the lie went up to bed with him. russy didn’t want it to, but it crept in through the key-hole,—it must have been the key-hole, for the door was shut the minute metta’s skirt had whisked through. but one thing russy had to be thankful for,—metta didn’t know it was there in the room. as far as that went, it was a kind-hearted lie. but after metta went away,—after she had put out the light and said “pleasant dreams, master russy, an’ be sure an’ don’t roll out,”—after that!
russy snuggled deep down in the pillows and said he would go right to sleep; oh, right straight! he always had before. it made you forget the light was out, and there were queer, creaky night-noises all round your bed,—under it some of ’em; over by the bureau some of ’em; and some of ’em coming creepy, cree-py up the stairs. you dug your head deep down in the pillows, and the next thing you knew you were asleep,—no, awake, and the noises were beautiful day-ones that you liked. you heard roosters crowing, and mr. vandervoort’s cows calling for breakfast, and, likely as not, some mother-birds singing duets with their husbands. oh yes, it was a good deal the best way to do, to go right straight to sleep when metta put the light out.
but to-night it was different, for the lie was there. you couldn’t go to sleep with a lie in the room. it was worse than creepy, creaky noises,—mercy, yes! you’d swap it for those quick enough and not ask a single bit of “boot.” you almost wanted to hear the noises.
it came across the room. there was no sound, but russy knew it was coming well enough. he knew when it got up close to the side of the bed. then it stopped and began to speak. it wasn’t “out loud” and it wasn’t a whisper, but russy heard it.
“move over; i’m coming into bed with you,” the lie said. “i hope you don’t think i’m going to sit up all night. besides, i’m always scared in the dark,—it runs in my family. the lies are always afraid. they’re not good sleepers, either, so let’s talk. you begin—or shall i?”
“you,” moaned russy.
“well, i say, this is great, isn’t it! i like this house. i stayed at barney toole’s last night and it doesn’t begin with this. barney’s folks are poor, and there aren’t any curtains or carpets or anything,—nor pillows on the bed. i never slept a wink at barney’s. i’m hoping i shall drop off here, after a while. it’s a new place, and i’m more likely to in new places. you never slept with one o’ my family before, did you?”
“no,” russy groaned. “oh no, i never before!”
“that’s what i thought. i should have been likely to hear of it if you had. i was a little surprised,—i say, what made you have anything to do with me. i was never more surprised in my life! they’d always said: ‘well, you’ll never get acquainted with that russy rand. he’s another kind.’ then you went and shook hands with me!”
“i had to.” russy sat up in bed and stiffened himself for self-defence. “i had to! when jeffy vandervoort said that about her,—well, i guess you’d have had to if they said things about your mother—”
“i never had one. the lies have a father, that’s all. go ahead.”
“there isn’t anything else,—i just had to.”
“tell what you said and what he said. go ahead.”
“you know all about—”
“go ahead!”
russy rocked himself back and forth in his agony. it was dreadful to have to say it all over again.
“well, then,” doggedly, “jeffy said my mother never did, but his did—oh, always!”
“did what—oh, always?”
russy clinched his little round fingers till the bones cracked under the soft flesh.
“kissed him good-night—went up to his room a-purpose to, an’—an’—tucked him in. oh, always, he said. he said mine never did. an’ i said—”
“you said—go ahead!”
“i said she did, too,—oh—always,” breathed russy in the awful dark. “i had to. when it’s your mother, you have to—”
“i never had one, i told you! how do i know? go on.”
he was driven on relentlessly. he had it all to go through with, and he whispered the rest hurriedly to get it done.
“i said she tucked me in,—came up a-purpose to,—an’ always kissed me twice (his only does once), an’ always—called me—dear.” russy fell back in a heap on the pillows and sobbed into them.
“my badness!”—anybody but a lie would have said “my goodness,”—“but you did do it up brown that time, didn’t you! but i don’t suppose he believed a word of it—you didn’t make him believe you, did you?”
“he had to,” cried out russy, fiercely. “he said i’d never lied to him in my life—”
“before;—yes, i know.”
russy slipped out of bed and padded over the thick carpet towards the place where the window-seat was in the daytime. but it wasn’t there. he put out his hands and hunted desperately for it. yes, there,—no, that was sharp and hard and hurt you. that must be the edge of the bureau. he tried again, for he must find it,—he must! he would not stay in bed with that lie another minute. it crowded him,—it tortured him so.
