Light O' the Morning: The Story of an Irish Girl by L. T. Meade (best ereader for pdf .TXT) 📗

“I must send to Dublin for some better tea,” she said, looking at the Squire. “Can you let me have a pound after breakfast, Pat? I may as well order a small chest while I am about it.”

The Squire looked at her with lack-luster eyes. Where had he got one pound for tea? But he said nothing.

Just then the gossoon Mike was seen passing the window with the post-bag hung over his shoulder. Mike was the postman in general for the O'Shanaghgan household for the large sum of twopence a week. He went daily to fetch the letters, and received his money proudly each Saturday night. Nora now jumped up from the table.

“The letters!” she gasped.

Mrs. O'Shanaghgan surveyed her daughter critically.

“Sit down again, Nora,” she said. “What is the matter with you? You know I don't allow these manners at table.”

“But it is the post, mammy,” said the girl.

“Well, my dear, if you will be patient, Margaret will bring the post in.”

Nora sat down again, trembling. Mrs. O'Shanaghgan gave her a cold stare, and helped herself languidly to a small snippet of leathery toast.

“Our cook gets worse and worse,” she said as she broke it. “Dear, dear! I think I must make a change. I have heard of an excellent cook just about to leave some people of the name of Wilson in the town. They are English people, which accounts for their having a good servant.”

At that moment the redoubtable Pegeen did thrust in her head, holding the post-bag at arm's length away from her.

“Here's the post, Miss Nora,” she said; “maybe you'll fetch it, miss. I'm a bit dirty.”

Nora could not restrain herself another moment. She rushed across the room, seized the bag, and laid it by her father's side. As a rule, the post-bag was quickly opened, and its small contents dispersed. These consisted of the local paper for the Squire, which was always put up with the letters, a circular or two, and, at long intervals, a letter for Mrs. O'Shanaghgan, and perhaps one from an absent friend for the Squire. No one was excited, as a rule, about the post at the Castle, and Nora's ill-suppressed anxiety was sufficiently marked now to make even her father look at her in some surprise. To the girl's relief, her mother unexpectedly came to the rescue.

“She thinks, perhaps, Terence will write,” she said; “but I told him not to worry himself writing too often. Stamps cost money, and the boy will need every penny to keep up a decent appearance at my brother's.”

“All the same, perhaps he will be an Irish boy enough to write a letter to his own sister,” said the Squire. “So here goes; we'll look and see if there is anything inside here for you, my little Norrie.”

The Squire unlocked the bag and emptied the contents on the table. They were very meager contents; nothing but the newspaper and one letter. The Squire took it up and looked at it.

“Here we are,” he said; “it is for you, my dear.”

“For me,” said Mrs. O'Shanaghgan, holding out her hand. “Pass it across, Nora.”

“No, it is not for you, my lady, as it happens. It is for Nora. Here, Norrie, take it.”

Nora took it up. She was shivering now, and her hand could scarcely hold it. It was addressed to her, beyond doubt: “Miss O'Shanaghgan, Castle O'Shanaghgan,” etc.

“Read it at once, Nora,” said her mother. “I have not yet had any letter to speak of from Terry myself. If you read it aloud it will entertain us. It seems to be a thick letter.”

“I don't think—I don't think it—it is from Terence,” answered Nora.

“Nonsense, my dear.”

“Open it, Norrie, and tell us,” said the Squire. “It will be refreshing to hear a bit of outside news.”

Nora now opened the envelope, and took a very thick sheet of paper out. The contents of the letter ran as follows:

“My Dear Nora—Your brother Terence came here a week ago, and has told us a great deal about you. We are enjoying having him extremely; but he has made us all anxious to know you also. I write now to ask if you will come and pay us a visit at once, while your brother is here. Ask your mother to spare you. You can return with Terence whenever you are tired of us and our ways. I have business at Holyhead next Tuesday, and could meet you there, if you could make it convenient to cross that day. I inclose a paper with the hours that the boats leave, and when they arrive at Holyhead. I could then take you up with me to London, and we could reach here that same evening. Ask my sister to spare you. You will be heartily welcome, my little Irish niece.—Your affectionate uncle,

“George Hartrick.”

Nora could scarcely read the words aloud. When she had finished she let the sheet of paper flutter to the floor, and looked at her mother with glowing cheeks and sparkling eyes.

“I may go? I must go,” she said.

“My dear Nora,” said Mrs. O'Shanaghgan, “why that must?”

“Oh, mammy! oh, daddy! don't disappoint me,” cried the girl. “Do—do let me go, please, please.”

“Nora,” said Mrs. O'Shanaghgan again, “I never saw you so unreasonable in your life; you are quite carried away. Your uncle, after long years, has condescended to send you an invitation, and you speak in this impulsive, unrestrained fashion. Of course, it would be extremely nice for you to go; but I doubt for a single moment if it can be afforded.”

“Oh, daddy, daddy! please take my part!” cried Nora. “Please let me go, daddy—oh, daddy!” She rushed up to her father, flung her arms round his neck, and burst into tears.

Mrs. O'Shanaghgan rose from the table in cold displeasure. “Give me your uncle's letter,” she said.

Nora did not glance at her; she was past speaking. So much hung on this; all the future of the O'Shanaghgans; the Castle, the old Castle, the home of her ancestors, the place in which she was born, the land she loved, the father she adored—all, all their future hung upon Nora's accepting the invitation which she had asked her uncle to give her. Oh! if they ever found out, what would her father and mother say? Would they ever speak to her again? But they must not find out, and she must go; yes, she must go.

“What is it, Nora? Do leave her alone for a moment, wife,” said the Squire. “There is something behind all this. I never saw Light o' the Morning give way to pure selfishness before.”

“It isn't—it isn't,” sobbed Nora, her head buried on the Squire's shoulder.

“My