Then had come a morning's drill following an almost sleepless night, and during drill he had rebuked young Thornton for the faults of his platoon, and after drill had lectured him a bit for seeming neglect or indifference, and even of sullen acceptance of deserved criticism. Then, suddenly, remembering, he ceased his rebuke, turned the subject and asked how was George, and then as they were parting, again asked how it happened, and was again startled by the words: "Ask your own boy, sir," for Thornton, like many an older, stronger, wiser man, accepted unchallenged the views of his wife. Jim had had his breakfast and was gone by the time Dwight reached home, but Félicie, in answer to question, with infinite regret and becoming reluctance owned that Miss Sanford and other witnesses of the unfortunate affair united in saying that Monsieur James had, in a moment of boyish petulance perhaps, swung his jacket full in the face of Monsieur George, never thinking, doubtless, of the cruel, sharp-edged, metal button that should so nearly cut out the eye; and then, terrified at the sight of so much blood, was it not natural that any child should run from the sight and try to forget, and perhaps might forget, and so deny?
Dwight listened in a daze, spurning the toothsome breakfast set before him; then, rising, took his cap, left the house without another word and, hastening thither, found Priscilla Sanford on the veranda at the Rays'.
As she herself subsequently admitted to her aunt, Priscilla, who had been bred to the doctrine of original sin and innate propensity for evil, who had long thought that the major stood sorely in ignorance as to Jimmy's spiritual needs, and who herself stood solemnly convinced of the truth of the Thornton story, now conceived it her duty to fully and unreservedly answer the major's questions. Had she witnessed the affair? She had in great part, she said, little considering that of the most essential part, the actual blow or slash, she had seen nothing. Was it true that his son was—the assailant? Priscilla answered that, though she was not at that instant where she could herself see the blow, she an instant later saw everything, and the relative position of the boys was such that there was no room for doubt it was James who struck. She heard the scream when near the door and at once ran out. And had not Jimmy stopped to offer aid or—do anything? No, Jimmy had rushed on as though bent on overtaking the leaders, as though he never heard what, much farther away, she had heard distinctly. And then Priscilla owned that the look of agony in the father's face was such that her resolution well-nigh failed her.
But, unhappily, not quite. There are possibly no people so possessed with the devil of meddling in the management of other people's children as those who never had any, or else have been phenomenal failures in the rearing of their own. Dwight asked her presently to go with him to the Thorntons', which she did, beginning to tremble now as her eyes studied his face. Mrs. Thornton was on the veranda. Young hopeful, with bandaged forehead, was blissfully chasing a little terrier pup about the yard. She, too, began to tremble; the little wrath and resentment left was oozing from her finger tips as Dwight lifted his cap from the lined and haggard brow and she saw the infinite trouble in his deep-set eyes. But he gave her no time to speak.
"I have come," he said, "to express my deep sorrow at what I must now believe my son has done. I should have come before had—had——" He stumbled miserably. Then, with sudden effort, "I will see Mr. Thornton and make my acknowledgments later, and see the doctor, but first——" Then abruptly he bent, caught Georgie by an arm, lifted the bandage just enough to see the adhesive plaster underneath, muttered something under his breath, dropped his hand by his side, looked appealingly one instant in Priscilla's eyes as though he would ask one more question, never heeding, perhaps never hearing, Mrs. Thornton's: "Oh, Major, I'm sure Jimmy could not have meant it!" Womanlike, all vehemence in accusation at first, all insistence in extenuation now that vengeance threatened. The next moment Dwight was gone, and Priscilla dare not follow the first impulse of her heart to run home and tell Aunt Marion and Sandy, or to run after him. She saw the major turn stiffly in at his own gate, far up the row, saw Aunt Marion come forth, and, like guilty things, the maiden of mature years, the mother of immature mind, held there, shrinking, not knowing what to look for—what to do. They, too, saw Dwight come forth again; but none of the anxious eyes along that anxious line had witnessed what had befallen in the few minutes Dwight spent in presence of his wife. That was known, until some days later, only to Félicie.
She was still abed, sipping her chocolate, and looking but a shade lighter, when he abruptly entered. She could almost have screamed at sight of his twitching face, but he held up warning hand.
"Just a moment, Inez. You had come home—you were on the veranda, I believe; did you see—anything of that—that trouble among the boys yesterday?"
She had seen nothing. She was listening at the moment with downcast lids and heaving bosom to Foster's eager, hurried words. She had heard the shouts of merriment, and faintly heard the screams, and had not even looked to see the cause, but Félicie had found no inapt pupil. Inez buried her face in her jeweled hands. Under the filmy veiling of her dainty nightdress Dwight could see the pretty shoulders beginning to heave convulsively. Was she sobbing? Stepping closer, he repeated the question. "I must know," said he.
"Ah, Oswald—how—how can I? You love him so! You love him so much more than—me, and he—he hates me! He shrinks from me! He would not shrink from—poisoning you—against me!"
"Inez, this is childish! Tell me at once what you know—why you—distrust him?"