Fishing.
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 L15 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.