■a»^' , ■ -_v.lPrf'.'Jt-;-.y^<i>-.-WV:m-.: ■.■_r-»TV '.^.V,^1C,I.-<,V<.1 y. .i^,/.Ti.ir^.-,-., . .-,av.,jr^-j

I

JOHNA.SEAVERNS

C /> > r^ia^ __^

HALL'S BOOK SHOP

361 BOYLSTON St.
BOSTON. MASS.

THE REAL CHARLOTTE

STORIES AND SKETCHES OF IRISH LIFE.

By E. CE. SoMERviLLE and Martin Ross.

SOME EXPERIENCES OF AN
IRISH R.M.

With 31 Illustrations by E. CE. Somerville.
Crown 8vo, 3s. 6d.

FURTHER EXPERIENCES OF AN

IRISH R.M.

With 35 Illustrations by E. CE. Somerville.

Crown 8vo, 3s. 6d.

IN MR. KNOX'S COUNTRY.

With 8 Illustrations in Colour by E. CE. Somerville.
Crown 8vo, 6s.

ALL ON THE IRISH SHORE.

With 10 Illustrations by E. CE. Somerville.

Crown Svo, 3s. 6d.

SOME IRISH YESTERDAYS.

With 51 Illustrations by E. GE. Somerville.

Crown Svo, 3s. 6d.

AN IRISH COUSIN.
Crown Svo, 3s. 6d.

THE REAL CHARLOTTE.
Crown Svo, 3s. 6d.

THE SILVER FOX.
Crown Svo, 3s. 6d.

LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.

39 paternoster row, LONDON

THE

REAL CHARLOTTE

BY

E. GE. SOMERVILLE & MARTIN ROSS

NEW IMPRESSION

LONGMANS, GREEN AND CO.
39 PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON

FOURTH AVENUE & 30th STREET, NEW YORK
BOMBAY, CALCUTTA, AND MADRAS

m.

First published by Ward 6^ Downey^ in J volumes in i8g4y
and in one volume in i8g^. Transferred to Longmans^ Green
6^ Co. and reprinted by them in November^ igoo, December,
ipoi, and November, igoj. Reissued in uniform edition
October J igio ; reprinted May, igii, June, igiS-

THE REAL CHARLOTTE.

CHAPTER I.

An August Sunday afternoon in the north side of Dublin.
Epitome of all that is hot, arid, and empty. Tall brick
houses, browbeating each other in gloomy respectability
across the white streets ; broad pavements, promenaded
mainly by the nomadic cat ; stifling squares, wherein the
infant of unfashionable parentage is taken for the daily
baking that is its substitute for the breezes and the press of
perambulators on the Bray Esplanade or the Kingston pier.
Few towns are duller out of the season than Dubhn, but
the dullness of its north side neither waxes nor wanes ; it is
immutable, unchangeable, fixed as the stars. So at least
it appears to the observer whose impressions are only eye-
deep, and are derived from the emptiness of the streets, the
unvarying dirt of the window panes, and the almost for-
gotten type of ugliness of the window curtains.

But even an August Sunday in the north side has its
distractions for those who know where to seek them, and
there are some of a sufficiently ingenuous disposition to find
in Sunday-school a social excitement that is independent of
fashion, except so far as its slow eddies may have touched
the teacher's bonnet. Perhaps it is peculiar to Dublin that
Sunday-school, as an institution, is by no means reserved
for children of the poorer sort only, but permeates all ranks,
and has as many recruits from the upper and middle as
from the lower classes. Certainly the excellent Mrs. Fitz-
patrick, of Number O, Mountjoy Square, as she lay in
mountainous repose on the sofa in her dining-room, had
no thought that it was derogatory to the dignity of her

A

2 The Real Charlotte

daughters and her niece to sit, as they were now sitting,
between the children of her grocer, Mr. Mulvany, and her
chemist, Mr. Nolan. Sunday-school was, in her mind, an
admirable institution that at one and the same time cleared
her house of her offspring, and spared her the complica-
tions of their religious training, and her broad, black satin-
clad bosom rose and fell in rhythmic accord with the snores
that were the last expression of Sabbath peace and repose.

It was nearly four o'clock, and the heat and dull clamour
in the schoolhouse were beginning to tell equally upon
teachers and scholars. Francie Fitzpatrick had yawned
twice, though she had a sufficient sense of politeness to
conceal the action behind her Bible ; the pleasure of
thrusting out in front of her, for the envious regard of her
fellows, a new pair of side spring boots, with mock buttons
and stitching, had palled upon her ; the spider that had for
a few quivering moments hung uncertainly above the gor-
geous bonnet of Miss Bewley, the teacher, had drawn itself
up again, staggered, no doubt, by the unknown tropic
growths it found beneath ; and the silver ring that Tommy
Whitty had crammed upon her gloved finger before school,
as a mark of devotion, had become perfectly immovable
and was a source of at least as much anxiety as satisfactioa
Even Miss Bewley's powers of exposition had melted away
in the heat ; she had called out her catechetical reserves,
and was reduced to a dropping fire of questions as to the
meaning of Scriptural names, when at length the superin-
tendent mounted the rostrum and tapped thrice upon it.
The closing hymn was sung, and then, class by class, the
hot, tired children clattered out into the road.

On Francie rested the responsibility of bringing home
her four small cousins, of ages varying from six to eleven,
but this duty did not seem to weigh very heavily on her.
She had many acquaintances in the Sunday-school, and
with Susie Brennan's and Fanny Hemphill's arms round
her waist, and Tommy Whitty in close attendance, she was
in no hurry to go home. Children are, if unconsciously,
as much influenced by good looks a? their elders, and even
the raw angularities of fourteen, and Mrs. Fitzpatrick's taste
in hats, could not prevent Francie from looking extremely
pretty and piquante, as she held forth to an attentive

The Real Charlotte. 3

audience on the charms of a young man who had on that
day partaken of an early dinner at her Uncle Fitzpatrick's
house.

Francie's accent and mode of expressing herself were
alike deplorable ; Dublin had done its worst for her in that
respect, but unless the reader has some slight previous
notion of how dreadful a thing is a pure-bred Dublin accent,
it would be impossible for him to realise in any degree the
tone in which she said :

*' But oh ! Tommy Whitty ! wait till I tell you what he
said about the excursion ! He said he'd come to it if I'd
promise to stay with him the whole day ; so now, see how
grand I'll be ! And he has a Jong black mustash ! " she
concluded, as a side thrust at Tommy's smooth, apple
cheeks.

" Oh, indeed, I'm sure he's a bewty without paint," re-
turned the slighted Tommy, with such sarcasm as he could
muster ; " but unless you come in the van with me, the way
you said you would, I'll take me ring back from you and
give it to Lizzie Jemmison ! So now ! "

" Much I care ! " said Francie, tossing her long golden
plait of hair, and giving a defiant skip as she walked ; " and
what's more, I can't get it off, and nobody will till I die !
and so now yourself ! "

Her left hand was dangling over Fanny Hemphill's
shoulder, and she thrust it forward, starfish-wise, in front of
Tommy Whitty's face. The silver ring glittered sumptu-
ously on its background of crimson silk glove, and the sud-
den snatch that her swain made at it was as much impelled
by an unworthy desire to repossess the treasure as by the
pangs of wounded affection.

" G'long, ye dirty fella' ! " screamed Francie, in high
good-humour, at the same moment eluding the snatch and
whirling herself free from the winding embrace of the
Misses Hemphill and Brennan ; " I dare ye to take it from
me!"

She was off like a lapwing down the deserted street, pur-
sued by the more cumbrous Tommy, and by the encourag-
ing yells of the children, who were trooping along the
pavement after them. Francie was lithe and swift beyond
her fellows, and on ordinary occasions Tommy Whitty, with

4 The Real Charlotte.

all his masculine advantage of costume and his two years of
seniority, would have found it as much as he could do to
catch her. But on this untoward day the traitorous new
side spring boots played her false. That decorative band
of white stitching across the toes began to press upon her
like a vice, and, do what she would, she knew that she
could not keep her lead much longer. Strategy was her
only resource. Swinging herself round a friendly lamp-post,
she stopped short with a suddenness that compelled her
pursuer to shoot past her, and with an inspiration whose
very daring made it the more delirious, she darted across
the street, and sprang into a milk-cart that was waiting at a
door. The meek white horse went on at once, and, with a
breathless, goading hiss to hasten him, she tried to gather
up the reins. Unfortunately, however, it happened that
these were under his tail, and the more she tugged at them
the tighter he clasped them to him, and the more lively be-
came his trot. In spite of an irrepressible alarm as to the
end of the adventure, Francie still retained sufficient pres-
ence of mind to put out her tongue at her baffled enemy,
as, seated in front of the milk-cans, she clanked past him
and the other children. There was a chorus, in tones vary-
ing from admiration to horror, of, *' Oh ! look at Francie
Fitzpatrick ! " and then Tommy Whitty's robuster accents,
** Ye'd better look out ! the milkman's after ye ! "

Francie looked round, and with terror beheld that func-
tionary in enraged pursuit. It was vain to try blandish-
ments with the horse, now making for his stable at a good
round trot ; vainer still to pull at the reins. They were
nearing the end of the long street, and Francie and the
milkman, from their different points of view, were feeling
equally helpless and despairing, when a young man came
round the corner, and apparently taking in the situation at
a glance, ran out into the road, and caught the horse by the
bridle.

" Well, upon my word, Miss Francie," he said, as Miss
Fitzpatrick hurriedly descended from the cart. " You're a
nice young lady ! What on earth are you up to now ? "

" Oh, Mr. Lambert — " began Francie ; but having got
thus far in her statement, she perceived the justly incensed
niilkman close upon her. and once more taking to her heels,

The Real Charlotte. 5

she left her rescuer to return the stolen property with what
explanations he could. Round the corner she fled, and
down the next street, till a convenient archway offered a
hiding-place, and sheltering there, she laughed, now that
the stress of terror was off her, till her blue eyes streamed
with tears.

Presently she heard footsteps approaching, and peering
cautiously out, saw Lambert striding along with the four
Fitzpatrick children dancing round him, in their anxiety to
present each a separate version of the escapade. The
milkman was not to be seen, and Francie sallied forth to
meet the party, secretly somewhat abashed, but resolved to
bear an undaunted front before her cousins.

The "long black mustash," so adroitly utilised by Francie
for the chastening of Tommy Whitty, was stretched in a
wide smile as she looked tentatively at its owner. " Will
he tell Aunt Tish ? " was the question that possessed her as
she entered upon her explanation. The children might be
trusted. Their round, white-lashed eyes had witnessed
many of her exploits, and their allegiance had never faltered;
but'*this magnificent grown-up man, who talked to Aunt
Tish and Uncle Robert on terms of equality, what trouble
might he not get her into in his stupid desire to make a
good story of it ? " Botheration to him ! " she thought,
" why couldn't he have been somebody else ? "

Mr. Roderick Lambert marched blandly along beside
her, with no wish to change places with anyone agitating
his bosom. His handsome brown eyes rested approvingly
on Francie's flushed face, and the thought that mainly
occupied his mind was surprise that Nosey Fitzpatrick
should have had such a pretty daughter. He was aware of
Francie's diffident glances, but thought they were due to
his good looks and his new suit of clothes, and he became
even more patronising than before. At last, quite uncon-
sciously, he hit the dreaded point.

" Well, and what do you think your aunt will say when
she hears how I found you running away in the milk-cart ? "

" I don't know," replied Francie, getting very red.

'* Well, what will you say to me if I don't tell her ? "

" Oh, Mr. Lambert, sure you won't tell mamma ! " en-
treated the Fitzpatrick children, faithful to their leader.

6 The Real Charlotte,

*' Francie'd be killed if mamma thought she was playing with
Tommy Whitty ! "

They were nearing the Fitzpatrick mansion by this time,
and Lambert stood still at the foot of the steps and looked
down at the small group of petitioners with indulgent self-
satisfaction.

'' Well, Francie, what'll you do for me if I don't tell ? "

Francie walked stiffly up the steps.

"I don't know." Then with a defiance that she was far
from feeling, " You may tell her if you like ! "

Lambert laughed easily as he followed her up the steps.

"You're very angry with me now, aren't you? Well, never
mind, we'll be friends, and I won't tell on you this time."

CHAPTER IL

The east wind was crying round a small house in the out-
skirts of an Irish country town. At nightfall it had stolen
across the grey expanse of Lough Moyle, and given its first
shudder among the hollies and laurestinas that hid the
lower windows of Tally Ho Lodge from the too curious
passer-by, and at about two o'clock of the November night
it was howling so inconsolably in the great tunnel of the
kitchen chimney, that Norry the Boat, sitting on a heap or
turf by the kitchen fire, drew her shawl closer about her
shoulders, and thought gruesomely of the Banshee.

