen dollars a week;
-after that he would get twenty-eight.  This settled the apartment
-question, and Fanny was presently established in a greater contentment
-than she had known for a long time.  Early every morning she made
-something she called (and believed to be) coffee for George, and he
-was gallant enough not to undeceive her.  She lunched alone in her
-"kitchenette," for George's place of employment was ten miles out of
-town on an interurban trolley-line, and he seldom returned before
-seven.  Fanny found partners for bridge by two o'clock almost every
-afternoon, and she played until about six.  Then she got George's
-"dinner clothes" out for him--he maintained this habit--and she
-changed her own dress.  When he arrived he usually denied that he was
-tired, though he sometimes looked tired, particularly during the first
-few months; and he explained to her frequently--looking bored enough
-with her insistence--that his work was "fairly light, and fairly
-congenial, too."  Fanny had the foggiest idea of what it was, though
-she noticed that it roughened his hands and stained them.  "Something
-in those new chemical works," she explained to casual inquirers.  It
-was not more definite in her own mind.
-
-Respect for George undoubtedly increased within her, however, and she
-told him she'd always had a feeling he might "turn out to be a
-mechanical genius, or something."  George assented with a nod, as the
-easiest course open to him.  He did not take a hand at bridge after
-dinner: his provisions' for Fanny's happiness refused to extend that
-far, and at the table d'hote he was a rather discouraging boarder.  He
-was considered "affected" and absurdly "up-stage" by the one or two
-young men, and the three or four young women, who enlivened the
-elderly retreat; and was possibly less popular there than he had been
-elsewhere during his life, though he was now nothing worse than a
-coldly polite young man who kept to himself.  After dinner he would
-escort his aunt from the table in some state (not wholly unaccompanied
-by a leerish wink or two from the wags of the place) and he would
-leave her at the door of the communal parlours and card rooms, with a
-formality in his bow of farewell which afforded an amusing contrast to
-Fanny's always voluble protests.  (She never failed to urge loudly
-that he really must come and play, just this once, and not go hiding
-from everybody in his room every evening like this!)  At least some of
-the other inhabitants found the contrast amusing, for sometimes, as he
-departed stiffly toward the elevator, leaving her still entreating in
-the doorway (though with one eye already on her table, to see that it
-was not seized) a titter would follow him which he was no doubt meant
-to hear.  He did not care whether they laughed or not.
-
-And once, as he passed the one or two young men of the place
-entertaining the three or four young women, who were elbowing and
-jerking on a settee in the lobby, he heard a voice inquiring quickly,
-as he passed:
-
-"What makes people tired?"
-
-"Work?"
-
-"No."
-
-"Well, what's the answer?"
-
-Then, with an intentional outbreak of mirth, the answer was given by
-two loudly whispering voices together:
-
-"A stuck-up boarder!"
-
-George didn't care.
-
-On Sunday mornings Fanny went to church and George took long walks.
-He explored the new city, and found it hideous, especially in the
-early spring, before the leaves of the shade trees were out.  Then the
-town was fagged with the long winter and blacked with the heavier
-smoke that had been held close to the earth by the smoke-fog it bred.
-Every-thing was damply streaked with the soot: the walls of the
-houses, inside and out, the gray curtains at the windows, the windows
-themselves, the dirty cement and unswept asphalt underfoot, the very
-sky overhead.  Throughout this murky season he continued his
-explorations, never seeing a face he knew--for, on Sunday, those whom
-he remembered, or who might remember him, were not apt to be found
-within the limits of the town, but were congenially occupied with the
-new outdoor life which had come to be the mode since his boyhood.  He
-and Fanny were pretty thoroughly buried away within the bigness of the
-city.
-
-One of his Sunday walks, that spring, he made into a sour pilgrimage.
-It was a misty morning of belated snow slush, and suited him to a
-perfection of miserableness, as he stood before the great dripping
-department store which now occupied the big plot of ground where once
-had stood both the Amberson Hotel and the Amberson Opera House.  From
-there he drifted to the old "Amberson Block," but this was fallen into
-a back-water; business had stagnated here.  The old structure had not
-been replaced, but a cavernous entryway for trucks had been torn in
-its front, and upon the cornice, where the old separate metal letters
-had spelt "Amberson Block," there was a long billboard sign:  "Doogan
-Storage."
-
-To spare himself nothing, he went out National Avenue and saw the
-piles of slush-covered wreckage where the Mansion and his mother's
-house had been, and where the Major's ill-fated five "new" houses had
-stood; for these were down, too, to make room for the great tenement
-already shaped in unending lines of foundation.  But the Fountain of
-Neptune was gone at last--and George was glad that it was!
-
-He turned away from the devastated site, thinking bitterly that the
-only Amberson mark still left upon the town was the name of the
-boulevard--Amberson Boulevard.  But he had reckoned without the city
-council of the new order, and by an unpleasant coincidence, while the
-thought was still in his mind, his eye fell upon a metal oblong sign
-upon the lamppost at the corner.  There were two of these little signs
-upon the lamp-post, at an obtuse angle to each other, one to give
-passers-by the name of National Avenue, the other to acquaint them
-with Amberson Boulevard.  But the one upon which should have been
-stenciled "Amberson Boulevard" exhibited the words "Tenth Street."
-
-George stared at it hard. Then he walked quickly along the boulevard
-to the next corner and looked at the little sign there.  "Tenth
-Street."
-
-It had begun to rain, but George stood unheeding, staring at the
-little sign.  "Damn them!" he said finally, and, turning up his coat-
-collar, plodded back through the soggy streets toward "home."
-
-The utilitarian impudence of the city authorities put a thought into
-his mind.  A week earlier he had happened to stroll into the large
-parlour of the apartment house, finding it empty, and on the
-center table he noticed a large, red-bound, gilt-edged book, newly
-printed, bearing the title: "A Civic History," and beneath the title,
-the rubric, "Biographies of the 500 Most Prominent Citizens and
-Families in the History of the City."  He had glanced at it absently,
-merely noticing the title and sub-title, and wandered out of the room,
-thinking of other things and feeling no curiosity about the book.  But
-he had thought of it several times since with a faint, vague
-uneasiness; and now when he entered the lobby he walked directly into
-the parlour where he had seen the book.  The room was empty, as it
-always was on Sunday mornings, and the flamboyant volume was still
-upon the table--evidently a fixture as a sort of local Almanach de
-Gotha, or Burke, for the enlightenment of tenants and boarders.