“this is it,” thought russy, and sank down gratefully on the cushions. his bare feet scarcely touched toe-tips to the floor. here he would stay all night. this was better than—
“i’m coming,—which way are you? can’t you speak up?”
the lie was coming, too! suddenly an awful thought flashed across russy’s little, weary brain. what if the lie would always come, too? what if he could never get away from it? what if it slept with him, walked with him, talked with him, lived with him,—oh, always!
but russy stiffened again with dogged courage. “i had to!” he thought. “i had to,—i had to,—i had to! when he said things about her,—when it’s your mother,—you have to.”
a great time went by, measureless by clock-ticks and aching little heart-beats. it seemed to be weeks and months to russy. then he began to feel a slow relief creeping over his misery, and he said to himself the lie must have “dropped off.” there was not a sound of it in the room. it grew so still and beautiful that russy laughed to himself in his relief. he wanted to leap to his feet and dance about the room, but he thought of the sharp corners and hard edges of things in time. instead, he nestled among the cushions of the window-seat and laughed on softly. perhaps it was all over,—perhaps it wasn’t asleep, but had gone away—to barney toole’s, perhaps, where they regularly “put up” lies,—and would never come back! russy gasped for joy. perhaps when you’d never shaken hands with a lie but once in your life, and that time you had to, and you’d borne it, anyway, for what seemed like weeks and months,—perhaps then they went away and left you in peace! perhaps you’d had punishment enough then.
very late russy’s mother came up-stairs. she was very tired, and her pretty young face in the frame of soft down about her opera-cloak looked a little cross. russy’s father plodded behind more heavily.
“the boy’s room, ellen?—just this once?” he pleaded in her ear. “it will take but a minute.”
“i am so tired, carter! well, if i must— why, he isn’t in the bed!”
the light from the hall streamed in, showing it tumbled and tossed as if two had slept in it. but no one was in it now. the mother’s little cry of surprise sharpened to anxiety.
“where is he, carter? why don’t you speak? he isn’t here in bed, i tell you! russy isn’t here!”
“he has rolled out,—no, he hasn’t rolled out. i’ll light up—there he is, ellen! there’s the little chap on the window-seat!”
“and the window is open!” she cried, sharply. she darted across to the little figure and gathered it up into her arms. she had never been frightened about russy before. perhaps it was the fright that brought her to her own.
“he is cold,—his little night-dress is damp!” she said. then her kisses rained down on the little, sleeping face. in his sleep, russy felt them, but he thought it was jeffy’s mother kissing jeffy.
“it feels good, doesn’t it?” he murmured. “i don’t wonder jeffy likes it! if my mother kissed me— i told jeffy she did! it was a lie, but i had to. you have to, when they say things like that about your mother. you have to say she kisses you—oh, always! she comes ’way up-stairs every night a-purpose to. an’ she tucks you in, an’ she calls you—dear. it’s a lie an’ it ’most kills you, but you have to say it. but it’s perfectly awful afterwards.” he nestled against the soft down of her cloak and moaned as if in pain. “it’s awful afterwards when you have to sleep with the lie. it’s perfectly—aw—ful—”
“oh, carter!” the mother broke out, for it was all plain to her. in a flash of agonized understanding the wistful little sleep-story was filled out in every detail. she understood all the tragedy of it.
“russy! russy!” she shook him in her eagerness. “russy, it’s my kisses! i’m kissing you! it isn’t jeffy’s mother,—it’s your mother, russy! feel them!—don’t you feel them on your forehead and your hair and your little red lips? it’s your mother kissing you!”
russy opened his eyes.
“why! why, so it is!” he said.
“and calling you ‘dear,’ russy! don’t you hear her? dear boy,—dear little boy! you hear her, don’t you, russy—dear?”
“why, yes!—why!”
“and tucking you into bed—like this,—so! she’s tucking in the blanket now,—and now the little quilt, russy! that is what mothers are for—i never thought before—oh, i never thought!” she dropped her face beside his on the pillow and fell to kissing him again. he held his face quite still for the sweet, strange baptism. then suddenly he laughed out happily, wildly.
“then it isn’t a lie!” he cried, in a delirium of relief and joy. “it’s true!”
