Force and Fraud (6 page)

In this manner Herbert and Flora were betrothed, and passed several months very happily in each other's society. Suddenly, however, Mrs McAlpin's complaint developed itself in an alarming manner, and in a few days she was no more.

Poor Flora, who had never yet witnessed death, was frantic with grief and fear; but a kind matronly lady took charge of her; and, accompanied by her lover, she returned to England immediately after her mother's funeral. Scarcely had she landed ere a letter was received from her father, ordering the presence of his wife and child.

His wife!

Perhaps he repented his imperious command, on finding that she was forever beyond his control; but the recollection of past severity did not render him more gentle towards his daughter, when she, in compliance with his request, joined him in Australia.

The irritable temper of McAlpin was excited by the knowledge of the engagement Flora had contracted; and still more increased by a visit a few months later, from Herbert Lindsey.

“An artist, indeed!” exclaimed the enraged Highlander. “What a fool the fellow must be to think he can make a living by painting pictures in a colony like this!”

Herbert Lindsey had certainly given proof of his folly in fancying anything to be improbable, but he had also proved his honourable love, having resisted his inclination to accompany his betrothed on that long voyage. For when she refused to marry him without her father's knowledge, he let her depart in the care of a respectable family, and the next week, followed on her track.

McAlpin forbade Lindsey access to his house. But Flora, though unwilling to disobey her father, resolved that if Herbert was not to be her husband, nobody else should. In this manner these three years passed away, during which time the lovers continued occasionally to meet; and it was to see Flora that Lindsey had now traversed many a weary mile of plain and forest, his ostensible object being an artist's tour.

Pierce Silverton, their mutual friend, as the agent of McAlpin, was a frequent visitor of his house, and he had therefore been enabled to convey to the lover the intelligence that the father of his betrothed was about to absent himself for a few days. And so, with a joyful heart, Herbert Lindsey, now found himself close to the extremity of the forest that skirted one boundary of McAlpin's station.

It was early morning, and fresh and pure as dawn was the fair girl who came tripping over the light brushwood. A fit subject for an artist's love was Flora McAlpin, with her soft eyes that spake a world of sweet tranquil thought; her dark brown hair which, as it waved back in the breeze, reflected a golden tint of that peculiar hue, so rare, but so appreciated by a painter; the colour of her cheek – the carnation of which Titian himself might have worshipped; and her graceful figure arrayed in that pretty flowered muslin.

On she comes, and Herbert Lindsey, springing over fence and scrub, caught her in his arms.

“Flora, my darling girl!”

“Herbert! Dear Herbert!”

They mutually exclaimed, and felt a long absence forgotten in that happy meeting.

They sat under the shade of a spreading tree, talking for a little while of the past, but their conversation, like that of all true lovers, soon turned to the future. They spoke of happy years yet in store, when no barrier should exist, to mar their bliss; when the father's opposition should be surmounted, the fortune gained, and life become one scene of hope and joy.

“Six weeks,” said the happy girl, “and I shall be of age, Herbert, and then–”

“You will be my wife – my own wife –
my
Flora,” interrupted the lover.

“I do not mean that; at least, not quite so soon. I should not like Papa to think that the first use I made of my liberty was to run away from him. No, I intend to be very submissive for a little while, and if
that
does not soften his heart, perhaps I may show him what I
can do.”

Flora drew herself up; and the artist, who had studied all sorts of attitudes and expressions, thought she looked very queenly, and said in a jesting tone, “You inherit your father's love of power, but I hope you do not mean to be tyrannical, Flory.”

“No, not if you behave yourself. But Herbert, it is very pleasant to know we can do what we like.”

“Dear Flora, your money is your own, I would not touch a farthing of it for the world; no, not even to enable me to marry you!”

“O, Herbert! Can you suppose that I was thinking of such a vile thing as money?” asked Flora, in an accent of reproach.

