CHAPTER III.
CLARA DESMOND.
It had been Clara Desmond's first ball, and on the following morningshe had much to occupy her thoughts. In the first place, had she beenpleased or had she not? Had she been most gratified or most pained?
Girls when they ask themselves such questions seldom give themselvesfair answers. She had liked dancing with Owen Fitzgerald; oh, somuch! She had liked dancing with others too, though she had not knownthem, and had hardly spoken to them. The mere act of dancing, withthe loud music in the room, and the gay dresses and bright lightsaround her, had been delightful. But then it had pained her--she knewnot why, but it had pained her--when her mother told her that peoplewould make remarks about her. Had she done anything improper on thisher first entry into the world? Was her conduct to be scanned, andjudged, and condemned, while she was flattering herself that no onehad noticed her but him who was speaking to her?
Their breakfast was late, and the countess sat, as was her wont, withher book beside her tea-cup, speaking a word every now and again toher son.
"Owen will be over here to-day," said he. "We are going to have aschooling match down on the Callows." Now in Ireland a schoolingmatch 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, weshall be half way to Millstreet by that time."
"Never mind, but do as I tell you. You expect everybody to be as wildand wayward as yourself." And the countess smiled on her son in amanner which showed that she was proud even of his wildness and hiswaywardness.
Clara had felt that she blushed when she heard that Mr. Fitzgeraldwas to be there that morning. She felt that her own manner becameconstrained, and was afraid that her mother should look at her. Owenhad said nothing to her about love; and she, child as she was, hadthought nothing about love. But she was conscious of something, sheknew not what. He had touched her hand during those dances as it hadnever been touched before; he had looked into her eyes, and her eyeshad fallen before his glance; he had pressed her waist, and she hadfelt that there was tenderness in the pressure. So she blushed, andalmost trembled, when she heard that he was coming, and was glad inher heart when she found that there was neither anger nor sunshine inher mother's face.
Not long after breakfast, the earl went out on his horse, and metOwen at some gate or back entrance. In his opinion the old house wasstupid, and the women in it were stupid companions in the morning.His heart for the moment was engaged on the thought of making hisanimal take the most impracticable leaps which he could find, andit did not occur to him at first to give his mother's message tohis companion. As for lunch, they would get a biscuit and glass ofcherry-brandy at Wat M'Carthy's, of Drumban; and as for his motherhaving anything to say, that of course went for nothing.
Owen would have been glad to have gone up to the house, but in thathe was frustrated by the earl's sharpness in catching him. His nexthope was to get through the promised lesson in horse-leaping asquickly as possible, so that he might return to Desmond Court, andtake his chance of meeting Clara. But in this he found the earl verydifficult to manage.
"Oh, Owen, we won't go there," he said, when Fitzgerald proposed acanter through some meadows down by the river-side. "There are onlya few gripes"--Irish for small ditches--"and I have ridden Fireballover them a score of times. I want you to come away towards Drumban."
"Drumban! why Drumban's seven miles from here."
"What matter? Besides, it's not six the way I'll take you. I want tosee Wat M'Carthy especially. He has a litter of puppies there, out ofthat black bitch of his, and I mean to make him give me one of them."
But on that morning, Owen Fitzgerald would not allow himself to betaken so far a-field as Drumban, even on a mission so important asthis. The young lord fought the matter stoutly; but it ended byhis being forced to content himself with picking out all the mostdangerous parts of the fences in the river meadows.
"Why, you've hardly tried your own mare at all," said the lad,reproachfully.
"I'm going to hunt her on Saturday," said Owen; "and she'll havequite enough to do then."
"Well, you're very slow to-day. You're done up with the dancing, Ithink. And what do you mean to do now?"
"I'll go home with you, I think, and pay my respects to thecountess."
"By-the-by, I was to bring you in to lunch. She said she wanted tosee you. By jingo, I forgot all about it! But you've all become verystupid among you, I know that." And so they rode back to DesmondCourt, entering the demesne by one of the straight, dull, level roadswhich led up to the house.
But it did not suit the earl to ride on the road while the grass wasso near him; so they turned off with a curve across what was calledthe park, thus prolonging their return by about double the necessarydistance.
As they were cantering on, Owen saw her of whom he was in questwalking in the road which they had left. His best chance of seeingher alone had been that of finding her outside the house. He knewthat the countess rarely or never walked with her daughter, and that,as the governess was gone, Clara was driven to walk by herself.
"Desmond," he said, pulling up his horse, "do you go on and tell yourmother that I will be with her almost immediately."
"Why, where are you off to now?"
"There is your sister, and I must ask her how she is after the ball;"and so saying he trotted back in the direction of the road.
Lady Clara had seen them; and though she had hardly turned her head,she had seen also how suddenly Mr. Fitzgerald had stopped his horse,and turned his course when he perceived her. At the first moment shehad been almost angry with him for riding away from her, and now shefelt almost angry with him because he did not do so.
He slackened his pace as he came near her, and approached her at awalk. There was very little of the faint heart about Owen Fitzgeraldat any time, or in anything that he attempted. He had now made uphis mind fairly to tell Clara Desmond that he loved her, and to askfor her love in return. He had resolved to do so, and there was verylittle doubt but that he would carry out his resolution. But he hadin nowise made up his mind how he should do it, or what his wordsshould be. And now that he saw her so near him he wanted a moment tocollect his thoughts.
He took off his hat as he rode up, and asked her whether she wastired after the ball; and then dismounting, he left his mare tofollow as she pleased.
"Oh, Mr. Fitzgerald, won't she run away?" said Clara, as she gave himher hand.
"Oh, no; she has been taught better than that. But you don't tell mehow you are. I thought you were tired last night when I saw that youhad altogether given over dancing." And then he walked on beside her,and the docile mare followed them like a dog.
"No, I was not tired; at least, not exactly," said Clara, blushingagain and again, being conscious that she blushed. "But--but--youknow it was the first ball I was ever at."
"That is just the reason why you should have enjoyed it the more,instead of sitting down as you did, and being dull and unhappy. ForI know you were unhappy; I could see it."
"Was I?" said Clara, not knowing what else to say.
"Yes; and I'll tell you what. I could see more than that; it was Ithat made you unhappy."
"You, Mr. Fitzgerald!"
"Yes, I. You will not deny it, because you are so true. I asked youto dance with me too often. And because you refused me, you did notlike to dance with any one else. I saw it all. Will you deny that itwas so?"
"Oh, Mr. Fitzgerald!" Poor girl! She did not know what to say; how toshape her speech into indifference; how to assure him that he madehimself out to be of too much consequence by far; how to make itplain that she had not danced because there was no one there worthdancing with. Had she been out for a year or two, instead of beingsuch a novice, she would have accomplished all this in half a dozenwords. As it was, her tell-tale face confessed it all, and she was
only able to ejaculate, "Oh, Mr. Fitzgerald!"
"When I went there last night," he continued, "I had only onewish--one hope. That was, to see you pleased and happy. I knew it wasyour first ball, and I did so long to see you enjoy it."
"And so I did, till--"
"Till what? Will you not let me ask?"
"Mamma said something to me, and that stopped me from dancing."
"She told you not to dance with me. Was that it?"
How was it possible that she should have had a chance with him;innocent, young, and ignorant as she was? She did not tell him inwords that so it had been; but she looked into his face with a glanceof doubt and pain that answered his question as plainly as any wordscould have done.
"Of course she did; and it was I that destroyed it all. I that shouldhave been satisfied to stand still and see you happy. How you musthave hated me!"
"Oh, no; indeed I did not. I was not at all angry with you. Indeed,why should I have been? It was so kind of you, wishing to dance withme."
"No; it was selfish--selfish in the extreme. Nothing but one thingcould excuse me, and that excuse--"
"I'm sure you don't want any excuse, Mr. Fitzgerald."
"And that excuse, Clara, was this: that I love you with all my heart.I had not strength to see you there, and not long to have you nearme--not begrudge that you should dance with another. I love you withall my heart and soul. There, Lady Clara, now you know it all."
The manner in which he made his declaration to her was almost fiercein its energy. He had stopped in the pathway, and she, unconsciousof what she was doing, almost unconscious of what she was hearing,had stopped also. The mare, taking advantage of the occasion, wascropping the grass close to them. And so, for a few seconds, theystood in silence.
"Am I so bold, Lady Clara," said he, when those few seconds had goneby--"Am I so bold that I may hope for no answer?" But still shesaid nothing. In lieu of speaking she uttered a long sigh; and thenFitzgerald could hear that she was sobbing.
"Oh, Clara, I love you so fondly, so dearly, so truly!" said he in analtered voice and with sweet tenderness. "I know my own presumptionin thus speaking. I know and feel bitterly the difference in ourrank."
"I--care--nothing--for rank," said the poor girl, sobbing through hertears. He was generous, and she at any rate would not be less so. No;at that moment, with her scanty seventeen years of experience, withher ignorance of all that the world had in it of grand and great, ofhigh and rich, she did care nothing for rank. That Owen Fitzgeraldwas a gentleman of good lineage, fit to mate with a lady, thatshe did know; for her mother, who was a proud woman, delighted tohave him in her presence. Beyond this she cared for none of theconventionalities of life. Rank! If she waited for rank, where wasshe to look for friends who would love her? Earls and countesses,barons and their baronesses, were scarce there where fate had placedher, under the shadow of the bleak mountains of Muskerry. Her want,her undefined want, was that some one should love her. Of all menand women whom she had hitherto known, this Owen Fitzgerald was thebrightest, the kindest, the gentlest in his manner, the most pleasantto look on. And now he was there at her feet, swearing that he lovedher;--and then drawing back as it were in dread of her rank. What didshe care for rank?
"Clara, Clara, my Clara! Can you learn to love me?"
She had made her one little effort at speaking when she attempted torepudiate the pedestal on which he affected to place her; but afterthat she could for a while say no more. But she still sobbed, andstill kept her eyes fixed upon the ground.
"Clara, say one word to me. Say that you do not hate me." But just atthat moment she had not one word to say.
"If you will bid me do so, I will leave this country altogether. Iwill go away, and I shall not much care whither. I can only stay nowon condition of your loving me. I have thought of this day for thelast year past, and now it has come."
Every word that he now spoke was gospel to her. Is it not alwaysso,--should it not be so always, when love first speaks to lovingears? What! he had loved her for that whole twelvemonth that she hadknown him; loved her in those days when she had been wont to look upinto his face, wondering why he was so nice, so much nicer than anyone else that came near her! A year was a great deal to her; and hadhe loved her through all those days? and after that should she banishhim from her house, turn him away from his home, and drive him forthunhappy and wretched? Ah, no! She could not be so unkind to him;--shecould not be so unkind to her own heart. But still she sobbed; andstill she said nothing.
In the mean time they had turned, and were now walking back towardsthe house, the gentle-natured mare still following at their heels.They were walking slowly--very slowly back--just creeping along thepath, when they saw Lady Desmond and her son coming to meet them onthe road.
"There is your mother, Clara. Say one word to me before we meetthem."
"Oh, Mr. Fitzgerald; I am so frightened. What will mamma say?"
"Say about what? As yet I do not know what she may have to say. Butbefore we meet her, may I not hope to know what her daughter willsay? Answer me this, Clara. Can you, will you love me?"
There was still a pause, a moment's pause, and then some sound didfall from her lips. But yet it was so soft, so gentle, so slight,that it could hardly be said to reach even a lover's ear. Fitzgerald,however, made the most of it. Whether it were Yes, or whether it wereNo, he took it as being favourable, and Lady Clara Desmond gave himno sign to show that he was mistaken.
"My own, own, only loved one," he said, embracing her as it were withhis words, since the presence of her approaching mother forbade himeven to take her hand in his, "I am happy now, whatever may occur;whatever others may say; for I know that you will be true to me. Andremember this--whatever others may say, I also will be true to you.You will think of that, will you not, love?"
This time she did answer him, almost audibly. "Yes," she said. Andthen she devoted herself to a vain endeavour to remove the traces ofher tears before her mother should be close to them.
Fitzgerald at once saw that such endeavour must be vain. At one timehe had thought of turning away, and pretending that they had not seenthe countess. But he knew that Clara would not be able to carry outany such pretence; and he reflected also that it might be just aswell that Lady Desmond should know the whole at once. That she wouldknow it, and know it soon, he was quite sure. She could learn itnot only from Clara, but from himself. He could not now be there atthe house without showing that he both loved and knew that he wasbeloved. And then why should Lady Desmond not know it? Why should hethink that she would set herself against the match? He had certainlyspoken to Clara of the difference in their rank; but, after all, itwas no uncommon thing for an earl's daughter to marry a commoner.And in this case the earl's daughter was portionless, and the loverdesired no portion. Owen Fitzgerald at any rate might boast that hewas true and generous in his love.
So he plucked up his courage, and walked on with a smiling face tomeet Lady Desmond and her son; while poor Clara crept beside him witheyes downcast, and in an agony of terror.
Lady Desmond had not left the house with any apprehension that therewas aught amiss. Her son had told her that Owen had gone off "to dothe civil to Clara;" and as he did not come to the house within sometwenty minutes after this, she had proposed that they would go andmeet him.
"Did you tell him that I wanted him?" said the countess.
"Oh, yes, I did; and he is coming, only he would go away to Clara."
"Then I shall scold him for his want of gallantry," said LadyDesmond, laughing, as they walked out together from beneath the hugeportal.
But as soon as she was near enough to see the manner of their gait,as they slowly came on towards her, her woman's tact told her thatsomething was wrong;--and whispered to her also what might tooprobably be the nature of that something. Could it be possible, sheasked herself, that such a man as Owen Fitzgerald should fall in lovewith such a girl as her daughter Clara?
"What shall I say to mamma?" whispered Clar
a to him, as they all drewnear together.
"Tell her everything."
"But, Patrick--"
"I will take him off with me if I can." And then they were alltogether, standing in the road.
"I was coming to obey your behests, Lady Desmond," said Fitzgerald,trying to look and speak as though he were at his ease.
"Coming rather tardily, I think," said her ladyship, not altogetherplayfully.
"I told him you wanted him, as we were crossing to the house," saidthe earl. "Didn't I, Owen?"
"Is anything the matter with Clara?" said Lady Desmond, looking ather daughter.
"No, mamma," said Clara; and she instantly began to sob and cry.
"What is it, sir?" And as she asked she turned to Fitzgerald; and hermanner now at least had in it nothing playful.
"Lady Clara is nervous and hysterical. The excitement of the ball hasperhaps been too much for her. I think, Lady Desmond, if you were totake her in with you it would be well."
Lady Desmond looked up at him; and he then saw, for the first time,that she could if she pleased look very stern. Hitherto her face hadalways worn smiles, had at any rate always been pleasing when he hadseen it. He had never been intimate with her, never intimate enoughto care what her face was like, till that day when he had carried herson up from the hall door to his room. Then her countenance had beenall anxiety for her darling; and afterwards it had been all sweetnessfor her darling's friend. From that day to this present one, LadyDesmond had ever given him her sweetest smiles.
But Fitzgerald was not a man to be cowed by any woman's looks. He methers by a full, front face in return. He did not allow his eye for amoment to fall before hers. And yet he did not look at her haughtily,or with defiance, but with an aspect which showed that he was ashamedof nothing that he had done,--whether he had done anything that heought to be ashamed of or no.
"Clara," said the countess, in a voice which fell with awful severityon the poor girl's ears, "you had better return to the house withme."
"Yes, mamma."
"And shall I wait on you to-morrow, Lady Desmond?" said Fitzgerald,in a tone which seemed to the countess to be, in the present state ofaffairs, almost impertinent. The man had certainly been misbehavinghimself; and yet there was not about him the slightest symptom ofshame.
"Yes; no," said the countess. "That is, I will write a note to you ifit be necessary. Good morning."
"Good-bye, Lady Desmond," said Owen. And as he took off his hat withhis left hand, he put out his right to shake hands with her, as wascustomary with him. Lady Desmond was at first inclined to refuse thecourtesy; but she either thought better of such intention, or elseshe had not courage to maintain it; for at parting she did give himher hand.
"Good-bye, Lady Clara;" and he also shook hands with her, and it needhardly be said that there was a lover's pressure in the grasp.
"Good-bye," said Clara, through her tears, in the saddest, soberesttone. He was going away, happy, light hearted, with nothing totrouble him. But she had to encounter that fearful task of tellingher own crime. She had to depart with her mother;--her mother, who,though never absolutely unkind, had so rarely been tender with her.And then her brother--!
"Desmond," said Fitzgerald, "walk as far as the lodge with me like agood fellow. I have something that I want to say to you."
The mother thought for a moment that she would call her son back; butthen she bethought herself that she also might as well be withouthim. So the young earl, showing plainly by his eyes that he knew thatmuch was the matter, went back with Fitzgerald towards the lodge.
"What is it you have done now?" said the earl. The boy had some sortof an idea that the offence committed was with reference to hissister; and his tone was hardly as gracious as was usual with him.
This want of kindliness at the present moment grated on Owen's ears;but he resolved at once to tell the whole story out, and then leaveit to the earl to take it in dudgeon or in brotherly friendship as hemight please.
"Desmond," said he, "can you not guess what has passed between me andyour sister?"
"I am not good at guessing," he answered, brusquely.
"I have told her that I loved her, and would have her for my wife;and I have asked her to love me in return."
There was an open manliness about this which almost disarmed theearl's anger. He had felt a strong attachment to Fitzgerald, and wasvery unwilling to give up his friendship; but, nevertheless, he hadan idea that it was presumption on the part of Mr. Fitzgerald of HapHouse to look up to his sister. Between himself and Owen the earl'scoronet never weighed a feather; he could not have abandoned hisboy's heart to the man's fellowship more thoroughly had that manbeen an earl as well as himself. But he could not get over thefeeling that Fitzgerald's worldly position was beneath that ofhis sister;--that such a marriage on his sister's part would be amesalliance. Doubting, therefore, and in some sort dismayed--and insome sort also angry--he did not at once give any reply.
"Well, Desmond, what have you to say to it? You are the head of herfamily, and young as you are, it is right that I should tell you."
"Tell me! of course you ought to tell me. I don't see what youngnesshas to do with it. What did she say?"
"Well, she said but little; and a man should never boast that a ladyhas favoured him. But she did not reject me." He paused a moment, andthen added, "After all, honesty and truth are the best. I have reasonto think that she loves me."
The poor young lord felt that he had a double duty, and hardly knewhow to perform it. He owed a duty to his sister which was paramountto all others; but then he owed a duty also to the friend who hadbeen so kind to him. He did not know how to turn round upon him andtell him that he was not fit to marry his sister.
"And what do you say to it, Desmond?"
"I hardly know what to say. It would be a very bad match for her.You, you know, are a capital fellow; the best fellow going. There isnobody about anywhere that I like so much."
"In thinking of your sister, you should put that out of thequestion."
"Yes; that's just it. I like you for a friend better than any oneelse. But Clara ought--ought--ought--"
"Ought to look higher, you would say."
"Yes; that's just what I mean. I don't want to offend you, you know."
"Desmond, my boy, I like you the better for it. You are a finefellow, and I thoroughly respect you. But let us talk sensibly aboutthis. Though your sister's rank is high--"
"Oh, I don't want to talk about rank. That's all bosh, and I don'tcare about it. But Hap House is a small place, and Clara wouldn't bedoing well; and what's more, I am quite sure the countess will nothear of it."
"You won't approve then?"
"No, I can't say I will."
"Well, that is honest of you. I am very glad that I have told you atonce. Clara will tell her mother, and at any rate there will be nosecrets. Good-bye, old fellow."
"Good-bye," said the earl. Then they shook hands, and Fitzgerald rodeoff towards Hap House. Lord Desmond pondered over the matter sometime, standing alone near the lodge; and then walked slowly backtowards the mansion. He had said that rank was all bosh; and in sosaying had at the moment spoken out generously the feelings of hisheart. But that feeling regarded himself rather than his sister; andif properly analyzed would merely have signified that, though proudenough of his own rank, he did not require that his friends should beof the same standing. But as regarded his sister, he certainly wouldnot be well pleased to see her marry a small squire with a smallincome.
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