Part 22 (1/2)

”Yes,” said Eugene. ”If we weren't he mightn't let us exist at all.”

”I'm sure I didn't have it so badly at his age,” Amberson said reflectively, as they strolled on through the commencement crowd. ”For one thing, I had brothers and sisters, and my mother didn't just sit at my feet as George's does; and I wasn't an only grandchild, either.

Father's always spoiled Georgie a lot more than he did any of his own'

children.”

Eugene laughed. ”You need only three things to explain all that's good and bad about Georgie.”

”Three?”

”He's Isabel's only child. He's an Amberson. He's a boy.”

”Well, Mister Bones, of these three things which are the good ones and which are the bad ones?”

”All of them,” said Eugene.

It happened that just then they came in sight of the subject of their discourse. George was walking under the elms with Lucy, swinging a stick and pointing out to her various objects and localities which had attained historical value during the last four years. The two older men marked his gestures, careless and graceful; they observed his att.i.tude, unconsciously n.o.ble, his easy proprietors.h.i.+p of the ground beneath his feet and round about, of the branches overhead, of the old buildings beyond, and of Lucy.

”I don't know,” Eugene said, smiling whimsically. ”I don't know. When I spoke of his being a human being--I don't know. Perhaps it's more like deity.”

”I wonder if I was like that!” 'Amberson groaned.' ”You don't suppose every Amberson has had to go through it, do you?”

”Don't worry! At least half of it is a combination of youth, good looks, and college; and even the n.o.blest Ambersons get over their n.o.bility and come to be people in time. It takes more than time, though.”

”I should say it did take more than time!” his friend agreed, shaking a rueful head.

Then they walked over to join the loveliest Amberson, whom neither time nor trouble seemed to have touched. She stood alone, thoughtful under the great trees, chaperoning George and Lucy at a distance; but, seeing the two friends approaching, she came to meet them.

”It's charming, isn't it!” she said, moving her black-gloved hand to indicate the summery dressed crowd strolling about them, or cl.u.s.tering in groups, each with its own hero. ”They seem so eager and so confident, all these boys--it's touching. But of course youth doesn't know it's touching.”

Amberson coughed. ”No, it doesn't seem to take itself as pathetic, precisely! Eugene and I were just speaking of something like that.

Do you know what I think whenever I see these smooth, triumphal young faces? I always think: 'Oh, how you're going to catch it'!”

”George!”

”Oh, yes,” he said. ”Life's most ingenious: it's got a special walloping for every mother's son of 'em!”

”Maybe,” said Isabel, troubled--”maybe some of the mothers can take the walloping for them.”

”Not one!” her brother a.s.sured her, with emphasis. ”Not any more than she can take on her own face the lines that are bound to come on her son's. I suppose you know that all these young faces have got to get lines on 'em?”

”Maybe they won't,” she said, smiling wistfully. ”Maybe times will change, and n.o.body will have to wear lines.”

”Times have changed like that for only one person that I know,” Eugene said. And as Isabel looked inquiring, he laughed, and she saw that she was the ”only one person.” His implication was justified, moreover, and she knew it. She blushed charmingly.

”Which is it puts the lines on the faces?” Amberson asked. ”Is it age or trouble? Of course we can't decide that wisdom does it--we must be polite to Isabel.”

”I'll tell you what puts the lines there,” Eugene said. ”Age puts some, and trouble puts some, and work puts some, but the deepest are carved by lack of faith. The serenest brow is the one that believes the most.”