Gold and Roses.
The Pilot's daughter was walking in her garden.
The clematis which shaded the verandah was a rich mass of purple
flowers, where bees sucked their store of honey; the rose bushes, in the
glory of their second blooming, scented the air, while about their roots
grew masses of mignonette.
Along the winding paths the girl walked; a pair of garden scissors in
one hand and a basket in the other. She passed under a latticed arch
over which climbed a luxuriant Cloth of Gold, heavy with innumerable
flowers. Standing on tip-toe, with her arms above her head, she cut
half-a-dozen yellow buds, which she placed in the basket. Passing on,
she came to the pink glory of the garden, Maria Pare, a mass of brown
shoots and clusters of opening buds whose colour surpassed in delicacy
the softest tint of the pink sea-shell. Here she culled barely a dozen
roses where she might have gathered thirty. "Yellow and pink," she
mused. "Now for something bright." She walked along the path till she
came to M'sieu Cordier, brilliant with the reddest of blooms. She stole
but six of the best, and laid them in the basket. "We want more scent,"
she said. There was La France growing close beside; its great petals,
pearly white on the inside and rich cerise without, smelling
deliciously. She robbed the bush of only its most perfect flowers,
for though there were many buds but few were developed.
Next, she came to the type of her own innocence, The Maiden Blush,
whose half-opened buds are the perfect emblem of maidenhood, but whose
full-blown flowers are, to put it bluntly, symbolical of her who, in
middle life, has developed extravagantly. But here again was no perfume.
The mistress passed on to the queen of the garden, La Rosiere, fragrant
beyond all other roses, its reflexed, claret-coloured petals soft and
velvety, its leaves--when did a rose's greenery fail to be its perfect
complement?--tinged underneath with a faint blush of its own deep
colour.
She looked at the yellow, red, and pink flowers in her basket, and said,
"There's no white." Now white roses are often papery, but there was at
least one in the garden worthy of being grouped with the beauties in the
basket. It was The Bride, typical, in its snowy chastity and by reason
of a pale green tint at the base of its petals, of that purity and
innocence which are the bride's best dowry.
Rose cut a dozen long-stemmed flowers from this lovely bush, and
then--whether it was because of the sentiment conveyed by the blooms
she had gathered, or the effect of the landscape, is a mystery
unsolved--her eyes wandered from the garden to the far-off hills. With
the richly-laden basket on her arm, she gazed at the blue haze which
hung over mountain and forest. Regardless of her pleasant occupation,
forgetful that the fragrant flowers in the basket would wither in the
glaring sun, she stood, looking sadly at the landscape, as though in a
dream.
What were her thoughts? Perhaps of the glorious work of the
Master-Builder; perhaps of the tints and shades where the blue of the
forest, the brown of the fern-clad foot-hills, the buff of the sun-dried
grass, mottled the panorama which lay spread before her. But if so,
why did she sigh? Does the contour of a hill suffuse the eye? Not a
hundred-thousand hills could in themselves cause a sob, not even the
gentle sob which amounted to no more than a painful little catch in
Rose's creamy throat.
She was standing on the top of the bank, which was surmounted by a white
fence; her knee resting on the garden-seat upon which she had placed
her basket, whilst in reverie her spirit was carried beyond the blue
mountains. But there appeared behind her the bulky form of her father,
who walked in carpet slippers upon the gravel of the path.
"Rosebud, my gal." The stentorian tones of the old sailor's voice woke
her suddenly from her day-dream. "There's a party in the parlour waitin'
the pleasure of your company, a party mighty anxious for to converse
with a clean white woman by way of a change."
The girl quickly took up her flowers.
"Who can it possibly be, father?"
"Come and see, my gal; come and see."
The old fellow went before, and his daughter followed him into the
house. There, in the parlour, seated at the table, was Captain Sartoris.
Rose gave way to a little exclamation of surprise and pleasure; and was
advancing to greet her visitor, when he arrested her with a gesture of
his hand.
"Don't come too nigh, Miss Summerhayes," he said, with mock gravity. "I
might ha' got the plague or the yaller fever. A man out o' currantine is
to be approached with caution. Jest stand up agin' the sideboard, my
dear, and let me look at you." The girl put down her roses, and posed as
desired.
"Very pretty," said Sartoris. "Pink-and-white, pure bred,
English--which, after being boxed in with a menag'ry o' Chinamen and
Malays, is wholesome and reassuring."
