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

It was late that same evening, and the household at the Castle had all retired to rest. Nora was in her own room. This room was not furnished according to an English girl's fancy. It was plain and bare, but, compared to Biddy Murphy's chamber, it was a room of comfort and even luxury. A neat carpet covered the floor, there were white dimity curtains to the windows, and the little bed in its distant recess looked neat and comfortable. It is true that the washhand-stand was wooden, and the basin and jug of the plainest type; but Mrs. O'Shanaghgan herself saw that Nora had at least what she considered the necessaries of life. She had a neat hanging-press for her dresses, and a pretty chest of drawers, which her mother herself had saved up her pin-money to buy for her.

Nora now stood by one of the open windows, her thick and very long black hair hanging in a rippling mass over her neck and shoulders. Suddenly, as she bent out of the window, the faint, very faint perfume of a cigar came up on the night air. She sniffed excitedly for a moment, and then, bending a little more forward, said in a low tone:

“Is that you, Terry?”

“Yes—why don't you go to bed?” was the somewhat ungracious response.

“I am not sleepy. May I come down and join you?”

“No.”

“Will you come up and join me?”

The answer was about to be “No”; there was a moment's hesitation, then Nora's voice said pleadingly, “Ah, do now, Terry; I want to say something so badly.”

“But if anybody hears?”

“They can't hear. Father and mother's room is at the other end of the house.”

“All right; don't say any more; you'll wake people with that chatter of yours. I'm coming.”

In a couple of minutes there was a knock at Nora's door. She flew to open it, and Terence came in.

“What do you want?” he said.

“To talk to you; I have got something to say. Come over and sit by the window.”

Terence obeyed.

“The first thing to do is to put out that light,” said Nora. She ran to the dressing table, and before her brother could prevent her had extinguished the candle.

“Now, then, there is the dear old lady moon to look down upon us, and nothing else can see us.”

“Why don't you go to bed, Nora? Hannah would say that you are losing your beauty-sleep sitting up at this, hour.”

“As if anything about me mattered just now,” said Nora.

“Why, what's up?”

“The old thing, Terry; you must know what's up.”

“What old thing? I am sure I can't guess.”

“Well, then, if you can't you ought. Father is in a peck of trouble—a peck of trouble.”

Nora's voice broke and trembled. Terence, who disliked a scene beyond anything, fidgeted restlessly. He leaned out of the window, and dropped his cigar ash on the ground beneath.

“And you are his only son and the heir to Castle O'Shanaghgan.”

“The heir to a pack of ruins,” said the boy impatiently.

“Terry, you don't deserve to be father's son. How dare you speak like that of the—the beloved old place?”

“Come, come, Nora, if you are going into heroics I think I'll be off to bed,” said Terence, yawning.

“No, you won't; you must listen. I have got something most important to say.”

“Well, then, I will give you five minutes; not another moment. I know you, Nora; you always exaggerate things. You are an Irishwoman to your backbone.”

“I am, and I glory in the fact.”

“You ought to be ashamed to glory in it. Don't you want to have anything to do with mother and her relations?”

“I love my mother, but I am glad I don't take after her,” said Nora; “yes, I am glad.”