Force and Fraud (10 page)

Lindsey sighed, and, after a pause, added, “Perhaps not; but absence is hard to bear.”

“Absence? Why not remain in the neighbourhood? We could meet very often.”

“That cannot be. I have made an important engagement in South Australia, one that will be extremely lucrative. Oh, that I should have to consider such motives; but poverty is urgent, Flora.”

“I cannot bear to hear you talk of poverty whilst I am rich, Herbert.”

“Not one shilling of your money will I ever touch, Flora. I do not think there is a more contemptible creature in the world, than a man who lives on his wife's means. But I am not so
very
poor, and it is to avoid becoming so, that I have made certain engagements. I am commissioned to paint a few portraits at almost fabulous prices, considering the way in which talent is generally rewarded in these colonies. I will only remain absent three or four months; and then, Flora, I mean to claim your promise.”

She put her hand in his, and asked, “When must you go?”

“Tomorrow, by break of day, Flora. I only waited to see you once more. You will not forget me, dearest?”

The vow of constancy was renewed; and then Flora accompanied her lover to the farther end of the garden, where he mounted his horse and rode slowly away.

Flora returned to the house with a step that had none of the joyous alacrity which once characterised her movements. Recent grief, more than indisposition, had produced a change in attitude, as well as in countenance; although both were rather composed than sad. As she again seated herself on the verandah, from which she could watch the receding figure of her lover, a faint smile rested on her lips, and many fugitive thoughts seemed to flit across her face.

In that mobility of expression, some persons fancied they read indecision of character, but Herbert Lindsey, versed in all the nicer shades of difference, perceived that the wild and wilful girl had become the tender and loving woman.

Events work their chance, as well as time, and it may be that the character of Flora McAlpin is not yet developed.

 

An occasional melancholy, which is inseparable from all finer natures, tempered the genial disposition of Herbert Lindsey. As he rode away from his betrothed, he thought of the vicissitudes that chequered his career; of the terrible incident which had overwhelmed Flora with grief; of his own compulsory absence; and of the uncertain future – for he had long since realised the sad truth that talent and genius are seldom rewarded with wealth.

In vain he tried to shake off a feeling of sadness. He sang a gay song, he whistled a lively air; but could not force himself to be cheerful. Then arose the painful reflection that if his earlier years had been irreproachable, he might now be happy, and thus self-condemnation aided to depress his spirits.

His imaginative temperament invested outward objects with a deeper gloom, although the scene at that moment was cheerless enough. All at once he remembered on the morning of that day having noticed a
little cloud
in the western heavens, and – accustomed by frequent out-door exercise to observe all characteristics of approaching change in the weather – he then thought this little cloud would increase till it spread itself over the entire sky.

“Just as trouble does, sometimes overpowering people altogether,” he said to himself. But at that moment, Flora's note was put into his hand, and the cloud and his reflections alike forgotten.

But the cloud
had
increased, and now hung like a great pall over the setting sun, assuming a threatening form. The dark forest appeared to frown, the rising wind to admonish, and a great ugly bird flew screaming overhead.

Lindsey rode on, and presently met a ferocious dog – formerly the favourite of McAlpin, who had in a fit of irritation once set the animal on his daughter's suitor. The dog, still true to his master's teaching, now assailed Lindsey, endeavouring to bite the legs of his horse until he was beaten off with a heavy riding whip. A little farther on, Harry Saunders, looking as gloomy as the darkening twilight, came in sight. Pursuing his painful reverie, Lindsey thought that animated nature had leagued with the elements to oppress his spirits.

At length he reached the hotel and, having determined to proceed on his journey by daybreak, he paid the bill, took leave of host and hostess, and after putting his little knapsack in order, retired to rest.

For an hour or two he slept soundly, but was then awoke by heavy rain splashing against the shingle roof. The ceiling of the apartment being of canvas, gave way, and a stream of water came pouring into the room.

Lindsey drew his bed away from the wall, and once more tried to sleep. He dreamt first of the
little cloud,
then of the storm. The shower that drenched his pillow might naturally induce him to dream of a torrent but – either from some inexplicable circumstance relating to the vagaries of the imagination during sleep, or from some other cause – that torrent did not appear to be
of water–

But
of blood!

Herbert Lindsey's, oppressed by the vision, he shrieked out, “Blood; blood! It is everywhere! It will stain my hands and
my soul
for ever!”

He was then awoke by a strong light.

His door was open, and
there
stood two men whose dress denoted their calling. These men were accustomed to strange language, to the ravings of fear, the murmurs of guilt – but now they looked with horror into each other's faces, as they had heard the exclamations of the dreamer.

“What do you want here?” demanded Herbert, as soon as he was sufficiently aroused speak.

“To arrest you for the murder of Angus McAlpin,” was the reply.

And some hours later, Herbert Lindsey was submitted to an examination for the commission of that offence.

Herbert Lindsey, unlike Jack Falstaff, did not run away upon instinct. It is very certain that his nocturnal visitors would not have allowed such a step. Neither would they have permitted
that
which his instinct
did
take – could they have prevented it – this being nothing less than knocking down the gentleman who had acted as leader. A very improper course no doubt; and imprudent, as it did his cause no good.

The prejudice conceived against him by certain individuals was also increased by the language he thought fit to employ on being examined. When he was asked why he assaulted an officer in the discharge of his duty, he replied, “I awoke and saw a couple of fellows in my room, one of whom was making free with my knapsack. The first thing that came into my head was to knock one of them down, and most certainly I should have treated his companion in the same manner, if a set of ruffians had not rushed into the room and seized on me in the most cowardly manner. And now, Sir, be good enough to tell me why I have been brought here?”

