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
Mrs. O'Shanaghgan raised displeased eyes to her husband's face.
“Girls of Nora's age ought to stay at home,” she said.
“Yes, to be sure, to be sure,” said the Squire; “and we would miss her awfully if she was away from us; but a day or two off duty—eh, madam?” He glanced at his wife.
“You have your answer, Biddy,” said Mrs. O'Shanaghgan; “her father wishes Nora to accept your invitation. She may stay away for one night—no longer.”
Biddy winked broadly round at Nora.
“Now, then,” she said, “come along.” She seized her friend by the arm, and whisked her out of the room.
“It was the dress that did it,” she said; “it is the loveliest garment in all the world. Come along now, and let's take it off. I want to gather those eggs for you.”
She ran upstairs again, followed by Nora. The dress was disposed of in the large wooden wardrobe, the old torn frock readjusted on Biddy's stout form, and the girls went out into the lovely summer air. The eggs which Nora required were put into the little basket, and in half an hour the O'Shanaghgans' party were returning at full speed to Castle O'Shanaghgan. Nora glanced once into her father's face, and her heart gave a great leap. Her high spirits left her as if by magic; she felt a lump in her throat, and during the rest of the drive hardly spoke.
The Squire, on the contrary, talked incessantly. He talked more than ever after Nora had looked at him. He slapped his wife on the shoulder, and complimented her on her bravery. Nora's driving was the very best in all the world; she was a born whip; she had no fear in her; she was his own colleen, the Light o' the Morning, the dearest, sweetest soul on earth.
Mrs. O'Shanaghan replied very briefly and coldly to her husband's excited words. She treated them with what she imagined the contempt they deserved; but Nora was neither elated just then by her father's praise nor chilled by her mother's demeanor. Every thought of her heart, every nerve in her highly strung frame, was concentrated on one fact alone—she had surprised a look, a look on the Squire's face, which told her that his heart was broken.
CHAPTER V. — “I AM ASHAMED OF YOU.”
It was late that same evening, and the household at the Castle had all retired to rest. Nora was in her own room. This room was not furnished according to an English girl's fancy. It was plain and bare, but, compared to Biddy Murphy's chamber, it was a room of comfort and even luxury. A neat carpet covered the floor, there were white dimity curtains to the windows, and the little bed in its distant recess looked neat and comfortable. It is true that the washhand-stand was wooden, and the basin and jug of the plainest type; but Mrs. O'Shanaghgan herself saw that Nora had at least what she considered the necessaries of life. She had a neat hanging-press for her dresses, and a pretty chest of drawers, which her mother herself had saved up her pin-money to buy for her.
Nora now stood by one of the open windows, her thick and very long black hair hanging in a rippling mass over her neck and shoulders. Suddenly, as she bent out of the window, the faint, very faint perfume of a cigar came up on the night air. She sniffed excitedly for a moment, and then, bending a little more forward, said in a low tone:
“Is that you, Terry?”
“Yes—why don't you go to bed?” was the somewhat ungracious response.
“I am not sleepy. May I come down and join you?”
“No.”
“Will you come up and join me?”
The answer was about to be “No”; there was a moment's hesitation, then Nora's voice said pleadingly, “Ah, do now, Terry; I want to say something so badly.”
“But if anybody hears?”
“They can't hear. Father and mother's room is at the other end of the house.”
“All right; don't say any more; you'll wake people with that chatter of yours. I'm coming.”
In a couple of minutes there was a knock at Nora's door. She flew to open it, and Terence came in.
“What do you want?” he said.
“To talk to you; I have got something to say. Come over and sit by the window.”
Terence obeyed.
“The first thing to do is to put out that light,” said Nora. She ran to the dressing table, and before her brother could prevent her had extinguished the candle.
“Now, then, there is the dear old lady moon to look down upon us, and nothing else can see us.”
“Why don't you go to bed, Nora? Hannah would say that you are losing your beauty-sleep sitting up at this, hour.”
“As if anything about me mattered just now,” said Nora.
“Why, what's up?”
“The old thing, Terry; you must know what's up.”
“What old thing? I am sure I can't guess.”
“Well, then, if you can't you ought. Father is in a peck of trouble—a peck of trouble.”
Nora's voice broke and trembled. Terence, who disliked a scene beyond anything, fidgeted restlessly. He leaned out of the window, and dropped his cigar ash on the ground beneath.
“And you are his only son and the heir to Castle O'Shanaghgan.”
“The heir to a pack of ruins,” said the boy impatiently.
“Terry, you don't deserve to be father's son. How dare you speak like that of the—the beloved old place?”
“Come, come, Nora, if you are going into heroics I think I'll be off to bed,” said Terence, yawning.
“No, you won't; you must listen. I have got something most important to say.”
“Well, then, I will give you five minutes; not another moment. I know you, Nora; you always exaggerate things. You are an Irishwoman to your backbone.”
“I am, and I glory in the fact.”
“You ought to be ashamed to glory in it. Don't you want to have anything to do with mother and her relations?”
“I love my mother, but I am glad I don't take after her,” said Nora; “yes, I am glad.”
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