Roger Kyffin's Ward

Chapter Twenty Two.

Unexpected Evidence

At an early hour of the day, towards the end of June, two persons on horseback might have been seen proceeding through the New Forest. The sun, just rising, cast his rays amid the boughs of the trees, throwing long shadows over the greensward. Here and there light-footed deer, cropping the dewy grass, started as they heard the footsteps of the horses, and went bounding away farther into the depths of the forest. One of the persons was a young lady mounted on a light, active palfrey; while the other, a tall old man, bestrode a large, strong steed, well capable of bearing his weight. A brace of formidable-looking pistols were stuck in his holsters, while another pair of smaller dimensions were placed in the belt he wore round his waist. In his hand he carried a thick stick, which might have proved no bad substitute for a broadsword.

“It was indeed thoughtful of you, Paul,” said the young lady, looking round at her companion, without in any way checking the rapid speed at which she was proceeding. “I little expected to mount Beauty again, and could not have accomplished our journey so well, I am sure, on any other horse.”

“Why, Miss Mabel, do you see, when we had to surrender Stanmore to Old Sleech, I thought to myself, neither he nor any of his young cubs shall ever mount the horse my dear young mistress has ridden; so as soon as it was dark one night, I trotted him off to my good friend Farmer Gilpin, and says I to the farmer, ‘You take care of this horse, and let no one have him till I come and fetch him away; he’s not stolen, and you need not be afraid of the halter. I will pay you for his keep when I fetch him away.’ Mr Sleech, cunning as he is, had not made a list of the horses, so did not miss Beauty; besides, she was yours, and not his, though he would have claimed her; and that’s the long and short of my story, Miss Mabel.”

“Thank you, thank you, indeed,” answered Mabel. “Do you think Beauty will get through the journey in a couple of days?”

“I am afraid not, Miss Mabel,” answered Paul. “I would advise you to sleep twice on the road, and then you will get in fresh the third day, and be able at once to go to Mr Thornborough’s. He was a friend of the colonel, I know, and from what you tell me, I am sure he will give you as much assistance as anybody.”

Madame Everard, when she heard the dangerous situation in which Harry Tryon was placed, could not bring herself to refuse Mabel’s wish to set off immediately to try what could be done to assist him. She, however, had advised her going at once to her godfather, Mr Thornborough, who, being a man of influence, and possessing great knowledge of the world, was able to render her more help than Mr Kyffin could. She had, however, wisely written to Harry’s guardian, telling him what she knew, and also her purpose of going to the house of Mr Thornborough. She was too anxious to speak much during her ride.

From the rapid rate at which she proceeded it was evident that she knew the road thoroughly, as she had never even to ask her companion which way to take. The two travellers had nearly reached the confines of the forest, when suddenly she came upon a large party of men, surrounding several light waggons. They were sitting on the ground with bottles and provisions near them, while their horses stood tethered at green spots close at hand.

On being suddenly surprised by Mabel and old Paul, several of them started up and seized their bridles. Paul’s stick was instantly raised in the air, as if about to come down on the heads of his assailants.

“Avast there, mate!” sung out one of the men, “we’re not going to ill-treat you if you behave peaceably, but we want to know where you and the young lady are going.”

“Oh, pray let us go!” exclaimed Mabel; “we are simply going to London on a matter of great importance, and whoever you are we cannot do you any harm.”

“Well, young lady, that may be true enough,” answered one of the men; “but you must just come and have a word with our captain. If he has no objection, we don’t want to keep you.”

“Pray let him come and see us immediately,” said Mabel; “we are anxious to be liberated without delay.”

The men, without heeding her request, led her horse and that of Paul a little distance on one side, where, seated on the grass, enjoying a long pipe, with a book at his elbow, and a cup of coffee before him, was a person whose appearance betokened nothing of the smuggler or brigand. As soon as he saw Mabel he started up, and inquired if he could be of any service to her. She told him of the interruption she and her attendant had received, and begged that she might be no longer detained. “Yes, sir, I say it’s a great shame, and times are very bad when a young lady like Miss Everard, with her attendant, cannot ride through the forest without being stopped by a gang of smugglers.”

“Miss Everard, I beg you many pardons,” exclaimed the smuggler captain. “My scoundrels are unable to distinguish one person from another. If you will allow me I will accompany you some way on your road, so that I may protect you from any similar annoyances.”