-
-He opened it, finding a few painful steel engravings of placid, chin-
-bearded faces, some of which he remembered dimly; but much more
-numerous, and also more unfamiliar to him, were the pictures of neat,
-aggressive men, with clipped short hair and clipped short moustaches--
-almost all of them strangers to him.  He delayed not long with these,
-but turned to the index where the names of the five hundred Most
-Prominent Citizens and Families in the History of the City were
-arranged in alphabetical order, and ran his finger down the column of
-A's:
-
-Abbett
-Abbott
-Abrams
-Adam
-Adams
-Adler
-Akers
-Albertsmeyer
-Alexander
-Allen
-Ambrose
-Ambuhl
-Anderson
-Andrews
-Appenbasch
-Archer
-Arszman
-Ashcraft
-Austin
-Avey
-
-George's eyes remained for some time fixed on the thin space between
-the names "Allen" and "Ambrose."  Then he closed the book quietly, and
-went up to his own room, agreeing with the elevator boy, on the way,
-that it was getting to be a mighty nasty wet and windy day outside.
-
-The elevator boy noticed nothing unusual about him and neither did
-Fanny, when she came in from church with her hat ruined, an hour
-later.  And yet something had happened--a thing which, years ago, had
-been the eagerest hope of many, many good citizens of the town.  They
-had thought of it, longed for it, hoping acutely that they might live
-to see the day when it would come to pass.  And now it had happened at
-last: Georgie Minafer had got his come-upance.
-
-He had got it three times filled and running over.  The city had
-rolled over his heart, burying it under, as it rolled over the Major's
-and buried it under.  The city had rolled over the Ambersons and
-buried them under to the last vestige; and it mattered little that
-George guessed easily enough that most of the five hundred Most
-Prominent had paid something substantial "to defray the cost of steel
-engraving, etc."--the Five Hundred had heaved the final shovelful of
-soot upon that heap of obscurity wherein the Ambersons were lost
-forever from sight and history.  "Quicksilver in a nest of cracks!"
-
-Georgie Minafer had got his come-upance, but the people who had so
-longed for it were not there to see it, and they never knew it.  Those
-who were still living had forgotten all about it and all about him.
-
-
-
-
-Chapter XXXIV
-
-
-
-There was one border section of the city which George never explored
-in his Sunday morning excursions.  This was far out to the north where
-lay the new Elysian Fields of the millionaires, though he once went as
-far in that direction as the white house which Lucy had so admired
-long ago--her "Beautiful House."  George looked at it briefly and
-turned back, rumbling with an interior laugh of some grimness.  The
-house was white no longer; nothing could be white which the town had
-reached, and the town reached far beyond the beautiful white house
-now.  The owners had given up and painted it a despairing chocolate,
-suitable to the freight-yard life it was called upon to endure.
-
-George did not again risk going even so far as that, in the direction
-of the millionaires, although their settlement began at least two
-miles farther out.  His thought of Lucy and her father was more a
-sensation than a thought, and may be compared to that of a convicted
-cashier beset by recollections of the bank he had pillaged--there are
-some thoughts to which one closes the mind.  George had seen Eugene
-only once since their calamitous encounter.  They had passed on
-opposite sides of the street, downtown; each had been aware of the
-other, and each had been aware that the other was aware of him, and
-yet each kept his eyes straight forward, and neither had shown a
-perceptible alteration of countenance.  It seemed to George that he
-felt emanating from the outwardly imperturbable person of his mother's
-old friend a hate that was like a hot wind.
-
-At his mother's funeral and at the Major's he had been conscious that
-Eugene was there: though he had afterward no recollection of seeing
-him, and, while certain of his presence, was uncertain how he knew of
-it.  Fanny had not told him, for she understood George well enough not
-to speak to him of Eugene or Lucy.  Nowadays Fanny almost never saw
-either of them and seldom thought of them--so sly is the way of time
-with life.  She was passing middle age, when old intensities and
-longings grow thin and flatten out, as Fanny herself was thinning and
-flattening out; and she was settling down contentedly to her apartment
-house intimacies.  She was precisely suited by the table-d'hote life,
-with its bridge, its variable alliances and shifting feuds, and the
-long whisperings of elderly ladies at corridor corners--those eager
-but suppressed conversations, all sibilance, of which the elevator boy
-declared he heard the words "she said" a million times and the word
-"she," five million.  The apartment house suited Fanny and swallowed
-her.
-
-The city was so big, now, that people disappeared into it unnoticed,
-and the disappearance of Fanny and her nephew was not exceptional.
-People no longer knew their neighbours as a matter of course; one
-lived for years next door to strangers--that sharpest of all the
-changes since the old days--and a friend would lose sight of a friend
-for a year, and not know it.
-
-One May day George thought he had a glimpse of Lucy.  He was not
-certain, but he was sufficiently disturbed, in spite of his
-uncertainty.  A promotion in his work now frequently took him out of
-town for a week, or longer, and it was upon his return from one of
-these absences that he had the strange experience.  He had walked home
-from the station, and as he turned the corner which brought him in
-sight of the apartment house entrance, though two blocks distant from
-it, he saw a charming little figure come out, get into a shiny
-landaulet automobile, and drive away.  Even at that distance no one
-could have any doubt that the little figure was charming; and the
-height, the quickness and decision of motion, even the swift gesture
-of a white glove toward the chauffeur--all were characteristic of
-Lucy.  George was instantly subjected to a shock of indefinable
-nature, yet definitely a shock: he did not know what he felt--but he
-knew that he felt.  Heat surged over him:  probably he would not have
-come face to face with her if the restoration of all the ancient
-Amberson magnificence could have been his reward.  He went on slowly,
-his knees shaky.
-
-But he found Fanny not at home; she had been out all afternoon; and
-there was no record of any caller--and he began to wonder, then to
-doubt if the small lady he had seen in the distance was Lucy.  It
-might as well have been, he said to himself--since any one who looked
-like her could give him "a jolt like that!"
-
-Lucy had not left a card.  She never left one when she called on
-Fanny; though she did not give her reasons a quite definite form in
-her own mind.  She came seldom; this was but the third time that year,
-and, when she did come, George was not mentioned either by her hostess
-or by herself--an oddity contrived between the two ladies without
-either of them realizing how odd it was.  For, naturally, while Fanny
-was with Lucy, Fanny thought of George, and what time Lucy had
-George's aunt before her eyes she could not well avoid the thought of
-him.  Consequently, both looked absent-minded as they talked, and each
-often gave a wrong answer which the other consistently failed to
-notice.
