Force and Fraud (18 page)

Nevertheless he lingered outside the building, probably because he saw an old acquaintance who, on approaching him, exclaimed, “Bless me, Roberts, what has brought you to Melbourne?”

“A little matter of business; but I should like to see Miss McAlpin before I return,” answered the American.

“All right; she is staying at my mother's. Come and take tea with us in the evening. Mother will be at home, and so will the girls.”

“Thanks. I will drop in.”

“You're a brick; but how goes it with Mrs R?”

“Getting quite hearty again. I left her in a comfortable snooze. But if you're going in
there,
I'll take leave of you till evening.”

Mr Roberts went to visit a countryman of his own; and Mr Philip Garlick, whom we suppose our readers have already recognised, to inform his mother of the arrangement he had made for the evening.

Mrs Garlick did not, as a rule, approve of her son's acquaintances, and the Yankee hotel keeper formed no exception. But Mr Philip drew the argument to a close by saying he wouldn't stand any humbug, as the Roberts were always very hospitable to him. And so the lady put the best face she could on the matter. Rather a sour face at all times was that of Mrs Garlick, but no one seemed to pay much attention to it that evening, as she sat over an interminable piece of knitting.

Miss Susannah poured out the tea, and talked
sotto voce
to her intended. The other sisters were at the bazaar; therefore, Miss McAlpin, Mr Silverton, Mr John Speedy, Mr Roberts and Philip Garlick made up the party.

As Miss McAlpin and Mr Roberts had already discussed matters relative to the prisoner, the conversation was general.

The American, unlike the old shepherd, did not require the aid of snuff to supply him with speech, although he flourished a snuff-box before the eyes of the company; rather ostentatiously, too, for it attracted the observation of Mr Phil, who exclaimed, “What, taking to snuff, Roberts?”

“Don't know. Just to give this fancy article an airing; bought it at the bazaar.”

As Mr Roberts said this he observed Pierce Silverton turn quickly round. But Mr Speedy suddenly exclaimed, “I say, Silverton, you were vexed about your snuff-box – Miss Bessie has made it over to a rum-looking old Highlander. And so you must look out for another souvenir of your friend Smith; but, I say, what did you see in that great brute?”

Mr Silverton here stopped to pick up something, and on again raising his head appeared unusually flushed, as he said, “Ah, poor Smith! A sad thing when a decent man cannot get anything to do in a colony like this.”

“There are plenty of stones to break; and if I am not mistaken, Mr Smith has tried his hand at that sort of work before now, and very likely will again if he should ever come back,” replied Speedy.

“Nonsense,” said Silverton, “he hasn't been accustomed to manual labour; and wouldn't have strength to–”

Here Mr Speedy indulged in an outburst of laughter; and, on recovering his gravity, exclaimed, “Strength, by jingo? I shouldn't like a blow from that fist of his.”

The conversation was now interrupted by the entrance of Miss McAlpin who, during the last quarter of an hour, had been concluding a letter to her lover. This she confided to Mr Roberts, asking him to forward it. He promised to do so, and soon after took his leave.

He did not, however, return to his home till he had paid another visit to the solicitor. Then, as that gentleman made a fresh entry in his note-book, Mr Roberts thought something might yet turn up to save the prisoner. But in spite of this comforting reflection, his mind would revert to the long chain of evidence to be brought forward for the Prosecution.

 

Mr Silverton also reminded Miss McAlpin of this painful fact. “It was his duty to do so,” he said, “lest the stroke might ultimately prove more than she could bear.”

“Yes, yes; I dare say you mean well,” she replied, “but I cannot bear to hear a doubt cast on
him.
I
know
he is innocent, and all the lawyers in the world would not convince me the contrary.”

“But, my dear Miss McAlpin, although
we
may assert his innocence,
our
opinion will be no avail if the jury should find him guilty.”

“They dare not. A wooden headed set of idiots presume to asperse
his
character.”

