Force and Fraud (31 page)

“But I will send him – he shall speak for himself,” he said in conclusion.

“No; I doubted his word, and can never look him in the face again. But I would have married Pierce had he lived; I am his affianced wife and must mourn for him.”

Had he lived, she would have repulsed him with scorn; now she forgave him because ‘he loved much' and because she could not war with the dead. She secluded herself in her room, and Mr Manners thought it would be better to leave her to herself for the remainder of the day. He then explained the circumstance as well as he could to Herbert, who asked, “How can it have happened? Could Pierce Silverton be deceitful?”

There is a degree of sanctity connected with the dead, and we cannot speak of their
errors
as of those who live; and Herbert Lindsey attributed Flora's doubts to some accident connected either with the despatch or with the delivery of the letters than to wilful perversion of the truth on the part of his friend. As for the advertisement, no one knew how it got there. Flora could not even state the name of the paper in which it appeared, and ‘hushed was now the tongue that could have told'.

 

Pierce Silverton was borne with honour to the grave and his murderer condemned with infamy to the gallows. The trial was a mere form, for the deed was known to have been committed. But when the man Maddox (for that proved to be his real name), was asked if he pleaded “Guilty or Not Guilty,” he said, “Why, you know I did it, and I know you'll hang me, so cut all this business short; I want to turn in and have a good sleep.”

When the sentence was passed he did not show the slightest emotion; and, on being taken to the condemned cell, instantly demanded something to eat. Poor old Crofts had died from the effects of the wound inflicted by Maddox hurling the glass bottle at his head; and when the ruffian was told of the circumstance, he said brutally, “There's two to one; that's some comfort!”

One day, old Andrew Ross – who had never abandoned the pursuit of his master's murder – found, buried underneath the rude flooring of a hut occupied by Maddox at the time he followed the calling of horse-breaker, an old pocketbook that had once been McAlpin's. The shepherd took this to Mr Roberts, who gave it to the governor of the gaol. He, with very little difficulty – for Maddox had become boastful of his atrocities – drew from him the history of that murder.

“I did it, and got well paid for it too,” he said in a tone of triumph, and he then proceeded to relate how it had occurred.

“Old McAlpin rode off with Mr Silverton, and on the way they had a quarrel; and Mac struck Silverton with his riding whip. I met him afterwards, and he seemed a good deal hurt, but more vexed. I never saw him so angry. He said in a great passion, ‘I'd give a hundred pounds to see that old fellow's head broke'. ‘Then,' says I, ‘if you will, master, I'm your man for that job.' ‘Very good,' says he, ‘be off.'

“So I goes and settles Mac, and then comes back again to Mr Silverton for the pay. He turns round and says he ‘didn't mean it, and he hoped that I hadn't done anything of the kind.' So, says I, ‘master Silverton, if
you
ain't a man of your word,
I
is, and if you don't fork out handsome like, I'll swear you did it, and there's lots of folks will believe that, for they know the rows you have had together. But it was as easy to frighten him as a girl, he was such a soft sort of a chap; why, he used to sit grieving about that old Highlander who treated him worse than a nigger. But the lots of money I got out of him, and jolly life I led; and if I hadn't had a drop too much, and got into that terrible passion, I'd have had another hundred pounds that night, as sure as two and two makes four.”

And in this unfeeling manner did the ruffian speak of the dead. But the mystery of the handkerchief not having been cleared up, Maddox was questioned respecting it, and he replied, “I'd found it down by the river side, and as it seemed a bit tasty, I put it on, and when I set upon Mac he clutched it. But as I hear you've been wondering about that old 'baccy box, I may as well tell you that I took it out of Mac's pocket, and when I was going to England – and Mr Silverton was so frightened lest I should give him the slip, as to stow me away in his room – I left it by mistake on his table. So, if he told lies about it, tisn't my look out. He had a way when he got frightened, of telling a lie, and then another lie to hide it; but if it hadn't been for that and his love fit, he'd have been as decent a chap as there is going. That's all I have to say, but if you call it a
confession,
don't put in that I am sorry. I wouldn't do such a sneaking thing as to be sorry. And now I'll trouble you for a glass of ale, for the yarning makes a man dry.”

