CHAPTER IIIMERRI CREEK
Itwas late on the afternoon of the following day when Robin Hurst changed from the main line and entered the narrow-gauge train which marked the final stage of her journey home. The little line was a new one, opening up a great stretch of bush country that had hitherto been almost unknown, save for scattered farms and sawmills, where plucky settlers earned a hard enough living among the giant hills. Robin had not travelled on it before: it was still under construction when she had left home after the May holidays. She remembered her drive to the station then, over twelve miles of bad road, in torrents of rain. She and her mother, half-smothered in heavy black oilskins, had tried to be merry as they urged the slow old horse up and down the hills: she had a sudden very vivid memory of her mother’s face, still determinedly cheerful, when the train that they had only just managed to catch puffed out of the station. Mrs. Hurst had stood on the platform, tall and erect, the water dripping from her hat and coat, and forming a widening pool round her: and though her smile had been gay, Robin had never forgotten the loneliness of her eyes.
Now she settled herself in the corner of an empty carriage with an unwonted sense of relief. She did not for a moment pretend to herself that Uncle Donald’s death caused her the slightest grief. He had been her father’s brother, very much older than the big, cheery red-haired father whose death, three years before, had left his wife and child alone and almost penniless. Until then, their home had been in the Wimmera district, and they had scarcely known Donald Hurst: but when everything was over, and he realized the helplessness of their position, he had offered them a home.
They had taken it gratefully enough, and through the years that followed they had tried to please the hard old man: but it had never been a happy home. Donald Hurst’s wife had died many years before, and there had been no children; he was alone in the world, and he had asked nothing better than to be alone. He lived in a house much too big for him, with an old housekeeper as hard and dour as himself, and made the most of his small hill-farm; it would not have been enough had he not possessed a small private income as well. At first Mrs. Hurst had tried to teach Robin herself, for there was no school within five miles. Then, realizing that the girl was beyond her powers of teaching, she had come to an arrangement with her brother-in-law, by which she took the place of the housekeeper, and with the money thus saved he paid Robin’s expenses at a school near Melbourne.
It was a very profitable arrangement for Donald Hurst. The housekeeper had been wasteful and lazy; had demanded high wages and had cooked abominably. Now he saved her wages and “keep,” as well as that of Robin; and if he groaned heavily over the school-bills, he knew well that he was a gainer by the transaction. Mrs. Hurst made his house run on oiled wheels: his meals were better, his monthly store-accounts less. Most of the house remained shut up, but the rooms they occupied shone with a cleanliness they had not known for years. The old man chuckled in the depths of his calculating old soul.
It pleased him, too, to be without Robin. He hated all children, and Robin, with her red hair and her overflowing high spirits, reminded him sharply of the younger brother he had never liked, and of whom he had always been jealous. She was constantly getting into trouble; it seemed almost impossible for a day to pass without a brush between her uncle and herself. Robin had never known anything but happiness. It puzzled her, and brought out all that was worst in her nature, to be in a house where there was no home-like atmosphere—where grumbling and fault-finding were perpetual. She grew reckless and daring; dodging her uncle’s wrath when she could, and bearing it with a careless shrug when to dodge was impossible. Even though losing Robin condemned her mother to ceaseless loneliness she was glad to see the child go.
Holidays had been rather more bearable, although the long Christmas vacations had strained endurance more than once to breaking-point. Robin thought of them now with a surge of dull anger against her uncle that suddenly horrified her, seeing that he was dead, and could trouble her no more. How she and her mother had longed for a tiny place just for themselves during those precious weeks! Even a tent in the bush would have been Paradise, compared to the gloomy house where at any time the loud, angry voice might break in upon them with complaints and stupid grumbling. And now it could never happen any more. “I don’t care if it’s wicked,” Robin muttered to herself. “He was a bad old man, and I’m glad he’s dead!”
The train crawled slowly out of the junction and wound its way between the hills she knew. Robin looked out eagerly. Below her wound the road over which she had often travelled behind slow old Roany: she could see that it had been made freshly, most likely to assist in the construction of the railway. Its smooth, well-rolled surface struck an odd note, remembering what seas of mud they had often ploughed through on their journeys to the township. Slow and toilsome as those drives had been, she looked back to them as the brightest parts of her holidays, since then they had known that for hours they would be free from Uncle Donald’s strident voice.
It was early September now. The winter had been unusually mild and dry, and the hills were gay with wattle-blossom, which shone in dense masses of gold along the line of the creek in the valley below. Already the willows were budding: the sap, racing through their limbs, turned them to a coppery glow against the sunset. “Early Nancy” starred the grass in the cultivated fields with its myriad flowers: Robin almost fancied she could smell their faint, spicy fragrance. She longed to lie in the deep, cool grass, forgetting the long months of Melbourne dust and the school that she had hated. Ayrshire cows, knee-deep in marshy pools, glanced up lazily as the train puffed by, too contented to allow themselves to be disturbed: once a huge bull stared defiantly, his great head thrust forward, the sunlight rippling on his beautiful, dappled brown and white coat. Robin drew a long breath of utter happiness. Soon she would be home: and there would be mother waiting, and before them would stretch the long, quiet evening, with no harsh voice to mar its peace. Surely it was not wicked to be glad!