Very unbecoming, no doubt, was it in Miss McAlpin thus to designate that glorious institution – a British jury – and also nonsensical. But with regard to talking nonsense, a little latitude must be allowed to all women, and especially to one who felt herself aggrieved on so tender a point as did Flora at that moment. Perhaps too, she had, like a friend of our own, once inquired, what sort of people were generally chosen to act as men, and been answered, “Oh! fellows with heads that will stand a deal of punching” – morally, it is to be presumed. Or, perhaps, like ourselves, was in the habit of encountering one who had formerly sat on a jury – a remarkable jury – in fact, who may considered as a sort of historical juryman, but whose head is decidedly of the most wooden of all wooden heads. All this, however, cannot excuse Miss McAlpin's informant, as he seems not to have regarded that part of the British constitution, trial by jury –
as a blessing –
one that ought to be eulogised like roast beef, strong ale and, perhaps, November fogs.

But the life of Flora's lover is in the balance, and she does not pause to venerate Messieurs Les Tetes de Bois.

Well there
must be
something in a name after all.
Tetes de Bois
does not look so
very
bad; not quite so well perhaps as
Coeur de Lion,
but not greatly inferior to
Front de Boeuf.
Pardon this digression, gentle reader, we are trying to convince ourselves that there is no such thing as a
legal injury,
and that we should always be meek and bow the neck to insult and oppression.

We do
not
try to convince that proud girl who feels the indignity to which
he
submitted; we do not try to convince the fond heart that must break if – if… But she cannot contemplate what the catastrophe may be – death – the death of a dog! – and eternal infamy to rest on the name that was to have been hers!

Pierce Silverton tells her to reflect on these things. It is very well that she regards Pierce as a friend – as one who is doing all in his power to save Herbert; but if someone else had even dropt that hint, Flora McAlpin would have told him to begone. Even as it is, her eyes flash, and she looks so like her father, that Pierce turns pale and trembles.

“I
know
him to be innocent,” she exclaims, “and his innocence shall be proved if I spend the last shilling I have in the world.”

“I will assist you,” says Pierce, after a pause, “but, listen a moment, Flora –
if
the verdict should be unfavourable, and the sentence pronounced by the law be–”

“I defy the law!
That
sentence passed on Herbert! Oh God, oh God! Do you wish to drive me mad that you stand talking there, Pierce Silverton?”

Flora withdrew the hand he had taken within his own, and motioned him away with a haughty gesture, but presently continued more calmly, “I will watch his case to the end; but if
his
life should be sacrificed,
I
shall not survive.
I will not
.”

She left the room, and Pierce Silverton began to fear that such a heart might
break,
but would never yield to oppression.

And that was the young girl who, three months earlier, had been seen skipping over the plains, singing to her birds, blushing, smiling, and often hesitating about some trifling project. Just so. But
then
she had not been called on to
act
; her life at that period was a tranquil dream,
now
she was awakened to a dreadful reality.

Pierce Silverton did not know what her purpose might be; perhaps she had formed none – perhaps she was waiting the result of the trial – but he knew whatever she might determine
that
would she execute. He had not previously arrived at this estimate of her character; and though he found it to be more violent than he anticipated, he loved her the better. He admired her courage, her resolution; the sort of antique grandeur which made her stand apart from tamer and less vigorous women. If he had
loved
her when surrounded by the graceful attributes of domestic life, he
adored
her in her present strange and almost isolated position.
Why
it should be isolated may appear strange, for she was young, handsome, and supposed to be an heiress. But everything in her temporary home was so ungenial; she was so much an object of wonder and affected sympathy, so absorbed by only one thought, that she might almost have been regarded as a creature of another sphere. Weak characters, when they do not
envy,
generally
admire
strong ones; and, perhaps, it is not so unusual as it may at first sight appear for the character of a woman to be stronger than that of a man. But if this apparent reversal of the order of Nature should be always unbecoming, some poets are very inch at fault in their delineations.

