“O, plenty of people—all the world, pretty much! You know that. Even your mother’s old friend, Mr. Marcy, never liked to talk much about the question, eh?” The blood rose in Philip’s face. “But no matter. All the world who do think he had a hand in it have been wrong; and now you and I will just set them right forever—if you say so.”
“What do you mean? How can you or I? Tell me what you are keeping back.”
The lad forgot his aversion in a passionate curiosity. He leaned forward eagerly.
“Touchtone, your father had an enemy in the bank. I dare say he knew it afterward; possibly he told you so. His name was Sixmith.”
“Sixmith, the janitor. Yes; go on.”
“Sixmith kept his feelings to himself. He was a sly creature, Touchtone, and he had what some people will tell you I have—a black heart. Only I haven’t, according to some black hearts I’ve met. Well, he was bent on revenge and on doing your father a bad turn. I forget what ’twas all for; I believe your father had interfered in his family to protect his wife. He drank. Well, Sixmith came in with Laverack. I managed it, and, in fact, I was so much in with that whole job, Touchtone, that if it hadn’t been that the man who turned State’s evidence was really a sworn friend to me I’d have had to stand out with the rest and suffer. Sixmith gave them the times and hours, and so on; it was all arranged. I did some work at imitating your father’s handwriting as to a letter or two we needed. Sixmith insisted on the plan. He was to be paid besides, as you know—”
“You forged my father’s hand, to help to ruin him,” interrupted Philip, in loathing and anguish.
“I did, certainly,” replied Jennison, calmly. “I am sorry. I didn’t expect to be, I confess; but I am. Well, the bank was broken into, in such a way, as you know, that your father was considered to have a hand in it, even if the bank officers could not bring on him what they thought full justice; and that would have been harder injustice than he had to endure for the rest of his life. He escaped that. Sixmith was disappointed. But he had become rather afraid, after all, of what we had undertaken to help him with. We partly knew, partly suspected, that revenge was nearest his heart at the beginning. He weakened, and was pretty glad to find that he had not brought worse on your father than he did.”
“Worse than he did? How could he? Did he not cost him his honest reputation and shorten his life? Did he not break my mother’s heart? Did he not make me grow up with a stain on my name because I was—my father’s son?”