The long trails of the monthly roses tapped and scratched
against the window panes, so loudly sometimes that two
cats, dozing on the rusty slab of a disused hothearth, opened
their eyes and stared, with the expressionless yet wholly
alert scrutiny of their race. The objects in the kitchen were
scarcely more than visible in the dirty light of a hanging
lamp, and the smell of paraffin filled the air. High presses
and a dresser lined the walls, and on the top of the dresser,
close under the blackened ceiling, it was just possible to
make out the ghostly sleeping form of a cockatoo. A door
at the end of the kitchen opened into a scullery of the usual
prosaic, not to say odorous kind, which was now a cavern
of darkness, traversed by twin green stars that moved to and
fro as the lights move on a river at night, and looked like

The Real Charlotte. y

anything but what they were, the eyes of cats prowling round
a scullery sink.

The tall, yellow-faced clock gave the gurgle with which it
was accustomed to mark the half-hour, and the old woman,
as if reminded of her weariness, stretched out her arms and
yawned loudly and dismally.

She put back the locks of greyish-red hair that hung over
her forehead, and, crouching over the fireplace, she took out
of the embers a broken-nosed tea-pot, and proceeded to pour
from it a mug of tea, black with long stewing. She had
taken a few sips of it when a bell rang startlingly in the
passage outside, jarring the silence of the house with its
sharp outcry. Norry the Boat hastily put down her mug,
and scrambled to her feet to answer its summons. She
groped her way up two cramped flights of stairs that creaked
under her as she went, and advanced noiselessly in her
stockinged feet across a landing to where a chink of light
came from under a door.

The door was opened as she came to it, and a woman's
short thick figure appeared in the doorway.

" The mistress wants to see Susan," this person said in a
rough whisper ; " is he in the house ? "

" I think he's below in the scullery," returned Norry ;
" but, my Law ! Miss Charlotte, what does she want of
him ? Is it light in her head she is ? "

" What's that to you ? Go fetch him at once," replied
Miss Charlotte, with a sudden fierceness. She shut the
door, and Norry crept downstairs again, making a kind of
groaning and lamenting as she went.

Miss Charlotte walked with a heavy step to the fireplace.
A lamp was burning dully on a table at the foot of an old-
fashioned bed, and the high foot-board threw a shadow that
made it difficult to see the occupant of the bed. It was an
ordinary Httle shabby bedroom ; the ceiling, seamed with
cracks, bulged down till it nearly touched the canopy of the
bed. The wall paper had a pattern of blue flowers on a
yellowish background ; over the chimney - shelf a filmy
antique mirror looked strangely refined in the company of
the Christmas cards and discoloured photographs that
leaned against it. There was no sign of poverty, but every-
thing was dingy, everything was tasteless, from the worn

S The Real Charlotte,

Kidderminster carpet to the illuminated text that was pinned
to the wall facing the bed.

Miss Charlotte gave the fire a frugal poke, and lit a
candle in the flame provoked from the sulky coals. In
doing so some ashes became embedded in the grease, and
taking a hair-pin from the ponderous mass of brown hair
that was piled on the back of her head, she began to scrape
the candle clean. Probably at no moment of her forty
years of life had Miss Charlotte Mullen looked more
startlingly plain than now, as she stood, her squat figure
draped in a magenta flannel dressing-gown, and the candle
light shining upon her face. The night of watching had
left its traces upon even her opaque skin. The lines about
her prominent mouth and chin were deeper than usual ; her
broad cheeks had a flabby pallor ; only her eyes were bright
and untired, and the thick yellow-white hand that manipu-
lated the hair-pin was as deft as it was wont to be.

When the flame burned clearly she took the candle to
the bedside, and, bending down, held it close to the face of
the old woman who was lying there. The eyes opened and
turned towards the overhanging face : small, dim, blue
eyes, full of the stupor of illness, looking out of the patheti-
cally commonplace little old face with a far-away perplexity.

" Was that Francie that was at the door ? " she said in a
drowsy voice that had in it the lagging drawl of intense
weakness.

Charlotte took the tiny wrist in her hand, and felt the
pulse with professional attention. Her broad, perceptive
finger-tips gauged the forces of the little thread that was
jerking in the thin network of tendons, and as she laid the
hand down she said to herself, " She'll not last out the turn
of the night."

" Why doesn't Francie come in ? " murmured the old
woman again in the fragmentary, uninflected voice that
seems hardly spared from the unseen battle with death.

^' It wasn't her you asked me for at all," answered
Charlotte. "You said you wanted to say good-bye to
Susan. Here, you'd better have a sip of this."

The old woman swallowed some brandy and water, and
the stimulant pre^^ently revived unexpected strength in her.

"Charlotte," she said, "it isn't cats we should be think

The Real Charlotte. 9

ing of now. God knows the cats are safe with you. But
Httle Francie, Charlotte ; we ought to have done more for
her. You promised me that if you got the money you'd
look after her. Didn't you now, Charlotte? I wish I'd
done more for her. She's a good little thing — a good little
thing — " she repeated dreamily.

Few people would think it worth their while to dispute
the wandering futilities of an old dying woman, but even at
this eleventh hour Charlotte could not brook the revolt of a
slave.

''Good little thing ! " she exclaimed^ pushing the brandy
bottle noisily in among a crowd of glasses and medicine
bottles, " a strapping big woman of nineteen ! You didn't
think her so good the time you had her here, and she put
Susan's father and mother in the well ! "

The old lady did not seem to understand what she had
said.

" Susan, Susan ! " she called quaveringly, and feebly
patted the crochet quilt.

As if in answer, a hand fumbled at the door and opened
it softly. Norry was standing there, tall and gaunt, holding
in her apron, with both hands, something that looked like
an enormous football.

*' Miss Charlotte ! " she whispered hoarsely, " here's Susan
for ye. He was out in the ashpit, an' I was hard set to get
him, he was that wild."

Even as she spoke there was a furious struggle in the
blue apron.

"God in Heaven! ye fool!" ejaculated Charlotte.
" Don't let him go ! " She shut the door behind Norry.
" Now, give him to me."

Norry opened her apron cautiously, and Miss Charlotte
lifted out of it a large grey tom-cat.

" Be quiet, my heart's love," she said, " be quiet."

The cat stopped kicking and writhing, and, sprawling up
on to the shoulder of the magenta dressing-gown, turned a
fierce grey face upon his late captor. Norry crept over to
the bed, and put back the dirty chintz curtain that had been
drawn forward to keep out the draught of the door. Mrs.
Mullen was lying very still ; she had drawn her knees up in
front of her, and the bedclothes hung sharply from the small

to The Real Charlotte,

point that they made. The big living old woman took the
hand of the other old woman who was so nearly dead, and
pressed her lips to it.

" Ma'am, d'ye know me ? '*

Her mistress opened her eyes.

" Norry," she whispered, " give Miss Francie some jam
for her tea to-night, but don't tell Miss Charlotte."

'* What's that she's saying ? " said Charlotte, going to the
other side of the bed. " Is she asking for me ? "

*' No, but for Miss Francie," Norry answered.

"She knows as well as I do that Miss Francie's in Dublin,"
said Charlotte roughly ; " 'twas Susan she was asking for
last. Here, a'nt, here's Susan for you."

She pulled the cat down from her shoulder, and put him
on the bed, where he crouched with a twitching tail, pre-
pared for flight at a moment's notice.

He was within reach of the old lady's hand, but she did
not seem to know that he was there. She opened her eyes
and looked vacantly round.

" Where's little Francie ? You mustn't send her away,
Charlotte ; you promised you'd take care of her ; didn't you,
Charlotte ? "

"Yes, yes," said Charlotte quickly, pushing the cat towards
the old lady ; " never fear, I'll see after her."

Old Mrs. Mullen's eyes, that had rested with a filmy stare
on her niece's face, closed again, and her head began to
move a little from one side to the other, a low monotonous
moan coming from her hps with each turn. Charlotte took
her right hand and laid it on the cat's brindled back. It
rested there, unconscious, for some seconds, while the two
women looked on in silence, and then the fingers drooped
and contracted like a bird's claw, and the moaning ceased.
There was at the same time a spasmodic movement of the
gathered-up knees, and a sudden rigidity fell upon the small
insignificant face.

Norry the Boat threw herself upon her knees with a howl,
and began to pray loudly. At the sound the cat leaped to
the floor, and the hand that had been placed upon him in
the only farewell his mistress was to take, dropped stiffly on
the bed. Miss Charlotte snatched up the candle, and held
it close to her aunt's face. There was no mistaking what

The Real Charlotte. II

she saw there, and, putting down the candle again, she
plucked a large silk handkerchief from her pocket, and, with
some hideous preliminary heavings of her shoulders, burst
into transports of noisy grief.

CHAPTER III.

A DAMP winter and a chilly spring had passed in their usual
mildly disagreeable manner over that small Irish country
town which was alluded to in the beginning of the last
chapter. The shop windows had exhibited their usual
zodiacal succession, and had progressed through red com-
forters and woollen gloves, to straw hats, tennis shoes, and
coloured Summer Numbers. The residents of Lismoyle
were already congratulating each other on having "set" their
lodgings to the summer visitors ; the steamer was plying on
the lake, the militia was under canvas, and on this very
fifteenth of June, Lady Dysart of Bruff was giving her first
lawn-tennis party.

Miss Charlotte Mullen had taken advantage of the occa-
sion to emerge from the mourning attire that since her aunt's
death had so misbecome her sallow face, and was driving
herself to Bruff in the phaeton that had been Mrs. Mullen's,
and a gown chosen with rather more view to effect than was
customary with her. She was under no delusion as to her
appearance, and, early recognising its hopeless character,
she had abandoned all superfluities of decoration. A habit
of costume so defiantly simple as to border on eccentricity
had at least two advantages ; it freed her from the absurdity
of seeming to admire herself, and it was cheap. During the
late Mrs. Mullen's lifetime Charlotte had studied economy.
The most rehable old persons had, she was wont to reflect,
a slippery turn in them where their wills were concerned,
and it was well to be ready for any contingency of fortune.
Things had turned out very well after all ; there had been
one inconvenient legacy — that " Little Francie " to whom
the old lady's thoughts had turned, happily too late for her
to give any practical emphasis to them — but that bequest
was of the kind that may be repudiated if desirable. The
rest of the disposition had been admirably convenient, and,

t2 The Real Charlotte,

in skilled hands, something might even be made of that
legacy. Miss Mullen thought a great deal about her legacy
and the steps she had taken with regard to it as she drove
to BrufF. The horse that drew her ancient phaeton moved
with a dignity befitting his eight and twenty years ; the three
miles of level lake-side road between Lismoyle and Bruff
were to him a serious undertaking, and by the time he had
arrived at his destination, his mistress's active mind had
pursued many pleasant mental paths to their utmost limit.

This was the first of the two catholic and comprehensive
entertainments that Lady Dysart's sense of her duty towards
her neighbours yearly impelled her to give, and when
Charlotte, wearing her company smile, came down the steps
of the terrace to meet her hostess, the difficult revelry was
at its height. Lady Dysart had cast her nets over a wide
expanse, and the result was not encouraging. She stood,
tall, dark and majestic, on the terrace, surveying the im-
practicable row of women that stretched, forlorn of men,
along one side of the tennis grounds, much as Cassandra
might have scanned the beleaguering hosts trom the ram-
parts of Troy ; and as she advanced to meet her latest guest,
her strong, clear-eyed face was perplexed and almost tragic.

" How do you do, Miss Mullen ? " she said in tones of
unconcealed gloom. '' Have you ever seen so few men in
your life ? and there are five and forty women ! I cannot
imagine where they have all come from, but I know where
I wish they would take themselves to, and that is to the
bottom of the lake ! "

The large intensity of Lady Dysart's manner gave unin-
tended weight to her most trivial utterance, and had she
reflected very deeply before she spoke, it might have oc-
curred to her that this was not a specially fortunate manner
of greeting a female guest. But Charlotte understood that
nothing personal was intended ; she knew that the freedom
of Bruff had been given to her, and that she could afford to
listen to abuse of the outer world with the composure of one
of the inner circle.

" Well, your ladyship," she said, in the bluff, hearty voice
which she felt accorded best with the theory of herself that
she had built up in Lady Dysart's mind, " I'll head a forlorn
hope to the bottom of the lake for you, and welcome ; but

The Real Charlotte. 1 3

for the honour of the house, you might give me a cup o' tay
first ! "

Charlotte had many tones of voice, according with the
many facets of her character, and when she wished to be
playful she affected a vigorous brogue, not perhaps being
aware that her own accent scarcely admitted of being
strengthened.