“Ah, Flora, I once thought money a vile thing, but I have learned that we cannot live without it.”

“At all events, we will not
talk of it.
Papa's friends have scarcely another idea in their heads. But I mean to give you my money – that is,
if I do
marry you.”

“
If
you do, Flora?”

“Very well,
when
I do. But Herbert, which is worth the most – my hand or my fortune?”

“Your hand a thousand times, Flora, and you know it.”

“Well then if I give you my hand, surely I may give you what is so
very
inferior. But not another word of my fortune, or I'll go back this minute, and talk to one of Papa's old money-grubbers.”

“I little thought that the quiet retiring girl I once met at Baden would ever exhibit such an independent spirit.”

“Baden is a very different sort of place to Australia, and when poor dear mamma was alive, I submitted everything to her. Besides, people grow very independent in this colony.”

Herbert Lindsey told his betrothed that he would take her back to Baden, and tame her, and then he uttered a few more threats, demonstrating how well bachelors can rule
their
wives.

Gaily and happily the hours passed away, but at length the lovers knew that they must part, or they would be observed by the labourers returning to their dinner. Herbert, unwilling as he had ever been that the conduct of Flora should be open to censure, tenderly bid her farewell, entreating her to meet him on the same spot, on the following day.

To this she cheerfully assented and, with light step and still lighter heart, returned to her father's house.

Either it must be that presentiments do not foreshadow every calamity or there are some individuals not subject to their influence, for on entering the house, the first intelligence that greeted Flora McAlpin was that her father had been discovered dead
– murdered on the plain!

Very little excitement was, at any time, required to collect a crowd about the bar of
The Wild Boar
, the frequenters of which place were generally sufficiently attracted by the various beverages it afforded.
Drinking
seemed to be the vocation of the whole neighbourhood and, although there was an ‘ordinary' at a stated hour, at which substantial fare was set forth, the consumption of viands was by no means equal to that of liquids. The proportion which Falstaff's ‘pennyworth of bread' bore to the inordinate ‘quantity of sack', may give some idea of the manners and customs of the establisment's
habitues.

Either from courtesy or custom,
The Wild Boar
was called an ‘Hotel' but such a place in England would have been merely designated a ‘Public House'; in Scotland, it would have received the still more appropriate appellation of a ‘Tippling House'. And at
The Wild Boar
everybody did
tipple
– not even excepting some grave magistrates and a few other dignitaries, who should have known better. In fact, the only exceptions were ‘a lot of slow fellows who had taken the pledge' – for such they were generally termed; but as the pledge was generally broken, the exceptions to the prevailing rule of intoxication were few indeed.

The bar of
The Wild Boar
had originally occupied a very small space, but as the population increased, and their propensities became more confirmed, a partition was removed. By adding another room, extra accommodation was afforded, and thus a little quarrelling and crowding around the counter were avoided. A couple of pillars, supporting the ceiling were placed where the partition had stood, and against one of these a large stove had been fixed. By the side of this, numerous guests would congregate, in wet weather to dry their feet, and at all seasons to help themselves to hot water, when such might be required to dilute their potations. By this stove, winter and summer, early and late, was seated a modern Bardolph; perhaps the landlord fancied that he was giving proof of his own hospitality in suffering the perpetual presence of this drunken individual; although the
very few
rational beings who saw him, shuddered at the state to which a man may reduce himself when he ‘puts an enemy into his mouth to steal away his brains'.

But at the moment to which this portion of our story refers, there was other excitement than that afforded by nobblers, for a murdered man lay in the house, on whose body an inquest was about to be held! No drinking was going on in that chamber, and perhaps for the first time in
his
presence; for he had been a good customer during his life time – and was so even now – for what so natural as that his acquaintance should require a stimulant after such a sight?

“Here comes Harry Saunders! He looks quite flabbergasted; and well he may, for he has lost a good master,” exclaimed Mine Host.

“Shut up, Drainwell; McAlpin was never good but to fellows like you,” replied the most abstemious of the group.

