At least, it may be claimed for George that his last night in the house
where he had been born was not occupied with his own disheartening
future, but with sorrow for what sacrifices his pride and youth had
demanded of others. And early in the morning he came downstairs and
tried to help Fanny make coffee on the kitchen range.
“There was something I wanted to say to you last night, Aunt Fanny,” he
said, as she finally discovered that an amber fluid, more like tea than
coffee, was as near ready to be taken into the human system as it would
ever be. “I think I’d better do it now.”
She set the coffee-pot back upon the stove with a little crash, and,
looking at him in a desperate anxiety, began to twist her dainty apron
between her fingers without any consciousness of what she was doing.
“Why—why—” she stammered; but she knew what he was going to
say, and that was why she had been more and more nervous.
“Hadn’t—perhaps—perhaps we’d better get the—the things moved to the
little new home first, George. Let’s—”
He interrupted quietly, though at her phrase, “the little new home,”
his pungent impulse was to utter one loud shout and run. “It was about
this new place that I wanted to speak. I’ve been thinking it over, and
I’ve decided. I want you to take all the things from mother’s room and
use them and keep them for me, and I’m sure the little apartment will
be just what you like; and with the extra bedroom probably you could
find some woman friend to come and live there, and share the expense
with you. But I’ve decided on another arrangement for myself, and so
I’m not going with you. I don’t suppose you’ll mind much, and I don’t
see why you should mind—particularly, that is. I’m not very lively
company these days, or any days, for that matter. I can’t imagine you,
or any one else, being much attached to me, so—”
He stopped in amazement: no chair had been left in the kitchen, but
Fanny gave a despairing glance around her, in search of one, then sank
abruptly, and sat flat upon the floor.
“You’re going to leave me in the lurch!” she gasped.
“What on earth—” George sprang to her. “Get up, Aunt Fanny!”
“I can’t. I’m too weak. Let me alone, George!” And as he released the
wrist he had seized to help her, she repeated the dismal prophecy which
for days she had been matching against her hopes: “You’re going to
leave me—in the lurch!”
“Why no, Aunt Fanny!” he protested. “At first I’d have been something
of a burden on you. I’m to get eight dollars a week; about thirty-two
a month. The rent’s thirty-six dollars a month, and the table-d’hote
dinner runs up to over twenty-two dollars apiece, so with my half
of the rent—eighteen dollars—I’d have less than nothing left out of
my salary to pay my share of the groceries for all the breakfasts
and luncheons. You see you’d not only be doing all the housework and
cooking, but you’d be paying more of the expenses than I would.”
She stared at him with such a forlorn blankness as he had never seen.
“I’d be paying—” she said feebly. “I’d be paying—”
“Certainly you would. You’d be using more of your money than—”
“My money!” Fanny’s chin drooped upon her thin chest, and she laughed
miserably. “I’ve got twenty-eight dollars. That’s all.”
“You mean until the interest is due again?”
“I mean that’s all,” Fanny said. “I mean that’s all there is. There
won’t be any more interest because there isn’t any principal.”
“Why, you told—”
She shook her head. “No, I haven’t told you anything.”
“Then it was Uncle George. He told me you had enough to fall back on.
That’s just what he said: ‘to fall back on.’ He said you’d lost more
than you should, in the headlight company, but he’d insisted that you
should hold out enough to live on, and you’d very wisely followed his
advice.”
“I know,” she said weakly. “I told him so. He didn’t know, or else he’d
forgotten, how much Wilbur’s insurance amounted to, and I—oh, it seemed
such a sure way to make a real fortune out of a little—and I thought I
could do something for you, George, if you ever came to need it—and it
all looked so bright I just thought I’d put it all in. I did—every cent
except my last interest payment—and it’s gone.”
“Good Lord!” George began to pace up and down on the worn planks of the
bare floor. “Why on earth did you wait till now to tell such a thing as
this?”
“I couldn’t tell till I had to,” she said piteously. “I couldn’t till
George Amberson went away. He couldn’t do anything to help, anyhow,
and I just didn’t want him to talk to me about it—he’s been at me so
much about not putting more in than I could afford to lose, and said
he considered he had my—my word I wasn’t putting more than that in it.
So I thought: What was the use? What was the use of going over it all
with him and having him reproach me, and probably reproach himself?
It wouldn’t do any good—not any good on earth.” She got out her lace
handkerchief and began to cry. “Nothing does any good, I guess, in this
old world. Oh, how tired of this old world I am! I didn’t know what
to do. I just tried to go ahead and be as practical as I could, and
arrange some way for us to live. Oh, I knew you didn’t want me, George!
You always teased me and berated me whenever you had a chance from the
time you were a little boy—you did so! Later, you’ve tried to be kinder
to me, but you don’t want me around—oh, I can see that much! You don’t
suppose I want to thrust myself on you, do you? It isn’t very pleasant
to be thrusting yourself on a person you know doesn’t want you—but I
knew you oughtn’t to be left all alone in the world; it isn’t good. I
knew your mother’d want me to watch over you and try to have something
like a home for you—I know she’d want me to do what I tried to do!”
