The Magnificent Ambersons Booth Tarkington (reading like a writer txt) 📖

The city was so big, now, that people disappeared into it unnoticed, and the disappearance of Fanny and her nephew was not exceptional. People no longer knew their neighbours as a matter of course; one lived for years next door to strangers⁠—that sharpest of all the changes since the old days⁠—and a friend would lose sight of a friend for a year, and not know it.

One May day George thought he had a glimpse of Lucy. He was not certain, but he was sufficiently disturbed, in spite of his uncertainty. A promotion in his work now frequently took him out of town for a week, or longer, and it was upon his return from one of these absences that he had the strange experience. He had walked home from the station, and as he turned the corner which brought him in sight of the apartment house entrance, though two blocks distant from it, he saw a charming little figure come out, get into a shiny landaulet automobile, and drive away. Even at that distance no one could have any doubt that the little figure was charming; and the height, the quickness and decision of motion, even the swift gesture of a white glove toward the chauffeur⁠—all were characteristic of Lucy. George was instantly subjected to a shock of indefinable nature, yet definitely a shock: he did not know what he felt⁠—but he knew that he felt. Heat surged over him: probably he would not have come face to face with her if the restoration of all the ancient Amberson magnificence could have been his reward. He went on slowly, his knees shaky.

But he found Fanny not at home; she had been out all afternoon; and there was no record of any caller⁠—and he began to wonder, then to doubt if the small lady he had seen in the distance was Lucy. It might as well have been, he said to himself⁠—since anyone who looked like her could give him “a jolt like that!”

Lucy had not left a card. She never left one when she called on Fanny; though she did not give her reasons a quite definite form in her own mind. She came seldom; this was but the third time that year, and, when she did come, George was not mentioned either by her hostess or by herself⁠—an oddity contrived between the two ladies without either of them realizing how odd it was. For, naturally, while Fanny was with Lucy, Fanny thought of George, and what time Lucy had George’s aunt before her eyes she could not well avoid the thought of him. Consequently, both looked absentminded as they talked, and each often gave a wrong answer which the other consistently failed to notice.

At other times Lucy’s thoughts of George were anything but continuous, and weeks went by when he was not consciously in her mind at all. Her life was a busy one: she had the big house “to keep up”; she had a garden to keep up, too, a large and beautiful garden; she represented her father as a director for half a dozen public charity organizations, and did private charity work of her own, being a proxy mother of several large families; and she had “danced down,” as she said, groups from eight or nine classes of new graduates returned from the universities, without marrying any of them, but she still danced⁠—and still did not marry.

Her father, observing this circumstance happily, yet with some hypocritical concern, spoke of it to her one day as they stood in her garden. “I suppose I’d want to shoot him,” he said, with attempted lightness. “But I mustn’t be an old pig. I’d build you a beautiful house close by⁠—just over yonder.”

“No, no! That would be like⁠—” she began impulsively; then checked herself. George Amberson’s comparison of the Georgian house to the Amberson Mansion had come into her mind, and she thought that another new house, built close by for her, would be like the house the Major built for Isabel.

“Like what?”

“Nothing.” She looked serious, and when he reverted to his idea of “some day” grudgingly surrendering her up to a suitor, she invented a legend. “Did you ever hear the Indian name for that little grove of beech trees on the other side of the house?” she asked him.

“No⁠—and you never did either!” he laughed.

“Don’t be so sure! I read a great deal more than I used to⁠—getting ready for my bookish days when I’ll have to do something solid in the evenings and won’t be asked to dance any more, even by the very youngest boys who think it’s a sporting event to dance with the oldest of the ‘older girls.’ The name of the grove was ‘Loma-Nashah’ and it means ‘They-Couldn’t-Help-It.’ ”

“Doesn’t sound like it.”

“Indian names don’t. There was a bad Indian chief lived in the grove before the white settlers came. He was the worst Indian that ever lived, and his name was⁠—it was ‘Vendonah.’ That means ‘Rides-Down-Everything.’ ”

“What?”

“His name was Vendonah, the same thing as Rides-Down-Everything.”

“I see,” said Eugene thoughtfully. He gave her a quick look and then fixed his eyes upon the end of the garden path. “Go on.”

“Vendonah was an unspeakable case,” Lucy continued. “He was so proud that he wore iron shoes and he walked over people’s faces with them. He was always killing people that way, and so at last the tribe decided that it wasn’t a good enough excuse for him that he was young and inexperienced⁠—he’d have to go. They took him down to the river, and put him in a canoe, and pushed him out from shore; and then they ran along the bank and wouldn’t let him land, until at last the current carried the canoe out into the middle, and then on down to the ocean, and he never got back. They didn’t want him back, of course, and if he’d been able to manage it, they’d have put him in another canoe and shoved him out