Gradually, as they left the township farther and farther behind, the farms became fewer and more isolated, giving place to long stretches of rough hill-country. Here there was little dairying land, and scarcely any cultivation; the holdings were only partially cleared, ring-barked timber standing out, gaunt and grey, from the surrounding undergrowth. There was evidence of the ceaseless war against bracken fern and rabbits: paddocks littered with dry, cut ferns showed a fresh crop of green fronds starting vigorously to replace them, and among them were innumerable rabbit-burrows. Already the evening was tempting their inhabitants to appear: as the train came round curves, a score of grey-brown bodies went scurrying over the hillside, and a score of white tails gleamed for an instant as their owners dived into the safety of the underworld.
They came to a little siding presently, and pulled up for a brief halt. There were no station buildings: the tall timber came almost to the railway line, save for a clearing where a sawmill had established itself, gaunt and hideous, with huge piles of giant logs waiting their turn at the shrieking saw, and great heaps of brown sawdust bearing mute testimony to those which had already met their fate. Now, freshly cut, and still fragrant with resin and gum, they waited for the trucks that should bear them to Melbourne—stacks of smooth timber, among which played the half-wild children of the mill encampment. Here and there were the tents of the workmen; their wives, thin brown women, looking almost like men, came hurrying out to greet the train that made the great event of each day. The guard flung upon the ground beside the line the stores brought from the township: sacks of bread, boxes of groceries, meat in blood-stained bags. The children came running to get them. Robin, leaning out, offered them the remains of the fruit and sweets the girls had packed into her travelling basket that morning—pressing them into grubby brown hands, whose owners hung back, half-shy, wholly longing. Then the engine-whistle made the hills echo, and the little train drew away—to be swallowed up in a moment by the tall trees.
There was a hint of dusk in the evening sky when they drew into the terminus, a tiny station in a more cleared area. Robin had the door open before the train had come to a standstill. There was the tall figure waiting, just as she had dreamed—waiting with her face alight with the joy of welcome. Robin flung herself at her mother, holding her with strong young arms.
“Oh, Mother!—poor old Mother!”
“Oh. I’m glad to have you!” breathed Mrs. Hurst, with a deep sigh. “I had to get you, Robin—I couldn’t wait.”
“I should think not! Has it been very dreadful, Mother, darling?”
“Pretty dreadful.” The tall woman shuddered slightly. “Never mind—I’ve got you now. Let us get home as quickly as we can.”
There were friendly hands to lift Robin’s trunk into the battered old buggy outside the station, and warm, kindly words of welcome; all the farmers about Merri Creek knew Mrs. Hurst and the long-legged, red-haired girl who used to run wild over their paddocks, and their wives had proved Alice Hurst’s kindness in a hundred ways. They looked at her this evening with an added touch of respect and sympathy. Old Donald Hurst’s rough nature had made him an unpopular figure in the district, and the weary life led with him by his sister-in-law was no secret. They knew she had been a drudge, unpaid save for her child’s school-fees; but hard work was the daily portion of most of the women of the bush. They pitied her, not for that, but because of the ceaseless bitterness of the old man’s tongue. It had been no easy thing, to live upon his bounty.
Robin and her mother climbed into the buggy, said “Good-night,” and took the road that wound along the valley. The horse jogged slowly, and Mrs. Hurst let him take his own pace. She drove with one hand resting on Robin’s knee, apparently unwilling to talk, only glad of her nearness; and Robin, after one glance at her worn face, was silent, too. They understood each other very well. When Mother felt that she could talk, Robin would be ready.
When they turned in at the gate of Hill Farm, it was almost dark. Roany jogged more quickly up the track that led to the stable-yard, where a big, awkward lad waited, grinning cheerfully.
“ ’Ullo, Miss Robin! Glad to see y’ back.”
“Hallo, Danny!” Robin jumped out lightly, and shook hands with him. “How are all your people?”
“Good-oh, thanks, Miss Robin. Jus’ you leave the ol’ horse to me, an’ I’ll bring your box in presently. Kettle’s near boilin’, Mrs. Hurst, an’ I lit the kitchen lamp.”
“That’s very good of you, Danny.” Mrs. Hurst’s voice was utterly weary, but she forced a smile, and the big fellow beamed in answer. Robin gathered her light luggage, following her mother to the house.
The kitchen was bright with lamp-light and the glow of the fire. Robin put down her burdens and went to her mother, taking off her hat and coat as if she were a child. Then she looked at her deliberately.
