Part 11 (1/2)

”Let 'em talk. I don't care.”

But he did care, nevertheless. He went back home in a fever of apprehension and anxiety. Suppose his grandfather should learn the whole truth, as, sooner or later he surely would. What then? Pen decided that it would be better to tell him now.

At eight o'clock, when he returned home, he found Colonel Butler still seated in the library, busy with a book. He removed his cap and coat in the hall, and went in. The colonel looked up inquiringly.

”The flag,” reported Pen, ”was picked up by the boys, and carried back to the school-house. It was cleaned and dried, and put in its proper place.”

”Thank you, sir; that is all.”

The colonel turned his attention again to his book.

Pen stood, for a moment, irresolute, before proceeding with his confession. Then he began:

”Grandfather, I'm very sorry for what occurred, and especially--”

”I do not care to hear any more to-night. Further apologies may be deferred to a more appropriate time.”

Again the colonel resumed his reading.

The next day was Sunday; but, on account of the unattractive appearance of his face, Pen was excused from attending either church or Sunday-school. Monday was Was.h.i.+ngton's birthday, and a holiday, and there was no school. So that Pen had two whole days in which to recover from his wounds. But he did not so easily recover from his depression. Nothing more had been said by Colonel Butler about the battle, and Pen, on his part, did not dare again to broach the subject. Yet every hour that went by was filled with apprehension, and punctuated with false alarms. It was evident that the colonel had not yet heard the full story, and it was just as evident that the portion of it that he had heard had disturbed him almost beyond precedent. He was taciturn in speech, and severe and formal in manner. To misuse and neglect the flag of his country was, indeed, no venial offense in his eyes.

Pen had not been out all day Monday, save to go on one or two unimportant errands for his aunt. Why he had not cared to go out was not quite clear, even to himself. Ordinarily he would have sought his schoolfellows, and would have exhibited his wounds, these silent and substantial witnesses of his personal prowess, with ”pardonable pride.” Nor did his schoolfellows come to seek him. That was strange too. Why had they not dropped in, as was their custom, to talk over the battle? It was almost dark of the second day, and not a single boy had been to see him or inquire for him. It was more than strange; it was ominous.

After the evening meal Colonel Butler went out; a somewhat unusual occurrence, as, in his later years, he had become increasingly fond of his books and papers, his wood-fire and his easy chair. But, on this particular evening, there was to be a meeting of a certain patriotic society of which he was an enthusiastic member, and he felt that he must attend it. After he had gone Pen tried to study, but he could not keep his thought on his work. Then he took up a stirring piece of fiction and began to read: but the most exciting scenes depicted in it floated hazily across his mind. His Aunt Millicent tried to engage him in conversation, but he either could not or did not wish to talk. At nine o'clock he said good-night to his aunt, and retired to his room.

At half past nine Colonel Butler returned home. His daughter went into the hall and greeted him and helped him off with his coat, but he scarcely spoke to her. When he came in under the brighter lights of the library, she saw that his face was haggard, his jaws set, and his eyes strangely bright.

”What is it, father?” she said. ”Something has happened.”

He did not reply to her question, but he asked:

”Has Penfield retired?”

”He went to his room a good half hour ago, father.”

”I desire to see him.”

”He may have gone to bed.”

”I desire to see him under any circ.u.mstances. You will please communicate my wish to him.”

”But, father--”

”Did you hear me, daughter?”

”Father! What terrible thing has happened?”

”A thing so terrible that I desire confirmation of it from Penfield's lips before I shall fully believe it. You will please call him.”

She could not disobey that command. She went tremblingly up the stairs and returned in a minute or two to say: