Читать книгу Looranna - An Australian Story - M. A. McCarter - Страница 4

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"GRACE, my dear, I think that you acted unwisely, very unwisely, in leaving 'Looranna,' when old Lawyer Graham entreated you to remain, and something tells me that he had some ulterior motive for so urging."

The speaker is Mrs. Carrington, a dignified, elderly lady, who in her youth must have been very beautiful, for even now, after the ravages of time, her face bears strong traces of early loveliness. Over her kind features one can easily discern the imprint of a deep and recent sorrow. She is addressing her niece, Grace Moore, a tall, beautiful girl, who is seated on a low stool by her side. The girl does not answer, but remains silent and thoughtful.

Again the elderly lady remarks: "It was very unwise." And then, as if arguing some point in doubt, she continues: "I wonder why Lawyer Graham so urged you to remain at 'Looranna,' and I wonder if he is an honest man."

As she speaks, Mrs. Carrington looks questioningly and anxiously at her niece, as if expecting from her some explanation, some solution.

"Oh, auntie dear," exclaims Grace, impatiently, "do not allow our sorrow to make you uncharitable; chase even the shadow of suspicion from your mind. Old Lawyer Graham was my father's trusted and tried friend. He has known me since I was a tiny child—an infant, I may say. Oh, auntie dear," and Grace Moore's face beams with the beauteous light of faith and trust as she concludes, with great emphasis, "dear old Lawyer Graham is a good and an honest man."

The light of faith and hope which shines on the girl's face is not reflected in that of Mrs. Carrington's. Doubt still darkens her countenance as she says, dejectedly:

"Yes, yes, Grace; but remember that Mr. Graham is a lawyer, and—"

"Oh, surely, auntie," interrupts Grace, half indignantly, "even a lawyer can be an honest man."

"Of course," asserts the aunt, "every man can be honest if he so chooses; but what seemed strange to me was that Mr. Graham urged you to remain at 'Looranna' when—"

"He urged, auntie, because he pitied us," Grace says, as if she is determined not to allow her faith in the old lawyer to be shaken.

"Why, then," asks Mrs. Carrington, "did you persist in coming away?"

"Because," the girl answers, promptly, "I would not stay anywhere on sufferance. Could you not see how reluctant, how embarrassed, Mr. Graham was?"

"I noticed how evasive he was. I noticed everything, and that is why I doubt, why I suspect."

For a second the old lady seems lost in the arguing of something in her mind, then turns to her niece with a look of decision.

"Grace," she says, "tell me this, my girl. Have you had a line, a word, from Jack Mannering? Has he, too, failed?"

A deep blush overspreads the girl's lovely face, and a pained look saddens the kind eyes. She turns away in silence, and Mrs. Carrington knows that Grace has not had a line, not a word, from her lover. She sighs sorrowfully as she whispers, "No wonder I doubt, no wonder I am suspicious."

"Dear auntie," Grace exclaims, as she gently places her soft young arms caressingly around her kinswoman's neck—"let doubt die. Doubt is a cruel, killing spirit. Doubt withers that choice, beautiful blossom of faith which should always glow and flourish in the heart. Suspicion darkens the glorious lamp of trust, which should always burn brightly and cheerfully in our souls. Without faith and trust, life would be dark and cheerless. Oh, dear auntie," and Grace looks imploringly at her aunt as she whispers, "chase suspicion and doubt away; let trust live ever with us; let us fondle and nourish faith in our hearts, and there let it flourish to cheer and brighten our way."

Mrs. Carrington looks proudly and fondly at her niece, but still there are indications in her face that tell she is not wholly satisfied.

"Why, then," she asks, "did you not remain at 'Looranna' until something was arranged, as Mr. Graham wanted you to do?"

Grace's clinging arms fall, and, rising to her feet, a proud, determined light beams from her eyes, and her musical voice is firm and ringing as she says: "How could I remain at 'Looranna?' I could not remain anywhere on sufferance. Remember, auntie, always remember, that I am an Australian girl."

