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

Terence made his appearance at the tea table. In every respect he was a contrast to Nora. He was very good-looking—strikingly handsome, in fact; tall, with a graceful elegance of deportment which was in striking contrast to the burly figure of the old Squire. His face was of a nut-brown hue; his eyes dark and piercing; his features straight. Young as he was, there were the first indications of a black silky mustache on his short upper lip, and his clustering black curls grew in a high ridge off a lofty brow. Terence had the somewhat languid air which more or less characterized all his mother's movements. He was devoted to her, and took his seat now by her side. She laid her very thin and slender hand on his arm. He did not respond by look or movement to the gesture of affection; but had a very close observer been present he would have noticed that he drew his chair about the tenth of an inch nearer to hers.

Nora and her father at the other end of the table were chattering volubly. Nora's face was all smiles; every vestige of that little cloud which had sat between her dark brows a few moments before had vanished. Her blue eyes were sparkling with fun.

The Squire made brilliant sally after sally, to which she responded with all an Irish girl's aptitude for repartee.

Terence and his mother conversed in low tones.

“Yes, mother,” he was saying, “I had a letter from Uncle George this morning; he wants me to go next week. Do you think you can manage?”

“How long will you be away, Terence?”

“I don't know; a couple of months, perhaps.”

“How much money will it cost?”

“I shall want an evening suit, and a new dress-suit, and something for everyday. These things are disgraceful,” said the lad, just glancing at the frayed coat-sleeve, beneath which showed a linen cuff of immaculate whiteness.

Terence was always the personification of fastidiousness in his dress, and for this trait in his character alone Mrs. O'Shanaghgan adored him.

“You shall have it,” she said—“somehow.”

“Well, I must reply tonight,” he continued. “Shall I ask the governor, or will you?”

“We won't worry him, Terry; I can manage.”

He looked at her a little anxiously.

“You are not going to sell any more of them?” he said.

“There is a gold chain and that diamond ring; I never wear either. I would fifty times rather think that you were enjoying yourself with my relations in England. You are fitted to grace any society. Do not say another word, my boy.”

“You are the very best and noblest mother in the world,” said the lad with enthusiasm.

Meanwhile, Nora and her father continued their gay conversation.

“We will take a basket with us,” said Nora, “and Bridget shall give me a couple of dozen more of those little brown eggs. Mrs. Perch shall have a brood of chicks if I can manage it.”

“Trust the girleen for that,” said the Squire, and then they rose from table.

“Ellen,” he continued, addressing his wife, “have you and Terence done colloguing together? for I hear Black Bess coming to the front door.”

“Oh, hasten, mother; hasten!” said Nora. “The mare won't stand waiting; she is so fresh she is just ready to fly.”

The next few moments witnessed a scene of considerable bustle. Mrs. O'Shanaghgan, with all her English nerves, had plenty of pluck, and would scorn to show even a vestige of fear before the hangers-on, as she called the numerous ragged urchins who appeared from every quarter on each imaginable occasion. Although she was shaking from head to foot with absolute terror at the thought of a drive behind Black Bess, she stepped into her seat in the tall dog-cart without a remark. The mare fidgeted and half reared.

“Whoa! whoa! Black Bess, my beauty!” said the Squire. The groom, a bright-faced lad, with a wisp of yellow hair falling over his forehead, held firmly to the reins. Nora jumped up beside her mother.

“Are you going to drive?” asked that lady.

“Yes, mummy; you know I can. Whoa, Black Bess! it's me,” said the girl. She took the reins in her capable little hands; the Squire sprang up behind, and Black Bess flew down the avenue as if on the wings of the wind.

Mrs. O'Shanaghgan gave one hurried pant of suppressed anguish, and then sat perfectly still, her lips set, her hands tightly locked together. She endured these drives almost daily, but had never yet got accustomed to them. Nora, on the contrary, as they spun through the air, felt her spirits rising; the hot young blood coursed through her veins, and her eyes blazed with fun and happiness. She looked back at her father, who nodded to her briefly.

“That's it, Nora; keep her well in. Now that we are going uphill you can give her her head a bit. Whoa, Black Bess! Whoa!”

The mare, after her first wild canter, settled into a more jog-trot gait, and the dog-cart did not sway so violently from side to side. They were soon careering along a wide, well-made road, which ran for many miles along the top of some high cliffs. Below them, at their feet, the wild Atlantic waves curled and burst in innumerable fountains of spray; the