Fanny’s tears were bitter now, and her voice, hoarse and wet, was
tragically sincere. “I tried—I tried to be practical—to look after your
interests—to make things as nice for you as I could—I walked my heels
down looking for a place for us to live—I walked and walked over this
town—I didn’t ride one block on a street-car—I wouldn’t use five cents
no matter how tired I—Oh!” She sobbed uncontrollably. “Oh! and now—you
don’t want—you want—you want to leave me in the lurch! You—”
George stopped walking. “In God’s name, Aunt Fanny,” he said, “quit
spreading out your handkerchief and drying it and then getting it all
wet again! I mean stop crying! Do! And for heaven’s sake, get up. Don’t
sit there with your back against the boiler and—”
“It’s not hot,” Fanny sniffled. “It’s cold; the plumbers disconnected
it. I wouldn’t mind if they hadn’t. I wouldn’t mind if it burned me,
George.”
“Oh, my Lord!” He went to her, and lifted her. “For God’s sake, get up!
Come, let’s take the coffee into the other room, and see what’s to be
done.”
He got her to her feet; she leaned upon him, already somewhat
comforted, and, with his arm about her, he conducted her to the dining
room and seated her in one of the two kitchen chairs which had been
placed at the rough table. “There!” he said, “get over it!” Then
he brought the coffee-pot, some lumps of sugar in a tin pan, and,
finding that all the coffee-cups were broken, set water glasses upon
the table, and poured some of the pale coffee into them. By this time
Fanny’s spirits had revived appreciably: she looked up with a plaintive
eagerness. “I had bought all my fall clothes, George,” she said; “and I
paid every bill I owed. I don’t owe a cent for clothes, George.”
“That’s good,” he said wanly, and he had a moment of physical dizziness
that decided him to sit down quickly. For an instant it seemed to him
that he was not Fanny’s nephew, but married to her. He passed his pale
hand over his paler forehead. “Well, let’s see where we stand,” he said
feebly. “Let’s see if we can afford this place you’ve selected.”
Fanny continued to brighten. “I’m sure it’s the most practical plan we
could possibly have worked out, George—and it is a comfort to be among
nice people. I think we’ll both enjoy it, because the truth is we’ve
been keeping too much to ourselves for a long while. It isn’t good for
people.”
“I was thinking about the money, Aunt Fanny. You see—”
“I’m sure we can manage it,” she interrupted quickly. “There really
isn’t a cheaper place in town that we could actually live in and be—”
Here she interrupted herself. “Oh! There’s one great economy I forgot
to tell you, and it’s especially an economy for you, because you’re
always too generous about such things: they don’t allow any tipping.
They have signs that prohibit it.”
“That’s good,” he said grimly. “But the rent is thirty-six dollars a
month; the dinner is twenty-two and a half for each of us, and we’ve
got to have some provision for other food. We won’t need any clothes
for a year, perhaps—”
“Oh, longer!” she exclaimed. “So you see—”
“I see that forty-five and thirty-six make eighty-one,” he said. “At
the lowest, we need a hundred dollars a month—and I’m going to make
thirty-two.”
“I thought of that, George,” she said confidently, “and I’m sure it
will be all right. You’ll be earning a great deal more than that very
soon.”
“I don’t see any prospect of it—not till I’m admitted to the bar, and
that will be two years at the earliest.”
Fanny’s confidence was not shaken. “I know you’ll be getting on faster
than—”
“Faster?” George echoed gravely. “We’ve got to have more than that to
start with.”
“Well, there’s the six hundred dollars from the sale. Six hundred and
twelve dollars it was.”
“It isn’t six hundred and twelve now,” said George. “It’s about one
hundred and sixty.”
Fanny showed a momentary dismay. “Why, how—”
“I lent Uncle George two hundred; I gave fifty apiece to old Sam and
those two other old darkies that worked for grandfather so long, and
ten to each of the servants here—”
“And you gave me thirty-six,” she said thoughtfully, “for the first
month’s rent, in advance.”
“Did I? I’d forgotten. Well, with about a hundred and sixty in bank and
our expenses a hundred a month, it doesn’t seem as if this new place—”
“Still,” she interrupted, “we have paid the first month’s rent in
advance, and it does seem to be the most practical—”
George rose. “See here, Aunt Fanny,” he said decisively. “You stay here
and look after the moving. Old Frank doesn’t expect me until afternoon,
this first day, but I’ll go and see him now.”
It was early, and old Frank, just established at his big, flat-topped
desk, was surprised when his prospective assistant and pupil walked
in. He was pleased, as well as surprised, however, and rose, offering
a cordial old hand. “The real flare!” he said. “The real flare for the
law. That’s right! Couldn’t wait till afternoon to begin! I’m delighted
that you—”
“I wanted to say—” George began, but his patron cut him off.