"Are you out for good, Captain?"
"They can put me aboard who can catch me, my dear. I'd run into the
bush, and live like a savage. I'm not much of a mountaineer, but you
would see how I could travel."
"But what was the disease?" asked the Pilot.
"Some sort of special Chinese fever; something bred o' dirt and filth
and foulness; a complaint you have to live amongst for weeks, before
you'll get it; a kind o' beri-beri or break-bone, which was new to the
doctors here. I've been disinfected and fumigated till I couldn't hardly
breathe. Races has their special diseases, just the same as they has
their special foods: this war'n't an English sickness; all its
characteristics were Chinee, and it killed the Captain because he'd
lived that long with Chinamen that, I firmly believe, his pigtail had
begun to shoot. Furrin crews, furrin crews! Give me the British sailor,
an' I'll sail my ship anywhere."
"And run her on the rocks, at the end of the voyage," growled the Pilot.
"I never came ashore to argify," retorted the Captain. "But if it comes
to a matter of navigation, there _are_ points I could give any man, even
pilots."
Seeing that the bone of contention was about to be gnawed by the
sea-dogs, Rose interposed with a question.
"Have you just come ashore, Captain?"
"In a manner o' speakin' he has," answered her father, who took the
words out of his friend's mouth, "and in a manner o' speakin' he hasn't.
You see, my dear, we went for a little preliminary cruise."
"The first thing your father told me was about this here robbery of
mails. 'When was that?' I asked. 'On the night of the 8th or early
morning of the 9th,' he says. That was when the captain of the barque
died. I remembered it well. 'Summerhayes,' I said, 'I have a notion.'
And this is the result, my dear."
From the capacious pocket of his thick pilot-jacket he pulled a brown
and charred piece of canvas.
"What's that?" he asked.
"I haven't the least idea," replied Rose.
"Does it look as though it might be a part of a mail-bag?" asked
Sartoris. "Look at the sealing-wax sticking to it. Now look at _that_."
He drew from the deep of another pocket a rusty knife.
"It was found near the other," he said. "Its blade was open. And what's
that engraved on the name-plate?--your eyes are younger than mine, my
dear." The sailor handed the knife to Rose, who read the name, and
exclaimed, "B. Tresco!"
"That's what the Pilot made it," said Sartoris. "And it's what I made
it. We're all agreed that B. Tresco, whoever he may be, was the owner of
that knife. Now this is evidence: that knife was found in conjunction
with this here bit of brown canvas, which I take to be part of a
mail-bag; and the two of 'em were beside the ashes of a fire, above high
water-mark. On a certain night I saw a fire lighted at that spot: that
night was the night the skipper of the barque died and the night when
the mails were robbed. You see, when things are pieced together it looks
bad for B. Tresco."
"I know him quite well," said Rose: "he's the goldsmith. What would he
have to do with the delivery of mails?"
"Things have got this far," said the Pilot. "The postal authorities say
all the bags weren't delivered on board. They don't accuse anyone of
robbery as yet, but they want the names of the boat's crew. These Mr.
Crookenden says he can't give, as the crew was a special one, and the
man in charge of the boat is away. But from the evidence that Sartoris
has brought, it looks as if Tresco could throw light on the matter."
"It's for the police to take the thing up," said Sartoris. "I'm not a
detective meself; I'm just a plain sailor--I don't pretend to be good at
following up clues. But if the police want this here clue, they can have
it. It's the best one of its kind I ever come across: look at it from
whatever side you please. It's almost as perfect a clue as you could
have, if you had one made to order. A policeman that couldn't follow up
that clue----'Tresco' on the knife, and, alongside of it, the bit of
mail-bag--why, he ought to be turned loose in an unsympathising world,
and break stones for a living. It's a beautiful clue. It's a clue a man
can take a pride in; found all ready on the beach; just a-waitin' to be
picked up, and along comes a chuckle-headed old salt and grabs it. Now,
that clue ought to be worth a matter of a hundred pound to the
Government. What reward is offered, Pilot?"
"There's none, as I'm aware of," answered Summerhayes. "But if the
post-master is a charitable sort of chap, he might be inclined to
recommend, say, fifty; you bein' a castaway sailor in very 'umble
circumstances. I'll see what I can do. I'll see the Mayor."
