Читать книгу Looranna - An Australian Story - M. A. McCarter - Страница 6

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"Mother," Clarence says, the morning after the dinner party, "when does Harold intend to take his children home? I'm sure they are quite a pest to us; they are continually here!"

"If they were gone," interjects Rose, who is sitting by the fire warming her little poodle, as she puts the woollen bootees on the canine paws—"if those children were gone, that would end our trouble, because there would be no need then for the cook to masquerade as the governess."

"Indeed, no!" interposes Clarence, with vehemence. "And to tell you the truth, Ma," turning to her mother, who has not yet answered either of them, for the fact of the matter is, Mrs. Jenkins is just now much troubled between one thing and another, and is so preoccupied with mentally arranging the household management for the day, and planning as to the best way to entertain her guests for their enjoyment, that she has not even heard what her daughters have said, so lost is she in thinking-land.

Just then her little granddaughter, a girl about eight years of age, one of Grace's pupils, enters, holding a younger sister by the hand. They are both beautiful children. The elder one, Maud, with her dark eyes and her fair hair, looks a picture for an artist, yet, for a child so young, there is a pathetic, yearning look in those lovely orbs; and the little blue-eyed sister of six, with her tossed curls and cherub face, seems a little fairy, sweet and lovable, only for kisses.

"Grandma, please, good-morning!" says the elder one, as they come into the room.

"Oh, dears!" says Mrs. Jenkins, as she fondly takes the little one on her knee, arranges the pretty curls, and kisses the sweet, upturned faces of her two grandchildren, "where is nurse?"

"She is waiting, Grandma."

"Well, then, pets, toddle away."

""But, Grandma, please, we want Miss Moore to come and play on the piano, and tell us pretty stories."

"Oh, well, dears, Miss Moore is busy just now, so run on and play with nurse, that's good children;" and, with another kiss, the little ones scamper away.

"I wish those children were gone home, Ma!" again Clarence remarks, as she adjusts the large goggles and cloak on her mastiff dog, Paul, in preparation for the motor drive—"I wish they were gone!"

"Listen to me," says Mrs Jenkins, and the tone of her voice is a vexed one, "it would be very much better for the both of you, Clarence and Rose, if, instead of dressing up those dogs, and pampering them as you are continually doing, you were to devote a little more time to helping me. You make my heart sad with your ways. There are those two little children who came here with their sweet "good-morning" kisses, and you let them go without even a smile, and, poor little lambs, you want to know when they are going home. Well, they are going home when their mother is ready to mind them. She, like many others, although a loved and honoured wife, rebels against the holy, loving care of motherhood. She is continually flying about the country in search of fickle enjoyment, amusing herself, and joining in every new fad of society. She cares nothing for the sacred responsibilities of a wife, and leaves her babies (when she has them, which is seldom) to the care of any strange maid who may be in her service at the time. All she cares for is to see her name figuring in the papers, at some Government House function, or some 'At Home,' at which her jewels will shine brightest, and where she will be the envy of some wife maybe as careless as herself; but what good is it all to her, though the jewels shine brightly, and the lightning flashing from them brings envy to the female hearts? The light from the brightest and most costly jewels that any woman can wear will be dimmed beside the holy light shining in the beautiful, sweet, innocent eyes of a little child." And Mrs. Jenkins crosses the room in deep sorrow as she thinks of her wayward daughter-in-law. Then, with a deep sigh, she says, as if to herself: "But I suppose, after all, she is only a fashionable lady!"

"Really, Ma, you say such strange things! Would you have Harold's wife a regular old frump? You know, Ma, we must follow society, or be 'nowhere.' You could not expect Milly to be running round to the 'At Homes' with the children! Why, Society would think her mad if she brought one of the children with her! It is not fashionable nowadays, Ma," and Clarence looks as if she had explained much.

"No, it is not fashionable," retorts Mrs. Jenkins, regretfully. "It is not fashionable, I know, and all the worse for Society that it is so. But mark me, Clarence, Society will continue to degenerate while it considers it fashionable for women to appear in the best drawing-rooms, and being photographed accompanied by their pet dogs, instead of their own children. Somebody once said 'we came of animals,' but it looks very much as if our tastes are drifting to the animals."

