Force and Fraud (20 page)

Not a model prisoner, according to the views of those who think incarceration a likely process to induce penitence. A very mistaken idea, and one rejected even by the refractory urchin who is locked up till he promises amendment; for it is true that when sleepy or sick of his prison, he
may
promise all sorts of things to get free, but then away he goes with a pouting lip and a lowering brow.

But poor Herbert had not the inducement of liberty held out to him. Nobody said, “If you will promise not to slaughter another highlander, you shall go free to study the art you love, the nature you adore.”

It certainly is not reasonable to suppose that anyone
would
say this to a man committed to stand his trial for murder. Neither is it much more reasonable to imagine that
he,
conscious of his own innocence, would be extremely meek whilst unjustly imprisoned.

Until the gentlemen whom Flora disrespectfully termed ‘wooden-headed' have decided the question, we do not know whether he is innocent or guilty. So, for the present, we must take his word, his honour as a gentleman, his oath as a Christian, and suppose that he did
not
commit the deed. Having made that assertion, he asked why he was to be imprisoned like a felon.

“Oh, we do not regard you in the light of a felon
at present,
Mr Lindsey,” replied the governor of the gaol, a very bland sort of person. “But you must be aware that having been committed for trial, you cannot be set at liberty till
that
is over. I am very sorry for all this, and sincerely hope that you may be able to establish your innocence.”

Herbert knew how strong was the circumstantial evidence against him; and thought his fate was sealed, but he remained silent.

The governor grew sympathising, and asked if the prisoner had any request to make.

“Only to be let alone, and not troubled with condolence,” replied Lindsey, in almost the same words as those used by the Irish officer, who thus won the admiration of Napoleon. As Herbert spoke, his gesture was haughty, and even tinctured with a little military stiffness, perhaps.

And then the governor retired with a bow, far less proud than that of his captive.

There were several opinions abroad respecting the conduct of Herbert Lindsey. Some persons arguing that his attitude of reserve was becoming an injured man; others – who probably thought
that prison made the crime
– said he ought to be more humble. But in his case, as in that of many others, the oppressors were more eager to reform the conduct of the oppressed than their own. There were some too who, remembering how Herbert had treated his midnight guests, expected that his sojourn in the gaol would be a career of knocking down gaolers. They were greatly surprised when told that Mr Lindsey was as gentle as a child; that he never so much as found fault with his food, or showed the slightest disposition to any kind of mutiny.

But Mr Lindsey was otherwise troublesome, inasmuch as he had become a popular prisoner. His reserve had first won him respect; and when he
did
unbend, his gentleness gained him admiration. Nevertheless, his conduct was not altogether conventional as, in spite of his dangerous position, his natural character would sometimes appear and allow a relish for humour to break through the more tragic surroundings of the scene.

His paint-box had been confiscated, perhaps as being too great an indulgence for a prisoner – perhaps lest he should be tempted to break his fast on vermilion and gamboge. Pen and ink, however, were permitted; and pen and ink sketches executed without any permission at all, but simply for his own amusement – because some, if seen, would speedily have been confiscated.

Amongst these specimens of art was an alarming caricature of O'Twig, and the touching up of this gem had solaced many a lonely hour. But Herbert was beginning to weary of this amusement, and even the haughty reserve he thought essential to an injured man was growing irksome, for his character was eminently social. Nevertheless, his dignity must be maintained; and all complaints avoided, as only fit for a set of fellows who cry out for porter and an extra allowance of food.

And now the time appointed for his trial was drawing near, and the danger of his situation increasing, not merely because the approach of the catastrophe painted each circumstance in more vivid colours, but because the danger
was
really greater. For though link after link was added to the chain of evidence
against him
; there seemed to be no witness on the other hand who could break these links asunder. It is true that numerous friends were ready to vouch for his honour, his humanity, his Christian principles – but what would they avail if the jury should pronounce him Guilty?

