Tresco Makes the Ring.
The goldsmith sat at his bench; his spectacles on his nose, his apron
round the place where his waist should have been, and in his hands
the implements of his craft. Nobody had told him, he had hardly told
himself, that it was for the last time that he was sitting within the
four boarded walls where he had spent so many hours during the last four
years, at the bench which bore on every square inch of its surface the
marks of his labour. But Tresco knew, as did also Jake Ruggles and the
Prospector who watched him, that the end of his labours had come.
The goldsmith's thoughts were in keeping with his work: he was about to
make a wedding-ring, and his speech was of Love.
First, he took a little ingot of pure gold, and, laying it on the smooth
surface of what looked like an upturned, handleless flat-iron, he
wrought upon the precious, yellow metal with a hammer, till it was
shaped like a badly-made rod.
This he handed over to Jake, who put it on the wire "devil" and strove
with blow-pipe and flame to bring it to a red heat.
"Woman," said Benjamin, "Woman is like a beautiful scene, or the perfume
of a delicate rose--every man loves her, be he prince or pauper, priest
or murderer. To labour for Woman is the sweetest work of Man--that's why
a goldsmith is in love with his craft. Think of all the pretty creatures
I have made happy with my taste and skill. While there are women there
must be goldsmiths, Jake!"
"What?" asked the apprentice, taking his lips from the stem of the
blow-pipe, and looking at his master.
"You're sure this is the correct size?" Tresco held an old-fashioned
ring between his forefinger and thumb, and tested with the point of a
burnisher the setting of the rubies in it.
"Yes," replied the shock-headed youth. "I seen her take it orf her
finger, when the toff bought her engagement-ring. I was 'all there,'
don't you make no mistake. 'Leave this,' I said, looking at the rubies;
'the settin' is a bit shaky,' I says. 'Allow me to fix it,' I says. An'
there you are with a pattern. Savee?"
Benjamin laughed.
"Mind you make it real good," said the Prospector, who stood, watching
the operation. "Person'lly, I'd say put a good big diamond in the
centre."
"'Twouldn't do," replied the goldsmith. "Unfortunately, Custom says
wedding-rings must be plain, so plain it must be."
"Then let it be pure," said the Prospector. "Anyway it'll bring good
luck."
He had divided his lucky nugget, the same that he had refused to sell
when he made the goldsmith's acquaintance and sold the first gold from
Bush Robin Creek, and while he had retained one half of this talisman,
out of the other half Tresco was fashioning a wedding-ring for Scarlett.
The red-hot piece of gold had been cooled suddenly by being cast into
the "pickle," and was now subjected to another severe hammering, after
which it was drawn, by means of a gigantic pair of tongs fixed to the
windlass of a bench by a long leather strap through graduated holes in
a strong steel plate. Next, it was branded, by means of certain steel
punches, with the goldsmith's private marks, and afterwards it was bent
with pliers into a circle, and its clear-cut ends were soldered together
under the blow-pipe.
Benjamin peered over the tops of his glasses at the Prospector. "I owe
you luck, fortune, and freedom," he said, "and yet, Bill, your power to
create happiness is distinctly limited."
"I dessay," replied the Prospector. "But what'd you have me do? Would
you ask me to make you into a gold-plated angel with a pair o' patent
wings, twelve foot in the spread? It'd save me a deal o' trouble if you
could fly away from the police an' Timber Town."
"I wasn't thinking of the police. I was thinking of adorable, elusive
Woman. I ought to be making my own wedding-ring: instead of that I must
roll my bluey and be footing it over the mountains before to-morrow
morning. I'm turned into a perfect Wandering Jew."
"You should be darn glad I give you the opportunity."
"I leave behind the loveliest fallen angel you ever set eyes on."
"You'll find plenty more o' that sort where you're goin'."
"Perhaps: but not one of 'em the prospective Mrs. T. Ah, well, all
through life my hopes of domestic bliss have invariably been blighted;
but the golden key of wealth will unlock the hardest woman's heart. When
I have leisure and freedom from worry, I'll see what can be done. In the
meanwhile, Jake, go and fetch some beer." He took a shilling from his
pocket, and gave it to the apprentice. "Make tracks," he said, "or my
sorrow will have fled before I've had time to drown it."
