CHAPTER VII.
A BATTLE IN A HEART.
“Hang it!” muttered Don, when he was alone in his room; “I didn’t want him to know. I’d have given anything rather than have him know, and I’m sure he does know, from what he said at the end.”
The bath-room was just outside his door, and he had started the water running into the porcelain tub. In a savage manner he began to strip off his football suit.
“He won’t see me playing on the Rockspur Eleven this year,” he said, harshly. “I’m done with that crowd, the whole of them!”
This caused him to think of Leon Bentley and his compact with the fellow, and he realized that he was not “done” with one member of the village eleven, at least.
“I rather father would have known about anything else!” he murmured, his cheeks burning again. “I was a fool to have anything to do with Bentley, and I’m beginning to think I’d better withdraw from that compact, even though it is backing out of an agreement. I hate Renwood, but I don’t care about getting revenge on him in a sneaking way.”
He stripped off his damp underclothes and hung them up to dry, after which he took a towel from a drawer in the dressing-case and started for the bath-room, which he was able to reach with almost a single step from his door.
The water in the tub was cool, almost cold, but he plunged in without hesitation. The bath was followed by an energetic rub-down with the rough towel, bringing a glow to his entire body and giving him a feeling of warmth, freshness and vigor. A mirror showed him a handsomely-formed lad, like the figure of a youthful athlete cut from pink marble.
Don returned to his room and dressed, thinking all the while of his father’s words, which had impressed him deeply.
“It’s all right to talk about obeying one’s commander,” he said to himself, “but Renwood is not my commander. Sterndale is manager and captain of the eleven. Now, if it had been Sterndale——”
He paused, assailed by the thought that, under aggravating circumstances of a similar nature, he might have rebelled against Sterndale. Besides that, in a certain sense, Renwood was his superior on the eleven, having been accepted as the regular coach of the team.
“Oh, of course I’m all to blame!” he half snarled, as he plunged into a fresh shirt. “Everybody will say so, even my own father.”
But he softened again, realizing that, even though his father must have come to understand the truth from the conversation overheard outside his window, he had not uttered a single word of open reproach.
“At least,” whispered the boy, softly, “he is my friend, and I must try hard to please him. He has done enough for me, so that I must do what I can for him.”
How few boys feel this way toward their fathers! The fact that Don Scott could think such a thing at such a time proved his heart was right, for all of his headstrong disposition and violent temper.
In his soul Don knew he had been hasty in his actions, though he tried to convince himself that he had done nothing wrong. However, esteeming his father as he did, he felt that it was his duty to make a sacrifice, even though it might be necessary to humble himself to a certain extent in order to do so.
“I’ll go to him and tell him everything,” he decided. “He will think better of me if I do, for it is almost certain that he heard enough of my talk with Bentley to let him know what has happened. As I kept silent when he gave me an opportunity to tell him, he’ll think I did not attempt to keep my promise to try to control my temper, and I’ll seem like a sneak in seeking to hide the truth from him.”
Any healthy-minded boy dreads being thought a “sneak,” and regards such an appellation as almost the greatest possible slur that can be cast upon him; so it was not strange that, imagining as he did, that his father might think such a thing of him, Don should wish to set himself right.
“I’ll go straight to him as soon as I’m dressed,” he resolved, hastily getting into his clothes.
He stood before the glass and carefully knotted a dark-red four-in-hand necktie, which was his favorite, having been presented to him by his aunt, sister to his father, who was housekeeper in the Scott home, and who had tried to be a mother to the doctor’s son since the death of Mrs. Scott, which took place when Don was a little more than a year old.
Having knotted the tie with care and thrust a small gold pin through the knot, he buttoned on his cuffs, donned his coat and vest, and was ready to go downstairs.
At the door he paused, overcome for the moment by the thought of facing his father and making the confession, and there he stood some little time, forming in his mind the speech he would make. It required considerable courage on his part to keep from backing out and giving up his resolution then and there, but he would not permit himself to yield to such weakness; and so, with renewed determination, he left his room and lightly descended the carpeted stairs.
At the door of his father’s office he paused, for the doctor was standing in the waning light that came from the curtained window, gazing earnestly upon a gold-framed miniature which he held in his hand. The boy could not see his father’s face, but, having seen that miniature before, he knew it was the picture of his dead mother.
As Don halted in irresolution, a sigh and a half-smothered sob came from his father, who raised the miniature to his lips, murmuring:
“Mary, Mary, you forgave me at last, but I’ve never forgiven myself! But for my act of anger I might have you with me now. Heaven grant his temper may bring no such sorrow to our son!”
As quietly as possible, Don stole away and sought his aunt, a rather stout, pleasant-faced woman, who was getting supper on the table.
“Goodness, Don!” she exclaimed pretending to be alarmed. “You came in so still that you frightened me. It’s not your way to creep about like that.”
“I didn’t mean to frighten you, Aunt Ella,” he said. “I came to tell you that I am going out.”
“Not now? Why, it’s just supper time, and I’ll have everything ready in a few minutes.”
