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 had
played 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, I should 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 approaching marriage 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
thought of 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. He might 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 sheltered from 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 dollar in 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, nor will 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, _alias_ JOHN 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!