The Tale of Timber Town

“I’m not much at sentiment,” said the Prospector, “but may she always ring as true as the metal it’s made of, for she’s got a Man for a husband.”

“May Luck go with them.”

To the Prospector the ring now seemed perfect, but the goldsmith placed a jeweller’s magnifier in his eye, and scrutinised the shining marriage-token lest it might contain the slightest flaw. But his work stood the test and, placing the ring in a dainty velvet case, he rose and put on his hat.

“That finishes my career as a goldsmith,” he said. “I don’t suppose I shall sit at a bench again. To you, Bill, I owe my fortune, to you I owe my liberty. No words of my misshapen tongue can express what I feel; but you, mate, can guess it.”

The two men looked silently at each other, and solemnly shook hands.

The Prospector might have said a great deal: he might have expatiated in lurid language on his admiration of Tresco’s self-sacrifice, but he said nothing. He silently held the goldsmith’s hand, till a tell-tale moisture dimmed the craftsman’s eyes, so that they could not see through their spectacles.

Pulling himself together with a sudden effort, Benjamin said firmly, if a little loudly, “Is my swag packed, Jake?”

“Bill done it himself,” answered the apprentice. “I seen him do it when he packed his own.”

“That’s one more little kindness. Thanks, mate.” Tresco placed the ring-case in his pocket, and led the way to the kitchen. There the “swags” lay on the table, and each man took his own and hitched it on his shoulders.

“Two such valuable swags,” said the Prospector, “it’s never been my fortune to see. Twenty thousand couldn’t buy ’em.”

With these words, he passed into the street; Tresco following.

The body-guard of diggers closed round them, and escorted them to the house of Pilot Summerhayes.

Inside the garden-gate, the party of rough, ill-clad, warm-hearted men paused, and one of their number went forward, and knocked at the front door. Rose opened it.

“We want to see Mr. Scarlett,” said the digger.

The girl vanished, and Jack, followed by the Pilot, appeared.

“Hullo! hullo!” exclaimed the gruff old sailor, as he caught sight of the gold-miners in the garden. “We’re invaded, Jack: it’s another warrant. How now, my man; what have we been doing? Are there more murderers to be lodged in gaol? – I thought they’d caught the lot.”

“There’s four of ’em in quod, boss,” replied the digger; “I guess that’s the whole gang, s’far’s Tresco’s evidence goes to prove.”

“Ah! there’s the goldsmith himself,” exclaimed the Pilot, pressing through the throng in the garden. “How d’you do, sir? I have to thank you, on behalf of my dar’ter and myself.” He gripped the goldsmith’s hand, and almost wrung it off.

“That’s all right,” said Tresco. “Yes, that’s all right. I couldn’t stand by and see an innocent man murdered. Certainly not.” Here he got his hand free, and proffered it to Scarlett, who grasped it with a warmth which quite equalled the Pilot’s.

“Tresco,” said Jack, looking straight into the goldsmith’s face, “you have accumulated against me a debt I can never pay.”

“I don’t know,” replied the goldsmith, laughing; “I’m not so sure of that. Sometimes Justice miscarries. How about that kaka nugget? When you’ve explained that, I shall feel I was justified in saving you from the hand of the Law.”

Jack laughed too. “You dog! You know the facts as well as I do. Moonlight took a fancy to the piece of gold and offered a good price, which the Jew took. I bought it from my mate. That point is perfectly clear. But I see you’ve got your swag on your back: your days in Timber Town are numbered.”

“That’s so,” said Tresco.

“I can only say this,” continued Jack: “if ever you are in a tight place, which God forbid, I hope I shall be near to help you out of it; if I am not, wire to me – though I am at the end of the earth I will come to your help.”

Tresco smiled. “Yes,” he said, “you’re going to be married – you look on everything through coloured glasses: you are prepared to promise anything. You are going to the altar. And that’s why we’ve come here.” He had taken the little velvet case from his pocket. “As you’ll be wanting something in this line” – he opened the case and displayed the wedding-ring – “I have made this out of a piece of Bush-Robin gold, and on behalf of Bill and myself I present it to you with our best wishes for a long and happy life.”

Jack took the gift, and drew a feigned sigh. He knew the meaning of such a present from such givers. He looked at the ring: he looked at the assembled diggers.

