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

The moon shone on the two young faces, and Nora looked up at her brother; he put on a supercilious smile, and folded his arms across his broad chest.

“Yes,” she replied; “and I should like to shake you for looking like that. I am glad I am Irish through and through and through. Would I give my warm heart and my enthusiasm for your coldness and deliberation?”

“Good gracious, Nora, what a little ignorant thing you are! Do you suppose no Englishman has enthusiasm?”

“We'll drop the subject,” said Nora. “It is one I won't talk of; it puts me into such a boiling rage to see you sitting like that.”

Terence did not speak at all for a moment; then he said quietly:

“What is this thing that you have got to tell me? The five minutes are nearly up, you know.”

“Oh, bother your five minutes! I cannot tell you in five minutes. When my heart is scalded with unshed tears, how can I measure time by minutes? It has to do with father; it is worse than anything that has ever gone before.”

“What is it, Norrie?” Her brother's tone had suddenly become gentle. He laid his hand for a moment on her arm; the gentleness of the tone, the unexpected sweetness of the touch overcame Nora; she flung her arms passionately round his neck.

“Oh, and you are the only brother I have got!” she sobbed; “and I could love you—I could love you like anything. Can't you be sympathetic? Can't you be sweet? Can't you be dear?”

“Oh, come, come!” said Terence, struggling to release himself from Nora's entwining arms; “I am not made like you, you know; but I am not a bad chap at heart. Now, what is it?”

“I will try and tell you.”

“And for goodness' sake don't look so sorrowfully at me, Nora; we can talk, and we can act and do good deeds, without giving ourselves away. I hate girls who wear their hearts on their sleeves.”

“Oh! you will never understand,” said Nora, starting back again; all her burst of feeling turned in upon herself. “I can't imagine how you are father's son,” she began. But then she stopped, waited for a moment, and then said quietly, “There is a fresh mortgage, and it is for a very big sum.”

“Oh, is that all?” said Terence. “I have heard of mortgages all my life; it seems to be the fashion at O'Shanaghgan to mortgage to any extent. There is nothing in that; father will give up a little more of the land.”

“How much land do you think is left?”

“I am sure I can't say; not much, I presume.”

“It is my impression,” said Nora—“I am not sure; but it is my impression—that there is nothing left to meet this big thing but the—the—the land on which”—her voice broke—“Terry, the land on which the house stands.”

“Really, Nora, you are so melodramatic. I don't know how you can know anything of this.”

“I only guess. Mother is very unhappy.”

“Mother? Is she?”

“Ah, I have touched you there! But anyhow, father is in worse trouble than he has been yet; I never, never saw him look as he did tonight.”

“As if looks mattered.”

“The look I saw tonight does matter,” said Nora. “We were coming home from Cronane, and I was driving.”

“It is madness to let you drive Black Bess,” interrupted Terence. “I wonder my father risks spoiling one of his most valuable horses.”

“Oh, nonsense, Terry; I can drive as well as you, and better, thanks,” replied Nora, much nettled, for her excellent driving was one of the few things she was proud of. “Well, I turned round, and I saw father's face, and, oh! it was just as if someone had stabbed me through the heart. You know, or perhaps you don't, that the last big loan came from Squire Murphy.”

“Old Dan Murphy; then we are as safe as we can be,” said Terence, rising and whistling. “You really did make me feel uncomfortable, you have such a queer way; but if it is Dan Murphy, he will give father any amount of time. Why, they are the best of friends.”

“Well, father went to see him on the subject—I happen to know that—and I don't think he has given him time. There is something wrong, anyhow—I don't know what; but there is something very wrong, and I mean to find out tomorrow.”

“Nora, if I were you I wouldn't interfere. You are only a young girl, and these kind of things are quite out of your province. Father has pulled along ever since you and I were born. Most Irish gentlemen are poor in these days. How can they help it? The whole country is going to ruin; there is no proper trade; there is no proper system anywhere. The tenants are allowed to pay their rent just as they please——”

“As if we could harry them,” said inconsistent Nora. “The poor dears, with their tiny cots and their hard, hard times. I'd rather eat dry bread all my days than press one of them.”

“If these are your silly views, you must expect our father to be badly off, and the property to go to the dogs, and everything to come to an end,” said the brother in a discontented tone. “But there, I say once more that you have exaggerated in this matter; there is nothing more wrong than there has been since I can remember. I am glad I am going to England; I am glad I am going to be out of it all for a bit.”

“You going to England—you, Terry?”

“Yes. Don't you know? Our Uncle George Hartrick has asked me to stay with him, and I am going.”

“And you can go? You can leave us just now?”

“Why, of course; there will be fewer mouths to feed. It's a good thing every way.”

“But Uncle George is a rich man?”

“What of that?”

“I mean he lives in a big place, and has heaps and heaps of money,” said Nora.

“So much the better.”

“You cannot go to him shabby. What are you going to do for dress?”

“Mother will manage that.”

“Mother!” Nora leaped up from the window-ledge and stood facing her brother. “You have spoken to mother?”

“Of course I have. Dear me, Nora, you are getting to be quite an unpleasant sort of girl.”

“You have spoken to mother,” repeated Nora, “and she has promised to help