Читать книгу Looranna - An Australian Story - M. A. McCarter - Страница 8

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"Clarence," says Dr. Ferguson, as he with Miss Jenkins was strolling on the lawn, a day or two after the ball—"My dear, you really must give up such frivolity. It is all very well, in its own way, to have dogs and animals for pets, but to caress and fondle them as you do is dangerous; microbes are—"

"Indeed!" interrupts Clarence, as she tosses her head, "if you think you are going to dictate to me, it would be better for us to part now, for I am fully determined to have my dogs—yes, and to kiss them, too. There, I don't care how vexed you are. Milly has her dogs, and Harold never says a word. Yes, I know you are in a temper," and Clarence turns her pretty head indignantly and defiantly as she adds, poutingly, "You are always finding fault with my dogs."

"Clarence, dear, it is because I love you and wish to save you from injury that I tell you these things. True, Harold does not find fault with Milly, but I would be very sorry indeed if my little Clarence became a wife or a mother such as Milly is. Why, she is heartless. I'll never forget the night of the ball, and all because her little daughter kissed her fondly; yet, dear, think how that woman caresses those poodle dogs. Oh, my girl, do not be like her."

"I am surprised at you," and a vexed light flashes in Clarence's eyes as she speaks, "finding fault with Milly. Oh, I know why!" and she laughs mockingly. "It is through that horrid Miss Moore, and because Milly just told her what she thought. I do wish Ma would dismiss that one. There are Ma, and Harold, and you. You all take her part. I am sure Milly is one of the most beautiful and most fashionable women in society of the present day. I sincerely trust that I'll only be able to be like her."

Just then a big dog bounds up beside Clarence. "Come, Paul, you darling," she cries, tantalisingly—"come on. Kiss me?" and she bends forward and kisses the dog.

Dr. Ferguson is now vexed, indeed; he would swear if he were a man who used bad language. As it is, he does not hide his anger. "Clarence," he exclaims, and there is an angry ring in his voice, and his firm face is set.

Clarence can see that the doctor is in no mood to be trifled with, but still she does not release her arm from encircling the dog's neck.

"Clarence," again he says. "You did that to defy me," and he places his hand half-tenderly on the girl's head. "Listen to me, my girl," he continues. "If ever you kiss that dog again, I promise you, by all the love I bear you, that I will never kiss you," and once again Clarence, with a defiant, stubborn look marring the beauty of her fair face, bends forward and kisses the dog.

"Very well, then," and Dr. Ferguson's face is white with passion. "You have chosen. Be it so," and he turns and strides across the lawn, leaving her with her arm still encircling the dog's form.

"Oh, he'll come back again," Clarence murmurs, confidently. "If I had given in then he would be master always," and she laughs a low, merry laugh, and looks after her retreating lover, but he shows no sign of relenting as he still angrily strides on, muttering to himself as he goes. "I have been a fool, but, bah!" and then he looks up, as he almost collides with his cousin, Tom Allen, the lover of Rose Jenkins.

Dr. Ferguson would pass on with a curt nod, as he does not wish conversation with anyone just now; but Tom Allen, who notices the white, set face of his kinsman, asks kindly, "I say, Fergie, old man, what's amiss? Why, man, you look terrible," and he turns and walks by the side of Dr. Ferguson, to whom he looks anxiously for an explanation. "What's up, old man?" he asks again, and, seeing Clarence Jenkins on the other side of the lawn, he says, "Is it anything with Clarence, eh! old man?"

Dr. Ferguson pauses in his stride, and turning to his friend, "Yes, Tom, it is," and his face grows harder.

"Why, you don't mean to say that you have quarrelled?"

"Yes, old man, and seriously. I might as well tell you, Tom. I'm off. I'm fairly tired of Clarence's dog worship, and I—"

"Well, you don't mean to say that you have quarrelled over that? You know the women will have their pets. Why, man, if I quarrelled with Rose for that, we would have parted long ago. I must acknowledge I feel vexed at times. Only a little while ago I was looking for Rose, and found her in her sitting-room surrounded with the dogs, and nursing one of them—Milly's sick one. And there was little Effie, that little youngster of Harold's, looking on from the distance, with such a wan, wistful face, and no one taking any notice of her. Poor little mite, she looked very ill. Yes, I felt vexed then. I came out here to cool my anger. So, look here, old man, come and we'll take a bike ride, and work this temper off."

"No," Dr. Ferguson ejaculates. "No, my friend," and the "No" sounds firm as he grips Tom's hand. "I know you mean well, but this is—"

"For heaven's sake," breaks in Tom, "don't make yourself ridiculous. Quarrelling now! Why, you would be the laughing-stock of the crowd were they to learn the cause of the quarrel; and there is young Captain Frank just arrived with his English visitor. Don't let his reception be met with a severance of your engagement. You know, old man, Clarence will do what you wish, she loves you so dearly."