“Ah, you’re just dead-beat, Mummie!” she said softly. She gathered the tall form into her arms, holding her closely, patting her with little loving touches; and Mrs. Hurst put her head on the young shoulder, and shook with sobs that had no tears. So they stayed for a few moments. Then the mother pulled herself together.
“Oh, it is just beautiful to feel you are home!” she said. “Come to your room, darling—you must be so hungry and tired. Tea is all ready, except for the toast, and that won’t take three minutes.”
“It won’t take you any time at all,” said Robin, masterfully. “You’re going to do as you’re told, for one night, anyhow, Mrs. Hurst!” She led her into the dining-room, and put her firmly on the couch: in spite of her protests she took off her shoes, dashing to her room for a pair of soft slippers.
“Now you just lie quiet,” she ordered, as she lit the lamp. “Oh, you’ve got the fire laid!—how ripping! It isn’t really cold, but I’ll put a match to it, I think, don’t you? a fire’s so cosy when you’re tired. What a jolly tea, Mummie! that cake is just an extra-special, and you had no business to make it, but I’ll eat an awful lot. Oh, and I’ve been getting into a most horrible row over cakes!—they were cream-puffs, and I’ll tell you all about them presently. Feet warm?” She took off the slippers and felt her mother’s feet, proceeding to rub them vigorously. “They’re just like frogs—when the fire burns up well you’ll have to toast them; I’ll just get you a rug for the present.” She covered her gently, dropping a kiss on her forehead as she straightened the rug. “Now, you lie still and don’t argue—remember you’ve got a daughter to bully you. I’ll have the toast made in a jiffy. Shall I make Danny’s tea in the little teapot?”
“Yes, please, darling,” said Mrs. Hurst, smiling faintly. “But it’s too bad for you to be working after your long journey. I can quite well——”
“Never saw such a woman to talk nonsense,” said Robin. “Lie quiet, or I’ll have to sit on you, and then we’ll never get tea—and I’m so hungry!” She went swiftly into the adjoining kitchen, leaving the door open, and talking cheerfully while she cut bread and poked the fire. “Isn’t it splendid to have the railway at last! I was quite thrilled to travel on it for the first time, and to think how often we’d jogged along that dreary old road. It’s so lovely to be back, and to see hills and paddocks again, after months of dingy grey streets: and the wattle is just beautiful all the way out. That you, Danny? come in. I’ll have your tea ready in a moment.”
“I put your things in your room, Miss Robin,” Danny said. “Got plenty of wood? I got a lot cut outside.”
“I’ll want a big log for the dining-room fire after tea, thanks, Danny.”
“Right-oh. I’ll go an’ ’ave a bit of a wash.” He went out clumsily, and Robin finished her preparations.
“There!” she said at length. “I’ll shut the door, and we’ll be all cosy and comfortable. I can hardly realize that I’m back, unless I keep looking at you all the time! Let me bring your tea to the couch, Mummie, dear.”
“No, indeed,” said Mrs. Hurst, with decision. “I’m not so bad as that.” She got up and came across to where Robin stood, smiling down at her. “Let me wash my hands, and I shall be able to enjoy the luxury of sitting down with my daughter.”
“If only Miss Stone regarded me as you do, how happy she might be!” remarked Robin. “She has a total lack of appreciation of my finer qualities.” Over their meal she told her mother the harrowing story of the cream-puffs, and had the satisfaction of making her laugh more than once. To anyone who knew Miss Stone the mental vision of her plunging into Ruby Bennett’s discarded delicacy was not without humour.
“I don’t approve, of course,” said Mrs. Hurst. “It was really naughty of you, Robin, and you are old enough to know better. But I think I can leave that part of it to Miss Stone.”
“You can, indeed,” Robin assured her. “Her remarks left nothing to the imagination.”
“I suppose I would have been distressed, but nothing seems to matter much now,” said her mother. “For school is over for you, I’m afraid, dearest. You can never go back to Calton Hall.”
“Mother! Say it again!”
“Ah, it isn’t a joke, beloved,” said Mrs. Hurst. “It is a great grief to me. You are not sixteen: I had so hoped for two years yet at school for you.”
“I wouldn’t be anything but a dunce if I went to school for twenty years,” stated her daughter, with shining eyes. “I know enough now for life in the country, and that’s what I’m always going to have. Oh, Mother, I’m so glad! I’m sorry you aren’t, but I can’t help it: I’m just glad all over!”
She stopped abruptly, looking at her mother’s white face.
“Now, you’re just going to lie down again while I clear the table and wash up,” she said. “Then I’ll put a big log on the fire, and you’re going to tell me everything.”
CHAPTER IVPLANS AND PROBLEMS
“Thereisn’t so much to tell you,” Mrs. Hurst said. The room was tidy, the kitchen work done; Robin had made up the fire and pulled her mother’s couch close to it. She sat on the hearthrug near her; so near that Mrs. Hurst could put out her hand and touch the shining red hair.