“I don’t want anything; I couldn’t eat.”
“Land! land! What in the world is the matter with you? You’re a healthy, growing boy, and you generally have an appetite.”
“I haven’t any to-night, aunt. I couldn’t eat anything; it would choke me!”
“Something is the matter! Don, you’re sick!” She was alarmed in a moment. “I’ll call your father.”
“Don’t aunt,” interposed Don, stopping her. “I’m not sick—truly I’m not.”
“Then what ails ye?”
“Nothing, only—I’ve lost my appetite. Perhaps if I go for a long walk, the exercise may give me an appetite.”
“Haven’t you had any exercise to-day? I saw the boys going to the ball ground to play football. Didn’t you go?”
“Yes.”
“And still you say you haven’t any appetite! Now, I know there’s something the matter with you. Won’t you tell your old aunt all about it, Don? You know I’m interested, and——”
“It’s nothing—noting at all!” declared the boy, somewhat impatiently. “I just don’t want any supper, that’s all, and I want you to tell father I’ve gone out for a walk.”
“Don’t you think you ought to tell him yourself before you go?”
“No; he’s busy now. I’ve just come from his office, but I didn’t go in when I saw he was busy. You tell him, aunt. Perhaps I’ll have an appetite when I come back. Now, that’s a good aunt! Don’t get any queer notions into your head, for I’m all right, only I don’t feel like eating.”
He suddenly caught her in his arms and kissed her. Then he was gone, leaving her standing there with clasped hands. She listened till the sound of a closing door told her he had left the house.
“Just like his father!” she murmured, softly. “Just as his father used to be, but Lyman has changed greatly since he lost Mary. Will he never forget?”
Then she continued the preparations for supper.
Don walked swiftly away from the house, fearing his aunt might immediately tell his father, who would call him back. On reaching the sidewalk, he paused for a moment, glancing down the street toward the little square in the heart of the village. He saw two youths cross the square, passing the little fountain. They were Sterndale and Renwood, and he turned his back toward the square, hurrying up the hill.
He was grasped by a feverish desire to be all alone and walk, walk, walk; so he kept on up Academy Hill, passing the white building beneath the trees. When he reached the fenced-about football field, he turned to the right and took the road that led toward Wolf’s Head Point.
He took off his hat to let the cool wind from the open sea fan his hot forehead as he strode along. All the while his thoughts were busy, and within his soul a battle was taking place.
The point was reached. He passed the home of the light-keeper, but, instead of approaching the light-house, which towered in a white column on the extremity of the point, he turned to the left and mounted to the ragged top of a mass of ledges, where he found a seat, with the rising tide murmuring and swirling amid the crevices and crannies below him.
Sunset’s after-glow glinted the waves, but afar on the bosom of the sea lay a purple haze that seemed to blend with sea and sky and connect both; and out of the purple sea-mist loomed a white-winged vessel, headed for Rockspur Harbor, which it could not reach before darkness fell. Away toward the ledges by the harbor mouth some gulls skimmed the waves, uttering harsh and melancholy cries. Overhead a few vapory clouds were tinted with pink and edged with burnished gold.
Don gave little heed to his surroundings as he sat there in the ledge, staring down at the restless water that ran green and foamy over the broken rocks, but the expression on his mobile face indicated that the battle within him was waxing fiercer.
He had long known that the death of his mother had cast a great shadow on his father’s life, but never till this day had he suspected that Dr. Scott held himself in any respect responsible for the loss of his wife.
Don had discovered that his mother’s miniature, painted on ivory, was constantly carried near his father’s heart. More than once he had, without being observed, seen his father gazing sadly and lovingly at that picture; but on this last occasion the doctor’s murmured words, unintended for his ears, had given him an inkling of the truth of the great sorrow that had fallen upon his father.
Some act of the doctor, done in a moment of anger, had, as he firmly believed, hastened or brought about the death of his wife. For this angry deed he had never forgiven himself, and now he was filled with foreboding and distress because he saw his son had inherited his ungovernable temper and because he feared the end to which it might lead.
“I have no right to cause my father so much pain,” thought Don, self-reproachfully. “He’s always been kind to me. I—I don’t know about my mother, for he never told me. I don’t suppose he could bring himself to talk about it. I must do something to relieve him—something to assure him that I am trying to govern my temper and master myself. But, oh, it is hard to humble myself before that fellow Renwood! How can I do it?”
The struggle within him continued while the light died slowly in the western sky, the pink and gold left the clouds dull and lead-colored, and the blue haze deepened into darkness.
“I’ll do it!” he finally exclaimed, rising to his feet. “For father’s sake, I’ll go to Sterndale and say I’m sorry. I’ll even ask Renwood’s pardon, if I must; but that will be worse than swallowing red-hot iron!”
Darkness had fallen, but from the light-house on the point a light shone forth to guide the belated vessel lost to view on the bosom of the night-encompassed sea.
In the heart of the boy another light glimmered weakly, seeking to burst into a bright flame that should guide in the right course his passion-shrouded soul.