The entrance of Saunders probably prevented an angry argument, for even the humblest labourer who had once served the murdered man was now invested with a kind of interest.

“Have a nobbler, Harry?” and “Come, Saunders, I'll shout,” cried a couple of the bystanders in a breath.

“Get out of the way. Is it drinking I'm thinking of whilst the poor master lies dead in the house?” said Harry, as he pushed through the crowd, and hastened to the chamber where lay the body of his late employer.

When McAlpin was about to start on his last earthly journey, Harry Saunders had brought out his horse, as well as that of Mr Silverton, for they had ridden forth together. The labourer was therefore considered as an important witness, as he might be likely to give some account of his master's apparent health on that morning as well as the several details connected with the saddle bags and other accoutrements.

Everybody felt convinced that Saunders would speak the truth no matter who might be implicated; and so, doubtless, would Pierce Silverton, who had likewise been summoned to attend the inquest. There was no reason to suspect either of these individuals as guilty of the deed.

Mr Silverton was the last of the two to be in the company of the deceased, but another person voluntarily came forward, and stated that he had met Mr McAlpin after Mr Silverton had parted with him.

“He was then riding at a brisk pace,” said Mr Dixon, “and as I thought he seemed in haste, I only bade him Good Morning. He answered me in rather a surly tone: but that was his way. Afterwards I overtook Mr Silverton, and recollect saying to him that Mr McAlpin did not seem in the best of tempers. He replied, ‘No, he has lost a great deal of money lately by some mining shares.' Mr Silverton asked me where I met him and, when I named the spot, he said
‘
I did not think he could have got so far.' This was on the open plain, about three miles from the place where his body was found.”

Mr Silverton and Mr Dixon corroborated each other's statements, but no light was thrown on the mystery either by their evidence, or by that of Saunders.

It was supposed that McAlpin, after meeting Mr Dixon, had crossed a portion of the plain, which was covered with scrub, amongst which some person lay in ambush awaiting his approach. From a wound on the back of the head, the murdered man had apparently been stunned. Being a crack-shot, he had probably seized his revolver, which he always carried when travelling, but it might have been knocked out of his hand, as the right wrist bore the mark of a heavy blow.

The death-wound, however, was in the centre of the throat, and had evidently been inflicted by a large knife.

A surgeon, who was present at the inquest, said it was his opinion that at the time the stab was given McAlpin's head had fallen back; probably he was faint from the effects of the previous blow. The surgeon said that death must immediately have followed the wound caused by the knife, although there might previously have been a struggle. He also thought the assassin must have been shorter in stature than his victim, the knife having penetrated in an upward direction.

Whether the murder had been committed for the purpose of robbery or not remained a matter of doubt. Mr Silverton and Harry Saunders, who were both acquainted with the habits of the deceased, said he seldom travelled with much money on his person. But of this circumstance his murderer would probably have been unaware. A cheque book was found in his pocket; watch there was none – but, when someone suggested it had been stolen, Harry Saunders said his master had broken the glass as he was mounting his horse that day, and given
him
the watch to take back into the house, which he immediately did. Therefore if the murderer had been led to the commission of the crime from a love of gain, he could not have been greatly enriched.

The motive of
revenge
seemed not improbable, McAlpin having been an exacting landlord, and a tyrannical master, and consequently, an unpopular character.

Nevertheless, a feeling of deep indignation at the savage deed, if not one of regret for the victim, was expressed. A verdict of ‘Wilful murder by some person or persons unknown' was unhesitatingly returned, after which resolution the jurors adjourned to the dining-room of
The Wild Boar
, to restore their nerves by such stimulants as their various tastes might suggest.

The intelligence of her father's death was conveyed to Flora in the most abrupt manner, as on her return from meeting Herbert Lindsey a smart girl came running towards her, exclaiming, “Oh! Miss Flora dear, the master's killed!”