THE BRAND OF FEAR.
It was not a lively party that approached the clubhouse half an hour
later. Merriwell had turned his captive over to Roger Clingwood and
Jack Niles, and was devoting his attention to the dumb boy, who had so
far recovered as to be able to walk with very little assistance.
Brose Stovebridge looked like another man. With dragging feet and
eyes fixed on the ground, he was the picture of guilt as he slouched
along between the two other clubmen. Roger Clingwood’s eyes, wearing a
mingled expression of anger and humiliation, were set straight ahead,
as though he could not bring himself to look at the fellow who had
so disgraced his club. The homely, honest features of the other man,
showed only a fierce contempt. Behind them straggled the curious party
of golfers who had witnessed that extraordinary race.
As they approached the veranda, a tall, well-built fellow with bronzed
face and pleasant gray eyes, stepped forward from the group assembled
by the door.
“Hello, Niles,” he said, holding out his hand. “Awfully sorry I
disappointed you yesterday, but it couldn’t be helped. I’m ready to run
your champion to-day, though.”
“Glad to see you, Layton,” Niles said warmly. “I don’t know----”
Roger Clingwood’s cold, cutting voice interrupted him:
“We have no champion, Mr. Layton. Mr. Stovebridge will soon be no
longer a member of the club.”
A gasp of astonishment went up from the listening members, and a
feeling of utter desolation and despair swept over Stovebridge, who
turned his back swiftly on the veranda.
“And if he were a member,” supplemented Niles, “he would no longer be
champion. Dick Merriwell holds that honor at present. I have no doubt
he will race you any time you wish.”
A look of pleased surprise flashed into Layton’s face as he caught
sight of Dick for the first time, and, stepping forward quickly, he
took the Yale man’s hand.
“Awfully glad to see you, old fellow,” he said warmly.
Then he turned to Niles.
“A race between us would be pretty much of a farce,” he smiled.
“Apparently you don’t know him as well as I do. If there’s one fellow
I’ll pull my colors to, it’s Merriwell of Yale.”
Roger Clingwood stepped forward and touched Niles’ arm.
“Take him upstairs and lock him in the end bedroom while I telephone
the police,” he said in a low tone. “Much as I loathe the fellow,
there’s no reason why he should be put to needless humiliation.”
With the disappearance of the two into the clubhouse, a perfect
Bedlam of eager, breathless questions were flung at the other men
of the party, and, as the story was briefly told, exclamations of
amazement, contempt and scorn arose on every side. Some of the men
were even incredulous. It did not seem possible that the dashing,
debonair Stovebridge, one of the most popular of their number, and the
best all-around athlete in the club, could have been guilty of such
behavior; but they were at length convinced, and Roger Clingwood was
urged to lose no time in summoning an officer to take him into custody.
As Brose Stovebridge crossed the threshold of the bedroom, his
self-control snapped like a broken thread and he flung himself face
downward on the bed, uttering a gasping cry of despair. Lying there,
shaken with dry, racking sobs, he thought of the little child whose
life had been the penalty of his recklessness. There was no doubt in
his mind that she had died, and for the first time in his life the
thought of his own troubles was swallowed up in the agony of that
greater wrong he had done another.
Jack Niles gazed down at the man who had once been his friend, and his
first feeling of infinite contempt gradually changed to pity. The man
was suffering--suffering keenly; and Niles did not like to see any one
suffer.
“Brace up, Stove,” he said roughly, but with kindly intent. “Take your
medicine like a man. There’s no use crying over spilt milk.”
A shiver went through the other’s frame.
“It’s spilt--blood--I’m thinking about,” came in muffled gasps.
Suddenly he sprang to his feet and faced Niles. His eyes were full of
unutterable despair; there were traces of tears on his cheeks, his
hands clenched and unclenched ceaselessly.
“You won’t believe me, Jack,” he said in a strange, unnatural voice,
“but I’m not thinking about myself, I don’t care what they do to me.
It’s the idea of that little child, dead--killed by my own hand as
surely as though I had shot her through the heart--that’s driving me
mad.”
Niles opened his lips to speak and then closed them again. It was not
up to him to tell Stovebridge that, so far as he knew, the child was
not dead. She might have died that morning--they had been expecting it
all night--and it would be cruel to raise any false hopes.
So he muttered a few rough words of sympathy and, closing the door,
locked it on the outside.
His heart sank as he walked out on the veranda and saw the rugged face
of little Amy’s father. The child must be dead, and he was telling
Clingwood the sad news. He pressed up to the two.
“An’ so he says there ain’t any more fear of her dyin’,” the man was
concluding. “She’ll be all right as soon as thet arm o’ hers gits well.”
“Splendid!” exclaimed Clingwood, his eyes brightening. “I can’t tell
you how glad I am.”
Niles had heard enough. The child was not likely to die, and he hurried
over to Dick Merriwell.
“Say, Dick,” he began hesitatingly, “Stove is pretty near crazy up
there with the idea that he has killed the little girl. Now, Hanlon
says she’s going to get well after all. Don’t you think you ought to
tell Brose? He’s given up thinking about himself and says he don’t care
what they do to him; but he’s just about wild with remorse. I hate to
think of a fellow suffering the way he is.”
The Yale man hesitated for an instant, and then his face cleared.
“Why, yes, I’ll tell him,” he said readily. “If he were only thinking
of the consequences to himself, it would serve him right to be kept
guessing; but, as it is, that would only be needless cruelty.”
