Читать книгу Looranna - An Australian Story - M. A. McCarter - Страница 7

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"Auntie, dear, you cannot know how I've been longing to feel your warm, kind caresses, and to hear your dear, kind voice speaking to me as you are now. You must just spoil me for the time I am with you. I have only two hours until I go back; for, dear Auntie, this is my first afternoon out. What was it we used to say, 'Mary Jane's afternoon out,' " and Grace's voice rings out in merry laughter. The old Aunt even smiles as she looks fondly on her lovely niece, who is sitting on a low stool by the side of the big, old arm-chair, and resting her curly head lovingly against the old lady's bosom.

"My girl, I have been lonely indeed, waiting and watching for you to come back. Surely, Grace, we could find something else!"

"Oh, yes, I suppose there could be many other ways, but I like this one. You don't know how splendid I am. Now, don't look so pained, dear Auntie. You would, indeed, be proud of me if you could only know of my accomplishments. Auntie, dear, I was quite lost before—really I was. I did not know I could do so much; and, truly, I love Mrs. Jenkins, the dear old soul! I could do anything for her, she is always so kind. I think, though, Auntie, she is thought to be rather old-fashioned, but she is just as she should be, I think. Auntie, you never told me if you heard anything—had any letter, or—you know, Auntie. I want to know such a lot, and I cannot wait to hear all. But have you found out if that was true about Jack? Sometimes I've been so frightened that I might meet him; and yet, again, I think that he may have been in England when my letter went, telling him of the loss of 'Looranna,' Dear old 'Looranna!' You know that if he never received the letter, that would explain his long silence."

Over the aunt's face there is a bitter, pained look; an indignant flash for a moment hardens her kind eyes. Grace does not see it, so she goes on—"You know, Jack always said that he loved me so much, that he would rather I was poor, so I would know it was only for myself he wanted me; and we are poor enough now, indeed!"

In the old lady's mind there is a mental battle; she is undecided about something. "Will I?" she asks herself, as she fondly strokes the nestling head. "Shall I tell her? Would it be too cruel? She has had many blows"—the old lady argues in her mind; "but no! it is better that I should tell her—better that she should hear it from me."

With a kind look of pity stealing over her sympathetic face, she bends and kisses the girl. "Grace," she whispers, "do not think of him—wipe that story from your heart—forget him, my child—he was unworthy of your lightest thought!"

"Oh, surely, you misjudge him; do not condemn him until we have heard. For my sake, Auntie, think kindly!" and again she nestles her head closer, so closely that she can hear the warm beating of the heart that loves her so well.

"My girl, would you have me deceive you? You have not heard, but I have. Jack Mannering wanted 'Looranna,' and when he heard 'Looranna' was gone, he went too. Now, do not start; be a brave girl. You are brave, Grace, I know. Do not let the weakness of one man bring a tear. Your father knew him well. Your father (may the Lord have mercy upon his soul) spoke the truth when he said Jack Mannering is only an English fop, in search of a wealthy heiress in Australia to redeem his fortunes lost beyond the seas," and again the dark, hard light is in Mrs. Carrington's eyes as she looks at the bowed head of her niece.

"Auntie, you say you know. What do you know?"

"I know, dear, that he has forgotten you, and is engaged to be married to some wealthy Australian girl. Old Lawyer Graham told me so."

Grace rises from her seat, and, with a blanched face, she gazes. A fierce, deep pain is in her heart, as if a keen blade was cutting away from the girl's very soul all faith, all trust in humanity. A struggle rises in her soul. The great flames of faith and love are dwindling down; they are now almost into a tiny spark; they are flickering. Will they go out? Will the beautiful spirit of faith in mankind die?

For a minute the fight, the struggle within Grace's soul, goes on—then the dark look passes from her face, and two great tears steal down the pale cheeks, as, once more resting her head on her aunt's bosom, she sobs, and the spark lives as she whispers: "Auntie, Auntie! You are all I have—you are true! The fight was strong; and, oh, Auntie, that did hurt my heart!" and she sighs as if to shake the trouble off with a deep, heavy breath. "So Jack was false," she murmurs, and her tone now is light. "Well, Auntie, I am glad I am a servant now. Oh! so glad, for it was worth losing 'Looranna' to find Jack out. If ever I meet him now, he will find no trace of this struggle. Ah! it was well, Auntie, that you told me;" and a minute later Molly Casey announces the arrival of Father Ryan, the parish priest, who used to stay at "Looranna" when on his periodical visits amongst his country parishioners. He knew Grace as a little girl, and many a time would she run to meet him when he would say Mass at "Looranna," where the congregation was composed of settlers, who came from their far-off homes, many miles away in the surrounding country, and old Squatter Moore, the genial host, with an Irish heart and an Irish hand, would welcome and cater for all, poor and rich alike, who came to the homestead to kneel in prayer at Holy Mass.