And there he lay – stretched outside his narrow bed – gazing upon the rays of the setting sun, that shone upon the plastered walls, and thinking of the brilliant landscape
that
sun lighted without. His cell was not so very dreary –
for a cell;
but it was a prison still.

He had been dreaming of some gorgeous palace, enriched with gems of art, that he had once visited; and, on awaking, his eye fell on the scanty furniture of the gaol. He had been dreaming of the vast forests and trackless plains that he loved on account of their freedom and immensity; for Herbert Lindsey, like many another artist whose educated eye had been pleased with the rich park-like beauty of English scenery, but had grown familiar with the grander types of nature, and admired – nay, almost worshipped them for their majesty. But now freedom was exchanged for imprisonment; boundless space for the narrow confines of a cell.

And so he lay, dreaming of liberty and love:
of love in vain –
of Flora dying of grief: and of himself, sacrificed to appease the spirit of McAlpin.

And as he did, the gaol chaplain entered; a benign, kind-hearted man. He and Herbert Lindsey had not very well understood each other at first, because the manner of the Reverend gentleman slightly implied that the prisoner was a culprit; and Mr Lindsey told Mr Stewart that it would be quite time enough to extort him to penitence when he was pronounced guilty. But the clergyman was merely discharging the duties of his office in tendering advice and consolation.

Herbert, in consideration of his visitor's spiritual calling, gradually became less haughty. The first visit was short, and the chaplain, depositing some books on the table, withdrew. The next day he called again, and sighed, as he perceived that the books had not been touched.

“Do not think I am without religion, Mr Stewart; if I
were,
I could not endure my present misery, but it is hard to be regarded as a criminal,” said Herbert, for he interpreted the sigh of his visitor.

Mr Stewart was a man of tact as well as feeling, and therefore led the conversation to other subjects; speaking (for he too had travelled) of scenes endeared to the prisoner's memory, of the profession he had chosen, and of all its elevating tendencies. And so, by degrees, developing these finer shades of character often seen both in the lover of art and in the admirer of nature, Lindsey's heart warmed to the subject; and Mr Stewart, on again taking leave, thought that delicately minded young man could never have committed murder. Meditating on all the contradictions of frail humanity, he retired to his study. His conversation with the artist had led him into a poetical train of thought, and by chance, the first book he selected was a volume of poems by Thomas Hood. It opened upon the subject of Eugene Aram, and then Mr Stewart reflected that all murderers had not been branded ruffians.

Since that evening he had had several interviews with Herbert Lindsey; and many and conflicting were the impressions they caused, and now he found the prisoner more overcome by the sense of his position than he had hitherto been.

Herbert arose to receive his visitor, and for the first time complained of his destiny.

“It is hard,” he said, “very hard for one who loves liberty as I do, to be immured in this wretched cell; and to think that I shall only be freed by death – and such a death – and for the crime of another.”

“Ah, my friend,” said the clergyman, “there is One who died for the crimes of all.”

“That is true! But to think of the stain that will rest on my name; the name of my father.”

The good clergyman made some passing remark, to the effect that sin should be avoided for its own enormity, rather than for the disgrace it may entail on a proud family; and again he mused on human inconsistency, as he thought that pride – pride of race – had more than once preserved men from evil.

Herbert Lindsey had other visitors – some of his more jovial friends. They did not come very frequently, as the prison authorities were rather severe on this point, but they came quite often enough to inform the captive of what was going on
without
; and of the efforts Flora was making to discover the bushman.

“And it is Flora's money that is spent for all these advertisements,” said her unfortunate lover one day when the chaplain called to see him.

“Never mind whose money it may be. The first thing is to save you – legally, if possible,” Mr Roberts said.

“What do you mean, Roberts? If I am saved, it must be legally; and if murdered –
legally
too, I suppose.”

“Well, keep up your spirits, all may yet be well; for every honest fellow is in your favour, and I can tell you that some people may find themselves in a fix yet.”