“Wait just a minute, my boy. I’ve prepared a little speech of welcome,
and even though you’re five hours ahead of time, I mean to deliver
it. First of all, your grandfather was my old war-comrade and my best
client; for years I prospered through my connection with his business,
and his grandson is welcome in my office and to my best efforts in
his behalf. But I want to confess, Georgie, that during your earlier
youth I may have had some slight feeling of—well, prejudice, not
altogether in your favour; but whatever slight feeling it was, it
began to vanish on that afternoon, a good while ago, when you stood up
to your Aunt Amelia Amberson as you did in the Major’s library, and
talked to her as a man and a gentleman should. I saw then what good
stuff was in you—and I always wanted to mention it. If my prejudice
hadn’t altogether vanished after that, the last vestiges disappeared
during these trying times that have come upon you this past year, when
I have been a witness to the depth of feeling you’ve shown and your
quiet consideration for your grandfather and for everyone else around
you. I just want to add that I think you’ll find an honest pleasure
now in industry and frugality that wouldn’t have come to you in a more
frivolous career. The law is a jealous mistress and a stern mistress,
but a—”
George had stood before him in great and increasing embarrassment; and
he was unable to allow the address to proceed to its conclusion.
“I can’t do it!” he burst out. “I can’t take her for my mistress.”
“What?”
“I’ve come to tell you, I’ve got to find something that’s quicker. I
can’t—”
Old Frank got a little red. “Let’s sit down,” he said. “What’s the
trouble?”
George told him.
The old gentleman listened sympathetically, only murmuring: “Well,
well!” from time to time, and nodding acquiescence.
“You see she’s set her mind on this apartment,” George explained.
“She’s got some old cronies there, and I guess she’s been looking
forward to the games of bridge and the kind of harmless gossip that
goes on in such places. Really, it’s a life she’d like better than
anything else—better than that she’s lived at home, I really believe.
It struck me she’s just about got to have it, and after all she could
hardly have anything less.”
“This comes pretty heavily upon me, you know,” said old Frank. “I got
her into that headlight company, and she fooled me about her resources
as much as she did your Uncle George. I was never your father’s
adviser, if you remember, and when the insurance was turned over to
her some other lawyer arranged it—probably your father’s. But it comes
pretty heavily on me, and I feel a certain responsibility.”
“Not at all. I’m taking the responsibility.” And George smiled with one
corner of his mouth. “She’s not your aunt, you know, sir.”
“Well, I’m unable to see, even if she’s yours, that a young man is
morally called upon to give up a career at the law to provide his aunt
with a favourable opportunity to play bridge whist!”
“No,” George agreed. “But I haven’t begun my ‘career at the law’ so it
can’t be said I’m making any considerable sacrifice. I’ll tell you how
it is, sir.” He flushed, and, looking out of the streaked and smoky
window beside which he was sitting, spoke with difficulty. “I feel
as if—as if perhaps I had one or two pretty important things in my
life to make up for. Well, I can’t. I can’t make them up to—to whom I
would. It’s struck me that, as I couldn’t, I might be a little decent
to somebody else, perhaps—if I could manage it! I never have been
particularly decent to poor old Aunt Fanny.”
“Oh, I don’t know: I shouldn’t say that. A little youthful teasing—I
doubt if she’s minded so much. She felt your father’s death
terrifically, of course, but it seems to me she’s had a fairly
comfortable life—up to now—if she was disposed to take it that way.”
“But ‘up to now’ is the important thing,” George said. “Now is now—and
you see I can’t wait two years to be admitted to the bar and begin to
practice. I’ve got to start in at something else that pays from the
start, and that’s what I’ve come to you about. I have an idea, you see.”
“Well, I’m glad of that!” said old Frank, smiling. “I can’t think of
anything just at this minute that pays from the start.”
“I only know of one thing, myself.”
“What is it?”
George flushed again, but managed to laugh at his own embarrassment. “I
suppose I’m about as ignorant of business as anybody in the world,” he
said. “But I’ve heard they pay very high wages to people in dangerous
trades; I’ve always heard they did, and I’m sure it must be true. I
mean people that handle touchy chemicals or high explosives—men in
dynamite factories, or who take things of that sort about the country
in wagons, and shoot oil wells. I thought I’d see if you couldn’t tell
me something more about it, or else introduce me to someone who could,
and then I thought I’d see if I couldn’t get something of the kind to
do as soon as possible. My nerves are good; I’m muscular, and I’ve got
a steady hand; it seemed to me that this was about the only line of
work in the world that I’m fitted for. I wanted to get started to-day
if I could.”
Old Frank gave him a long stare. At first this scrutiny was sharply
incredulous; then it was grave; finally it developed into a threat
of overwhelming laughter; a forked vein in his forehead became more
visible and his eyes seemed about to protrude.
But he controlled his impulse; and, rising, took up his hat and
overcoat. “All right,” he said. “If you’ll promise not to get blown up,
I’ll go with you to see if we can find the job.” Then, meaning what he
said, but amazed that he did mean it, he added: “You certainly are the
most practical young man I ever met!”