They got into mischief, too, sometimes, and played pranks which called for intervention on the part of Mrs. Hurst; it was not to be expected that the “red-headed streak” in Robin would remain dormant with a companion as light-hearted as herself. Things that should have been done were forgotten, and there had been one or two occasions when the mother had been angry—such as the night when they had slipped out ’possum-hunting at midnight, had lost themselves in the gullies, and had not managed to get home until long after breakfast-time: when they arrived, penitent, but with an irrepressible air of having had a good time. But it was all straightforward mischief; and even when Mrs. Hurst was annoyed, it was with a half-hidden sense of relief that Robin was not growing old too soon. There had been something almost unnatural in the Robin who had worked early and late, had never forgotten anything that she should remember, and had been quite content to adapt her life to her mother’s standpoints. After all, she was only a child, still; and Mrs. Hurst was one of those who believe that childhood cannot always sit up and behave prettily, if it is to develop on the right lines. She had sorrowed because Robin seemed likely to have none of the ordinary irresponsible joy of life. Unquestionably, she was arriving at a good deal in Barry’s society.
Then, too, it would not last. Barry must soon go, and then there would be nothing for Robin but to slip into the old routine, finding most of her enjoyment in work about the place. Then, probably, the western half of the fence would receive a seemly coat of paint, and Hill Farm would no longer look lop-sided; hours for meals would become splendidly regular, the garden would be weeded, and the milk-bucket be polished again with monkey-soap until it resembled silver. There would be no more pranks and mischief: no gay shouts echoing over the hills. “And I shall wish all the time that she had a playmate again,” Mrs. Hurst admitted to herself.
There was another inmate now at Hill Farm—the forlorn little widow of poor “Jim,” who had ended his ineffectual life in the camp by the Falls. Polly had been nursed back to health in the hospital in Baroin; but with physical health full mental balance had not returned, and she would probably go through life gentle and uncomplaining, but never with complete realization of all that had happened to her. Public sympathy had been excited over her case: a subscription for her benefit had resulted in a fairly large sum, and kindly women had united in supplying her with an outfit of clothes. She did not know that her Jim was dead: that was something the hurt mind failed to grasp. He was away, she told people: gone away prospecting into the hills—he would be back for her as soon as he found gold. She did not seem to worry about Jim. But from the moment she had regained consciousness in the hospital she had begged for Robin.
She did not, of course, know who Robin was—did not even know her name, or why she wanted her. “The red-haired one,” she entreated, again and again, until the Baroin doctor, in despair, had motored out to Hill Farm and brought Robin to the hospital—when immediately the poor thing was content. Probably it was because Robin had been the one who had run to meet her at the camp: the first person who had brought a ray of encouragement to her hopeless misery. She remembered how the girl had fed her with a spoon; she told the story again and again to the nurses. When Robin went away she was restless and uneasy, asking for her continually. The matter had been finally settled by the Benevolent Society, which had agreed with Mrs. Hurst to take charge of her for a small weekly payment: and so Polly had come for three months to Hill Farm, where she pottered happily all day at small tasks, perfectly content if Robin now and then spared her a cheery word, and always watching for a chance to do her some small service. She liked Mrs. Hurst, and was always gentle and docile with her. But Robin was the sun of her existence.
Cool weather had ended with Christmas. For over a month no rain had fallen, and the paddocks had dried up rapidly, changing from green to yellow within a few days. All the creeks were shrinking, with the exception of Merri Creek, which, fed from its mysterious source above the Falls, had never been known to fail: the others were mere chains of holes, so that there was no water in some of David Merritt’s paddocks. It was a hard season for a district that depended mainly on dairying. The milk-yield began to fall off, so that the cheques from the butter-factory dwindled even as the water dwindled in the creeks: the gardens suffered, and the farmers whose houses were not well equipped with tanks were already carting water for their households—a strenuous task in country so hilly and rough.
Here and there, fires broke out during the last week of January: but settlers were fully alive to the risk they ran, and every outbreak had been fought and beaten before it could spread. Back in the ranges, however, fires were burning: the men of the district watched them anxiously, with grim predictions of what might happen should strong winds bring the blaze down towards the valleys. There were deep-voiced threats against any man who should dare to burn off his cut scrub, with the whole country as dry as tinder and dead grass as thick as a crop in every paddock. “If a fire does come our way,” David Merritt said, “there’ll be no earthly use in fighting it. It’ll be a case of make for the nearest hole in the creek, and be thankful if you get out of it alive!”
“But they always talk like that,” one farmer’s wife said to Mrs. Hurst. “There’ve been other years as dry, with the grass as thick: but even if a fire started they always manage to stop it. And most prob’ly rain’ll came soon.” That was the comforting belief: that rain would come soon. But the sun sank each evening in a sky of angry red; and day after day of breathless heat succeeded nights that, for Gippsland, were extraordinarily hot: Gippsland being a place where hot nights are almost unknown. And still rain seemed as far off as ever.
The afternoon when Barry had been so uncomfortably full of energy was a stifling one: and though his suggestion of a bathe in the creek was enticing, Robin viewed with no pleasure the prospect of the walk across the paddock. However, since he had rushed off to put on the kettle for tea, she felt that she could no longer lie down: and as the bed was hot and her book one that she had read twice before, she was able to be the more philosophic about getting up. She went out to the kitchen to find Barry sitting on the table discoursing to Polly, who greeted her with a delighted smile.
“Hullo, Miss Robin. Isn’t he a funny boy?”
“Rather!” said Robin. “What has he been doing now, Polly?”