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Then she turned again to him, her eyes downcast, but no sign of tears in them, and she contrived to show him that there was the semblance of a smile upon her lips. She still wore her hat, and in her unsteady fingers she held a white envelope, somewhat crumpled.

ā€œNow, motherā ā€”ā€

ā€œWait, dearest,ā€ she said; and though he stood stone cold, she lifted her arms, put them round him again, and pressed her cheek lightly to his. ā€œOh, you do look so troubled, poor dear! One thing you couldnā€™t doubt, beloved boy: you know I could never care for anything in the world as I care for youā ā€”never, never!ā€

ā€œNow, motherā ā€”ā€

She released him, and stepped back. ā€œJust a moment more, dearest. I want you to read this first. We can get at things better.ā€ She pressed into his hand the envelope she had brought with her, and as he opened it, and began to read the long enclosure, she walked slowly to the other end of the room; then stood there, with her back to him, and her head drooping a little, until he had finished.

The sheets of paper were covered with Eugeneā€™s handwriting.

George Amberson will bring you this, dear Isabel. He is waiting while I write. He and I have talked things over, and before he gives this to you he will tell you what has happened. Of course Iā€™m rather confused, and havenā€™t had time to think matters out very definitely, and yet I believe I should have been better prepared for what took place todayā ā€”I ought to have known it was coming, because I have understood for quite a long time that young George was getting to dislike me more and more. Somehow, Iā€™ve never been able to get his friendship; heā€™s always had a latent distrust of meā ā€”or something like distrustā ā€”and perhaps thatā€™s made me sometimes a little awkward and diffident with him. I think it may be he felt from the first that I cared a great deal about you, and he naturally resented it. I think perhaps he felt this even during all the time when I was so carefulā ā€”at least I thought I wasā ā€”not to show, even to you, how immensely I did care. And he may have feared that you were thinking too much about meā ā€”even when you werenā€™t and only liked me as an old friend. Itā€™s perfectly comprehensible to me, also, that at his age one gets excited about gossip. Dear Isabel, what Iā€™m trying to get at, in my confused way, is that you and I donā€™t care about this nonsensical gossip, ourselves, at all. Yesterday I thought the time had come when I could ask you to marry me, and you were dear enough to tell me ā€œsometime it might come to that.ā€ Well, you and I, left to ourselves, and knowing what we have been and what we are, weā€™d pay as much attention to ā€œtalkā€ as we would to any other kind of old catsā€™ mewing! Weā€™d not be very apt to let such things keep us from the plenty of life we have left to us for making up to ourselves for old unhappinesses and mistakes. But now weā€™re faced withā ā€”not the slander and not our own fear of it, because we havenā€™t any, but someone elseā€™s fear of itā ā€”your sonā€™s. And, oh, dearest woman in the world, I know what your son is to you, and it frightens me! Let me explain a little: I donā€™t think heā€™ll changeā ā€”at twenty-one or twenty-two so many things appear solid and permanent and terrible which forty sees are nothing but disappearing miasma. Forty canā€™t tell twenty about this; thatā€™s the pity of it! Twenty can find out only by getting to be forty. And so we come to this, dear: Will you live your own life your way, or Georgeā€™s way? Iā€™m going a little further, because it would be fatal not to be wholly frank now. George will act toward you only as your long worship of him, your sacrificesā ā€”all the unseen little ones every day since he was bornā ā€”will make him act. Dear, it breaks my heart for you, but what you have to oppose now is the history of your own selfless and perfect motherhood. I remember saying once that what you worshipped in your son was the angel you saw in himā ā€”and I still believe that is true of every mother. But in a motherā€™s worship she may not see that the Will in her son should not always be offered incense along with the angel. I grow sick with fear for youā ā€”for both you and meā ā€”when I think how the Will against us two has grown strong through the love you have given the angelā ā€”and how long your own sweet Will has served that other. Are you strong enough, Isabel? Can you make the fight? I promise you that if you will take heart for it, you will find so quickly that it has all amounted to nothing. You shall have happiness, and, in a little while, only happiness. You need only to write me a lineā ā€”I canā€™t come to your houseā ā€”and tell me where you will meet me. We will come back in a month, and the angel in your son will bring him to you; I promise it. What is good in him will grow so fine, once you have beaten the turbulent Willā ā€”but it must be beaten!

Your brother, that good friend, is waiting with such patience; I should not keep him longerā ā€”and I am saying too much for wisdom, I fear. But, oh, my dear, wonā€™t you be strongā ā€”such a little short strength it would need! Donā€™t strike my life down twice, dearā ā€”this time Iā€™ve not deserved it.

Eugene.

Concluding this missive, George tossed it abruptly from him so that one sheet fell upon his bed and the others upon the floor; and at the faint noise of their falling Isabel came, and, kneeling, began to gather them up.

ā€œDid you read

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