WHEN our unfortunate treasurer of the pitching cage fund entered the sickroom he was scarcely prepared for what he found there. The room, to his imagination, resembled an emergency hospital. The air was impregnated with the odors of arnica, and iodine and ether—decidedly sickly smells to one coming in suddenly and not accustomed to them.
On the table near the bed where Stockley was lying were a number of bottles, gauze, and sponges and the remains of a light breakfast. The boy was propped up with pillows, his broken arm in splints resting on one, while another was gently pressed against his fractured ribs.
Stockley was not an ill-featured boy. It is true that he had somewhat neglected his personal appearance of late, but there was nothing about him that was really repulsive, and now after his alcohol bath and with his hair well brushed from his forehead he appeared quite presentable. He had a fine mouth and his eyes were large and clear. His forehead was high and intelligent, and notwithstanding his faults one could not fail to recognize a sort of innate nobility in him, and Roy discovered something more than even this as he watched him. He saw on his face a softened, chastened look. His countenance showed that softening effect which appears in so
peculiar yet unmistakable a way immediately after receiving one of the sacraments of the Church. His look was subdued and yet exalted. There was a species of radiance on the face which Roy felt he could not define, but yet was quite discernible. There was also a change of manner of speech. Stockley had been very close to the gates of death and that tremendous fact had changed his views, and the sacrament of Penance had the effect of softening his hitherto somewhat hard exterior conduct and manner and he was even now under the apprehension that it was quite doubtful whether he would recover from his injuries, although the physician had told him that unless most unexpected complications ensued there was no danger. He was nevertheless quite frightened, and was now very serious. It must not be understood, however, that the story he told was due to his fright, for he had quite a different motive in relating what he did.
Roy saw the change in the boy, yet he could not help but regard him with disfavor, although he determined to be perfectly just to him. He was anxious, also, to keep his wits about him in order to lose nothing of what might be said. In justice to himself he meant to get the whole story, although in his heart of hearts he had the sickening dread that this boy lying wounded and bruised before him would confirm his worst fears concerning his cousin Garrett.
Henning realized that the present moment was a critical one in his life; that now, or perhaps never, would all suspicion be removed. He felt that if this interview should result in nothing not already known, and he remain under the unjust and cruel suspicion, it would compel him to reconsider seriously his purpose of entering the seminary. Was there not also a
possibility that the bishop would reject him—would be compelled to reject him—upon learning that his character for honesty was impugned?
All this and much more he saw as he stood by the bedside of the injured boy, waiting for him to speak. While waiting he offered a fervent prayer to the Sacred Heart for direction for himself, and that if it were in Stockley's power to do so, he might clear up everything.
To see Henning at this moment one would never imagine that he was very much excited. His two friends thought he was taking the matter very coolly. He stood at the bedside with his hands in the side pockets of his trousers, and with as much apparent nonchalance as if he were watching a ball-game.
Perceiving that Stockley would not, or at least did not begin the conversation, he remarked: