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 met those remarkably nice people, the Setons of Seton Court, yesterday,” said Mrs. O'Shanaghgan—“charming English people—and they asked me if it was really true that my husband, the owner of Castle O'Shanaghgan, was sleeping in a barn.”
“And what did you answer, mother?” asked Nora, her dark-blue eyes bright with sudden fun.
“Well, my dear, I made the best of it. I could not deny such a patent fact. I said that the eccentricities of Irish squires were proverbial. But you can imagine, my dear Nora, my mortification as I had to make this admission. If this sort of thing goes on I shall ask your uncle to let the place, and allow us all to live in England.”
“Oh, come, mother,” said her daughter. “You ought to be thankful this morning—you ought to be. Oh, mother! do give me a loving kiss. It is so long, so long since you have done so, and somehow I am tired, mother.”
“Tired!” said Mrs. O'Shanaghgan, alarmed and surprised by the new tone in Nora's voice. “You look tired. How black those shadows are under your eyes! and you have lost some of your color. There! of course I will kiss you, and I hope I am thankful, for we certainly have had wonderful mercies since your dear Uncle George came over and delivered us all. But what do you mean by special thankfulness this morning?”
“Never mind, mother,” said Nora. “Only do be thankful, do thank God for His mercies; and oh, mother, do give me that kiss!”
“There, child! of course you shall have it.”
Mrs. O'Shanaghgan pressed her lips lightly to Nora's cheek.
“Now eat your breakfast,” she said. “These eggs are quite fresh, and the honey was bought only yesterday—you know you are fond of honey—and these hot cakes are made in a new and particularly nice way. Eat plenty, Nora, and do, my dear, try to restrain your emotions. It is quite terrible what wear and tear you give yourself over these feelings. It is really, my dear girl, unladylike; and let me tell you another thing, that when you lose your fresh wild-rose color, you will lose the greater part of your beauty. Dear me! it will not stay long with you if you excite yourself about every hand's turn in the ridiculous way you are doing.”
Nora did not say any more. She sat down to the breakfast table. Was her mother right? Was she indeed exciting herself over every hand's turn, and was that thing which had happened last night—which, now that it was over, caused her heart to beat a trifle too fast, and brought that tired, that very tired feeling into her sensitive frame—was that indeed but a trifling thing? Thank God—oh, thank God—she had been in time!
Soon after breakfast Nora and Molly started once more for Slieve Nagorna. They went on the outside car this time, and Nora found her strength and courage returning as she handled the reins and urged Black Bess to speed. They presently reached their destination. Nora fastened up the horse as she had done on the previous day, and the girls began to climb the mountain.
“You must not be afraid when you see Andy,” said Nora. “He was very weak last night, and will in all probability be in his house. I am going to arrange to have provisions sent to him every day. He will stay there now that he has got back again.”
“But how has he got back again? You will remember you never told me what happened last night.”
“And you must not ask me, Molly. What happened last night can never be told by me to any human being. Only Angus knows something of it; and Angus will not tell anyone else.”
“And you were frightened? You look, Nora, as if you had gone through a great deal.”
“I went through more than anyone will ever know,” said Nora, “but I am very thankful.”
The girls had now reached the old cabin. The tarpaulin was over the roof, but there was no smoke issuing from the hole.
“I wonder he did not light his fire,” said Nora in an anxious voice. “Will you go in with me, Molly, or shall I go alone?”
“I'll go in with you,” said Molly stoutly. “If you are not afraid, neither will I be.”
“I afraid now?” said Nora, with a smile. “Come, Molly, I hope the poor creature is not very ill.”
Both girls entered the cabin. The tarpaulin had been so contrived that a piece hung over, and formed a temporary door. Nora now pushed it aside, and they both stepped into the miserable cabin. Andy was lying on the straw; the basket of provisions had not yet been touched, nor was the fire lit. Andy lay very still and quiet on the straw. Nora went up to him; his eyes were shut, and his head was slightly turned round, so that she could not at first get a proper glimpse of his face. She went on her knees, then presently touched his forehead with her own slim hand, calling his name softly at the same time. There was no answer—there would never be an answer again, for the wild Irishman was dead.
CHAPTER XXXVI. — “I'M A HAPPY MAN!”
It was just before Christmas, and the preparations for the festive season were great at Castle O'Shanaghgan. The Squire was quite well again. Once more he walked all over his estate; once more he talked to his tenants; once more he joked and laughed with the other squires of the neighborhood. To a certain extent he had grown accustomed to the grand house with its grand furniture; to the terrible late dinner, at which he stoutly declined to appear in evening dress; to the English servants who knew none of his ways. He began to bear with these things, for Light o' the Morning, as he called his beloved Nora, was always by his side, and at night he could cast off the yoke which was so burdensome, and do what he liked in the barn. At Mrs. O'Shanaghgan's earnest request this barn was now rendered a tolerably comfortable bedroom; the walls had been papered, and the worst of the draughts excluded. A huge fireplace had been built out at one end, and the Squire did not object at all to a large turf fire on a cold night; but the old bedstead from Cronane still occupied its old place of honor in the best position in the room, the little deal table was destitute of cloth or ornament of any kind, and the tarpaulin on the floor was not rendered more luxurious by the presence of rugs.
“Rugs indeed!” said the Squire, snorting almost like a wild beast when his wife ventured to suggest a few of these comforts. “It is tripping me up you'd be? Rugs indeed! I know better.”
But compared to its condition when the Squire first occupied it, the barn was now a fairly comfortable bedroom, and Squire Murphy, Squire Fitzgerald, Squire Terence Malone, and the other squires of the neighborhood had many a good smoke there, and many a hearty laugh, as they said, quite “unbeknownst”
Comments (0)