Rose and Clarence look at each other and shake their heads as they whisper; "It's no use arguing!"

Just then a shadow passes the window, and a cheery, manly voice calls out "Mother!" and Mrs. Jenkins hurries away at her son's call.

"I wonder what news Harold has now? I hope nothing that will keep us back from our motor drive. The news must be good, for I hear Harold laughing."

Just then Harold enters with a telegram in his hand, and, when the girls read it, they are both highly elated.

"How lovely! Milly is coming! Oh, that will be splendid!"

"Yes, girls; and if you hurry up," says Harold, "we'll be in time to meet the train about twelve miles out. It will be a good run, and I can come back in the train, and leave you girls to the tender care of Dr. Ferguson and Tom Allen. I know you will be pleased at that arrangement," and he looks slyly at his sisters, whose blushes tell their own tale.

There is a general simmer of excitement when it is known that Harold Jenkins' wife, Milly, the mother of the two children, is expected; and when Harold bends to kiss Maud and little Effie, before he takes his place in the motor-car, where his sisters Rose and Clarence are already seated, Paul, the mastiff, is sitting beside his mistress. She has her arm protectingly around his massive body. Dr. Ferguson is looking not too pleased at the position the canine rival occupies beside his promised wife.

Tom Allen is not so bad, because Rose's pet poodle, which is small and cosily wrapped in a dainty padded rug, lined with the softest silk—such silk as is found lining the hoods of infants who are born to the purple and fine linen—lies so snugly on her lap, and is likely to sleep most of the journey. Anyhow, Tom Allen consoles himself with the thought that it will.

The pathetic, yearning look for a moment vanishes from the eyes of Maud when Harold says kindly to his little daughters; "We are going to bring Mamma back with us;" and the faces of the two children brighten.

As the car puffs away, Maud says; "What a pity, Grandma! What a pity Papa didn't take us, too, to meet Mamma!"

"Papa couldn't," interposes Effie, the little white-faced cherub with the tossed curls. "He couldn't; there was no room for us."

As Mrs. Jenkins looks after the little ones, and then gazes thoughtfully at the retreating car, "No, they had no room for you!" she says, bitterly; "but they had room for their dogs!" And, as she turns round, she sees Grace Moore, who happened to be passing from the garden to the kitchen, stooping to caress the two little girls, and playfully fastening a spray of flowers in the hair of each of the little maids, Maud and Effie.

Grace does not see Mrs. Jenkins, and, as she surveys the two pretty children, with their floral decorations amidst their pretty locks, "Kiss me again," she says, "for you dear children remind me of the angels;" and, as the little arms entwine round her neck, she wonders how the mother of those children can leave them for so long.

Grace stands and watches them for a moment as they scamper across the lawn, and then turns away, and goes into the kitchen. "Their mother is coming to-day," she muses. "Why is it that I should always pity those lovely girls? They have everything and every surrounding, everything that money can buy; they are well-clothed, well-fed; they want for nothing, and yet I pity them because—they have not a mother's love! I can hardly remember my own mother, but what I do remember is a sweet and gentle face, caressing me and kissing me, and then— I had Dad—dear old Dad—and now I have Auntie. But, oh, dear! how the world changes! I must not think so much, or I'll be sad. I must remember that I am the cook!" and she smiles as she chases the melancholy thoughts which will insist on troubling her to-day, and, to look at her, one would think that a sad light had never even cast its shadow over her bright face, or that any sorrow had ever entered her soul; and when Mrs. Jenkins comes to the kitchen a little while before the guests are expected back to dinner, she wonders, if her own daughters were suddenly bereft of fortune and home, could they acquit themselves in any capacity with such credit as Miss Moore is now doing.

"I know, Miss Moore, that you have much to do, and I regret that I cannot find anyone to relieve you of this, which must be an unpleasant task."

"I am thinking seriously," says Grace, as she looks approvingly at Jane, the kitchen-maid, who is a nice, smart, bright-looking, rosy-faced country girl, "that it will be unnecessary for you to bother about a new cook, for Jane here is progressing so satisfactorily that I am sure, with a few more lessons, she will be thoroughy competent. Indeed, now, I've trusted her with several dishes with success, and I am sure that, about the end of the week, Jane will be capable of taking up the duties. She is smart, and takes a pleasure in learning."

