"Well, you needn"t speak of it to--a--to any one, just yet."
"No, no, father." She was strung up to the great romantic revelation.
"Well, I believe--indeed, I am sure--that all the hot gas and blinding electric light in use in most houses are very injurious to eyesight."
She stopped and stared at him. Was he going mad? Had she heard aright?
The great romantic revelation that wasn"t to be spoken of to any one--
He struck his blackthorn energetically on the ground and went on:
"The increase of eye troubles is appalling. What the world wants"--he looked up suddenly with enthusiasm, and Val took heart--"what the world wants is--is a safe and soft-burning reading-lamp at a moderate price. A whole family shouldn"t depend on one or two; every man his own lamp. I"m inventing it. I shall take out a patent next winter, and--well, it might make a fortune."
"How nice!" said his daughter, slowly.
John Gano seemed to hear no hint of disillusionment in the tone. He straightened himself up.
"I"m giving Black a share in it," he said, with a magnanimous air, "for a mere nominal sum, which I am spending in inspecting all the new burners and contrivances; they"re all failures, not worth house-room.
I"ve promised to see Black in New York next November, and he and I are going on to Washington for the patent. All anybody need know is that I"m taking you East with me on a little visit, and you can look over the field."
"Father! _Father!_" she felt for his hand. As they went up the tumble-down steps to the porch, two pairs of eyes were bent on the blue horizon.
What helped a little to reconcile Val to waiting till November was not only the simplification of the money question, but also the fact that it gave her time to carry out a daring scheme that had been suggested by the contents of the last foreign mail. No letters; but addressed in cousin Ethan"s hand, a French magazine with a queer mystical kind of a story in it, marked, and a London _Pall Mall Gazette_ with a poem signed "E. G." It was not the first time Mrs. Gano had received matters of this sort in lieu of a letter, and when she did she was always angrier, Val thought, than if she had got nothing at all.
But the poem in the _Pall Mall_ set Val thinking. It was no part of her scheme of life to have a pleasure trip to New York and return with a mere "look over the field." She must lay her plans carefully and not trust to luck. No stone should be left unturned in her endeavor to make the most of this glorious opportunity. Cousin Ethan! Could he, perhaps, be turned to account? If there were any influence or advice he could offer, of course he would be most happy. Val would be intensely grateful to him; but all the same, it would be the crowning pride of his life that he had helped to launch his cousin on the tide of fame.
She sat down and wrote to him surrept.i.tiously, made a score of drafts, and finally evolved this copy:
"THE FORT, _June 20_.
"MY DEAR COUSIN ETHAN,--I have never written to you but once since I was a child. I have never told you anything except that I wished you "A Merry Christmas," or was glad you were coming--which you know you never did. I don"t think you ever will, and, besides, I can"t wait for you. It may seem funny that, not knowing you any better, I should write you now about a matter of the deepest importance, but you are my cousin, and, after my father, you are my nearest kinsman, and I am in need of help. I want to be a singer--not a mere parlor warbler, but a Great Singer. I have a tremendous voice. I am obliged to tell you this, since you can"t hear it. I practise every day by myself, though I can"t use the piano much on account of grandma. I have always led the singing at school; all the rest, nearly three hundred girls, follow. But I have never been able properly to study music. I was going to run away and be a chorus girl till I could earn enough to study for grand opera, but my father has induced me to wait--just a little.