“Herbert Lindsey, you are here on suspicion of having murdered the late Angus McAlpin,” replied one of the magistrates, in a pompous manner.

“I did
not
murder him, and those that say so tell a confounded lie; as soon as I get out of this den of yours, I'll break the head of the first fellow who dares to insinuate any such thing.”

Herbert Lindsey was reprimanded for contempt of court; in reply to which he used a still stronger expression respecting that institution, not forgetting the magistrates themselves. Cries of ‘Oh, oh!' followed, but these were mixed with cheers; upon which some persons were expelled, and, with great difficulty, order restored.

“I presume it was under a similar impulse of temper that you struck the fatal blow,” said one of the magistrates.

“You have no right to insinuate that I
did
strike the blow, and as soon as I am at liberty I'll make you eat your words.”

“Your ebullitions of temper will greatly injure your cause; it is my duty to put you on your guard.”

“Is it likely that I am to submit tamely to be dragged out of my bed, and brought here to have my name disgraced? Be good enough, sir, to inform me what
knave
put this idea into the heads of
fools.”

Although the worthy magistrate's exposition was not remarkable for its clearness, Herbert was, at length, brought to understand that a warrant for his apprehension had been issued by the Crown; and, consequently, the inference of knavery was both insolent and inapplicable. Unfortunately, however, the gentleman on the bench failed in the attempt to convince
his
listener (or, perhaps, any of his other hearers), that
folly
must necessarily be separated from
his
acts, or those of his colleagues.

A considerable time elapsed ere the suspected culprit appeared to comprehend the gravity of his position; but when the bowie-knife was produced he started, and after a few moment's silence, said it belonged to him. He also admitted that the piece of linen formed part of his handkerchief. He was observed to turn very pale at the sight of the blood with which both these articles were stained; nevertheless, he positively asserted his innocence, and denied having met McAlpin at all.

When asked if he could account for the blood on the knife and the linen, he raised his head fearlessly, and said, “Yes, I think I can”.

Then on being told to explain, he added, “As I was going through the forest I met a bushman, who had cut himself with his axe; the wound was just above the knee, and bled profusely. Although I have an instinctive aversion to the sight of blood, I immediately offered assistance and bound up the wound.”

“But the knife! How come
that
to be soiled?” asked a magistrate.

“I used one handkerchief to bind up the wound, and tore another in pieces to make the bandage firm. I suppose I must have used the knife to cut through the hem.”

“You,
suppose!
Anyone would imagine that you could not forget such circumstance.”

“I did
not
forget it. I fancied I had used my pen knife, but now see that I must have employed the bowie knife.”

“You seem to have a very imperfect recollection of the occurrence.”

“I recollect it all very well, but other events, for the moment, effaced it from my memory.”

“What events?”

“That is a question I decline answering.”

“What brought you to this neighbourhood?”

“A professional engagement; I was making sketches on the day of the murder.”

The sketch-book was here produced; and some likenesses it contained identified – amongst these were several of one individual, known by the name of Dick Thrasham.

“Are you acquainted with him?”

Mr Lindsey couldn't say that he was
acquainted
with the man, though he had spoken to him on a former occasion; those likenesses had either been drawn from memory, or without the man's knowledge.

“Why hadn't Mr Lindsey sketched the wounded bushman?” The magistrate thought
he
would have made a nice picture.

Mr Lindsey begged to differ from his worship as, in the first instance, the subject did not strike his fancy; in the second, there was nothing very striking either in the face or figure of the man.

“Could Mr Lindsey describe him, or state the nature of their conversation.”

Mr Lindsey said that the bushman could scarcely express himself in English and, as his own knowledge of Gaelic was still more limited, any communication that passed between them was chiefly carried on by signs.

“Was there any other circumstance by which the bushman could be identified?”

“Perhaps by a large dog that accompanied him.”

It was remarked as something extraordinary that, although several persons had been in the vicinity of the forest during the day, no one had seen either the bushman or his dog. This circumstance, combined with others, told greatly against Mr Lindsey, and he was fully committed to take his trial for the murder.

“It is a great pity that young fellow couldn't keep his temper; the expressions he used to the magistrate will tell against him, besides prejudicing that gentleman against him,” said Mr Lovelaw, a great authority in the neighbourhood, to the landlord of
The Southern Cross
.

“When a man's roused out of his sleep, and finds a fellow fingering his traps, it is a matter of instinct to knock him down. I have known Mr Lindsey these three years, and a more civil and honourable gentleman never came into this house. I'll stick to him through thick and thin,” replied the landlord.

“I am glad to find that he has such a friend; but nothing can excuse the language he made use of.”

“Being charged unjustly is enough to excuse anything.”

“Justice will be done to him at the trial, no doubt.”

“Justice d'ye call it to try a fine honourable gentleman like that?” vociferated Mrs Roberts, a warm-hearted Irish woman, who, since the arrest, had been declaiming against the whole transaction.

“Of course, if he is suspected of the murder he must stand his trial,” said Mr Lovelaw.

“Them that says they suspect him, had better keep out of this house,” replied the landlady, in an angry tone as she retired to the bar.

The committal of Herbert Lindsey formed ample food for discussion; and, as such food generally required liquids, the bar of
The Southern Cross
soon became crowded, the bar-parlour invaded, and other rooms in request. The arguments of the speakers varyied from sage to silly, although the latter greatly predominated. Mr Lovelaw still remained in conversation with his host, while Mrs Roberts occasionally aided the barman in the discharge of his onerous duties.

“Well, I don't see what O'Twig could do but to commit the young man for trial,” remarked Mr Lovelaw, as he was about to take his departure.

“And more shame for him, the spalpeen!” cried Mrs Roberts, from her sanctuary.

“I think you are rather hard on your countryman, my good lady,” replied Mr Lovelaw.