It was one evening, the night of my Lord Bridgewater’s ball at his house in the Barbican, that Lady Clancarty stood looking at her own reflection, all dressed for the rout. Her gown, a wondrous affair of silver lace and white brocade, became her well, and her luxuriant hair was deftly dressed with one large diamond flashing like a star amidst the curls. She turned away from the glass smiling—she could not help a certain pleasure in the picture—but the next she sighed and looked about for Alice.
“Where is the girl?” she said to herself; “alas! what a silly fool I am to deck myself out like this—for what? I know not, since he cannot see me and I cannot tell how it fares with him.”
Her mood changed swiftly; a moment before she had thought of herself and of the ball—now she stood dejected, her head bowed, tears in her eyes.
“Ah, if I only knew how he was,” she murmured softly, “if I could only see him well!”
As she spoke the door opened gently and Alice looked in, glancing around the room.
“What ails you, Alice?” asked her mistress, “you wear the face of a conspirator; where have you been?”
Alice laid her finger on her lips and withdrew—to Betty’s infinite astonishment—and the next instant the door opened wider and a tall man, cloaked and booted for riding, crossed the threshold.
Betty uttered a strange little cry; her beautiful India fan fell on the floor and broke in a thousand pieces. Lord Clancarty sprang toward her and caught her in his arms in time to keep her from falling.
“My darling!” he said, “I came too unexpectedly—I have done wrong.”
“O Donough!” she cried, smiling through her tears, “I am so glad—so glad!” and she held him off to look at him; “pale,” she said, “and thin—but mine—mine own!”