As Father Ryan enters the small, dingy room, Jack Mannering is forgotten, and Grace and her aunt vie with each other as to which of them will give the good priest the first greeting.

"Oh, dear Father Ryan! you are indeed welcome." Mrs. Carrington's voice rings with true hospitality as she clasps the outstretched hand of their faithful friend, as a loving child would clasp the hand of a fond parent.

"God bless you, my children," the priest murmurs fervently, and while the holy benediction wafts along he turns to greet Grace.

"Dear Father Ryan," is all that she can say, but the good priest knows by the clasp of her hand that he is welcome, very welcome.

At last Grace finds voice. "I am so glad, Father Ryan, you have come," she says, "for you always bring with you an atmosphere of peace, a ray of light, that sends the sunbeam of hope dancing all around."

"I am glad, Grace, that you think so, and I pray God that I will always bring light and peace everywhere I go."

The two women look as if they are sure he will.

"So I have found little Grace at last," Father Ryan begins. He always calls her "little Grace." "Here have I been hunting the country for you," and he sits wearily down in the big, old armchair which Mrs. Carrington has just vacated for him. "I've been hunting the place this couple of days, street after street, and only for old Lawyer Graham I would have had to go back home without seeing you at all. Now, Grace, tell me what you have been doing? But what are those tears in your eyes for?" he anxiously asks. "Is there anything troubling you, my child?"

"Oh, Father, I have just had the final blow!" and Grace wipes the tears from her eyes as she speaks.

"I suppose, then, you have heard about Jack Mannering? Oh, the rascal! Never mind, Grace. As if you were not good enough—without a penny, good enough for any man! Good enough to be the wife of a king! Now, don't cry; remember always what your father said. You know you could never have had the blessing of God fully, even if you had married, for, my girl, mixed marriages are never good. Mark my words! I say—never!"

"But, Father, Jack said he would become a Catholic."

"Oh, yes, he was prepared for anything," interrupts Father Ryan, sarcastically. "He was prepared to even sell his soul for 'Looranna.' Ah! your father, Grace, your father was wise indeed when—" and Father Ryan looks as if he was about to say something, but checks himself. "Now, Grace, my child," he continues, "wipe away those tears, and kneel down and thank God for His kindness and His mercy to you. Thank Him always, and seek consolation, and you will find it only and always with God. God will heal this sorrow in your soul. Only He is the physician who cures all; the only One to succour the afflicted in the holy, beautiful, sanctifying spirit of religious peace."

When Grace rises off her knees where she had knelt by the good Father's chair, the old, bright look is on her face.

"Thank you, Father," she says. "I can now go back to Mrs. Jenkins', for I feel that sweet peace of soul, God's holy balm. I will now go away and get my hat and cloak," and, with a cheery "good-bye" to Molly Casey, who is in the kitchen preparing the tea, and tenderly kissing her aunt, who looks now as if a great load had been lifted from her shoulders, Grace turns and kindly takes her leave of the good old priest, who had always helped her with his kind, fatherly advice; for to Father Ryan she had always appealed, even as a little child, when in any difficulty or childish trouble, and his sympathies were always soothing, and his guidance faithful. And now, as she passes out once more to take up her duties at Mrs. Jenkins', the sound of his "good-bye" and "God bless you!" makes her heart glad and her step buoyant as she hastens along.

When Grace arrives at the home of the Jenkins', and she passes along on her way to her own room, she wonders what is causing so much commotion—servants running hither and thither. Then she remembers that this is the evening of the annual ball at Government House, and Mrs. Jenkins' guests and family are to be present.

"Oh, I'm so glad you have come back early, Miss Moore," says the nurse. "Mrs. Harold Jenkins has been asking for you."

Just then Milly looks out of her dressing-room, and calls to Clarence, who is passing, "I wish you could spare me a maid to help me dress?" "Where is that Moore girl?" Grace hears as she passes along the corridor, and her face grows red. She also hears the rejoinder: "Oh, she! She'd make you look a fright! She has such horrid taste!"

"Oh, anything is better than nothing!" But Grace cannot hear the latter part as she hurries to her own room, her face burning and her heart pained.

A moment later a gentle tapping calls her, and, calming herself, she opens the door.

The vexed look is gone as she meets the kindly face of old Mrs. Jenkins, who says, in her usual gentle way; "I am so pleased, Miss Moore, that you are back; the children's mother cannot manage without a maid. I want you to help her, and oblige me, as this ball to-night is the greatest of the season, and the girls are so excited that they cannot help anyone."