“I don’t know anything, you see,” Robin answered. “Was he—was Uncle Donald ill long, Mummie?”
“Only about ten days. He had been very trying for over a month: his temper was worse than ever, and nothing I could do seemed to please him. I think the poor old man must have been suffering, but he would never tell me anything, and there were times when I was almost in despair. Then one night he would not eat, and when I took him some nourishment after he had gone to bed he flew into a violent passion and shouted at me until even Danny woke and came running to see what was the matter.”
Robin set her lips.
“I suppose I ought to be sorry that he’s dead,” she said. “But I can’t be, Mother—I just can’t. He was a bad, cruel old man. That anyone should speak to you like that—!”
“I think he was sorry afterwards. The fit of anger ended in a violent coughing attack, and at last he fainted. I sent Danny to the village to telephone for the doctor, but he was away in the hills and could not get here until the next day, about noon, and I had a terrible time trying to keep Uncle Donald in bed: he would try to get up and dress, but he always fainted. When the doctor came he became more obedient. The doctor told me from the first that there was no hope.”
“You should have got me home,” breathed Robin. She found her mother’s hand and held it tightly.
Mrs. Hurst shuddered.
“I would not have had you here for anything. He was very difficult to manage—his temper seemed to get quite beyond his control. And all the time he hated me, Robin—he just hated me. You could see it in every look he gave me, not only in the bitter things he said.”
“And you had no help?”
“I tried to get a nurse, but there were none to be had. Some of the women about here came when they could, and Danny was a great comfort. There was really very little to be done for the poor old man. But it was a very heart-breaking thing to see him dying like that—hating everyone, and with his heart full of malice. Thank God, at the last the evil spirit seemed to leave him. For it really was an evil spirit, Robin: something that seemed to take possession of him, and to control his mind.”
“And it left him?” said Robin, awed.
“Twenty-four hours before he died. He woke up from a long sleep, very weak, but quite rational and quiet. The first thing he said was to tell me to get the lawyer out from the township at once—Mr. Briggs. Fortunately, Danny was able to get him on the telephone and he came out in a car immediately, with his clerk. Uncle Donald got him to make his will, and they propped him up while he signed it. It was all very distressing, for he was so weak, and we feared he might die at any moment. After the business was done he seemed to grow stronger, and talked to me quite kindly.”
“I’m glad he did,” said Robin. “It would have been awful if he had died in that wicked mood.”
“Yes—it would have been terrible. He said once, ‘You’ve been very kind to me, Alice, and I’ve been very hard on you.’ And he asked me to forgive him—poor old man! He seemed to want to have me with him after that, and he liked me to hold his hand. I was holding it when he died, very early the next morning.”
“I wish you had got me sooner,” said Robin, very low.
“I did not want to get you until—until everything was over. The funeral was this morning. And after that I felt as if I could hardly wait until you came.”
Robin put her cheek against the hand she held, and for a while they were silent.
“You must be just worn out, Mummie,” the girl said, at length.
“Oh, I shall be quite well in a few days. I think I did not know how tired I was until I saw you. Then I seemed to go all to pieces.” She smiled at the bent head. “It was feeling that I had someone to lean upon, I suppose.”
“Well, you’d better just lean hard,” said Robin, sturdily. “You’re going to be an invalid for a few days—I mean to keep you in bed, and make you forget everything: we’ve got such heaps to talk about. Mummie, are we going to be very poor?”
“Are you afraid of being poor?”
“Not a bit. We’ve never been anything else, have we? As long as we are together I don’t mind anything at all.”
“We shall be very poor, my girl. Uncle Donald left me all he had, but it is not much. Most of his income came from money he had sunk in an annuity, and that, of course, died with him. The farm is not valuable. I consulted Mr. Briggs about selling it, but he thinks there would be no chance of that, and that we should get very little, even if we were able to sell.”
“But we can’t work it, can we? I’ll do anything in the world to help, Mummie, but I know two women can’t run the place.”
“No, we couldn’t possibly work it; even if we employed a man it could hardly be carried on, and wages and keep would eat up the profits. Properties are hard to sell just now, Mr. Briggs says; people are afraid of the difficult life on the hill farms, with the constant struggle against rabbits and bracken. He thinks he could let the land to one of the neighbours: the Merritts need more land, he says, now that the railway has come and they can get their produce away more easily. He advises us to let the paddocks, retaining the house and the few acres round it. With very great care I think we could live on the income we should get. But it would mean looking at every penny twice.”
“Well, you know best, Mother, darling. What could we do if we didn’t let the land to Mr. Merritt?”
“I think we have very little choice. Selling is out of the question, for the present, at any rate. We might try to let the whole property, with the house; if we could do that I might get some work in Melbourne that would add to our income. But work is hard to get, for anyone of my age; and I should hardly know what to do with you.”
