THE LAST
“MOTHER, are you there?”
“Yes, dear heart. Don’t try to move.”
“I can’t see you.”
“No—and I cannot see you, Robin. We are both blind, from the smoke. But
it will soon pass.”
“Where am I?”
“You are in your own room, dear.”
Memory was coming back to Robin—and with memory, fear.
“Mother—the fire! Is the house safe?”
“Quite safe—the fire has gone. It missed the house, Robin—nothing is
burned, except the grass. The wind changed in the night, and everything
is safe now.”
Robin wrinkled her brow under the wet bandage that hid her eyes.
“I can’t remember,” she said. “We were in the creek, weren’t we? Oh, and
I ran to let Roany out, and the fire came—and I saw Polly running, and
I knew she shouldn’t run. Is she all right, Mother?”
Mrs. Hurst was silent for a moment.
When her voice came, it was trembling.
“Yes—Polly is quite all right, now,” she said. But Robin had caught the
hesitation and the tone that quivered. She felt blindly for her mother’s
hand.
“You’re not telling me something,” she said—and found that her own
voice was beyond her control. “I—I wish I could see you. Tell me,
Mother. Is there something wrong?”
Mrs. Hurst found the groping hand and held it tightly.
“There will never be anything wrong for Polly again,” she said. “She
gave her life for you, my darling. No—not burned—” she shivered at the
horror in Robin’s cry. “She was scarcely scorched—her wet clothes and
hat saved that. She flung a wet blanket over you, when you fell, and
went down herself: the fire was over you both in the flash of a moment,
thanks to the wind. You were only unconscious, when we got to you. But
Polly—” her voice broke. “The doctor says that her heart just stopped.”
“Oh, Mother—Mother!” Robin whispered.
“The doctor thinks she could have felt nothing from the moment that she
fell.” Mrs. Hurst said, holding her closely. “Don’t cry, Robin.”
“She was smiling when she ran to me—I can see her face now!” Robin
said, after a choked minute.
“She was smiling when we found her, like a happy child. No one could
think that she had felt either pain or terror. We believe that she died
in triumph, because she knew she had saved you: and the doctor says we
ought to think that it is best for her, Robin.”
“And she has got Jim again,” whispered Robin.
“Yes—and they have found gold together.”
Little by little the horror of Black Sunday came to be known; in that
wild and scattered district it was impossible at once to discover the
full extent of the havoc the fires had wrought. Polly’s was not the only
one whose life had gone out as a sacrifice. There were men who had been
killed by falling trees: who had died fighting for their homes: wives
who had perished battling beside their husbands, and whole families whom
the fire had trapped in the forest. There were communities in which
every living soul was blind from smoke. Hundreds were homeless and
penniless; townships were blotted out, farm-houses reduced to a heap of
ashes and twisted iron. Starving stock roamed the blackened country,
seeking vainly for food. In the towns where they could gather, the
refugees huddled, clutching the few poor possessions they had been able
to save—dazed and bewildered, while the doctors worked day and night,
tending their burns, and kindly homes gathered in the sick who had
fallen by the way.
And then, with the spreading of the news, came the swift response of the
country. After the first gasp of horror the rush of help followed. Women
ransacked their homes to send clothing, linen, blankets; children gave
their toys for the children who had lost their all: the tide of money
poured into the coffers of the relief funds until it mounted day by day
in a wave of gold. Men who were slow to give in ordinary circumstances
gave gladly now. The whole world heard the pitiful story, and shouted
its sympathy: there were offers of help from every State, and from far
beyond Australia. From the King’s whole-hearted message of grief to the
quick help of the Chinese in Victoria, there was no heart that was not
wrung by the story of the fires. The sufferers, dazed and homeless, as
they squared their shoulders to begin anew could feel that, at least,
their country stood behind them to help.
In the neighbourhood of Hill Farm many houses had escaped, the fury of
the gale having swept the flames along too swiftly to let them fasten on
homes where gardens were green or where fire-breaks had been made and
undergrowth cleared. Merritt’s farm was safe, and O’Rourke’s, and
Sanders’: and to the joy of everyone, Danny appeared, badly burned, but
safe, having ridden through five miles of fire in time to rescue his
brother. Merri Creek village had been reduced to a heap of ashes, and
for miles the new railway showed nothing but blackened and twisted
rails; but no lives had been lost, and no one despaired. In the hearts
of everyone was the same quiet determination—to build up all that had
been lost.
Dr. and Mrs. Lane appeared on the third day and took firm possession of
Mrs. Hurst and Robin, carrying them bodily off to Melbourne. Mrs. Hurst
did not resist. She knew that the terror of Black Sunday, and the shock
of Polly’s death would cling to Robin until her full strength returned;
while she herself longed to be out of sight of the blackened hills and
valleys, with their fearful memories. Only one consideration held
her—Mrs. Ryan, who went about whatever work she could find to do, or
tended her children, in tight-lipped silence. No word had come from the
lonely sawmill she had left in the forest. It was almost beyond hope
that any good news could ever come.