Saying this the captain sent for his horse, which he immediately mounted, and rode alongside Mabel through the remainder of the forest.

“I must ask your confidence, Miss Everard,” he said; “I am an especial friend of your father’s. Indeed, I owe my life to his courage and gallantry, and I shall be thankful of an opportunity to render you any service in my power.”

“I know, sir, what you say is true,” observed Paul, glancing at the stranger. “I remember your coming to Stanmore that sad night, when Miss Lucy was taken ill, and I was close by when Captain Everard and you were speaking together. Are you not Captain Rochard?”

“You are right, my friend,” said the stranger. “By that name Captain Everard knew me. Necessity, and not my will, compels me to associate with these people,” he continued; “not for the sake of making money, but for another motive, believe me. You do not suppose that your father would allow me his friendship did he believe that I was the leader of a band of outlaws. I may some day tell you my motives of associating with these men. To your father I owe my life, and that alone would make me take an interest in you, young lady; but I may also tell you that I have another reason. We are related, although not very nearly. Your father’s mother was a relation of my father. I never saw her, for she died when I was very young; indeed, I am but a few years older than your father.”

“You related to us? You know then the facts of the marriage of my grandfather to my grandmother. How little did I expect to hear this. You may be of the very greatest assistance to us.”

Captain Rochard assured Mabel that it would be a great satisfaction to him to be so. She then told him of the loss of the certificate, and the successful scheme which their relative Mr Sleech had set up for obtaining possession of the property.

“For my own sake,” she observed, “I care little for what has occurred; but it will be a bitter thing for my father when he returns to find that he has been deprived of the property he thought his own.”

Captain Rochard was silent for some minutes; then turning to Paul, he asked suddenly —

“Do you know in what year the colonel’s brother married?”

“Yes, sir, I mind it well; it was the beginning of the war with France, and much about the time that Frederick of Prussia opened his seven years’ war, and Admiral Byng did not beat the French in the first action, and was shot in consequence. A difficult job Lieutenant Everard had, too, to bring home his young baby, and escape the French cruisers. I mind his coming home as well as if it had been yesterday, and Madam Everard taking care of the little motherless boy, that’s the captain now – this young lady’s father – as if he had been her own child, and the poor lieutenant going to sea, and getting shot the next year. He died as a brave officer might wish to die, on the deck of his ship, lashing the enemy’s bowsprit to his own mainmast, that she might not get away – ”

“But I forget dates; in what year was that?” asked Captain Rochard, interrupting the old man, who might otherwise have run on to a much further length in his recollections.

“That was in the year ’56 or ’57 to the best of my mind,” answered Paul. “The captain’s a little above forty, and it’s about that time ago.”

“Thank you, my friend,” said Captain Rochard; “I shall remember the dates, and will put them down by-and-by. Your grandfather, I believe,” he continued, addressing Mabel, “married in the south of France, where my relatives were residing at the time. Alas! this fearful revolution has swept off many of them; but still some few, especially among the older ones, survive. The young, and strong, and healthy were the chief victims. I’ll say no more. I’ll do my best to aid your father, and enable him to recover his rights. I wish that he was in England at present, that I might consult with him first. I am quite willing, at all risks, to go over to France, and to endeavour to bring over the witnesses to the marriage, or the documents which may prove it.”

Mabel expressed her thanks to Captain Rochard, who now inquired what business took her to London. She hesitated for some time. At last she thought, “He’s true and kind, and though he may not be able to assist me, I shall have his sympathy and good wishes.” She then told him frankly of the dangerous position in which Harry Tryon was placed, of course asserting her belief in his innocence.

“That fine young fellow? I know him well,” said the captain. “I am sure he would not commit an unworthy action. I have more power to help him than you may suppose. Give me all the particulars with which you are acquainted, and I will try what can be done. Do you, however, proceed in your undertaking; I have great hopes that your efforts will not be without a happy result. That boy must not be put to death. I would go through anything to save him.”

By this time they had reached the confines of the forest. Captain Rochard said he must go back to his companions. He bade Mabel a kind farewell, when she and Paul continued their journey towards London. Beauty seemed to understand that he was on an important journey, for never had he trotted so swiftly over the ground. Mabel knew the importance of reserving his strength too much to allow him to break into a canter, or to push him on in a gallop, though her own feelings might have prompted her to do so. It was absolutely necessary during the heat of the day to rest. A small inn appeared close to the road. Mabel threw herself down on a little sofa in the room appropriated to her, at the door of which Paul kept ward and watch till it was time again to start. The horses, well groomed and fed, were then led forth, looking almost as fresh as when they started in the morning. Thus, before nightfall a large portion of the distance to London had been accomplished.

