CHAPTER XXVIII.POOR JACK.
With all his faults there was much that was good in him, and right influences could have brought it out. Neglected by his stepmother, treated with indifference by his sister, called a bad boy by nearly all who knew him, it was natural that the worst part of his nature should thrive until it bore its fruitage of vice.
“I am a sort of Ishmael, anyway,” he used to say to himself, “and may as well have a good time being so.”
And he had a good time according to his definition of the term. Drinking and gambling were his besetting sins, and during the last three years of his life, when his mother and sister saw but little of him, he sank low in the scale of respectability, although managing to preserve the semblance of a gentleman, for he was very proud, and not without his seasons of remorse and resolutions to reform. One of these was strong upon him after he had squandered the money Clarice entrusted to him to invest in Denver.
“I’ll pay back every dollar if I live,” he said to himself, and on a piece of paper he wrote: “I hereby solemnly promise to pay Clarice all I owe her with compound interest from date.—Jack Percy, Denver, Jan. ——, 18——.”
He was in the habit of writing similar good resolutions after every drunken debauch, and this last was in his pocket when he reached the miners’ camp at Deep Gulch, hoping to retrieve his fortune. He had taken the name John Pennington because he was tired of Jack Percy, who hadplayed him false so many times, and represented so much that was bad.
“A new name is like new clothes, and makes me feel respectable,” he said to the friend in Denver to whom he confided his plans, and who was to receive his mail and forward it to Samona.
At Helena, where he stopped on his journey, he found two of his comrades, who invited him to a champagne supper, with the result that at its close the three were on the floor. Jack, who was easily affected, especially by champagne, went down first and was taken to his room in a state of stupidity, followed by delirium tremens, the first attack he ever had, and the last, he swore, when able to be up and recall the horror of the days and nights when writhing snakes, with red, beady eyes, were twisting themselves around his body and devils breathing blue flame from nostrils and mouth were beckoning to him from every corner of the room. Weak and shaky, he reached Deep Gulch and went to work with a will. Nature, however, who exacts payment for abuse, exacted it of him, and with no apparent cause he was visited a second time by his enemies, the devils and the snakes, and was put into Stokes’s cabin, where Elithe found him. He heard the miners speak of Mr. Hansford, and that he was from the vicinity of Boston. Cudgelling his brain to recall something he had forgotten, he remembered at last that Miss Phebe Hansford had a relative in the far West, who was a clergyman. This, no doubt, was he, and when Lizy Ann asked if he would like to see him he answered with an oath that he would not.
“He would undoubtedly worry me as the old woman used to do, telling me that I was the worst boy the Lord ever made. Now, if she had told me once in a while that I was a good boy, or if anybody had, I believe, my soul, Ishould have tried to be one,” he was thinking, when he fell into the sleep from which he woke to find Elithe sitting by him.
It was a long time since he had seen a face as sweet and fresh as the one looking at him with pitying eyes, which said they knew his infirmity, and were sorry for him. All the best of his manhood was wakened to life by the sight of her. She was so different from the girls he had known,—different from Clarice, whose pet name, Mignon, given her by him when she was a baby, had escaped him in his sleep. He had never cared particularly for any of the fashionable young ladies of his acquaintance, although he had flirted with many of them, but his heart went out to Elithe at once, and it was not long before he knew that he loved her as he could never love any one again. Then began the struggle to conceal his love until such time as he had proved himself worthy of her, should that time ever come. He knew her father was watching him and respected him for it, and knew, too, that in Elithe’s mind there was no suspicion of his real feeling for her. Two or three times he came near betraying it and his identity, and the night before she left home he wrote to Clarice, telling her of his attachment to Elithe and asking her to be kind to her for his sake. This letter he tore up, deciding to let matters drift. Then he wrote the note which, with the ring, he gave to Elithe when he reached Helena.
“That will keep me in her mind,” he thought, half expecting some acknowledgment of the gift and word to say that she remembered him.
But none came and the weeks went by and he only heard from her through the letters sent to her father and mother. Of these he had pretty full accounts from Rob, and from him and the Boston Herald he heard of Clarice’s approachingmarriage and felt humiliated and angry that the news should first reach him in this way. He did not deserve much at his sister’s hands, he knew, but he had written her twice that his debt to her should be paid, sending his letters to Denver, from which place they had been forwarded to her by his friend and confidant. She had not answered them, but he knew she must have received them, and, thinking he had made sufficient atonement for the past, he resented her neglect of him.
“I’ll write her again, telling her where I am and that I have heard of her wedding and am going to it,” he thought, and he wrote the letter, which was prompted more by a desire to see Elithe than to be present at the marriage.
Very anxiously he waited for Clarice’s answer, which was directed to Denver and then forwarded to him at Samona.