-
-At other times Lucy's thoughts of George were anything but continuous,
-and weeks went by when he was not consciously in her mind at all.  Her
-life was a busy one: she had the big house "to keep up"; she had a
-garden to keep up, too, a large and beautiful garden; she represented
-her father as a director for half a dozen public charity
-organizations, and did private charity work of her own, being a proxy
-mother of several large families; and she had "danced down," as she
-said, groups from eight or nine classes of new graduates returned from
-the universities, without marrying any of them, but she still danced--
-and still did not marry.
-
-Her father, observing this circumstance happily, yet with some
-hypocritical concern, spoke of it to her one day as they stood in her
-garden.  "I suppose I'd want to shoot him," he said, with attempted
-lightness.  "But I mustn't be an old pig.  I'd build you a beautiful
-house close by--just over yonder."
-
-"No, no!  That would be like--" she began impulsively; then checked
-herself.  George Amberson's comparison of the Georgian house to the
-Amberson Mansion had come into her mind, and she thought that another
-new house, built close by for her, would be like the house the Major
-built for Isabel.
-
-"Like what?"
-
-"Nothing."  She looked serious, and when he reverted to his idea of
-"some day" grudgingly surrendering her up to a suitor, she invented a
-legend.  "Did you ever hear the Indian name for that little grove of
-beech trees on the other side of the house?" she asked him.
-
-"No--and you never did either!" he laughed.
-
-"Don't be so sure!  I read a great deal more than I used to--getting
-ready for my bookish days when I'll have to do something solid in the
-evenings and won't be asked to dance any more, even by the very
-youngest boys who think it's a sporting event to dance with the oldest
-of the 'older girls'.  The name of the grove was 'Loma-Nashah' and it
-means 'They-Couldn't-Help-It'."
-
-"Doesn't sound like it."
-
-"Indian names don't.  There was a bad Indian chief lived in the grove
-before the white settlers came.  He was the worst Indian that ever
-lived, and his name was--it was 'Vendonah.'  That means 'Rides-Down-
-Everything'."
-
-"What?"
-
-"His name was Vendonah, the same thing as Rides-Down-Everything."
-
-"I see," said Eugene thoughtfully.  He gave her a quick look and then
-fixed his eyes upon the end of the garden path.  "Go on."
-
-"Vendonah was an unspeakable case," Lucy continued.  "He was so proud
-that he wore iron shoes and he walked over people's faces with them.
-he was always killing people that way, and so at last the tribe
-decided that it wasn't a good enough excuse for him that he was young
-and inexperienced--he'd have to go.  They took him down to the river,
-and put him in a canoe, and pushed him out from shore; and then they
-ran along the bank and wouldn't let him land, until at last the
-current carried the canoe out into the middle, and then on down to the
-ocean, and he never got back.  They didn't want him back, of course,
-and if he'd been able to manage it, they'd have put him in another
-canoe and shoved him out into the river again.  But still, they didn't
-elect another chief in his place.  Other tribes thought that was
-curious, and wondered about it a lot, but finally they came to the
-conclusion that the beech grove people were afraid a new chief might
-turn out to be a bad Indian, too, and wear iron shoes like Vendonah.
-But they were wrong, because the real reason was that the tribe had
-led such an exciting life under Vendonah that they couldn't settle
-down to anything tamer.  He was awful, but he always kept things
-happening--terrible things, of course.  They bated him, but they
-weren't able to discover any other warrior that they wanted to make
-chief in his place.  I suppose it was a little like drinking a glass
-of too strong wine and then trying to take the taste out of your mouth
-with barley water.  They couldn't help feeling that way."
-
-"I see," said Eugene.  "So that's why they named the place 'They-
-Couldn't-Help-It'!"
-
-"It must have been."
-
-"And so you're going to stay here in your garden," he said musingly.
-"You think it's better to keep on walking these sunshiny gravel paths
-between your flower-beds, and growing to look like a pensive garden
-lady in a Victorian engraving."
-
-"I suppose I'm like the tribe that lived here, papa.  I had too much
-unpleasant excitement.  It was unpleasant--but it was excitement.  I
-don't want any more; in fact, I don't want anything but you."
-
-"You don't?"  He looked at her keenly, and she laughed and shook her
-head; but he seemed perplexed, rather doubtful.  "What was the name of
-the grove?" he asked.  "The Indian name, I mean."
-
-"Mola-Haha."
-
-"No, it wasn't; that wasn't the name you said."
-
-"I've forgotten."
-
-"I see you have," he said, his look of perplexity remaining.  "Perhaps
-you remember the chief's name better."
-
-She shook her head again. "I don't!"
-
-At this he laughed, but not very heartily, and walked slowly to the
-house, leaving her bending over a rose-bush, and a shade more pensive
-than the most pensive garden lady in any Victorian engraving.
-
-. . . Next day, it happened that this same "Vendonah" or "Rides-Down-
-Everything" became the subject of a chance conversation between Eugene
-and his old friend Kinney, father of the fire-topped Fred.  The two
-gentlemen found themselves smoking in neighbouring leather chairs
-beside a broad window at the club, after lunch.
-
-Mr. Kinney had remarked that he expected to get his family established
-at the seashore by the Fourth of July, and, following a train of
-thought, he paused and chuckled.  "Fourth of July reminds me," he
-said.  "Have you heard what that Georgie Minafer is doing?"
-
-"No, I haven't," said Eugene, and his friend failed to notice the
-crispness of the utterance.
-
-"Well, sir," Kinney chuckled again, "it beats the devil!  My boy Fred
-told me about it yesterday.  He's a friend of this young Henry Akers,
-son of F. P. Akers of the Akers Chemical Company.  It seems this young
-Akers asked Fred if he knew a fellow named Minafer, because he knew
-Fred had always lived here, and young Akers had heard some way that
-Minafer used to be an old family name here, and was sort of curious
-about it.  Well, sir, you remember this young Georgie sort of
-disappeared, after his grandfather's death, and nobody seemed to know
-much what had become of him--though I did hear, once or twice, that he
-was still around somewhere.  Well, sir, he's working for the Akers
-Chemical Company, out at their plant on the Thomasvile Road."
-
-He paused, seeming to reserve something to be delivered only upon
-inquiry, and Eugene offered him the expected question, but only after
-a cold glance through the nose-glasses he had lately found it
-necessary to adopt.  "What does he do?"
