Having thus, in a word, revealed his ambition for a career above
courts, marts, and polling booths, George breathed more deeply than
usual, and, turning his face from the lovely companion whom he had
just made his confidant, gazed out at the dancers with an expression
in which there was both sternness and a contempt for the squalid lives
of the unyachted Midlanders before him. However, among them, he marked
his mother; and his sombre grandeur relaxed momentarily; a more genial
light came into his eyes.
Isabel was dancing with the queer-looking duck; and it was to be noted
that the lively gentleman’s gait was more sedate than it had been with
Miss Fanny Minafer, but not less dexterous and authoritative. He was
talking to Isabel as gaily as he had talked to Miss Fanny, though with
less laughter, and Isabel listened and answered eagerly: her colour
was high and her eyes had a look of delight. She saw George and the
beautiful Lucy on the stairway, and nodded to them. George waved his
hand vaguely: he had a momentary return of that inexplicable uneasiness
and resentment which had troubled him downstairs.
“How lovely your mother is!” Lucy said
“I think she is,” he agreed gently.
“She’s the gracefulest woman in that ballroom. She dances like a girl
of sixteen.”
“Most girls of sixteen,” said George, “are bum dancers. Anyhow, I
wouldn’t dance with one unless I had to.”
“Well, you’d better dance with your mother! I never saw anybody
lovelier. How wonderfully they dance together!”
“Who?”
“Your mother and—and the queer-looking duck,” said Lucy. “I’m going to
dance with him pretty soon.”
“I don’t care—so long as you don’t give him one of the numbers that
belong to me.”
“I’ll try to remember,” she said, and thoughtfully lifted to her face
the bouquet of violets and lilies, a gesture which George noted without
approval.
“Look here! Who sent you those flowers you keep makin’ such a fuss
over?”
“He did.”
“Who’s ‘he’?”
“The queer-looking duck.”
George feared no such rival; he laughed loudly. “I s’pose he’s some old
widower!” he said, the object thus described seeming ignominious enough
to a person of eighteen, without additional characterization. “Some old
widower!”
Lucy became serious at once. “Yes, he is a widower,” she said. “I ought
to have told you before; he’s my father.”
George stopped laughing abruptly. “Well, that’s a horse on me. If I’d
known he was your father, of course I wouldn’t have made fun of him.
I’m sorry.”
“Nobody could make fun of him,” she said quietly.
“Why couldn’t they?”
“It wouldn’t make him funny: it would only make themselves silly.”
Upon this, George had a gleam of intelligence. “Well, I’m not going to
make myself silly any more, then; I don’t want to take chances like
that with _you_. But I thought he was the Sharon girls’ uncle. He came
with them—”
“Yes,” she said, “I’m always late to everything: I wouldn’t let them
wait for me. We’re visiting the Sharons.”
“About time I knew that! You forget my being so fresh about your
father, will you? Of course he’s a distinguished looking man, in a way.”
Lucy was still serious. “‘In a way?’” she repeated. “You mean, not in
your way, don’t you?”
George was perplexed. “How do you mean: not in my way?”
“People pretty often say ‘in a way’ and ‘rather distinguished looking,’
or ‘rather’ so-and-so, or ‘rather’ anything, to show that _they’re_
superior, don’t they? In New York last month I overheard a climber sort
of woman speaking of me as ‘little Miss Morgan,’ but she didn’t mean
my height; she meant that she was important. Her husband spoke of a
friend of mine as ‘little Mr. Pembroke’ and ‘little Mr. Pembroke’
is six-feet-three. This husband and wife were really so terribly
unimportant that the only way they knew to pretend to be important was
calling people ‘little’ Miss or Mister so-and-so. It’s a kind of snob
slang, I think. Of course people don’t always say ‘rather’ or ‘in a
way’ to be superior.”
“I should say not! I use both of ’em a great deal myself,” said
George. “One thing I don’t see though: What’s the use of a man being
six-feet-three? Men that size can’t handle themselves as well as a
man about five-feet-eleven and a half can. Those long, gangling men,
they’re nearly always too kind of wormy to be any good in athletics,
and they’re so awkward they keep falling over chairs or—”
“Mr. Pembroke is in the army,” said Lucy primly. “He’s extraordinarily
graceful.”
