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
“Don't you think that just at present, when father is in trouble, his only son, the heir of O'Shanaghgan, ought to be with him?”
“Poor old O'Shanaghgan,” said the lad, with impatience; “you think that it comprises the whole of the world. I tell you what it is, Nora, I am made differently, and I infinitely prefer England. My uncle has been kind enough to offer me a small post in his business. Did I not tell you?”
“No, no; I never knew what my uncle's business was.”
“He is a merchant prince, Nora; an enormously rich man. He owns warehouses upon warehouses. He has offered me a post in one—a very good post, and a certain income.”
“And you mean to accept?” said Nora, her eyes flashing fire.
“Well, I am writing to mother on the subject. I think it would be well to do so.”
“You, an O'Shanaghgan, will descend to trade?” replied the girl.
“Oh, folly! folly! Nora, your ideas are really too antiquated.”
Nora did not speak at all for a moment; then she walked toward the door.
“I cannot understand you,” she said. “I am awfully sorry. I was born different; I was made different. I cannot understand why you should bring dishonor to the old place.”
“By earning a little money to keep us all from beggary,” retorted the lad in a bitter tone; but Nora did not hear him; she had left the room. Her eyes were smarting with unshed tears. She went out into the shrubbery in search of Molly.
“But for Molly I should break my heart,” she thought.
CHAPTER XX. — STEPHANOTIE.
Mrs. Hartrick made all necessary arrangements, and on the following Monday Nora accompanied her cousin to school. Molly was much delighted.
“Now I shall be able to work,” she said, “and I won't be guilty of slang when you are by. Don't whisper it to Linda. She would be in the seventh heaven of bliss, and I detest pleasing her; but I would do anything in the world for you, Nora creena.”
Nora gave her cousin's arm an affectionate squeeze.
“I have never been to school,” said Nora; “you must instruct me what I am to do.”
“Oh, dear, dear!” said Molly, “you won't need instruction; you are as sharp and smart as any girl could be. You'll be a little puzzled at first about the different classes, and I'll give you hints about how to take notes and all that sort of thing. But you will quickly get into the way of it, and then you'll learn like a house on fire.”
“I wish you two wouldn't whisper together so much,” said Linda in an annoyed voice. “I am going over my French parsing to myself, and you do interrupt me so.”
“Then walk a little farther away from us,” said Molly rudely.
She turned once more to her cousin.
“I will introduce you to the very nicest girls in my form,” she said. “I do hope you'll be put into my form, for then in the evenings you and I can do our work together. I expect you know about as much as I do.”
“But that's just it—I don't,” said Nora. “I have not learned a bit in the school way. I had a governess for a time, but she did not know a great deal. Of course mother taught me too; but I have not had advantages. I should not be surprised if I were put into the lowest form.”
They now arrived at the school, and a few minutes later Nora found herself in a huge classroom in which about sixty other girls were assembled. Miss Flowers presently sent a pupil-teacher to ask Miss O'Shanaghgan to have an interview with her in her private room.
Miss Flowers was about fifty years of age. She had white hair, calm, large, well-opened blue eyes, a steadfast mouth, and a gracious and at the same time dignified manner. She was not exactly beautiful; but she had the sort of face which most girls respected and which many loved. Nora looked earnestly at her, and in her wild, impulsive Irish fashion, gave her heart on the spot.
“What is your name, my dear?” said the head-mistress kindly.
Nora told it.
“You are Irish, Mrs. Hartrick tells me.”
“Yes, Miss Flowers, I have lived all my life in Ireland.”
“I must find out what sort of instruction you have had. Have you ever been at school before?”
“Never.”
“How old are you?”
“Sixteen, Miss Flowers.”
“What things have you been taught?”
“English subjects of different sorts,” replied Nora. “A little music—oh, I love music, I do love music!—and a little French; and I can speak Irish,” she added, raising her beautiful, dark-blue eyes, and fixing them on the face of the head-mistress. That winsome face touched Miss Flowers' heart.
“I will do what I can for you,” she said. “For the present you had better study alone. At the end of a week or so I shall be able to determine what form to put you in. Now, go back to the schoolroom and ask Miss Goring to come to me.”
Miss Goring was the English mistress. Miss Flowers saw her alone for a minute or two.
“Do what you can for the Irish girl,” she said. “She is a very pretty creature; she is evidently ignorant; but I think she has plenty of talent.”
Miss Goring went back, and during the rest of the morning devoted herself to Nora. Nora had varied and strange acquirements at her finger's ends. She was up in all sorts of folk lore; she could clothe her speech in picturesque and striking language. She could repeat poetry from Sir Walter Scott, from Shakspere, from the old Irish bards themselves; but her grammar was defective, although her reading aloud was very pretty and sweet. Her knowledge of history was vague, and might be best described by the expression, up and down. She knew all about the Waldenses; she had a vivid picture in her mind's eye of St. Bartholomew's Eve. The French Revolution appalled and, at the same time, attracted her. The death of Charles I. drew tears from her eyes; but she knew nothing whatever of the chronological arrangements of history; and the youngest girl in the school could have put her to shame with regard to the Magna Charta. It was just the same with every branch of knowledge which Nora had even a smattering of.
At last the great test of all came—could she play or could
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