Wausau pilot. [volume] (Wausau, Wis.) 1896-1940, 1919-11-25
CHAPTER XVII.
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was on the point of breaking down, but
he commanded himself bravely dis
missing the self-pity reused by her
compassion. "How can l help but be?"
he said.
mo, no." She soothed him. "You
mustn't. You mustn't be troubled, 10
matter what happens"
THAT'S easy enough to sayw ne
protested; and he moved as if to rise.
"Just let's stay ike this little
while, dear. Just a minute or two.
1 want to tell you: Brother George
has been here, and he told me every
thing abOut-abOut how unhappy you'd
been-and how you went so CALAMITY
to that old woman" Isabel gave a sad
little laugh. what a terrible old
woman she isl What a really terrible
thing vulgar old woman can be!''
Mother. /" And again he moved
to rise.
'Must you? 1t seemed to me such a
comfortable way to talk. Well" She
yielded; he rose, helped her to her
feet, and pressed the light into being.
AS the room took life from the sudden
lines of fire within the bulbs Isabel
made a deprecatOry gesture, and, with
faint laugh of apologize protest,
turned quickly away from George.
What she meant was: "You mustn't
see my face until I've made it nicer
for you" 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 SEM
blance of smile upon her lips. She
still wore her hat, and in her unsteady
fingers she held a white envelope,
somewhat crumpled.
"Now, mother"
"Wait, dearest" she said; and
though he stood stone cold, she lifted
her arms, put them round him again,
and pressed her cheek lightly to his.
"Oh, you do look so troubled, poor
dear! One thing you couldn't doubt,
believer boy. You know l could never
care for anything in the world as /
care for you-never, never"
''Now, mother"
She released him and stepped back.
"Just moment more, dearest. 1 want
you to read this first. We can get at
things better" She pressed into his
hand the envelope she had brought
with her, and as he opened it and be-
gan to read the long inclosure she
walked slowly to the other end of the
room; then stood there, with her back
to him, and her head dropping a little,
until he had finished.
The sheets of paper were covered
with Eugene's handwriting.
George Anderson will bring you
this. dear Isabel. He is waiting while
1 write. He and l have talked things
over, and before he gives this to you
he will tell you what has happened.
ought to have known it was coming,
because 1 have understood for quite a
long time that young George was get
ting to dislike me more and more.
Somehow, I've never been able to get
his friendship: he's always had a latent
distrust of me-Or something like dis
trust-and perhaps that's made me
sometimes a little awkward and diff
dent with him. think it may be he
felt from the first that | cared a great
deal about you, and he naturally re-
scented it. | think perhaps he felt this
even during all the time when / was
so careful-at least l thought / was
not to show, even to you, how i'm
mensely did care. It's perfectly COM
prehensible to me, also, that at his age
one gets excited about gossip. Dear
Isabel, what I'm trying to get at, in nv
confused way, is that you and I don't
care about this nonsenSical gossip. our
selves, at all. Yesterday l thought the
time had come when | could ask you
TO marry me, and you were dear
enough to me TO tell me sometime it
might come. to that Well, you and |,
left TO ourselves, and knowing what
we have been and what we are, we'd
pay as much attention to talk as we
would to any other kind of old cats
mewing! Wed 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 from old unhappiness and
mistakes. But now we're faced with
not the SANDER and not our own fear
of it, because we haven't any, but
someone else's fear of it-your sons.
And, oh, dearest woman in the world,
know what your son is to you, and 1t
frightens me! Let me explain little:
don't think he'll change-at twenty
one or twenty-five so many things ap-
pear solid and permanent and terrible