He is going to take me East in the fall, and says I may "Look over the field." He says, too, it will give me an opportunity of seeing how difficult it is to do what I mean to do. But I don"t think it"s a good plan to take all that trouble (his cough is very bad) just to show me the thing is difficult. What I want to be shown is the way--no matter how hard--that it may be done. The trouble is, that my dear father, who knows many great scientists, and a few politicians, doesn"t know any famous singers, and n.o.body about here does, and n.o.body seems to know any one who ever _did_ know an opera-singer, much less a manager. My grandmother has often told me that you have artistic tastes, and now comes the _Pall Mall_ of London with your "Song for Sylvia." I"ve made up five tunes to it, and I think you would like them, since, unlike my family, _you_ are artistic. I"ve been thinking a person like you must have great opportunities. You probably know singers, managers, musicians, and all sorts of delightful people. I wonder if you would help me to find out how a girl with a very exceptional voice can get it heard and get it trained? I know there are people who do these things, and when they discover a great voice they make their fortunes; so it is not a favor in the end on the part of the manager. But if you showed me the way, and could lend me five hundred dollars, it would always be a favor from you, and I would be grateful to you for ever and ever. If you will send me a letter of introduction to a manager, I think that would be best--that and five hundred dollars--and perhaps you would be so very kind as to send me the lives of Jenny Lind and Patti. It would help me to know what steps they took. I don"t mind any hardship or any labor--I mind _nothing_ but not getting my chance. Don"t be afraid of encouraging me to do something the family has not been accustomed to--my father is on my side; and, anyhow, they would have to kill me before they could keep me back now. So you will not feel any responsibility. I would rather be helped by you because you are my relation, but if you won"t, I must find somebody else. I remain, your affectionate cousin,
"VAL GANO.
"P.S.--I am a good deal over fifteen; strangers all think I am twenty.
"P.S. No. 2.--Of course I will pay back the five hundred dollars, princ.i.p.al and interest. I will send you a promissory note, like the arithmetic says."
This doc.u.ment was conveyed to the mail with secrecy and despatch. The days went by like malicious snails; she had never known time drag before. The slow weeks gathered into monotonous months, and still no answer. Never mind, she would do everything just the same--better--without his help. Her future triumphs took on more the aspect of a judgment on cousin Ethan than a mere reward to Val. She made up scenes of the coming encounters, when, from the vantage-ground of being "better than Patti," she would overwhelm her cousin with scorn.
She would meet him as a perfect stranger, declare her surprise at his claiming her for his cousin. He would find his chief distinction in this kinship. He would lay his millions at her feet. She would spurn them. "I have my own millions now. Had it been earlier, cousin, it had been kind."
September was drawing to a close. Everything was merging now in the excitement of the Eastern trip, fixed for the end of November.
Idling in the autumn sunshine at the front door after breakfast one morning, Val and Emmie had a friendly scuffle as to who should take the mail from the postman. The little heap of letters and papers was soon sown broadcast in the fray, and still no sign of either yielding, till Val was arrested on catching sight of the addressed side of one of the envelopes--"Mrs. Sarah C. Gano," in cousin Ethan"s hand. But the real significance lay in the stamp. Not this time the scantily-clad gentleman and lady, clasping hands over a mauve world, of the Republique Francaise; no goggle-eyed, mustachioed Umberto, in blue, with his hair on end, and _Poste Italiane Centesimi Venticinque_ round him in an oval frame; it was not even the twopenny-half-penny indigo head of Queen Victoria; but their own rosy two-cent Washington, risking his health in a low-neck coat, but saving his dignity by the queue. This was the first letter from Ethan in five years that did not bear a foreign postmark.
While Val stood staring, Emmie had whipped up the letters and carried them in to her grandmother.
Val, in an agony of suspense, remained in the hall. Presently Emmie came flying out, clapping her hands. Mrs. Gano followed briskly with the open letter.
"All those old Tallmadges are dead!" cried Emmie, jumping up and down behind her grandmother. "He"s been back in America over two months, and he"s coming here next week."
Mrs. Gano was hurrying up-stairs to tell her son the great news.
CHAPTER XIV
Despite the distractions of a host of wandering fancies, Ethan Gano had been kept fairly closely at his studies till he had pa.s.sed his twentieth birthday. To be sure, there had been a threatened interruption the spring before, when he seemed suddenly to lose interest in his work, and went about with vacant looks and airs of profound preoccupation. Old Mr.