“Something for you,” the P. M. said to him one morning, handing him the letter in which he recognized the handwriting of his Denver friend.
It was from Clarice, and he understood it perfectly. He was not wanted at the wedding. “But I’ll go,” he said, his desire to see Elithe conquering every other feeling. Mr. Hansford heard with surprise of his intention to leave Samona for an indefinite length of time, but had no suspicion of his destination. The boys were inconsolable, for Mr. Pennington was a great favorite. The miners were sorry, for New York was the right sort, and they prided themselves upon having had something to do with his reformation, which seemed genuine. He had his last shake in their midst, and had been straight as a string ever since, they said, and they were proud of his acquaintance and friendship. They came into town and went with the boys and Mr. Hansford to see him off, and gave three cheers and a tiger for his safe journey and ultimate return.
“Keep the pledge,” Stokes said to him at parting.
“I will. It’s in my pocket,” was Jack’s reply, and there were tears in his eyes as he heard the shouts of the miners bidding him good-bye and saw them throwing their hats in the air until the train entered a deep cut and the place he would never see again disappeared from view.
There was a stop at Denver, where an irresistible impulse took him to the place where at different times he had lost so much and won so little.
“I’ll try it once more. Maybe I’ll make enough to pay Clarice,” he thought.
He tried again and won nearly as much as he owed her. This he deposited to her credit, and with a feeling that now she would certainly be glad to see him, continued his journey to Chicago, where his evil genius met him in the shape of so-called friends, and he sank again to the level of a beast. Mortified and half tipsy, he made his way to New Bedford, hearing that of himself upon the boat which made him hot with resentment and pain. At the Harbor Hotel in Oak City there was no room for him,—no one who cared. At the hotel, where he spent the night, it was worse.
“They said on the boat that I cut no figure, and I don’t,” he thought, as he sat in his small, close room reviewing the situation and wishing himself back with the miners, who were his real friends.
“I’ll go back, too,” he decided, but first he must write to Elithe, telling her who he was,—how much he loved her,—and then bid her good-bye forever.
He wrote the letter and put it in his pocket, forgetting to direct it. In his satchel were his toilet articles and the present he had bought for Clarice. This he meant to leave for her at the Harbor Hotel, with his card and a “d—— you” under his name. But he couldn’t write it. A thoughtof Elithe held him back, and he laid his plain card in the box from which he took the vase and looked at it a moment. It was very pretty and he anticipated Clarice’s appreciation of it. In his weak, childish condition after a spree he cried easily, and two great tears rolled down his face and fell upon the vase.
“I don’t suppose she’ll care a rap for it, she’ll be so glad I am not here to mortify her, but she shall have it all the same,” he said, wiping the tears from it with his shirt sleeve and replacing it in the box.
At the Harbor Hotel his anger against everybody and everything increased and reached its height when Paul appeared and spoke to him. Of what followed he had but little real knowledge. He had an impression that Paul meant to strike him, but was not sure. He knew he knocked Paul down and didn’t care. He heard the execrations of the people round him and didn’t care. He didn’t care for anything but to get away from it all, and, taking up his bag, he started to go,—he didn’t know where, or care. He was disgraced forever in the eyes of Elithe, who would hear what he had done and despise him.
“I don’t believe I’ll send her the letter, and then she’ll never know that I am the Jack Percy whose name will be in everybody’s mouth in a few hours,” he thought, as he went down the steps.
In the church across the street they were singing the Te Deum. He had heard the Venite in a confused sort of way, and something had struck him as familiar in it, although the music was new. Now as the words, “All the earth doth worship Thee, the Father everlasting,” were borne out upon the summer air he stopped suddenly. Surely that was Elithe singing, as he had heard her many times in the little Samona church. She was there, not many rods away. Hemight see her again, himself unseen, and he started for the church, while the people on the piazza looked after him, commenting upon his appearance and wondering why in his condition he should care to go to church of all places. He knew where to sit if the place were not occupied,—close by the door, in a corner, where, unobserved, he could see most of the congregation. He had sat there more than once when a boy and eaten peanuts and scribbled in the old Prayer Books and been frowned upon by the colored sexton, Pete. It was the same man now, grown older and gray-haired and less overwhelmed with a sense of his importance. He recognized Jack, and offered to take his satchel and conduct him up the aisle. Jack shook his head, indicating that he would rather stay near the door. Crowding himself to the farthest extremity of the pew he found that he could see a part of the choir and Elithe. She was singing the closing lines of the Te Deum, and in her tailor-made gown, sailor hat and all the appurtenances of a fashionable toilet, seemed a different Elithe from the one he had known, and for a brief moment he felt that he preferred her in her Samona dress, with the air of the mines and the mountains upon it. He had heard from Rob of the trip to Boston and its result and was glad. Elithe had been very minute in her description of her wardrobe to her mother, and Jack had often fancied her in her new attire. Now he saw her, and while not quite pleased with the change thought her more beautiful than ever before. He could see her sailor hat and half of her face when she sat down and watched her intently.
