Читать книгу Looranna - An Australian Story - M. A. McCarter - Страница 5

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"You know, Miss Moore," Mrs. Jenkins, the Mistress of "Garoopna," said in answer to Grace's application for the position of governess, "it is very unusual for a lady to take a servant without a reference," but she added kindly, as she watched the proud blush play over Grace's countenance, and saw the pathetic, anxious look in her eyes, "I knew your father many years ago, and I like your face."

It was thus that Grace Moore obtained the first situation she had applied for.

Mrs. Jenkins did not tell Grace that in the faraway past it was Gerald Moore's kind heart and generous hand that had helped her husband and herself to lay the foundation of their vast fortune.

It could hardly be expected that Mrs. Jenkins, a wealthy lady, would tell a servant that she ever owed a debt of gratitude in her life.

Grace lost no time in taking up her new duties, and, as the weeks passed by, Mrs. Jenkins congratulated herself on having taken her on trust.

Miss Moore has now been three months in her position as governess to Captain Jenkins' grandchildren, who are on a visit from Sydney . One morning, just as Grace is giving the children their usual music lesson at the piano, Mrs. Jenkins hurriedly enters the music room.

"Oh, I am in such trouble to-day, Miss Moore. Here am I with a houseful of visitors—more are coming—and there is the dinner party to-night! I am almost distracted. The cook and the housemaid have quarrelled, and cook has left in a huff, and Miss Clarence and Miss Rose are both coming home, so the other maids will have their hands full. Oh, what shall I do? Those servants are so annoying."

Grace winces at the word servant.

"Surely," she says, "you will be able to get someone to do the cooking."

"No, not now. At Christmas time, you cannot get them for love or money."

"Could not Miss Clarence or Miss Rose help?"

"Oh, no, dear, no. They do not know how, even if they would, and the kitchen maid is a blockhead; she cannot prepare anything. I'm sure I'll have an attack of the nerves after all this."

For a moment Grace thinks, as she looks round on her well-disciplined little charges, and then she whispers in her mind, "Aunt would not object, I am sure;" and then, with a decided look on her face, she rises from her seat at the piano, and says kindly, "Can I help you?"

Mrs. Jenkins' eyes open in surprise. "You help me! How could you help me? It is the cook who has gone."

"Well, to-morrow," says Grace, "you know the children will be taking their recess, and surely nurse can relieve me. I'll go into the kitchen, and, really, I can cook."

The gratitude on Mrs. Jenkins' face needs no words to express, and, by the time the visitors have all arrived, Grace is installed in her new role as cook.

Whilst Grace and her assistant, the kitchen maid, are preparing the many dishes for the grand dinner, a discussion is going on between Mrs. Jenkins and her two daughters.

"Mother, you said you had a new governess for Harold's children—(oh, how I hate the little brutes!)—I have not seen her. What is she like?"

"Oh, I suppose she is a stiff old maid," interjects Clarence, as she caresses a poodle dog, and adjusts the little, open-work silk bootees which decorate its paws.

"Or," remarks Rose, "I suppose she's like De Morrow's governess—the widow of an officer"—and, as she speaks, she unfastens the jewelled collar from her mastiff's neck.

Paul is a fine dog, but then he is treated finely, for he is lying on a tiger rug in the drawing-room.

"Is the new governess ugly, Ma?" both the girls ask in chorus, as they now zealously hug their pets.

"Ugly!" ejaculates Mrs. Jenkins, in surprise. "No, dears; she is a very handsome girl, accomplished and good. I knew her father, but that was many years ago."

A look of alarm grows on the two girls' faces, and, as the mother leaves the room, a sound like that of a sigh is heard.

"Oh, fancy, isn't Ma foolish? Just fancy! Why on earth did she get a handsome governess, and accomplished—the daughter of an old friend, too? I suppose Ma will have her at table."