"Yes, Grace, and you have all that pride, all that confidence, all that ambition, and all the freedom of the Australian race. I pray God that that pride, that confidence, that ambition and freedom will guide you safely along. I will argue no further with you. Grace, forgive me what I say, for sometimes I do not know what I am saying. My heart is so sad, so very sad, for your sake."

"Auntie, dear, do not take our losses so much to heart. 'Looranna' is gone, and all is gone; but what of that? It had to be; to save my father's name I had to let them all go. Though the present be dark, and the outlook a gloomy one, let me face it, as my father's daughter should, with a clear conscience, a healthy body, and a brave heart. You know I am bound to succeed, and then we shall be independent." And as Grace Moore speaks she again places her strong young arms around her dearly-loved relative.

"I know, Grace dear, that you are brave, and wish to meet with a courageous heart the great difficulties which just now beset us; but still, my dear girl, I cannot help feeling sad, for it is a great blow—ay, a cruel blow!" And the kind old face of Mrs. Carrington looks worn and pale with anxiety, and her sixty years of life seem to weigh with unusual heaviness on her to-day as she sits in the one old arm-chair in the front room of a small, rented, furnished house.

Her crape-draped figure bends forward, and for a moment there is a disconsolate, hard look in her kind eyes as again she says: "Grace, my dear niece, indeed this is a cruel blow to us both!"

"Yes, auntie," and there is a note of consolation in Grace's voice as she speaks—"yes, it is a blow, and, as you say, a cruel one. But we must remember that everything might have been much worse. What is the loss of 'Looranna' and all, auntie, that you should fret so much? Do not fear for my sake, and really I think, as things are, that we should be very thankful to Almighty God for blessing us with the greatest of all earthly blessings, good health. I am strong, and I can work; and you, auntie—well, you know, this is a nice, comfortable little cottage," and Grace smiles encouragingly as she looks round the little room, "and when I am away you can occupy yourself by making some of that fine Irish lace for which you were so famous when you did it for pastime sake; and little Molly Casey can come and stay with you—it will keep you from thinking of the past." As the girl speaks, she, too, thinks of the past, and for a moment the shadow of a shadow again creeps into her bright eyes; but, dashing aside the intruding and unwelcome thought, "I must not let auntie see. I must not let her see even the reflection of a shadow on my face," and she turns and occupies herself for a second or two arranging some flowers in a vase, till the shadow passes from her fair face.

Mrs. Carrington will not be soothed, and she shakes her head dejectedly. "Grace, darling," she whispers, "you do not know the world that you are about to enter, and must enter, and I—"

"Oh, but, auntie, I'll soon find out the world. I am strong." And as Grace speaks she looks strong. There is no sign of the shadow now in her lovely, grey eyes, and her rosy cheeks are dimpled and beaming with a healthy glow. She had spent years of her childhood on "Looranna," her father's station, a large run in the interior of New South Wales, where the acreage runs into square miles. There she learned to take a fence with the best horsemen on the run, and many a day had she spent in the saddle, accompanied by her father, rounding up the cattle with the stockmen. She had been educated in one of the first colleges in the city, where she had acquired all the culture, education, and polish of a refined lady. The wholesome, untrammelled freedom of country life away back on "Looranna," amongst the giant trees, listening to the songs of the wild birds, gladdened by the sight of the field flowers as they bloom in their beauty under the warm rays of Australia's life-giving sun, the bleating of the sheep and the lowing of the cattle were as music to the daughter of Gerald Moore, whilst the chase of the hare or the hunt of the kangaroo were sport which brought the glow of health to her face and developed her muscular strength—such strength and physical beauty as can seldom be attained by women wholly reared in the city.

Grace is tall, but she seems to grow taller as she proudly tosses her pretty head, as if in defiance of all who would say that she could not work, or that she would fear the, to her, unknown and untrodden way before her.