Chapter Twenty Three.

In Mr Coppinger’s Counting-House

Mr Stephen Coppinger had been for some time in town, leaving his family at Lynderton. It was not a time when a mercantile man could neglect his business. There was a great deal to do, for confidence had been restored in the mercantile world after the mutiny of the fleet had been completely put down.

Silas Sleech was at his desk, and, like the rest of his companions, busily employed.

Mr Kyffin did his best to attend to business, but his mind was greatly disturbed. He could gain no tidings of his ward. All he could learn was that he had left the ship in which he had returned to England, and had gone on board another man-of-war. Too probably she was one of the mutinous fleet. Mr Kyffin heard of many men losing their lives in the scuffles which ensued on board the ships when the loyal part of the crew were struggling to restore the power into the hands of their officers. Too probably Harry, on one side or the other – he hoped on the loyal side – might have lost his life in one of these scuffles. He was sure otherwise that the lad would have written to him. One letter might possibly have miscarried, but he would not have gone so long without writing a second or a third time. He was instituting, in the meantime, all the inquiries in his power, but he could not hear the name of Harry Tryon on board any of the ships. He was not aware, of course, that Harry had changed his name, nor that it was a common custom with seamen in those days to do so, for various reasons. Had he known of the existence of Jacob Tuttle he might have applied to him, and he therefore had not the same means of learning about him which Mabel possessed.

On the arrival of the post one morning at Idol Lane Mr Sleech received a letter from his “respected father.” The ordinary observer would have discovered nothing in the countenance of Silas to indicate its contents. He, however, folding it up, put it in his pocket, and forthwith betook himself to the door of Mr Coppinger’s private room, at which he humbly knocked. On being admitted, he explained to his principal that he had received notice of the illness of his father and one of his sisters, and that his presence, as the eldest son of the family, would be greatly required. He therefore entreated that Mr Coppinger would allow him to set forth without delay for Stanmore.

Mr Coppinger was a kind-hearted man, and would on no account detain him if Mr Kyffin could manage to have his duties performed during his absence.

Silas, thanking his principal, withdrew, and in a humble tone of voice entreated Mr Kyffin to make the necessary arrangements. The head clerk looked hard at Silas, who, though not easily abashed, let his eyes drop before him.

“Yes; if Mr Coppinger gives you leave, I will certainly not detain you,” answered Mr Kyffin.

Silas was in a great hurry to be off. Quickly putting the books at which he had been working in their places, he closed his desk and hurried out of the office. Mr Kyffin looked after him.

“So great a villain never darkened that door before,” he said to himself. “May it be the last time he ever passes through it!”

Under where Silas Sleech’s hat and cloak had hung Mr Kyffin saw a bunch of keys. He had evidently dropped them in his hurry to leave the house.

“I am the fittest person to take charge of these,” said Mr Kyffin to himself, and he forthwith retired with them into Mr Coppinger’s room. He there held a consultation of some length; then once more entering the office, he waited till the hour of closing. The clerks were dismissed. He and Mr Coppinger alone remained in the office. Mr Sleech’s desk was opened with one of the keys. Within was a strange assortment of articles, and among others a small iron box, with Mr Silas Sleech’s name painted outside. There were lottery tickets, and pawnbrokers’ duplicates, and packs of cards – some curiously marked – and dice which had a suspicious tendency to fall with the higher numbers uppermost, and letters from dames of scarcely doubtful character.

“I have suspected as much for long,” said Mr Kyffin, “but I could not well bring the proof home. This, however, will convince you that Silas Sleech is not a trustworthy person.”

“Indeed it does,” exclaimed Mr Coppinger; “but see what this strong box contains. Probably if he leaves such articles as this scattered about, without thinking it necessary to conceal them, the contents of that box are of a more damaging character.”

The box was opened by one of the keys of the bunch.

“Ah!” exclaimed Mr Kyffin, “here is a letter directed to me. It is the one I have long missed from my unfortunate young ward, Harry Tryon. Excuse me, sir, while I read its contents.”

Mr Kyffin ran his eye over the letter.

