The Magnificent Ambersons by Booth Tarkington (little red riding hood ebook .TXT) 📕

feet, and went lurching upstairs, yawning with exhaustion. From the door of his room, which he closed mechanically, with his eyes shut, he went blindly to his bed, fell upon it soddenly, and slept⁠—with his face full upturned to the light.

… It was after midnight when he woke, and the room was dark. He had not dreamed, but he woke with the sense that somebody or something had been with him while he slept⁠—somebody or something infinitely compassionate; somebody or something infinitely protective, that would let him come to no harm and to no grief.

He got up, and pressed the light on. Pinned to the cover of his dressing-table was a square envelope, with the words, “For you, dear,” written in pencil upon it. But the message inside was in ink, a little smudged here and there.

I have been out to the mailbox, darling, with a letter I’ve written to Eugene, and he’ll have it in the morning. It would be unfair not to let him know at once, and my decision could not change if I waited. It would always be the same. I think it, is a little better for me to write to you, like this, instead of waiting till you wake up and then telling you, because I’m foolish and might cry again, and I took a vow once, long ago, that you should never see me cry. Not that I’ll feel like crying when we talk things over tomorrow. I’ll be “all right and fine” (as you say so often) by that time⁠—don’t fear. I think what makes me most ready to cry now is the thought of the terrible suffering in your poor face, and the unhappy knowledge that it is I, your mother who put it there. It shall never come again! I love you better than anything and everything else on earth. God gave you to me⁠—and oh! how thankful I have been every day of my life for that sacred gift⁠—and nothing can ever come between me and God’s gift. I cannot hurt you, and I cannot let you stay hurt as you have been⁠—not another instant after you wake up, my darling boy! It is beyond my power. And Eugene was right⁠—I know you couldn’t change about this. Your suffering shows how deep-seated the feeling is within you. So I’ve written him just about what I think you would like me to⁠—though I told him I would always be fond of him and always his best friend, and I hoped his dearest friend. He’ll understand about not seeing him. He’ll understand that, though I didn’t say it in so many words. You mustn’t trouble about that⁠—he’ll understand. Good night, my darling, my beloved, my beloved! You mustn’t be troubled. I think I shouldn’t mind anything very much so long as I have you “all to myself”⁠—as people say⁠—to make up for your long years away from me at college. We’ll talk of what’s best to do in the morning, shan’t we? And for all this pain you’ll forgive your loving and devoted mother.

Isabel.

XXVII

Having finished some errands downtown, the next afternoon, George Amberson Minafer was walking up National Avenue on his homeward way when he saw in the distance, coming toward him, upon the same side of the street, the figure of a young lady⁠—a figure just under the middle height, comely indeed, and to be mistaken for none other in the world⁠—even at two hundred yards. To his sharp discomfiture his heart immediately forced upon him the consciousness of its acceleration; a sudden warmth about his neck made him aware that he had turned red, and then, departing, left him pale. For a panicky moment he thought of facing about in actual flight; he had little doubt that Lucy would meet him with no token of recognition, and all at once this probability struck him as unendurable. And if she did not speak, was it the proper part of chivalry to lift his hat and take the cut bareheaded? Or should the finer gentleman acquiesce in the lady’s desire for no further acquaintance, and pass her with stony mien and eyes constrained forward? George was a young man badly flustered.

But the girl approaching him was unaware of his trepidation, being perhaps somewhat preoccupied with her own. She saw only that he was pale, and that his eyes were darkly circled. But here he was advantaged with her, for the finest touch to his good looks was given by this toning down; neither pallor nor dark circles detracting from them, but rather adding to them a melancholy favour of distinction. George had retained his mourning, a tribute completed down to the final details of black gloves and a polished ebony cane (which he would have been pained to name otherwise than as a “walking-stick”) and in the aura of this sombre elegance his straight figure and drawn face were not without a tristful and appealing dignity.

In everything outward he was cause enough for a girl’s cheek to flush, her heart to beat faster, and her eyes to warm with the soft light that came into Lucy’s now, whether she would or no. If his spirit had been what his looks proclaimed it, she would have rejoiced to let the light glow forth which now shone in spite of her. For a long time, thinking of that spirit of his, and what she felt it should be, she had a persistent sense: “It must be there!” but she had determined to believe this folly no longer. Nevertheless, when she met him at the Sharons’, she had been far less calm than she seemed.

People speaking casually of Lucy were apt to define her as “a little beauty,” a definition short of the mark. She was “a little beauty,” but an independent, masterful, self-reliant little American, of whom her father’s earlier gipsyings and her own sturdiness had made a woman ever since she was fifteen. But