The Open Question Part 17

In spite of his entreating, she took out the stopper, and put the end of her lace scarf over the opening.

"You won't take it away from me?"

"No, no," she said, gently leading him back to the front porch, repeating as she went:

"'The shooting stars attend thee, And the elves also, Whose little eyes glow Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee.'"

"It isn't their little eyes that glow; it's their little tails," said Ethan, with his nose flattened against the camphor-bottle.

When they got near the porch, the prudent young gentleman took off his coat, and wrapped the bottle from the too inquiring gaze of his grandmother. Aunt Valeria was in a kind of dream, and didn't seem to notice.

"What a perfect evening!" she half whispered, looking up through the trees.

"Good-night," said Ethan to his grandmother, trying to get through the ceremony and hold his coat round the bottle on Aunt Valeria's arm at the same time.

"Forty-eight years to-day," she went on to her mother, "since Sh.e.l.ley's body was burned on the sands at Viareggio."

"Ah, yes," returned the other, speaking very gently. "Good-night, child."

"What! Is he _dead_?" said Ethan, feeling a double shock.

"Yes, dear; he's dead."

And he and Aunt Valeria went up-stairs in the dark.

"You never told me," said the child, when they had pa.s.sed Yaffti in safety. "I s'pose Byron's all right," he added, remembering allusions to that person's physical prowess.

"Byron's dead, too," said Aunt Valeria, sadly, "and Keats--poor Keats!"

"All _dead_!"

They had been referred to as if they lived in the next street. If it had been Sh.e.l.ley who had come to make them a visit, it would have seemed as natural--more natural than the apparition of Tom Rockingham or the objectionable Uncle Elijah.

"I'll get a piece of net to put over the bottle while you undress," said Aunt Valeria.

When she came back Ethan was in bed.

"What relation was Sh.e.l.ley to me?" he asked, welcoming the camphor-bottle to his arms.

"Relation? None."

"Oh-h!"

These things were obscure. The Tallmadges, for instance, weren't related to Grandmamma Gano, so she had said with emphasis.

"Then what relation was Sh.e.l.ley to _you_?"

"No relation at all, dear. He was an English poet."

"You mean he wasn't even born in America?"

Ethan sat up straight in his bed.

"He was born far away in England," said Aunt Valeria, dreamily.

"An' dead an' _burnt_?"

"Yes."

"And never was no relation to _any_ of us?"

"No."

"Oh-h!"

He lay back on his pillow, conscious of a new loneliness--of being bereft of something he had counted his. Yes; it was just as if some one belonging to him had died.

After Aunt Valeria had told him why they had burned Sh.e.l.ley's body, and even after she had repeated all his favorite poems, a sense of loss remained.

She thought he was asleep when she kissed him good-night. But he stirred and gave a little sigh.

"Well, I'm glad I've got my fireflies, anyhow," he murmured.

His leave-taking next morning was extremely harrowing to his own feelings, however austerely the rest took it. He wept freely after breakfast down under the barberry-bush, but he promised himself he would get it all done down there in the blessed privacy of the wilderness, and not cry another tear after he got back to the house. He had made a tour the moment he was dressed, saying good-bye to everything. Now there was nothing left but An' Jerusha and the family. Uncle Elijah might come any minute. He dried his eyes, and crept back through the rank undergrowth to the terrace, went heavily up the two flights of stone steps, saying good-bye again to the flag lilies and the crooked catalpa and the tulip-tree, and so on sedately round the house to the kitchen. On his appearance, An' Jerusha rushed towards him with wide-spread, motherly arms, but observing his involuntary recoil, she stood still, looking at him with unlessened affection.

"Good-bye, An' Jerusha," he said, holding her hand tight in both his own.

"Good-bye, honey. Be suah you come agin soon."

"Yes, I mean to; and thank you for all the songs and the cinnamon rolls."

"Law, honey! jes' listen to de chile."

She turned away to Venie with an attempt at a chuckle, but the tears had started down her cheeks.

"Good-bye."

Ethan shook hands with the smiling Venus.

"Maw and me done put yo' in a Johnny-cake," she said, an outsider might have thought enigmatically.

"Thank you," said Ethan, tremulously--"thank you both, awfully."

"Dat's de do'-bell, an' Ma.s.sa Efan's knocker," said Aunt Jerusha, sniffing violently. "You go, Venus; I ain't 'spectabel."

"Oh, it's my uncle," said Ethan, rather relieved at the interruption; and he hurried after Venus, feeling, however, deeply dissatisfied with his leave-taking of An' Jerusha.