"Ah, my dear Grace," says the old lady, "you are a brave girl! You are like your father, but still a girl—a young lady, I should say—and one who has been reared in the kind lap of refinement and luxury. You have never before known what it is to toil for bread. All your life, Grace dear, you have been served, and now you have to serve. Oh, it almost breaks my poor old heart!" A sob escapes Mrs. Carrington as she bows her head in painful thought.

A quiver passes over the girl's face, and a tear dims her eyes, but the aunt does not see it.

"I always thought, Grace," Mrs. Carrington continues, "that my brother would have secured you against such disaster. Why ever did he so speculate? He was always venturing! Oh, why did he invest so much? I cannot understand how some men will risk everything, and forget those depending upon them," and Mrs. Carrington angrily tosses aside the cushion, as if she must in some way show her indignation. "I cannot have patience with such men as your father! He told me that he had made your future secure, that 'Looranna' was yours."

"Oh, hush, auntie, dear! Do not say another word about dear old dad. I know how dearly you loved him. You know very well, auntie, that it was men like dad who made this Australian nation. Men like dad came here with but little; they worked hard, and they made fortunes. They gathered the gold from the richly-stored bosom of this, the world's greatest goldfield, from which so much of the precious metal has been gathered, and where still lies, snugly hidden, sufficient to buy kingdoms. They gathered the wool and the wheat from off the well-nourished, vast acreage of the squatters' runs, and such men as dad did not hoard their money and fly from the land which gave them their wealth, as many cowards did, for the sake of empty titles, pomp and vanity, which their gold could buy abroad in other lands."

"Yes, yes," murmurs Mrs. Carrington, reflectively, "your father stayed here, as many of the old pioneers have done."

"Yes, auntie," replies Grace, proudly, "the vast wealth that dad won was spent where he had won it—in this fair, sunny Australian clime; in the building up of a great nation—a nation that will yet rise up and be the brightest and most valuable jewel in the circle which binds the British Empire. The dazzling brilliancy of the light sent forth from this Australian jewel will shine over all the earth, and that radiance will be as a guiding star to lead all the white races of the earth on their way to one united white fold—a white fold pure and clean from any coloured lines. Oh, auntie, I am so proud to belong to a nation who have the courage to demand, to insist, upon a White Australia; and, auntie, I am glad that dad's money went in helping to build that nation!"

Over Mrs. Carrington's face there is a new light; a new resolve seems to have entered her soul; she seems to grow young as she fondly gazes at her brave young niece. "My girl, my darling Grace," she says, "you are a true daughter of Australia! If your father and your mother were here now they would both be proud of their Australian daughter; but they are at rest, and may their souls be at peace. You have infused into me some of your strength and enthusiasm. Yes, Grace, go; we will both work."

The strong arms of Grace tighten as they clasp the dear, kind form of her loving aunt. "You are all I have," she whispers gently, "and I am so pleased, auntie dear, that you will not fail me."

With a sigh of relief, Mrs. Carrington asks: "What do you intend to do?"

"Anything, aunt," and, hurriedly crossing the room, she takes up the day's paper and reads the list of "Wanteds."

"Now listen, auntie dear, to the list I have to choose from," and with a bright smile she proceeds to read, and as she finishes she says: "You see, I can be a cook now, please don't interrupt," as her aunt starts with a frightened look. "A cook, a good one, can get from £1 to 25s. a week. Of course, I haven't any references, but, then, you could give me one. I can be a governess—£12 10s. a year one place, £15 another, £25 another, to teach music and languages. They specify French, Latin, and German, with the privilege, you know, auntie, of dining with the children in the nursery, and being allowed to play the piano, sit in the room, and be introduced to visitors. Of course, the cook takes her meals in the kitchen; but what of that? I think I would rather be a cook," says Grace, half jestingly. "You know dad always said I was a splendid cook, and so did the visitors, for many a time I used to slip into the kitchen with dear old Norah, and prepare the dinner, and make the dainty puddings under her directions, and it was fun to hear dad and his friends praising dear old Norah for my accomplishments. Mrs. Evans, the registry office keeper, told me yesterday that it was useless for me to try and get pupils for music nowadays, as you know, aunt, that almost every cottage we pass there is a placard in the window 'Music lessons given.' I think, aunt, I had better go and arrange for that cook's place at once; it is a good one."