“I think that’s a perfectly hateful idea!” Robin sat up with a jerk. “You mean to go slaving in some beastly shop or office, I suppose—wearing yourself out altogether! Don’t you think we could manage to stay on here, Mother? We could live on awfully little—I can shoot rabbits and catch fish, and we hardly need any clothes out in this lonely place! And it would be so lovely to be together again—just you and I. You know how we used to ache to be by ourselves somewhere, in the holidays.”
“Do you think I don’t want it as much as you do? I have thought of nothing else. Oh, I think we may venture to try it, Robin—even if it were only for a year or two. I wouldn’t want you to stay here too long: when you are eighteen I should like you to learn typewriting and shorthand, so that you would have a profession to fall back upon.”
“I don’t seem to care what we do in a couple of years,” Robin said, laughing. “But at present I want to stay here, in this jolly old place, and feel that it’s our very own, and that no one can turn us out of it. Itissuch a dear old house, and we could make it so pretty. We’ll have a scrumptious garden, Mummie: I can do the digging, and you’ll supply the brains. I don’t see why we shouldn’t sell vegetables, because of course we can never eat all we grow!”
“That might be an idea,” said Mrs. Hurst, thoughtfully. “Now that the railway is here it would be easy to send fresh vegetables into Baroin once a week.”
“We’ll make heaps of money,” said Robin, with the gay confidence of nearly sixteen. “And rabbits, Mummie—isn’t it a mercy that Father taught me to shoot, and that we have his gun? Nice young bunnies ought to be very saleable—and think of the skins! they are worth ever so much. Danny can teach me to prepare them. We’ll have to do without Danny. I suppose?”
“Yes—we have no chance of keeping a boy. The cows must be sold. I thought we would keep the little Jersey: she has a beautiful calf a week old. She will give us more butter than we need, but I can sell it at the store in the village.”
“Well, I can milk her,” said Robin.
“That will be my job,” said her mother, with firmness.
“Certainly, if you get there first!” rejoined Robin politely. They laughed at each other, and Mrs. Hurst gave a great sigh of happiness.
“Oh, if you knew what a difference it makes to have you!” she said. “Everything looked black to me, and I was sure I could not manage to make both ends meet. And I’m not sure now: we are certain to have a hard struggle, with plenty of anxiety and care, but nothing seems to matter so much now.”
“I don’t see how anythingcanmatter much, if we are together,” said Robin, simply. “We’re both strong—at least you will be after you have had a good rest—and you’re nearly as young as I am—”
“Robin, what nonsense!”
“Indeed, you are—you know Father married you and ran away with you when you hardly had your hair up! and you’ll grow younger every year, because we’re going to make a joke of everything, and there will be no one to be cross with you any more. At least, I shall be very cross with you if you try to do foolish things like milking cows—but you’ll soon learn that it isn’t safe! And everything will be tremendous fun, even if we have to live on turnips and buttermilk. I think we’re the luckiest people that ever owned a farm!”
“I think I am a very lucky mother,” Mrs. Hurst said, quietly.
“Indeed, Miss Stone wouldn’t tell you so. Mother, darling, I’ve come home with a horribly bad character—Miss Stone thinks I’m absolutely no good in the world. I was always getting into scrapes and sinking lower and lower in the form. I didn’t mean to be so hopeless; but I seemed to get into rows without any effort on my part, and at last I just didn’t care. I’m awfully sorry now, ’cause of you. But it really isn’t a school that makes you proud of it, and no one trusts Miss Stone. I’m just glad all over that I need never see her again!”
“Do the girls trust you?” Mrs. Hurst asked.
Robin’s head went up, and she coloured hotly.
“Yes,” she said, shortly. “They know they can.”
“Well, I am not going to let Miss Stone’s report worry me,” said her mother. “I’m sorry you have got into trouble, and I wish you had worked better, especially as you have no more chances of learning. But you and I are facing the real things of life now, and school scrapes, big as they seem at the moment, will soon be forgotten. We’re partners, my daughter, and we have to trust each other in all things, and work together.” She sighed. “I do hope it won’t mean that you will get none of the joy of life while you are young. I had always hoped to be able to give you a good time—such a time as I had myself before Father, as you say ‘married me and ran away with me’.”
Robin hugged her enthusiastically.
“If you only knew how I’m loving the bare idea of being partners!” she exclaimed. “I never dared to hope for anything so lovely: all the way in the train, even when I ached with joy at seeing the country, I was aching in a different way at the thought of going back to school! I’d never have done any good there, Mummie—you don’t know how hopeless it was. Now we’ll be working together, in our own home, and sharing everything. I’m blessed if I want more joy of life than that is going to mean!”
She sat back on her heels, the firelight dancing on her vivid face and her mop of red hair.