This refinement of humour was probably wasted on Lady
Dysart. She was an Englishwoman, and, as such, was con-
stitutionally unable to discern perfectly the subtle grades of
Irish vulgarity. She was aware that many of the ladies on
her visiting list were vulgar, but it was their subjects of
conversation and their opinions that chiefly brought the fact
home to her. Miss Mullen, au fond^ was probably no less
vulgar than they, but she was never dull, and Lady Dysart
would suffer anything rather than dulness. It was less than
nothing to her that Charlotte's mother was reported to have
been in her youth a national schoolmistress, and her grand-
mother a bare-footed country girl. These facts of Miss
Mullen's pedigree were valued topics in Lismoyle, but Lady
Dysart's serene radicalism ignored the inequahties of a lower
class, and she welcomed a woman who could talk to her on
spiritualism, or books, or indeed on any current topic, with a
point and agreeability that made her accent, to English ears,
merely the expression of a vigorous individuality. She now
laughed in response to her visitor's jest, but her eye did not
cease from roving over the gathering, and her broad brow
was still contracted in calculation.

" I never knew the country so bereft of men or so peopled
with girls ! Even the little Barrington boys are off with the
militia, and everyone about has conspired to fill their houses
with women, and not only women but dummies ! " Her
glance lighted on the long bench where sat the more honour-
able women in midge-bitten dulness. " And there is Kate
Gascogne in one of her reveries, not hearing a word that
Mrs. Waller is saying to her — "

With Lady Dysart intention was accomplishment as nearly
as might be. She had scarcely finished speaking before she
began a headlong advance upon the objects of her diatribe,
making a short cut across the corner of a lawn-tennis court,
and scarcely observing the havoc that her transit wrought in

14 The Real C/tarlotte.

the game. Charlotte was less rash. She steered her course
clear of the tennis grounds, and of the bench of matrons,
passed the six Miss Beatties with a comprehensive " How
are ye, girls ? " and took up her position under one of the
tall elm trees.

Under the next tree a few men were assembled, herding
together for mutual protection after the manner of men, and
laying down the law to each other about road sessions, the
grand jury, and Irish politics generally. They were a fairly
representative trio ; a country gentleman with a grey mous-
tache and a loud voice in which he was announcing that
nothing would give him greater pleasure than to pull the
rope at the execution of a certain English statesman ; a
slight, dejected-looking clergyman, who vied with Major
Waller in his denunciations, but chastenedly, like an echo
in a cathedral aisle ; and a smartly dressed man of about
thirty-five, of whom a more detailed description need not be
given^ as he has been met with in the first chapter, and
the six years after nine-and-twenty do little more than
mellow a man's taste in checks, and sprinkle a grey hair or
two on his temples.

Miss Mullen listened for a few minutes to the melancholy
pessimisms of the archdeacon, and then, interrupting Major
Waller in a fine outburst on the advisability of martial law,
she thrust herself and her attendant cloud of midges into
the charmed circle of the smoke of Mr. Lambert's cigar-
ette.

"Ho ! do I hear me old friend the Major at politics?"
she said, shaking hands effusively with the three men. " I
declare I'm a better politician than any one of you ! D'ye
know how I served Tom Casey, the land-leaguing plumber,
yesterday ? I had him mending my tank, and when I got
him into it I whipped the ladder away, and told him not
a step should he budge till he sang * God save the Queen ! '
I was arguing there half an hour with him in water up to
his middle before J converted him, and then it wasn't so
much the warmth of his convictions as the cold of his legs
made him tune up. I call that practical politics ! "

The speed and vigour with which this story was told
would have astounded anyone who did not know Miss
Mullen's powers of narration, but Mr. Lambert, to whom it

The Real Charlotte. 1 5

seemed specially addressed, merely took his cigarette out of
his mouth, and said, with a familiar laugh :

"Practical politics, by Jove ! I call it a cold water cure.
Kill or cure like the rest of your doctoring, eh ! Char
lotte?"

Miss Mullen joined with entire good-humour in the laugh
that followed.

" Oh, th' ingratitude of man ! " she exclaimed. " Arch-
deacon, you've seen his bald scalp from the pulpit, and I
ask yoLi, now, isn't that a fresh crop he has on it ? I leave
it to his conscience, if he has one, to say if it wasn't
my doctoring gave him that fine black thatch he has
now ! "

The archdeacon fixed his eyes seriously upon her ; Char-
lotte's playfulness always alarmed and confused him.

"Do not appeal to me. Miss Mullen," he answered, in
his refined, desponding voice ; " my unfortunate sight
makes my evidence in such a matter worth nothing ; and,
by the way, I meant to ask you if your niece would be good
enough to help us in the choir? I understand she sings."

Charlotte interrupted him.

" There's another of you at it ! " she exclaimed. ** I
think ril have to adwrtiss in the Irish Ti?nes that, whereas
my first cousin, Isabella Mullen, married Johnny Fitz-
patrick, who was no relation of mine, good, bad, or indiffer-
ent, their child is my first cousin once removed, and not
my niece ! "

Mr. Lambert blew a cloud of smoke through his nose.

"You're a nailer at pedigrees, Charlotte," he said with
a patronage that he knew was provoking ; " but as far as
I can make out the position, it comes to mighty near the
same thing ; you're what they call her Welsh aunt, any-
how,"

Charlotte's face reddened, and she opened her wide
mouth for a retort, but before she had time for miore than
the champings as of a horse with a heavy bit, which pre-
ceded her more incisive repartees, another person joined
the group.

" Mr. Lambert," said Pamela Dysart, in her pleasant,
anxious voice, " I am going to ask you if you will play in
the next set, or if you would rather help the Miss Beatties,

1 6 The Real Charlotte,

to get up a round of golf? How do you do, Miss Mullen ?
I have not seen you before ; why did you not bring your
niece with you ? "

Charlotte showed all her teeth in a forced smile as she
replied, ^'I suppose you mean my cousin, Miss Dysart
she won't be with me till the day after to-morrow."

" Oh, I'm so sorry," replied Pamela, with the sympathetic
politeness that made strangers think her manner too good
to be true ; " and Mr. Lambert tells me she plays tennis
so well."

*' Why, what does he know about her tennis playing ? "
said Charlotte, turning sharply towards Lambert.

The set on the nearer court was over, and the two young
men who had played in it strolled up to the group as she
spoke. Mr. Lambert expanded his broad chest, gave his
hat an extra tilt over his nose, and looked rather more self-
complacent than usual as he replied :

" Well, I ought to know something about it, seeing I took
her in hand when she was in short petticoats — taught her
her paces myself, in fact."

Mr. Hawkins, the shorter of the two players who had
just come up, ceased from mopping his scarlet face, and
glanced from Mr. Lambert to Pamela with a countenance
devoid of expression, save that conferred by the elevation
of one eyebrow almost to the roots of his yellow hair,
Pamela's eyes remained unresponsive, but the precipitancy
with which she again addressed herself to Mr. Lambert
showed that a disposition to laugh had been near.

Charlotte turned away with an expression that was the
reverse of attractive. When her servants saw that look
they abandoned excuse or discussion ; when the Lismoyle
beggars saw it they checked the flow of benediction and fled.
Even the archdeacon, through the religious halo that habitu-
ally intervened between him and society, became aware that
the moment was not propitious for speaking to Miss Mullen
about his proposed changes in the choir, and he drifted
away to think of diocesan matters, and to forget as far as
possible that he was at a lawn-tennis party.

Outside the group stood the young man who had been
playing in the set with Mr. Hawkins. He was watching
through an eyeglass the limp progress of the game in the

The Real Charlotte, 1 7

otner court, and was even making praiseworthy attempts to
applaud the very feeble efforts of the players. He was tall
and slight, with a near-sighted stoop, and something of an
old-fashioned, eighteenth century look about him that was
accentuated by his not wearing a moustache, and was out of
keeping with the flannels and brilliant blazer that are the
revolutionary protest of this age against its orthodox clothing.
It did not seem to occur to him that he was doing anything
unusual in occupying himself, as he was now doing, in pick-
ing up balls for the Lismoyle curate and his partner ; he
would have thought it much more remarkable had he found
in himself a preference for doing anything else. This was
an occupation that demanded neither interest nor conversa-
tion, and of a number of disagreeable duties he did not
think that he had chosen the worst.

Charlotte walked up to him as he stood leaning against a
tree, and held out her hand.

" How d'ye do, Mr. Dysart ? " she said with marked
politeness. All trace of combat had left her manner, and
the smile with which she greeted him was sweet and capaci-
ous. "We haven't seen you in Lismoyle since you came
back from the West Indies."

Christopher Dysart let his eyeglass fall, and looked
apologetic as he enclosed her well-filled glove in his long
hand, and made what excuses he could for not having called
upon Miss Mullen.

" Since Captain Thesiger has got this new steam-launch I
can't call my soul my own ; I'm out on the lake with him
half the day, and the other half I spend with a nail-brush
trying to get the blacks off."

He spoke with a hesitation that could hardly be called a
stammer, but was rather a delaying before his sentences, a
mental rather than a physical uncertainty.

" Oh, that's a very poor excuse," said Charlotte with loud
aflfability, " deserting your old friends for the blacks a second
time ! I thought you had enough of them in the last two
years ! And you know you promised — or your good mother
did for you — that you'd come and photograph poor old Mrs.
Tommy before she died. The poor thing's so sick now we
have to feed her with a baby's bottle."

Christopher wondered if Mrs. Tommy were the cook, and

B

1 8 The Real CJtarlotie.

was on the point of asking for further particulars, when Miss
Mullen continued :

" She's the great-great-grandmother of all me cats, and I
want you to immortalise her; but don't come till after
Monday, as I'd like to introduce you to my cousin, Miss
Fitzpatrick ; did you hear she was coming ?"

" Yes, Mr. Lambert told us she was to be here next week,'*
said Christopher, with an indescribable expression that was
not quite amusement, but was something more than in-
telligence.

"What did he say of her?"

Christopher hesitated ; somehow what he remembered of
Mr. Lambert's conversation was of too free and easy a
nature for repetition to Miss Fitzpatrick's cousin.

" He — er — seemed to think her very — er — charming in
all ways," he said rather lamely.

" So it's talking of charming young ladies you and Roddy
Lambert are when he comes to see you on estate business ! "
said Charlotte archly, but with a rasp in her voice. " When
my poor father was your father's agent, and I used to be
helping him in the office, it was charming young cattle we
talked about, and not young ladies."

Christopher laughed in a helpless way.

" I wish you were at the office still. Miss Mullen ; if any-
one could understand the Land Act I believe it would be
you."

At this moment there was an upheaval among the matrons ;
the long line rose and broke, and made for the grey stone
house whose windows were flashing back the sunhght
through the trees at the end of the lawn-tennis grounds. The
tedious skirmish with midges, and the strain of inactivity,
were alike over for the present, and the conscience of the
son of the house reminded him that he ought to take Miss
Mullen in to tea.

CHAPTER IV

There was consternation among the cats at Tally Ho
Lodge; a consternation mingled with righteous resentment.
Even the patriarchal Susan could scarcely remember the

The Real Charlotte. 19

time that the spare bedroom had been anything else than an
hospital, a nursery, and a secure parliament house for him
and his descendants ; yet now, in his old age, and when he
had, after vast consideration of alternatives, allocated to
himself the lowest shelf of the wardrobe as a sleeping place,
he was evicted at a moment's notice, and the folded-away
bed curtains that had formed his couch were even now per-
fuming the ambient air as they hung out of the window over
the hall door. Susan was too dignified to give utterance to
his wounded feelings ; he went away by himself, and sitting
on the roof of the fowl-house, thought unutterable things
But his great-niece, Mrs. Bruff, could not emulate his
stoicism. Followed by her five latest kittens, she strode
through the house, uttering harsh cries of rage and despair,
and did not cease from her lamentations until Charlotte
brought the whole party into the drawing-room, and estab-
lished them in the waste-paper basket.

The worst part about the upheaval, as even the youngest
and least experienced of the cats could see, was that it was
irrevocable. It was early morning when the first dull blow
of Norry's broom against the wainscot had startled them
with new and strange apprehension, and incredulity had
grown to certainty, till the final moment when the sight of a
brimming pail of water urged them to panic-struck flight.
It may be admitted that Norry the Boat, who had not, as a
rule, any special taste for cleanliness, had seldom enjoyed
anything more than this day of turmoil, this routing of her
ancient enemies. Miss Charlotte, to whom on ordinary
occasions the offended cat never appealed in vain, was now
bound by her own word. She had given orders that the
spare room was to be '^ cleaned down," and cleaned down
it surely should be. It was not, strictly speaking, Norry's
work. Louisa was house and parlour-maid ; Louisa, a
small and sullen Protestant orphan of unequalled sluggish-
ness and stupidity, for whose capacity for dealing with any
emergency Norry had a scorn too deep for any words that
might conveniently be repeated here. It was not likely
that Louisa would be permitted to join in the ardours of the
campaign, when even Bid Sal, Norry's own special kitchen-
slut and co-religionist, was not allowed to assist.