“In the army? Oh, I suppose he’s some old friend of your father’s.”
“They got on very well,” she said, “after I introduced them.”
George was a straightforward soul, at least. “See here!” he said. “Are
you engaged to anybody?”
“No.”
Not wholly mollified, he shrugged his shoulders. “You seem to know a
good many people! Do you live in New York?”
“No. We don’t live anywhere.”
“What you mean: you don’t live anywhere?”
“We’ve lived all over,” she answered. “Papa used to live here in this
town, but that was before I was born.”
“What do you keep moving around so for? Is he a promoter?”
“No. He’s an inventor.”
“What’s he invented?”
“Just lately,” said Lucy, “he’s been working on a new kind of horseless
carriage.”
“Well, I’m sorry for him,” George said, in no unkindly spirit. “Those
things are never going to amount to anything. People aren’t going to
spend their lives lying on their backs in the road and letting grease
drip in their faces. Horseless carriages are pretty much a failure, and
your father better not waste his time on ’em.”
“Papa’d be so grateful,” she returned, “if he could have your advice.”
Instantly George’s face became flushed. “I don’t know that I’ve done
anything to be insulted for!” he said. “I don’t see that what I said
was particularly fresh.”
“No, indeed!”
“Then what do you—”
She laughed gaily. “I don’t! And I don’t mind your being such a lofty
person at all. I think it’s ever so interesting—but papa’s a great man!”
“Is he?” George decided to be good-natured. “Well, let us hope so. I
hope so, I’m sure.”
Looking at him keenly, she saw that the magnificent youth was
incredibly sincere in this bit of graciousness. He spoke as a tolerant,
elderly statesman might speak of a promising young politician; and with
her eyes still upon him, Lucy shook her head in gentle wonder. “I’m
just beginning to understand,” she said.
“Understand what?”
“What it means to be a real Amberson in this town. Papa told me
something about it before we came, but I see he didn’t say half enough!”
George superbly took this all for tribute. “Did your father say he knew
the family before he left here?”
“Yes. I believe he was particularly a friend of your Uncle George; and
he didn’t say so, but I imagine he must have known your mother very
well, too. He wasn’t an inventor then; he was a young lawyer. The town
was smaller in those days, and I believe he was quite well known.”
“I dare say. I’ve no doubt the family are all very glad to see him
back, especially if they used to have him at the house a good deal, as
he told you.”
“I don’t think he meant to boast of it,” she said: “He spoke of it
quite calmly.”
George stared at her for a moment in perplexity, then perceiving that
her intention was satirical, “Girls really ought to go to a man’s
college,” he said—“just a month or two, anyhow. It’d take _some_ of the
freshness out of ’em!”
“I can’t believe it,” she retorted, as her partner for the next
dance arrived. “It would only make them a little politer on the
surface—they’d be really just as awful as ever, after you got to know
them a few minutes.”
“What do you mean: ‘after you got to know them a—’”
She was departing to the dance. “Janie and Mary Sharon told me all
about what sort of a _little_ boy you were,” she said, over her
shoulder. “You must think it out!” She took wing away on the breeze
of the waltz, and George, having stared gloomily after her for a few
moments, postponed filling an engagement, and strolled round the
fluctuating outskirts of the dance to where his uncle, George Amberson,
stood smilingly watching, under one of the rose-vine arches at the
entrance to the room.
“Hello, young namesake,” said the uncle. “Why lingers the laggard heel
of the dancer? Haven’t you got a partner?”
“She’s sitting around waiting for me somewhere,” said George. “See
here: Who is this fellow Morgan that Aunt Fanny Minafer was dancing
with a while?”
Amberson laughed. “He’s a man with a pretty daughter, Georgie. Meseemed
you’ve been spending the evening noticing something of that sort—or do
I err?”
“Never mind! What sort is he?”
“I think we’ll have to give him a character, Georgie. He’s an old
friend; used to practice law here—perhaps he had more debts than cases,
but he paid ’em all up before he left town. Your question is purely
mercenary, I take it: you want to know his true worth before proceeding
further with the daughter. I cannot inform you, though I notice signs
of considerable prosperity in that becoming dress of hers. However,
you never can tell, it is an age when every sacrifice is made for the
young, and how your own poor mother managed to provide those genuine
pearl studs for you out of her allowance from father, I can’t—”
“Oh, dry up!” said the nephew. “I understand this Morgan—”
“Mr. Eugene Morgan,” his uncle suggested. “Politeness requires that the
young should—”
“I guess the ‘young’ didn’t know much about politeness in your day,”
George interrupted. “I understand that Mr. Eugene Morgan used to be a
great friend of the family.”