Once it occurred to him to wonder if Clarice were there. But no, she would never appear in public the Sunday before her marriage, and the Percy pew was occupied by strangers, and behind it in a corner, nearly as much shelteredfrom observation as he was himself, was Miss Phebe Hansford. Knowing her prejudice against “Fashion’s Bazaar,” Jack could scarcely believe his eyes. Yet there she was,—joining in the service and slightly bowing in the creed;—then, as if remembering herself and her principles, giving her head an upward jerk and standing through the remainder of the creed as stiff and straight as a darning needle. Jack could not repress a smile as he watched her, dividing his attentions pretty equally between her and Elithe, until the offertory, when the latter stood up to sing alone. At first her voice shook a little, and Jack was afraid she would break down. But as she gained courage her voice rose louder and clearer,—making those who had never seen her before wonder who she was,—with notes which, if not tuned to the highest culture, were pure and sweet as a bird’s. She was achieving a great success, and Jack felt proud of her, and thought of the miners’ camp, where she sang to him of “Rest for the weary,” with the wind sweeping through the cañons and the rain beating dismally against the window. That was a long time ago, and she was here in Oak City, singing to a fashionable audience, and he was listening to her and forgetting the nightmare which had oppressed him. He had an ear as acute as Miss Hansford’s, and knew when Elithe flatted on high G, and was sorry she did it, but consoled himself with the thought that not one in fifty of the congregation would notice it. The plate was coming down to him by this time, for the song was ended and Elithe, with a look of relief, was fanning herself with her music. Now was Jack’s time to leave, he thought, and, taking his satchel, he rose to go. A shake of the old sexton’s head made him sit down and sent his hand into his pocket. He had not intended giving anything, but, changing his mind, he dropped a silver dollarin the plate and was rewarded by Pete with a nod of satisfaction. As it chanced his offering was the only silver dollar given that morning, and after the awful tragedy Pete went to the treasurer and exchanged a bill for it, keeping Jack’s dollar as a souvenir to be exhibited to many curious people, who looked at it and handled it with a feeling that it was something sacred, because the last money which the dead man’s hands had touched.
Jack was the first to leave the church, as he did not care to meet any of the people, for the remembrance of what he had done that morning was beginning to make him ashamed, and if he had seen Paul he would unquestionably have apologized to him. But Paul was not there and Jack returned to the hotel, where no one spoke to or noticed him. He had his lunch at the second table, and then went out on the seaward side of the house, and, seating himself at a distance from the few who were on that piazza, began to think whether he should take the evening boat or wait till morning.
“I’ll wait,” he said, “and maybe I can see Paul. Any way I’ll add a P. S. to my letter to Elithe and tell her what a brute I’ve been and that I heard her sing.”
Going to the reading room he added a P. S., telling what he had thought and felt and done during the day,—saying he was sorry for insulting Paul and wished she would tell him so. He would like to see Clarice and possibly he might. If not, he would leave her present at the hotel, with directions for it to be sent, and he wished Elithe to tell her that he had refunded nearly all her money, and she would find things straight in Denver, if she stopped there on her wedding trip, as she said she intended doing.
“And now, my darling,” he wrote in conclusion, “it is good-bye forever. It is not likely we shall meet again, norwill you care to see me after what I have done. But I hope you will think of me sometimes as one who, for the brief period he knew you and your family, experienced more real happiness and received more real kindness than he ever received or experienced before in his life.—JACK PERCY,aliasJOHN PENNINGTON.”
Why he did not direct the letter this time no one will ever know. He didn’t direct it, but dropped it into his satchel and went again to his seat on the seaward side of the hotel, sitting there alone and sleeping most of the time until the day was waning, when he roused up and started, probably for his mother’s cottage, and taking the road past Miss Hansford’s with a hope of getting a glimpse of Elithe. When Paul saw him entering the wood he judged from his gait and general appearance that he was partially intoxicated, but this might not have been true. He was always unsteady in his walk for a few days after a debauch such as he had had in Chicago, and if he tottered it was probably more from weakness and fatigue than from drink, and this prompted him to stop by the way and rest. Why he chose the clump of oaks, where he had dreamed of lying dead, no one can tell. He did choose it, and here they found him dying, with all his sins upon his head and all his good deeds and intentions, too, of which the pitiful Father took note and met as they deserved. Poor Jack!