“And to think,” she chanted, “that they’ll be getting up in the morning at the sound of the same old bell, and ploughing through the same old stodgy lessons all day, and eating the same old awful meals, and walking in the same old crocodile down the same old dusty streets! And I’m free and independent and here——”
“Milking the same old cow!” laughed her mother—looking suddenly as young as she.
“In the same old cow-bail,” Robin flashed back. “And I wouldn’t change my job for all the tea in China!”
CHAPTER VTWO MONTHS LATER
Robin Hurstcame out upon the veranda of Hill Farm in the early dawn. It was an exquisite November morning. Mists were rising slowly from the gullies, revealing the tops of giant tree-ferns; above them, invisible in tree-tops still shrouded in white clouds, cockatoos shrieked a morning chorus. A pair of kookaburras perched on the gate-posts and looked wisely at Robin: they were old friends, christened Sally and Sam, so tame that they came regularly to find the scraps of raw meat that she left for them whenever meat occurred in the Hurst household—which was not every day. They preened their feathers, puffing them out until they looked ridiculously fat, the first sunbeams making them glint with a metallic blue and bronze. Then they broke into a wild duet of laughter. The echoes ran round the hills, “Ha-ha-ha! Hoo-hoo-hoo!” and were answered by other kookaburras beyond the creek. Robin put her head back and imitated the call—a proceeding that always puzzled and delighted Sally and Sam, who waited politely until she had finished, and then laughed as if it were the best joke in the world.
Robin waved her hand to the cheerful pair, and went off round the house—a workmanlike figure in blue shirt and khaki breeches, finished with home-made leggings of khaki cloth. From the first she had discarded skirts for country wear; and fortunately, Mrs. Hurst had put by a stock of breeches belonging to her husband, which her nimble fingers had altered to suit Robin’s requirements. The Jersey cow was waiting near the shed, where a shining bucket was up-ended on a rough bench, beside a three-legged stool. Robin petted her for a moment, and then sat down in the open to milk her—there was no need now to affront Bessy with the indignity of a bail. This done, she fed her, gave breakfast to Daisy, the calf, and to two small pigs that roamed at will in a tiny paddock; and, taking a hoe, went off to the vegetable garden.
Everything was very neat about the Hill Farm house. In front was a rambling old garden, ablaze with flowers. A trimly-cut lawn, shaded on the west by a row of Cootamundra wattles, took up much of the space; and there were winding walks and cool, quiet nooks where rustic seats invited you to sit down and rest, looking down the smooth green slopes towards the creek. Creeping plants and climbing roses made the wide verandas into bowers of scented bloom. Beyond the well-kept back yard came the vegetable garden, the pride of Robin’s heart.
Danny had dug the garden for Robin, refusing any payment. It was, indeed, difficult to exclude Danny from Hill Farm: the fact that he was supposed to be working for his father did not prevent him from appearing at odd moments, not at the house itself, but wherever any job waited that required extra muscle. Thus, Robin would find the cow-yard or pigsty swept and garnished: a heap of wood split and stacked, or a broken fence mended. “Aw, I just gotta spare hour an’ nothin’ to do in it,” Danny would say, bashfully. It was evident that he still looked on the Hursts as his responsibility.
Mrs. Hurst worried over the fact that it was impossible to make him take any money—the mere mention of which threw Danny into painful embarrassment. She consoled herself by knitting him socks, and by keeping on hand a stock of the brown gingerbread that never failed to delight him. Danny regarded himself as the guardian of the family, and would have been content with his position without either gingerbread or socks.
The vegetables stretched in neat rows, and, to Robin’s mind, represented unlimited wealth. The season had been kind to her: rain had come just when it was needed, and everything had flourished amazingly in the rich virgin soil. Long lines of potatoes were in flower: peas, beans, turnips, and all their brethren made a heartsome sight; and there was a little corner Robin loved, where thyme, sage, marjoram and parsley lent their old-world sweetness. Not a weed was to be seen anywhere. Daily the gardener made her way, hoe in hand, up and down each row; and in face of this martial pilgrimage no weed dared lift its head. Robin declared that her motto was, “A hoe in time saves nine.”
Already she had preparations in train for disposing of her crop. Baroin boasted a good greengrocer’s shop, and Robin had made friends with its proprietress, who had agreed to take a weekly supply of vegetables from her as soon as they were ready. Eggs and chickens were to be a side-line. In a netted pen a dozen cockerels fattened in happy ignorance of the advance of Christmas, while three or four broods of fluffy chicks roamed the hillside beside their fussy mothers, and young ducklings swam gaily in the creek. Robin yarded them all carefully every evening, for there were many foxes in the bush, a terror to every country poultry-yard.
The months since the death of her uncle had been, for her mother and herself, a time of absolute happiness. They were busy, but never oppressed with work. The house was much too large for them, but most of the rooms had been shut up, after undergoing a rigorous spring-cleaning. They slept on the veranda, and took most of their meals there; the bathroom served them as dressing-room, so that housework was reduced to its lowest possible terms, since there was no dust and no one to make the place disorderly. Together they worked in the garden, kept everything spick-and-span, and made a joke of each hour’s toil as it came. There was time for play, too: they fished in the creek for trout and blackfish, and took long walks over the hills, where many a rabbit fell to Robin’s gun.