"Oh, no, no, no! For heaven's sake, no, not that! Take the governess' place at Captain Jenkins.' Do this to please me now, girl. Do not take the other. Oh, take the governess' for goodness sake, and then if it should——" and Mrs. Carrington pauses, and looks surprised as Grace sits down, and a stubborn, vexed look mars for a moment the beauty of her lovely face. She is about to make an angry refusal, but as she catches a glimpse of the pathetic look in the kind old face of her aunt, her heart softens, and the stubborn looks passes off—the look of vexation is replaced with an obedient smile.

"Very well, aunt," she says, as she kisses the soft old cheeks so like her father's, "I will go to Captain Jenkins' now. I will not need a reference for Mrs. Jenkins; she knew dad well."

"God bless you, my dear!" whispers Mrs. Carrington, as, a few minutes later, Grace goes out to seek her livelihood; to fight her battle in the tough, hard field of life. It is a tough, hard fight which girls have to face when they are compelled to seek their livelihood, alone, unprotected, in the great, unmerciful struggle for bread. Some of them win and come off victorious, and many, the weaker ones, stumble and fall, and are cast adrift amongst the great, ever-increasing human river of wasted ones.

Grace passes down the street of one of the poorest suburbs of Melbourne . On, on she wends her way, her step buoyant, and her young heart hopeful.

"Why should I fail?" she asks herself.

Suddenly she slows her step, a shadow passes over the light of hope, and a quiver of pain twitches her fair face.

"Can this be fancy's dream? No, no," she assures herself, "it is real—too real."

Looking around, she catches sight of the reflection of her face in a shop window.

"Oh, dear!" she gasps, "the reflection of my face in that glass is ghastly. I must not look like that. If aunt saw me now she would ask where all my Australian confidence had gone. I must so school myself that my face will not indicate the pain in my heart. Auntie asked me about Jack Mannering. How could I tell her that I, too, have— But, oh! what am I thinking of? I must not encourage such thoughts."

So engrossed is Grace with her thoughts, and so lost is she in the dreams of the past and the building up of hopes for the future, that she does not feel the distance nor count the time. She has come a long way, and the poor suburbs lie far behind.

Pausing and gazing around at the mansion homes towering in their grandeur and munificence, she murmurs softly: "I am now in my own sphere — But what am I saying?"

She laughs low and bitterly, and again a quiver passes over her face.

"These," she soliloquises, "are the homes of the wealthy; I am not in my own sphere."

As she passes along, she gazes curiously at the names on the gates of the different entrances. She pauses before one.

"Garoopna," she reads. She is about to make her entrance, when once again that quiver of pain disturbs the former calmness of her face.

"How can I do it?" she asks herself, and all her hope, all her confidence seem to have vanished, leaving her a lonely and timid girl. There are even tears in her eyes as she gazes along the well-kept avenue that leads up to the home of the Jenkins'.

"Why am I so frightened?" Grace murmurs. "This is not the first fine home I have entered. 'Looranna' is a finer place than this, and yet I stand here in hesitation and in fright."

This attempt to revive her waning courage seems to fail, for she adds: "I am forgetting that when I entered those homes I entered as a guest, or as mistress; but now I go to beg, to crave for leave to toil." And the despairing and frightened look deepens in her lovely eyes.

For a minute she wavers. She is about to go back—to retrace her steps.

Suddenly she rouses herself and tosses her head proudly in the air. "For shame!" she says in self-rebuke. "Is it I, Grace Moore, who am afraid? Do I forget that I am an Australian girl? I must never forget that!"

With a bright glow of hope shining in her eyes, she opens the gate, passes up the long drive, and, with the strengthening spirit of confidence in her heart, crosses the verandah, rings the bell, and passes into "Garoopna."