Light O' the Morning: The Story of an Irish Girl by L. T. Meade (e book free reading TXT) 📖

“You'll be paid well,” said Molly, “so you need not look so angry. Can you take us home to your place until the morning?”

“What does this mean?” said the woman.

“Oh, I'll explain,” said Molly. “We're two runaways. I don't mind telling you that we are, because it's a fact. It is important that we should leave home. We don't want to be traced. Will you give us lodging?—any sort. We don't mind how small the room is. We want to be at Euston at an early hour in the morning; we are going to Holyhead.”

“Dear, dear!” said the woman; “and does this really mean money?”

“It means five shillings,” said Molly.

“Ten” was on Nora's lips; but Molly silenced her with a look.

“There's no use in overpaying her; she won't be half as civil,” whispered Molly to Nora.

“It's five shillings you'll get,” she repeated in a firm voice. “Here, I have got the change; you can look in my purse.”

“Molly opened her purse as she spoke. The woman, a Mrs. Terry by name, did look in. She saw the shine of gold and several half-crowns.

“Well, to be sure!” she said. “But you'll promise not to get me into a scrape?”

“We won't even ask you your name. You can let us out of the house in time for us to catch the first train from Euston. We shall be off and away before we are discovered.”

“And we'll remember you all our lives if you'll help us,” said Nora. Then she added, tears filling her pretty eyes, “It's my father, please, kind woman; he has been shot at and is very ill.”

“And who wants to keep you from your father, you poor thing?” said the woman. “Oh, if it's that, and there's no lovers in the question, I don't mind helping you both. It don't do for young girls to be wandering about the streets alone at night. You come with me, honeys. I can't take you for nothing, but I'll give you supper and breakfast, and the best bed I can, for five shillings.”

Accordingly, in Mrs. Terry's company, the two girls left Waterloo Station. She walked down a somewhat narrow side-street, crossed another, and they presently found themselves in a little, old-fashioned square. The square was very old indeed, belonging to quite a dead-and-gone period of the world. The woman stopped at a house which once had been large and stately; doubtless in days gone by it had sheltered goodly personages and had listened to the laughter of the rich and well-to-do; but in its old age the house was let out in tenements, and Mrs. Terry owned a couple of rooms at the very top.

She took the girls up the dirty stairs, opened the door of a not uncomfortable sitting room, and ushered them in.

“There now, honeys,” she said; “the best I can do for you both is the sofa for one and my bed for the other.”

“No, no,” said Nora, “we would not dream of taking your bed; and, for that matter, I could not sleep,” she added. “If you will let me have a couple of chairs I shall lie down on them and wait as best I can until the morning. Oh, I have often done it at home and thought it great fun.”

“Well, you must each have a bit of supper first; it don't do for young girls to go to bed hungry, more particularly when they have a journey before them. I'll get you some bread and cheese and a glass of milk each—unless, indeed, you would prefer beer?”

“Oh, no, we would much rather have milk,” said Molly.

The woman bustled about, and soon came in with a jug of milk, a couple of glasses, some bread, and some indifferent butter.

“You can have the cheese if you really want it,” she said.

“No; this will do beautifully,” answered Nora.

“Well then, my dears, I'll leave you now for the night. The lamp will burn all night. It will be lonely for young girls to be in the dark; and I'll promise to call you at five o'clock. There's a train leaves Euston between six and seven that you had better catch, unless you want them as is hindering you from flight to stop you. I am interested in this poor young lady who wants to see her father.”

“Oh, thank you; you are a perfect darling!” said Nora. “I'll come and see you some day when I am happy again, and tell you all about it.”

“Bless your kind heart, honey! I'm glad to be able to do something for those who are in trouble. Now then, lie down and have a bit of sleep. I'll wake you sure and certain, and you shan't stir, the two of you, until you have had a hot cup of tea each.”

Mrs. Terry was as good as her word. She called the girls in good time, and gave them quite a comfortable breakfast before they started. The tea was hot; the bread was good—what else did they want?

Nora awoke from a very short and broken slumber.

“Soon I shall be back again,” she thought. “No matter how changed and ruined the place is, I shall be with him once more. Oh, my darling, my heart's darling, I shall kiss you again! Oh! I am happy at the thought.”

Mrs. Terry herself accompanied them to Euston. It was too early to get a cab; she asked them if they were good walkers. They said they were. She took them by the shortest routes; and, somewhat tired, but still full of a strange exultation, they found themselves at the great station. Mrs. Terry saw them into their train, and with many loudly uttered blessings started them on their journey. She would not touch anything more than the five shillings, and tears were in her eyes as she looked her last at them.

“God bless them, and particularly that little Irish girl. Haven't she just got the cunningest, sweetest way in all the world?” thought the good woman. “I do hope her father will be better when she gets to him. Don't she love him just!”

Yes, it had been the most daring scheme, the wildest sort of adventure, for two girls to undertake, and yet it was crowned with success. They were too far on their journey for Mrs. Hartrick, however much she might wish it, to rescue them. She might be as angry as she pleased; but nothing now could get them back. She accordingly did the very best thing she could do—telegraphed to Mr. Hartrick to say that they had absolutely run away, but begged of him to meet them in Dublin. This the good man did. He met them both on the pier, received them quietly, without much demonstration; but then, looking into Nora's anxious face, his own softened.

“You have come, Nora, and against my will,” he said. “Are you sorry?”

“Not a bit, Uncle George,” she answered. “I would have come against the wills of a thousand uncles if father were ill.”

“Then I have nothing to say,” he answered, with a smile, “at least to you; but, Molly, I shall have something to