The Tale of Timber Town

CHAPTER XXV

A case of bottling-plums, the bloom still on their purple cheeks, stood on the kitchen table. Beside it stood Rose, her arms bare to the elbows, and a snowy apron flowing from breast to ankle. Marshalled in regular array in front of the case, stood a small army of glass jars, which presently were to receive the fruit.

In a huge preserving-pan a thick syrup was simmering on the stove; and Rose had just begun to place the fruit in this saccharine mixture, when a succession of knocks, gentle but persistent, was heard coming from the front door.

“Oh, bother,” said Rose, as she paused with a double handful of plums half way between the fruit-case and the stove. “Who can that be?”

Again the knocking resounded through the house.

“I suppose I must go,” said Rose, placing the fruit carefully in the pan, and then, slipping off her flowing apron, she went hurriedly to the front door.

There stood the pretty figure of Rachel Varnhagen, dressed in billowy muslin, a picture hat which was adorned with the brightest of ribbons and artificial flowers, and the daintiest of shoes. Her sallow cheeks were tinged with a carmine flush, her pearly teeth gleamed behind a winning smile, and a tress of glossy hair, escaped from under her frail head-dress, hung bewitchingly upon her shoulder.

“Oh, how do you do?” she exclaimed effusively, as she closed her silk parasol. “I look an awful guy, I know; but there’s such a wind, that I’ve almost been blown to pieces.”

It was the first time that Rose’s humble roof had had the privilege of sheltering the daughter of the rich Jew.

“I’m afraid I hardly expected you.” The Pilot’s daughter looked frankly and with an amused smile at Rachel. “I’m in the middle of bottling fruit. Do you mind coming into the kitchen? – the fruit will spoil if I leave it.”

Leading the way, she was followed by her pretty caller, who, in all her glory, seated herself on a cane-bottomed chair in the kitchen, and commenced to gossip.

“I’ve such news,” she said, tapping the pine floor with the ferrule of her parasol. Rose continued to transfer her plums to the preserving-pan. “I expect you heard of the dreadful experience I had with that horrid, drunken digger who caught me on the foot-bridge – everybody heard of it. Who do you think it was that saved me?”

She waited for Rose to risk a guess.

“I suppose,” said the domestic girl, her arms akimbo as she faced her visitor, “I should think it ought to have been Mr. Zahn.”

“Oh, him!” exclaimed Rachel, disgustedly. “I’ve jilted him – he was rude to Papa.”

“Then who could it be?” Rose placed more plums in the preserving-pan.

“You ought to know.” Just the trace of a pout disfigured Rachel’s pretty mouth. “He’s a friend of yours, I believe; a very great friend, indeed.”

“I’ve a good many friends.” The preserving-pan was now full, and Rose sat down, to wait a few minutes till the fruit should be ready for bottling.

“Papa is simply in love with him. He says he can never repay him. And how he laughed when I told him that my gallant rescuer threw the digger into the water! Can’t you guess who it is, now?”

Rose was silent.

“Really, I think this stupid cooking and jam-making has made you silly. Why don’t you work in the morning, and go out in the afternoon to see your friends?”

Rose turned her blue eyes on her visitor. They distinctly said, “What business is that of yours?” But her lips said, “Now, really, how can I?”

“When a girl’s engaged” – Rachel sighed as she spoke – “she doesn’t care much about society.”

Rose smiled.

“At least that was the way with me.” Rachel’s carmine lips gave a little quiver at the corners. “I suppose you feel like that.”

“Me? I feel just as usual.”

“But you’re so English, nothing would disturb you.”

Rose laughed aloud. “I should shriek if a digger touched me,” she said.

“But it was almost worth the fright, dear.” Rachel leaned forward confidentially. “First, he put me on his horse, and we forded the river together; then, he took me home and was so kind. I do think you’re such a lucky girl.”

“Me? Why?”

Suddenly Rachel’s manner altered. Bursting into a rippling laugh, she raised her parasol, and skittishly poked Rose in the ribs.

“How very close some people are,” she exclaimed. “But you might as well own the soft impeachment, and then all the girls could congratulate you.”

The thought went through Rose’s mind, that if the good wishes of her acquaintances were like this girl’s perhaps they might well be spared. She was completing her task by ladling the plums from the big pan into the array of jars, and she bent over her work in order to hide her annoyance.

“And I hear he’s so rich,” continued Rachel. “He’s had such wonderful luck on the diggings. Papa says he’s one of the best marks in Timber Town – barring old Mr. Crewe, of course.”

Rose gazed, open-eyed, at her visitor.

