Force and Fraud (23 page)

One day, whilst occupied with sketches of this description, he perceived Harry Saunders lurking about and, knowing that his portfolio possessed a wonderful charm for the honest countryman, he beckoned him to approach. Harry eyed the sketches with the curiosity of a child and, like a child, turned eagerly to look for his own portrait, saying, in a tone of disappointment, “You haven't put me in the picture of the courthouse, Mr Lindsey.”

“No,” replied Herbert. “There is old Andrew Ross doing duty as witness. Does he not look well with his long white hair and beard?”

“Yes, it's as like him as two peas are like each other. And there's Mr Silverton, and Mr Roberts and the Missus, and lots of folks, but–”

“But you are not there; and I suppose you thought I had quarrelled with you. Eh, Harry?”

“And if you had, Mr Lindsey, you'd a right to, because I haven't behaved as a man should.”

“Ah! How's that?”

“I've often been going to speak to you about it, Mr Lindsey, but you see when a man's ashamed of himself, he doesn't like to talk.”

“I should think
you
about the last man in the world to do anything to be ashamed of, Harry.”

“Oh! Mr Lindsey, it quite cuts me up to hear you talk in that way for, for–”

“Well, out with it what have you done?”

“I'm dashed if I didn't think it was you that murdered the master!”

“You did, did you? Hum!”

“I never was so bothered in all my life, because you don't look like a chap to do a thing of that sort but you see there was the blood on the sponge, and you turning so terrible white. I'd rather have been shot than have had to speak, but when a man's put on his oath on one side, and them lawyers a' dinning at him o' t'other, he's forced to speak, though ‘twere agin his own father.”

“Appearances were against me, I must confess. Pray don't think anything more about the part you were forced to play. But I see now what made you stand first on one leg, and then on the other, and seem so little like yourself; so you need not wonder that I left your portrait out of the courthouse scene. You looked a great deal better when I set you to root up the gum tree.”

“I'd rather root up a whole forest of gum trees, and eat them afterwards than have to say what would put an honest man's life in danger.”

Herbert laughed at the idea of that substantial sort of food, and Harry added, “Well, I thought all along it would be queer if a man who laughs in that hearty sort of way
could
kill anyone.” But he had now made his peace with Lindsey, and the frank manner in which the young artist held out his hand – just as he had done at their first meeting – convinced the penitent countryman that he was forgiven.

Herbert afterwards related the incident to Flora, remarking that the honest countenance of Saunders would never serve to depict remorse.

“That
must be rather a difficult passion to portray, I should imagine. But, of course, the natural countenance can have nothing to do with our feelings,” was her reply.

“Sometimes I fancy not, and sometimes I think that if
we
make mistakes,
nature
does not. But these ideas are dangerous for, although the clear open brow of our friend Saunders would not illustrate that of a conscience-stricken villain, some of the best fellows in the world would make capital models for all sorts of assassins and schemers. There's Pierce Silverton, for instance, in spite of his beautiful features–”“Goodness, Herbert! How can you talk so? There cannot be a more amiable man than poor dear Pierce.”

“I know that, Florry; and
he
cannot have any cause for remorse, but we were speaking
of types of character,
and I explained that a somewhat contracted brow and compressed lips, even if handsome, are– But that sort of thing is only conventional, and we artists are a set of humbugs.”

Flora was quite satisfied with that somewhat illogical explanation; and Herbert knew very well that the moody expression on the brow of his friend was merely caused by failing health. He sighed to think that this was the prevailing opinion – for such it was – as many people when they saw Pierce Silverton, would exclaim, “Poor fellow, he's not long for this world!”

Mr Silverton consulted Philip Garlick, who advised change of air; recommending a trip to Queensland before the winter set in; but there seemed to be no immediate cause for apprehension.

