Force and Fraud (17 page)

On the present occasion this apartment was rather more crowded than usual; the advertisements before alluded to having replenished a source of conversation that was becoming exhausted ‘for lack of argument'.

But the public room being filled with speakers, the atmosphere soon became filled with smoke, the glasses with ale or spirits and, as a natural consequence, the heads with nonsense.

“They'd better print their advertisements in Chinese whilst they are about it,” exclaimed one of Lindsey's doubtful friends
.

“Chinese! The bushman couldn't be a Chinaman. He must be a Scotchman, from the Western Highlands or some such place. Didn't Lindsey say he couldn't understand him because he only spoke Gaelic?”

“You may as well say that he was from the moon. It's all gammon about the bushman,” answered Mr Thomas Turnside, a gentleman who, since the discovery of the silk necktie, had abandoned the prisoner's cause.

“Sorry for Roberts,” said another; “can't think why his wife should connive at the murder.”

“I don't believe she did
that.
She has only let a good-looking fellow talk her over; as women always do,” said a third speaker.

“Bother the women!” exclaimed a henpecked husband, now that he was out of his wife's hearing. “They get gossiping together and neglect their own business. Haven't had a decent dinner since this affair was started.”

“What do you think some of them say?” asked a timid-looking little man, who was making his debut in a public-room.

“Who's them?” demanded Turnside.

“The women,” replied the little man.

“Pooh!” returned the voice (or pipe) of Turnside.

“Well, but it's something queer,” whispered the other.

“Out with it then; anything for a change.”

“They say…” answered the little man, blushing and unable to proceed. He had never addressed a meeting before; excepting one connected with a road board, when he broke down as completely as the ruined fence he was endeavouring to get into repair.

“Well, what
do
they say? Nonsense, of course,” said a gentleman, who had heard a nonsense talked by
two
wives, and was soon about to listen to a
third.

“More than nonsense; something awful!” answered the small individual. Turning pale and sipping at his brandy and water, he continued, “Mrs Yarnley spent the day before yesterday with my wife, and told her that soon after she came to the colony, about twenty years ago, a shepherd was murdered near the forest and his dog killed too; and that for a great many years such sights used to be seen.”

“Lord help us!” exclaimed another neophyte of public rooms.

“Gammon! If a shepherd gets murdered a score of years ago, his ghost doesn't go about murdering other men now,” said Turnside.

“Shut you up there, Mr Smalltalk, eh!” said Turnside's friend.

Whether the little man was shut up or not, it was time to exercise that proceeding on the hotel; a hint that Mr Roberts announced by commencing to blow out the lights, which caused the public-room to be cleared of its frequenters and – after the windows had been open a short time – the atmosphere of its smoke.

It so happened that whilst Mr Smalltalk was relating his story, the waiter entered with a fresh supply of liquids from the bar and – as it will readily be supposed – soon repeated the legend in the kitchen, where the cook and her assistant, Hannah, and Mary the laundress, were assembled round the fire.

“Them were awful times in the bush, when the people were lost and murdered, and couldn't get a Christian burial till there was nothing left of them to bury, and ne'er a priest to lay them,” exclaimed Jeannie, the cook.

“A man that's murdered has a right to send his ghost till they get's him laid. But a dog? The Lord save us! Whenever we hear tell of one of them craythers that walks after it's been killed, you may depend upon it there's been something done that shouldn't be,” said Mary. She turned to the kitchen maid and added, “Don't you remember the story we were reading in
Reynold's Miscellaneous
last night, Hannah?”

“Don't scare us, Mary,” cried Hannah, a great rosy Yorkshire girl, whose naturally plump arms had acquired extra development by the constant lifting of immense cooking utensils. “A man's fetch is nothing more than nat'ral, but t'dog's
bargheist
is the awfullest sight that ever I heerd tell of.”

“Weel, lasses! it's the ghaist of the laird that'll come to them that did this fearful deed; and may be, to them that puts the wrang where the right should be,” ejaculated the old Scotch laundress in a prophetic tone.

