The Tale of Timber Town

“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.