But not the less did Fitzgerald, as he drove home,
determine that on the next day he would know something
of his fate: and with this resolve he endeavoured
to comfort himself as he drove up into his own avenue,
and betook himself to his own solitary home.
It had been Clara Desmond’s first ball, and
on the following morning she had much to occupy her
thoughts. In the first place, had she been pleased
or had she not? Had she been most gratified or
most pained?
Girls when they ask themselves such questions seldom
give themselves fair answers. She had liked dancing
with Owen Fitzgerald; oh, so much! She had liked
dancing with others too, though she had not known
them, and had hardly spoken to them. The mere
act of dancing, with the loud music in the room, and
the gay dresses and bright lights around her, had
been delightful. But then it had pained her—she
knew not why, but it had pained her—when
her mother told her that people would make remarks
about her. Had she done anything improper on
this her first entry into the world? Was her conduct
to be scanned, and judged, and condemned, while she
was flattering herself that no one had noticed her
but him who was speaking to her?
Their breakfast was late, and the countess sat, as
was her wont, with her book beside her teacup, speaking
a word every now and again to her son.
“Owen will be over here to-day,” said
he. “We are going to have a schooling match
down on the Callows.” Now in Ireland a schooling
match means the amusement of teaching your horses to
jump.
“Will he?” said Lady Desmond, looking
up from her book for a moment. “Mind you
bring him in to lunch; I want to speak to him.”
“He doesn’t care much about lunch, I fancy,”
said he; “and, maybe, we shall be halfway to
Millstreet by that time.”
“Never mind, but do as I tell you. You
expect everybody to be as wild and wayward as yourself.”
And the countess smiled on her son in a manner which
showed that she was proud even of his wildness and
his waywardness.
Clara had felt that she blushed when she heard that
Mr. Fitzgerald was to be there that morning.
She felt that her own manner became constrained, and
was afraid that her mother should look at her.
Owen had said nothing to her about love; and she,
child as she was, had thought nothing about love.
But she was conscious of something, she knew not what.
He had touched her hand during those dances as it had
never been touched before; he had looked into her eyes,
and her eyes had fallen before his glance; he had
pressed her waist, and she had felt that there was
tenderness in the pressure. So she blushed, and
almost trembled, when she heard that he was coming,
and was glad in her heart when she found that there
was neither anger nor sunshine in her mother’s
face.