The thoughts of most people in the neighbourhood were then directed towards the dinner to be given in honour of Herbert Lindsey.
The Southern Cross
, though always brilliant on such occasions, never shone with such lustre as on this festival; all the previous dinners, whether of Freemasons, Odd Fellows, or Volunteers, being completely eclipsed. The choicest wines were supplied, the choicest delicacies served; Bridget and her assistants working with hearty good will; and the most respectable people for miles around honouring the feast with their presence.

Not Mr O'Twig, however, as very important business called him to Melbourne, which was quite as well, as it is probable the stewards would not have allowed him to purchase a ticket at any price. Mr Lovelaw was, however, admitted; and Mr Lovelaw said in his speech that “he had formerly venerated Herbert Lindsey as a martyr to the laws of his country but he now looked on him as their hero”. The speaker then likened his young friend to Quintus Curtius, but no one seemed to understand the simile, nor, as it is probable, did the speaker
any
more than his hearers.

The address of Mr Garlick was very much more jocular; that of Pierce Silverton, more sentimental and, when he wound up with his own gratitude to Heaven for the safety of his friend, he became truly sublime. Mr John Speedy having been entrusted with the tribute to the ladies was about to prefix
Mrs
Lindsey, but suddenly remembered that there was no such person. Being aware that it would not be correct to introduce the name of Flora McAlpin, he made a touching allusion to the Goddess of Flowers, perhaps being inspired by a great bouquet on which he kept his eyes during his very remarkable speech. Upon recollecting that Miss McAlpin had not enacted the part of a Niobe during her stay in Melbourne, a circumstance which had
then
called forth his gratitude because, to use his own words, “it shuts a fellow up to see a woman cry”. He then became a little hazy about the Maid of Saragossa, and exclaimed with considerable emphasis, “She sheds no ill-timed tear”. After which he sat down to the great relief of the company in general, and of Herbert Lindsey in particular.

Various songs and speeches followed, all more or less appropriate; and, to quote the language of a brilliant reporter, ‘the festivities of that joyous evening terminated at an advanced hour in the morning'. That morning, however, was not particularly joyous, as headaches prevailed throughout the township. Perhaps apprehending the effects of sudden reaction, most of the party thought it advisable to let their hilarity subside very gradually, and accordingly got up an impromptu feast, although with diminished splendour. And then, in the course of a week, the inhabitants got over the effects of
the recovery.

But if it will impoverish a man to give a succession of feasts, it will not enrich him to depend on the feasts of other men, so it is just as well to awake to the consciousness of this before people grow tired of giving the said feasts. Herbert fortunately aroused himself ere there was any danger of learning this unpleasant truth from that most convincing of all teachers – experience. And he then learn another circumstance – that the public mind occasionally reverted to the fact that
the real
murderer had not been discovered.

There were some very material individuals who reminded each other that:
Someone must have done it.
A few, with still more obtuse intellects, would add:
What if this Lindsey did it after all
– and then proceed to argue that, although the bushman saw him cross that part of the plain, he might afterwards have turned back on purpose to murder McAlpin.

In short, Herbert Lindsey had been so
feted
and applauded that people were beginning to grow jealous of the hero, whose praise they had lately sung. Some of these people, on various pretexts, broke through their engagements, and postponed,
sine die,
the portrait taking projects into which they had once eagerly entered. And thus, when Herbert Lindsey was on the eve of starting for South Australia, he received a couple of letters to this effect: one being dictated
by fear
; and one with the suggestion of
envy
. The former from an absurd woman having taken it into her silly head, that if Mr Lindsey was admitted to her house he
might be
tempted to murder her harmless old husband, and – what would be equally improbable – to fall in love with her very unattractive daughter. The latter epistle from a writer being one of those pests of society – a man somewhat important in his own neighbourhood, and very much so in his own opinion and, therefore, unwilling to be eclipsed by the hero of the hour.

