3 Books To Know Pulitzer Prize for Fiction. Edith Wharton

“I want to treat him respectfully, because he is my grandfather, but I don't believe I could if I talked to him about such a thing as this!”

      And with a gesture of despair, plainly signifying that all too soon after leaving bright college years behind him he had entered into the full tragedy of life, George turned bitterly upon his heel and went into the house for his breakfast.

      His uncle, with his head whimsically upon one side, gazed after him not altogether unsympathetically, then descended again into the excavation whence he had lately emerged. Being a philosopher he was not surprised, that afternoon, in the course of a drive he took in the old carriage with the Major, when, George was encountered upon the highway, flashing along in his runabout with Lucy beside him and Pendennis doing better than three minutes.

      “He seems to have recovered,” Amberson remarked: “Looks in the highest good spirits.”

      “I beg your pardon.”

      “Your grandson,” Amberson explained. “He was inclined to melancholy this morning, but seemed jolly enough just now when they passed us.”

      “What was he melancholy about? Not getting remorseful about all the money he's spent at college, was he?” The Major chuckled feebly, but with sufficient grimness. “I wonder what he thinks I'm made of,” he concluded querulously.

      “Gold,” his son suggested, adding gently, “And he's right about part of you, father.”

      “What part?”

      “Your heart.”

      The Major laughed ruefully. “I suppose that may account for how heavy it feels, sometimes, nowadays. This town seems to be rolling right over that old heart you mentioned, George—rolling over it and burying it under! When I think of those devilish workmen digging up my lawn, yelling around my house—”

      “Never mind, father. Don't think of it. When things are a nuisance it's a good idea not to keep remembering 'em.”

      “I try not to,” the old gentleman murmured. “I try to keep remembering that I won't be remembering anything very long.” And, somehow convinced that this thought was a mirthful one, he laughed loudly, and slapped his knee. “Not so very long now, my boy!” he chuckled, continuing to echo his own amusement. “Not so very long. Not so very long!”

      Chapter XVII

      Young George paid his respects to his grandfather the following morning, having been occupied with various affairs and engagements on Sunday until after the Major's bedtime; and topics concerned with building or excavations were not introduced into the conversation, which was a cheerful one until George lightly mentioned some new plans of his. He was a skillful driver, as the Major knew, and he spoke of his desire to extend his proficiency in this art: in fact, be entertained the ambition to drive a four-in-hand. However, as the Major said nothing, and merely sat still, looking surprised, George went on to say that he did not propose to “go in for coaching just at the start”; he thought it would be better to begin with a tandem. He was sure Pendennis could be trained to work as a leader; and all that one needed to buy at present, he said, would be “comparatively inexpensive—a new trap, and the harness, of course, and a good bay to match Pendennis.” He did not care for a special groom; one of the stablemen would do.

      At this point the Major decided to speak. “You say one of the stablemen would do?” he inquired, his widened eyes remaining fixed upon his grandson. “That's lucky, because one's all there is, just at present, George. Old fat Tom does it all. Didn't you notice, when you took Pendennis out, yesterday?”

      “Oh, that will be all right, sir. My mother can lend me her man.”

      “Can she?” The old gentleman smiled faintly. “I wonder—” He paused.

      “What, sir?”

      “Whether you mightn't care to go to law-school somewhere perhaps. I'd be glad to set aside a sum that would see you through.”

      This senile divergence from the topic in hand surprised George painfully. “I have no interest whatever in the law,” he said. “I don't care for it, and the idea of being a professional man has never appealed to me. None of the family has ever gone in for that sort of thing, to my knowledge, and I don't care to be the first. I was speaking of driving a tandem—”

      “I know you were,” the Major said quietly.

      George looked hurt. “I beg your pardon. Of course if the idea doesn't appeal to you—” And he rose to go.

      The Major ran a tremulous hand through his hair, sighing deeply. “I—I don't like to refuse you anything, Georgie,” he said. “I don't know that I often have refused you whatever you wanted—in reason—”

      “You've always been more than generous, sir,” George interrupted quickly. “And if the idea of a tandem doesn't appeal to you, why—of course—” And he waved his hand, heroically dismissing the tandem.

      The Major's distress became obvious. “Georgie, I'd like to, but—but I've an idea tandems are dangerous to drive, and your mother might be anxious. She—”

      “No, sir; I think not. She felt it would be rather a good thing—help to keep me out in the open air. But if perhaps your finances—”

      “Oh, it isn't that so much,” the old gentleman said hurriedly. “I wasn't thinking of that altogether.” He laughed uncomfortably. “I guess we could still afford a new horse or two, if need be—”

      “I thought you said—”

      The Major waved his hand airily. “Oh, a few retrenchments where things were useless; nothing gained by a raft of idle darkies in the stable—nor by a lot of extra land that might as well be put to work for us in rentals. And if you want this thing so very much—”

      “It's not important enough to bother about, really, of course.”

      “Well, let's wait till autumn then,” said the Major in a tone of relief. “We'll see about it in the autumn, if you're still in the mind for it then. That will be a great deal better. You remind me of it, along in September—or October. We'll see what can be done.” He rubbed his hands cheerfully. “We'll see what can be done about it then, Georgie. We'll see.”

      And George, in reporting this conversation to his mother, was ruefully humorous. “In fact, the old boy cheered up so much,” he told her, “you'd have thought he'd got a real load off his mind. He seemed to think he'd fixed me up perfectly, and that I was just as good as driving a tandem around his library right that minute! Of course I know he's anything but miserly; still I can't help thinking he must be salting a lot of money away. I know prices are higher than they used to be, but he doesn't spend within thousands of what he used to, and we certainly can't be spending more than we always have spent. Where does it all go to? Uncle George told me grandfather had sold some pieces of property, and it looks a little queer. If he's really 'property poor,' of course we ought to be more saving than we are, and help him out. I don't mind giving up a tandem if it seems a little too expensive just now. I'm perfectly willing to live quietly till he gets his bank balance where he wants it. But I have a faint suspicion, not that he's getting miserly—not that at all—but that old age has begun to make him timid about money. There's no doubt about it, he's getting a little queer: he can't keep his mind on a subject long. Right in the middle of talking about one thing he'll wander off to something else; and I shouldn't be surprised if he turned out to be a lot better off than any of us guess. It's entirely possible that whatever he's sold just went into government bonds, or even his safety deposit box. There was a friend of mine in college had an old uncle like that: made the whole family think he was poor as dirt—and then left seven millions. People get terribly queer as they get old, sometimes, and grandfather certainly doesn't act the way he used to. He seems to be a totally different man. For instance, he said he thought tandem driving might be dangerous—”

      “Did he?” Isabel asked quickly. “Then I'm glad he doesn't