"You are kind to say so, Miss Moore, and thank you for taking the pains with Jane." And, turning to the kitchen-maid, Mrs. Jenkins says; "I am pleased to hear, Jane, that you are getting on so well."

"What a splendid advantage to a lady," she thinks, "to be able to teach her servants how to perform their duties. Who would have thought that Jane could have been so soon instructed? Indeed, many of us lose valuable servants," is her concluding thought, "all owing to our inability to teach them." For a second she is lost in thought; then she says, "I wish, Miss Moore, that you would bring Maud and Effie to the drawing-room after dinner, their mother being here. I would like you, not nurse, to bring the little ones in."

"Oh, dear Miss Moore, come quickly! Come quickly! Mamma and Papa and all the ladies are in the drawing-room, and Grandma says that you are going to bring us in. Oh, do be quick, please!" and Maud holds her face for Grace's kiss, and claps her hands with delight.

"But where is Effie?"

"Oh, she ran down, and is waiting near the door; Grandma said we had to wait. Oh, here is Effie!" and Effie runs up, confidently, to catch hold of Grace's extended hands.

As she, with the two children, passes into the drawing-room, Effie clings shyly, and tries to hide herself in the folds of Grace's skirt. It is a long while since she has seen her Mamma, and, although she is inclined to rush forward and be caressed, still the tiny mite feels a strange shyness when she sees her mother.

Grace is astonished as she looks at the beautiful woman, who bows coldly in acknowledgment to the introduction to her children's governess.

Maud is not shy, and she rushes up, pressing her girl face to her mother's, and crying for the joy and warmth of her soul.

"Dear, dear, don't pull the lace off my gown!" Mrs. Harold Jenkins says. "But, gracious! how the child has grown," she adds, as she untwines the fond encircling arms from around her soft, white neck, and stands back and surveys Maud, who again has the yearning look in her beautiful eyes.

Grace can now see from whom the child has inherited her fair face.

Little Effie peeps from behind the folds of the dress, and her mother, seeing her, exclaims; "Surely, Ma, this cannot be Effie? Why, she has grown quite out of my recollection! Come here, dear, and kiss Mamma," and the little child's white face is shyly upturned to receive her mother's kiss.

"That's right, darling, don't move Mamma's necklet;" and, turning to the governess, she says; "I did not catch the name. What name was it? Ah! Moore—Miss Moore . Miss Moore, while you have charge of my little girls, I hope that you will teach them not to be so demonstrative. See, Maud behaved just like a common child when showing her affection."

The dark eyes of Maud are filled with tears—tears of disappointment and pain. She feels that she has in some way offended her mother, and she moves gently along to the side of her Grandma's chair. Somehow, there is a pained look on the old lady's face as she pats the little girl's cheek and sighs.

"I cannot get over how those two children have grown. It is only a few months since they came here, and, see, they have grown almost out of my memory."

"Yes," Mrs. Jenkins says, meaningly, "and their father hardly knew them, either. You forget, Milly, that it is nearly eighteen months now since you have seen either of them."

"Oh, yes, I forgot, Ma. Of course, we went to England . Oh, how the time does fly when one is travelling! And, of course, Harold and I were at all the exhibitions in the various cities of Europe, and I am proud to say that I have taken first prize everywhere I have exhibited my dear little doggies."

At this Clarence exclaims; "Oh, Milly dear, you promised to show us your dear little pets! When are they coming?"

"When are they coming?" repeats Milly, in astonishment. "Why, Clarence, do you think I'd come without them? They are snugly asleep now in their little portable cots in my room. I'll run and get them."

"But, stay," says Rose. "Alice, the maid, will bring them."

"Oh, no, no!" hastily interjects Milly. "She might hurt the dears!" and she lifts Effie gently down from the arm of the chair, where the child had climbed by her side. "I never let anyone touch them but myself. I got such a lovely little poodle at Baden. It cost fifty guineas, but, oh, it is a treasure! Just wait until you see it!" and off she hurries.

