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diff --git a/old/8ambr10.txt b/old/8ambr10.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 25b4214..0000000 --- a/old/8ambr10.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,12257 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Magnificent Ambersons, by Booth Tarkington -#20 in our series by Booth Tarkington - -Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the -copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing -this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook. - -This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project -Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the -header without written permission. - -Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the -eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is -important information about your specific rights and restrictions in -how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a -donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. - - -**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** - -**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** - -*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** - - -Title: The Magnificent Ambersons - -Author: Booth Tarkington - -Release Date: September, 2005 [EBook #8867] -[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] -[This file was first posted on September 25, 2003] -[Date last updated: January 22, 2006] - -Edition: 10 - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** 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 - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS *** - -This file should be named 8ambr10.txt or 8ambr10.zip -Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, 8ambr11.txt -VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, 8ambr10a.txt - -Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed -editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US -unless a copyright notice is included. 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