“Oh, the Minafers?” the uncle inquired, with apparent innocence. “No, I
seem to recall that he and your father were not—”
“I mean the Ambersons,” George said impatiently. “I understand he was a
good deal around the house here.”
“What is your objection to that, George?”
“What do you mean: my objection?”
“You seemed to speak with a certain crossness.”
“Well,” said George, “I meant he seems to feel awfully at home here.
The way he was dancing with Aunt Fanny—”
Amberson laughed. “I’m afraid your Aunt Fanny’s heart was stirred by
ancient recollections, Georgie.”
“You mean she used to be silly about him?”
“She wasn’t considered singular,” said the uncle “He was—he was
popular. Could you bear a question?”
“What do you mean: could I bear—”
“I only wanted to ask: Do you take this same passionate interest in the
parents of every girl you dance with? Perhaps it’s a new fashion we old
bachelors ought to take up. Is it the thing this year to—”
“Oh, go on!” said George, moving away. “I only wanted to know—” He
left the sentence unfinished, and crossed the room to where a girl sat
waiting for his nobility to find time to fulfil his contract with her
for this dance.
“Pardon f’ keep’ wait,” he muttered, as she rose brightly to meet him;
and she seemed pleased that he came at all—but George was used to
girls’ looking radiant when he danced with them, and she had little
effect upon him. He danced with her perfunctorily, thinking the while
of Mr. Eugene Morgan and his daughter. Strangely enough, his thoughts
dwelt more upon the father than the daughter, though George could
not possibly have given a reason—even to himself—for this disturbing
preponderance.
By a coincidence, though not an odd one, the thoughts and conversation
of Mr. Eugene Morgan at this very time were concerned with George
Amberson Minafer, rather casually, it is true. Mr. Morgan had retired
to a room set apart for smoking, on the second floor, and had found a
grizzled gentleman lounging in solitary possession.
“‘Gene Morgan!” this person exclaimed, rising with great heartiness.
“I’d heard you were in town—I don’t believe you know me!”
“Yes, I do, Fred Kinney!” Mr. Morgan returned with equal friendliness.
“Your real face—the one I used to know—it’s just underneath the one
you’re masquerading in to-night. You ought to have changed it more if
you wanted a disguise.”
“Twenty years!” said Mr. Kinney. “It makes some difference in faces,
but more in behaviour!”
“It does so!” his friend agreed with explosive emphasis. “My own
behaviour began to be different about that long ago—quite suddenly.”
“I remember,” said Mr. Kinney sympathetically. “Well, life’s odd enough
as we look back.”
“Probably it’s going to be odder still—if we could look forward.”
“Probably.”
They sat and smoked.
“However,” Mr. Morgan remarked presently, “I still dance like an
Indian. Don’t you?”
“No. I leave that to my boy Fred. He does the dancing for the family.”
“I suppose he’s upstairs hard at it?”
“No, he’s not here.” Mr. Kinney glanced toward the open door and
lowered his voice. “He wouldn’t come. It seems that a couple of years
or so ago he had a row with young Georgie Minafer. Fred was president
of a literary club they had, and he said this young Georgie got himself
elected instead, in an overbearing sort of way. Fred’s red-headed, you
know—I suppose you remember his mother? You were at the wedding—”
“I remember the wedding,” said Mr. Morgan. “And I remember your
bachelor dinner—most of it, that is.”
“Well, my boy Fred’s as red-headed now,” Mr. Kinney went on, “as his
mother was then, and he’s very bitter about his row with Georgie
Minafer. He says he’d rather burn his foot off than set it inside any
Amberson house or any place else where young Georgie is. Fact is, the
boy seemed to have so much feeling over it I had my doubts about coming
myself, but my wife said it was all nonsense; we mustn’t humour Fred in
a grudge over such a little thing, and while she despised that Georgie
Minafer, herself, as much as any one else did, she wasn’t going to miss
a big Amberson show just on account of a boys’ rumpus, and so on and so
on; and so we came.”
