Light O' the Morning: The Story of an Irish Girl, L. T. Meade [drm ebook reader txt] 📗

she left O'Shanaghgan that she could help her father out of his scrape. It was almost impossible to break through these chains of propriety, of neatness, of order. Would anybody in this trim household care in the very least whether the old Irishman broke his heart or not? whether he and the Irish girl had to go forth from the home of their ancestors? whether the wild, beautiful, rack-rent sort of place was kept in the family or not?

“They none of them care,” thought Nora. “I don't believe Uncle George will do anything; but all the same I have got to ask him. He was nice about my letter, I will own that; but will he really, really help?”

“A penny for your thoughts, Nora, my dear,” said Mrs. Hartrick at this moment.

Nora glanced up with a guilty flush.

“Oh, I was only thinking,” she began.

“Yes, dear, what about?”

“About father.” Nora colored as she spoke, and Linda fixed her eyes on her face.

“Very pretty indeed of you, my dear, to think so much of your father,” said Mrs. Hartrick; “but I cannot help giving you a hint. It is not considered good manners for a girl to be absent-minded while she is in public. You are more or less in public now; I am here, and your cousins, and it is our bounden duty each to try and make the others pleasant, to add to the enjoyment of the meal by a little graceful conversation. Absent-mindedness is very dull for others, my dear Nora; so in future try not to look quite so abstracted.”

Nora colored again. Molly, at the other end of the table, bit her lip furiously, and stretched out her hand to help herself to another thick piece of bread and butter. In doing so she upset a small milk-jug; a stream of milk flowed down the tablecloth, and Mrs. Hartrick rose in indignation.

“This is the fourth evening running you have spilt something on the tablecloth, Molly. Go to your room immediately.”

Molly rose, dropped a mocking courtesy to her mother, and left the room.

“Linda dear, run after your sister, and tell her that, for her impertinence to me, she is to remain in her room until dinner-time.”

“Oh! please forgive her this time; she didn't mean it really,” burst from Nora's lips.

“Nora!” said Mrs. Hartrick.

“Oh! I am sorry for her; please forgive her.”

“Nora!” repeated her aunt again.

“It is because you do not understand her that she goes on like that; she is such a fine girl, twice—twice as fine as Linda. Oh, I do wish you would forgive her!”

“Thank you,” said Linda in a mocking voice. She had got as far as the door, and had overheard Nora's words. She now glanced at her mother, as much as to say, “I told you so,” and left the room.

Nora had jumped to her feet. She had forgotten prudence; she had forgotten politeness; her eyes were bright with suppressed fire, and her glib Irish tongue was eager to enter into the fray.

“I must speak out,” she said. “Molly is more like me than anybody else in this house, and I must take her part. She would be a very, very good girl if she were understood.”

“What are your ideas with regard to understanding Molly?” said Mrs. Hartrick in that very calm and icy voice which irritated poor Nora almost past endurance. She was speechless for a moment, struggling with fresh emotion.

“Oh! I wish——” she began.

“And I wish, my dear Nora, that you would remember the politeness due to your hostess. I also wish that you would consider how very silly you are when you speak as you are now doing. I do not know what your Irish habits are; but if it is considered in Ireland rather a virtue than otherwise to spill a milk jug, and allow the contents to deface the tablecloth, I am sorry for you, that is all.”

“You cannot understand. I—I am sorry I came,” said Nora.

She burst into sudden tears, and ran out of the room. In a few moments Linda came back.

“Molly is storming,” she said; “she is in an awful rage.”

“Sit down, Linda, and don't tell tales of your sister,” answered Mrs. Hartrick in an annoyed voice.

“Dear me, mother!” said Linda; “and where is Nora?”

“Nora is a very impertinent little girl. She is wild, however, and unbroken. We must all have patience with her. Poor child! it is terrible to think that she is your father's niece. What a contrast to dear Terence! He is a very nice, polite boy. I am sorry for Nora. Of course, as to Molly, she is quite different. She has always had the advantage of my bringing-up; whereas poor Nora—well, I must say I am surprised at my sister-in-law. I did not think your father's sister would have been so remiss.”

“There is one thing I ought to say,” said Linda.

“What is that, dear? Linda, do sit up straight, and don't poke your head.”

Linda drew herself up, and looked prettily toward her mother.

“What do you wish to say?”

“It is this. I think Nora will be a very bad companion for Molly. Molly will be worse than ever that Nora is in the house.”

“Well, my dear Linda, it is your duty to be a good deal with your cousin. You are too fond of poking holes in others; you are a little hard upon your sister Molly. I do not wish to excuse Molly; but it is not your place as her younger sister to, as it were, rejoice in her many faults.”

“Oh, I don't, mother,” said Linda, coloring.

“Linda dear, I am afraid you do. You must try and break yourself of that very unchristian habit. But, on the whole, my dear, I am pleased with you. You are careful to do what I wish; you learn your lessons correctly; I have good reports of you from your schoolmistresses; and if you are careful, my dear, you will correct those little habits which mar the perfect whole.”

“Thank you, dear mother,” said Linda. “I will try to do what you wish.”

“What I particularly want you to do just now is to be gentle and patient with your cousin; you must remember that she has never had your advantages. Be with her a good deal; talk to her as nicely as you can; hint to her what I wish. Of course, if she becomes quite incorrigible, it will be impossible for me to have her long with you and Molly; but the child is much to be pitied; she is a very pretty creature, and with a little care could be made most presentable. I by no means give her up.”

“Dear mother, how sweetly Christian-like and forgiving you