-
-Kinney laughed and slapped the arm of his chair.
-
-"He's a nitroglycerin expert!"
-
-He was gratified to see that Eugene was surprised, if not, indeed, a
-little startled.
-
-"He's what?"
-
-"He's an expert on nitroglycerin.  Doesn't that beat the devil!  Yes,
-sir!  Young Akers told Fred that this George Minafer had worked like a
-houn'-dog ever since he got started out at the works.  They have a
-special plant for nitroglycerin, way off from the main plant, o'
-course--in the woods somewhere--and George Minafer's been working
-there, and lately they put him in charge of it.  He oversees shooting
-oil-wells, too, and shoots 'em himself, sometimes.  They aren't
-allowed to carry it on the railroads, you know--have to team it.
-Young Akers says George rides around over the bumpy roads, sitting on
-as much as three hundred quarts of nitroglycerin!  My Lord!  Talk
-about romantic tumbles!  If he gets blown sky-high some day he won't
-have a bigger drop, when he comes down, than he's already had!  Don't
-it beat the devil!  Young Akers said he's got all the nerve there is
-in the world.  Well, he always did have plenty of that--from the time
-he used to ride around here on his white pony and fight all the Irish
-boys in Can-Town, with his long curls all handy to be pulled out.
-Akers says he gets a fair salary, and I should think he ought to!
-Seems to me I've heard the average life in that sort of work is
-somewhere around four years, and agents don't write any insurance at
-all for nitroglycerin experts.  Hardly!"
-
-"No," said Eugene.  "I suppose not."
-
-Kinney rose to go.  "Well, it's a pretty funny thing--pretty odd, I
-mean--and I suppose it would be pass-around-the-hat for old Fanny
-Minafer if he blew up.  Fred told me that they're living in some
-apartment house, and said Georgie supports her.  He was going to study
-law, but couldn't earn enough that way to take care of Fanny, so he
-gave it up.  Fred's wife told him all this.  Says Fanny doesn't do
-anything but play bridge these days.  Got to playing too high for
-awhile and lost more than she wanted to tell Georgie about, and
-borrowed a little from old Frank Bronson.  Paid him back, though.
-Don't know how Fred's wife heard it.  Women do' hear the darndest
-things!"
-
-"They do," Eugene agreed.
-
-"I thought you'd probably heard about it--thought most likely Fred's
-wife might have said something to your daughter, especially as they're
-cousins."
-
-"I think not."
-
-"Well, I'm off to the store," said Mr. Kinney briskly; yet he
-lingered.  "I suppose we'll all have to club in and keep old Fanny out
-of the poorhouse if he does blow up.  From all I hear it's usually
-only a question of time.  They say she hasn't got anything else to
-depend on."
-
-"I suppose not."
-
-"Well--I wondered--"  Kinney hesitated.  "I was wondering why you
-hadn't thought of finding something around your works for him.  They
-say he's an all-fired worker and he certainly does seem to have hid
-some decent stuff in him under all his damfoolishness.  And you used
-to be such a tremendous friend of the family--I thought perhaps you--
-of course I know he's a queer lot--I know--"
-
-"Yes, I think he is," said Eugene.  "No. I haven't anything to offer
-him."
-
-"I suppose not," Kinney returned thoughtfully, as he went out.  "I
-don't know that I would myself.  Well, we'll probably see his name in
-the papers some day if he stays with that job!"
-
-However, the nitroglycerin expert of whom they spoke did not get into
-the papers as a consequence of being blown up, although his daily life
-was certainly a continuous exposure to that risk.  Destiny has a
-constant passion for the incongruous, and it was George's lot to
-manipulate wholesale quantities of terrific and volatile explosives in
-safety, and to be laid low by an accident so commonplace and
-inconsequent that it was a comedy.  Fate had reserved for him the
-final insult of riding him down under the wheels of one of those
-juggernauts at which he had once shouted "Git a hoss!"  Nevertheless,
-Fate's ironic choice for Georgie's undoing was not a big and swift and
-momentous car, such as Eugene manufactured; it was a specimen of the
-hustling little type that was flooding the country, the cheapest,
-commonest, hardiest little car ever made.
-
-The accident took place upon a Sunday morning, on a downtown crossing,
-with the streets almost empty, and no reason in the world for such a
-thing to happen.  He had gone out for his Sunday morning walk, and he
-was thinking of an automobile at the very moment when the little car
-struck him; he was thinking of a shiny landaulet and a charming figure
-stepping into it, and of the quick gesture of a white glove toward the
-chauffeur, motioning him to go on.  George heard a shout but did not
-look up, for he could not imagine anybody's shouting at him, and he
-was too engrossed in the question "Was it Lucy?"  He could not decide,
-and his lack of decision in this matter probably superinduced a lack
-of decision in another, more pressingly vital.  At the second and
-louder shout he did look up; and the car was almost on him; but he
-could not make up his mind if the charming little figure he had seen
-was Lucy's and he could not make up his mind whether to go backward or
-forward: these questions became entangled in his mind.  Then, still
-not being able to decide which of two ways to go, he tried to go both
---and the little car ran him down.  It was not moving very rapidly, but
-it went all the way over George.
-
-He was conscious of gigantic violence; of roaring and jolting and
-concussion; of choking clouds of dust, shot with lightning, about his
-head; he heard snapping sounds as loud as shots from a small pistol,
-and was stabbed by excruciating pains in his legs.  Then he became
-aware that the machine was being lifted off of him.  People were
-gathering in a circle round him, gabbling.
-
-His forehead was bedewed with the sweat of anguish, and he tried to
-wipe off this dampness, but failed.  He could not get his arm that
-far.
-
-"Nev' mind," a policeman said; and George could see above his eyes the
-skirts of the blue coat, covered with dust and sunshine.  "Amb'lance
-be here in a minute.  Nev' mind tryin' to move any.  You want 'em to
-send for some special doctor?"
-
-"No."  George's lips formed the word.
-
-"Or to take you to some private hospital?"
-
-"Tell them to take me," he said faintly, "to the City Hospital."
-
-"A' right."
-
-A smallish young man in a duster fidgeted among the crowd, explaining
-and protesting, and a strident voiced girl, his companion, supported
-his argument, declaring to everyone her willingness to offer testimony
-in any court of law that every blessed word he said was the God's
-truth.