For a moment Grace's face grows red, and the excited and indignant look is there again. She thinks, "I will not, I cannot, help that woman!" She is about to refuse, but again the sweet voice of the aunt and the kind "God bless you" of Father Ryan seem to waft along on the air, and the thought of resentment vanishes from her soul. She goes with Mrs. Jenkins to the room of her daughter-in-law, and, with deft fingers, she helps to decorate Milly, the spoilt daughter of fashion. Grace does not seem to heed the nasty little pin-pricks this woman of wealth thrusts now and then, and when she puts the finishing touches on the extravagant toilet, and as Milly surveys herself in the long mirrors which panel the walls of the dressing-room, "You have taste, then?" she says, in a condescending and a grudging tone. "So funny to find taste where one least expects it!" and she laughs vulgarly.

"Madam," says Grace, and there is a spark of fire in her eyes, "the taste is not mine. Your gown is not of my choosing. I do not consider it tasteful at all; it is far too elaborate, the bodice is too low, and you wear too many jewels. To my mind it is but an advertisement of wealth, and not good taste. I only place the gems on you in the best way possible." And, with this home-thrust, Grace tosses her head proudly, and walks off, leaving Milly astounded.

"Whoever would tolerate such impertinence, such impudence and pride, from a common menial? How dare she? But I'll pay her back. She is certainly unfit to teach the children. She dare to say my dress was common and vulgar!" and again Milly surveys the reflection of her beautiful person in the mirror, and, with a self-congratulatory smile, she goes down to the drawing-room, where the party are all assembled, ready to depart to the coming festivities. Her eyes flash as she sees Grace, with the two children, waiting to see the party off.

"Oh! how lovely you look, Milly!" echo Rose and Clarence in chorus; and Harold says, "Really, Milly dear, your diamonds seem to shine brighter to-night. How have you got them on? They look perfect."

"My word," exclaims Dr. Ferguson, who is an admirer of beauty, "your maid must be an adept in the art of dressing."

Milly thinks, "Now is my opportunity. Oh, yes, by the way," she says aloud, "I would have forgotten;" and, turning to her mother-in-law, who is standing quietly by, surveying the bevy of pretty women in their varied and gorgeous attire, the shades of the many gowns all blending into one pretty picture of colour, and admiring their handsome, manly escorts, "Ma," she says, "I think you have misplaced Moore; I am sure she would be far more creditable as a lady's maid. I know you find her generally useful; if you want a reference I will give her one. She was my maid to-night," and Milly laughs.

There is a light in Grace's eyes that outshines the light flashing from the jewels on the beautiful woman.

Old Mrs. Jenkins can see that there is some undercurrent of venom in her daughter-in-law's voice, and, turning to Milly, she says with pride, "Whatever duties Miss Moore undertakes she performs with credit."

Just then a servant announces, "The motors are ready," and Harold hastens to kiss Effie and Maud, who then come forward to receive their mother's kiss prior to her departure.

"Now, be careful," commands Milly, as she kisses little Effie, "keep your hands away," and the little arms that are outstretched to clasp her neck fall to the child's side; "and, oh, you naughty girl," she cries, as Maud will not be debarred, and hungrily clasps her dimpled child-arms round the fashionable woman's neck. See!" Milly cries, angrily, as a diamond pendant falls on the velvet carpet.

Grace hastens forward to prevent the child from getting the threatened slap, and, picking up the pendant, replaces it in position in the woman's necklet. "Maud could not help it," she says, excusingly.

"No; but you could," is the angry retort, as she suffers Grace to rearrange the jewel. "Why do you teach her to display her affection in such a manner? I told you before to teach her not to be so demonstrative; it is common, and betrays low training, and I think you are unfit to continue in charge of her."

The insult from the lips of the beautiful woman pierces to the very soul of Grace Moore, and her sensitive, proud heart is crushed as for a moment she stands wavering, as if about to give vent to the scorn that rankles in her soul. Her face is dyed with an angry flush of shame; she is about to say something, but, with a mighty effort, controls her anger. "What am I thinking of?" she whispers in her soul. "I must not forget that God can help me now! Neither must I forget that I am a servant here, and I must never forget that I am a lady." Slowly the red flush of anger fades from the girl's face, leaving her cheeks pale, but, for a second, her face twitches, and her eyes look dim. "Oh, I must not let them see!" she thinks, and, as she turns and bends low over the little child, she dashes away the tears.

"Oh, Miss Moore, don't cry, please!" pleads little Effie, as she tenderly looks up into Grace's face. "Effie will kiss you and make you better,"

Picking up the child, "Hush! hush!" she whispers, and she hurries from the room.

As Milly looks after Grace, her face for the moment seems to lose all its beauty, and Dr. Ferguson, who, but a few minutes before, had been admiring the beautiful woman, now thinks, "Well, after all, fine faces and lovely forms do not count for much, when such beautiful gifts but cloak an ugly soul."