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

felt the reverse of comfortable. What had happened to the man? She did not for a moment think that he could be dead; on the contrary, she pictured him alive and still more insane than the night before, still more desperate in his mind, still more darkly pursued by the grim phantom of revenge. Was Andy now so really insane that he had even forgotten his appointment with Nora? This was probably the case. But although the man was too insane to think of meeting the girl, he was probably not at all too insane to make another attempt on the Squire's life. He was perhaps so desperate now that his one idea was to carry out his revenge before he died. What was Nora to do? She thought and thought, and walked up to the house with more and more lagging footsteps. Finally she made up her mind. There was nothing whatever left for it but for her to sit up with the Squire that night; she herself must be his guardian angel, for he must not be alarmed, and yet most certainly he must be protected. Nora carefully considered this idea. She had made the little cabin quite ready for Andy's reception; he could creep into it once more, light his fire, eat his food, and lie down on the bed at least, as good as any other bed he had ever slumbered on; and if death came to him, it would find him in his old house, and perhaps God would forgive him, seeing that he was so desperate and life had been so hard. Yes, Nora felt that God was very merciful—far more merciful than man. But to-night—how was to-night to be got through? She had now reached the yard, and found herself face to face with Angus.

“Is there nothing I can do for you, miss?” said the young man, touching his hat respectfully to the girl.

“If you could be near somewhere, Angus, and if it were necessary, and we wanted the long cart to-night, could we get it?”

“You ask me, Miss Nora, what we could get and what we could not get at O'Shanaghgan,” answered Angus; “and I answer ye back that what ye want, Miss Nora, ye shall have, if it is the heart out of me body. The long cart, is it? To be sure, me pretty lady, and at a moment's notice, too. Why, it's meself will slape in the bottom of the long cart this blessed night, and all you has to do is to come and pull the front lock of me hair, and I'll be up in a jiffy. You give it a sharp tug, Miss Nora, for I slapes heavy; but if you come, the long cart and the powny will be there.”

“Then that's all right,” answered Nora.

She went into the barn. The Squire had now contrived to renew all his old accustomed habits. On the little wooden table was a small lamp which smoked badly; the local paper was laid on the table, and the pipe which the Squire best loved lay near. He had been enjoying a good smoke, and was thinking of turning in, as he expressed it, when Nora appeared.

“Good-night, father,” she said. She went up to him, and bent down over him, to give him her accustomed kiss.

“Why, then, it's sleepy I am,” said the Squire. “I am thinking of turning into bed. I am getting on fine; and Angus, boy that he is, always comes and gives me a helping hand on to my bed. I cannot see your face with the smoke of that lamp, mavoureen; but things are all right—aren't they?”

“That they are, father,” replied the girl; “but I am a little tired; and if Angus is coming to help you, and you do not want anything more from me, I will go to bed myself.”

“Do that,” said the Squire. “Your voice sounds peaky; you have been doing too much.”

Nora lingered another moment or two. How thankful she felt that that smoky lamp prevented her father reading the anxiety in her eyes! She could not keep all the tiredness out of her voice, but she could at least keep anxiety from it; and the Squire bade her a hearty goodnight, and parted with her with one of his usual jokes. Nora then went into the house. The hour for late dinner was over; she herself had not been present, but Molly had managed to appear as usual. Nora ran down to the kitchen premises. The cook, a very stately English woman, stared when she saw the young lady of the Castle appear in the great kitchen.

“What is it, Miss O'Shanaghgan?” she said, gazing at Nora all over. What did this wild and eccentric girl want? How was it possible that she could demean herself by coming so freely into the servants' premises?

“I want to know, Mrs. Shaw,” said Nora, “if you will oblige me?”

“Of course I will, Miss O'Shanaghgan; if I can.”

“Will you pack a little basket with some cold pie, and anything else tasty and nourishing which you have got; and will you put a tiny bottle of brandy into the basket, and also a bottle of water; and can I have it at once, for I am in a great hurry?”

“Well, there is a fresh pigeon pie in the larder,” answered the cook; “but why should you want it?”

“Oh! please, Mrs. Shaw,” answered Nora, “will you give it to me without asking questions? I will love you for all the rest of my life if you will.”

“Love me, is it?” thought the cook. “A pretty creature like that love me!”

“Your love is cheaply purchased, miss,” she said aloud, and then went without a word into the larder, and soon returned with a well-filled basket, which she placed in Nora's hand. “And I added some fruit, a little cup of jelly, and a knife and fork and a spoon, and some salt; but why you, Miss Nora, should need a picnic in the middle of the night beats me.”

“Remember our compact,” said Nora. “You say nothing of this, and—I love you;” and then, overcome by a sudden impulse, she bent forward and laid the lightest of kisses on the astonished Mrs. Shaw's forehead.

Mrs. Shaw felt slightly overawed. “Bless her! What a beautiful young lady she is!” thought the good woman. “But the ways of the Irish beat all comprehension.”