Light O\' The Morning by L. T. Meade

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Produced by Anne Folland, Tiffany Vergon,Charles Franks
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team

LIGHT O' THE MORNING

_The Story of an Irish Girl_

BY

L. T. MEADE

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER

I. NORA

II. "SOME MORE OF THE LAND MUST GO"

III. THE WILD MURPHYS

IV. THE INVITATION

V. "I AM ASHAMED OF YOU"

VI. THE CAVE OF THE BANSHEE

VII. THE MURPHYS

VIII. THE SQUIRE'S TROUBLE

IX. EDUCATION AND OTHER THINGS

X. THE INVITATION

XI. THE DIAMOND CROSS

XII. A FEATHER-BED HOUSE

XIII. "THERE'S MOLLY"

XIV. BITS OF SLANG

XV. TWO LETTERS

XVI. A CHEEKY IRISH GIRL

XVII. TWO DESCRIPTIONS

XVIII. A COMPACT

XIX. "SHE WILL SOON TAME DOWN"

XX. STEPHANOTIE

XXI. THE ROSE-COLORED DRESS

XXII. LETTERS

XXIII. THE BOX OF BON-BONS

XXIV. THE TELEGRAM

XXV. THE BLOW

XXVI. TEN POUNDS

XXVII. ADVENTURES--AND HOME AGAIN

XXVIII. THE WILD IRISH

XXIX. ALTERATIONS

XXX. THE LION IN His CAGE

XXXI. RELEASE OF THE CAPTIVE

XXXII. ANDY

XXXIII. THE CABIN ON THE MOUNTAIN

XXXIV. A DARING DEED

XXXV. THE COT WHERE HE WAS BORN

XXXVI. "I'M A HAPPY MAN"

CHAPTER I.

NORA.

"Why, then, Miss Nora--"

"Yes, Hannah?"

"You didn't see the masther going this way, miss?"

"What do you mean, Hannah? Father is never at home at this hour."

"I thought maybe--" said Hannah. She spoke in a dubious voice,
backing a little away.

Hannah was a small, squat woman, of a truly Irish type. Her nose was
celestial, her mouth wide, her eyes dark, and sparkling with fun.
She was dressed in a short, coarse serge petticoat, with what is
called a bedgown over it; the bedgown was made of striped calico,
yellow and red, and was tied in at the waist with a broad band of
the same. Hannah's hair was strongly inclined to gray, and her
humorous face was covered with a perfect network of wrinkles. She
showed a gleam of snowy teeth now, as she looked full at the young
girl whom she was addressing.

"Ah, then, Miss Nora," she said, "it's I that am sorry for yez."

Before Nora O'Shanaghgan could utter a word Hannah had turned on her
heel.

"Come back, Hannah," said Nora in an imperious voice.

"Presently, darlint; it's the childer I hear calling me. Coming,
Mike asthore, coming."

The squat little figure flew down a side walk which led to a paddock:
beyond the paddock was a turnstile, and at the farther end of an
adjacent field a cabin made of mud, with one tiny window and a
thatched roof. Hannah was making for the cabin with rapid, waddling
strides. Nora stood in the middle of the broad sweep which led up to
the front door of the old house.

Castle O'Shanaghgan was a typical Irish home of the ancient regime.
The house, a great square pile, was roomy and spacious; it had
innumerable staircases, and long passages through which the wind
shrieked on stormy nights, and a great castellated tower at its
north end. This tower was in ruins, and had been given up a long
time ago to the exclusive tenancy of the bats, the owls, and rats so
large and fierce that the very dogs were afraid of them. In the
tower at night the neighbors affirmed that they heard shrieks and
ghostly noises; and Nora, whose bedroom was nearest to it, rejoiced
much in the distinction of having twice heard the O'Shanaghgan
Banshee keening outside her window. Nora was a slender, tall, and
very graceful girl of about seventeen, and her face was as typical
of the true, somewhat wild, Irish beauty as Hannah Croneen's was the
reverse.