-
-"It's the fella that hit you," the policeman said, looking down on
-George.  "I guess he's right; you must of been thinkin' about somep'm'
-or other.  It's wunnerful the damage them little machines can do--
-you'd never think it--but I guess they ain't much case ag'in this
-fella that was drivin' it."
-
-"You bet your life they ain't no case on me!" the young man in the
-duster agreed, with great bitterness.  He came and stood at George's
-feet, addressing him heatedly:  "I'm sorry fer you all right, and I
-don't say I ain't.  I hold nothin' against you, but it wasn't any more
-my fault than the statehouse!  You run into me, much as I run into
-you, and if you get well you ain't goin' to get not one single cent
-out o' me!  This lady here was settin' with me and we both yelled at
-you.  Wasn't goin' a step over eight mile an hour!  I'm perfectly
-willing to say I'm sorry for you though, and so's the lady with me.
-We're both willing to say that much, but that's all, understand!"
-
-George's drawn eyelids twitched; his misted glance rested fleetingly
-upon the two protesting motorists, and the old imperious spirit within
-him flickered up in a single word.  Lying on his back in the middle of
-the street, where he was regarded an increasing public as an
-unpleasant curiosity, he spoke this word clearly from a mouth filled
-with dust, and from lips smeared with blood.
-
-It was a word which interested the policeman.  When the ambulance
-clanged away, he turned to a fellow patrolman who had joined him.
-"Funny what he says to the little cuss that done the damage.  That's
-all he did call him--'nothin' else at all--and the cuss had broke both
-his legs fer him and God-knows-what-all!"
-
-"I wasn't here then.  What was it?"
-
-"Riffraff!"
-
-
-
-
-Chapter XXXV
-
-
-
-Eugene's feeling about George had not been altered by his talk with
-Kinney in the club window, though he was somewhat disturbed.  He was
-not disturbed by Kinney's hint that Fanny Minafer might be left on the
-hands of her friends through her nephew's present dealings with
-nitroglycerin, but he was surprised that Kinney had "led up" with
-intentional tact to the suggestion that a position might be made for
-George in the Morgan factory.  Eugene did not care to have any
-suggestions about Georgie Minafer made to him.  Kinney had represented
-Georgie as a new Georgie--at least in spots--a Georgie who was proving
-that decent stuff had been hid in him; in fact, a Georgie who was
-doing rather a handsome thing in taking a risky job for the sake of
-his aunt, poor old silly Fanny Minafer!  Eugene didn't care what risks
-Georgie took, or how much decent stuff he had in him: nothing that
-Georgie would ever do in this world or the next could change Eugene
-Morgan's feeling toward him.
-
-If Eugene could possibly have brought himself to offer Georgie a
-position in the automobile business, he knew full well the proud devil
-wouldn't have taken it from him; though Georgie's proud reason would
-not have been the one attributed to him by Eugene.  George would never
-reach the point where he could accept anything material from Eugene
-and preserve the self-respect he had begun to regain.
-
-But if Eugene had wished, he could easily have taken George out of the
-nitroglycerin branch of the chemical works.  Always interested in
-apparent impossibilities of invention, Eugene had encouraged many
-experiments in such gropings as those for the discovery of substitutes
-for gasoline and rubber; and, though his mood had withheld the
-information from Kinney, he had recently bought from the elder Akers a
-substantial quantity of stock on the condition that the chemical
-company should establish an experimental laboratory.  He intended to
-buy more; Akers was anxious to please him; and a word from Eugene
-would have placed George almost anywhere in the chemical works.
-George need never have known it, for Eugene's purchases of stock were
-always quiet ones: the transaction remained, so far, between him and
-Akers, and could be kept between them.
-
-The possibility just edged itself into Eugene's mind; that is, he let
-it become part of his perceptions long enough for it to prove to him
-that it was actually a possibility.  Then he half started with disgust
-that he should be even idly considering such a thing over his last
-cigar for the night, in his library.  "No!"  And he threw the cigar
-into the empty fireplace and went to bed.
-
-His bitterness for himself might have worn away, but never his
-bitterness for Isabel.  He took that thought to bed with him--and it
-was true that nothing George could do would ever change this
-bitterness of Eugene.  Only George's mother could have changed it.
-
-And as Eugene fell asleep that night, thinking thus bitterly of
-Georgie, Georgie in the hospital was thinking of Eugene.  He had come
-"out of ether" with no great nausea, and had fallen into a reverie,
-though now and then a white sailboat staggered foolishly into the
-small ward where he lay.  After a time he discovered that this
-happened only when he tried to open his eyes and look about him; so he
-kept his eyes shut, and his thoughts were clearer.
-
-He thought of Eugene Morgan and of the Major; they seemed to be the
-same person for awhile, but he managed to disentangle them and even to
-understand why he had confused them.  Long ago his grandfather had
-been the most striking figure of success in the town: "As rich as
-Major Amberson!" they used to say.  Now it was Eugene.  "If I had
-Eugene Morgan's money," he would hear the workmen day-dreaming at the
-chemical works; or, "If Eugene Morgan had hold of this place you'd see
-things hum!"  And the boarders at the table d'hôte spoke of "the
-Morgan Place" as an eighteenth-century Frenchman spoke of Versailles.
-Like his uncle, George had perceived that the "Morgan Place" was the
-new Amberson Mansion.  His reverie went back to the palatial days of
-the Mansion, in his boyhood, when he would gallop his pony up the
-driveway and order the darkey stable-men about, while they whooped and
-obeyed, and his grandfather, observing from a window, would laugh and
-call out to him, "That's right, Georgie.  Make those lazy rascals
-jump!"  He remembered his gay young uncles, and how the town was eager
-concerning everything about them, and about himself.  What a clean,
-pretty town it had been!  And in his reverie be saw like a pageant
-before him the magnificence of the Ambersons--its passing, and the
-passing of the Ambersons themselves.  They had been slowly engulfed
-without knowing how to prevent it, and almost without knowing what was
-happening to them.  The family lot, in the shabby older quarter, out
-at the cemetery, held most of them now; and the name was swept
-altogether from the new city.  But the new great people who had taken
-their places--the Morgans and Akerses and Sheridans--they would go,
-too.  George saw that.  They would pass, as the Ambersons had passed,
-and though some of them might do better than the Major and leave the
-letters that spelled a name on a hospital or a street, it would be
-only a word and it would not stay forever.  Nothing stays or holds or
-keeps where there is growth, he somehow perceived vaguely but truly.
