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

“Ah, then,” he said; “it's this will do the masther good. Oh, then, Miss Nora, it's you that has the 'cute ways.”

A tarpaulin was found and laid upon the floor. From Hannah's cottage a small deal table was fetched. A washstand was given by Angus; a cracked basin and jug were further secured; and Nora gave implicit directions with regard to the boiling of the mealy potatoes and the little scrap of bacon on which the Squire was to sup.

“You will bring them in—the potatoes, I mean—in their jackets,” said the Irish girl, “and have them hot as hot can be.”

“They shall screech, that they shall,” replied Hannah; “and the bacon, it shall be done as tasty and sweet as bacon can be. I'll give the last bit of my own little pigeen, with all the heart in the world, for the Squire's supper.”

Accordingly, when the long cart arrived from Cronane, accompanied by the Squire and his factotum, Mike, the barn was ready to receive the bedstead, the straw paillasse, and the mattress. Nora managed to convey, from the depths of the Castle, sheets, blankets, pillows, and a counterpane, and everything was in apple-pie order by the time the family was supposed to assemble for afternoon tea. This was the hour that Nora had selected for having the Squire removed from his feather-bed existence to the more breezy life of the barn. It was now the fashion at O'Shanaghgan to make quite a state occasion of afternoon tea. The servants, in their grand livery, were all well to the fore. Mrs. O'Shanaghgan, dressed as became the lady of so beautiful a place, sat in her lovely drawing room to receive her guests; and the guests came up in many conveyances—some in carriages, some on outside cars, some on dog-carts, some on foot; but, come as they would, they came, day after day, to show their respects to the lady whom now the whole country delighted to honor.

On these occasions Mr. Hartrick sat with his sister, and helped her to entertain her visitors. It had been one of the sore points between Nora and her mother that the former would not appear to afternoon tea. Nora had made her sick father her excuse. On the present occasion she took good care not even to show her face inside the house. But Molly kept watch, just behind the plantation, and soon rushed into the yard to say that the carriages were beginning to appear.

“A curious party have come just now,” said Molly, “in such a droll carriage, with yellow wheels and a glass body. It looks like a sort of a Lord Mayor's coach.”

“Why, it must be the coach of the O'Rorkes,” cried Nora. “Fancy Madam coming to see mother! Why, Madam will scarcely pay a visit to royalty itself. There is no doubt that mother is thought a lot of now. Oh, dear, oh, dear, what a frightfully society life we shall have to lead here in future! But I have no time to think of mother and her friends just now. Squire, will you come upstairs with me to see father? Hannah, please wait down here to be ready to help? Angus, you must also come upstairs, and wait in the passage outside the Squire's room until I send for you.”

Having given her directions, Nora entered the house. All was quiet and peaceful. The well trained English servants were, some of them, in the kitchen premises, and some of them attending in the hall and drawing rooms, where the guests were now arriving thick and fast. Nora had chosen her hour well. She entered her father's room, accompanied by Squire Murphy.

The old Squire was lying, half-dozing, in his luxurious bed. The fire had been recently built up. The room felt close.

“Ah, dear!” said Squire Murphy, “it is difficult to breathe here! And how's yourself, O'Shanaghgan, my man? Why, you do look drawn and pulled down. I am right glad to see ye, that I am.”

The Squire of Cronane grasped the hand of the Squire of O'Shanaghgan, and the Squire of O'Shanaghgan looked up at the other man's weather-beaten face with a pathetic expression in his deep-set, hawk-like, dark eyes.

“I am bad, Murphy—very bad,” said the Squire; “it's killing me they are amongst them.”

“Why, then, it looks like it,” said Squire Murphy. “I never was in such a smotheration of a place before. Faix, then, why don't you have the window open, and have a bit of air circulating through the room?”

“It's forbid I am,” said the Squire. “Ah, Murphy! it's killing me, it's killing me.”

“But it shall kill you no longer, father,” said Nora. “Oh, father! Squire Murphy and I have made up such a lovely, delicious plan. What would you say to a big, bare room again, father; and a hard bed again, father; and potatoes and a pinch of salt and a little bit of bacon again, father?”

“What would I say?” cried the Squire. “I'd say, glory be to Heaven, and all the Saints be praised; but it is too good luck to be true.”

“Not a bit of it,” said Squire Murphy; “it is going to be true. You just do what you are bid, and you will be in the hoight of contentment.”

The wonder-stricken Squire now had to listen to Nora's plan.

“We have done it,” she cried, in conclusion; “the barn is ready. It makes a lovely bedroom; there are no end of draughts, and you'll get well in a jiffy.”

“Then let's be quick,” said the Squire, “or your lady-mother will be up and prevent me. Hurry, Nora, for Heaven's sake! For the life of me, don't give me a cup of cold water to taste, and then dash it from my lips. If we are not quick, we'll be caught and prevented from going. I am ready; wrap me up in a rug, and carry me out. I am ready and willing. Good-by to feather bed-dom. I don't want ever to see these fal-lals again.”

The next few moments were ones of intense excitement; but before ten minutes had elapsed the Squire was lying in the middle of the hard bed, gazing round him with twinkling eyes and a smile on his lips. The appearance of Hannah Croneen, with a dish of steaming potatoes and a piece of boiled bacon, was the final crown to his rapture.