After this somewhat vague speech, Mr Roberts said he'd better slope; and did so accordingly. It
was
time he left for, notwithstanding his usual caution, he was nearly betraying a secret – namely, that there was a plot to rescue the prisoner. But if Mr Roberts found it difficult to preserve silence on the subject, some of Mr Garlick's friends – with whom the scheme had originated – found it
impossible
. The consequence of this was that a request was despatched to Melbourne from the governor of the gaol for a reinforcement of mounted police.

It has been stated that the prisoner had few visitors. This was partly because, knowing there was a difficulty made about granting leave, he was too proud to solicit a favour; besides he was, comparatively speaking, a stranger in that locality. Had he been allowed to remain in the little township, amongst the
habitues
of
The Southern Cross
, the number of visitors would have been greatly increased. But only petty sessions being held there, his removal to the chief town of the district had been rendered necessary.

A fortnight – one little fortnight – was now all that remained ere the trial, and still no additional evidence in his favour seemed to be forthcoming. Sad, and almost helpless he lay, as was his custom, watching the last rays of the setting sun – the only cheering visitant to his dreary abode – when he heard the low soft tones of a woman's voice. A voice welcome anywhere to him, but ten times more welcome within those walls! He started up, and in another moment Flora was in his arms.

The sight of her lover chased away the feeling of oppression that had overpowered her during the journey; and, with a glow of enthusiasm on her cheek, she exclaimed, almost joyfully, “Herbert, dear Herbert, you will be saved.”

“Dearest Flora, my angel, for such you have been, and such I shall regard you, even if–” He was unable to conclude.

The long confinement and the sudden visit of Flora, acted on his overwrought mind and, throwing himself in a chair, he buried his face between his hands.

She withdrew them gently, saying, “Will you not look at me, Herbert?”

Another thought then seemed to cross the mind of the unhappy man, for, rising and withdrawing to a little distance, he asked, “Flora McAlpin, do you believe me innocent?”

“I do, I do. Oh, Herbert, how can you ask such a question?” And again she threw herself into his arms.

“May that belief console you, dearest,” he said as he kissed her cheek, “but you
cannot
save me. I know how strong the circumstantial evidence is against me, and have only
my word
to offer in defence. Flora, I am already condemned.”

She used every argument she could think of to soothe him; though her presence, and her constancy, did more than words. Hope again returned to his heart, and vows of love were renewed almost beneath the shadow of the scaffold.

Presently a rude tramping of feet was heard without; and Lindsey who, even amidst his sorrows, feared lest the conduct of his beloved should be exposed to misinterpretation, asked, “How did you come?”

“With Pierce Silverton. He procured an order from the sheriff, and took all the trouble himself. You cannot think how kind he has been, Herbert,” was her reply.

“God bless him. But where is he now, dearest?”

“He waits in the corridor to take me back.”

Herbert gave a signal that was understood by a turnkey, who immediately entered, and the prisoner asked if the gentleman outside could be admitted.

The turnkey replied, “There would be no objection.” He was a good hearted man; that, and if he had had
his
way the prisoner would soon have been free without waiting for the permission of judge or jury.

Pierce Silverton entered, and clasped the hand of Herbert Lindsey within his own.

“Pierce, my dear friend, how can I thank you for your care of Flora?” exclaimed the prisoner.

“Command me in any way. Would to heaven that you were at liberty again,” replied Silverton. His voice trembled, and his countenance denoted extreme anxiety. This was remarked by Herbert, who asked if he were ill.

“Not ill, but very uneasy. We are all uneasy about you, Lindsey; and there is nothing so trying as suspense. I don't know how you bear it as you do.”

“Conscious innocence sustains me, or I
could not
bear it.”

A look of lofty endurance lighted up the countenance of Lindsey as he spoke; pride and trust in her lover shone in the eyes of Flora; intense agony was written on the brow of Pierce Silverton; and, as if to render the group more remarkable, a tear stood on the cheek of the turnkey. Thus it may chance that human sympathy and heavenly compassion are to be found even in that sad abode of crime and misery – a gaol.