SIGNS OF GUILT.
It is stating the case tamely to say Don was bewildered, for that does
not at all express his state of mind. He was thunderstruck. Never till
the moment of the surprising discovery had he in any way connected his
desperate antagonist of the dressing-room with the lad whom he hated
with all the intensity of his passionate nature, and even now it did
not seem possible that the fellow who had fought him so furiously in
the darkness of that place could have been Renwood.
“If it was he, what was he doing there?” was the question Don asked
himself. “He must have been up to something crooked, else he would not
have been so fierce to get away; but what it means is more than I can
conceive.”
A long time the boy puzzled over the singular affair, without, however,
in the least satisfying himself concerning it. The knife that had
fallen into his possession in such a strange manner seemed to settle
the identity of his antagonist, but it did not betray Renwood’s reason
for secretly visiting the dressing-room under cover of darkness or
reveal why he had fought like a wolf to escape without being recognized.
“Anyhow, he tried to stab me,” muttered Don. “Is it possible he went
there to steal my clothes? Perhaps he did, and it may be that he
recognized me, even though I didn’t recognize him. That may be why he
fought so and tried to stab me.”
He was not satisfied with this explanation, and at last, tired of
speculating concerning it, he went to bed. After what he had passed
through, it was but natural that he should dream, nor was it strange
that his dreams were of sanguine encounters with the lad he so disliked.
Don slept late the following morning, which was the Sabbath; but he was
aroused at last by his aunt outside his door, who told him he would
have to make haste in order to get ready for church.
Of course, his first waking thoughts were of the unpleasant events of
the previous day and the startling adventure which had capped them all.
As he dressed the tell-tale knife lay on a table before him, and his
eyes often sought it, while his heart was filled with triumph because
he had, he fancied, wrested from his enemy’s hand this proof of his
identity.
Don gave his aunt no cause to complain about his appetite that morning,
for he ate heartily; but there was a flush in his dark cheeks and
his manner was strangely preoccupied, showing that his thoughts were
wandering. However, he was thoughtful enough to keep his injured hand
in his lap, so it did not attract attention.
The second bell was ringing when Don came down from his room to join
his father and aunt, who were waiting for him to accompany them to
church.
“Hello, Don!” exclaimed the doctor. “You have forgotten to put on your
best coat. That one doesn’t match your suit.”
Don was confused, for he had hoped his father or aunt would not notice
this, and he halted a bit as he said:
“I think I’ll wear this coat to-day, father.”
“Why should you? The other coat looks better.”
“I know, but----”
“But what?”
“I--I--my other coat is--I can’t wear it to-day,” blundered the lad.
“Can’t wear it? Why not? What is the matter?”
“I--I’ve torn it,” declared Don, feeling his face burning.
“Torn it? That’s too bad! How did it happen?”
“I caught the sleeve on a nail,” fabricated the desperate lad, thus for
the first time in his life telling-his father an outright falsehood.
“Oh, well,” smiled the doctor, thinking his son’s confusion rose
from his reluctance to confess that he had thus damaged his best
coat, “accidents will happen, my boy. We all meet such misfortunes
occasionally.”
Don felt mean enough, and he regretted that he had thought of trying to
hide the truth from his father, even though telling it might have led
to a complete confession of his utter failure in the attempt to master
his temper. His outraged conscience troubled and tortured him till he
imagined guilt and shame must be written on his face so that all could
see it and understand.
With this thought in his mind, he followed his father and aunt into the
church, his face flushed and his eyes downcast. As he was about to pass
through the second door, he distinctly heard these whispered words:
“There he is! Look at him!”
He lifted his eyes and saw a short distance away Dick Sterndale and
Dolph Renwood, both gazing straight at him.
Scott’s face had been red before, but now there was such a rush of
blood to his head that it actually turned purple. Involuntarily, he
half lifted his wounded hand which had wrested the betraying knife from
his antagonist, but the bandaged fingers were hidden by a glove, which
he had succeeded in wearing, for all the difficulty in drawing it on.
Then he passed on into the church, but with the desire strong upon him
to confront and accuse his foe then and there.
“He did it,” said Sterndale, grimly, when Don had vanished. “His face
gave him away.”
“I don’t like to think it of him even now,” Renwood declared, in a low
tone. “I don’t like the fellow, but I didn’t think he’d stoop to such a
dirty trick.”
“No more did I think so, but his nasty temper led him into it. He
betrayed his guilt plainly enough when he saw us.”
“What’ll you do?”
“Make him settle for the damage.”
“If he refuses--what then?”
“His father’ll have a chance to settle. Somebody must pay for last
night’s work.”
Then they followed Don into the church.
To the doctor’s son it seemed that the sermon was aimed directly at
him, and all through the discourse he sat with his cheeks alternately
flushing and paling, looking neither to the right nor left. The text,
taken from Revelations, was a body blow, causing the uncomfortable boy
to start when it fell on his ears: “All liars shall have their part
in the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone.” The preacher was
relentless in his denunciation of hypocrites and liars, so that Don was
relieved to escape from the church when it was all over.
When he found himself alone at home, he sought to salve his wounded
conscience and palliate his deception of his father by declaring to
himself that he was not to blame for a falsehood that had been forced
from him by such a combination of circumstances, and which he had told
in order to avert the pain and distress which the truth might bring
upon the doctor. The blame for this act he sought to shift upon his
enemy, who had driven him into such a strait.
Not that Don had never before perpetrated a deception or uttered
anything savoring of untruth, for, like the average boy, he was not
perfect in this respect, but, up to this time, his intercourse with his
father, whom he held in such deep affection, had been absolutely honest
and truthful, for which reason the falsehood was like a poisoned arrow
rankling in a wound.
“But I’ve got to keep it up, now that I’ve commenced it,” he told
himself.
And thus it was that the first false step led to others, as almost
unfailingly happens.
That afternoon Don sought to forget his troubles by reading, and for
the purpose he resorted to one of Trowbridge’s most thrilling books,
“Cudjo’s Cave.” Absorbed by the breathless flight of Penn, Virginia and
Cudjo through the burning forest, he failed for some time to hear the
whistled signal that came from beneath his window or the tiny pebbles
that clinked against the panes.
At last, however, having reached the hair-raising climax of the
chapter, where the fear-crazed horse, bearing the unknown rider,
plunges crashing into the depths of the dark ravine, he paused to take
a long breath and heard both the whistle and the rattle against the
window.
Looking out, he discovered Leon Bentley below. A moment later the
window was open and Leon was saying:
“Just going to give it up. Thought you must be asleep or dead. Come
down.”
“Come up,” invited Don. “Father is out and Aunt Ella is lying down.
I’ll let you in by the back door.”
His resolution to break with Bentley was forgotten, and, for the first
time, he admitted the disreputable fellow to his home and his room.