In the southwest of Ireland there are traces of Spanish as well as
Celtic blood in many of its women; and Nora's quantities of thick,
soft, intensely black hair must have come to her from a Spanish
ancestor. So also did the delicately marked black brows and the
black lashes to her dark and very lovely blue eyes; but the clear
complexion, the cheeks with the tenderest bloom on them, the softly
dimpled lips red as coral, and the little teeth white as pearls were
true Irish characteristics.

Nora waited for a moment after Hannah had left her, then, shading
her eyes from the westerly sun by one hand, she turned slowly and
went into the house.

"Where is mother, Pegeen?" she said to a rough-looking, somewhat
slatternly servant who was crossing the hall.

"In the north parlor, Miss Nora."

"Come along, then, Creena; come along, Cushla," said the girl,
addressing two handsome black Pomeranians who rushed to meet her.
The dogs leaped up at her with expressions of rapture, and girl and
dogs careered with a wild dance across the great, broad hall in the
direction of the north parlor. Nora opened the door with a somewhat
noisy bang, the dogs precipitated themselves into the room, and she
followed.

"Ah, then, mother dear! and have I disturbed you?" she said.

A pale-faced lady, who was lying full-length on a very old and hard
sofa, rose with a querulous expression on her face when Nora entered.

"I wish someone would teach you thoughtfulness," she said; "you are
the most tiresome girl in the world. I have been two hours trying to
get a wink of sleep, and just when I succeed you come in and wake
me."

"It's sorry I am to my heart's core," said Nora. She went up to her
mother, dropped on one knee, and looked with her rosy face into the
worn and faded one of the elder woman. "Here I am, mammy," she said
again, "your own little Nora; let me sit with you a bit--may I?"

Mrs. O'Shanaghgan smiled faintly. She looked all over the girl's
slim figure, and finally her eyes rested on the laughing, lovely
face. Then a cloud crossed her forehead, and her eyes became dim
with tears.

"Have you heard the last thing, Nora?"

"There are so many last things, mother," said Nora.

"But the very last. Your father has to pay back the money which
Squire Murphy of Cronane lent him. It is the queerest thing; but the
mortgagee means to foreclose, as he calls it, within three months if
that money is not paid in full. I know well what it means."

Nora smiled. She took her mother's hand in hers, and began to stroke
it gently.

"I suppose," she said, "it means this. It means that we must part
with a little more of the beloved land, every sod of which I love.
We certainly do seem to be getting poorer and poorer; but never
mind--nothing will ever alter the fact that--"

"That what, child?"

"That we O'Shanaghgans are the proudest and oldest family in the
county, and that there is scarcely an Englishman across the water
who would not give all he possesses to change places with us."

"You talk like a silly child," said Mrs. O'Shanaghgan; "and please
remember that I am English."

"Oh, mummy, I am so sorry!" said the girl. She laid her soft head
down on the sofa, pressing it against her mother's shoulder.

"I cannot think of you as English," she said. "You have lived here
all, all my life. You belong to father, and you belong to Terence
and me--what have you to do with the cold English?"

"I remember a time," said Mrs. O'Shanaghgan, "when I thought Ireland
the most desolate and God-forsaken place on the earth. It is true I
have become accustomed to it now. But, Nora, if you only could
realize what my old home was really like."

"I don't want to realize any home different from this," said the girl,
a cloud shading her bright eyes for the moment.

"You are silly and prejudiced," said Mrs. O'Shanaghgan. "It is a
great trial to me to have a daughter so unsympathetic."

"Oh, mummy! I don't mean to be unsympathetic. There now, we are
quite cozy together. Tell me one of the old stories; I do so love to
listen."

The frown cleared from Mrs. O'Shanaghgan's forehead, and the peevish
lines went out of her face. She began to talk with animation and
excitement. Nora knew exactly what she was going to say. She had
heard the story so often; but, although she had heard it hundreds
and thousands of times, she was never tired of listening to the
history of a trim life of which she knew absolutely nothing. The
orderly, well-dressed servants, the punctual meals, the good and
abundant food, the nice dresses, the parties, the solid education,
the discipline so foreign to her own existence, all--all held their
proper fascination. But although she listened with delight to these
stories of a bygone time, she never envied her mother those periods
of prosperity. Such a life would have been a prison to her; so she
thought, although she never spoke her thought aloud.