“How much do you think he is worth?” asked Rachel, unabashed.

“I really don’t know. I have no notion whom you mean.”

Again the rippling laugh rang through the kitchen.

“Really, this is too funny. Own up: wasn’t Mr. Scarlett very lucky?”

“Oh! Mr. Scarlett? I believe he got some gold – he showed me some.”

“Surely, he had it weighed?”

“I suppose so – I thought there was something in the paper about it.”

“Was all that gold Mr. Scarlett’s?”

“Yes, about as much as would fill this saucepan. He poured it out on the dining-room table, and Captain Sartoris and my father stared at it till their eyes almost dropped out.”

“You lucky girl! They say he gave you the dandiest ring.”

Rose mutely held out her unadorned fingers. When they had been closely inspected, she said, “You see, this is all rubbish about my being engaged. As for Mr. Scarlett, I have reason to think that he left his heart behind him in the Old Country.”

“Confidences, my dear. If he has told you that much, it won’t take you long to hook him. We giddy girls have no chance against you deep, demure stay-at-homes. The dear men dance and flirt with us, but they don’t propose. How I wish I had learned to cook, or even to bottle plums! Fancy having a man all to yourself in a kitchen like this; making a cake, with your sleeves tucked up to the elbows, and no one to interrupt – why, I guarantee, he’d propose in ten minutes.” She tapped her front teeth with her finger. “I have to go to the dentist to-morrow. I do hate it so, but I’ve got to have something done to one of my front teeth. I’m thinking of getting the man to fill it with gold, and put a small diamond in the middle. That ought to be quite fetching, don’t you think?”

“It certainly would be unique.”

“I think I’ll go along to Tresco’s shop, and get the stone.”

“But don’t you think the sight of a diamond in a tooth would pall after a while? or perhaps you might loosen it with a bit of biscuit, and swallow it. A diet of diamonds would pall, too, I fancy.”

“It’s not the expense.” Rachel pouted as she spoke. “The question is whether it’s done among smart people.”

“You could but try – your friends would soon tell you.”

“I believe it’s quite the thing over in Melbourne.”

“Then why not in Timber Town?”

“But perhaps it’s only amongst actresses that it’s ‘the thing.’”

“So that the glitter of their smiles may be intensified?”

Rachel had risen from her seat. “I must be going,” she said. “I looked in for a minute, and I’ve stopped half-an-hour.”

“Then won’t you stay just a little longer – I’m going to make some tea.”

“It’s very tempting.” Rachel took off her gloves, and displayed her begemmed fingers. “I think I must stop.”

Rose infused the tea in a brown earthenware pot, and filled two china cups, in the saucers of which she placed two very old ornamented silver teaspoons.

The two girls sat at opposite sides of the white-pine table, in complete contrast; the one dark, the other fair; the one arrayed in purple and fine linen, the other dressed in plain starched print and a kitchen apron; the one the spoilt pet of an infatuated father, the other accustomed to reproof and domestic toil.

But they met on common ground in their taste for tea. With lips, equally pretty, they were sipping the fragrant beverage, when a hoarse voice resounded through the house.

“Rosebud, Rosebud, my gal! Where’s my slippers? Danged if I can see them anywhere.”

Into the kitchen stumped the Pilot of Timber Town, weary from his work. Catching sight of Rachel, he paused half-way between the door and the table. “Well, well,” he said, “I beg pardon, I’m sure – bellowing like an old bull walrus at my dar’ter. But the gal knows her old Dad – don’t you, Rosebud? He don’t mean nothing at all.”

In a moment, Rose had the old man’s slippers in her hand, and the Pilot sat down and commenced to take off his boots and to put on the more comfortable footgear.

Rachel was on her feet in a moment.

“I must be going,” she said. “Which way do I get out?”

“Rosebud, show the young lady the door – she’s in a hurry.” The Pilot never so much as took his eyes off the boot that he was unlacing.

Leading the way through the intricate passages, Rose conducted Rachel to the front door, and came back, smiling.

“Now, what does she want?” asked the Pilot. “She’s a mighty strange craft to be sailing in these waters. There’s a queer foreign rake about her t’gallant mast that’s new to me. Where’s she owned, Rosebud?”

“That’s Miss Varnhagen.”

“What! the Jew’s dar’ter? Well, well. That accounts for the cut of her jib. Old Varnhagen’s dar’ter? ’Want to sell anything?”

Rose laughed. “Oh, no. She came, fishing.”

“Fishing?”

“Fishing for news. She’s very anxious to know how much gold Mr. Scarlett has got; in fact, she’s very anxious to know all about Mr. Scarlett.”