-Great Caesar dead and turned to clay stopped no hole to keep the wind
-away dead Caesar was nothing but a tiresome bit of print in a book
-that schoolboys study for awhile and then forget.  The Ambersons had
-passed, and the new people would pass, and the new people that came
-after them, and then the next new ones, and the next--and the next--
-
-He had begun to murmur, and the man on duty as night nurse for the
-ward came and bent over him.
-
-"Did you want something?"
-
-"There's nothing in this family business," George told him
-confidentially.  "Even George Washington is only something in a book."
-
-Eugene read a report of the accident in the next morning's paper.  He
-was on the train, having just left for New York, on business, and with
-less leisure would probably have overlooked the obscure item:
-
-LEGS BROKEN
-
-G. A. Minafer, an employee of the Akers Chemical Co., was run down by
-an automobile yesterday at the corner of Tennessee and Main and had
-both legs broken.  Minafer was to blame for the accident according to
-patrolman F. A. Kax, who witnessed the affair.  The automobile was a
-small one driven by Herbert Cottleman of 9173 Noble Avenue who stated
-that he was making less than 4 miles an hour.  Minafer is said to
-belong to a family formerly of considerable prominence in the city.
-He was taken to the City Hospital where physicians stated later that
-he was suffering from internal injuries besides the fracture of his
-legs but might recover.
-
-Eugene read the item twice, then tossed the paper upon the opposite
-seat of his compartment, and sat looking out of the window.  His
-feeling toward Georgie was changed not a jot by his human pity for
-Georgie's human pain and injury.  He thought of Georgie's tall and
-graceful figure, and he shivered, but his bitterness was untouched.
-He had never blamed Isabel for the weakness which had cost them the
-few years of happiness they might have had together; he had put the
-blame all on the son, and it stayed there.
-
-He began to think poignantly of Isabel: he had seldom been able to
-"see" her more clearly than as he sat looking out of his compartment
-window, after reading the account of this accident.  She might have
-been just on the other side of the glass, looking in at him--and then
-he thought of her as the pale figure of a woman, seen yet unseen,
-flying through the air, beside the train, over the fields of
-springtime green and through the woods that were just sprouting out
-their little leaves.  He closed his eyes and saw her as she had been
-long ago.  He saw the brown-eyed, brown-haired, proud, gentle,
-laughing girl he had known when first he came to town, a boy just out
-of the State College.  He remembered--as he had remembered ten
-thousand times before--the look she gave him when her brother George
-introduced him to her at a picnic; it was "like hazel starlight" he
-had written her, in a poem, afterward.  He remembered his first call
-at the Amberson Mansion, and what a great personage she seemed, at
-home in that magnificence; and yet so gay and friendly.  He remembered
-the first time he had danced with her--and the old waltz song began to
-beat in his ears and in his heart.  They laughed and sang it together
-as they danced to it:
-
-"Oh, love for a year, a week, a day,
-But alas for the love that lasts always--"
-
-Most plainly of all he could see her dancing; and he became articulate
-in the mourning whisper: "So graceful--oh, so graceful--"
-
-All the way to New York it seemed to him that Isabel was near him, and
-he wrote of her to Lucy from his hotel the next night:
-
-I saw an account of the accident to George Minafer.  I'm sorry, though
-the paper states that it was plainly his own fault.  I suppose it may
-have been as a result of my attention falling upon the item that I
-thought of his mother a great deal on the way here.  It seemed to me
-that I had never seen her more distinctly or so constantly, but, as
-you know, thinking of his mother is not very apt to make me admire
-him!  Of course, however, he has my best wishes for his recovery.
-
-He posted the letter, and by the morning's mail he received one from
-Lucy written a few hours after his departure from home.  She enclosed
-the item he had read on the train.
-
-I thought you might not see it.
-
-I have seen Miss Fanny and she has got him put into a room by himself.
-Oh, poor Rides-Down-Everything I have been thinking so constantly of
-his mother and it seemed to me that I have never seen her more
-distinctly.  How lovely she was--and how she loved him!
-
-If Lucy had not written this letter Eugene might not have done the odd
-thing he did that day.  Nothing could have been more natural than that
-both he and Lucy should have thought intently of Isabel after reading
-the account of George's accident, but the fact that Lucy's letter had
-crossed his own made Eugene begin to wonder if a phenomenon of
-telepathy might not be in question, rather than a chance coincidence.
-The reference to Isabel in the two letters was almost identical: he
-and Lucy, it appeared, had been thinking of Isabel at the same time--
-both said "constantly" thinking of her--and neither had ever "seen her
-more distinctly."  He remembered these phrases in his own letter
-accurately.
-
-Reflection upon the circumstance stirred a queer spot in Eugene's
-brain--he had one.  He was an adventurer; if he had lived in the
-sixteenth century he would have sailed the unknown new seas, but
-having been born in the latter part of the nineteenth, when geography
-was a fairly well-settled matter, he had become an explorer in
-mechanics.  But the fact that he was a "hard-headed business man" as
-well as an adventurer did not keep him from having a queer spot in his
-brain, because hard-headed business men are as susceptible to such
-spots as adventurers are.  Some of them are secretly troubled when
-they do not see the new moon over the lucky shoulder; some of them
-have strange, secret incredulities--they do not believe in geology,
-for instance; and some of them think they have had supernatural
-experiences.  "Of course there was nothing in it--still it was queer!"
-they say.
-
-Two weeks after Isabel's death, Eugene had come to New York on urgent
-business and found that the delayed arrival of a steamer gave him a
-day with nothing to do.  His room at the hotel had become intolerable;
-outdoors was intolerable; everything was intolerable.  It seemed to
-him that he must see Isabel once more, hear her voice once more; that
-he must find some way to her, or lose his mind.  Under this pressure
-he had gone, with complete scepticism, to a "trance-medium" of whom he
-had heard wild accounts from the wife of a business acquaintance.  He
-thought despairingly that at least such an excursion would be "trying
-to do something!"  He remembered the woman's name; found it in the
-telephone book, and made an appointment.
-
-The experience had been grotesque, and he came away with an
-encouraging message from his father, who had failed to identify
-himself satisfactorily, but declared that everything was "on a higher
-plane" in his present state of being, and that all life was
-"continuous and progressive."  Mrs. Horner spoke of herself as a
-"psychic"; but otherwise she seemed oddly unpretentious and matter-of-
-fact; and Eugene had no doubt at all of her sincerity.  He was sure
-that she was not an intentional fraud, and though he departed in a
-state of annoyance with himself, he came to the conclusion that if any
-credulity were played upon by Mrs. Horner's exhibitions, it was her
-own.
