3 Books To Know Pulitzer Prize for Fiction. Edith Wharton

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ you please!” he said emphatically, moving back from her. “This isn't that kind. It's all over, and I don't care to speak of it again. It's settled. Don't you understand?”

      “But, dear—”

      “No. I want to talk to you about this letter of her father's.”

      “Yes, dear, that's why—”

      “It's simply the most offensive piece of writing that I've ever held in my hands!”

      She stepped back from him, startled. “But, dear, I thought—”

      “I can't understand your even showing me such a thing!” he cried. “How did you happen to bring it to me?”

      “Your uncle thought I'd better. He thought it was the simplest thing to do, and he said that he'd suggested it to Eugene, and Eugene had agreed. They thought—”

      “Yes!” George said bitterly. “I should like to hear what they thought!”

      “They thought it would be the most straightforward thing.”

      George drew a long breath. “Well, what do you think, mother?”

      “I thought it would be the simplest and most straightforward thing; I thought they were right.”

      “Very well! We'll agree it was simple and straightforward. Now, what do you think of that letter itself?”

      She hesitated, looking away. “I—of course I don't agree with him in the way he speaks of you, dear—except about the angel! I don't agree with some of the things he implies. You've always been unselfish—nobody knows that better than your mother. When Fanny was left with nothing, you were so quick and generous to give up what really should have come to you, and—”

      “And yet,” George broke in, “you see what he implies about me. Don't you think, really, that this was a pretty insulting letter for that man to be asking you to hand your son?”

      “Oh, no!” she cried. “You can see how fair he means to be, and he didn't ask for me to give it to you. It was brother George who—”

      “Never mind that, now! You say he tries to be fair, and yet do you suppose it ever occurs to him that I'm doing my simple duty? That I'm doing what my father would do if he were alive? That I'm doing what my father would ask me to do if he could speak from his grave out yonder? Do you suppose it ever occurs to that man for one minute that I'm protecting my mother?” George raised his voice, advancing upon the helpless lady fiercely; and she could only bend her head before him. “He talks about my 'Will'—how it must be beaten down; yes, and he asks my mother to do that little thing to please him! What for? Why does he want me 'beaten' by my mother? Because I'm trying to protect her name! He's got my mother's name bandied up and down the streets of this town till I can't step in those streets without wondering what every soul I meet is thinking of me and of my family, and now he wants you to marry him so that every gossip in town will say 'There! What did I tell you? I guess that proves it's true!' You can't get away from it; that's exactly what they'd say, and this man pretends he cares for you, and yet asks you to marry him and give them the right to say it. He says he and you don't care what they say, but I know better! He may not care—probably he's that kind—but you do. There never was an Amberson yet that would let the Amberson name go trailing in the dust like that! It's the proudest name in this town and it's going to stay the proudest; and I tell you that's the deepest thing in my nature—not that I'd expect Eugene Morgan to understand—the very deepest thing in my nature is to protect that name, and to fight for it to the last breath when danger threatens it, as it does now—through my mother!” He turned from her, striding up and down and tossing his arms about, in a tumult of gesture. “I can't believe it of you, that you'd think of such a sacrilege! That's what it would be—sacrilege! When he talks about your unselfishness toward me, he's right—you have been unselfish and you have been a perfect mother. But what about him? Is it unselfish of him to want you to throw away your good name just to please him? That's all he asks of you—and to quit being my mother! Do you think I can believe you really care for him? I don't! You are my mother and you're an Amberson—and I believe you're too proud! You're too proud to care for a man who could write such a letter as that!” He stopped, faced her, and spoke with more self-control: “Well, what are you going to do about it, mother?”

      George was right about his mother's being proud. And even when she laughed with a negro gardener, or even those few times in her life when people saw her weep, Isabel had a proud look—something that was independent and graceful and strong. But she did not have it now: she leaned against the wall, beside his dressing-table, and seemed beset with humility and with weakness. Her head drooped.

      “What answer are you going to make to such a letter?” George demanded, like a judge on the bench.

      “I—I don't quite know, dear,” she murmured.

      “Wait,” she begged him. “I'm so—confused.”

      “I want to know what you're going to write him. Do you think if you did what he wants you to I could bear to stay another day in this town, mother? Do you think I could ever bear even to see you again if you married him? I'd want to, but you surely know I just—couldn't!”

      She made a futile gesture, and seemed to breathe with difficulty. “I—I wasn't—quite sure,” she faltered, “about—about it's being wise for us to be married—even before knowing how you feel about it. I wasn't even sure it was quite fair to—to Eugene. I have—I seem to have that family trouble—like father's—that I spoke to you about once.” She managed a deprecatory little dry laugh. “Not that it amounts to much, but I wasn't at all sure that it would be fair to him. Marrying doesn't mean so much, after all—not at my age. It's enough to know that—that people think of you—and to see them. I thought we were all—oh, pretty happy the way things were, and I don't think it would mean giving up a great deal for him or me, either, if we just went on as we have been. I—I see him almost every day, and—”

      “Mother!” George's voice was loud and stern. “Do you think you could go on seeing him after this!”

      She had been talking helplessly enough before; her tone was little more broken now. “Not—not even—see him?”

      “How could you?” George cried. “Mother, it seems to me that if he ever set foot in this house again—oh! I can't speak of it! Could you see him, knowing what talk it makes every time he turns into this street, and knowing what that means to me? Oh, I don't understand all this—I don't! If you'd told me, a year ago, that such things were going to happen, I'd have thought you were insane—and now I believe I am!”

      Then, after a preliminary gesture of despair, as though he meant harm to the ceiling, he flung himself heavily, face downward, upon the bed. His anguish was none the less real for its vehemence; and the stricken lady came to him instantly and bent over him, once more enfolding him in her arms. She said nothing, but suddenly her tears fell upon his head; she saw them, and seemed to be startled.

      “Oh, this won't do!” she said. “I've never let you see me cry before, except when your father died. I mustn't!”

      And she ran from the room.

      ...A little while after she had gone, George rose and began solemnly to dress for dinner. At one stage of these conscientious proceedings he put on, temporarily, his long black velvet dressing-gown, and, happening to catch sight in his pier glass of the picturesque and medieval figure thus presented, СКАЧАТЬ