The Magnificent Ambersons Page 25

  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 i
t 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?”