 XII Isabelle's uneasiness about her husband's 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 about his rolling mill 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 to 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 grey-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 tomorrow.' "'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 tomorrow, 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 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've 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 them, 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 hand-sums 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 accelerating, 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. Pendentis'll leave it one mile behind and 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 averson trouble.' When he mentioned this, he 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. You 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 gaily. "'We're an idol 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 as 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've 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 gossip's 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 Isabelle 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 dryly. "'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.' "'Isabelle 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. "'Though 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. Minnifer 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 springtime. 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—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 doorbell 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-paneled 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 cord or two. And her dress was the dress for that room, being a blue and white, too, and the high-color inner 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 through 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 talk 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. To 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 calmer 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 do.' "'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 misbehavior. 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 she did not understand at all. "'Lucy, you little deer,' 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.'" "'Solumn 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 gaily, 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.'" End of chapter. Chapter 13 of The Magnificent Ambersons This LibriVox recording is in the public domain and is read by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina. The Magnificent Ambersons by Booth Tarkington. Chapter 13 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 they walk along the boy to belong, with my independent heir, 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. Isabelle 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 day time. 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 doorknob, 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. Minifer 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 somebodies 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 Kitty and she?' "'Yes, that story wasn't true. But the other one,' Heary stared at Fanny, and then affected dismay. "'Why, what's the matter with your face, Aunt Fanny? It seems agitated.' "'Agetated,' Fanny said disdainfully, but her voice undeniably lacked steadiness. "'Agetated.' "'Oh, come!' Mr. Minifer 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 rumor 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?' Isabelle looked serious. However it was her husband who suggested gloomily. I suppose the majors bothered about this Sidney and Emilia business, most likely. "'What Sidney and Emilia business?' George asked. "'Your mother can tell you if she wants to,' Menapher said. "'It's not my side of the family, so I keep off.' "'It's rather disagreeable for all of us, Georgie?' Isabelle began. "'You see, your Uncle Sidney 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 Sidney 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 Sidney's idea of a big diplomatic position, gone for good. Well, Sidney and your Aunt Emilia 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, Sidney 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 villanier 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 him 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. Sidney and Emilia 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 Sidney, 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 carbon-stone balustrades in the distance, and servants him 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 Sidney wants, and that Sidney and Emilia 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 Sidney and Emilia are hurt with me about it, I'm afraid. They've stopped speaking to George entirely. Our father family roused at his time of life. George became thoughtful. If Sidney and Emilia were behaving like pigs, things might not be so simple as at first they seem to be. Uncle Sidney and Ann Emilia might live an awful long while, he thought. And besides, people didn't always leave their fortunes to relatives. Sidney 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 full 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 grandfathers, 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 Sidney and George were both with him, and that a serious argument was in progress. You can stand right into middle that big stairway," said old Sam, the ancient Negro who was his informant, and you can hear all you are mined to without going on up no futter. Mr. Sidney and Mr. George talking louder I ever hear nobody carry on in this year's house. Quarlin' honey, big quarlin'!" "'All right,' said George shortly. You go on back to your own part of the house, and don't make any talk. Hear me?' "'Yes, sir, yes, sir,' Sam chuckled as he shuffled away. Plenty talkin' without Sam. Yes, sir!' 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 Minifer, 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 majors, 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 hail, thin old man, six feet, three inches tall, and without a stoop. "'I doubt you're knowing, Isabel,' he said stiffly. "'You speak of her as you do, because she sides with her brother George, instead of with you in Sydney.' "'Poo!' Annemilia 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 Minnifer 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 peaked over a business matter, George.' He said, "'She doesn't mean what she said, and neither she, nor anyone 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 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 and 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 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 admitted a laugh of disgust. It's wonderful what Tommy Rott, a woman in a state of spite, can think of. I suppose you don't doubt that Amelia Amberson created this specimen of Tommy Rott herself. I know she did. Then what's the matter? She said, George faltered again. She said, she implied people were talking about it. Of all the damn nonsense! His uncle exclaimed. George looked at him haggardly. You sure they're not? Rubbish! Your mother's on my side about this division, because she knows Sidney'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 Sidney always could do what he liked with father, unless your mother interfered, and they know I got Isabelle to ask him not to do what they wanted. They're keeping up the fight and their 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! 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— Ha! 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 them 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 Isabelle 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. She even knows, poor thing, that she wouldn't get to see much of Eugene if it weren't for Isabelle's being such a friend of his. There. Do 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 advise 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 mystery of Mrs. Sydney Amberson. I recommend a light course to you if you're silly enough to pay any attention to such rubbishings. Goodbye. 