“I—I don’t know,” stammered Miles. The challenge had struck him hot and cold. The more sincerely he faced it, the more this question deepened into a yawning pit of subtleties. “Honestly—I don’t know.”
“Don’t know?” His grandfather eyed him almost angrily. “What sort of answer is that? See here, I can’t have—At your age—You must promise me—”
A violent cough seized him, and left him shaken and breathless. For a long time he rested, as if asleep. And when at last he spoke again, a smile of serene humor, of high forbearance and security, lighted the sunken eyes.
“You promise nothing, boy. If I had promised my father—I’m an old fool. We’ve agreed to the main thing, already. It’s all right. You’re a man. Give me the—that nasty dose, there.”
He sank back, as though he had reserved all his forces for their interview, and now lay exhausted. The ticking of a clock, the flutter of the fire, accompanied that labored breathing through slow and sorrowful hours. The watcher must have dozed; for of a sudden, the shadows of the hackmatack boughs quivered easterly along the floor. The afternoon was already closing. Ella sat, with folded hands, by the hearth.
Time again dragged by, till the sleeper moved. Without seeming to wake, he whispered:—
“I can’t remember. Bring me the book.”
A Bible lay on the table; but as though he heard Miles lift it, he shook his head.
“I’ve read that. I know it. The other—below—the black book.”
Ella nodded, stole from the room, and returned with the old man’s volume of the poets.