-
-Nevertheless, his queer spot having been stimulated to action by the
-coincidence of the letters, he went to Mrs. Horner's after his
-directors' meeting today.  He used the telephone booth in the
-directors' room to make the appointment; and he laughed feebly at
-himself, and wondered what the group of men in that mahogany apartment
-would think if they knew what he was doing.  Mrs. Horner had changed
-her address, but he found the new one, and somebody purporting to be a
-niece of hers talked to him and made an appointment for a "sitting" at
-five o'clock.  He was prompt, and the niece, a dull-faced fat girl
-with a magazine under her arm, admitted him to Mrs. Horner's
-apartment, which smelt of camphor; and showed him into a room with
-gray painted walls, no rug on the floor and no furniture except a
-table (with nothing on it) and two chairs: one a leather easy-chair
-and the other a stiff little brute with a wooden seat.  There was one
-window with the shade pulled down to the sill, but the sun was bright
-outside, and the room had light enough.
-
-Mrs. Horner appeared in the doorway, a wan and unenterprising looking
-woman in brown, with thin hair artificially waved--but not recently--
-and parted in the middle over a bluish forehead.  Her eyes were small
-and seemed weak, but she recognized the visitor.
-
-"Oh, you been here before," she said, in a thin voice, not unmusical.
-"I recollect you.  Quite a time ago, wa'n't it?"
-
-"Yes, quite a long time."
-
-"I recollect because I recollect you was disappointed.  Anyway, you
-was kind of cross."  She laughed faintly.
-
-"I'm sorry if I seemed so," Eugene said.  "Do you happen to have found
-out my name?"
-
-She looked surprised and a little reproachful.  "Why, no. I never try
-to find out people's name.  Why should I?  I don't claim anything for
-the power; I only know I have it--and some ways it ain't always such a
-blessing, neither, I can tell you!"
-
-Eugene did not press an investigation of her meaning, but said
-vaguely, "I suppose not.  Shall we--"
-
-"All right," she assented, dropping into the leather chair, with her
-back to the shaded window.  "You better set down, too, I reckon. I
-hope you'll get something this time so you won't feel cross, but I
-dunno. I can't never tell what they'll do.  Well--"
-
-She sighed, closed her eyes, and was silent, while Eugene, seated in
-the stiff chair across the table from her, watched her profile,
-thought himself an idiot, and called himself that and other names.
-And as the silence continued, and the impassive woman in the easy-
-chair remained impassive, he began to wonder what had led him to be
-such a fool.  It became clear to him that the similarity of his letter
-and Lucy's needed no explanation involving telepathy, and was not even
-an extraordinary coincidence.  What, then, had brought him back to
-this absurd place and caused him to be watching this absurd woman
-taking a nap in a chair?  In brief: What the devil did he mean by it?
-He had not the slightest interest in Mrs. Horner's naps--or in her
-teeth, which were being slightly revealed by the unconscious parting
-of her lips, as her breathing became heavier.  If the vagaries of his
-own mind had brought him into such a grotesquerie as this, into what
-did the vagaries of other men's minds take them?  Confident that he
-was ordinarily saner than most people, he perceived that since he was
-capable of doing a thing like this, other men did even more idiotic
-things, in secret.  And he had a fleeting vision of sober-looking
-bankers and manufacturers and lawyers, well-dressed church-going men,
-sound citizens--and all as queer as the deuce inside!
-
-How long was he going to sit here presiding over this unknown woman's
-slumbers?  It struck him that to make the picture complete he ought to
-be shooing flies away from her with a palm-leaf fan.
-
-Mrs. Horner's parted lips closed again abruptly, and became
-compressed; her shoulders moved a little, then jerked repeatedly; her
-small chest heaved; she gasped, and the compressed lips relaxed to a
-slight contortion, then began to move, whispering and bringing forth
-indistinguishable mutterings.
-
-Suddenly she spoke in a loud, husky voice:
-
-"Lopa is here!"
-
-"Yes," Eugene said dryly.  "That's what you said last time.  I
-remember 'Lopa.'  She's your 'control' I think you said."
-
-"I'm Lopa," said the husky voice.  "I'm Lopa herself."
-
-"You mean I'm to suppose you're not Mrs. Horner now?"
-
-"Never was Mrs. Horner!" the voice declared, speaking undeniably from
-Mrs. Horner's lips--but with such conviction that Eugene, in spite of
-everything, began to feel himself in the presence of a third party,
-who was none the less an individual, even though she might be another
-edition of the apparently somnambulistic Mrs. Horner.  "Never was Mrs.
-Horner or anybody but just Lopa.  Guide."
-
-"You mean you're Mrs. Horner's guide?"  he asked.
-
-"Your guide now," said the voice with emphasis, to which was
-incongruously added a low laugh.  "You came here once before.  Lopa
-remembers."
-
-"Yes--so did Mrs. Horner."
-
-Lopa overlooked his implication, and continued, quickly: "You build.
-Build things that go.  You came here once and old gentleman on this
-side, he spoke to you.  Same old gentleman here now.  He tell Lopa
-he's your grandfather--no, he says 'father.'  He's your father."
-
-"What's his appearance?"
-
-"How?"
-
-"What does he look like?"
-
-"Very fine!  White beard, but not long beard.  He says someone else
-wants to speak to you.  See here.  Lady.  Not his wife, though.  No.
-Very fine lady!  Fine lady, fine lady!"
-
-"Is it my sister?"  Eugene asked.
-
-"Sister?  No.  She is shaking her head.  She has pretty brown hair.
-She is fond of you.  She is someone who knows you very well but she is
-not your sister.  She is very anxious to say something to you--very
-anxious.  Very fond of you; very anxious to talk to you.  Very glad
-you came here--oh, very, glad!"
-
-"What is her name?"
-
-"Name," the voice repeated, and seemed to ruminate.  "Name hard to
-get--always very hard for Lopa. Name.  She wants to tell me her name
-to tell you.  She wants you to understand names are hard to make.  She
-says you must think of something that makes a sound."  Here the voice
-seemed to put a question to an invisible presence and to receive an
-answer.  "A little sound or a big sound?  She says it might be a
-little sound or a big sound.  She says a ring--oh, Lopa knows!  She
-means a bell!  That's it, a bell."
-
-Eugene looked grave.  "Does she mean her name is Belle?"
