Light O' the Morning: The Story of an Irish Girl by L. T. Meade (best chinese ebook reader .TXT) 📕

she not? She had spoken often of her passionate love for music. Miss Goring took her into the drawing room, away from the other girls.

“I am not supposed to be musical,” she said, “but I think I know music when I hear it. If you have talent, you shall have plenty of advantages here. Now, sit down and play something for me.”

“What! At that piano?” said Nora, her eyes sparkling. Miss Goring had opened a magnificent Broadwood grand.

“Yes,” she said. “It is rather daring of me to bring you here; but I want you to have fair play.”

“I never played on a really good piano in my life,” said Nora. “May I venture?”

“Yes. I do not believe you will injure it.”

“May I play as loud as I like, and as soft as I like?”

“Certainly. You may play exactly as you please; only play with all your heart. You will be taught scientific music doubtless; but I want to know what you can do without education, at present.”

Nora sat down. At first she felt a little shy, and all her surroundings were so strange, the piano was so big; she touched it with her small, taper fingers, and it seemed to her that the deep, soft notes were going to overpower her. Then she looked at Miss Goring and felt uncomfortable; but she touched the notes again, and she began to forget the room, and Miss Goring, and the grand piano; and the soul of music stood in her eyes and touched the tips of her fingers. The music was quite unclassical, quite unconventional; but it was music—a wild kind of wailing chant—the notes of the Banshee itself. Nora played on, and the tears filled her eyes and streamed down her cheeks.

“Oh, it hurts so!” she said at last, and she looked full up at Miss Goring. Behold, the cold, gray eyes of the English teacher were also full of tears.

“You terrify me,” she said. “Where did you hear anything like that?”

“That is the wail of the Banshee. Shall I play any more?”

“Nothing more so eerie.”

“Then may I sing for you?”

“Can you sing?”

“I was never taught; but I think I can sing.” Nora struck a few chords again. She sang the pathetic words, “She is Far from the Land,” and Miss Goring felt the tears filling her eyes once more.

“Upon my word!” she said, as she led her pupil back to the schoolroom, “you can play and you can sing; you have music in you. It would be worth while to give you good lessons.”

Nora's musical education was now taken up with vigor. Miss Goring spoke to Miss Flowers about it, and Miss Flowers communicated with Mrs. Hartrick; and Mrs. Hartrick was extremely pleased to find that she had a musical genius in her midst, and determined to give that same musical genius every chance. Accordingly, the very best master in the school arranged to give Nora lessons, and a mistress of striking ability took her also in hand. Nora's wild music, the music that came from her heart, and the song that bubbled from her lips, were absolutely silenced. She must not sing at will; she must on no account play at will. The dullest of exercises were given to her for the purpose of molding her fingers, and the dullest of voice exercises were also given to her for the purpose of molding her voice. She struggled against the discipline, and hated it. She was essentially a child of nature, and this first putting on of the chains of education was the reverse of pleasant.

“Oh, Molly,” she said, “what is the good of singing those hateful, screaming exercises, and those scales? They are too detestable, and those little twists and turns. My fingers absolutely feel quite nervous. What is the use? What is the use?”

Molly also sighed and said, “What is the use?” But then the musical mistress and the great master looked at Nora all over when she made similar remarks, and would not even vouchsafe to answer.

“Father would never be soothed with that sort of music,” she said. “I think he would be very glad we had not a good piano. Oh, Molly, what does it all mean?”

“I don't know,” said Molly. “It's like all other education, nothing but grind, grind; but I suppose something will come of it in the long run.”

“What are you talking about, girls?” said Mrs. Hartrick, who just then appeared upon the scene. “Nora, I am pleased; to get very good reports of your music.”

“Oh!” said Nora, “I am glad you have come, Aunt Grace; and I shall be able to speak to you. Must I learn what takes all the music out of me?”

“Silly child. There is only one road to a sound musical education, and that is the road of toil. At present you play by ear, and sing by ear. You have talent; but it must be cultivated. Just believe that your elders know what they are about.”

Nora did not say anything. Mrs. Hartrick, after looking at her gravely for a moment, continued her gentle walk round the shrubbery. Molly uttered a sigh.

“There's no good, Nora,” she said. “You'll have to go through with it. I suppose it is the only way; but it's hard to believe it.”

“Well, at any rate, I enjoy other things in my school life,” said Nora. “Miss Goring is so nice, and I quite love Miss Flowers; and, after all, I am in your form, Molly, and we do like doing our lessons together.”

“To be sure we do; life is quite a different thing for me since you have come here,” was Molly's retort.

“And you have been very good indeed about your naughty words, you know,” said Nora, nestling up to her cousin.

“Have I? Well, it's owing to you. You see, now, I have someone to help me—someone to understand me.”

“Ah!” said Nora; “but I won't be here very long.”

“Not here very long! Why, you must. What is the use of beginning school and then stopping it?”

“School or no school, my place is by father's side. It is a long, long time since we heard from Uncle George. As soon as ever he comes back I go.”

“Father has been a whole month in Ireland now,” said Molly. “I cannot imagine what he is doing. I think mother fidgets rather. She has very long letters from him, and——”

“And, do you know,” said Nora, “that father has not written to me once—no, not once since Uncle George went over? I am absolutely in the dark.”

“I wonder you stand it,” said Molly. “You are so impetuous. I cannot imagine why you don't fly back.”

“I could not,” said Nora.