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

“It is quite past that; but don't ask me now, Stephie. I cannot tell you, really.”

“Don't bother her,” said Molly; “she has partly confided in me, but not wholly. We'll have a good time by ourselves. What game do you think we had best play, Stephie?”

“I'm not one for games at all,” answered Stephanotie. “Girls of my age don't play games. They are thinking seriously of the business of life—the flirtations and the jolly time they are going to have before they settle down to their staid married life. You English are so very childish.”

“And we Irish are childish too,” said Nora. “It's lovely to be childish,” she added. “I hate to put away childish things.”

“Oh, dear! so that is the Irish and English way,” said Stephanotie. “But there, don't let us talk nationalities; let's be cozy and cheerful. I can tell you I did feel annoyed at coming here such a dowd; it was not my fault. I meant to make an impression; I did, really and truly. It was very good of you, Molly, to ask me; and I know that proud lady, your mother, didn't want to have me a bit. I am nothing but Stephanotie Miller, and she doesn't know the style we live in at home. If she did, maybe she would open her eyes a little; but she doesn't, and that's flat; and I am vulgar, or supposed to be, just because I am frank and open, and I have no concealment about me. I call a spade a spade.”

“Oh, hurrah! so do I,” said Molly, the irrepressible.

“Well, my dear, I don't use your words; they wouldn't suit me at all,” said the American girl. “I never call out Jehoshaphat the way you do, whoever Jehoshaphat is; but I have my little eccentricities, and they run to pretty and gay dresses—dresses with bright colors and quantities of lace on them—and bon-bons at all hours, in season and out of season. It's easy to content me, and I don't see why my little innocent wishes should not be gratified.”

“But you are very nicely dressed now,” said Nora, looking with approval at the gray cashmere.

“Me nicely dressed!” screamed Stephanotie. “Do you call this dress nice? Why, I do declare it's a perfect shame that I should be made such a spectacle. It don't suit my hair. When I am ordering a dress I choose shades of red; they tone me down. I am fiery to-day—am I not, Molly?”

“Well, you certainly are,” said Molly. “But what—what did you do to it?”

“To my locks, do you mean?”

“Yes. They do stick out so funnily. I know mother was shocked; she likes our heads to be perfectly smooth.'

“Like the Armitages', for instance,” said Stephanotie.

“Well, yes; something like theirs. They are pretty girls, are they not?”

“Yes,” said Stephanotie; “but don't they give you the quivers? Don't you feel as if you were rubbed the wrong way the moment you speak to them?”

“I don't take to them,” said Molly; “but I think they're pretty.”

“They're just like what O'Shanaghgan is now,” thought Nora, who did not speak. “They are all prim and proper; there's not a single wildness allowed to come out anywhere.”

“But they're for all the world like anybody else,” said Stephanotie. “Don't they love sweeties just! If you' had seen them—the greedy way they took the bon-bons out of the little boxes I gave them. Oh, they're just like anybody else, only they are playing parts; they are little actors; they're always acting. I'd like to catch them when they were not. I'd like to have them for one wild week, with you, Molly, and you, Nora. I tell you there would be a fine change in them both.”

“There's a telegraph-boy coming down the avenue,” cried Molly suddenly. “I'll run and see what is the matter?”

Nora did not know why her heart beat. Telegrams arrived every day at The Laurels. Nevertheless she felt sure that this was no ordinary message; she stood now and stared at that boy as though her eyes would start from their sockets.

“What is the matter?” said Stephanotie.

“Nothing—nothing.”

“You're vexed about something. Why should you be so distant with me?”

“I am not, Stephie. I am a little anxious; it is difficult always to be just the same,” said Nora.

“Oh, don't I know it, my darling; and if you had as much to do with Aunt Vi Truefitt as I have, you would realize how often my spirits turn topsy-turvy. I often hope that I'll be Englishized quickly, so that I may get back to my dear parents. But there, Molly is coming back.”

“The telegram was for mother,” she said. “Do let us play.”

Nora looked at Molly. Her face was red; it was usually pale. Nora wondered what had brought that high color into her cheeks. Molly seemed excited, and did not want to meet her cousin's eyes.

“Come, let us have a race,” she said. “I don't want to put away childish things. I want to have a good game while I am in the humor. Let us see who will get first to the top of that hill. I like running uphill. I'm off; catch me who may!”

Molly started. Her figure was stout, and she ran in a somewhat awkward way. Nora flew after her. She soon reached her side.

“There, stop running,” she said. “What is up?”

“What is up?” echoed Molly.

“Yes; what was in that telegram?”

“The telegram was for mother.”

“But you know what was in it. I know you do.”

“Nothing—nothing, Nora. Come, our race isn't over yet. I'm off again; you cannot catch me this time.”

Molly ran, panting as she did so.

“I cannot tell her; I won't,” she said to herself. “I wish her eyes were not so sharp. She is sure to find out; but I have begged and prayed of mother not to tell her, at least until after Stephanotie and the others have gone. Then, I suppose, she must know.”

Molly reached the top of the hill. She was so blown that she had to fling herself on the grass. Nora again reached her side.

“Tell me, Molly,” she said; “there is something the matter?”

“There is a telegram for mother, and I cannot tell you anything whatever about it,” said Molly in a cross voice. “There, I'm off once more. I promised Linda that I would help her to look after the Armitage girls. Prim and proper as they are, they are sometimes a little bit too much for my dainty sister Linda. You take care of Stephie; she's right good fun. Let me go, Nora; let me go.”