"Oh, you will!" exclaimed Sartoris. "You'd better advertise: 'Poor,
distressed sailor. All contributions thankfully received.' No, sir,
don't think you can pauperise _me_. A man who can find a clue like
that"--he brought the palm of his right hand down with a smack upon the
table, where Tresco's knife lay--"a man who can find that, sir, can make
his way in any community!"
Just at that moment there were heavy footsteps upon the verandah, and a
knocking at the front door.
Rose, who was sitting near the window, made a step or two towards the
passage, but the old Pilot, who from where he stood could see through
the glass of the front door, forestalled her, and she seated herself
opposite the skipper and his clues.
"So you think of visiting the police sergeant?" she asked, by way of
keeping up the conversation.
But the skipper's whole attention was fixed on the voices in the next
room, into which the Pilot had conducted his visitor.
"H'm," said Sartoris, "I had an idea I knew the voice, but I must have
been mistaken. Who is the party, Miss Rose?"
"I haven't the slightest clue," replied the girl, smiling. "Father has
such a number of strange friends in the port that I've long given up
trying to keep count of them. They come at all hours, about all sorts of
things."
The words were hardly out of her mouth, when the Pilot, wearing a most
serious expression of face, entered the room.
"Well, well," he said, "well, well. Who'd ha' thought it? Dear, dear. Of
all the extraordinary things! Now, Cap'n Sartoris, if you'd 'a' asked
_me_, I'd 'a' said the thing was impossible, impossible. Such things
goes in streaks, and his, to all intents and purposes, was a bad 'n; and
then it turns out like this. It's most remarkable, most extraordinary.
It's beyond me. I don't fathom it."
"What the deuce an' all are you talkin' about, Summerhayes?" Sartoris
spoke most deprecatingly. "A man would think you'd buried a shipmate, or
even lost your ship."
"Eh? What?" the Pilot thundered. "Lost my ship? No, no. I've bin wrecked
in a fruiter off the coast of Sardinia, an' I've bin cast away on the
island of Curacoa, but it was always in another man's vessel. No, sir,
_I_ never failed to bring the owners' property safe into port. Any fool
can run his ship on shore, and litter her cargo along half-a-mile of sea
coast."
"We've heard that argyment before," said Sartoris. "We quite
understand--you couldn't do such a thing if you tried. You're a most
exceptional person, and I'm proud to know you; but what's this dreadful
thing that's redooced you to such a state of bad temper, that your best
friends 'd hardly know you? I ask you that, Summerhayes. Is it anything
to do with these clues that's on the table?"
"Clues be----!" It is sad to relate that the Pilot of Timber Town
was about to use a strong expression, which only the presence of his
daughter prevented. "Come out of that room there," he roared. "Come, an'
show yourself."
There was a heavy tread in the passage, and presently there entered the
room a very shabby figure of a man. A ruddy beard obscured his face; his
hair badly needed cutting; his boots were dirty and much worn; his hands
bore marks of hard work, but his eyes were bright, and the colour of his
cheek was healthy, and for all the noise he made as he walked there was
strength in his movements and elasticity in his steps.
Without a word of introduction, he held out his hand to Miss
Summerhayes, who took it frankly.
Captain Sartoris had risen to his feet.
"How d'y do, sir," he said, as he shook hands. "I hope I see you well,
sir. Have you come far, or do you live close handy?"
"I've come a matter of twenty miles or so to-day," said the tall
stranger.
"Farming in the bush, I suppose," said Sartoris. "Very nice occupation,
farming, I should think." He closely eyed the ragged man. "Or perhaps
you fell down a precipice of jagged stones which tore you considerable.
Anyhow, I'm glad I see you well, sir, _very_ glad I see you well."
There was a rumbling noise like the echo of distant thunder
reverberating through the hills. Rose and Sartoris almost simultaneously
fixed their eyes upon the Pilot.
Summerhayes's huge person was heaving with suppressed merriment, his
face was red, and his mouth was shut tight lest he should explode with
laughter. But when he saw the two pairs of bewildered eyes staring at
him, he burst into a laugh such as made the wooden walls of the house
quiver.
Sartoris stood, regarding the Pilot as though he trembled for his
friend's senses; and a look of alarm showed itself in Rose's face.
"You don't know him!" cried the Pilot, pulling himself together. But
the Titanic laughter again took hold of him, and shook his vast frame.
