MERRI CREEK
IT was 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.”