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

“What are you looking so grave for?” she said, glancing up at Nora. “I declare you're too stately for anything, Nora O'Shanaghgan! You stand there, and I know you criticise me.”

“No; I love you too much,” replied Nora. “You are Biddy Murphy, one of my greatest friends.”

“Ah, it's sweet to hear her,” said Biddy.

“But, all the same,” continued Nora, “I don't like that dress, and it's terribly unsuitable. You don't look ladylike in it.”

“Ladylike, and I with the blood of——”

“Oh, don't begin that,” said Nora; “every time I see you you mention that fact. I have not the slightest doubt that the old kings were ruffians, and dressed abominably.”

“If you dare,” said Biddy. She rushed up to the bed, dragged out her pillow, and held it in a warlike attitude. “Another word about my ancestors, and this will be at your devoted head!” she cried.

Nora burst into a merry laugh.

“There, now, that's better,” said Biddy. She dropped the pillow and proceeded with her toilet. The dirty skirt with its tawdry flounces was surmounted by a bodice of the same material, equally unsuitable.

Biddy brushed out her mop of jet-black hair, which grew in thick curls all over her head and stood out like a mop round her shoulders. She was a plain girl, with small, very black eyes, a turned-up nose, and a wide mouth; but there was an irresistible expression of drollery in her face, and when she laughed, showing her milk-white teeth, there were people who even thought her attractive. Nora really loved her, although the two, standing side by side, were, as far as appearances were concerned, as the poles asunder.

“Now, come along,” said Biddy. “I know I look perfectly charming. Oh, what a sweet, sweet blue it is, and these ducky little flounces! It was Aunt Mary O'Flannagan sent me this dress at Christmas. She wore it at a fancy ball, and said it might suit me. It does, down to the ground. Let me drop a courtesy to you, Nora O'Shanaghgan. Oh, how proper we look! But I don't care! Now I'm not afraid to face anyone—why, the old kings would have been proud of me. Come along—do.”

She caught Nora's hand; they dashed down the wide, carpetless stairs, crossed a huge hall, and entered a room which was known as the drawing room at Cronane. It was an enormous apartment, but bore the same traces of neglect and dirt which the whole of the rest of the house testified to. The paper on the walls was moldy in patches, and in one or two places it had detached itself from the wall and fell in great sheets to the ground. One loose piece of paper was tacked up with two or three huge tacks, and bulged out, swaying with the slightest breeze. The carpet, which covered the entire floor, was worn threadbare; but, to make up for these defects, there were cabinets of the rarest and most exquisite old china, some of the pieces being worth fabulous sums. Vases of the same china adorned the tall marble mantelpiece, and stood on brackets here and there about the room. There were also some exquisite and wonderfully carved oak, a Queen Anne sofa, and several spindle-legged chairs. An old spinet stood in a distant window, and the drab moreen curtains had once been handsome.

Standing on the hearth, with his elbow resting on the marble mantelpiece close to a unique vase of antique design, stood Squire O'Shanaghgan. He was talking in pleasant and genial tones to Mrs. Murphy, a podgy little woman, with a great likeness to Biddy.

Mrs. Murphy wore a black alpaca dress and a little three-cornered knitted shawl across her shoulders. She had gray hair, which curled tightly like her daughter's; on top of it was a cap formed of rusty black velvet and equally rusty black lace. She looked much excited at the advent of the Squire, and her cheeks testified to the fact by the brightness of their color.

Mr. Murphy was doing penance opposite to Mrs. O'Shanaghgan. He was dreadfully afraid of that stately lady, and was glancing nervously round at his wife and the Squire from moment to moment.

“Yes, madam,” he was saying, “it's turnips we are going to plant in that field just yonder. We have had a very good crop of hay too. It is a fine season, and the potatoes promise to be a sight for sore eyes.”

“I hate the very name of that root,” said Mrs. O'Shanaghgan in her most drawling tones.

“Why, then, ma'am, you don't say so,” answered Murphy; “it seems hard on the poor things that keep us all going. The potheen and the potatoes—what would Ireland be without 'em? Glory be to goodness, it's quite awful to hear you abusing the potato, ma'am.”

“I am English, you know,” said Mrs. O'Shanaghgan.

On this scene Nora and Biddy entered. Mr. Murphy glanced with intense relief at his daughter. Mrs. O'Shanaghgan slightly raised her brows. It was the faintest of movements, but the superciliousness of the action smote upon Nora, who colored painfully.

Biddy, taking her courage in her hand, went straight up to the august lady.

“How do you do?” she said.

Mrs. O'Shanaghgan extended her hand with a limp action.

“Oh, dear!” panted Biddy.

“What is up, my dear Bridget?” said her mother, turning round and looking at her daughter. “Oh, to goodness, what have you put that on for? It's your very best Sunday-go-to-meeting dress, and you won't have another, I can tell you, for six months.”

“There now, mother, hush, do,” said Biddy. “I have put it on for a purpose. Why, then, it's sweet I want to make myself, and I believe it's sweet I look. Oh, there's the mirror; let me gaze at myself.”

She crossed the room, and stood in front of a long glass, examining her unsuitable dress from the front and side; and then, being thoroughly satisfied with the elegance of appearance, she went back and stood in front of Mrs. O'Shanaghgan.

“It's a request I want to make of you, ma'am,” she said.

“Well, Biddy, I will listen to it if you will ask me properly,” said Mrs. O'Shanaghgan.

“Yes, to be sure,” said Biddy. “How shall I say it?”

“Speak quietly, my dear.”

“Yes, Biddy, I do wish you would take pattern by Nora, and by Mrs. O'Shanaghgan,” said Mrs. Murphy, who in her heart of hearts envied Mrs. O'Shanaghgan's icy manners, and thought them the most perfect in all the world. She was in mortal fear of this good lady, even more terrified of her than her husband was.

“Well, Biddy,” said Mrs. O'Shanaghgan.

“May Nora come and spend tomorrow night here?”

“No,” was on Mrs. O'Shanaghgan's lips; but just then the Squire came forward.

“To be sure she may; it will do her a sight of good.