A few days later the wretched man was executed in the town where Herbert Lindsey had been acquitted. He died as he had lived – hardened, unfeeling, impenitent; his fate excited no sympathy. But it was long before those whose sorrows he had caused, could arouse themselves from the painful associations connected with his name.

“Thank God that you will have no reproach on your conscience. Indeed, I do not think you could endure it,” said Herbert.

“Oh no, I am sure I could not.'

Flora spoke so naturally, that her listeners were convinced the overstrained part she had so lately acted must have been extremely painful to her. But there was so much of the painful still – so many associations connected with Pierce Silverton; such numerous reports in circulation – that Mr Manners, acting in the character of Miss McAlpin's guardian, took her to reside with his own wife till time should efface the vividness of melancholy recollections.

Some arrangement was about to be entered into respecting Herbert, but whilst it was in contemplation, he received a letter requiring his speedy presence in England; and the lovers parted, with mutual confidence in each other's truth.

Another year had passed away, and many friends with it. A fluctuating population has somewhat interfered with the custom of
The Southern Cross
, therefore Mr Roberts has migrated into another district. His wife is not sorry, for her favourite, Mr Lindsey, could not enliven the place as he used to do – which will be readily supposed, as he is another hemisphere; and the memory of poor Mr Silverton makes her so sad, that she has not even spirits to rail at O'Twig. But another hotel is found on the border of the county, not so very far from the residence of Mr Manners. Flora often comes hither to talk over old times; and it may be that they do cry a little together.

Harry Saunders has married Mary; they have a farm of their own, and she has no time to read novels, nor yet to flirt with a Yankee acquaintance. Mr Philip Garlick says the township is not so jolly as it used to be, and he will look out for a practice near the Roberts's new hotel; and, as Mr Manners will recommend him to his acquaintance, it would be a very prudent step. Bessie has gone to be a governess at an out-station; and, as her brother expresses it, has
hooked
a widower of sixty-four. Mr O'Twig received a rebuff the other day for entering the court with a remarkably unsteady step; and old Andrew Ross is “biding a wee” with the bushman till Mr Lindsey comes back. Therefore, it is rumoured that Mr Lindsey does intend to settle at last.

And now
he has come,
and with all the enthusiasm of his earlier years, he hastens to Flora.

“At last I can ask you to be my wife, Flora,” he says, “without a suspicion that I seek you for your wealth for I have inherited my uncle's property. And now, when will you marry me?”

And Flora puts her hand in his, and replies, “In a fortnight.”

The Mount Alpin property is still retained, but the house has been demolished, and another built on a different part of the station. It is a sweet, tranquil valley, and there they hope to live during many happy years.

If at times Herbert thinks how nearly he had fallen a sacrifice to another's crime, he remembers with gratitude the efforts Flora made in his defence, and never reproaches her for her temporary weakness when assailed by the violence of contending passions. Happily they have passed through their ordeal – the power of the man
of force
having been destroyed; the arts of the man
of fraud
rendered unavailing.

 

 

CONCLUDED

A
Story of the Early Australian Settlers

 

BY

 

Ellen Davitt

“Weel, Maister Ellison,” said Dr Dubious, “ye've made out a tale, and that's nae a bad thing on a cauld night; the mair that it gies a mon a pretext for sipping his toddy. But I'm no converted to the theory o' dreams; and by your ain showing, ye were in weakly health when ye dreamt o' the ship on fire. And that, nae doubt, accounted for a' the fancies; for ye ken, when the stomach's heavy the head is apt to be licht.'

The doctor then laid down his pipe, and replenished his tumbler, looking the very picture of obstinacy, when Mr Ellison remarked, “But, my dear sir, how can
you
account for the likeness between the creature of my fancy – if you please to call the dream by such a name – and the
actual man
I afterwards saw; the man who proved to be the culprit?”

“It's a'most as unreasonable to expect a mon to account for a thing he thinks agin reason, as to believe in a the daft nonsense o' dreams.”