The old Pilot laughed, till the shingles of the roof were in danger of lifting. “The wimmen, oh! the wimmen!” he said. “They’re deep. There’s no sounding ’em. No lead’ll bottom them. You’ll have to protect that young man, my gal; protect him from scheming females. Once they can lure him on a lee shore, they’ll wreck him to pieces and loot the cargo. So she wanted to know how he was freighted? He’s down to Plimsoll, my gal; down to Plimsoll with gold. A mighty fine cargo for wreckers!”

At the very time that Rachel was walking out of the garden of roses, Scarlett was turning into The Lucky Digger. He had come in from the “bush,” weary and tired, and was met in the passage by a man who packed stores to the new gold-field. In the bar stood Isaac Zahn, who was flirting with the bar-maid. But the regal dispenser of liquors responded to the young clerk’s sallies with merely the brief politeness which she was paid to show towards all the customers of the inn. He could extort no marked encouragement, in spite of every familiarity and witticism at his command.

Turning his back on the Israelite, Scarlett gave all his attention to the packer. “The track’s clear to the field,” said Jack, “all but four miles at the further end. In a few days, you’ll be able to take your horses through easily.”

“My rate is £15 per ton,” said the man.

“The Syndicate won’t quarrel with that.” Jack’s head turned involuntarily, as an unusual sound occurred in the bar-room.

Zahn, leaning over the counter, had caught Gentle Annie roughly by the wrist. There was a struggle, the crash of falling glass, and a scream.

From the fair arm of the bar-maid blood was flowing.

In a moment, Scarlett was in the bar-room. He seized the spruce bank-clerk by the collar, and dragged him into the passage.

Zahn kicked and swore; but, setting his teeth, Scarlett pulled his struggling victim towards the front-door; and there, with a suddenness which would have done credit to a field-gun, he kicked the Jew into the street.

The trajectory was low, but Zahn, with legs and arms extended, shot across the asphalt pavement, and fell sprawling at the feet of a dainty figure dressed in muslins and ribbons of rainbow hue.

It was Rachel Varnhagen, tripping home to her tea. With a little scream of elegant surprise, she dropped her parasol, and gazed at the prostrate form of her jilted lover.

Gathering himself up stiffly, Isaac stood, whimpering, before her; his whining interspersed with unprintable invective.

Scarlett, however, heedless of the anathemas of the stricken clerk, stepped from the door of The Lucky Digger, picked up the fallen parasol, and handed it politely to Rachel.

In less than a moment she recognised him.

“Oh, thanks,” she said. “It’s really awfully good of you.”

“What? To kick this unmitigated blackguard?”

“I’ve no doubt he deserved it,” she said, glancing with disgust at the clerk. “It’s charming of you to pick up my sunshade. I hope you’re coming up to see us – Papa wants to see you awfully. It would be lovely if you would come to-night.”

“Thank you. I’ll try. I hope you are none the worse for the fright you got.”

“Thanks, I’m not dead. What a terrible man you are – I wouldn’t like to quarrel with you. Say eight o’clock.”

“Very good, eight.”

“Don’t forget. I shall expect you.”

Zahn, who heard all the conversation, ground his teeth, and slunk away. Rachel smiled her farewell and bowed to Jack, who lifted his hat, and went into the inn, to see what could be done for the bar-maid’s injured wrist.

CHAPTER XXVI

The Timber Town Club was filled with ineffable calm. The hum of convivial voices was hushed, the clicking billiard-balls were still, no merry groups of congenial spirits chatted in ante-room, or dining-room. All was strangely quiet, for most of the members were at the diggings, and the times were too pregnant with business to warrant much conviviality.

Scarlett and Mr. Crewe alone sat in the reading-room, where the magazines from England lay in perfect order on little tables, and steel engravings, of which the Club was proud, hung upon the walls. Jack was enjoying the luxury of a big easy chair, and the Father of Timber Town sat upright in another.

“I was asked out to spend the evening, yesterday,” said Jack, lazily.

“Indeed, asked to spend the evening?” replied the alert old gentleman. “I can’t say that I see anything remarkable in that, Scarlett.”

Jack smiled. “By a most charming young lady, I assure you.”

“Ah, that is another matter, quite a different matter, my dear sir.”

“Ostensibly, it was to meet her father, but hang me if the old gentleman put in an appearance!”

“Ho-ho! Better, Scarlett, better still. And what did you do, you rascal?”

“I did nothing. It was the young lady who took up the running.”

“But wasn’t she provided with a judicious Mama, in the background somewhere?”

