“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.