“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.