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

a moment and looked around her. Nora stopped also and when she saw her mother's eyes travel to the rambling old house, to the neglected lawn, the avenue overgrown with weeds, it seemed to her that a stab of the cruelest pain was penetrating her heart.

“Mother sees all the ugliness; she is determined to,” thought Nora; “but I see all the beauty. Oh! the dear, dear old place, it shan't go if Nora can save it.” Then, with a great effort, she controlled herself.

“How am I to go?” she said. “Where is the money to come from?”

“You need not question me on that point,” said Mrs. O'Shanaghgan. “I will provide the means.”

“Oh, mother!” said Nora; “no, I would rather stay.” But then she remembered all that this involved; she knew quite well that her mother had rifled the jewel-case; but as she had done so over and over again just for Terence's mere pleasure, might she not do so once more to save the old place?

“Very well,” she said demurely; “I won't ask any questions.”

“You had better not, for I have not the slightest idea of replying to them,” answered Mrs. O'Shanaghgan. “I shall write to your uncle to-day. You cannot go next week, however.”

“Oh! why not? He said Tuesday; he would meet me at Holyhead on Tuesday.”

“I will try and provide a fit escort for you to England; But you cannot go next Tuesday; your wardrobe forbids it,” answered Mrs. O'Shanaghgan.

“My wardrobe! Oh, mother, I really need not bother about clothes!”

“You may not bother about them, Nora; but I intend to,” replied Mrs. O'Shanaghgan. “I must buy you some suitable dress.”

“But how will you do it?”

“I have not been away from Castle O'Shanaghgan for a long time,” said Mrs. O'Shanaghgan, “and it will be a nice change for me. I shall take you to Dublin, and get you what things are necessary. I will then see you off on board the steamer.”

“But would not father be best?”

“Your father can come with us or not, just as he pleases; but I am the person who will see to your wardrobe for your English visit,” replied her mother.

Nora, excited, bewildered, charmed, had little or nothing to oppose to this plan. After all, her mother was coming out in a new light. How indifferent she had been about Nora's dress in the past! For Terence were the fashionable coats and the immaculate neckties and the nice gloves and the patent-leather boots. For Nora! Now and then an old dress of her mother's was cut down to fit the girl; but as a rule she wore anything she could lay hands on, made anyhow. It is true she was never grotesque like Biddy Murphy; but up to the present dress had scarcely entered at all as a factor into her life.

The next few days passed in a whirl of bewildered excitement. Mrs. O'Shanaghgan received, as she expected, by return of post, seventy pounds from the Dublin jeweler for her lovely diamond cross. This man was rapidly making his fortune out of poor Mrs. O'Shanaghgan, and he knew that he had secured a splendid bargain for himself when he bought the cross.

Mrs. O'Shanaghgan, therefore, with a full purse, could give directions to her household during her brief absence, and altogether was much brightened and excited at the thought of Nora's visit. She had written herself to her brother, saying that she would be very glad to spare her daughter, and giving him one or two hints with regard to Nora's manners and bringing up.

“The Irish have quite different ideas, my dear brother,” she wrote, “with regard to etiquette to those which were instilled into us; but you will bear patiently with my little wild Irish girl, for she has a very true heart, and is also, I think you will admit, nice-looking.”

Mr. Hartrick, who read between the lines of his sister's letter, wrote to say that business would bring him to Holyhead on the following Tuesday week also, and, therefore, it would be quite convenient for him to meet Nora on that day.

The evening before she was to depart arrived at last. The Squire had spent a busy day. From the moment when Nora had told him that her mother had provided funds, and that she was to go to England, he had scarcely reverted to the matter. In truth, with that curious Irish phase in his character which is more or less the inheritance of every member of his country, he contrived to put away the disagreeable subject even from his thoughts. He was busy, very busy, attending to his farm and riding round his establishment. He was still hoping against hope that some money would come in his way long before the three months were up, when the mortgagee would foreclose on his property. He was not at all unhappy, and used to enter his house singing lustily or whistling loudly. Nora sometimes wondered if he also forgot how soon she was going to leave him. His first call when he entered the house had always been “Light o' the Morning, where are you? Come here, asthore; the old dad has returned,” or some such expression. It came to the excited girl's heart with a pang how he would miss her when she was no longer there; how he would call for her in vain, and feel bewildered for a moment, and then remember that she was far away.

“But I shan't be long away,” she thought; “and when I come back and save him and the old place, oh, how glad he will be! He will indeed then think me his Light o' the Morning, for I shall have saved him and the old home.”

But the last evening came, and Nora considered whether she ought to recall the fact that she was going away, perhaps for a couple of months, to her father. He came in as usual, sat down heavily on the nearest settee, and stretched out his long legs.

“I wonder if I am getting old?” he said. “I declare I feel a bit tired. Come along here, Nora, and cheer me up. What news have you this evening, little woman?”

“Oh, father! don't you know?”

“Well, your eyes look bright enough. What is it, girleen?”

“I am going away to Dublin to-morrow.”

“You? Bless you! so you are,” said the Squire, with a hearty laugh. “Upon my soul I forgot all about it. Well, and you are going to have a good time, and you'll forget the old dad—eh?—you'll forget all about the old dad?”

“Father, father, you know better,” said Nora—she flung her arms round his neck and laid her soft cheek against his—“as if I could ever forget you for a single moment,” she said.

“I know it, a-colleen; I know it, heart's asthore. Of course you won't. I am right glad you are going; it will be a nice change for you. And what about the bits of duds—eh?—and the pretty trinkets? Why, you'll be going into grand society; you'll be holding your little head like a queen. Don't you forget, my pet, that you're Irish through and through, and that you come of a long line of brave ancestors. The women of