"Indeed," says Clarence, "if Ma does that, I will have headache, and stay in my room; but come on. Let us go down to cook, and tell her about Peter and Paul. I believe there is a new cook, and she must understand how our dear pets are to be fed. Do you know, Rose, I believe that, many a time, that horrid Jane, the old cook, used to take the poultry off our dear pets' plates, and give them her beef and mutton instead. I am glad we took them with us whilst we were away, aren't you? But I was so vexed on the boat when that man gave the fresh milk to that woman with the horrid baby, and our poor doggies had to have the stale milk, weren't you, dearie?" and Rose stoops and fondles the mastiff, as if in sympathy for the sick baby being preferred to him.

Clarence is the elder of Captain Jenkins' daughters, and, as she enters the kitchen with her big mastiff by her side, "You are the new cook?" she says, authoritatively, as she observes Grace with her large white apron and cap, sleeves rolled up, and battling with the pots and pans.

There is a merry twinkle in Grace's eyes as she sees the two young ladies, whom she concludes must be the daughters of the house. (Clarence and Rose had gone on a holiday before Grace had taken her work.) "Yes," she says, "I am the cook for the present. Is there anything I can do for you?"

Miss Jenkins thinks it unworthy of her, as daughter of the house, to take much notice of the menial.

"I wish you, cook, to give Peter and Paul their dinners. I will send them out with Mary when Pa carves the poultry. Will you see that they get their food, because, sometimes, the other servants have not given the dear fellows their meals properly? So do not forget, cook."

"I'll not forget; I will see that they are properly attended to."

At the kitchen door Miss Jenkins pauses, and, half-turning, says: "What is your name, cook?" As Grace is still busy with the dishes over the fire, she does not hear, and Miss Jenkins goes on her way.

Grace Moore looks after the departing Miss Jenkins. On her face there is a look of wonder and surprise. "She says her father carves the poultry for Peter and Paul! Well, my father," she muses, "was a liberal, broad-minded man. He treated his servants well, and if they were good he called them friends; but I am sure he never would permit his daughters to be so enrapt with the coachman and the groom—I suppose that is whom she means by Peter and Paul." And as Grace turns to dish up the dinner, which would do credit to a French chef, her face still wears a puzzled look of wonder; but, as she is kept busily engaged answering the orders from the dining-room, she has no time to think of Peter and Paul. At last there is a lull, and then Mary, the waitress, hurries into the kitchen with a daintily-set tray of poultry, etc., for two, and, as she places it on the table, "For Peter and Paul," she says, then rushes out; and, as no one has explained, Grace is under the impression that either the coachman or the groom is Peter, and, when the groom looks into the kitchen a few minutes later, she remarks, "Miss Jenkins sent these dinners down for you."

"For us?" he ejaculates.

"Well, she said for Peter and Paul—"

"Yes, yes," breaks in the groom. "That's right, cook," and there is a mischievous twinkle in the man's eye.

"Miss Jenkins said I was to take it to your room, and—"

"Oh, no, no! Not at all," interrupts the groom. "Thank you very much. Never mind, cook. I'll always carry it. You need never bother;" and Grace passes on the tray.

"Ha, ha!" chuckles Bill Carney, the groom. "She has given us the poultry! Cook thinks we are Peter and Paul! Wouldn't Miss Rose and Miss Clarence flare up if they seed their dogs eating our beef, while we dined on the selected carvings of poultry? But, oh, it's good to be dogs nowadays. Nice choice dinners, and to be hugged and kissed and decorated by the young ladies. I wish I was a dog," and again he chuckled.

After the house dines, and the visitors retire to the drawing-room, Mrs. Jenkins has time to think of Grace, and, as she enters the kitchen, she is surprised to find her erstwhile governess seated at the servants' table, and dealing out the dinners as though to the manner born.

When Grace sees her she hurries to meet her.