"She defied me." Dr. Ferguson's face looks glum as he remembers; but Tom, the peacemaker, persists: "Oh, Fergie, old boy, that is the way with women; it is hard for us to understand them. They always do the opposite. Now, I believe, if you said that Clarence had to keep the dogs, she would give them all up. It is the perversity of the sex. I believe Eve would have left the apple alone if she had not been forbidden it"

Dr. Ferguson's face softens. He loves Clarence, and Tom's encouraging words help to lighten the determined look on the doctor's countenance, and his voice is even soft as he grips his friend's hand. "Thanks, Tom, old man," he says, and passes on towards the house.

"Ah," murmurs Tom Allen, as he watches his friend, the doctor, pass out of view. "Clarence had better be careful, or she will lose her doctor. He felt that badly," and Tom goes down among the trees to saunter alone.

As Grace sees Dr. Ferguson approaching the house she runs to meet him. "Oh, doctor, I have been looking for you everywhere. Come quickly," she exclaims, pantingly. "Little Effie is ill. Come to the nursery."

"Wait, wait," and the doctor, as he speaks, catches her arm as if to detain the excited girl. "Calm yourself, Miss Moore," he says, "calm yourself. Kindly explain."

"I cannot wait. Oh, no, doctor, come now," and the alarmed Grace grips the doctor's arm as if to hasten him along. "For God's sake," she cries, "come now. Little Effie is choking."

Clarence Jenkins, from her leafy shelter on the opposite side of the lawn, watches with a pair of jealous eyes as Grace and the doctor hurry to the house. "So," she mutters, "that is why he was so quick to take offence, and make my pet dogs the pretence for a quarrel. Ha! ha!" she laughs, a low, mocking, hollow laugh—"I wonder will he tell her? I hate her, that horrid being," and, as she speaks, she clenches her delicate fingers, and the shining jewels in her engagement ring seem to reflect the light of the fire flashing from her angry eyes. "How dare he leave me and join that girl? I knew she was an intriguer. She took his arm familiarly. Oh, dear, and she my mother's servant! I will go to the house and tell Ma, and if she keeps her there afterwards, well, then—"

Rising from her seat, she hurries to the house, and, as she passes to her room, she wonders what is the cause of so much commotion and excitement.

"Oh, dear," Rose gasps, as she meets Clarence, "I wish Ma and Milly were home. There is Effie suddenly ill. I don't know what to do. Dr. Ferguson is here."

"Where is Effie?" asks Clarence, in a careless tone.

"She is in the nursery with Miss Moore, and, oh, I think the child is dying."

"Oh, nonsense! Don't get so excited, and make such a fuss about nothing. I am sure Miss Moore is creating this alarm unnecessarily."

"Oh, thank goodness!" exclaims Rose, as she hears the sound of the motor-car as it puffs up to the hall door. "Thank goodness, you are at home," she says, as she meets her mother in the hall. "Oh, Mother, I am almost distracted. Effie is ill. I have telephoned everywhere I thought to find you."

"Effie ill! What can have happened to her?" and Mrs. Jenkins is up the stairs in an instant, and even taking off her bonnet as she hurries into the nursery.

The old lady bends her kind face over the little cot, where Effie is struggling and tossing for breath; and, as she meets the pathetic, appealing look on the child's anxious face, she turns and looks questioningly into the doctor's eyes. "It is that ? she says, "I know it is, doctor," and she hopes that he will contradict her.

But he does not. For a second his face tells nothing. Again she looks at the child, and once more appeals to the doctor. "Doctor," she says, "tell me. Is it so?" The doctor inclines his head, and, as he continues to treat the little patient, Mrs. Jenkins knows.

Still Effie tosses in her agony, and clings to Grace, and, between the spasms, she gasps, "Mamma!"

Mrs. Jenkins moves gently from the room, and, meeting Harold in the corridor, "Come, my son," she says. "Effie calls for her mother, and her mother is not here. You come," and, as the old lady passes into the room, "I fear," she says, "Effie will not call long."

"What is the matter?" asks Harold, anxiously, he had been out, and only just learned of the child's illness.

"Come, my boy. See!" and Harold follows his mother into the nursery.

As he sees the child gasping and struggling, a look of horror blanches his face. He does not see the glad, appealing look in the pained eyes of his little Effie. He is astonished at finding her thus, and too shocked to see anything but the struggling and gasping of his little daughter.

Turning, he grips the doctor tightly by the arm. "What is it?" he asks, nervously. "Tell me quickly."

"Diphtheria," Dr. Ferguson answers, and there is in his voice a sound of pity.

"Oh, it cannot be diphtheria. You mistake. How could she contract it? There is no one—"

"Is there no hope? Can you do nothing to ease that agony? Oh, doctor, do something."

Mrs. Jenkins wrings her hands in her agony as she looks at Effie's little white face, now grown almost purple.

Dr. Ferguson thinks for a moment, then whispers something to Mrs. Jenkins, and she hurries from the room.

"I have sent for Dr. O'Meara, the cleverest throat specialist we have," Dr. Ferguson explains. "He will be here soon. Ah, I hear his motor. He is here, thank God."

As Dr. O'Meara stands by the cot, Grace Moore's face grows white, and then a deep scarlet, for she recognises in him the playmate of her childhood—a neighbour from "Looranna."