The Ely miner. [volume] (Ely, Minn.) 1895-1986, 1919-12-12
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what II committed him:
He began to realize 1t now, as HI
wondered about the dismantled house:
he was far from sure that he was
willing to live In a ''three-room apart
ment" with Fanny and eat breakfast
and lunch with her (prepared by her
self in the "kitchenette') and dinner
Mt the table d'hote "such prett.
Colonial dining room" ESQ Fanny de-
scribed IT'D at little round table they
would have all to themselves In the
midst of dozen little round tables
which other relics of disrupted fam
lilies would have all to themselves. For
the first time, now that the change
was imminent. George began to devel-
or before his minds eye pictures Of
What he was in for; and they, appalled,
Lin. He decided that such a life
vc'ged upon the sheerly unbearable,
and that after all there were some
things left that he just couldn't stand.
So he made up his mind to speak to
his aunt about It at dinner" and toll
her that he preferred to ask Bronson
10 let him put sofa-bed, trunk and
a folding rubber bathtub behind q
screen In the dark rear room of the Of
fee.
But at "dinner" Fanny was nerv-
Gus. and so distressed about the fail
ure Of her efforts with sweetbreads
and macaroni; and she was so eager
In her talk Of how comfortable they
WOULD be ''by this time tomorrow
night
After dinner" he went upstairs,
moving his hand slowly along the
smooth walnut railing of the balus-
trade. Half way to the landing he
stopped, turned, and stood looking
down at the heavy doors masking the
black emptiness that had been the
library. Here he had stood on what
he now knew was the worst day of his
life; here he had stood when his moth
er passed through that doorway, hand
finland with her brother, to learn what
her son had done.
He went on more heavily, more slow
ly; and, more heavily and slowly still,
entered Isabel's room and shut the
door. He did not come forth again,
aud babe Fanny goodnight through
the closed door when she stopped out
side it later.
"I've put all the lights out, George"
she said. "Everything's all right"
"Very WE'LL" he called. Good night,
Aunt Fanny"
His voice had strangled sound in
spite of him; but she seemed not to
notice it, and he heard her go to her
own room and lock herself in with
bolt and key against burglars. She
had said the one thing she should not
have said just then: "Pm sure your
mothers watching over you, George"
She had meant to be kind, but it de-
stroyed his last chance for sleep that
night. He would have slept little If
she had not said it. but since she had
said it he did not sleep at all. For he
knew that it was true-if it could be
true-that his mother, if she still lived
In spirit, would be weeping on the
other side of the wall of silence, weep
ing and seeking for some gate to let
her through so that she could come
and swatch over him."
He felt that if there were such gates
they were surely barred: they were
like those awful library doors down
stairs, which had shut her in to begin
the suffering to which he had con-
signed her.
The room was still Isabel's. Moth
ing had been changed: even the pho
tographs of George, of the Major and
Of brother George" still stood on her
dressing table, and in drawer of her
desk was an old picture of Eugene and
Lucy, taken together, which George
| had found but had slowly closed away
again from sight, not touching it. To
morrow everything would be gone |;
and he had heard there was not long
to wait before the house itself would
be demolished. The very space which
tonight was still Isabels room would
be cut into new shapes by new walls
and floors and ceilings; yet the room
would always live, for it could not die
out of Georges memory. 1t would live
as long as he did, and it would always
be murmurous with a tragic, wistful
whispering.