In this instance the lady had the advantage; and thus Pierce Silverton who, for three years, had thought Flora McAlpin a sweet girl, now looked up to her as a being to be worshipped, and considered the object of her passionate love to be envied; aye, even though he was encompassed in the terrors of the law, and perhaps destined to undergo the most dreadful of all deaths.

The
role
of Mr Silverton was, or ought to have been, of considerable dignity, for he had assigned to himself the character of a disinterested friend – the guide and supporter of a young girl under very trying circumstances; and if suspected of
loving
that fair girl (so long as he kept his passions under control) his conduct was only the more praiseworthy.

Mr Argueville, who was a man of the world, probably thought Pierce Silverton to be quite as much actuated by
love
as by friendship.

Mr John Speedy thought – and said, too – that Pierce had a sneaking sort of fancy for Miss Flora; and Miss Bessie – but she might be jealous – couldn't see why Mr Silverton didn't get rid of the whole concern.

It is very strange what ideas people form of each other, and of each other's business; but the strangest part of
this
affair was, that Mr Silverton should think it worthwhile to give himself any trouble whatever about Miss Bessie Garlick. Was he a double-dealer – a male coquette – or did he (just the least in the world) love the poor girl, who though not romantic, nor likely to make a fuss about devoted attachment, would prove a good, sensible, managing wife?

Nobody understood the state of the case; and Silverton's real, his absorbing love of Flora – the love that for three years had turned astray all his thoughts and acts from their natural aim – was unrevealed to his most intimate friends. All was mere surmise, but it was evident that, from some cause or other, Mr Silverton was very attentive to Bessie Garlick.

“It is true,” she reflected, “he has not yet made me an offer, but he has just stopped short of that; and perhaps he may speak out as soon as this horrible affair is settled some way or other.”

Meantime Mr Pierce Silverton had plenty of business on his hands; too much indeed. And Bessie tells him that he does not look so well as when he came down from the country, and she thinks he is very ridiculous to make himself so anxious.

“Ah, poor Lindsey!” sighs the disinterested friend.

“Poor Flora! I suppose you mean,” says the jealous maiden.

Mr Silverton admitted that he was deeply distressed on account of the young lady, and Miss Bessie recommended that he should take a good rousing pinch of snuff. Not a very sentimental remark, it must be confessed, but one that probably suggested itself to Miss Bessie from the conviction that it would call forth a little attention to herself.
Why,
she neither knew nor cared but, as the result proved, she was right in her conjecture. Mr Silverton forthwith proposed a visit to the Museum, and another to the Royal Park – dividing a whole afternoon between ugly fossils and uglier monkeys.

Mr Silverton had no special object in proposing a visit to a couple of institutions which would not seem to present any very great attractions for a pair of lovers; perhaps he imagined that Bessie had a taste for science, and perhaps he knew Philip and young Speedy to be elsewhere. However it might be, he engaged a car, and bravely confronting a dust-storm, drove away with the young lady.

Bessie was in a sportive mood on that afternoon. She was so proud of her imagined conquest that, after boasting as she had done to her mother and sisters, she was now intent on exhibiting her captive to the astonished passers-by. She chatted and giggled along the roads; and Pierce, lost in his own thoughts, with difficulty contrived to answer her in monosyllables. But, when arrived at the Museum, notwithstanding his preoccupation, he performed the part of
cicerone
pretty well, explaining the manners and customs of certain birds and beasts; very interesting no doubt, though infinitely less so to the fair Bessie than an offer would have been.

All at once she determined to provoke him by a little
agacerie
, and as they were then standing before a receptacle for mineral specimens, she pointed to one, in that alarming manner peculiar to some ladies who make use of a parasol to indicate any objects placed within a pane of glass, and then tapping her companion on the arm, exclaimed, “Look, look, Mr Silverton. Well, I do declare! That yellow stone is just like the one in your old snuff-box.”

Violently lively young ladies are sometimes too fatiguing for the nerves of delicately organised young gentlemen; therefore it is no wonder that Pierce did start a little, but the next moment he recovered sufficiently to take the damsel's hand in his own, and to say, “My dear Bessie.”