Mrs. O'Shanaghgan began the old tale to-night, telling it with a
little more _verve_ even than usual. She ended at last with a
sigh.

"Oh, the beautiful old times!" she said.

"But you didn't know father then," answered Nora, a frown coming to
her brows, and an angry feeling for a moment visiting her warm
heart. "You didn't have father, nor Nora, nor Terry."

"Of course not, darling, and you make up for much; but, Nora dear,
although I love my husband and my children, I hate this country. I
hate it!"

"Don't, mother," said Nora, with a look of pain. She started to her
feet. At that moment loud, strong steps were heard in the hall; a
hearty voice exclaimed:

"Where's Light o' the Morning? Where have you hidden yourself,
witch?"

"It's father," said Nora. She said the words with a sort of gasp of
rejoicing, and the next moment had dashed out of the room.

CHAPTER II.

"SOME MORE OF THE LAND MUST GO."

Squire O'Shanaghgan was a tall, powerfully built man, with deep-set
eyes and rugged, overhanging brows; his hair was of a grizzled gray,
very thick and abundant; he had a shaggy beard, too, and a long
overhanging mustache. He entered the north parlor still more noisily
than Nora had done. The dogs yelped with delight, and flung
themselves upon him.

"Down, Creena! down, Cushla!" he said. "Ah, then, Nora, they are as
bewitching as yourself, little woman. What beauties they are
growing, to be sure!"

"I reared them," said Nora. "I am proud of them both. At one time I
thought Creena could not live; but look at her now--her coat as
black as jet, and so silky."

"Shut the door, won't you, Patrick?" said his wife.

"Bless me! I forgot," said the Squire. He crossed the room, and,
with an effort after quietness, closed the door with one foot; then
he seated himself by his wife's side.

"Better, Eileen?" he said, looking at her anxiously.

"I wish you would not call me Eileen," she said. "I hate to have my
name Irishized."

The Squire's eyes filled with suppressed fun.

"Ah, but you are half-Irish, whether you like it or not," he said.
"Is not she, colleen? Bless me, what a day it has turned out! We are
getting summer weather at last. What do you say to going for a drive,
Eileen--Ellen, I mean? Black Bess is eating her head off in the
stables. I want to go as far as Murphy's place, and you might as well
come with me."

"And I too?" said Nora.

"To be sure, child. Why not? You run round to the stables, Norrie,
and give the order."

Nora instantly left the room, the dogs following her.

"What ails her?" said the Squire, looking at his wife.

"Ails her, Pat? Nothing that I know of."

"Then you know very little," was his answer. "I never see that sort
of anxious frown between the colleen's brows without knowing there's
mischief in the wind. Somebody has been worrying her, and I won't
have it." He put down his great hand with a thump on the nearest
table.

"Don't, Pat. You quite shatter my nerves."

"Bless you and your nerves, Ellen. I want to give them all possible
consideration; but I won't have Light o' the Morning worried."

"You'll spoil that girl; you'll rue it yet."

"Bless her heart! I couldn't spoil her; she's unspoilable. Did you
ever see a sweeter bit of a thing, sound to the core, through and
through?"

"Sweet or not," said the mother, "she has got to learn her lesson of
life; and it is no good to be too tender with her; she wants a
little bracing."

"You have been trying that on--eh?"

"Well, not exactly, Pat; but you cannot expect me to keep all our
troubles to ourselves. There's that mortgage, you know."

"Bother the mortgage!" said the Squire. "Why do you harp on things
the way you do? I'll manage it right enough. I am going round to see
Dan Murphy now; he won't be hard on an old friend."

"Yes; but have you not to pay up?"

"Some day, I suppose."

"Now listen, Patrick. Do be reasonable. Whenever I speak of money
you fight shy of the subject."

