The Open Question Part 118

"Do you want something?"

"Yes; I want you near."

"Oh, very well; I was afraid of waking you."

Heavy with sleep, he threw himself across the foot of the big four-poster. She pushed herself down in the bed till her feet under the covers felt his body through all the clothes, then she lay quite still.

Ethan dozed and dreamed.

He awoke suddenly with the impression Val had called him. He raised himself on his elbow. She seemed to be asleep. He leaned his tired head against the bedpost, turning his face to the east. The gray dawn was coming in faintly at the window. The things in the room looked spectral.

Dimly through the window he thought he could see the shadow of the encircling hills. As he lay looking out, a little voice, so faint and far it might have come with the dawn from behind the hills:

"It is no superst.i.tion that oaths are binding."

He held his breath to listen.

"If we deny them with our lips, our nerves are loyal still."

Then silence. The light grew clearer.

"Our lives were set to the key of our oath," said the little voice.

"When we denied it, discord came."

He tried to speak; a kind of paralysis held the muscles of his throat.

"It's like the one lie that calls for a thousand, for a life of lies. We don't lie well, we Ganos."

Another longer silence; then a fluttering sigh as of one eased from a mighty burden.

"Oh, I'm so glad the morning's come! You haven't kissed me, Ethan."

He rose up without a word, kissed her, and went out.

Of course, the ball had been postponed--"only for a week," Val insisted, and Ethan had agreed. Later this same day, he, still sitting there in the blue room, wondering against his will at her recovered spirits, refusing to understand, asked her if the pain was gone. She made the motion "No," moving the brown head from side to side on the pillow.

"You are suffering a great deal?" he faltered, as he bent above her.

She was evidently not thinking of the kind of pain he meant.

"If I were partly paralyzed, as lots of people are," she said, with something of the old defiance, "it would hurt less, I suppose. When I feel like shrinking, I just remember it's a sign none of me is dead yet, that I can suffer from my head to my feet as horribly as this."

"Val!" He sank down on his knees and buried his head in the coverlet.

"But I'll have all eternity for being free of pain. When I remember that"--she pulled herself up and spoke in a clear, practical tone--"it brings me to my senses."

"What can I do for you, dear--what can I do?"

"Don't go away."

"I won't."

"I'm afraid you will."

"Don't be afraid."

"Not to collect material for 'Confessions'?"

"No," he said, smiling dimly.

"Not even to write to the Saviours of America?"

"No."

"I hate those Saviours! America doesn't need 'em."

"She has only to say so," he said, his old sensitive vanity a little stung.

"Oh, America is all right."

"Very well, America."

He drew up the chair again and sat closer to the bedside.

"I shall love being ill, if you don't go away," she said, smiling.

"I sha'n't go away any more, even when you're well."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"You sure you're an honest Injun?"

"Injun of flawless integrity."

"Then I shall be well to-morrow."

And to all appearance she _was_ well two days afterwards. When she came down-stairs she was protesting gayly that she was really quite ill, and must have all an invalid's privileges.

"Is it a bargain?" she stopped half-way down the stair. "If it isn't, I'm going back to bed."

"Yes, all the privileges," he agreed.

"And you won't go away and write for the 'Saviours'?"

He laughed, took her down, and established her in the long room.

"I shall be very particular, or else what's the fun of being an invalid?