Left to Themselves/Chapter 19
CHAPTER XIX.
AFTER MANY DAYS.
THE basement of the Knoxport court-house, a small, smart affair, was used as the county bridewell. The room in which Jennison sat, with an official writing in a farther corner, was a good-sized, half-furnished place.
Jennison did not rise as Touchtone came in, followed by his guide. The latter stepped away to his companion's side and seemed to pay no attention to them.
"Good-evening; I'm obliged to you for coming down," Jennison began. He looked a trifle disheveled and haggard, and had that peculiar air of a criminal expecting the now inevitable course of justice. "Take a seat."
"The officer told me you wished to see me, and, particularly, alone," answered Philip, in mingled curiosity and disgust, as he found himself once more in the presence of so bold and adroit a foe. There came vividly back to him the scene of the attack on board the steamer; the recognition of the handsome face, with its lurking treachery, in the portrait Mrs. Probasco had handed him on the island, and that last leap into the Knoxport arbor to re-enforce Gerald, at this man's mercy. "What do you want of me?"
Jennison smiled. "I don't suppose you can guess," he replied, shifting his position. "Not to talk over the occurrences of the past fortnight or so with you, nor this end of them. You can be sure of that. You've won the game, Touchtone, as I told you; won it pluckily and fairly. You are a remarkable young fellow! A good rogue was spoiled in you, perhaps."
"I think not; and I do not wish to talk of that or of affairs that are over with, any more than you do. If you have any thing particular to say I should like to hear it, and go back to the hotel."
"All happy and serene up there, I suppose?" inquired the other, coolly. "Nice youngster that Master Gerald is! Not extraordinary that strangers should take a fancy to him, eh? Pretty boy!" he laughed, ironically.
Philip made no reply except another word about the expediency of soon hearing what he was brought down for. He did not propose to go away without asking some very particular questions, if necessary. Jennison saved him the trouble. He lowered his voice and began hurriedly:
"Enough of that. What I want to say to you—you alone—is about—your father. You have heard me say I knew him."
"Yes."
"I did; though he didn't know me, since he supposed me to be an honest man and in business down-town. I was pretty well acquainted with all the circumstances of that robbery of the bank which cost him his character. I was making my living even then, you see, in what seemed the easiest way. He died of a broken heart, I heard."
"He did," Touchtone responded, inwardly more and more agitated. "What is that to you?"
"Nothing; but I might be something to it, or to his name, to-day. Stop! Don't interrupt. I knew Dan Laverack and his crowd well; and as I hadn't lost my own position in the upper world yet, and was a gentleman by education (as the other men knew), I was useful to them and I made a good thing out of them myself."
"Yes," Philip said, staring hard at the man in the flickering light and curbing his impatience.
"I sounded your father as agent for them, Touchtone—for Laverack and the others. We thought we could bribe your father. I lived in the place months—for it. But I found before I'd gone far enough to make him suspect my game that he couldn't be bought in. So I gave it up. Do you know I've seen you plenty of times, when you were a little fellow? I'd never have recognized you, of course. I remember your mother pretty well, too."
"Don't talk of her," said Philip, sharply; "my time is short, and yours, too, if you leave here to-night."
"Quite true," replied Jennison, coolly. "I must get along in what I have to say, Touchtone, your father was innocent as a child of any share in that bank business—"
"Do you think I don't know that? Do you think any body who really knew him could believe any thing else?"
"O, plenty of people—all the world, pretty much! You know that. Even your mother's old friend, Mr. Marcy, never liked to talk much about the question, eh?" The blood rose in Philip's face. "But no matter. All the world who do think he had a hand in it have been wrong; and now you and I will just set them right forever—if you say so."
"What do you mean? How can you or I? Tell me what you are keeping back."
The lad forgot his aversion in a passionate curiosity. He leaned forward eagerly.
"Touchtone, your father had an enemy in the bank. I dare say he knew it afterward; possibly he told you so. His name was Sixmith."
"Sixmith, the janitor. Yes; go on."
"Sixmith kept his feelings to himself. He was a sly creature, Touchtone, and he had what some people will tell you I have—a black heart. Only I haven't, according to some black hearts I've met. Well, he was bent on revenge and on doing your father a bad turn. I forget what 'twas all for; I believe your father had interfered in his family to protect his wife. He drank. Well, Sixmith came in with Laverack. I managed it, and, in fact, I was so much in with that whole job, Touchtone, that if it hadn't been that the man who turned State's evidence was really a sworn friend to me I'd have had to stand out with the rest and suffer. Sixmith gave them the times and hours, and so on; it was all arranged. I did some work at imitating your father's handwriting as to a letter or two we needed. Sixmith insisted on the plan. He was to be paid besides, as you know—"
"You forged my father's hand, to help to ruin him," interrupted Philip, in loathing and anguish.