"I don't--I don't," said the Squire restlessly; "but I am dead tired.
I have had a ride of thirty miles; I want my tea. Where is Nora? Do
you mind my calling her? She'll order Pegeen to bring the tea here."

"No; I won't have it. We'll have tea in the dining room presently. I
thought you objected to afternoon tea."

"So I do, as a rule; but I am mighty dhry--thirsty, I mean, Ellen.
Well, all the better; I'll get more to drink in the dining room.
Order the tea as soon as you please."

"Ring the bell, Patrick."

The Squire strode to the mantelpiece, pulled a bell-cord which hung
from the ceiling, a distant bell was heard ringing in noisy fashion,
and a moment afterward Pegeen put in her head.

"Come right in, Margaret," said her mistress.

"Aw! then, I'm sorry, ma'am, I forgot," said the girl. She came in,
hiding both her hands under her apron.

Mrs. O'Shanaghgan uttered an impatient sigh.

"It is impossible to train these creatures," she said under her
breath. Aloud, she gave her order in quiet, impassive tones:

"Tea as soon as possible in the west parlor, and sound the gong when
it is ready."

"Why, then, wasn't I getting it?" said Pegeen. She left the room,
leaving the door wide open.

"Just like them," said Mrs. O'Shanaghgan. "When you want the door
open they invariably shut it, and when you want it shut they leave
it open."

"They do that in England too, as far as I can tell," said the
Squire, with a slightly nettled tone in his voice.

"Well, now, Patrick, while we have a few moments to ourselves, I want
to know what you mean to do about that ten thousand pounds?"

"I am sure, Ellen, it is more than I can tell you."

"You will have to pay it, you know."

"I suppose so, some day. I'll speak to Dan to-night. He is the last
man to be hard on a chap."

"Some more of the land must go," said the wife in a fretful tone.
"Our rent-roll will be still smaller. There will be still less money
to educate Terence. I had set my heart on his going to Cambridge or
Oxford. You quite forget that he is eighteen now."

"Cambridge or Oxford!" said the Squire. "Not a bit of it. My son
shall either go to Old Trinity or he does without a university
education. Cambridge or Oxford indeed! You forget, Ellen, that the
lad is my son as well as yours."

"I don't; but he is half an Englishman, three parts an Englishman,
whatever his fatherhood," said the Squire's wife in a tone of triumph.

"Well, well! he is Terence O'Shanaghgan, for all that, and he will
inherit this old place some day."

"Much there will be for him to inherit."

Eager steps were heard on the gravel, and the next instant Nora
entered by the open window.

"I have given the order," she said; "Angus will have the trap round
in a quarter of an hour."

"That's right, my girl; you didn't let time drag," said her father.

"Angus wants you and mother to be quite ready, for he says Black
Bess is nearly off her head with spirit. Now, then, mother, shall I
go upstairs and bring down your things?"

"I don't mind if you do, Nora; my back aches a good bit."

"We'll put the air-cushion in the trap," said the Squire, who,
notwithstanding her fine-lady airs, had a great respect and
admiration for his wife. "We'll make you right cozy, Ellen, and a
rattle through the air will do you a sight of good."

"May I drive, father?" said Nora.

"You, little one? Suppose you bring Black Bess down on her knees?
That horse is worth three hundred pounds, if she's worth a penny."

"Do you think I would?" said the girl reproachfully. "Now, dad, that
is about the cruelest word you have said to your Nora for many a day."

"Come and give me a hug, colleen," said the Squire.

Nora ran to him, clasped her arms round his neck, and kissed him
once or twice. He had moved away to the other end of the room, and
now he looked her full in the face.

"You are fretting about something?"

"Not I--not I," said the girl; but she flushed.

"Listen to me, colleen," said the Squire; "if it is that bit of a
mortgage, you get it right out of your head. It's not going to worry
_me_. I am going this very evening to have a talk with Dan."

"Oh, if it is Dan Murphy you owe it to," said the girl.