The peaceful, happy life had wrought a great change in Mrs. Hurst. She looked years younger already: there was a new light in her eyes, a new energy in her movements. Colour had returned to her white face, and wrinkles had vanished. Robin was desperately proud of her. “When I make you wear breeches like me and have your hair shingled,” she declared, “everyone will think you’re my young sister!” To which Mrs. Hurst responded that she preferred the dignity of age.
The bell rang just as Robin reached the end of her last row of peas, and she fled to answer it with a haste that proclaimed hunger. When, after washing her hands, she appeared on the veranda, Mrs. Hurst was waiting for her. Robin attacked her porridge and cream ravenously.
“Isn’t it a good thing you brought me up not to take sugar with porridge?” she remarked. “Sugar costs a lot of money, and we can’t possibly grow it ourselves. The girls at school used to think me perfectly mad when I said they turned their porridge into a pudding. Oh, I am hungry, Mummie, and the runner beans are up, and I got three weeds. Small weeds, but healthy. We can have radishes for tea to-night. More, please.”
Mrs. Hurst disentangled these mingled confidences with the calmness of long practice.
“My phlox seeds are up, too,” she said. “What wouldn’t come up, in weather like this? Finish the cream, darling: I don’t want any more. I’ve made the butter, and there will be three pounds to take down to the store. Bessy is behaving nobly.”
Robin let the thick yellow cream trickle slowly over her porridge.
“Yes, isn’t she? Mr. Merritt was a brick to let us graze Bessy and Roany in the creek paddock—poor dears, they’re so used to it that they would have hated to be the wrong side of the fence!”
“It means a great deal to us,” Mrs. Hurst remarked. “Mr. Merritt is very kind: he said he would use Roany occasionally, to pay for their grazing, but I don’t think he has had him in the plough three times.”
“No, and it would really be better for Roany if he did use him—Roany is getting disgracefully fat and lazy. I think he’d be frisky if it weren’t so much bother. What is the heavenly aroma of cooking, Mummie?—you haven’t been extravagant, have you?”
“Only potato-puffs,” said Mrs. Hurst, emerging from the kitchen with a covered dish. “You were up so early, Robin, and you really need a good breakfast.”
“I always have a good breakfast,” stated her daughter. “Catch me going without! But those puffs are awfully exciting, Mummie.” She gazed fondly at the crisp golden balls as they smoked on her plate. “I wish I could fry things like you. No, not like you—you know what I mean.”
“So you will, when you have a little more practice. You are doing very well as a cook. What are your plans for this morning?”
“I am going to finish painting the front fence. I thought one coat would be enough, but it would be a better job with two. Isn’t it a mercy Uncle Donald bought paint by the gallon? I’ve enough to do ever so much more. What are you going to do, Mummie?”
“Mend sheets—there is a pile waiting for me. I think you had better go to the store with the butter after lunch, Robin—if you take your gun you may get some rabbits, coming home.”
“That’s a good idea,” agreed Robin. “Won’t you come, too?”
“No, not to-day—I want to get all the mending out of the way when once I begin it. Replacing house-linen will be an expensive matter: we can’t afford to let things go at all.” A faint line appeared between her brows.
“Now, you’re worrying about money again, Mummie. And you promised you wouldn’t.”
“I do try not to worry,” said her mother. “Now and then I can’t help it, especially when I wake up at night. If I could only get a little reserve in the bank, Robin—something against a rainy day.”
“But the rainy day may never come.”
“It’s far less likely to come if one has something in the bank. I don’t know why, but it is so. We did save a little, and then my horrible dentist’s bill ate it all up. The idea of illness makes me afraid—supposing I fell ill, and you all alone here, without money!”
“You—you aren’t feeling ill, Mother?” demanded Robin, anxiously.
“No—not a bit. But it may come.” She laughed at the worried face. “I really didn’t mean to talk like this; but I had a wakeful night, and all sorts of bogies came and sat on my pillow. I would do anything if I could earn some money—something to put by.”
“I don’t see how we can do more than we’re doing,” Robin said, knitting her brows. “Remember, the vegetable money will begin to come in soon, and I’ve quite a lot of rabbit skins, already. Oh, I’m sure we’ll manage quite well, darling!” She went to her mother, putting her lips to her hair. “If you begin to worry, things will be sure to go wrong. And we’re so happy!”
“Yes, indeed we are,” said her mother, holding her closely for a moment. “Well, I will try to scare the bogies away from my pillow; and after all, there is nothing like happiness for that. Come and help me to clear up the kitchen—we’re being disgracefully idle.”