He turned quickly and disappeared into the house.
Upstairs, Brose Stovebridge was pacing up and down the room in a
frenzied manner. His eyes were wild and his brown hands trembled as
he lifted them now and then in an aimless fashion to his ghastly, set
face.
“A murderer!” he muttered, in a strained voice. “Twice a murderer! I
never thought of it in that light the other time.”
He stopped in front of the mirror and gazed fixedly at the reflection
of his strangely altered face.
“What are you made of?” he whispered hoarsely--“what can you be made
of to do the things you’ve done and not to care? Is there no soul, no
conscience--nothing to make you care?”
He turned away from the glass, laughing harshly.
“Nothing there--nothing but a horrible face!”
Then fear seemed to grip him and drive remorse away.
“They’ve sent for the police!” he gasped wildly. “They’ll be here
soon and drag me away. The jail, a barred cell, the courtroom full
of scornful, grinning faces that were once my friends! And then--and
then--perhaps, the electric chair!”
His voice sank to a vibrant whisper, and at the last words he caught at
his collar like one choking.
“I can’t stand it!” he muttered. “I’m--afraid!”
Suddenly he stood erect and listened. Some one was coming upstairs. He
crouched by the window, his white face turned breathlessly toward the
door. Now they were coming down the hall. Another moment the key would
turn, the door would open, and they would drag him away to prison. He
shuddered.
“I can’t stand it,” he muttered--“I won’t stand it!”
Summoning all his resolution, he slipped through the window and hung by
both hands. As the key clicked in the lock, he dropped to the ground,
staggered, regained his footing with an effort, and then ran across the
drive toward the automobile sheds.
He did not see Dick Merriwell’s head appear at the window and then
quickly disappear. He did not know that he was flying from his own
salvation. His one desperate thought was to get away.
He reached his car and, cranking the engine with feverish haste, sprang
into the seat and swiftly backed her out. With a sharp turn, he went
through the gears with a rush and started the car out of the club
grounds at top speed.
As he dashed by the end of the veranda a yell arose:
“Stop him! Stop him!”
Several men ran out, waving their arms, but it was of no avail. He
disappeared down the drive like a streak of light.
Merriwell, Niles and several others ran back for their cars to give
chase; and as the fellow with the homely face and honest eyes bent to
crank his engine, he shook his head seriously.
“He’s crazy,” he muttered to himself--“clean daffy. If something don’t
happen pretty quick, I miss my guess.”
It was a long, long time before the jolly, happy-go-lucky Niles could
thrust out of his mind the picture of that face--set, strained, and
ghastly white, the eyes wide open and glittering with a strange light,
the colorless lips parted over the clenched teeth. It was a face which
bore the brand of fear; the face of one going to destruction.
Stovebridge whirled out of the club gates into the highroad, skidding,
barely missing the ditch; but he did not pull down the speed a hair.
Down the road he went, a blurred streak of red. He must get away. He
would not be caught.
Presently he turned onto a narrower road which led over the hills into
the more unsettled country. He knew they would follow him, and he meant
to give them a long chase.
The road wound up hill and down dale, through farming country and
wheat fields, with now and then a stretch of woods or meadow land. Once
he flashed past a farmhouse where a woman stood drawing water from an
old well, and as she caught a fleeting glimpse of his face, she gave a
cry of horror and gazed after the thick cloud of dust, her hand lifted
to her heart. The brand of fear was very plain.
On went the car like a flying monster. The man was pushing her to the
utmost, and she responded nobly. They were nearing the river which he
meant to cross by an old, unfrequented bridge close beside a deserted
mill. He would fool them all, for few knew of the crossing which cut
off several miles on the way to the wilder country beyond. He had not
been that way himself in many months, but he knew it perfectly.
Up a steep hill he flew on the high, flashed over the level summit,
and began the rough, winding descent. He was driving recklessly, but
with splendid skill. A little grove of trees blurred past, and then he
reached the river bank.
Too late he saw that he had blundered.
The bridge was gone!
Following a grinding shock of the emergency, the car shot through
the frail protecting timbers at the brink, and, for one brief, awful
instant, seemed to hover in the air above the river.
With a tremendous splash, it struck the water and sank beneath.
By some strange freak of chance, Stovebridge had been flung free of the
entangling car, and presently, dazed by the shock, he struggled to the
surface and strove to reach the shore.
But the current was very swift, and something seemed to drag him down.
Still he struggled frantically. He must reach it. He did not want to
drown. He was afraid to die, as he had been afraid of many things in
life.
His arms grew numb and his legs seemed to have no feeling left. If he
could only loosen the weight which dragged him down! It was as though
hands were clutching him and pulling him slowly but inexorably below
the surface.
Finally into his numbed brain came the thought that they were really
hands--the hands of the child! Ah, well, it was only justice that the
weak fingers of the little one he had murdered should have grown strong
enough to draw him to his destruction.
He was tired. If he could only give up and cease to try. But he did not
want to face the child down in the deep, cold river. The water washed
over his face and he struggled weakly to raise his head, but could not.
In his ears there was a distant roaring which grew louder and louder.
The dragging hands were very heavy. Why not stop battling and let it
go? Life was not worth the effort. His arms dropped feebly and a sense
of infinite rest and peace stole over him.
The roaring ceased.