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'd always despised them, except the largest of them, which was the home of his henchman, Charlie Johnson. The Johnson's 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-neighbors crowding up to it on each side, cheap- looking neighbors, most of them needing paint and not clean. And yet, though they were cheap-looking, they'd cost as much to build as the big brick houses, whose former ample yards they occupied. Only where George stood was there left asward 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 graveled 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 riff-raff living in those houses sat at the windows to watch their betters. Perhaps they dared 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 wish to know two things, whether it is your duty or mine to speak a 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 if you want to go troubling him with an Ebersen family row, it's just what that cat would love you to do. Well I tell your father if you like, it would 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—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 now exposed before him, he did not lack pity for Fanny, whose almost-spoken confession was lamentable, and he 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 a matter. Can't you cheer up? Fanny cheered up, and presently the customarily hostile aunt and nephew were driving out Amberson Boulevard amably together in the hot sunshine. End of chapter. Chapter 14 of The Magnificent Ambersons The Magnificent Ambersons by Booth Tarkington, Chapter 14. Almost was Lucy's last word on the last night of George's vacation, that vital evening when 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 the tiny photograph of George Amberson Minnifer 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 various 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 their 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 maybe think I did. And poor me, I'd be deep in the ground wondering if you'd heard about it in what you were saying. Goodbye for today. 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 mis-of-in-a-tone mollified to tenderness, and proceeded to read a letter from his mother which had reached him simultaneously with Lucy's. Well 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 Sidney 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 to use 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 Macintosh 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, Isabelle. 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 dumbfounded 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 in advance to grasp George's hand tremulously when the letter 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 Minifer, 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 always been 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 Minifer 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 shaking 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 better go lie down or something. You look pretty pale.' Isabelle 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 Minifer, who had died the previous autumn, and beyond this were the graves of George's grandfather and grandmother Minifer, and of his grandfather Minifer'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. Just beyond was the Amberson family a 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 Minifer Monument was a granite block, with a name chiseled upon its one polished side, and the Amberson Monument was a white marble shaft taller than any other in that neighborhood. 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 Minifer lots. That 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 flawed a kind of parva-new 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 you 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 Isabelle did more for Fanny than telling her to cheer up. Everything that Fanny inherited from her father, old Alec Minifer, 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 own not a penny, and owed not a penny. He continued, explaining his phrase, It's like the moment just before drowning. You're not underwater, 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 Isabelle, with the cheerful consent of her son, promptly turned this salvage over to her sister-in-law. And 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 proof to be, as Amberson said, adding his efforts to the cheering up of Fanny, an eras after all in spite of rolling mills on the devil. She was unable to smile, and he continued his humane gayities. 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 that he wants you to think about him. She looked at him wanly, murmured a desolate response. She had sowing to do, and left the room while Amberson shook his head ruefully at his sister. I've often thought that humour 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 and 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 Christmas time 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 roamed 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. Imagine you, when you were here, like Uncle and 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 might not 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. Fathers always spoiled Georgie a lot more than he did any of his own children. Eugene laughed. Ha! You need only three things to explain all that's good and bad about Georgie. Three. He's Isabelle's only child. He's an Amberson. He's a boy. Well, Mr. 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 as 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 in 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 greet 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 them. Maybe, said Isabelle, 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 sons. I suppose you know that all these young faces have got to get lines on them. 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 Isabelle looked inquiringly, 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 Isabelle. 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? Isabelle 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. Isabelle, 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 Isabelle 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 the astonishing reliability which they all seemed to have attained in matters relating to musical comedy, they had not gone in for anything. Only 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 rather better, 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 contended 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. And 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. Isabelle 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. Give 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, Isabelle said thoughtfully, but she will as time goes on. Time will 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 Isabelle, 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 Isabelle's departure. What'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 cheerfully, and 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 in 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 absentminded 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—one 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 had 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 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 you're 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 railery might prove legubrious. 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. Suddenly 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 breezy 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 neighbor. Excavations 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. Seeing 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'd fancy 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 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 them already are doing, he claimed it was just the novelty, and that they'd all be empty as soon as people got used to them. So he's putting up these houses. Is he getting miserly in his old age? Weirdly, look what he gave Sidney 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 to Cooley. 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 amably. Take the whole thing as a joke, and in the meantime, if you haven't had your breakfast, I haven't. And if I were you, I'd go in and get 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 talk 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 run about 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 spent at college, was he? The Major chuckled feebly but with sufficient grimness. I wonder what he thinks I'm made of? He concluded querilously. Gold, his son suggested, adding gently, and he's right about part of you, father. That 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 them. 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. Ha! Not so very long now, my boy! He chuckled, continuing to echo his own amusement. Not so very long, not so very long, end of chapter.