“How Wallace does be barking! May be it's the thunder that's bothering him. It's an awful night!” cried our friend Bridget in her turn.

Thunder had been heard during the evening, and flashes of lightning that had gradually become more vivid, now indicated that the storm was about to break.

“I'll engage,” continued Bridget, after a pause, “that ye know a power o' tales, Jeannie. They say that in the auld times Scotland used to be as bad as Ireland for murders and the like.”

“Aye, aye, lassie! Many's the deed that's told, and many's the deed that's been done in puir Scotland, and there's ain I ken of.”

“And ye'll tell us, wont ye, Jeannie, whilst the water's boiling for the punch?” said Bridget in a pleading tone; then turning to her subordinate, she added in a more authoritative manner, “Blow up the fire, can't ye, Hannah? There's nothing settles the sorrows like a drap o' punch.”

Hannah took up the bellows, and seating herself on the ground immediately in front of the hearth, began to blow the fire with all her might. The women drew closer together; then, whilst the rain beat, and the thunder rattled without, they prepared to make themselves pretty comfortable
within.

Old Jeannie introduced her long story by saying, “This murder just minds me o' the maist awful tale, lassies; ain o' a murder too, and na' sae lang syne, for they say
his
ghaist is aft seen wi' a plaid aboot him a drippin' wi' weet, for it war a storm as this just noo, and in the dead o' night–”

At this moment a blinding flash of lightning filled the kitchen; it was accompanied by a loud crash of thunder, and a gust of wind so violent as to blow the door wide open. The women shrieked, and threw themselves into each other's arms, for within the threshold stood a tall pale figure, shrouded in a grey plaid, from which great drops of heavy rain fell to the ground.

 

“Hoot awa, lassie, is it daft ye are?” exclaimed old Andrew Ross, as he approached the terrified female.

“And is it yersel, Andy?” asked Jeannie, who was the first to recover the use of speech.

“Mysel! And who should it be, woman?” replied the midnight guest.

“And sure he isn't kelt at all,” added Bridget, half dubious whether she might be addressing a creature of earth, or of some other planet.

“Ye'll soon see that, lassie,” said Andrew. And if the hearty tones of his voice were not sufficient to convince them of his natural existence, the proof was borne out by his still heartier appetite. Taking his seat at the table, he drew a dish of cold beef towards him, and began to demolish one slice after another.

“And what brings ye here, this night, Andy?” asked Jeannie of her countryman.

“The storm, woman; though it is not a mickle I care for the night; but ye ken, I gaed to the town to fetch my bairn.”

“I mind it weel; an' whar's the lassie?”

“In the dray. But it war sae lang a'coming through the weet, that I walked the last twa mile. I ken Mistress Roberts winna refuse a shelter to the puir bairn for the night, but gang an' ask her, Jeannie.”

As it was Mary's office to attend on the lady of
The Southern Cross
, she volunteered to be the bearer of old Andrew's request. But, her nerves not having sufficiently recovered their wonted tone to enable her to traverse the verandah and ascend the staircase
alone,
she engaged Hannah as companion in arms, and thus attended, went forth on her mission.

Since the murder of McAlpin, and more especially since the mystery respecting the bushman, these damsels had gone coupled, and – as far as their several duties would admit – inseparable; magnifying all the actual dangers of the bush, and calling up others of a more idle nature, in a way that proved them to be highly gifted with imagination.

The duty of committing a disciple of Bacchus to the care of a guardian (not an angel) had detained Mr Roberts till a late hour and – as he now approached his wife's apartment – he beheld two maidens timidly tapping at the door.

It would seem that
they
were so determined to see a ghost – and the old shepherd having proved too substantial for that purpose – they now invested their employer with unearthly attributes. His costume, a suit of linen, did well enough – insomuch, that it was
white.
Neither was the light that he carried
de trop,
for spectres have been known to carry tapers – though it is nowhere stated that they use kerosene. As for the pipe
that
spirit had in
his
mouth, and the wideawake hat on his head –
they
were decidedly
out of keeping.
But, notwithstanding the inaccuracies of the make up, the girls squalled, fell on their knees, and begged for mercy.