“The poor lad here gives an explanation of his conduct, and his reasons for quitting London. He weakly yielded to the temptation thrown in his way by Silas Sleech, that is very evident, but in no other respect do I believe that he was criminal. However, we will look over the remainder of these papers, and I trust then we shall have the means of exonerating him still further. What do you think of these papers?” asked Mr Kyffin, holding a sheet up to Mr Coppinger.

On it was written over and over again the name of the firm, as signed by Mr Coppinger himself. Evidently the writer had been endeavouring to imitate Mr Coppinger’s signature. He had done so very successfully. Indeed, another paper was found containing a signature which Mr Coppinger declared to be genuine. It was clearly the copy for the others.

“Now I feel sure,” said Mr Kyffin, “that Silas Sleech forged that paper which he wished it to be supposed Harry had forged, while it’s very possible that he may also have forged Harry’s signature to some of the bills which he showed us when he endeavoured to prove Harry’s guilt.”

“I indeed think your account very likely to be true,” said Mr Coppinger. “I am ashamed at having allowed such a scoundrel as Mr Sleech undoubtedly is, to have remained so long in my office undetected; yet so plausible are his manners, that had this evidence against him not been discovered, I should have been unwilling to believe him guilty.”

“You will not let him escape, surely, sir,” said Mr Kyffin; “justice demands that he should be brought to trial, so that the character of your nephew may be vindicated.”

The two gentlemen examined all the papers thoroughly, making notes of their contents, and then locked them carefully up in the safe in Mr Coppinger’s room. Mr Kyffin having accompanied Mr Coppinger to Broad Street, and supped with him, returned at night to the office, where he occasionally occupied a bedroom. He had been in bed for some time, though not asleep, thinking over Harry’s affairs, when he was aroused by a knocking at the door. He heard the porter go out of his room and admit some one. It immediately struck him that it was Silas Sleech; for as the porter knew nothing of his proceedings, he would naturally, without hesitation, admit him. Rapidly dressing, therefore, he struck a light, and putting the pistol, which he usually carried to and from Hampstead, in his pocket, he proceeded down-stairs. The person who had come in did not go to Mr Sleech’s room; but after a few minutes’ conversation entered the counting-house. Mr Kyffin heard him wish the porter good-night, and say that he should not be long.

“Call me at an early hour, there’s a good fellow, for I have to be off betimes,” he added.

Mr Kyffin waited a minute, and then proceeded down-stairs into the office. A light was burning on the desk. By it he saw Mr Sleech hunting about in all directions, evidently looking for his keys. The search was, of course, in vain. He seemed to think so, for producing a cold iron from his pocket, with as little noise as possible he wrenched open the desk. He seized the light and looked in. Dismay was depicted on his countenance. At that instant Mr Kyffin entered the room.

“Wretched scoundrel, confess your villainies!” he exclaimed. “Was it to betray an honest youth, and to blast his character through a miserable feeling of jealousy and revenge, that you pretended to be his friend? Confess what you have done, or prepare to be given over into the hands of justice.”

On hearing Mr Kyffin’s voice Silas dropped the lid of the desk, and slipping off his stool, went down on his knees, holding up his hands with a look of the most abject terror. “I did not intend to injure him, indeed I did not!” he exclaimed, in a whining voice.

“Oh! Mr Kyffin, you know how long I have toiled for the house, and how our employer’s interests were as dear to me as my own; then how can you accuse me of doing such things as you say I have done?”

“Don’t kneel to me,” answered Mr Kyffin, sternly; “don’t add additional falsehood to your other villainies. Expect no leniency from me. Of all bad characters, I hate a hypocrite the most. I will make no promise, but if you will confess in a court of justice what you have done, I may possibly endeavour to have your punishment mitigated, and no other promise can I make.”

“I will do all you ask, indeed I will,” answered Silas, “only don’t look so fierce; don’t shoot me,” he exclaimed, looking at the pistol which, unconsciously, Mr Kyffin had taken from his pocket.

“I have no intention of shooting you, but again say I will make no promises. Mr Coppinger will decide what is to be done with the man who has robbed him, and so cruelly treated his nephew.”

Saying this, Mr Kyffin returned the pistol to his pocket. The round eyes of Silas had been watching him all the time. He now hung down his head as if ashamed to meet Mr Kyffin’s glance. His eye, however, was glancing upward all the time. Suddenly he made a spring, and rushed towards Mr Kyffin.