"Ah, he's all right; he's the right sort; a chip of the old block--eh?
He wouldn't be hard on a brother in adversity?"

"He wouldn't if he could help it," said Nora; but the cloud had not
left her sensitive face. Then, seeing that father looked at her with
intense anxiety, she made a valiant effort.

"Of course, I believe in you," she said; "and, indeed, what does the
loss of money matter while we are together?"

"Right you are! right you are!" said the Squire, with a laugh. He
clapped her on the shoulder. "Trust Light o' the Morning to look at
things in the right direction," he said.

CHAPTER III.

THE WILD MURPHYS.

Terence made his appearance at the tea table. In every respect he was
a contrast to Nora. He was very good-looking--strikingly handsome, in
fact; tall, with a graceful elegance of deportment which was in
striking contrast to the burly figure of the old Squire. His face was
of a nut-brown hue; his eyes dark and piercing; his features straight.
Young as he was, there were the first indications of a black silky
mustache on his short upper lip, and his clustering black curls grew
in a high ridge off a lofty brow. Terence had the somewhat languid air
which more or less characterized all his mother's movements. He was
devoted to her, and took his seat now by her side. She laid her very
thin and slender hand on his arm. He did not respond by look or movement
to the gesture of affection; but had a very close observer been present
he would have noticed that he drew his chair about the tenth of an inch
nearer to hers.

Nora and her father at the other end of the table were chattering
volubly. Nora's face was all smiles; every vestige of that little
cloud which had sat between her dark brows a few moments before had
vanished. Her blue eyes were sparkling with fun.

The Squire made brilliant sally after sally, to which she responded
with all an Irish girl's aptitude for repartee.

Terence and his mother conversed in low tones.

"Yes, mother," he was saying, "I had a letter from Uncle George this
morning; he wants me to go next week. Do you think you can manage?"

"How long will you be away, Terence?"

"I don't know; a couple of months, perhaps."

"How much money will it cost?"

"I shall want an evening suit, and a new dress-suit, and something
for everyday. These things are disgraceful," said the lad, just
glancing at the frayed coat-sleeve, beneath which showed a linen
cuff of immaculate whiteness.

Terence was always the personification of fastidiousness in his
dress, and for this trait in his character alone Mrs. O'Shanaghgan
adored him.

"You shall have it," she said--"somehow."

"Well, I must reply tonight," he continued. "Shall I ask the
governor, or will you?"

"We won't worry him, Terry; I can manage."

He looked at her a little anxiously.

"You are not going to sell any more of them?" he said.

"There is a gold chain and that diamond ring; I never wear either. I
would fifty times rather think that you were enjoying yourself with
my relations in England. You are fitted to grace any society. Do not
say another word, my boy."

"You are the very best and noblest mother in the world," said the
lad with enthusiasm.

Meanwhile, Nora and her father continued their gay conversation.

"We will take a basket with us," said Nora, "and Bridget shall give
me a couple of dozen more of those little brown eggs. Mrs. Perch
shall have a brood of chicks if I can manage it."

"Trust the girleen for that," said the Squire, and then they rose
from table.

"Ellen," he continued, addressing his wife, "have you and Terence
done colloguing together? for I hear Black Bess coming to the front
door."

"Oh, hasten, mother; hasten!" said Nora. "The mare won't stand
waiting; she is so fresh she is just ready to fly."

The next few moments witnessed a scene of considerable bustle. Mrs.
O'Shanaghgan, with all her English nerves, had plenty of pluck, and
would scorn to show even a vestige of fear before the hangers-on, as
she called the numerous ragged urchins who appeared from every quarter
on each imaginable occasion. Although she was shaking from head to
foot with absolute terror at the thought of a drive behind Black Bess,
she stepped into her seat in the tall dog-cart without a remark. The
mare fidgeted and half reared.

"Whoa! whoa! Black Bess, my beauty!" said the Squire. The groom, a
bright-faced lad, with a wisp of yellow hair falling over his forehead,
held firmly to the reins. Nora jumped up beside her mother.

