“I don’t know,” said Fanny, still averting her troubled eyes. “Things are so changed here, George. The other people you speak of—one hardly knows what’s become of them. Of course not a great many were doing the talking, and they—well, some of them are dead, and some might as well be—you never see them any more—and the rest, whoever they were, are probably so mixed in with the crowds of new people that seem never even to have heard of us—and I’m sure we certainly never heard of them—and people seem to forget things so soon—they seem to forget anything. You can’t imagine how things have changed here!”
George gulped painfully before he could speak. “You—you mean to sit there and tell me that if I’d just let things go on—Oh!” He swung away, walking the floor again. “I tell you I did the only right thing! If you don’t think so, why in the name of heaven can’t you say what else I should have done? It’s easy enough to criticize, but the person who criticizes a man ought at least to tell him what else he should have done! You think I was wrong!”
“I’m not saying so,” she said.
“You did at the time!” he cried. “You said enough then, I think! Well, what have you to say now, if you’re so sure I was wrong?”
“Nothing, George.”
“It’s only because you’re afraid to!” he said, and he went on with a sudden bitter divination: “You’re reproaching yourself with what you had to do with all that; and you’re trying to make up for it by doing and saying what you think mother would want you to, and you think I couldn’t stand it if I got to thinking I might have done differently. Oh, I know! That’s exactly what’s in your mind: you do think I was wrong! So does Uncle George. I challenged him about it the other day, and he answered just as you’re answering—evaded, and tried to be gentler. I don’t care to be handled with gloves! I tell you I was right, and I don’t need any coddling by people that think I wasn’t! And I suppose you believe I was wrong not to let Morgan see her that last night when he came here, and she—she was dying. If you do, why in the name of God did you come and ask me? You could have taken him in! She did want to see him. She—”
Miss Fanny looked startled. “You think—”
“She told me so!” And the tortured young man choked. “She said—‘just once.’ She said ‘I’d like to have seen him—just once!’ She meant—to tell him good-bye! That’s what she meant! And you put this on me, too; you put this responsibility on me! But I tell you, and I told Uncle George, that the responsibility isn’t all mine! If you were so sure I was wrong all the time—when I took her away, and when I turned Morgan out—if you were so sure, what did you let me do it for? You and Uncle George were grown people, both of you, weren’t you? You were older than I, and if you were so sure you were wiser than I, why did you just stand around with your hands hanging down, and let me go ahead? You could have stopped it if it was wrong, couldn’t you?”
Fanny shook her head. “No, George,” she said slowly. “Nobody could have stopped you. You were too strong, and—”
“And what?” he demanded loudly.