Her sewing-machine was humming steadily when Robin passed the window an hour later—a truly remarkable figure in blue denim overalls that had belonged to the late Mr. Donald Hurst. They came to her insteps, ending in an artistic fringe where superfluous length had been ruthlessly shorn. She wore an old felt hat which had also been the property of her uncle. It was an outfit reserved for painting; many white splashes testified to the fact that its use was no unnecessary precaution. She carried a can of paint and a large brush, and sang cheerfully as she went. The strains of “Why Did I Kiss That Girl?” mingled with the chatter of cockatoos in the tree-tops.
Mrs. Hurst looked, and smiled, and sighed. There was no doubt that Robin asked nothing better than her present existence. She seemed to have put away all the childish irresponsibility that had made her school career a series of mad pranks, throwing herself into her unaccustomed work with whole-hearted vigour and complete happiness. But it was more a boy’s life than a girl’s—not the life that Mrs. Hurst had longed to give her. And there was no prospect of anything better. Money anxieties were not the only bogies that had disturbed the mother’s pillow in the night.
Robin was blissfully unconscious of any troubling thoughts. She painted all the morning, using her brush with a fine slap-dash effect that bespattered her overalls even more generously. The spirit of the late Mr. Hurst might have writhed to see the lavishness with which his paint was used. The job was nearly done when Mrs. Hurst came out to warn her that dinner was almost ready. The fence gleamed white against the deep green of the garden, and Robin was by the gate, marking a board “Wet Paint” in letters large enough to warn the most unwary trespasser.
“Just done,” she said, gaily. “Doesn’t it look scumptious, Mother? I think I’ll paint the side-fences, too: it would give the place an almost regal effect, don’t you think?”
“It’s always the way,” Mrs. Hurst said, shaking her head with affected gloom. “I have known many other cases.”
“Cases of what?”
“Paint-fever. You might call it paintitis. They’re very painful.”
“Did you say paint-ful?”
“Agonizing was what I said, I think. The patient begins by painting a curtain-rod, or a book-rack, and that leads to the kitchen-chairs, and then to a garden-fence. After that, she can’t stop. Everything she sees presents itself in a new light—something to be painted. The worst cases go on to decorate the Jersey cow, and the horse, and the pigs. They brighten a property very much, but they’re expensive!”
“This case has already painted her uncle’s pants, and she’ll paint the house red if she doesn’t soon get dinner!” laughed Robin. “Come home—it’s horrid of you to jeer at my artistic instincts, just as they’re developing!”
“It was indeed, and I think the fence is beautiful,” said her mother. “And yes, I do believe it would look better if it were done all round. Robin, our little home is beginning to do us credit!”
“Isn’t it?” agreed Robin, looking affectionately at the white cottage nestling in its girdle of blossoming garden. “What a pity it is we can’t fill it up with poor youngsters who never see anything but streets. How I do hate streets! Tell you what, Mummie, when I find a gold-mine in the hills——”
“Whenyou do!”
“Why, of course I’m going to—the kind all stiff with nuggets, like plums in a pudding! Then we’ll get little convalescents from the Children’s Hospital and put them in all the empty rooms. Plenty of blankets, aren’t there?”
“Plenty—not that that need trouble you when you have the plum-pudding gold-mine!” said her mother laughing.
“No, of course—I forgot that. Well, I’ll buy eiderdown quilts. And we’ll give them all a glorious time. Isn’t it a jolly idea, Mummie! I have heaps of ideas like that while I’m working, and even if they never come to pass I’ll have had all the fun of planning them. They taught me at school that ‘to travel hopefully was a better thing than to arrive,’ or something like that. Well, I haven’t done much arriving yet, but there’s a lot of fun in travelling hopefully!”
Mrs. Hurst looked at the eager, merry face.
“You are certainly a hopeful traveller for one’s journey-mate,” she said. “And now, I am going to give orders, for once. I have sat still almost all the morning, and need exercise, whereas you have worked since sunrise without a break—and that is not good for young muscles. You will therefore take a book out to your bed on the veranda and lie down for at least two hours——”
“And leave you to wash up! Not if I know it!”
“To please me, Robin.”
They smiled at each other.
“But I have to go to the store with the butter——”
“Half-past three or four o’clock will be quite time enough for that. You know quite well that you won’t get rabbits early in the afternoon. Run away and get your boots off; I shall begin to be worried if you are not lying down in five minutes.”
Robin stood up, conscious that her shoulders ached badly.
“Well, I’ll go, because you are mean enough to appeal to my better nature,” she said, laughing. “But lie down, yourself, for a bit, Mummie, darling—you won’t work at that old machine all day?”
“Very well—I promise, if you will do as you are told.” She began to gather plates and dishes swiftly, and Robin went with an unwilling step. But when her mother came softly to the veranda, half an hour later, her book had fallen beside the bed, and Robin lay with her cheek upon her hand, fast asleep.