"Are you going to drive?" asked that lady.

"Yes, mummy; you know I can. Whoa, Black Bess! it's me," said the
girl. She took the reins in her capable little hands; the Squire
sprang up behind, and Black Bess flew down the avenue as if on the
wings of the wind.

Mrs. O'Shanaghgan gave one hurried pant of suppressed anguish, and
then sat perfectly still, her lips set, her hands tightly locked
together. She endured these drives almost daily, but had never yet
got accustomed to them. Nora, on the contrary, as they spun through
the air, felt her spirits rising; the hot young blood coursed through
her veins, and her eyes blazed with fun and happiness. She looked
back at her father, who nodded to her briefly.

"That's it, Nora; keep her well in. Now that we are going uphill you
can give her her head a bit. Whoa, Black Bess! Whoa!"

The mare, after her first wild canter, settled into a more jog-trot
gait, and the dog-cart did not sway so violently from side to side.
They were soon careering along a wide, well-made road, which ran for
many miles along the top of some high cliffs. Below them, at their
feet, the wild Atlantic waves curled and burst in innumerable
fountains of spray; the roar of the waves came up to their ears, and
the breath of the salt breeze, the freshest and most invigorating in
the world, fanned their cheeks. Even Mrs. O'Shanaghgan felt her
heart beating less wildly, and ventured to put a question or two to
Nora with regard to the clucking hen, Mrs. Perch.

"I have not forgotten the basket, mammy," said the girl; "and Hannah
will put the eggs under the hen tonight."

"I am quite certain that Hannah mismanaged the last brood," said
Mrs. O'Shanaghgan; "but everything goes wrong at the Castle just
now."

"Oh, mother, hush! he will hear," said Nora.

"It is just like you, Nora; you wish to keep----"

"Oh, come, now," said the Squire; "I hear the grumbles beginning. No
grumbles when we are having our ride--eh, Ellen? I want you to come
back with a hearty appetite for dinner, and a hearty inclination to
sleep tonight."

They drove faster and faster. Occasionally Nora touched the mare the
faintest little flick with the end of her long whip. The creature
responded to her touch as though girl and horse were one.

At last they drew up outside a dilapidated gate, one hinge of which
was off. The Squire jumped down from his seat, came round, and held
the horse's head.

"Whoa! whoa!" he said. "Hullo, you, Mike! Why aren't you in your
place? Come and open the gate this minute, lad."

A small boy, with bare feet and ragged trousers, came hurrying, head
over heels, down the road. Mrs. O'Shanaghgan shuddered and shut her
eyes. The gate was swung open. Nora led the mare skillfully round a
somewhat sharp corner, and the next instant they were dashing with
headlong speed up a steep avenue. It was neglected; weeds grew all
over it, and the adjacent meadows were scarcely distinguishable from
the avenue itself.

The Squire ran after the dog-cart, and leaped up while the mare was
going at full speed.

"Well done, father!" called back Nora.

"Heaven preserve us!" thought Mrs. O'Shanaghgan, who still sat
speechless, and as if made of iron.

At last they reached a long, rambling old house, with many small
windows, interspersed with a few of enormous dimensions. These were
called parliament windows, and had been put into many houses of that
period in order to avoid the window-tax. Most of the windows were
open, and out of some of them ragged towels were drying in the
evening breeze. About half a dozen dogs, most of which were of
mongrel breed, rushed forward at the sound of the wheels, barking
vociferously. Nora, with a dexterous touch of her hand, drew the
mare up just in front of the mansion, and then sprang lightly to her
feet.'

"Now, mother, shall I help you down?"

"You had better find out first if Mrs. Murphy is in," said the
Squire's wife.

A ragged urchin, such as seemed to abound like mushrooms in the
place, came and held the reins close to the horse's mouth. The
creature stood trembling from the violence of her exertions, and
pouring down moisture at every pore. "She wants to be well rubbed
down," said the Squire. "She doesn't get half exercise enough; this
will never do. What if I have to make money on her, and she is
spoiled?"

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