Norry the Boat, daughter of Shaunapickeen, the ferryman

20 The Real Charlotte.

(whence her title), and of Carroty Peg, his wife, was a per-
son with whom few would have cared to co-operate against
her will. On this morning she wore a more ferocious aspect
than usual. Her roughly-waving hair, which had never
known the dignity of a cap, was bound up in a blue duster,
leaving her bony forehead bare ; dust and turf-ashes hung
in her grizzled eyebrows, her arms were smeared with black-
lead, and the skirt of her dress was girt about her waist,
displaying a petticoat of heavy Gal way flannel, long thin
legs, and enormous feet cased in countrymen's laced boots.
It was fifteen years now, Norry reflected, while she scrubbed
the floor and scraped the candle drippings off it with her
nails, since Miss Charlotte and the cats had come into the
house, and since then the spare room had never had a
visitor in it. Nobody had stayed in the house in all those
years except little Miss Francie, and for her the cot had
been made up in her great-aunt's room ; the old high-sided
cot in which her grandmother had slept when she was a
child. The cot had long since migrated into the spare
room, and from it Norry had just ejected the household
effects of Mrs. Bruff and her family, with a pleasure that
was mitigated only by the thought that Miss Francie was a
young woman now, and would be likely to give a good deal
more trouble in the house than even in the days when she
stole the cockatoo's sopped toast for her private consump-
tion, and christened the tom-cat Susan against everyone's
wishes except her great-aunt's.

Norry and the cockatoo were now the only survivors of
the old regime at Tally Ho Lodge, in fact the cockatoo was
regarded in Lismoyle as an almost prehistoric relic, dating,
at the lowest computation, from the days when old Mrs.
Mullen's fox-hunting father had lived there, and given the
place the name that was so remarkably unsuited to its sub-
sequent career. The cockatoo was a sprightly creature of
some twenty shrieking summers on the day that the two
Miss Butlers, clad in high-waisted, low-necked gowns, were
armed past his perch in the hall by their father, and before,
as it seemed to the cockatoo, he had more than half-finished
his morning doze, they were back again, this time on the
arms of the two young men who, during the previous five
months, had done so much to spoil his digestion by pro-

The Real Charlotte. 21

pitiatory dainties at improper hours. The cockatoo had no
very clear recollection of the subsequent departure of Dr.
Mullen and his brother, the attorney, with their brides, on
their respective honeymoons, owing to the fact that Mr.
Mullen, the agent, brother of the two bridegrooms, had
prised open his beak, and compelled him to drink the
healths of the happy couples in the strongest and sweetest
whisky punch.

The cockatoo's memory after this climax was filled with
vague comings and goings, extending over unknown tracts
of time. He remembered two days of disturbance, on each
of which a long box had been carried out of the house by
several men, and a crowd of people, dressed in black, had
eaten a long and clattering meal in the dining-room. He
had always remembered the second of these occasions with
just annoyance, because, in manoeuvring the long box
through the narrow hall, he had been knocked off his perch,
and never after that day had the person whom he had been
taught to call " Doctor " come to give him his daily lump of
sugar.

But the day that enunciated itself most stridently from
the cockatoo's past life was that on which the doctor's niece
had, after many short visits, finally arrived with several
trunks, and a wooden case from which, when opened,
sprang four of the noisome creatures whom Miss Charlotte,
their owner, had taught him to call " pussies." A long era
of persecution then began for him, of robbery of his food,
and even attacks upon his person. He had retaliated by
untiring mimicry, by delusive invitations to food m the
manner of Miss Charlotte, and lastly, by the strangling of a
too-confiding kitten, whom he had lured, with maternal
mewings, within reach of his claws. That very day Miss
Charlotte's hand avenged the murder, and afterwards con-
veyed him, a stiff guilty lump of white feathers, to the top of
the kitchen press, from thenceforth never to descend, except
when long and patient picking had opened a link of his
chain, or when, on fine days, Norry fastened him to a
branch of the tall laurel that overhung the pig-stye. Norry
was his only friend, a friendship slowly cemented by a com-
mon hatred of the cats and Louisa ; indeed, it is probable
that but for occasional conversation with Norry he would

22 The Real Charlotte,

have choked from his own misanthropic fury, helpless,
lonely spectator as he was of the secret gluttonies of Louisa,
and the maddening domestic felicity of the cats.

But on this last day of turbulence and rout he had been
forgotten. The kitchen was sunny and stuffy, the blue-
bottles were buzzing their loudest in the cobwebby window,
one colony of evicted kittens was already beginning to make
the best of things in the turf heap, and the leaves of the
laurel outside were gleaming tropically against the brilliant
sky, with no one to appreciate them except the pigs. When
it came to half-past twelve o'clock the cockatoo could no
longer refrain, and fell to loud and prolonged screamings.
The only result at first was a brief stupefaction on the part
of the kittens, and an answering outcry from the fowl in the
yard ; then, after some minutes, the green baize cross-door
opened, and a voice bellowed down the passage :

"Biddy! Bid Sal!" (fortissimo), "can't ye stop that bird's
infernal screeching ? " There was dead silence, and Miss
Mullen advanced into the kitchen and called again.

" Biddy's claning herself, Miss Mullen," said a small voice
from the pantry door.

" That's no reason you shouldn't answer ! " thundered
Charlotte; ^'come out here yourself and put the cockatoo
out in the yard."

Louisa the orphan, a short, fat, white-faced girl of four-
teen, shuffled out of the pantry with her chin buried in her
chest, and her round terrified eyes turned upwards to Miss
Charlotte's face.

" I'd be in dhread to ketch him," she faltered.

Those ladies who considered Miss Mullen "eccentric,
but so kind-hearted, and so clever and agreeable," would
have been considerably surprised if they had heard the terms
in which she informed Louisa that she was wanting in
courage and intelligence ; but Louisa's face expressed no
surprise, only a vacancy that in some degree justified her
mistress's language. Still denouncing her retainers, Miss
Charlotte mounted nimbly upon a chair, and seizing the
now speechless cockatoo by the wings, carried him herself
out to the yard and fastened him to his accustomed laurel
bough.

She did not go back to the kitchen, but, after a searching

The Real Charlotte, 23

glance at the contents of the pigs' trough, went out of the
yard by the gate that led to the front of the house.
Rhododendrons and laurels made a dark green tunnel about
her, and, though it was June, the beech leaves of last
November lay rotting on each side of the walk. Opposite
the hall door the ground rose in a slight slope, thickly
covered with evergreens, and topped by a lime tree, on
whose lower limbs a flock of black turkeys had ranged
themselves in sepulchral meditation. The house itself was
half stifled with ivy, monthly roses, and virginian creeper ;
everywhere was the same unkempt profusion of green things,
that sucked the sunshine into themselves, and left the air
damp and shadowed. Charlotte had the air of thinking
very deeply as she walked slowly along with her hands in
the pockets of her black alpaca apron. The wrinkles on
her forehead almost touched the hair that grew so low down
upon it as to seem like a wig that had been pulled too far
over the turn of the brow, and she kept chewing at her
heavy underlip as was her habit during the processes of un-
observed thought. Then she went into the house, and,
sitting down at the davenport in the dining-room, got out a
sheet of her best notepaper, and wrote a note to Pamela
Dysart in her strong, commercially clear hand.

Afternoon tea had never flourished as an institution at
Tally Ho Lodge. Occasionally, and of necessity, a laboured
repast had been served at five o'clock by the trembling
Louisa; occasions on which the afternoon caller had not
only to suffer the spectacle of a household being shaken to
its foundations on her behalf, but had subsequently to eat
of the untempting fruit of these struggles. On the after-
noon, however, of the day following that of the cleansing of
the spare room, timely preparations had been made. Half
the round table in the centre of the drawing-room had been
covered with a cloth, and on it Louisa, in the plenitude of
her zeal, had prepared a miniature breakfast ; loaf, butter-
cooler, and knives and forks, a truly realistic touch being
conferred by two egg-cups standing in the slop-basin. A
vase of marigolds and pink sweet-pea stood behind these, a
fresh heap of shavings adorned the grate, the piano had been
opened and dusted, and a copy of the " Indiana Waltzes ''
frisked on the desk in the breeze from the open window

24 The Real Charlotte,

Charlotte sat in a low armchair and surveyed her drawing-
room with a good deal of satisfaction. Her fingers moved
gently through the long fur at the back of Mrs. Bruff's
head, administering, almost unconsciously, the most deli-
cately satisfactory scratching about the base of the wide,
sensitive ears, while her eyes wandered back to the pages of
the novel that lay open on her lap. She was a great and
insatiable reader, surprisingly well acquainted with the
classics of literature, and unexpectedly lavish in the purchase
of books. Her neighbours never forgot to mention, in
describing her, the awe-inspiring fact that she " took in the
English Times and the Saturday Review, and read every
word of them," but it was hinted that the bookshelves that
her own capable hands had put up in her bedroom held a
large proportion of works of fiction of a startlingly advanced
kind, " and," it was generally added in tones of mystery,
** many of them French."

It was half-past five o'clock, and the sharpest of several
showers that had fallen that day had caused Miss Mullen
to get up and shut the window, when the grinding of the
gate upon the gravel at the end of the short drive warned
her that the expected guest was arriving. As she got to
the hall door one of those black leather band-boxes on wheels,
known in the south and west of Ireland as "jingles " or in-
side cars, came brushing under the arch of wet evergreens,
and she ran out on to the steps.

"Well, my dear child, welcome to Tally Ho !" she began
in tones of effusive welcome, as the car turned and backed
towards the doorstep in the accustomed way, then seeing
through the half-closed curtains that there was nothing inside
it except a trunk and a bonnet box, "Where in the name of
goodness is the young lady, Jerry ? Didn't you meet her
at the train ? "

" I did to be sure," replied Jerry ; " sure she's afther me
on the road now. Mr. Lambert came down on the thrain
with her, and he's dhrivin' her here in his own thrap."

While he was speaking there was the sound of quick trot-
ting on the road, and Miss Mullen saw a white straw hat and
a brown billycock moving swiftly along over the tops of the
evergreens. A dog-cart with a white-faced chestnut swung
in at the gate, and Miss Fitzpatrick's hat was immediately

The Real Charlotte, 2$

swept of! her head by a bough of laburnum. Its owner gave
a shrill cry and made a snatch at the reins, with an idea
apparently of stopping the horse.

"No, you don't," said Mr. Lambert, intercepting the
snatch with his whip hand ; " you're going to be handed
over to your aunt just as you are."

Half a dozen steps brought them to the door, and the
chestnut pulled up with his pink nose almost between the
curtains of the inside car. It was hard to say whether Miss
Mullen had heard Lambert's remark, which had certainly
been loud enough to enable her to do so, but her only reply
was an attack upon the carman.

"Take your car out o' that, ye great oaf!" she vociferated.
" can't ye make way for your betters ? " Then with a com
plete change of voice, " Well, me dear Francie, you're wel-
come, you're welcome."

The greeting was perceptibly less hearty than that which
had been squandered on the trunk and bonnet-box ; but an
emotion rechauffe necessarily loses flavour. Francie had
jumped to the ground with a reckless disregard of the
caution demanded by the steps of a dog-cart, and stooping
her hatless head, kissed the hard cheek that Charlotte ten-
dered for her embrace.

"Thank you very much, I'm very glad to come," she
said, in a voice whose Dublin accent had been but little
modified by the six years that had lightly gone over her
since the August Sunday when she had fled from Tommy
Whitty in the milkman's cart. " And look at me the show
I am without my hat ! And it's all his fault ! " with a lift of
her blue eyes to Lambert, " he wouldn't let me stop and
pick it up."

Charlotte looked up at her with the wide smile of welcome
still stiff upon her face. The rough golden heap of curls on
the top of Francie's head was spangled with ramdrops and
her coat was grey with wet.

" Well, if Mr. Lambert had had any sense," said Miss
Mullen, " he'd have let you come in the covered car. Here,
Louisa, go fetch Miss Fitzpatrick's hat."

" Ah, no, sure she'll get all wet," said Francie, starting
herself before the less agile Louisa could emerge from be-
hind her mistress, and running down the drive.

26 The Real Charlotte,

*• Did you come down from Dublin to-day, Roddy ? '*
said Charlotte.

** Yes, I did," answered Mr. Lambert, turning his horse
as he spoke j " I had business that took me up to town
yesterday, so it just happened that I hit off Francie. Well,
good evening. I expect Lucy will be calling round to see
you to-morrow or next day."

He walked his horse down the drive, and as he passed
Francie returning with her hat he leaned over the wheel
and said something to her that made her shake her head
and laugh. Miss Charlotte was too far off to hear what it
was.

CHAPTER V.

