"It would have happened quickly," he said. "They might not have had any warning. Just a sudden commotion ... inside the crater... ."

"Grumbling," I cried hysterically. "It was the Grumbling Giant. We laughed at it ... laughed. Oh, it was evil ... and we laughed... ."

"My dear Miss Mateland, it is no use going over it," he said. "I doubt they would have suffered. It would all have been too quick."

"All over ..." I said. "Years of hopes and dreams ... and all over."

"Let me take you back to the ship," he said. "We'll go back to Sydney and then you can make plans."

"Plans?" I murmured blankly. "Plans?"

I hadn't thought of the future until then. But of course I had to go on living.

I did not want to think of the future. I did not want to think of living without them. I only wanted to know how it happened. I wanted to think of them in their last moments. My mother, best loved of all, Miss Anabel who had brought such happiness to a little girl in a loveless cottage all those years ago, Miss Anabel with the gayest laughter I had ever heard ... and she was gone. I had known what it meant to be dearly loved and I had loved in return. And now ... and now ...

I could not imagine a world without her.

"Tell me ... tell me how it happened," I cried again.

"Well, it was a volcanic eruption. We thought it was extinct. It hadn't erupted for three hundred years. It only sent out dribbles now and then."

"It grumbled," I said. "It grumbled and grumbled. It was the Grumbling Giant. That's what they called it."

"I know the natives were superstitious about it. They're always superstitious about anything they don't understand. There would have been total darkness. The sea would have been disturbed. You see it has receded from the shores. There are lots of marine animals lying about. There would be flashes of lightning and the lava would start spurting out of the crater and covering the island."

"Hot glowing lava ..."

"And the volcanic dust would make the paste. The air would be full of steam. But you are distressing yourself, Miss Mateland. Come, I'm taking you back to the ship. We ought to get away quickly. I just had to make sure there was nothing I could do. Nobody survived. You can see that. Come along now."

"I want to stay," I cried irrationally. "It's my home."

"No more," he said sadly. "Come along. We have to get back. It could be dangerous here. What if it erupted again?"

He took me firmly by the arm and put me into the small boat.

We went back to the ship.

I knew I should never forget the sight of the island ... smoldering, destroyed. The hospital ... the plantation ... all the dreams ... everything that meant anything to me ... all gone.

I must have been in a sort of daze. The captain took me to the hotel. He was a very kind man and I shall always remember his sympathy with gratitude.

Everyone was kind to me, as people seem to be when there is a major disaster. The manager of the hotel gave me my old room and left me alone there. I wanted to be alone.

I stayed there for two days—not eating, just lying on my bed. The only relief was when I slept, which I did now and then very fitfully from sheer exhaustion. Then there would follow the awakening, which was terrible because then the reality would come flooding back.

At the end of two days I awoke from my stupor. Mrs. Halmer came in from the property, for news of what had happened had reached her. She said I must go back with her. I needed to recover from this terrible shock.

I thought about it; I was not sure whether I wanted to go or not. Hers would be a house of mourning too, for her son Philip was one of the victims.

She said we would share our grief, that we would comfort each other.

When she saw that I was still too bemused to make a decision she said she would come back in a week and in the meantime if I wanted to come there would be a welcome for me at any time.

"You'll be able to think about what you are going to do," she said. "We'll work it out together. It'll be quiet on the property. No one will worry you."

When she had gone it was as though she had drawn back the curtain which had shut me in with my misery.

What was I going to do? If I were to go on living I had to have a life to lead. My family and my home were lost to me. Where would I go? What should I do?

I tried to push these questions aside.

I don't care, I kept saying to myself. I don't care what becomes of me.

That was silly. I was here. I was alive. I had to go on living.

How?

With a rush of apprehension I remembered that I was here in the hotel. I had a little money which I had brought with me for my trip but that would not last long.

I was penniless ... almost. My father had put everything into the hospital and the plantation. They were to be my inheritance.

I could remember my mother's saying: "Your father has put all he has into the hospital and the plantation. It will be yours one day, Suewellyn."