"My dear, I am sorry that you have to have your meals here. But, really, the dinner was capital. All went off so well—but you must bring the children into the drawing-room. Their father will want to see them, and I must introduce you to my daughters. They have both been asking about the new governess, but they would be shocked if I told them that you had cooked the dinner, upon which so much praise was lavished."

Grace hesitates for a moment; she is tired, but there is a look of decision in her face as she says, "I will bring the little ones in. I will go and dress now." Although courageous, she always feels a certain amount of diffidence in entering the drawing-room. She does not wish to meet any of the friends whom she knew when at "Looranna."

There is one man especially whom she would always avoid meeting now. When, a little while later, she enters the drawing-room with the children, she passes in so quietly that she is almost unnoticed, though the two daughters of the house are much taken aback. Clarence is surprised and vexed. She can hardly control the vexation on her countenance as she bows stiffly in acknowledgment when their mother introduces the new governess.

Clarence looks for a minute, then, turning to her mother, says in a whisper loud enough for the guests to hear: "Why, mother, this is the new cook. I was speaking to her in the kitchen."

"Hush, dear," says her mother, in a subdued tone. "Hush, do not let her hear you. Miss Moore obliged me."

"Indeed, mother, but I will. I am much annoyed. I feel as if I could go out of the house. A governess is bad enough, but to bring the cook in!" and Clarence walks out.

When her mother follows her, and is out of hearing: "How dare you, Clarence," she says, "to behave so? Miss Moore obliged me by going to the kitchen to-day, when the cook left. Is Miss Moore any the less a lady because she was able to take up the cook's position in an emergency? It is conduct such as yours that prevents good, honest, well-bred ladies, who are without fortune, but are accomplished and willing—it is conduct such as yours that prevents them from taking up those household duties which are essential and becoming to a woman—ay! to any lady in the land. It is the highest duty. It is the most responsible duty. For on its true fulfilment rests the foundation of society. So, Clarence, go back, and, when you find an opportunity, apologise to Miss Moore." Mrs. Jenkins, as if anxious to show some apology on her daughter's behalf, and knowing, as she has many times heard Grace playing in the nursery, that she is an accomplished violinist—

"Miss Moore," she says, and her tone is very kind, "would you kindly play to us some of those pieces I have so often heard you playing in the nursery?"

Grace rises, and, as she crosses the drawing room, she looks indeed as if she had not felt the bitterness of Clarence Jenkins' words, but in her soul they rankle.

At first she felt inclined to cry, but—"What a fool I am," she says to herself, "breaking down almost at the first insult. Grace Moore, I am ashamed of you." She inwardly rebukes herself for her weakness. "This is but one of the little stumbling-blocks that I must climb over."

As she takes up the instrument and begins to play, there is no sign of the threatened tears; no trace of the nasty and bitter dart which pierced the proud heart. She rather pities Clarence for her littleness, and, as the notes ring out from the old violin under Grace Moore's masterful yet delicate touch, the hearts of all listeners are enraptured as the strains of the old masterpieces echo along.

The old melodies enchant the listening ears, and the player is lost as, in fancy, she is away once more on her father's old home, amongst the tall, giant trees at "Looranna;" and, as her fingers run over some old hunting theme, she seems to hear the hounds, as they return to their kennels at the homestead, after a long day's hunting the kangaroo away back over the vast run.

"Dear old 'Looranna!' " she breathes, lovingly, to herself.

The theme is ended, and as she puts down the violin she sighs. There is silence—such a silence as is only felt when one hears something which is sublime, but which he cannot understand. Such a silence is ever greater appreciation than the loudest applause.

"Kindly take the children away, Miss Moore," and Grace starts, for the command of Mrs. Jenkins brings her back, and she now knows where she is. She remembers—"she is the governess."

The music had carried her away in fancy's flight to that far-off home, "Looranna," and the agitation of the soul returning and awakening her from that blissful dream had convulsed her heart, leaving her face pale; but it was only for a minute, and, with a mighty effort, she banishes all traces of dreamland from her face, and goes out with the children.