It was generally felt in Lismoyle that Mr. Roderick Lam-
bert held an unassailable position in society. The Dysart
agency had always been considered to confer brevet rank as
a country gentleman upon its owner, apart even from the
intimacy with the Dysarts which it implied; and as, in
addition to these advantages, Mr. Lambert possessed good
looks, a wife with money, and a new house at least a mile
from the town, built under his own directions and at his
employer's expense, Lismoyle placed him unhesitatingly at
the head of its visiting list. Of course his wife was placed
there too, but somehow or other Mrs. Lambert was a person
of far less consequence than her husband. She had had
the money certainly, but that quality was a good deal over-
looked by the Lismoyle people in their admiration for the
manner in which her husband spent it. It was natural that
they should respect the captor rather than the captive, and,
in any case, Mr. Roderick Lambert's horses and traps were
more impressive facts than the Maltese terrier and the shelf
of patent medicines that were Mrs. Lambert's only ex-
travagances.

Possibly, also, the fact that she had no children placed
her at a disadvantage with the matrons of Lismoyle, all of
whom could have spoken fearlessly with their enemies
in the gate; it deprived conversation with her of the
antiphonal quality, when mother answers unto mother of

The Real Charlotte. 2f

vaccination and teething-rash and the sins of the nursery-
maids are visited upon the company generally.

" Ah, she's a poor peenie- weenie thing 1 " said Mrs. Baker,
who was usually the mouthpiece of Lismoyle opinion, " and
it's no wonder that Lambert's for ever flourishing about the
country in his dog-trap, and she never seeing a sight of him
from morning till night. I'd like to see Mr. Baker getting
up on a horse and galloping around the roads after bank
hours, instead of coming in for his cup of tea with me and
the girls I "

Altogether the feeling was that Mrs. Lambert was a
failure, and in spite of her undoubted amiability, and the
creditable fact that Mr. Lambert was the second husband
that the eight thousand pounds ground out by her late
father's mills had procured for her, her spouse was regarded
with a certain regretful pity as the victim of circumstance.

In spite of his claims upon the sympathy of Lismoyle,
Mr. Lambert looked remarkably well able to compete with
his lot in life, as he sat smoking his pipe in his dinner cos-
tume of carpet slippers and oldest shooting coat^ a couple of
evenings after Francie's arrival. As a rule the Lamberts
preferred to sit in their dining-room. The hard magni-
ficence of the blue rep chairs in the drawing-room appealed
to them from different points of view ; Mrs. Lambert hold-
ing that they were too good to be used except by " com-
pany," while Mr. Lambert truly felt that no one who was
not debarred by politeness from the power of complaint
would voluntarily sit upon them. An unshaded lamp was
on the table, its ugly glare conflicting with the soft remnants
of June twilight that stole in between the half drawn cur-
tains ; a tumbler of whisky and water stood on the corner
of the table beside the comfortable leather-covered arm-
chair in which the master of the house was reading his
paper, while opposite to him, in a basket chair, his wife was
conscientiously doing her fancy work. She was a short
woman with confused brown eyes and distressingly sloping
shoulders ; a woman of the turkey hen type, dejected and
timorous in voice, and an habitual wearer of porous plasters.
Her toilet for the evening consisted in replacing by a white
cashmere shawl the red knitted one which she habitually
wore, and a languid untidiness in the pale brown hair that

28 The Real Charlotte.

hung over her eyes intimated that she had tried to curl her
fringe for dinner.

Neither were speaking ; it seemed as if Mr Lambert were
placidly awaiting the arrival of his usual after-dinner sleep ;
the Maltese terrier was already snoring plethorically on his
mistress's lap, in a manner quite disproportioned to his size,
and Mrs. Lambert's crochet needles were moving more and
more slowly through the mazes of the " bosom friend " that
she was making for herself, the knowledge that the minute
hand of the black marble clock was approaching the hour
at which she took her postprandial pill alone keeping her
from also yielding to the soft influences of a substantial
meal. At length she took the box from the little table be-
side her, where it stood between a bottle of smelling-salts
and a lump of camphor, and having sat with it in her hand
till the half hour was solemnly boomed from the chimney-
piece, swallowed her pill with practised ease. At the slight
noise of replacing the box, her husband opened his eyes.

" By the way, Lucy," he said in a voice that had no trace
of drowsiness in it, " did Charlotte Mullen say what she was
going to do to-morrow ? "

"Oh, yes, Roderick," replied Mrs. Lambert a little
anxiously, "indeed, I was wanting to tell you — Charlotte
asked me if I could drive her over to Mrs. Waller's to-
morrow afternoon. I forgot to ask you before if you wanted
the horses."

Mr. Lambert's fine complexion deepened by one or two
shades.

" Upon my soul, Charlotte Mullen has a gooa cheek !
She gets as much work out of my horses as I do myself. I
suppose you told her you'd do it ? "

" Well, what else could I do ? " replied Mrs. Lambert
with tremulous crossness ; " I'm sure it's not once in the
month I get outside the place, and, as for Charlotte, she has
not been to the Waller's since before Christmas, and you
know very well old Captain couldn't draw her eight miles
there and eight miles back any more than the cat."

" Cat be hanged ! Why the devil can't she put her hand
in her pocket and take a car for herself ? " said Lambert,
uncrossing his legs and sitting up straight ; " I suppose I'll
hear next that I'm not to order out my own horses till I've

The Real Charlotte. 29

sent round to Miss Mullen to know if she wants them first !
If you weren't so infernally under her thumb you'd remember
there were others to be consulted besides her."

" I'm not under her thumb, Roderick ; I beg you'll not
say such a thing," replied Mrs. Lambert huffily, her eyes
bhnking with resentment. " Charlotte Mullen's an old
friend of mine, and yours too, and it's a hard thing I can't
take her out driving without remarks being passed, and I
never thought you'd want the horses. I thought you said
you'd be in the office all to-morrow," ended the poor turkey
hen, whose feathers were constitutionally incapable of re-
maining erect for any length of time.

Lambert did not answer immediately. His eyes rested
on her flushed face with just enough expression in them to
convey to her that her protest was beside the point. Mrs.
Lambert was apparently used to this silent comment on
what she said, for she went on still more apologetically :

" If you like, Roderick, I'll send Michael over earlj
with a note to Charlotte to tell her we'll go some othei
aay."

Mr. Lambert leaned back as if to consider the question,
and began to fill his pipe for the second time.

" Well," he said slowly, " if it makes no difference to you,
Lucy, I'd be rather glad if you did. As a matter of fact I
have to ride out to Gurthnamuckla to-morrow, on business,
and I thought I'd take Francie Fitzpatrick with me there on
the black mare. She's no great shakes of a rider, and the
black mare is the only thing I'd hke to put her on. But,
of course, if it was for your own sake and not Charlotte's
that you wanted to go to the Waller's, I'd try and manage
to take Francie some other day. For the matter of that I
might put her on Paddy ; I daresay he'd carry a lady."

Mr. Lambert's concession had precisely the expected
effect. Mrs. Lambert gave a cry of consternation :

" Roderick ! you wouldn't ! Is it put that girl up on
that mad little savage of a pony ! Why, it's only yesterday,
when Michael was driving me into town, and Mr. Corkran
passed on his tricycle, he tore up on to his hind heels and
tried to run into Ryan's public-house ! Indeed, if that was
the way, not all the Charlottes in the world would make me
go driving to-morrow."

30 The Real Charlotte.

" Oh, all right," said Lambert graciously ; " if you'd rather
have it that way, we'll send a note over to Charlotte."

" Would you mind — " said Mrs. Lambert hesitatingly,
" I mean, don't you think it would be better if — supposing
you wrote the note ? She always minds what you say, and,
I declare, I don't know how in the world I'd make up the
excuse, when she'd settled the whole thing, and even got
me to leave word with the sweep to do her drawing-room
chimney that's thick with jackdaws' nests, because the
family'd be from home all the afternoon."

" Why, what was to happen to Francie ? " asked Lambert
quickly.

" I think Charlotte said she was to come with us," yawned
Mrs. Lambert, whose memory for conversation was as feeble
as the part she played in it ; *^ they had some talk about it,
at all events. I wouldn't be sure but Francie Fitzpatrick
said first she'd go for a walk to see the town — yes, so she
did, and Charlotte told her what she was going for was to
try and see the officers, and Francie said maybe it was, or
maybe she'd come and have afternoon tea with you. They
had great joking about it, but I'm sure, after all, it was
settled she was to come with us. Indeed," continued Mrs.
Lambert meditatively, " I think Charlotte's quite right not
to have her going through the town that way by herself; for,
I declare, Roderick, that's a lovely girl."

" Oh, she's well able to take care of herself," said Lambert,
with the gruff deprecation that is with some people the
method of showing pleasure at a compliment. " She's not
such a fool as she looks, I can tell you," he went on, feeling
suddenly quite companionable; "the Fitzpatricks didn't
take such wonderful care of her that Charlotte need be
bothering herself to put her in cotton wool at this time of
day."

Mrs. Lambert crocheted on in silence for a few moments,
inwardly counting her stitches till she came to the end of
the row, then she withdrew the needle and scratched her
head ruminatingly with it.

" Isn't it a strange thing, Roderick, what makes Charlotte
have anyone staying in the house with her? I never re-
member such a thing to happen before."

" She has to have her, and no thanks to her. Old Fitz-

The Real Charlotte. 31

Patrick's been doing bad business lately, and the little house
he's had to take at Bray is a tight fit for themselves and the
children ; so, as he said to me, he thought it was time for
Charlotte to do something for her own cousin's child and
no such great thanks to her either, seeing she got every
halfpenny the old woman had."

Mrs. Lambert realised that she was actually carrying on
a conversation with her husband, and nervously cast about
in her mind for some response that should be both striking
and stimulating.

" Well, now, if you want my opinion," she said, shutting
both her eyes and shaking her hecid with the peculiar arch
sagacity of a dull woman, ^'I wouldn't be surprised if
Charlotte wasn't so sorry to have her here after all. Maybe
she thinks she might snap up one of the officers — or there's
young Charley Flood — or, Roderick ! " Mrs. Lambert almost
giggled with delight and excitement — " I wouldn't put it
past Charlotte to be trying to ketch Mr. Dysart."

Roderick laughed in a disagreeable way.

*' I'd wish her joy of him if she got him ! A fellow that'd
rather stick at home there at Bruff having tea with his sister
than go down like any other fellow and play a game of pool
at the hotel ! A sort of chap that says, if you offer him a
whisky and soda in a friendly way, 'Th — thanks — I don't
c — care about anything at this t — t — time of day.' I think
Francie'd make him sit up ! " Mr. Lambert felt his imita-
tion of Christopher Dysart's voice to be a success, and the
shrill burst of laughter with which Mrs. Lambert greeted it
gave him for the moment an unusual tinge of respect for
her intelligence. " That's about the size of it, Lucy—
what ? "

" Oh, Roderick, how comical you are ! " responded the
dutitul turkey hen, wiping her watery eyes; ''it reminds me
of the days when you used to be talking of old Mr. Mullen
and Charlotte fighting in the office till I'd think I was
listening to themselves."

'^ God help the man that's got to fight with Charlotte,
anyhow ! " said Lambert, finishing his whisky and water as
if toasting the sentiment ; " and talking of Charlotte, Lucy,
you needn't mind about writing that note to her ; I'll go
over myself and speak to her in the morning."

32 The Real Charlotte.

" Oh, yes, Roderick, 'twill be all right if you see herself,
and you might say to her that I'll be expecting her to come
in to tea."

Mr. Lambert, who had already taken up his newspaper
again, merely grunted an assent. Mrs. Lambert patiently
folded her small bony hands upon her dog's back^ and clos-
ing her eyes and opening her mouth, fell asleep in half a
dozen breaths.

Her hus'band read his paper for a short time, while the
subdued duet of snoring came continuously from the chair
opposite. The clock struck nine in its sonorous, gentle-
manlike voice, and at the sound Lambert threw down his
paper as if an idea had occurred to him. He got up and
went over to the window, and putting aside the curtains,
looked out into the twilight of the June evening. The
world outside was still awake, and the air was tender with
the remembrance of the long day of sunshine and heat ; a
thrush was singing loudly down by the seringa bush at the
end of the garden ; the cattle were browsing and breathing
audibly in the field beyond, and some children were laugh-
ing and shouting on the road. It seemed to Lambert much
earlier than he had thought, and as he stood there, the in-
vitation of the summer evening began to appeal to him with
seductive force ; the quiet fields lay grey and mysterious
under the pale western glow, and his eye travelled several
times across them to a distant dark blot — the clump of
trees and evergreens in which Tally Ho Lodge lay buried.

He turned from the window at last, and coming back
into the lamplit room, surveyed it and its unconscious oc-
cupants with a feeling of intolerance for their unlovely
slumber. His next step was the almost unprecedented one
of changing his slippers for boots, and in a few minutes he
had left the house.

