The Open Question Part 51

She stood at the door. In the cross lights of lantern in front and Moorish lamp behind, she seemed to be in all the animate world the thing least changed since she had stood there to receive the boy nineteen summers before. Only a little frailer, a little whiter haired, subtly fined down by the years. With an impetuosity that made Val tremble for the fragile watcher at the door, Ethan sprang forward and up the two steps of the porch. He stopped before her with a curious reverence, and took her gently in his arms. Her head drooped on his shoulder. Val saw she had drawn the veil across her face. His arm still round her, Ethan turned with her into the hall.

"What!" he said, seeing the parlor lit, "am I company this time?"

"Tell Jerusha to serve supper," said Mrs. Gano, tremulously, to Val.

"Jerusha! Fancy her being still alive! But no supper, thank you; there was a dining-car on my miserable train."

The others went into the parlor, while Val took the lantern and the message to the kitchen, and then hurried back.

Emmie was beaming beside her cousin, sitting as close to him as she could get on the old velvet sofa. Opposite sat Mrs. Gano, animated, smiling. John Gano stood with parted coat-tails in front of the fire.

"And how does life abroad compare on the whole with life in America?" he was asking.

"Well, outwardly it is very different, of course."

"Different! I should think so," said Val, impulsively.

"_Outwardly different_," repeated John Gano. "I should think the spirit as well--the point of view utterly alien from ours."

"I believe _I'd_ like Europe," said the sympathetic Emmie, "but Val's been wondering a great deal how you could bear it so long, especially after your grandfather was dead, and you could do as you liked."

Mrs. Gano sat very straight, not joining in the conversation at this point, but succeeding to admiration in conveying her opinions.

"I dare say," explained John Gano; "there has been some not altogether unnatural fear that the Old World might infect even you, as it has done other good Americans."

"How is that?"

John Gano shook his lion locks ominously. Ethan looked at his grandmother. Her slow head-shake set the white veil waving. Evidently, whatever the danger might be, it was something too hideous for words. He looked at Val. She turned away her eyes. The infected one began to smile involuntarily. His youngest cousin alone of that patriotic company looked at him with no shadow of misgiving.

"There's a young man belongs to this town," she said, beginning in gentle explanatory tones, but waxing indignant as she went on, "and his name's Jimmie Battle--used to be quite a nice young man. Grandma knew his father's father--"

"Certainly, I knew all about the Battle family, from A to Izzard."

"Let _me_ tell, grandma. Well, Jimmie Battle went to Paris for a week, and when he got back to America he called himself James Battelle.

Everybody loathes and despises--I mean, doesn't like Jimmie any more."

The tension gave way at this point, and they joined in Ethan's laughter.

"I'm afraid, like the abhorred Mr. Battelle, I didn't object to the French variant of my name; but I did mind the English persistence in calling me Eth-an Gay-no."

"Quite ridiculous," said his grandmother.

"But did they go on speaking of you in that horrid way?" asked Val, incredulously.

Ethan nodded.

"I wouldn't have stayed with such people a minute," she said--"at least, only long enough to see how ridiculous they were, and then come straight home."

"Miss Hills, she's my Sunday-school teacher," remarked Emmie, "she's been abroad, and she says all English people call cake _cyke_."

"Ah, let us hope Miss Hills is more conversant with the manners and customs of the ancient Hebrews."

"We _thought_ you'd be standing up for Europe," said Val, with a commiserating smile. "Perhaps you'll say all the English don't say _militree_ for military."

Ethan only laughed, and began to talk of Paris. Val found herself listening, not to the words, but to the tones of her cousin's voice, with a sense of rising excitement. Of all kinds of beauty, and of all forms of fascination, that which found the girl most defenceless was harmony in sound. It is doubtful if any eloquence could have reached her through a cracked or raucous voice. But this one, with its vibrant, searching resonance, that yet held no effect of harshness, its pliancy, its command of half-tones, its haunting timbre--this was a voice that, no matter what it said, made music and uttered charms. No one in New Plymouth, no one Val had ever heard before, spoke like this. Yet the accent was frankly Northern, and the diction free from any obtrusive elegance or trace of pedantry. It was the voice that gave the words their quality.

Before to-night Val had judged of speech and matter critically enough, being an even uncomfortably observant young person; but this sound went thrilling along her nerves, setting up so strange a tumult as to shut out sense. After all, he was only talking about France. What did France matter? It might as well be Mars. The important fact was that in the grave, dark face, great wonderful eyes were s.h.i.+ning, deeper, gloomier than Emmie's. But his smile made generous amends. It made the heart beat to look at the mobile mouth. And Emmie had dared to kiss him! Something caught in Val's breast as she thought of such boldness. But speaking of boldness, it was to this person she had written for help to get her into opera. How had she dared? Did he have the letter in his pocket? Would he take it out presently, and bring her to confusion before the family?

"This room's exactly the same," he said, suddenly, breaking away from the discussion as to whether Republicanism suited the volatile, spectacle-loving Gaul. "My old friend Daniel Boone's still at his post, I see; and, why, the very silver paper on the walls is the same!"

"No, no," protested Mrs. Gano. "This is new. It hasn't been up more than"--she reflected.

"Nine years ago, this coming May," said John Gano.

"Oh, really!" Ethan pa.s.sed his slim, brown finger-tips lightly over the wall behind the sofa. "It's just as nice as the old kind was," he said, smiling; "it comes off on your fingers, s.h.i.+ny and metallic."

"Yes," said Val; "just like the dust off a b.u.t.terfly's wings."

"So it is." He nodded across the room at her. "I remember what fun I used to think it to rub it off--just a little, grandmamma."

"If you remember that," said Mrs. Gano, indulgently, "you remember I always reproved you for it."

"No, no." He jumped up, and stood very tall and smiling in front of her, with his hands behind his back, like a guilty urchin. "You've forgotten. When you caught me with silvery fingers, I used to be awfully alarmed. I always tried to disarm you by saying 'I was _afraid_ you'd scold.' Then you would say, 'I never scold. I point out your defects--it's what I'm here for.'"

They all laughed, the two girls with some misgiving.

This repartee still did service on occasion.

"Oh, but those were good times!" Yet even as he said the words the gay look faded out of his face. "It was a long while ago."

"It's nineteen years," said John Gano, who was wrestling with a fit of coughing. These attacks were such a commonplace in the family life that the rest were aware of this one only when Ethan said:

"What a frightful cough you've got, Uncle John."

"No--nothing unusual. It begins like this when the cold weather comes on."

"Oh, father, you don't call to-day cold!" said Emmie.

"Your uncle is much better than he used to be," said Mrs. Gano, rising with her habitual every-day decision, and glancing at the clock. "You must be tired, Ethan?"

"Do you think you're _too_ tired--" Val began, and hesitated, seized again with an unaccustomed shyness.

"I'm as fresh as possible."

He turned and looked inquiringly at her.

"I was just thinking how excited An' Jerusha's been about your coming, and--"