“
A man convinced against his will – Is of the same opinion still,
” said Mr Lightfoot,
sotto voce
. Then he added, in a louder tone, “But the foundation of half the stories we read of or listen to are as baseless as that of a vision, and sometimes still worse – a complete perversion of facts.”

“As the fire is good and the toddy still better, I'll tell you a story gentlemen, that
has
a more solid foundation than a dream; nor will I pervert facts, though there are some I shall suppress,” said a stout-looking Highlander, who had listened in silence to the narratives of the two lawyers.

“Let us have it, Ferguson, for ye're not the man to trouble your head with dreams,” said the doctor.

“No;
my
story is a stern reality; and
that
my friend M'Lean, can vouch for,” replied the Highlander.

“Ay, I can do that, Ferguson. I am not likely to forget those times, though it is long since they passed away,” said a man whose countenance bore an expression of deep thought, tinctured perhaps with remorse. His own reference to
those times
caused him to look still more gloomy; and he sighed heavily as he prepared himself a glass of the stimulant which, on that night, seemed to be equally essential to speaker and to listener.

Mr Ferguson, whilst similarly engaged, introduced his story by saying, “It is not a tale of well-dressed miscreants, who might have run the gauntlet with the London police, nor of a rascally digger defrauding and murdering a poor credulous mate, that I am about to tell, but of enemies who caused our lives to be a constant scene of anxiety and a succession of hair-breadth escapes. Ah, but they are not very much to be feared
now
. We took down their mettle, didn't we, M'Lean?”

“Ay, by destroying nine-tenths of them,” replied M'Lean, with another sigh.

“Well, you need not look so dismal about it, man; there was no other plan for us to adopt – no other way, gentlemen, to make this land habitable for you. And even if there had been, were we not entitled to our
revenge
? But, M'Lean, do you remember what year it was when you and I first met?”

“No. that business on the Murray seems to have put all dates out of my head. Ferguson, why
will
you force me to think of those days?”

“It is not what
we did
that disturbs my reflections. But as none of you gentlemen were out in this hemisphere at that time – some of you not even in existence – you cannot imagine the place where you are all sitting so comfortably overrun by a set of blackfellows like–”

“Like the man they have got to sweep out the bar and to help the chambermaid with her work?” asked a dandy recently arrived in the colony, who had no idea of Australia beyond that which he had acquired between the limits of Melbourne and its suburbs. Even this colonial experience was chiefly confined to the pit of the theatres, a few cafes and similar places of resort, until destiny compelled him to seek employment as a lawyer's clerk up-country.

“Like that fellow who wears a green-baize apron, and who follows Mary about the house, with a pail in one hand and a broom in the other? No, Mr Skimmile; the blacks
we
had to encounter were as unlike that poor animal as the hammer of a Highlander to the dainty article with which you were driving a few tintacks into your mosquito-net yesterday. Tush! What do you Cockneys know of Australia in the old times? Ha, you may thank
us
for taming the blackfellows, and making them exchange their spears for sweeping brooms.”

Mr Skimmile had always admired Highlanders since he became acquainted with the pages of Sir Walter Scott. Inspired by the
Wizard of the North
, he had once spent a fortnight in Scotland, where he experimentalised in grouse shooting till he found that he was putting himself into more danger than the game he tried to bring down. Since then he had worn a kilt at a fancy ball, where he afforded considerable amusement to every Scotchman present by the smallness of his legs, as well as by the adjustment of his pouch. Now, thinking perhaps he could hereafter emulate the prowess of the Highlander on whom he was gazing with admiration mixed with awe, he resolved to try the effect of strong drink; and immediately set about brewing a tumbler of whisky punch. But the experiment was unsuccessful, as it made the adventurous youth cough most piteously for at least a quarter of an hour.

“Gang into the kitchen and ask the cook to gie ye a spoonfu' o' jam; it's mair in your line than toddy an' the like,” said Dr Dubious, with a sly wink; and the young man left the room till the violence of his cough abated. Several of the guests laughed heartily at this mischance, and as soon as silence was restored Mr Ferguson commenced his narrative.