-
-"Not quite.  Her name is longer."
-
-"Perhaps," he suggested, "she means that she was a belle."
-
-"No.  She says she thinks you know what she means.  She says you must
-think of a colour. What colour?"  Again Lopa addressed the unknown,
-but this time seemed to wait for an answer.
-
-"Perhaps she means the colour of her eyes," said Eugene.
-
-"No. She says her colour is light--it's a light colour and you can see
-through it."
-
-"Amber?" he said, and was startled, for Mrs. Horner, with her eyes
-still closed, clapped her hands, and the voice cried out in delight:
-
-"Yes!  She says you know who she is from amber.  Amber!  Amber!
-That's it!  She says you understand what her name is from a bell and
-from amber.  She is laughing and waving a lace handkerchief at me
-because she is pleased.  She says I have made you know who it is."
-
-This was the strangest moment of Eugene's life, because, while it
-lasted, he believed that Isabel Amberson, who was dead, had found
-means to speak to him.  Though within ten minutes he doubted it, he
-believed it then.
-
-His elbows pressed hard upon the table, and, his head between his
-hands, he leaned forward, staring at the commonplace figure in the
-easy-chair.  "What does she wish to say to me?"
-
-"She is happy because you know her.  No--she is troubled.  Oh--a great
-trouble!  Something she wants to tell you.  She wants so much to tell
-you.  She wants Lopa to tell you.  This is a great trouble.  She says
---oh, yes, she wants you to be--to be kind!  That's what she says.
-That's it.  To be kind."
-
-"Does she--"
-
-"She wants you to be kind," said the voice.  "She nods when I tell you
-this.  Yes; it must be right.  She is a very fine lady.  Very pretty.
-She is so anxious for you to understand.  She hopes and hopes you
-will.  Someone else wants to speak to you.  This is a man.  He says--"
-
-"I don't want to speak to any one else," said Eugene quickly.  "I
-want--"
-
-"This man who has come says that he is a friend of yours.  He says--"
-
-Eugene struck the table with his fist.  "I don't want to speak to any
-one else, I tell you!" he cried passionately.  "If she is there I--"
-He caught his breath sharply, checked himself, and sat in amazement.
-Could his mind so easily accept so stupendous a thing as true?
-Evidently it could!
-
-Mrs. Horner spoke languidly in her own voice: "Did you get anything
-satisfactory?" she asked.  "I certainly hope it wasn't like that other
-time when you was cross because they couldn't get anything for you."
-
-"No, no," he said hastily.  "This was different It was very
-interesting."
-
-He paid her, went to his hotel, and thence to his train for home.
-Never did he so seem to move through a world of dream-stuff: for he
-knew that he was not more credulous than other men, and, if he could
-believe what he had believed, though he had believed it for no longer
-than a moment or two, what hold had he or any other human being on
-reality?
-
-His credulity vanished (or so he thought) with his recollection that
-it was he, and not the alleged "Lopa," who had suggested the word
-"amber."  Going over the mortifying, plain facts of his experience, he
-found that Mrs. Horner, or the subdivision of Mrs. Horner known as
-"Lopa," had told him to think of a bell and of a colour, and that
-being furnished with these scientific data, he had leaped to the
-conclusion that he spoke with Isabel Amberson!
-
-For a moment he had believed that Isabel was there, believed that she
-was close to him, entreating him--entreating him "to be kind."  But
-with this recollection a strange agitation came upon him.  After all,
-had she not spoken to him?  If his own unknown consciousness had told
-the "psychic's" unknown consciousness how to make the picture of the
-pretty brown-haired, brown-eyed lady, hadn't the picture been a true
-one?  And hadn't the true Isabel--oh, indeed her very soul!--called to
-him out of his own true memory of her?
-
-And as the train roared through the darkened evening he looked out
-beyond his window, and saw her as he had seen her on his journey, a
-few days ago--an ethereal figure flying beside the train, but now it
-seemed to him that she kept her face toward his window with an
-infinite wistfulness.
-
-"To be kind!"  If it had been Isabel, was that what she would have
-said?  If she were anywhere, and could come to him through the
-invisible wall, what would be the first thing she would say to him?
-
-Ah, well enough, and perhaps bitterly enough, he knew the answer to
-that question!  "To be kind"--to Georgie!
-
-A red-cap at the station, when he arrived, leaped for his bag,
-abandoning another which the Pullman porter had handed him.  "Yessuh,
-Mist' Morgan.  Yessuh.  You' car waitin' front the station fer you,
-Mist' Morgan, suh!"
-
-And people in the crowd about the gates turned to stare, as he passed
-through, whispering, "That's Morgan."
-
-Outside, the neat chauffeur stood at the door of the touring-car like
-a soldier in whip-cord.
-
-"I'll not go home now, Harry," said Eugene, when he had got in.
-"Drive to the City Hospital."
-
-"Yes, sir," the man returned.  "Miss Lucy's there.  She said she
-expected you'd come there before you went home."
-
-"She did?"
-
-"Yes, sir."
-
-Eugene stared.  "I suppose Mr. Minafer must be pretty bad," he said.
-
-"Yes, sir.  I understand he's liable to get well, though, sir."  He
-moved his lever into high speed, and the car went through the heavy
-traffic like some fast, faithful beast that knew its way about, and
-knew its master's need of haste.  Eugene did not speak again until
-they reached the hospital.
-
-Fanny met him in the upper corridor, and took him to an open door.
-
-He stopped on the threshold, startled; for, from the waxen face on the
-pillow, almost it seemed the eyes of Isabel herself were looking at
-him: never before had the resemblance between mother and son been so
-strong--and Eugene knew that now he had once seen it thus startlingly,
-he need divest himself of no bitterness "to be kind" to Georgie.
-
-George was startled, too.  He lifted a white hand in a queer gesture,
-half forbidding, half imploring, and then let his arm fall back upon
-the coverlet.  "You must have thought my mother wanted you to come,"
-he said, "so that I could ask you to--to forgive me."
-
-But Lucy, who sat beside him, lifted ineffable eyes from him to her
-father, and shook her head.  "No, just to take his hand--gently!"
-
-She was radiant.
-
-But for Eugene another radiance filled the room.  He knew that he had
-been true at last to his true love, and that through him she had
-brought her boy under shelter again.  Her eyes would look wistful no
-more.
-
-The End
-
-
-
-
-
-End of Project Gutenberg's The Magnificent Ambersons, by Booth Tarkington
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