Dick sat on the bed-side and thought. He was not afraid to go—far from it. A reckless spirit of determination had come over him, and he was ready to do anything, dare anything; but all the same the wheelwright’s words troubled him, and he could not master the feeling that it would be painful for the constant repetition to come to his mother’s knowledge, till even she began to think that there must be some truth in the matter, and he would not be there to defend himself.
That was a painful thought, one which made Dick Winthorpe rise and go and seat himself on the window-sill and gaze out over the fen.
From where he was seated his eyes ranged over the portion where the drain was being cut; and as he looked, it seemed to him that all his troubles had dated from the commencement of the venture by his father, and those who had joined in the experiment.
Then he thought of the evening when Mr Marston had been brought in wounded, and the other cases which had evidently been the work of those opposed to the draining—the fire at Tallington’s, the houghing of the horses, the shots fired, the blowing up of the sluice-gate.
“And they think I did it all,” he said to himself with a bitter laugh; “a boy like me!”
Then he began considering as to who possibly could be the culprit, and thought and thought till his head ached, and he rose sadly and replaced the articles in his bundle in the drawer.
“I can’t go,” he said softly. “I’ll face it out like a man, and they may say what they like.”
He stood looking at his bed, with its white pillow just showing in the faint light which came through the open window, but it did not tempt him to undress.
“I can’t sleep,” he said; “and perhaps, if I lie down, I may not hear Tom coming, if he comes. Why is one so miserable? What have I done?”
There was no mental answer to his question, and he once more went softly across the room, and sat in the window-sill to gaze out across the fen.