CHAPTER VL

NoRRY THE Boat toiled up the back stairs with wrath in
her heart. She had been listening for some minutes with
grim enjoyment to cries from the landing upstairs ; un-
availing calls for Louisa, interspersed with the dumb

The Real Charlotte. 33

galvanic quiver of a bell-less bellwire, and at last Francie's
voice at the angle half-way down the kitchen stairs had en-
treated her to find and despatch to her the missing Pro-
testant orphan. Then Norry had said to herself, while she
lifted the pot of potatoes off the fire, " Throuble-the-house !
God knows I'm heart - scalded with the whole o' yees ! "
And then aloud, " She's afther goin' out to the dhryin"
ground to throw out a few aper'rns to blaych."

" Well, I must have somebody ; I can't get my habit on,"
the voice had wailed in reply. " Couldn't you come,
Norry ? "

As we have said, Norry ascended the stairs with wrath in
her heart, as gruesome a lady's-maid as could well be im-
agined, with an apron mottled with grease spots, and a stale
smell of raw onions pervading her generally. Francie was
standing in front of the dim looking-glass with which Char-
lotte chastened the vanity of her guests, trying with stiff and
tired fingers to drag the buttons of a brand new habit
through the unyielding buttonholes that tailors alone have
the gift of making, and Norry's anger was forgotten in
prayerful horror, as her eyes wandered from the hard felt
hat to the trousered ankle that appeared beneath the skimpy
and angular skirt.

" The Lord look down in pity on thim that cut that petti-
coat ! " she said. " Sure, it's not out in the sthreets ye're
goin' in the like o' that ! God knows it'd be as good for
ye to be dhressed like a man altogether ! "

" I wouldn't care what I was dressed like if I could only
make the beastly thing meet," said Francie, her face flushed
with heat and effort ; " wasn't I the fool to tell him to make
it tight in the waist ! "

The subsequent proceedings were strenuous, but in the
end successful, and finally Miss Fitzpatrick walked stiffly
downstairs, looking very slender and tall, with the tail of the
dark green habit — she had felt green to be the colour con-
secrated to sport — drawn tightly round her, and a silver
horse-shoe brooch at her throat.

Charlotte was standing at the open hall door talking to
Mr. Lambert.

" Come along, child," she said genially, " you've been so
long adorning yourself that nothing but his natural respect

34 l^he Real Charlotte.

for the presence of a lady kept this gentleman from indulge
ing in abusive language."

Charlotte, in her lighter moods, was addicted to a ponder-
ous persiflage, the aristocratic foster-sister of her broader
peasant jestings in the manner of those whom she was fond
of describing as " the bar pur pie. ^^

Mr. Lambert did not trouble himself to reply to this sally.
He was looking at the figure in the olive-green habit that
was advancing along the path of sunlight to the doorway,
and thinking that he had done well to write that letter on
the subject of the riding that Francie might expect to have
at Lismoyle. Charlotte turned her head also to look at the
radiant, sunlit figure.

" Why, child, were you calling Norry just now to melt
you down and pour you into that garment ? I never saw
such a waist ! Take care and don't let her fall off, Roddy,
or she'll snap in two ! " She laughed loudly and discord-
antly, looking to Mr. Lambert's groom for the appreciation
that was lacking in the face of his master ; and during the
arduous process of getting Miss Fitzpatrick into her saddle
she remained on the steps, off"ering facetious suggestions
and warnings, with her short arms akimbo, and a smile that
was meant to be jovial accentuating the hard lines of her
face.

At last the green habit was adjusted, the reins placed pro-
perly between Francie's awkward fingers, and Mr. Lambert
had mounted his long-legged young chestnut and was ready
to start.

" Don't forget Lucy expects you to tea, Charlotte," he
said as he settled himself in his saddle.

" And don't you forget what I told you," replied Char-
lotte, sinking her voice confidentially ; *' don't mind her if
she opens her mouth wide ; it'll take less to shut it than ye'd
think."

Lambert nodded and rode after Francie, who, in compli-
ance with the wishes of the black mare, had hurried on to-
wards the gate. The black mare was a lady of character,
well-mannered but firm, and the mere sit of the saddle on
her back told her that this was a case when it would be well
to take matters into her own control; she accordingly
dragged as much of the reins as she required from Francie's

The Real Charlotte. 35

helpless hands, and by the time she had got on to the high
road, had given her rider to understand that her position was
that of tenant at will.

They turned their backs on the town, and rode along the
dazzling, dusty road, that radiated all the heat of a blazing
afternoon.

" I think he did you pretty well with that habit," re-
marked Lambert presently. "What's the damage to be? "

" What do you think ? " replied Francie gaily, answering
one question with another after the manner of her country.

"Ten?"

" Ah, go on ! Where'd I get ten pounds ? He said he'd
only charge me six because you recommended me, but I
can tell him he'll have to wait for his money."

" Why, are you hard up again ? "

Francie looked up at him and laughed with unconcern
that was not in the least affected.

" Of course I am ! Did you ever know me that I
wasn't ? "

Lambert was silent for a moment or two, and half uncon-
sciously his thoughts ran back over the time, six years ago
now, when he had first met Francie. There had always
been something exasperating to him in her brilliant in-
difference to the serious things of life. Her high spirits,
were as impenetrable as a coat of mail ; her ignorance of the
world was at once sublime and enraging. She had not
seemed in the least impressed by the fact that he, whom up
to this time she had known as merely a visitor at her uncle's
house, a feature of the Lawn-Tennis tournament week, and
a person with whom to promenade Merrion Square while
the band was playing, was in reality a country gentleman, a
J.P., and a man of standing, who owned as good horses as
anyone in the county. She even seemed as impervious as
ever to the pathos of his position in having thrown him-
self and his good looks away upon a plain woman six or
seven years older than himself. All these things passed
quickly through his mind, as if they found an accustomed
groove there, and mingled acidly with the disturbing sub-
consciousness that the mare would inevitably come home
with a sore back if her rider did not sit straignter than she
was doing at present.

36 The Real Charlotte.

" Look here, Francie," he said at last, with something of
asperity, *' it's all very fine to humbug now, but if you don't
take care you'll find yourself in the county court some fine
day. It's easier to get there than you'd think," he added
gloomily, " and then there'll be the devil to pay, and
nothing to pay him with ; and what'll you do then ? "

" I'll send for you to come and bail me out ! " replied
Francie without hesitation, giving an unconsidered whack
behind the saddle as she spoke. The black mare at once
showed her sense of the liberty by kicking up her heels in a
manner that lifted Francie a hand's-breadth from her seat,
and shook her foot out of the stirrup. " Gracious ! " she
gasped, when she had sufficiently recovered herself to
speak; " what did he do? Did he buck-jump? Oh, Mr.
Lambert — " as the mare, satisfied with her protest, broke
into a sharp trot, " do stop him ; I can't get my foot into the
stirrup ! "

Lambert, trotting serenely beside her on his tall chestnut,
watched her precarious bumpings for a minute or two with
a grin, then he stretched out a capable hand, and pulled the
mare into a walk.

** Now, where would you be without me ? " he inquired.

"Sitting on the road," replied Francie. "I never felt
such a horrid rough thing — and look at Mrs. Lambert look-
ing at me over the wall ! Weren't you a cad that you
wouldn't stop him before ? "

In the matter of exercise, Mrs. Lambert was one of those
people who want but little here below, nor want that little
long. The tour of the two acres that formed the demesne
of Rosemount was generally her limit, and any spare energy
that remained to ner after that perambulation was spent in
taking weeds out of the garden path with a lady-like cane-
handled spud. This implement was now in her gauntletted
hand, and she waved it feebly to the riders as they passed,
while Muffy stood in front of her and barked with asthma-
tic fury.

" Make Miss Fitzpatrick come in to tea on her way home,
Roderick," she called, looking admiringly at the girl with
kind eyes that held no spark of jealousy of her beauty and
youth. Mrs. Lambert was one of the women who sink pre-
maturely and unresistingly into the sloughs of middle-age.

The Real Charlotte. 37

For her there had been no intermediary period of anxious
tracking of grey hairs, of fevered energy in the playing of
lawn-tennis and rounders ; she had seen, with a feeling too
sluggish to be respected as resignation, her complexion
ascend the scale of colour from possible pink to the full
sunset flush that now burned in her cheeks and spanned the
sharp ridge of her nose ; and she still, as she had always
done, bought her expensive Sunday bonnet as she would
have bought a piece of furniture, because it was handsome,
not because it was becoming. The garden hat which she
now wore could not pretend to either of these qualifications,
and, as Francie looked at her, the contrast between her and
her husband was as conspicuous as even he could have
wished.

Francie's first remark, however, after they had passed by,
seemed to show that her point of view was not the same as his.

"Won't she be very lonely there all the afternoon by
herself?" she asked, with a backward glance at the figure
in the garden hat.

" Oh, not she ! " said Lambert carelessly, " she has the
dog, and she'll potter about there as happy as possible.
She's all right." Then after a pause in which the drift of
Francie's question probably presented itself to him for the
first time, " I wish everyone was as satisfied with their life
as she is."

" How bad you are ! " returned Francie, quite unmoved
by the gloomy sentimental roll of Mr. Lambert's eyes. " I
never heard a man talk such nonsense in my life ! "

" My dear child," said Lambert, with paternal melancholy,
" when you're my age — "

" Which I sha'n't be for the next fifteen years — " inter-
rupted Francie.

Mr. Lambert checked himself abruptly, and looked cross.

"Oh, all right ! If you're going to sit on me every time
I open my mouth, I'd better shut up."

Francie with some difficulty brought the black mare
beside the chestnut, and put her hand for an instant on
Lambert's arm.

'* Ah now, don't be angry with me ! " she said with a
glance whose efficacy she had often proved in similar cases ;
"you know I was only funning."

38 The Real Charlotte,

" I am not in the least angry with you," replied Lambert
coldly, though his eyes turned in spite of himself to her
face.

" Oh, I know very well you're angry with me," rejoined
Francie, with unfeigned enjoyment of the situation ; " your
mustash always gets as black as a coal when you're angry."

The adornment referred to twitched, but its owner said
nothing.

"There now, you're laughing!" continued Francie,
"but it's quite true; I remember the first time I noticed
that, was the time you brought Mrs. Lambert up to town
about her teeth, and you took places at the Gaiety for the
three of us — and oh ! do you remember — " leaning back
and laughing whole-heartedly, " she couldn't get her teeth
in in time, and you wanted her to go without any, and she
wouldn't, for fear she might laugh at the pantomime, and I
had promised to go to the Dalkey Band that night with the
Whittles, and then when you got up to our house and found
you'd got the three tickets for nothing, you were so mad
that when I came down into the parlour I declare I thought
you'd been dyeing your mustash ! Aunt Tish said afterwards
it was because your face got so white, but / knew it was
because you were in such a passion."

" Well, I didn't like chucking away fifteen shillings a bit
more than anyone else would," said Lambert.

"Ah, well, we made it up, d'ye remember?" said Francie,
regarding him with a laughing eye, in which there was a
suspicion of sentiment; "and after all, you were able to
change the tickets to another night, and it was ' Pinafore,'
and you laughed at me so awfully, because I cried at the
part where the two lovers are saying good-bye to each other,
and poor Mrs. Lambert got her teeth in in a hurry to go
v/ith us, and she couldn't utter the whole night for fear
they'd fall out."

Perhaps the allusions to his wife's false teeth had a subtly
soothing effect on Mr. Lambert. He never was averse to
anything that showed that other people were as conscious
as he was of the disparity between his own admirable per-
sonal equipment and that of Mrs. Lambert ; it was another
admission of the great fact that he had thrown himself away.
His eyebrows and moustache became less truculent, he let

The Real Charlotte. 39

himself down with a complacent sarcasm on Francie's
method of holding her whip, and, as they rode on, he per-
mitted to himself the semi-proprietary enjoyment of an
agent in pointing out boundaries, and landmarks, and im-
provements.

They had ridden at first under a pale green arch of road-
side trees, with fields on either side full of buttercups and
dog-daisies, a land of pasture and sleek cattle, and neat
stone walls. But in the second or third mile the face of the
country changed. The blue lake that had lain in the dis-
tance like a long slab of lapis lazuli, was within two fields of
them now, moving drowsily in and out of the rocks, and
over the coarse gravel of its shore. The trees had dwindled
to ragged hazel and thorn bushes ; the fat cows of the com-
fortable farms round Lismoyle were replaced by lean, di-
shevelled goats, and shelves and flags of grey limestone
began to contest the right of the soil with the thin grass and
the wiry brushwood. We have said grey limestone, but
that hard-worked adjective cannot at all express the cold,
pure blueness that these boulders take, under the sky of
summer. Some word must yet be coined in which neither
blue nor lilac shall have the supremacy, and in which the
steely purple of a pigeon's breast shall not be forgotten.