“What the devil do you want here?” roared Jonathan Roberts.

And in his place I must remark that a certain potentate
cannot
be so black as he is painted', or
his
name could not have allayed the fears of two timid maidens who, being well read in legendary lore, knew that ghosts are too polite to invoke the name of his Satanic Majesty. And thus, Mr Roberts having established his identity, proceeded to ask, “What the tarnation was that about?”

The cause was explained, and permission accorded, the damsels dismissed. Then Mr Roberts thought he might as well go and fraternise with the other imaginary spirit. Not that he troubled himself at all about beings from another sphere – nor indeed very much respecting those of his own – though he deemed it prudent, considering the excited condition of his household, to look after the doors. So, after briefly informing his wife of the state of the case, he descended to the kitchen.

There he found the Highland Mary listening to the welcome of the Irish one
,
and directing old Jeannie to take care of her countrywoman; besides giving a general admonition to the other females not to make such tarnation fools of themselves.

Mr Roberts offered a night's shelter to the old shepherd, which was gladly accepted; and, the old women having retired, he pushed the whisky bottle within reach of his guest. He then asked a few questions, relative to the state of the weather, the rise of the river, the fall of the funds and other matters that might send after customers to
The Southern Cross
or keep them away.

Andrew Ross
,
not being a man of many words, was accustomed, when at a loss, to inspire himself with a pinch of snuff. And, all at once, Mr Roberts saw the light of his lamp reflected on the cairngorm of poor McAlpin's snuff-box; a circumstance which caused him to remark, “So he gave you this, did he?”

“Na, it wun na the Laird; it war a young lady at a fancy kind o' a sale,” replied Andrew.

What a young lady should be doing with an ugly Scotch snuff-box, was sufficient to cause surprise, even to a Yankee; and Mr Roberts, having exhibited symptoms of that weakness, Andrew related the occurrence. The shrewd American at once detected some discrepancy tween Silverton's statement, namely, that the box had been owned by a stranger; and the fact, for which he himself could vouch, that it did once belong to Mr McAlpin.

“I reckon there's something at the bottom of all this,” said the landlord.

“An' mair, it may be, than some folk would like the warld to ken; but a' will come right if we bide a wee,” replied the visitor.

The cunning American and the cautious Scotchman alike agreed that the matter should be kept quiet; Andrew consenting to hide his treasure from the public gaze, and Mr Roberts making a note of the circumstance – which note he determined should be forwarded next morning, to the prisoner's attorney. Suddenly, however, he changed his mind, not in consequence of diminished zeal, but because he thought it would be as well to see the lawyer himself. This project he only confided to the old shepherd, doubting not that he would keep the secret; which was rather more than he could expect from his wife.

But that good lady, being in a comfortable sleep at the moment he entered the chamber to bid her farewell, did not thoroughly awake till her lord was some miles distant. Then, remembering something about his departure, she remarked “He ought to know his own business, and it was a good thing to get rid of a man sometimes, because they do so interfere when there's a thorough cleaning.”

We will therefore leave Mrs Roberts to indulge in that domestic pastime, and accompany her husband to the metropolis.

Arrived there, his first business was to communicate with Mr Lindsey's attorney respecting the incidence of the snuff-box. Perhaps the shrewd lawyer did not think the evidence would be of much importance, for he made no remark; although, as Mr Roberts observed, he noted down something in his pocket-book.

A great deal often comes out of a trifle, was the reflection of our American; and, as the bazaar was to remain open another day, he sauntered to the building we have already visited.

Somewhat of its gay appearance had disappeared, as the stalls were beginning to look bare, the fair shop-keepers weary, and the green boughs faded. The flowering shrubs smelt more sickly, and the currant cakes less attractive, except to the flies and mosquitoes. But none of these circumstances disturbed the tranquillity of Mr Roberts, who, buying a little ordinary looking snuff-box at the most ordinary looking stall, went away.