But on the fourth day, sitting on the veranda, she glanced up to see two
gaunt and ragged men walking up the hill: and at the same moment a dish
clattered to the floor in the kitchen, and Mrs. Ryan, clutching the
baby, fled past her, racing down the blackened slope; with Micky and Joe
at her heels, yelping joyfully. Big Mick Ryan gathered his family into
his arms.
“You were awful good to ’em, Missus,” he told Mrs. Hurst, a little
later.
“Good?” she said: and laughed. “We were all in the same box: it was a
comfort to be able to help. But I’m so sorry your mill has gone!”
“Oh—darn the ol’ mill!” said little Mrs. Ryan.
• • • • • •
[_From a letter from Robin Hurst, Hill Farm, to Barry Lane, Melbourne._]
“We had a good journey back, though it wasn’t half as
interesting in the train as it was in the car. The Ryans had all
the place in beautiful order. They are still here, but the
Relief Committee is going to fix them up with a new sawmill
soon, and they say they will be just as well-off as they were
before the fire. I don’t know how well-off that was, but it
seems to satisfy them. The boys will talk now, and the baby is
beautiful. So are Roany and Bessy and the calf.
“Everyone asks after you, and Danny came over and showed me your
gun. Why didn’t you ever tell me that you gave it to him after
the fire? He is terribly proud of it, and expects to make a
large fortune out of rabbit-skins.
“All the country is green again, except for the blackened trees.
They look dreadful, but everyone is so glad to be alive that
nobody worries. And lots of them will sprout out—the trees, I
mean, not the people.
“The Merritts say that Mother and I are quite fat, so that shows
what a splendid time you gave us in Town. I always hated Town
until this time, but now I love it, and I’m ever so glad Mrs.
Lane has asked me to go again some day. The worst part of it is
that one can’t go about there in breeches and a shirt; but I
suppose everything has to have its drawbacks.
“Now I have a perfectly wonderful piece of news, which I left to
the last on purpose, because it’s so exciting. After you wrote
to Mr. Merritt and told him the sad story of the gelignited pig
(I had to pause while I looked up gelignite—I thought it began
with a j)—he went down one day and had a look at the place
where we blasted the rock, just out of curiosity. You know where
the big stone split off from the face of the hill—I said the
rock looked pretty, and you said that was just what a girl would
say. Well, it was pretty, Mr. Barry, and it is pretty still. And
it has every right to be pretty, because it’s marble!
“Mr. Merritt knew a good bit about marble, because he used to
work in a quarry, and he hadn’t any doubt: but rather than
excite our hopes he said nothing, but he sent a lot of samples
to Melbourne and had them examined. And the report was better
than he had hoped it would be. And then he got an expert down, a
man he could trust, to look into the matter, keeping it all very
quiet. But the expert says there is no doubt at all, and that it
will probably be a most valuable quarry, and bring us in heaps
of money. So we won’t have to look three times at a penny next
time we want to spend it.
“I have always wondered what I would do if I had a lot of money,
and now that there seems a chance of it, I really don’t know. I
want a car, of course, and some really topping horses, though
Mother won’t promise that we’ll ever get them. But best of all
is knowing that Mother won’t look worried any more. And next
best is the thought that I shan’t have to go away from Hill Farm
and learn shorthand and typing. How dreadful that prospect was
no one could ever know.
“Just fancy if old Uncle Donald had known that wealth was shut
up in one of his hills! And if he could have guessed that the
red-haired niece he couldn’t stand would go out with a rude
little boy from Melbourne and use his own old gelignite to find
it! But he’d never have had any fun with it, and I’m sure we’ll
have lots. We’re going to begin by getting some poor little
youngsters from Melbourne, who have been sick, and have only
slum-homes to go back to, when they leave hospital. I’m sure
they will like it. But I’ll make quite certain they don’t find
any gelignite!
“Mr. Merritt says that he thinks his pig was very lucky to die
when it did. So do I. But he is ever so pleased with the two
little pure-bred Berkshires you sent him. I have offered him the
first slab of marble as a suitable monument for the pig we slew.
You might think up a poetical inscription.
“And don’t forget to come next summer, Barry, because, even with
the marble quarry and all the excitement, it’s dull without you.
“Yours truly,
“ROBIN.”
The Eagle Press Ltd., Allen St., Waterloo
TRANSCRIBER NOTES
Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected. Where multiple
spellings occur, majority use has been employed.
Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious printer errors
occur.
Some illustrations were moved to facilitate page layout.