Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. Light O' the Morning: The Story of an Irish Girl by L. T. Meade (e book free reading TXT) 📖
- Author: L. T. Meade
Book online «Light O' the Morning: The Story of an Irish Girl by L. T. Meade (e book free reading TXT) 📖». Author L. T. Meade
“I don't like riches,” was her inward murmur. “I feel all in silken chains, and it is not a bit pleasant; but how dear mammy—oh, I must think of her as mother—how mother would enjoy it all!”
The horses were going slowly uphill, and now they paused at some handsome iron gates. These were opened by a neatly dressed woman, who courtesied to Mr. Hartrick, and glanced with curiosity at Nora. The carriage bowled rapidly down a long avenue, and drew up before a front door. A large mastiff rose slowly, wagged his tail, and sniffed at Nora's dress as she descended.
“Come in, my dear; come in,” said her uncle. “We are too late for dinner, but I have ordered supper. You will want a good meal and then bed. Where are all the others? Where are you, Molly? Where are you, Linda? Your Irish cousin Nora has come.”
A door to the left was quickly opened, and a graceful-looking lady, in a beautiful dress of black silk and quantities of coffee lace, stood on the threshold.
“Is this Nora?” she said. “Welcome, my dear little girl.” She went up to Nora, laid one hand on her shoulder, and kissed her gravely on the forehead. There was a staid, sober sort of solemnity about this kiss which influenced Nora and made a lump come into her throat.
This gracious English lady was very charming, and she felt at once that she would love her.
“The child is tired, Grace,” said her husband to Mrs. Hartrick. “Where are the girls? Why are they not present?”
“Molly has been very troublesome, and I was obliged to send her to her room,” was her reply; “but here is Terence. Terence, your sister has come.”
“Oh, Terry!” cried Nora.
The next moment Terence, in full evening dress, and looking extremely manly and handsome, appeared upon the scene. Nora forgot everything else when she saw the familiar face; she ran up to her brother, flung her arms round his neck, and kissed him over and over.
“Oh, it is a sight for sore eyes to see you!” she cried. “Oh, Terry, how glad, how glad I am that you are here!”
“Hush! hush! Nonsense, Nora. Try to remember this is an English house,” whispered Terence; but he kissed her affectionately. He was glad to see her, and he looked at her dress with marked approval. “She will soon tame down, and she looks very pretty,” was his thought.
Just then Linda was seen coming downstairs.
“Has Nora come?” called out her sweet, high-bred voice. “How do you do, Nora? I am so glad to see you. If you are half as nice as Terence, you will be a delightful addition to our party.”
“Oh, but I am not the least bit like Terence,” said Nora. She felt rather hurt; she did not know why.
Linda was a very fair girl. She could not have been more than fifteen years of age, and was not so tall as Nora; but she had almost the manners of a woman of the world, and Nora felt unaccountably shy of her.
“Now take your cousin up to her room. Supper will be ready in a quarter of an hour,” said Mrs. Hartrick. “Come, George; I have something to say to you.”
Mr. and Mrs. Hartrick disappeared into the drawing-room. Linda took Nora's hand. Nora glanced at Terence, who turned on his heel and went away.
“See you presently, sis,” he called out in what he considered a very manly tone; and Nora felt her heart, as she expressed it, sink down into her boots as she followed Linda up the richly carpeted stairs. Her feet sank into the velvety pile, and she hated the sensation.
“It is all a sort of feather-bed house,” she said to herself, “and I hate a feather-bed house. Oh, I can understand my dad better than ever to-night; but how mother would enjoy this!”
CHAPTER XIII. — “THERE'S MOLLY.”
As they were going upstairs Linda suddenly turned and looked full at her cousin.
“How very grave you are! And why have you that little frown between your brows? Are you vexed about anything?”
“Only I thought Terry would be more glad to see me,” replied Nora.
“More glad!” cried Linda. “I saw you hugging him as I ran downstairs. He let you. I don't know how any one could show gladness more. But come along; this is your room. It is next to Molly's and mine. Isn't it pretty? Molly and I chose it for you this morning, and we arranged those flowers. You will have such a lovely view, and that little peep of the Thames is so charming. I hope you will like your room.”
Nora entered one of the prettiest and most lovely bedrooms she had ever seen in her life. Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined anything so cozy. The perfectly chosen furniture, the elegant appointments of every sort and description, the view from the partly opened windows, the view of winding river and noble trees—all looked rich and cultivated and lovely; and the Irish girl, as she gazed around, found suddenly a great, fierce hatred rising up in her heart against what she called the mere prettiness. She turned and faced Linda, who was watching her with curiosity in her somewhat small blue eyes Linda was essentially English, very reserved and quiet, very self-possessed, quite a young lady of the world. She looked at Nora as if she meant to read her through.
“Well, don't you think the view perfect?” she said.
“Have you ever been in Ireland?” was Nora's answer.
“Never. Oh, dear me! have you anything as pretty as this in Ireland?”
“No,” said Nora fiercely—“no.” She left the window, turned back, and began to unpin her hat.
“You look as if you did not care for your room.”
“It is a very, very pretty room,” said Nora, “and the view is very, very pretty, but I am tired to-night. I did not know it; but I am. I should like to go to bed soon.”
“So you shall, of course, after you have had supper. Oh, how awfully
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