The Open Question Part 40

The young face grew dark. He was writhing under the catechism.

"Charlie Hammond showed her a poem I had written for the _Harvard Oracle_. She sent me a message about it."

"Well?"

"Then I went to call with Hammond."

"Well?"

"Then--then I met her in the Beech Walk."

"Ah! The Beech Walk."

"Yes; twice."

"And then?"

"That's all."

"Don't tell me lies, sir!"

Ethan stood before him cold and rigid on a sudden. No flush now on the clear-cut features.

"You've no right to speak to me as you're doing, not if you were fifty grandfathers."

"Where did these other meetings take place, sir? Did old Marlowe countenance them?"

"There were no other meetings."

Ethan turned away.

"Now, look here!"--the old man arraigned him with a shaking hand--"you can't undo the bitter disappointment you are to me, but you can and you owe it to me to tell me fairly and squarely the details of this wretched business. I can't proceed in the matter if I'm in the dark."

"_You_ proceed in the matter?"

Ethan wheeled about and faced him.

"It's quite plain that you were merely a yielding fool in the matter--girl older, and you--"

"Grandfather!"

"--and you easy to convince that you ought to make reparation."

Ethan seemed to have ears only for the first part of this accusation. He spoke through Mr. Tallmadge's last words with a pa.s.sionate shake in his voice.

"It's quite plain, at all events, grandfather, that I love her, and that nothing in heaven or on earth can part us."

"Of course--of course. A fortnight--a girl you barely knew by sight!"

"I know her absolutely. There isn't another like her on this earth."

"And you want me to believe you've spoken to her only three or four times in your life?"

"I don't specially _want_ you to believe it, but it's true."

"Who could you find to marry you?"

"Who could I--to marry me?" He looked as if he had begun to doubt the old man's sanity. "Why, I've never asked anybody but Almira."

"Yes, yes, yes. Who could you find to overlook the age question? Who performed the ceremony?"

"_Ceremony?_"

"Oh, ho! Registry-office performance, eh? and perjury! Monstrous irreligion! _My_ grandson!"

"What _do_ you mean?" But a light was beginning to dawn.

"Who were your witnesses?"

Ethan laughed and flushed, and then grew serious again.

"Of course, it's exactly the same as if we _were_ married, _exactly the same_." He flashed a broadside of defiance out of s.h.i.+ning eyes. "But we know we can't well be married while I'm a minor, and--"

"You _aren't_ married?"

"Oh no. But--"

"Then, what in the name of Jehoshaphat is all this d.a.m.ned--what's all this disturbance about?"

"I'm sure I don't know."

Mr. Tallmadge mopped his brow, and looked about distractedly, like one who has lost his thread in a labyrinth.

"However, it's exactly the same as if we were--"

"Exactly tomfool!"

The old man got up and walked a few shaky paces back and forth. Turning, he caught sight of the letter he'd been sitting upon.

"_Wife!_" he exclaimed. "What the d---- What does she mean by calling herself your--" and he stopped suddenly with a look of contemptuous comprehension.

"Does she?"

Ethan, with a start forward, had clutched the letter greedily. He couldn't, perhaps he didn't even try to keep the great gladness out of his face as he read. Mr. Tallmadge watched him with equivocal eyes.

Then, dryly:

"If I were in your shoes that signature would alarm me."