And then, notwithstanding his own single-mindedness, Herbert perceived that he stood in the shadow of suspicion; that the jury's verdict of
Not Guilty
– and the judge's assertion that ‘he left the court without a stain on his name' – were neither sufficient to stifle the whinings of folly, nor the murmurings of jealousy. He felt disheartened, for his illusions were beginning to disperse, and even to stand out in all the hideousness of their evil passions.

“I must go, Flora,” he said. “I will cross every foot of ground I trod on that unfortunate day. I will challenge my accusers, and if any one dares insinuate in my hearing that I raised a hand against your father, I'll horsewhip him to death!”

And so, being anxious to prove that he was not a murderer, he asserted his intention of becoming one.

“I don't see why you should excite yourself in that way, Lindsey,” said Pierce Silverton, who was present. “You
are
acquitted, and if these talking fools give you any annoyance, bring an action for libel against them at once.”

“I have had enough of law. I will take it into my own hands next time.”

“But why not travel by the coach to your destination? Why trouble yourself to go over that ground again? You may be sure that it has been searched more than once.”

“My presence on
that spot
may perhaps convince some of the ignorantly superstitious that I should not be likely to cross a tract of country where I had committed such a deed.”

But it was the hard-minded and the wilfully blind, not the timid nor the superstitious, whose opinions Herbert Lindsey had to combat. He went; and in a few weeks the envy and the admiration he had excited were alike forgotten.

Flora naturally felt lonely after the departure of her lover, but she did not give way to low spirits; she had no right to do so, as if she had chosen, she might have joined her lot with his and accompanied him on his journey. One motive for not doing so has already been explained – but though she spoke of waiting a year out of respect for her father's memory, she had a vague presentiment that the mystery connected with his death might yet be cleared up. She was not much more solitary than she had been at Mount Alpin, as her father when at home had generally surrounded himself with persons towards whom she felt no sympathy, and with whom she seldom associated. So she now amused herself, as she had formerly done, with music, books, needle-work, and in writing to Herbert.

Pierce Silverton, who no longer resided at Mount Alpin, had taken up his quarters at
The Southern Cross
, although scarcely a day passed that he did not visit Flora. Once he alluded to the will. It was a delicate subject, to which Herbert did not like to refer; indeed it required all Flora's tact to prevent a jealousy of Silverton from being excited in her lover's breast.

“Did your father ever say he should like you to marry Pierce?” Herbert had then asked Flora, who replied, “No, but he once told me he had made up his mind who should be my husband, and he would let me know when he thought fit. But I fancy he made the will from some impulse or other, and very likely he would have destroyed it if he had lived; particularly if he quarrelled with Pierce – and this very often happened.”

But now Pierce himself spoke of the will, and as he was so deeply interested in the matter, it is almost a wonder he had not done so earlier. Very timidly did he hazard its introduction, first of all by extolling the virtue of filial duty.

Flora looked very sad, for she was by nature gentle, and her rebellion against her father had caused her much sorrow. “It will always render me unhappy to reflect that I cannot obey his wish,” she exclaimed.

“That you cannot! But is it not likely you should have been much attached to your father; you saw so little of him during your childhood.”

“Oh! Do not say that I did not love him, for in spite of his occasional violence, I venerated the very ground he walked upon.”

“I did not think that your affection for him was so strong.”

“I do not make a parade of my sentiments, but no daughter could love a father better than I did, and I am miserable whenever I think of my disobedience.”

“And if that reflection should hereafter arise?”

“It will. Oh, do not speak of it. Do you wish to make me wretched, Pierce?”

“I?
Oh! Flora, I would save you from the torments of self-reproach.”

Flora buried her head on the sofa, and wept bitterly. Pierce took her hand; he had held it within his during their journey together; it then lay passively in his own, but now it trembled, and Pierce
hoped.

“Flora,” he exclaimed almost solemnly. “Your father beholds you from his grave!”

Flora started in alarm. Some Highland superstition perhaps crossing her mind, and she exclaimed, “Where, oh! Where?”