Edith Wharton - SSC 09 by Human Nature (v2.1) Read Free Book Online

having the enjoyment done for you by your heirs.”
                 “Oh,
what a large order—” he sighed, and drew out his cigarettes.
                 For
a moment we were both silent; then he raised his eyes and looked straight at
me. “Supposing I don’t get well, there’s another thing …” He hesitated a
moment. “Do you happen to know if my mother has made her will?”
                 I
imagine my look must have surprised him, for he hurried on: “It’s only this: if
I should drop out—you can never tell—there are Chrissy and Boy, poor helpless
devils. I can’t forget what they’ve been to me … done for me … though sometimes
I daresay I seem ungrateful. …”
                 I
listened to his embarrassed phrases with an
embarrassment at least as great. “You may be sure your mother won’t forget
either,” I said.
                 “No;
I suppose not. Of course not. Only sometimes—you can
see for yourself that things are a little breezy … They feel that perhaps she
doesn’t always remember for how many years …” He brought the words out as
though he were reciting a lesson. “I can’t forget it …of course,” he added,
painfully.
                 I
glanced at my watch and stood up. I wanted to spare him the evident effort of
going on. “Mr. and Mrs. Brown’s tastes don’t always agree with your mother’s.
That’s evident. If you could persuade them to go off somewhere—or to lead more
independent lives when they’re with her—mightn’t that help?”
                 He
cast a despairing glance at me. “Lord—I wish you’d try! But you see they’re
anxious—anxious about their future….”
                 “I’m
sure they needn’t be,” I answered shortly, more and more impatient to make an
end.
                 His
face lit up with a suddenness that hurt me. “Oh, well … it’s sure to be all
right if you say so. Of course you know.”
                 “I
know your mother,” I said, holding out my hand for goodbye.
                   
     
  VIII.
 
 
                 Shortly
after my lunch with Stephen Glenn I was unexpectedly detached from my job in
Paris and sent on a special mission to the other side of the world. I was sorry
to bid goodbye to Mrs. Glenn, but relieved to be rid of the thankless task of
acting as her counsellor. Not that she herself was not thankful, poor soul; but
the situation abounded in problems, to not one of which could I find a
solution; and I was embarrassed by her simple faith in my ability to do so.
“Get rid of the Browns; pension them
off,” I could only repeat; but since my talk with Stephen I had little hope of
his mother’s acting on this suggestion. “You’ll probably all end up together at
St. Moritz,” I prophesied; and a few months later a belated Paris Herald I, overtaking me in my remote
corner of the globe, informed me that among the guests of the new Ice Palace
Hotel at St. Moritz were Mrs. Glenn of New York, Mr. Stephen Glenn, and Mr. and
Mrs. Boydon Brown. From succeeding numbers of the same sheet I learned that Mr.
and Mrs. Boydon Brown were among those entertaining on the opening night of the
new Restaurant des Glaciers , that the
Boydon Brown cup for the most original costume at the Annual Fancy Ball of the
Skiers’ Club had been won by Miss Thora Dacy (costume designed by the
well-known artist, Stephen Glenn), and that Mr. Boydon Brown had been one of
the stewards of the dinner given to the participants in the ice-hockey match
between the St. Moritz and Suvretta teams. And on such items I was obliged to
nourish my memory of my friends, for no direct news came to me from any of
them.
                 When
I bade Mrs. Glenn goodbye I had told her that I had hopes of a post in the
State Department at the close of my temporary mission, and she said, a little
wistfully: “How wonderful if we