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

“Is the brougham outside, Dennis?” was Mr. Hartrick's response.

“Yes, sir; it has been waiting for half an hour; the train is a bit late, as usual, sir.”

“You need not tell me that this train is ever in time,” said Mr. Hartrick. “Well, girls, come along; I told Dennis to meet us, and here we are.”

Molly thought nothing at all of the neat brougham, with its pair of spirited grays; she was accustomed to driving in the better-class of carriage all her life; but Nora turned first pale and then crimson. She got into the carriage, and sat back in a corner; tears were brimming to her eyes.

“This is the first. How am I to bear all the rest?” she said to herself.

Mr. Hartrick, who had hoped that Nora would be pleased with the brougham, with Dennis himself, with the whole very stylish get-up, was mortified at her silence, and, taking her hand, tried to draw her out.

“Well, little girl,” he said, “I hope you will like the improvements I have made in the Castle. I have done it all at your instigation, remember.”

“At my instigation?” cried Nora. “Oh, no, Uncle George, that you have not.”

He looked at her in some amazement, then closed his lips, and said nothing more. Molly longed to get her father alone, in order to explain Nora's peculiar conduct.

“It is difficult for an Englishman to understand her,” thought Molly. “I do, and I think her altogether charming; but father, who has gone to this enormous expense and trouble, will be put out if she does not show a little gratitude. I will tell her that she must; I will take the very first opportunity.”

And now they were turning in at the well-known gates. These gates were painted white, whereas they had been almost reduced to their native wood. The avenue was quite tidy, no weeds anywhere; but Nora almost refused to look out. One by one the familiar trees seemed to pass by her as she was bowled rapidly along in the new brougham, as if they were so many ghosts saying good-by. But then there was the roar—the real, real, grand roar—of the Atlantic in her ears. No amount of tidiness, nothing could ever alter that sound.

“Oh, hurrah for the sea!” she said. She flung down the window and popped out her head.

Mr. Hartrick nodded to Molly. “She will see a great deal more to delight her than just the old ocean,” he said.

Molly was silent. They arrived at the house; the butler was standing on the steps, a nice, stylish-looking Englishman, in neat livery. He came down, opened the carriage door, let down the steps, and offered his arm to Nora to alight; but she pushed past him, bounded up the steps, and the next moment found herself in her mother's arms.

“How do you do, my dear Nora?” said Mrs. O'Shanaghgan. “I am glad to see you, dear, but also surprised. You acted in your usual headstrong fashion.”

“Oh, another time, mother. Mummy, how are you? I am glad to see you again; but don't scold me now; just wait. I'll bear it all patiently another time. How is the dad, mummy?—how is the dad?”

“Your father is doing nicely, Nora; there was not the slightest occasion for you to hurry off and give such trouble and annoyance.”

“I don't suppose I have given annoyance to father,” said Nora. “Where is he—in his old room?”

“No; we moved him upstairs to the best bedroom. We thought it the wisest thing to do; he was in considerable pain.”

“The best bedroom? Which is the best bedroom?” said Nora. “Your room, mummy?”

“The room next to mine, darling. And just come and have a look at the drawing room, Nora.”

“I will go to father first,” said Nora. “Don't keep me; I can't stay.”

She forgot Molly; she forgot her uncle; she even forgot her mother. In a moment she was bounding upstairs over those thick Axminster carpets—those awful carpets, into which her feet sank—down a corridor, also heavily lined with Axminster, past great velvet curtains, which seemed to stifle her as she pushed them aside, and the next instant she had burst open a door.

In the old days this room had been absolutely destitute of furniture. In the older days again it had been the spare room of Castle O'Shanaghgan. Here hospitality had reigned; here guests of every degree had found a hearty welcome, an invitation to stay as long as they pleased, and the best that the Castle could afford for their accommodation. When Nora had left O'Shanaghgan, the only thing that had remained in the old room was a huge four-poster. Even the mattress from this old bed had been removed; the curtains had been taken from the windows; the three great windows were bare of both blinds and curtains. Now a soft carpet covered the entire floor; a neat modern Albert bed stood in a recess; there were heavy curtains to the windows, and Venetian blinds, which were so arranged as to temper the light. But the light of the sunset had already faded, and it was twilight when Nora popped her wild, excited little face round the door.

In the bed lay a gaunt figure, unshaven, with a beard of a week's growth. Two great eyes looked out of caverns, then two arms were stretched out, and Nora was clasped to her father's breast.

“Ah, then, I have you again; may God be praised for all His mercies,” said the Squire in a great, deep hoarse voice.

Nora lay absolutely motionless for nearly half a minute in his arms, then she raised herself.

“Ah,” she said, “that was good. I hungered for it.”

“And I also hungered for it, my darling,” said the Squire. “Let me look at you, Light o' the Morning; get a light somehow, and let me see your bonny, bonny, sweet, sweet face.”

“Ah, there's a fire in the grate,” said Nora. “Are there any matches?”

“Matches, bedad!” said the Squire; “there's everything that's wanted. It's perfectly horrible. They are in a silver box, too, bedad! What do we want with it? Twist up a bit of paper, do, Nora, like a good girl, and light the glim the old way.”

Nora caught at her father's humor at once. She had already flung off her hat and jacket.

“To be sure I will,” she said, “and with all the heart in the world.” She tore a long strip from the local paper, which was lying on a chair near by, twisted it, lit it in the fire, and then applied it to a candle.

“Only light one candle, for the love of heaven, child,” said the Squire. “I don't want to see too many of the fal-lals. Now then, that's better; bring the light up to the bed. Oh, what I have suffered with curtains, and carpets, and—-”

“It's too awful, father,” said Nora.