Tallmadge, observing him narrowly, decided that his grandson had got into debt, and that he was nervous about confessing. Ethan had never shown a proper regard for money. This was one of the many un-Tallmadge-like qualities developed by the years. It was a matter of paramount importance to counteract this flaw in Aaron Tallmadge"s sole surviving heir, since of late years the old man"s affairs had prospered more than ever. About the time of his brother Elijah"s death, he had financed a manufacturing enterprise which, starting on a modest scale, had turned out fabulously successful. He was one of the "moneyed men" of the State. In addition to this piece of shrewd speculation, he found the income from his newspaper doubled in the last few years. Ah, yes!
nothing was of so much importance now as Ethan"s fitness to gather in and husband the golden harvest. If he had been further exemplifying his unthrifty proclivities, if he needed to be told that borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry--Mr. Tallmadge, not trusting to any unperceived facilities for impromptu speech, rehea.r.s.ed mentally the lecture he would administer. Ethan mustn"t run away with the idea that the Tallmadge acc.u.mulations were only waiting for a lavish hand to redistribute. The first lesson a young man with his prospects must be made to learn was the value of a dollar. But Ethan wore a gracious kind of reticence wrapped like a mantle round his young life. His grandfather knew very little about him, but the old man had himself belonged to the inarticulate ones of earth, and he never realized that, to this quiet, non-committal grandson of his expression of some sort was a master pa.s.sion. How should Aaron Tallmadge have suspected such a thing? Some time before this Ethan quietly, alone, without making a sign, had gone through a religious crisis not uncommon to his age and era. "No use to upset the family," he said to himself when he found he had come out on the other side of Tallmadge-Presbyterianism; and he went regularly to church with his grandfather without comment and without misgiving. There were still grave problems to be faced--too grave, in fact, for him to be beguiled into fancying this was one.
Now, in the midst of a perturbation not greater, but less easily disguised, he held his peace as a matter of course. Some early developed quality of aloofness in him held inquiry at bay. Then suddenly the clouds lifted. He was radiant and full of covert smiling.
Mr. Tallmadge resented this phase more than the former gloom.
"He"s paying heavy interest, the young fool! and can"t realize that that way d.a.m.nation lies."
But all the old man"s clumsy efforts to bring about an explanation were unavailing. Ethan declared with some surprise that he was not in need of funds. Mr. Tallmadge began to scrutinize the letters that came. Three mornings in succession a business-like envelope addressed in the same clerkly hand! Alone, before the fire in the dining-room, waiting for breakfast that third morning, the old man solemnly deliberated, glanced at the clock, and grumbled to himself that Ethan would certainly be ten minutes late as usual these days. "Perhaps he doesn"t sleep." He examined the suspicious envelope. The flap was not securely gummed down.
Mr. Tallmadge glanced again at the clock. He had not the least doubt as to his right--"duty" he would have said--to open the letter of this unconfiding minor, who was his ward and grandson--an unpractical youth, moreover, of absolutely no business capacity whatever. Still, although Mr. Tallmadge would never have admitted it, he was a little in awe of this grandson, with so little "Tallmadge" in him. It was essential to open the letter--no doubt about that; but it would be well to have the business over before Ethan appeared. Mr. Tallmadge"s desire not to be interrupted in the act might have enlightened him as to its defensibility; but he was no casuist. He took up the letter, adjusted his spectacles, and walked to the window. Inserting a long finger-nail, he easily pried up the flap.
"MY DARLING ETHAN,--Your last poem is the most beautiful thing I ever read in my life. It is far more wonderful than anything Sh.e.l.ley ever did. I shall be in the Beech Walk at five.
"Your wife, ALMIRA."
Aaron Tallmadge clutched the red damask curtains, with a stifled groan.
The breakfast-bell clanged loudly. Its echoes had not time to die before Ethan appeared, with shining morning face.
"Good-morning," he said, lightly, looking down at his plate. "No letters?"
"Yes, sir." Mr. Tallmadge turned his ashen countenance round. "There _is_ a letter."
Ethan stared at him and ran forward.
"What"s the matter? Are you ill?"
Mr. Tallmadge warded him off with a shaking hand.
"You scoundrel!"
Ethan drew himself up arrow-straight, and his warm brown eyes grew cold.
"I knew there was some devilry afoot. I never dreamed it was as bad as this."