Light O' the Morning: The Story of an Irish Girl Part 6

"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."

The moon shone on the two young faces, and Nora looked up at her brother; he put on a supercilious smile, and folded his arms across his broad chest.

"Yes," she replied; "and I should like to shake you for looking like that. I am glad I am Irish through and through and _through_. Would I give my warm heart and my enthusiasm for your coldness and deliberation?"

"Good gracious, Nora, what a little ignorant thing you are! Do you suppose no Englishman has enthusiasm?"

"We'll drop the subject," said Nora. "It is one I won't talk of; it puts me into such a boiling rage to see you sitting like that."

Terence did not speak at all for a moment; then he said quietly:

"What is this thing that you have got to tell me? The five minutes are nearly up, you know."

"Oh, bother your five minutes! I cannot tell you in five minutes.

When my heart is scalded with unshed tears, how can I measure time by _minutes_? It has to do with father; it is worse than anything that has ever gone before."

"What is it, Norrie?" Her brother's tone had suddenly become gentle. He laid his hand for a moment on her arm; the gentleness of the tone, the unexpected sweetness of the touch overcame Nora; she flung her arms pa.s.sionately round his neck.

"Oh, and you are the only brother I have got!" she sobbed; "and I could love you--I could love you like anything. Can't you be sympathetic?

Can't you be sweet? Can't you be dear?"

"Oh, come, come!" said Terence, struggling to release himself from Nora's entwining arms; "I am not made like you, you know; but I am not a bad chap at heart. Now, what is it?"

"I will try and tell you."

"And for goodness' sake don't look so sorrowfully at me, Nora; we can talk, and we can act and do good deeds, without giving ourselves away. I hate girls who wear their hearts on their sleeves."

"Oh! you will _never_ understand," said Nora, starting back again; all her burst of feeling turned in upon herself. "I can't imagine how you are father's son," she began. But then she stopped, waited for a moment, and then said quietly, "There is a fresh mortgage, and it is for a very big sum."

"Oh, is that all?" said Terence. "I have heard of mortgages all my life; it seems to be the fas.h.i.+on at O'Shanaghgan to mortgage to any extent.

There is nothing in that; father will give up a little more of the land."

"How much land do you think is left?"

"I am sure I can't say; not much, I presume."

"It is my impression," said Nora--"I am not sure; but it is my impression--that there is _nothing_ left to meet this big thing but the--the--the land on which"--her voice broke--"Terry, the land on which the house stands."

"Really, Nora, you are so melodramatic. I don't know how you can know anything of this."

"I only guess. Mother is very unhappy."

"Mother? Is she?"

"Ah, I have touched you there! But anyhow, father is in worse trouble than he has been yet; I never, _never_ saw him look as he did tonight."

"As if looks mattered."

"The look I saw tonight does matter," said Nora. "We were coming home from Cronane, and I was driving."

"It is madness to let you drive Black Bess," interrupted Terence. "I wonder my father risks spoiling one of his most valuable horses."

"Oh, nonsense, Terry; I can drive as well as you, and better, thanks,"

replied Nora, much nettled, for her excellent driving was one of the few things she was proud of. "Well, I turned round, and I saw father's face, and, oh! it was just as if someone had stabbed me through the heart.

You know, or perhaps you don't, that the last big loan came from Squire Murphy."