“No, a calamity seems to have befallen the Mama. She’s non est.”

“That’s very good. The girl depends for protection solely upon her Papa?”

“I remarked that, and said, ‘Your Father will hardly approve of my coming to see you in his absence.’ ‘Oh, you needn’t mind that,’ she said – ‘he trusts me implicitly. And as for you – didn’t you save me, the other night?’ You see, I found a drunken digger molesting her, and threw him into the river. But I haven’t so much as seen the old boy yet.”

“Quite so, quite so, but I want to hear about the girl – the father will turn up in due time, and as for the digger, he at least would get a bath.”

“I waited for her loving parent to come home, as it was supposed he wanted to see me.”

“I see; I see: and what did he say when he came?”

“He didn’t say anything.”

“That was very churlish conduct, don’t you think Scarlett?”

“But, you see, he didn’t come.”

“Didn’t come home? Now, look here, Scarlett; now, look here, my good fellow. You’re getting into bad ways; you’re courting temptation. By Jupiter! they’ll be marrying you next. They will, sir; they’ll be marrying you, before you know where you are; marrying you in a church. And if they can’t get you to church, they’ll marry you before the Registrar; by Jupiter! they will.”

“But she’s a pretty girl, remember that.”

“She may be the most monstrous pretty girl, for all I care. But don’t you let her hook you, my boy. Women are all fudge, sir. Girls are mostly dolls dressed in feathers and fine clothes. But I grant you that there’s some dignity in a woman who’s a mother; but by forty she becomes old, and then she must be a plaguey nuisance. No, Scarlett, I never married, thank God. Fancy being at the beck and call of a crotchety old beldame, at my time of life. No, sir; I never knew what it was to be questioned and badgered when I came home at night, no matter if it was two in the morning. I can do as I like, sir: I need not go home at all. I’m a free man. Now, take my advice, Scarlett; be a free man too.”

“But you never could have been in love, Mr. Crewe.”

“Perhaps not; very likely not.”

Mr. Crewe had stood during the latter part of the dialogue, that he might the more emphatically denounce matrimony; and Scarlett rose from his comfortable chair, and stood beside him.

“But do as I did, my dear sir” – the Father of Timber Town placed his hand on Jack’s sleeve – “and nothing disastrous will happen. Whenever a young woman became very pressing, what do you think I used to do?”

“I don’t know. I don’t see how I can tell. Perhaps you told her you had an incurable disease, and had one foot in the grave.”

“No, sir; that would have made her marry me the quicker – in order to get my money. No, I used to propose solemnly and in due form – on behalf of my brother Julius. I would say, ‘My dear young lady, my brother Julius ought to be married, and you are the girl to suit him. He is delicate, affectionate in disposition, domesticated – quite the reverse of myself, my dear – and you are the beau ideal companion for him.’ But do you believe that Julius is married? No, sir; not a bit of it; no more married than I am – no, sir; as confirmed an old bachelor as ever you saw. Very good, wasn’t it? Just the way to deal with them, eh? Adopt the plan, Jack; adopt the plan, and you’ll escape as certainly as I did.”

“Look here,” said Scarlett, “we’ll go and see the banker; we ought to have seen him this morning.”

The old gentleman chuckled. He perceived that his young friend had changed the subject of conversation; but he also agreed that business should come before gossip.

It was but a brief walk from the Club to the Kangaroo Bank.

“You’re a god-send to this town, Jack; a perfect god-send. Do you know that since you discovered this gold, sir, my properties in Timber Town have increased twenty-five per cent. in value? And do you know that I believe they will increase cent. per cent.? Imagine it, sir. Why, we shall all be rich men.”

They passed out into the bright street, where the gaily-painted shops shone in the blazing sun and the iron roofs of the verandahs ticked with the midday heat. The door of the Bank stood open, that the outer air might circulate freely through the big building. The immaculately-attired clerk stood behind his counter, with a big piece of plaster on his forehead; but Scarlett, taking no notice of the scowl he received from the dark-featured Zahn, knocked at the door of the Manager’s room.

Within the financial sanctum, a little shrivelled-up man sat at a large table which was placed in the middle of the room. His face was clean-shaven but for a pair of grizzled mutton-chop whiskers, and as he bent over his papers he showed a little bald patch on the top of his crown.

Scarlett and Mr. Crewe stood side by side, in front of him.

“I have come from the diggings,” said Jack, “and have called to ask …”

“Oh … How do you do, Mr. Crewe? Be seated, sir… Be seated, both of you… A lovely day, Mr. Crewe; a perfectly beautiful day. Take a seat, sir, I beg.”