"I did, certainly," replied Jennison, calmly. "I am sorry. I didn't expect to be, I confess; but I am. Well, the bank was broken into, in such a way, as you know, that your father was considered to have a hand in it, even if the bank officers could not bring on him what they thought full justice; and that would have been harder injustice than he had to endure for the rest of his life. He escaped that. Sixmith was disappointed. But he had become rather afraid, after all, of what we had undertaken to help him with. We partly knew, partly suspected, that revenge was nearest his heart at the beginning. He weakened, and was pretty glad to find that he had not brought worse on your father than he did."
"Worse than he did? How could he? Did he not cost him his honest reputation and shorten his life? Did he not break my mother's heart? Did he not make me grow up with a stain on my name because I was—my father's son?"
"Perhaps you are right. But, any rate, the thing ended as it did. And Sixmith—well, he thought more and more about his job, I suppose, when he was shut up, and as time went on, Touchtone, he grew more and more ashamed of it. At last, about seven years ago, he died—down in New York. Laverack died before that. I'd met Sixmith again, and I was with him when he died. It was one of my winters in New York. He told me every thing. We talked the bank affair all over. At last he said he wanted me to write down a kind of confession, or at least a statement, in which he gave his own account of what he had managed to do for your father, swearing in it, up and down, to your father's innocence."
He paused. Touchtone sat facing him statue-like. He was beyond words. Would Jennison ever finish?
"Your father was dead, but I was to use it as I thought best as soon as I liked. I meant to do as he asked; but, upon my word, I have waited to get on the track of your mother or you. The bank officials had an idea you were both dead. I didn't care much to press the matter, but I should have done what I promised, and used this before"—and he took from the table a paper lying there—"if the very day that brought me to you on that train hadn't brought Saxton's little boy with you. Seeing him started me on a scheme to get square with Saxton, on account of an old grudge I'd got against him, and to make something, perhaps, at the same time—professionally."
He gave his malicious, slow smile with the last word.
Touchtone mechanically took the paper Sixmith had signed, and, half in a stupor, ran over it. The donor eyed him keenly. Then, as its significance came home to Philip's heart, he realized that a seemingly vain dream was fulfilled; that what was meant to be a great purpose of his life was all at once, through this strange agent, accomplished; that a wrong was righted, and that his dead father and he, his son, were set free from an odious if nearly forgotten injustice. He had hard work to master his strong exultation and joy; but he did. This was no place for it. The officials were standing regarding them both, as in duty bound, attentive, if discreet, listeners.
"Thank you," he said; "I—I thank you for this, with all my heart." He could not find more words except in the way of questions. Jennison seemed not to expect more from him, and did most of the talking himself. He must also have realized that this act of simple justice he had done was one thing, the hand aiding in it another. His frankness was appreciated; himself, its instrumentality, was despised. They exchanged a few more sentences, however, and Philip managed to repeat his thanks for his rights, and for a rascal's not being more a knave than he was! Jennison bowed coldly.
The officers accosted them: "Our time is up. Please get ready for the train, sir."
Touchtone turned to go.
"Look here," said Jennison, buttoning his light overcoat and polishing his hat with his arm, "I—I don't know how I shall get through with this business in Boston that I am going (with these excellent gentlemen) to transact. You will probably know as soon as I do. Mr. Clagg, my lawyer, will follow me to assist me. By the bye, I am glad to infer that you have met my old friends, the Probascos, of Chantico Island. My regards to them, please, when you see them next; and any thing else you may think it best to say to them. And," he continued, buttoning his gloves nervously, "I wish you and your friend, Mr. Marcy, and Mr. Saxton and his son to understand that, no matter what may be my circumstances in the future, it is the last time they or you will ever—have any trouble with me. I promise you that. I say—would you—will you shake hands? You're a plucky fellow, Touchtone. I'd a little rather not think of you as going through life with a grudge against me. Haven't I wiped it out? Live and let live, eh?"
The strange request made Philip blush. He hesitated, stammered, was half inclined to take the outstretched gloved hand. But no—not—that! He kept back his honest palm, from the one that had forged his father's name, to the blasting of his honor, all these years—from the hand that had seized Gerald's arm in a brutal scheme worthy of a Greek bandit! He did not raise his own hand—not feeling quite sure whether he was doing what was really the right thing, but unable to extend it.
"Good-night. Mr. Jennison," he said, bowing gravely. "I—I—shall not forget you."
"That is precisely the thing I should urge you most to do," answered Jennison, laughing. Without the least resentment at the slight, he bent his head to finish buttoning his glove, and he did not look up until Philip had left the building.
Jennison kept his word. He managed to slip away from his captors that night on the train; but our friends never heard of him again.
When Philip reached the Kossuth House Mr. Saxton and Gerald had gone to bed. He had a long interview with Mr. Marcy; Samuel Sixmith's statement and exoneration (it was practically ready for publication, in any way) lying between them.
"I've done your father and you a great wrong, Philip," said Mr. Marcy. "It's always been a sore spot between us, hasn't it? And it might have become more than that as you grew older. I don't know exactly how far I've carried my doubts. I never liked to define them. I'm a creature of prejudices—too much so. But," he continued, solemnly, "I ask your father's pardon, and yours." Philip shook his hand heartily for reply.