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!