The rock was everywhere. Even the hazels were at last
squeezed out of existence, and inland, over the slowly swell-
ing hills, it lay like the pavement of some giant city, that
had been jarred from its symmetry by an earthquake. A
mile away, on the further side of this iron belt, a clump of
trees rose conspicuously by the lake side, round a two-
storied white house, and towards these trees the road wound
its sinuous way. The grass began to show in larger and
larger patches between the rocks, and the indomitable
hazels crept again out of the crannies, and raised their low
canopies over the heads of the browsing sheep and goats.
A stream, brown with turf-mould, and fierce with battles
with the boulders, made a boundary between the stony
wilderness and the dark green pastures of Gurthnamuckla.
It dashed under a high-backed little bridge with such ex-
citement that the black mare, for all her intelligence, curved
her neck, and sidled away from the parapet towards Lam-
bert's horse.

40 The Real Charlotte.

Just beyond the bridge, a repulsive-looking old man was
sitting on a heap of stones, turning over the contents of a
dirty linen pouch. Beside him were an empty milk-can,
and a black-and-white dog which had begun by trying to be
a collie, and had relapsed into an indifferent attempt at a
grey-hound. It greeted the riders with the usual volley of
barking, and its owner let fall some of the coppers that he
was counting over, in his haste to strike at it with the long
stick that was lying beside him.

" Have done ! Sailor ! Blasht yer sowl ! Have done ! "
then, with honeyed obsequiousness, '^yer honour's welcome,
Mr. Lambert."

'^ Is Miss Duffy in the house? " asked Lambert.

'* She is, she is, yer honour," he answered, in the nasal
mumble peculiar to his class, getting up and beginning to
shuffle after the horses; " but what young lady is this at all ?
Isn't she very grand, God bless her ! "

"She's Miss Fitzpatrick, Miss Mullen's cousin, Billy,"
answered Lambert graciously ; approbation could not come
from a source too low for him to be susceptible to it.

The old man came up beside Francie, and, clutching
the skirt of her habit, blinked at her with sly and swimming
eyes.

"Fitzpatrick is it? Begob I knew her grannema well ;
she was a fine hearty woman, the Lord have mercy on her !
And she never seen me without she'd give me a shixpence
or maybe a shillin'."

Francie was skilled in the repulse of the Dublin beggar,
but this ancestral precedent was something for which she
was not prepared. The clutch tightened on her habit and
the disgusting old face almost touched it, as Billy pressed
close to her, mouthing out incomprehensible blessings and
entreaties. She felt afraid of his red eyes and clawing
fingers, and she turned helplessly to Lambert.

" Here, be off now, Billy, you old fool ! " he said ;
" we've had enough of you. Run and open the gate."

The farm-house, with its clump of trees, was close to
them, and its drooping iron entrance-gate shrieked resent-
fully as the old man dragged it open.

The Real Charlotte, 41

CHAPTER VII.

Miss Julia Duffy, the tenant of Gurthnamuckla, was a
woman of few friends. The cart track that led to her
house was covered with grass, except for two brown ruts and
a narrow footpath in the centre, and the boughs of the syca-
mores that grew on either side of it drooped low as if ignor-
ing the possibihty of a visitor. The house door remained
shut from year's end to year's end, contrary to the usual
kindly Irish custom ; in fact, its rotten timbers were at once
supported and barricaded by a diagonal beam that held
them together, and was itself beginning to rot under its
shroud of cobwebs. The footpath skirted the duckpond in
front of the door, and led round the corner of the house to
what had been in the palmy days of Gurthnamuckla the
stableyard, and wound through its weedy heaps of dirt to
the kitchen door.

JuHa Duffy, looking back through the squalors of some
sixty years, could remember the days when the hall door
used to stand open from morning till night, and her father's
guests were many and thirsty, almost as thirsty as he,
though perhaps less persistently so. He had been a hard-
drinking Protestant farmer, who had married his own dairy-
woman, a Roman Catholic, dirty, thriftless, and a cousin of
Norry the Boat ; and he had so disintegrated himself with
whisky that his body and soul fell asunder at what was
considered by his friends to be the premature age of seventy-
two. Julia had always been wont to go to Lismoyle church
with her father, not so much as a matter of religious as of
social conviction. All the best bonnets in the town went
to the parish church, and to a woman of Julia's stamp,
whose poor relations wear hoods and shawls over their
heads and go to chapel, there is no salvation out of a
bonnet. After old John Duffy's death, however, bonnets
and the aristocratic way of salvation seemed together to
rise out of his daughter's scope. Chapel she despised with
all the fervour of an Irish Protestant, but if the farm was
to be kept and the rent paid, there was no money to spare
for bonnets. Therefore Julia, in defiance of the entreaties
of her mother's priest and her own parson, would have

42 The Real Charlotte.

nothing of either chapel or church, and stayed sombrely at
home. Marriage had never come near her ; in her father's
time the necessary dowry had not been forthcoming, and
even her ownership of the farm was not enough to counter-
balance her ill-looks and her pagan habits.

As in a higher grade of society science sometimes steps
in when religion fails, so, in her moral isolation, Julia
Duffy turned her attention to the mysteries of medicine
and the culture of herbs. By the time her mother died she
had established a position as doctor and wise woman,
which was immensely abetted by her independence of the
ministrations of any church. She was believed in by the
people, but there was no liking in the belief; when they
spoke to her they called her Miss Duffy, in deference to a
now impalpable difference in rank as well as in recognition
of her occult powers, and they kept as clear of her as they
conveniently could. The payment of her professional
services was a matter entirely in the hands of the people
themselves, and ranged, according to the circumstances of
the case, from a score of eggs or a can of buttermilk, to a
crib of turf or " the makings " of a homespun flannel petti-
coat. Where there was the possibility of a fee it never
failed ; where there was not, Julia Duffy gave her " yerreb
tay " (/.(?., herb tea) and HoUoway's pills without question
or hesitation.

No one except herself knew how vital these offerings
were to her. The farm was still hers, and, perhaps, in all
her jealous unsunned nature, the only note of passion was
her feeling for the twenty acres that, with the house, re-
mained to her of her father's possessions. She had owned
the farm for twenty years now, and had been the abhorrence
and the despair of each successive Bruff agent. The land
went from bad to worse ; ignorance, neglect and poverty,
are a formidable conjunction even without the moral sup
port that the Land League for a few years had afforded her,
and Miss Duffy tranquilly defied Mr. Lambert, offering
him at intervals such rent as she thought fitting, while she
sub-let her mossy, deteriorated fields to a Lismoyle grazier.
Perhaps her nearest approach to pleasure was the time at
the beginning ot each year when she received and dealt
with the offers for the grazing ; then she tasted the sweets

The Real Gtarlotte. 43

of ownership, and then she condescended to dole out to
Mr. Lambert such payment " on account " as she deemed
advisable, confronting his remonstrances with her indisput-
able poverty, and baffling his threats with the recital of a
promise that she should never be disturbed in her father's
farm^ made to her, she alleged, by Sir Benjamin Dysart,
when she entered upon her inheritance.

There had been a time when a barefooted serving-girl
had suffered under Miss Duffy's rule ; but for the last few
years the times had been bad, the price of grazing had
fallen, and the mistress's temper and the diet having fallen
in a corresponding ratio, the bondwoman had returned to
her own people and her father's house, and no successor
had been found to take her place. That is to say, no re-
cognised successor. But, as fate would have it, on the
very day that " Moireen Rhu " had wrapped her shawl
about her head, and stumped, with cursings, out of the
house of bondage, the vague stirrings that regulate the
perambulations of beggars had caused Billy Grainy to
resolve upon Gurthnamuckla as the place where he would,
after the manner of his kind, ask for a walletful of pota-
toes and a night's shelter. A week afterwards he was still
there, drawing water, bringing in turf, feeding the cow, and
receiving, in return for these offices, his board and lodging
and the daily dressing of a sore shin which had often
coerced the most uncharitable to hasty and nauseated alms-
giving. The arrangement glided into permanency, and
Billy fell into a life of lazy routine that was preserved from
stagnation by a daily expedition to Lismoyle to sell milk for
Miss Duffy, and to do a little begging on his own account.

Gurthnamuckla had still about it some air of the older
days when Julia Duffy's grandfather was all but a gentleman,
and her drunken father and dairymaid mother were in their
cradles. The tall sycamores that bordered the cart track
were witnesses to the time when it had been an avenue, and
the lawn-like field was yellow in spring with the daffodils of
a former civilisation. The tops of the trees were thick with
nests, and the grave cawing of rooks made a background of
mellow, serious respectability that had its effect even upon
Francie. She said something to this intent as she and
Lambert jogged along the grass by the track.

44 1^^^ i^^«/ Charlotte,

** Nice ! " returned her companion with enthusiasm, " I
should think it was ! I'd make that one of the sweetest
little places in the country if I had it. There's no better
grass for young horses anywhere, and there's first-class
stabling. I can tell you you're not the only one that thinks
it's a nice place," he continued, " but this old devil that has
it won't give it up ; she'd rather let the house rot to pieces
over her head than go out of it."

They rode past the barricaded hall door, and round the
corner of the house into the yard, and Lambert called for
Miss Duffy for some time in vain. Nothing responded ex-
cept the turkey cock, who answered each call with an
infuriated gobble, and a donkey, who, in the dark recesses
of a cow-house, lifted up his voice in heartrending rejoinder.
At last a window fell down with a bang in the upper story,
and the mistress of the house put out her head. Francie
had only time to catch a glimpse of a thin dirty iace, a
hooked nose, and unkempt black hair, before the vision was
withdrawn, and a slipshod step was heard coming down-
stairs.

When Miss Duffy appeared at her kitchen door, she had
flung a shawl round her head, possibly to conceal the fact
that her crinkled mat of hair held thick in it, like powder,
the turf ashes of many sluttish days. Her stained and torn
black skirt had evidently just been unpinned from about her
waist, and was hitched up at one side, showing a frayed red
Galway petticoat, and that her feet had recently been thrust
into her boots was attested by the fact that their laces trailed
on the ground beside her. In spite of these disadvantages,
however, it was with a manner of the utmost patronage that
she greeted Mr. Lambert.

" I would ask you and the young leedy to dismount," she
continued, in the carefully genteel voice that she clung to in
the wreck of her fortunes, " but I am, as you will see," she
made a gesture with a dingy hand, " quite ' in dishabilly,' as
they say ; I've been a Httle indisposed, and — "

" Oh, no matter. Miss Duffy," interrupted Lambert, " I
only wanted to say a few words to you on business, and
Miss Fitzpatrick will ride about the place till we're done."

Miss Duffy's small black eyes turned quickly to Francie.

" Oh, indeed, is that Miss Fitzpatrick ? My fawther

The Real Charlotte. 45

knew her grandfawther. I am much pleased to make her
acquaintance."

She inclined her head as she spoke, and Francie, with
much disposition to laugh, bowed hers in return ; each
instant Miss Duffy's resemblance, both in feature and cos-
tume, to a beggar woman who frequented the corner of
Sackville Street, was becoming harder to bear with fortitude,
and she was delighted to leave Lambert to his tetea-tete and
ride out into the lawn, among the sycamores and hawthorns,
where the black mare immediately fell to devouring grass
with a resolve that was quite beyond Francie's power to
combat.

She broke a little branch off a low-growing ash tree, to
keep away the flies that were doing their best to spoil the
pleasure of a perfect afternoon, and sat there, fanning her-
self lazily, while the mare, with occasional impatient tugs at
the reins and stampings at the flies, cropped her way
onwards from one luscious tuft to another. The Lismoyle
grazier's cattle had collected themselves under the trees at
the farther end of the lawn, where a swampy pool still re-
mained of the winter encroachments of the lake. In the
sunshine at the other side of the wall, a chain of such pools
stretched to the broad blue water, and grey limestone rocks
showed above the tangle of hemlock and tall spikes of
magenta foxgloves, A white sail stood dazzlingly out in the
turquoise blue of a band of calm, and the mountains on the
farther side of the lake were palely clothed in thinnest
lavender and most ethereal green.

It might have been the unexpected likeness that she
had found in Julia Duffy to her old friend the beggar woman
that took Francie's thoughts away from this idyll of per-
fected summer to the dry, grey Dublin streets that had been
her uttermost horizon a week ago. The milkman generally
called at the Fitzpatricks' house at about this hour; the
clank of his pint measure against the area railings, even his
pleasantries with Maggie the cook, relative to his bestowing
an extra " sup for the cat," were suddenly and sharply pre-
sent with her. The younger Fitzpatrick children would be
home from school, and would be raging through the kitchen
seeking what they might devour in the interval before the
six o'clock dinner, and she herself would probably have been

46 The Real Charlotte.

engaged in a baking game of tennis in the square outside
her uncle's house. She felt very sorry for Aunt Tish when
she thought of that hungry gang of sons and daughters and
of the evil days that had come upon the excellent and re-
spectable Uncle Robert, and the still more evil days thai
would come in another fortnight or so, when the whole
bursting party had squeezed themselves into a little house
at Bray, there to exist for an indefinite period on Irish stew,
strong tea, and a diminished income. There was a kind of
understanding that when they were " settled " she was to go
back to them, and blend once more her five and twenty
pounds a year with the Fitzpatrick funds ; but this afternoon,
with the rich summer stillness and the blaze of buttercups
all about her, and the unfamiliar feeling of the mare's rest-
less shoulder under her knee, she was exceedingly glad that
the settling process would take some months at least. She
was not given to introspection, and could not have said any-
thing in the least interesting about her mental or moral
atmosphere ; she was too uneducated and too practical for
any self-communings of this kind ; but she was quite certain
of two things, that in spite of her affection for the Fitz-
patricks she was very glad she was not going to spend the
summer in Dublin or Bray, and also, that in spite of certain
bewildering aspects of her cousin Charlotte, she was begin-
ning to have what she defined to herself as " a high old
time."