The memory of her voice and those beautiful blue eyes all concern for me was too much to bear. I buried my face in my pillow.

"I don't care. I don't care what becomes of me," I muttered.

Then I seemed to hear her voice again: "That's silly, darling. You've got to go on living. You've got to find some way. It's not like you to give up. We're not that sort of people. Your father ... me ... you. When life is cruel we just stand firm against it We fight back, Suewellyn."

She was right. I would have to go on. I would have to fight my way out of this morass of grief and misery. I had to go on living.

I had to have money, so I should have to work. What could I do? What did people in my position do? I had had a good education. My mother had been an excellent governess. I could do something.

I didn't want to. I wanted to take the ship back to Vulcan Island and go up the mountain to the crater and tell the Grumbling Giant to kill me as he had killed them.

I could almost feel my mother's hands stroking my hair. "Suewellyn, you're a Mateland. Matelands never give up."

Yes, I was a Mateland. I thought of my ancestors in the picture gallery. I had always wanted to go to the castle. Even now I could feel that. I was astonished. I had a faint interest in life. I must have, for there was a desire in me to see the castle.

Then I remembered the mail I had collected for Susannah. It was in my bag. What should I do with it now? Take it back to Roston, Evans? Explain that I had pretended to be Susannah? I was in no mood to do that.

I took out the letters and turned them over in my hands. It was such a relief not to be thinking of that devastated island for a few moments.

I don't know when the impulse came to me. It was like clutching at a life line. I had to stop thinking of my parents and Philip. I had to do something which absorbed me to such an extent that I stopped torturing myself.

I opened the letter, telling myself that Susannah was dead now and I should know something of her affairs.

It was an official-looking letter and it was from a solicitor in Mateland, the Carruthers, Gentle whom Mr. Roston had mentioned.

Dear Miss Mateland [I read],

We have to inform you of the sudden death of Mr. Esmond Mateland which occurred on Thursday last. According to your grandfather's will, Mateland Castle with its estates now passes to you as the heir named by your grandfather in the event of your cousin's death without issue. Will you please get in touch with us as soon as possible? We shall be in communication with Messrs. Roston, Evans and Company to whom we are sending this letter. On receipt of it perhaps you will call at their offices in 33 Hunter Street, Sydney.

Yours truly,

for Carruthers, Gentle Ltd.

There was a signature which I could not quite decipher.

I sat back. So Susannah was now the owner of the castle. She had intended to be and had planned to marry her cousin Esmond Mateland for that reason. Now Esmond was dead and Susannah had the castle ... or would have had she been alive. To whom did the castle belong now?

I think it was at that moment that the idea came into my head. It was so wild, so preposterous that I did not at first receive it. But it was there like a seed, germinating, ready to spring forth and strangle my scruples.

I must have been in a strange mood, for it would not have occurred to me a few weeks earlier to open letters not addressed to me.

I picked up the other letter. It was in a rather thin sloping hand. Before I could stop myself I had slit the envelope.

Dear Susannah [I read],

You will have heard the terrible news. As you can guess, I am desolate. He was so well such a short time ago. The doctors are baffled. You can imagine how it is with me. I am prostrate with grief. You must come home at once. I know that you are on the other side of the world and that it will take time. But please leave at once. It seems so long since we have seen you, for, remember, you were away at school that year in France at that finishing place, and then home so briefly before you went away again ... to Australia. I shall hardly know what you look like soon. It has been so long.

I know how you will be feeling. Your sufferings will be as mine. After all you were the girl he was going to marry and I his mother. Who could be closer than that? He had been threatening to come out to Australia to bring you back. Of course he did spend all that time in Paris when you were there. Things are chaotic here. Carruthers, Gentle say you must come, for only when you are back can everything be settled. You are the mistress of Mateland now. Oh dear, what tragedies beset our family. Esmond to die like that ... so young. And his father ... I have had my share of trouble. My eyes, of course, do not improve. It is a gradual process, but I am warned that in five years I shall be blind.