Jake disappeared, as if shot from a cannon, and his master placed the
roughly-formed ring on a steel mandril.
"But this," said the goldsmith, tapping the ring skilfully with a
diminutive hammer, "this is for the finger of an angel. Just think,
Bill, what it would be to be spliced to a creature so good that it'd be
like being chained to a scripture saint for the rest of your life."
"I guess I'd be on the wallaby in a fortnight," said the Prospector.
"Personally, I prefer a flesh-and-blood angel, with a touch of the
devil in her. But at best marriage is on'y a lottery. A wife's like a
claim--she may prove rich, or she may turn out to be a duffer."
The goldsmith was now working upon the ring with a file. Next, he rubbed
it with emery paper, and finished it with a burnisher.
"Yes," said he, as he filled his pipe, and lighted it at the pilot-flame
of the gas-jet which stretched its long, movable arm over the bench,
"men, like flies, are of two kinds--those that fall into the soup, an'
those that don't. I have borne a charmed life: you have fallen into the
tureen. Here comes the beer!"
There was a scuffling on the side-path, and Jake's voice was heard in
shrill altercation. Up to that point, Benjamin's body-guard had attended
rigidly to its self-imposed duty, but now, following close on the heels
of the apprentice, its members burst into the workshop.
Shaking with laughter, Tresco addressed the thirsty influx.
"I'm sorry, mates," he said, "but I can't see my way to make that quart
of beer into two gallons. But I give largess to my vassals--that, I
believe, is real, toff, Court dialect. Drink this."
He took a crumpled one-pound bank-note from his pocket, and handed it to
the self-appointed captain of his guard, who immediately withdrew his
fire-eaters, and the goldsmith was left to complete his work in peace.
"Here's health to the bride that's to wear it," said Benjamin, as he
raised his glass to his thirsty lips.
"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.
"But, Amiria, we have ridden all the way from Timber Town to see you,"
pleads the silvery voice of Rose Scarlett.
"Then you can ride back to Timber Town. I didn't ask you to come."
"Amiria," says Jack; his voice stern and hard, "if you insult my wife,
you insult me. Have not you and she been friends since you were
children?"
Amiria emerges from her hut. On her head is a man's hat, and round her
body is wrapped a gaudy but dirty blanket.
"Listen to what I say." The same well-moulded, dusky face is there, the
same upright bearing, the same musical voice, but the tone is hard, and
the look forbidding. "I learnt all the _Pakeha_ ways; I went to their
school; I can speak their tongue; I have learnt their _ritenga_: and I
say these _Pakeha_ things are good for the _Pakeha_, but for the Maori
they are bad. The white man is one, the Maori is one. Let the white man
keep to his customs, and let the Maori keep to his. Let the white marry
white, and let the brown marry brown. That is all. Take your wife with
you, and think of me no more. I am a Maori _wahine_, I have become a
woman of the tribe. My life is in the _pa_, yours is in the town. Now
go. I want to see you no more." So saying she disappears inside the hut.
Scarlett draws himself to his full height, and stands, contemplating the
sea. Then his eye catches a fleck of white at his side; and he turns, to
see his wife drying the tears which cannot be restrained.
He takes her by the hand, and leads her through the little crowd of
natives standing round.
"Come away, little woman," he says; "we can do no good here. It's time
we got back to Timber Town."
So mounting their horses, they ride away.
It so happens that as they reach their journey's end, and pass the big
"emporium" of Varnhagen and Co., they catch sight of the gay figure of a
girl, dressed in fluttering muslin and bright ribbons, beside whom walks
a smart young man.
"Wasn't that Miss Varnhagen?" asks Jack after they have passed by at a
trot.
"Yes," replies Rose.
"Who was the fellow with her?"
"He's the new gold-clerk at the Kangaroo Bank. She's engaged to him."