By this time Grace is sitting down and nursing little Effie, who had crept to her side again, to hide in the folds of her dress, and take a peep stealthily at her beautiful mother.

When Milly returns she is accompanied by her husband, who is carrying two great baskets, something like dress-baskets, but at each end there are ventilators.

"Now, Harold, don't, be rough; but I needn't warn you, need I, dear?" and Milly looks sweetly at her husband, "for you love them as much as I do, don't you?"

Grace, from her quiet corner, where she sits with Effie on her knee, looks at Harold Jenkins and his wife, as they carefully unfasten the large baskets, and tenderly lift out from where they are nestling amongst the pale-blue silk cushions five or six tiny, white poodle dogs. Grace thinks, "What a fine pair—the woman tall, fair, well-proportioned, and beautiful; the man tall, dark, well-built, broad-shouldered, and handsome!" And, as she admires their physical beauty, she thinks, "If in the old, old days these two people had lived, they would, no doubt, have been the parents of great churchmen, great statesmen, or brave soldiers." But Grace may just think so, for, alas! they now are as they are—degenerators of their race, worshippers of dogs, fashion slaves. Such men and such women are vile; they are but mockeries, and, under the cloak of matrimony, they commit sins for which nations have been destroyed. They console themselves with the thought that their fine raiment and grand jewels hide their wickedness from the world. It may; but fine garments and rich jewels cannot cloak the soul.

"Now, Maud, just kiss the little pet. He's sick, so you must not hold him."

"Ah, here's Dr. Ferguson," remarks Rose, as she gloats enviously over the puppies in the portable cot. "Here, come on now, Dr. Ferguson; don't be looking at Clarence. Milly's poor little Fido is sick."

Effie gets down gently from Grace's knee, and quietly peeps over to look at the canine pets.

"You mustn't touch them, Effie. Be good now, and you may just kiss this one," and Effie kisses the little poodle which her mother fondles so tenderly.

"Let me see," says Dr. Ferguson, who has pushed his way through the admiring circle. "What's the matter with it, Mrs. Jenkins?"

"I don't know; it couldn't take its bottle. See!" and Milly holds up a baby's small bottle half-filled with warm milk. "It couldn't drink it; I think its throat is sore."

"Well, do not let the child kiss it if its throat is sore," the doctor retorts, somewhat roughly, Milly thinks, as he takes the dog from her. "You know, dogs are very liable to diphtheria. By Jove! but this one has a sore throat. Confound it, what madness to kiss it!" and, forgetting himself and his position with Clarence for a minute, he says, in his ordinary medical style: "Why will you ladies fondle and kiss animals? You know they carry infection, and I hate—"

"Doctor, doctor!" comes Clarence's voice. "Oh, what do you say?" And, as if to show him how she defies such medical opinions, she turns and kisses her big mastiff, Paul, who is always by her side, fairly on the mouth.

"And yet men will kiss such women! Ugh!"

"Mother!" Harold Jenkins has an anxious look on his face as he speaks "Mother, do you not think it would be better if Miss Moore took Maud and Effie out? Dr. Ferguson has made me nervous after what he has said about that poodle."

"Indeed, my son, the children will be very much better out of here, and some day you and your wife may learn to value your children better than dogs. No wonder, indeed, that the good Father Vaughan speaks hard and speaks often of such conduct as yours. He is always pleading, always calling, but still you continue to caress and to fondle to your hearts the pampered dogs, whilst your little children are hungering and starving for their parents' love." And Mrs. Jenkins looks hurt and sorrowful as she turns from her son, and crosses the room to ask Grace to take the children out.

"But, please, Grandma, we want to kiss Ma first," plead Maud and Effie; and, as they stand beside their mother, they say; "Please, Ma, good-night." But their mother is so absorbed in her discussion with Dr. Ferguson about the sick poodle that she does not hear or heed them; and, as the two little girls pass out of the room, there is something like the sound of a sob heard.

"Never mind! Don't cry," Grace whispers, as she kisses away the tears from the little ones' faces. "Mamma may come by and bye, when you are in bed, and whisper, 'God bless you!' as she gives you your good-night kiss."