“After this, I guess, I shall have to get married,” he said. “I don’t see any way out of it. Do you, Pilot?”

“I reckon he’s hooked, gen’lemen,” replied the old sailor. “There’s many a smart man on the ‘field’ – I’m aware of that – but never a one so smart but a woman won’t sooner or later take him in her net. I give my dar’ter credit for having landed the smartest of the whole crowd of you.”

“Well,” said Jack, as he turned the glittering ring between his fingers, “I’ve got to go through with it; but such tokens of sympathy as this ring” – he placed it on the first joint of his forefinger, and held it up that all might see – “will pull me through.”

“And when is the happy day?” asked Tresco.

“The choice of that lies with the lady,” replied Jack; “but as the Pilot has just received news of his brother’s death, I expect my freedom will extend for a little while yet.”

“My mate and me’ll be far away by then,” said the Prospector, and he looked at Benjamin as he spoke. “But you may bet we’ll often think of you and your wife, and wish you health an’ happiness.”

“Hear, hear.” The crowd was beginning to feel that the occasion was assuming its proper aspect.

“We hope,” continued Bill, “that your wife will prove a valuable find, as valuable a find as your claim at Robin Creek, an’ that she’ll pan out rich in virtue an’ all womanly qualities. H’m.” The Prospector turned for sympathy to his friends. “I think that’s pretty fair, eh, mates?” But they only grinned. So Bill addressed himself once more to the subject in hand, though his ideas had run out with his last rhetorical effort. “I don’t think I can beat that,” he said; “I think I’ll leave it at that. I hope she’ll pan out rich in virtue, an’ prove a valuable claim. Me an’ Tresco’s got a long way to go before night. I hope you’ll excuse us if we start to make a git.” He held out his hand to Jack, and said, “Health an’ prosperity to you an’ the missis, mate. So-long.” Then he hitched up his swag, and walked down the gravelled path regardless of Tresco or anyone else.

The goldsmith tarried a moment or two.

“It’s hardly possible we shall meet again,” he said. “If we don’t, I wish you a long good-bye. It is said that men value most those to whom they have been of service; but whether that is so or not, I shall always like to think of the days we spent together on Bush Robin Creek.”

“When this little bit of a breeze has blown over,” said Jack, “I hope you’ll come back.”

“Not much.” The reply was straight and unequivocal. “I may have retrieved my character in the eyes of the people of Timber Town, but in the eyes of the Law never, even if I satisfy its requirements in its prescribed manner. I shall go to some other country and there live, happy in the knowledge that I expiated my wrong-doing by saving my innocent friend from the danger of death, at the price of my own liberty. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye.”

Jack’s hand clasped the craftsman’s, each man took a long, straight look at the other’s kindly face, and then they parted.

The body-guard closed round the goldsmith and the Prospector, and escorted them through the Town to The Lucky Digger, where they saw their charges fed and refreshed for the journey. Then they conducted them out of the town to the top of the dividing range, and there bade them a long adieu.

EPILOGUE

When the play is over, it is customary for the curtain to be raised for a few moments, that the audience may take a last look at the players; and though the action of our piece is ended and the story is told, the reader is asked to give a final glance at the stage, on which have been acted the varied scenes of the tale of Timber Town.

In the inner recess of Tresco’s cave, where he had made his comfortless bed, the dim light of a candle is burning. As its small flame lights up the cold walls, stained black with the smoke of the goldsmith’s dead fire, a weeping woman is seen crouching on the damp floor.

It is Gentle Annie.

Between the sobs which rack her, she is speaking.

“While he lived for weeks in this dripping hole, I lodged comfortably and entertained murderers! Vile woman, defiled by hands stained with blood! despised, loathed, shunned by every man, woman, or child that knows me. Yet he did not despise me, though I shall despise myself for ever, and for ever, and for ever. And he is gone – the only one who could have raised me to my better self.”

Rising from the ground, she takes the candle, and gropes her way out of the cave into the pure light of the Sun.

In a common Maori whare, built of raupo leaves and rushes, sits a dusky maiden, filled with bitterness and grief. Outside the low doorway, stand Scarlett and his wife.

Forbidden to enter, they beg the surly occupant to come out to them. But the only answer is a sentence of Maori, growled from an angry mouth.