“Do people dislike young Minafer generally?”
“I don’t know about ‘generally.’ I guess he gets plenty of toadying;
but there’s certainly a lot of people that are glad to express their
opinions about him.”
“What’s the matter with him?”
“Too much Amberson, I suppose, for one thing. And for another, his
mother just fell down and worshipped him from the day he was born.
That’s what beats me! I don’t have to tell you what Isabel Amberson is,
Eugene Morgan. She’s got a touch of the Amberson high stuff about her,
but you can’t get anybody that ever knew her to deny that she’s just
about the finest woman in the world.”
“No,” said Eugene Morgan. “You can’t get anybody to deny that.”
“Then I can’t see how she doesn’t see the truth about that boy. He
thinks he’s a little tin god on wheels—and honestly, it makes some
people weak and sick just to think about him! Yet that high-spirited,
intelligent woman, Isabel Amberson, actually sits and worships him! You
can hear it in her voice when she speaks to him or speaks of him. You
can see it in her eyes when she looks at him. My Lord! What _does_ she
see when she looks at him?”
Morgan’s odd expression of genial apprehension deepened whimsically,
though it denoted no actual apprehension whatever, and cleared away
from his face altogether when he smiled; he became surprisingly winning
and persuasive when he smiled. He smiled now, after a moment, at this
question of his old friend. “She sees something that we don’t see,” he
said.
“What does she see?”
“An angel.”
Kinney laughed aloud. “Well, if she sees an angel when she looks at
Georgie Minafer, she’s a funnier woman than I thought she was!”
“Perhaps she is,” said Morgan. “But that’s what she sees.”
“My Lord! It’s easy to see you’ve only known him an hour or so. In that
time have you looked at Georgie and seen an angel?”
“No. All I saw was a remarkably good-looking fool-boy with the pride
of Satan and a set of nice new drawing-room manners that he probably
couldn’t use more than half an hour at a time without busting.”
“Then what—”
“Mothers are right,” said Morgan. “Do you think this young George is
the same sort of creature when he’s with his mother that he is when
he’s bulldozing your boy Fred? Mothers see the angel in us because the
angel is there. If it’s shown to the mother, the son has got an angel
to show, hasn’t he? When a son cuts somebody’s throat the mother only
sees it’s possible for a misguided angel to act like a devil—and she’s
entirely right about that!”
Kinney laughed, and put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I remember
what a fellow you always were to argue,” he said. “You mean Georgie
Minafer is as much of an angel as any murderer is, and that Georgie’s
mother is always right.”
“I’m afraid she always has been,” Morgan said lightly.
The friendly hand remained upon his shoulder. “She was wrong once, old
fellow. At least, so it seemed to me.”
“No,” said Morgan, a little awkwardly. “No—”
Kinney relieved the slight embarrassment that had come upon both of
them: he laughed again. “Wait till you know young Georgie a little
better,” he said. “Something tells me you’re going to change your mind
about his having an angel to show, if you see anything of him!”
“You mean beauty’s in the eye of the beholder, and the angel is all in
the eye of the mother. If you were a painter, Fred, you’d paint mothers
with angels’ eyes holding imps in their laps. Me, I’ll stick to the Old
Masters and the cherubs.”
Mr. Kinney looked at him musingly. “Somebody’s eyes must have been
pretty angelic,” he said, “if they’ve been persuading you that Georgie
Minafer is a cherub!”
“They are,” said Morgan heartily. “They’re more angelic than ever.”
And as a new flourish of music sounded overhead he threw away his
cigarette, and jumped up briskly. “Good-bye, I’ve got this dance with
her.”
“With whom?”
“With Isabel!”
The grizzled Mr. Kinney affected to rub his eyes. “It startles me, your
jumping up like that to go and dance with Isabel Amberson! Twenty years
seem to have passed—but have they? Tell me, have you danced with poor
old Fanny, too, this evening?”
“Twice!”
“My Lord!” Kinney groaned, half in earnest. “Old times starting all
over again! My Lord!”
“Old times?” Morgan laughed gaily from the doorway. “Not a bit! There
aren’t any old times. When times are gone they’re not old, they’re
dead! There aren’t any times but new times!”
And he vanished in such a manner that he seemed already to have begun
dancing.