"You've travelled with him, you've sailed with him, you've known him,
Sartoris--you've bin shipwrecked with him!" Here the paroxysm seized the
Pilot anew; and when it had subsided it left him exhausted and feeble.
He sank limply upon the old-fashioned sofa, and said, almost in a
whisper, "It's Jack Scarlett, and you didn't know him; Jack Scarlett,
back from the diggings, with his swag full of gold--and you thought him
a stranger."
It was now the turn of Rose and the skipper to laugh. Jack, who up to
this point had kept a straight face, joined his merriment to theirs, and
rushing forward they each shook him by the hand again, but in a totally
different manner from that of their former greeting.
Out of his "jumper" the fortunate digger pulled a long chamois-leather
bag, tied at the neck with a boot-lace. Taking a soup-plate from the
sideboard, he emptied the contents of the bag into it, and before the
astonished eyes of the onlookers lay a heap of yellow gold.
They stared, and were speechless.
From about his waist Scarlett untied a long leather belt, which proved
to be lined with gold. But the soup-plate would hold no more, and so the
lucky digger poured the residue in a heap upon the polished table. Next,
he went out to the verandah, and undoing his swag, he returned with a
tin canister which had been wrapped in his blankets. This also was full
of gold, and taking off its lid, he added its contents to the pile upon
the table.
"And there's some left in camp," he said. "I couldn't carry it all to
town."
"Well, well," said Sartoris, "while I've been boxed up in that stinking
plague-ship, I might ha' been on God A'mighty's earth, picking up stuff
like this. Well, well, what luck!"
"There must be a matter o' two thousand pound," said the Pilot. "Two
thousand pound!"
"More," said Jack. "There should be about 800 ozs., valued at something
like L3000; and this is the result of but our first washing-up."
"Good lord, what luck!" exclaimed the Pilot. "As I always have said, it
comes in streaks. Now, Jack, here, has had his streak o' bad luck, and
now he's got into a new streak, and it's so good that it's like to turn
him crazy before he comes to the end of it. If you want to know the real
truth about things, ask an old sailor--he won't mislead you."
But all that Rose said was, "How nice it must be to meet with such
success."
"By George, I was almost forgetting our bargain," exclaimed Scarlett. He
took from his pocket a little linen bag, which he handed to Rose. "Those
are the nuggets you wanted--glad to be able to keep my promise."
The girl untied the neck of the small bag, and three heavy pieces of
gold tumbled on the table.
"I can't take them," she exclaimed. "They're worth too much. I can't
make any adequate return."
"I hope you won't try. Pilot, she _must_ take them."
"Take 'em? Of course. Why, Rosebud, his luck would leave him to-morrer,
if you was to stop him keeping his promise. You're bound to take 'em."
Rose weighed the bits of virgin gold in the palm of her little hand.
"Of course, I never really meant you to give me any of your gold," she
said. "I only spoke in joke."
"Then it's a joke I should make pretty often, if I were you," said
Sartoris. "You don't seem to know when you're well off."
"I take it under compulsion; hoping that you'll find so much more that
you won't feel the loss of this."
"There's no fear of that," said Jack. "As for repayment, I hope you
won't mention it again."
"I'll have to give it you in good wishes."
The basket of roses stood on the table. Jack looked at the beautifully
blended colours, and stooped to smell the sweet perfume. "I'll take one
of these," he said, "--the one you like the best."
The girl took a bud of La Rosiere, dark, velvety, fragrant, perfect.
"I'm in love with them all," she said, "but this is my favourite."
She handed the bud to Jack, who put it in the button-hole of his worn
and shabby coat.
"Thanks," he said, "I'm more than repaid."
Sartoris burst out laughing.
"Don't you feel a bit in the way, Summerhayes?" he said. "I do. When
these young things exchange love-tokens, it's time we went into the next
room."
"No," laughed the Pilot, "we won't budge. The gal gets twenty-pound
worth of gold, and offers a rose in return. It's a beautiful flower, no
doubt; but how would a slice of mutton go, after 'damper' and 'billy'
tea? Rosebud, my gal, go and get Mr. Scarlett something to eat."
Joining in the laugh, Rose went into her kitchen, and Jack commenced to
pack up his gold, in order that the table might be laid for dinner.
But if you come to think of it, there may have been a great deal in his
request, and even more in the girl's frank bestowal.