It was somewhere about this period in her meditations
that she became aware of a slight swishing and puffing
sound from the direction of the lake, and a steam-launch
came swiftly along close under the shore. She was a smart-
looking boat, spick and span as white paint and a white
funnel with a brass band could make her, and in her were
seated two men ; one, radiant in a red and white blazer, was
steering, while the other, in clothes to which even distance
failed to lend enchantment, was menially engaged in break-
ing coals with a hammer. The boughs of the trees inter-
vened exasperatingly between Francie and this glittering
vision, and the resolve to see it fully lent her the power to
drag the black mare from her repast, and urge her forward
to an opening where she could see and be seen, two equally
important objects.

The Real Charlotte. 47

She bad instantly realised that these were those heroes of
romance, "the Lismoyle officers," the probabilities of her
alliance with one of whom had been the subject of some
elegant farewell badinage on the part of her bosom friend,
Miss Fanny Hemphill. Francie's acquaintance with the
British army had hitherto been limited to one occasion
when, at a Sandymount evening band performance, " one of
the officers from Beggars' Bush Barracks "--so she had con-
fided to Miss Hemphill — had taken off his hat to her, and
been very polite until Aunt Tish had severely told him that
no true gentleman would converse with a lady without she
was presented to him, and had incontinendy swept her home.
She could see them quite plainly now, and from the fact that
the man who had been rooting among the coals was now
sitting up, evidently at the behest of the steersman, and
looking at her, it was clear that she had attracted attention
too Even the black mare pricked her ears, and stared at
this new kind of dragon-fly creature that went noisily by,
leaving a feathery smear on the air behind it, and just then
Mr. Lambert rode out of the stableyard, and looked about
him for his charge.

" Francie ! " he called with perceptible impatience ; " what
are you at down there ? "

The steam-launch had by this time passed the opening,
and Francie turned and rode towards him. Her hat was a
good deal on the back of her head, and her brilliant hair
caught the sunshine ; the charm of her supple figure atoned
for the crookedness of her seat, and her eyes shone with an
excitement born of the delightful sight of soldiery.

"Oh, Mr. Lambert, weren't those the officers?" she cried,
as he rode up to her ; " which was which ? Haven't they a
grand little steamer ? "

Lambert's temper had apparently not been improved by
his conversation with Julia Duffy ; instead of answering
Miss Fitzpatrick he looked at her with a clouded brow, and
in his heart he said, " Damn the officers ! "

" I wonder which of them is the captain ? " continued
Francie ; "I suppose it is the little fair one ; he was much
the best dressed, and he was making the other one do all
the work ? "

Lambert gave a scornful laugh.

48 The Real Charlotte.

" I'll leave you to find that out for yourself. I'll engage
it won't be long before you know all about them. You've
made a good start already."

"Oh, very well," replied Francie, letting fall both the
reins in order to settle her hat ; '^ some day you'll be asking
me something, and I won't tell you, and then you'll be
sorry."

" Some day you'll be breaking your neck, and then youHl
be sorry," retorted Lambert, taking up the fallen reins.

They rode out of the gate of Gurthnamuckla in silence,
and after a mile of trotting, which was to Francie a period
of mingled pain and anxiety, the horses slackened of their
own accord, and began to pick their way gingerly over the
smooth sheets of rock that marked the entry of the road into
the stony tract mentioned in the last chapter. Francie took
the opportunity for a propitiatory question.

" What were you and the old woman talking about all
that time ? I thought you were never coming."

" Business," said Lambert shortly ; then viciously, " if
any conversation with a woman can ever be called busi-
ness."

" Oho ! then you couldn't get her to do what you
wanted!" laughed Francie; ''very good for you too! I
think you always get your own way."

" Is that your opinion ? " said Lambert, turning his dark
eyes upon her ; " I'm sorry I can't agree with you."

The fierce heat had gone out of the afternoon as they
passed along the lonely road, through the country of rocks
and hazel bushes ; the sun was sending low flashes into
their eyes from the bright mirror of the lake ; the goats that
hopped uncomfortably about in the enforced and detested
tete-a-teie caused by a wooden yoke across their necks, cast
blue shadows of many-legged absurdity on the warm slabs
of stone ; a carrion crow, swaying on the thin topmost
bough of a thorn-bush, a blot in the mellow afternoon sky,
was looking about him if haply he could see a wandering
kid whose eyes would serve him for his supper ; and a
couple of miles away, at Rosemount, Mrs. Lambert was
sending down to be kept hot what she and Charlotte had
left of the Sally Lunn.

Francie was not sorry when she found herself again under

The Real Charlotte, 49

the trees of the Lisraoyle highroad, and in spite of the
injuries which the pommels of the saddle were inflicting
upon her, and the growing stiffness of all her muscles, she
held gallantly on at a sharp trot, till her hair-pins and her
hat were loosed from their foundations, and her green habit
rose in ungainly folds. They were nearing Rosemount
when they heard wheels behind them. Lambert took the
left side of the road, and the black mare followed his
example with such suddenness, that Francie, when she had
recovered her equilibrium, could only be thankful that
nothing more than her hat had come off. With the first in-
stinct of woman she snatched at the coils of hair that fell
down her back and hung enragingly over her eyes, and tried
to wind them on to her head again. She became horribly
aware that a waggonette with several people in it had pulled
up beside her, and, finally, that a young man with a clean-
shaved face and an eyeglass was handing her her hat and
taking off his own.

Holding in her teeth the few hair-pins that she had been
able to save from the wreck, she stammered a gratitude
that she was far from feeling ; and when she heard Lambert
say, " Oh, thank you, Dysart, you just saved me getting off,"
she felt that her discomfiture was complete.

CHAPTER Vin.

Christopher Dysart was a person about whom Lismoyle
and its neighbourhood had not been able to come to a satis-
factory conclusion, unless, indeed, that conclusion can be
called satisfactory which admitted him to be a disappoint-
ment. From the time that, as a shy, plain little boy he
first went to school, and, after the habit of boys, ceased to
exist except in theory and holidays, a steady undercurrent
of interest had always set about him. His mother was so
charming, and his father so delicate, and he himself so con-
veniently contemporary with so many daughters, that
although the occasional glimpses vouchsafed of him during
his Winchester and Oxford career were as discouraging as
they were brief, it was confidently expected that he would
emerge from his boyish shyness when he came to take his

D

50 The Real Charlotte.

proper place in the county and settle down at Bruflf. Thus
Lady Eyrefield, and Mrs. Waller, and their like, the careful
mothers of those contemporaneous daughters, and thus also,
after their kind, the lesser ladies of Lismoyle.

But though Christopher was now seven and twenty he
seemed as far from " taking his place in the county " as he
had ever been. His mother's friends had no particular
fault to find with him ; that was a prominent feature in their
dissatisfaction. He was quite good-looking enough for an
eldest son, and his politeness to their daughters left them
nothing to complain of except the discouraging fact that it
was exceeded by his politeness to themselves. His readi-
ness to talk when occasion demanded was undisputed, but
his real or pretended dulness in those matters of local in-
terest, which no one except an outsider calls gossip, made
conversation with him a hollow and heartless affair. One
of his most exasperating points was that he could not be
referred to any known type. He was '' between the sizes,"
as shopmen say of gloves. He was not smart and aggres-
sive enough for the soldiering type, nor sporting enough for
the country gentleman, but neither had he the docility and
attentiveness of the ideal curate; he could not even be lightly
disposed of as an eccentricity, which would have been some
sort of consolation.

" If I ever could have imagined that Isabel Dysart's son
would have turned out like this," said the Dowager Lady
Eyrefield, in a moment of bitterness, " I should not have
given myself the trouble of writing to Castleraore about
taking him out as his secretary. I thought all those func-
tions and dinner parties would have done something for
him, but though they polished up his manners, and im-
proved that most painful and unfortunate stutter, he's at
heart just as much a stick as ever,"

Lismoyle was, according to its lights, equally nonplussed.
Mrs. Baker had, indeed, suggested that it was sending him
to these grand English universities, instead of to Trinity
College, Dublin, that had taken the fun out of him in the
first going off, and what finished him was going out to those
Barbadoes, with all the blacks bowing down to him, and his
liver growing the size of I don't know what with the heat.
Mrs. Corkran, the widow of the late rector of Lismoyle, had.

The Real Charlotte. 51

however, rejoined that she had always found Mr. Dysart a
most humble-minded young man on the occasions when
she had met him at his cousin Mrs. Gascogne's, and by no
means puffed up with his rank or learning. This proposi-
tion Mrs. Baker had not attempted to dispute, but none the
less she had felt it to be beside the point. She had not
found that Christopher's learning had disposed him to come
to her tennis parties, and she did not feel humility to be a
virtue that graced a young man of property. Certainly, in
spite of his humility, she could not venture to take him to
task for his neglect of her entertainments as she could Mr.
Hawkins ; but then it is still more certain that Christopher
would not, as Mr. Hawkins had often done, sit down before
her, as before a walled town, and so skilfully entreat her
that in five minutes all would have been forgiven and
forgotten.

It was, perhaps, an additional point of aggravation that,
dull and unprofitable though he was considered to be,
Christopher had amusements of his own in which the
neighbourhood had no part. Since he had returned from
the West Indies, his three-ton cutter with the big Una sail
had become one of the features of the lake, but though a
red parasol was often picturesquely visible above the gun-
wale, the knowledge that it sheltered his sister deprived it
of the almost painful interest that it might otherwise have
had, and at the same time gave point to a snub that was
unintentionally effective and comprehensive. There were
many sunny mornings on which Mr. Dysart's camera occupied
commanding positions in the town, or its outskirts, while its
owner photographed groups of old women and donkeys,
regardless of the fact that Miss Kathleen Baker, m her
most becoming hat, had taken her younger sister from the
schoolroom to play a showy game of lawn-tennis in the
garden in front of her father's villa, or was, with Arcadian
industry, cutting buds off the roses that dropped their pink
petals over the low wall on to the road. It was quite inex-
plicable that the photographer should pack up his camera
and walk home without taking advantage of this artistic
opportunity beyond a civil lift of his cap; and at such times
Miss Baker would re-enter the villa with a feeling of con-
tempt for Mr. Dysart that was almost too deep for words.

52 The Real Charlotte.

She might have been partially consoled had she known
that on a June morning not long after the latest of these
repulses, her feelings were fully shared by the person whom,
for the last two Sundays, she had looked at in the Dysart
pew with a respectful dislike that implied the highest com-
pliment in her power. Miss Evelyn Hope - Drummond
stood at the bow-window of the Bruff drawing-room and
looked out over the gravelled terrace, across the flower-
garden and the sunk fence, to the clump of horse chestnuts
by the lake-side. Beyond these the cattle were standing
knee-deep in the water, and on the flat margin a pair of
legs in white flannel trousers was all that the guest, whom
his mother delighted to honour, could see of Christopher
Dysart. The remainder of him wrestled beneath a black
velvet pall with the helplessly wilful legs of his camera, and
all his mind, as Miss Hope-Drummond well knew, was con-
centrated upon cows. Her first visit to Ireland was proving
less amusing than she had expected, she thought, and as
she watched Christopher she wished fervently that she had
not off'ered to carry any of his horrid things across the park
for him. In the flower-garden below the terrace she could
see Lady Dysart and Pamela in deep consultation over an
infirm rose-tree ; a wheelbarrow full of pans of seedlings
sufficiently indicated what their occupation would be for
the rest of the morning, and she felt it was of a piece with
the absurdities of Irish life that the ladies of the house
should enjoy doing the gardener's work for him. The
strong scent of heated Gloire de Dijon roses came through
the window, and suggested to her how well one of them
would suit with her fawn-coloured Redfern gown, and she
leaned out to pick a beautiful bud that was swaying in the
sun just within reach.

" Ha — a — ah ! I see ye, missy ! Stop picking my
flowers ! Push, James Canavan, you devil, you ! Push ! "

A bath-chair, occupied by an old man in a tall hat, and
pushed by a man also in a tall hat, had suddenly turned the
corner of the house, and Miss Hope-Drummond drew back
precipitately to avoid the uplifted walking-stick of Sir Ben-
jamin Dysart.

*' Oh, fie, for shame, Sir Benjamin ! " exclaimed the man
who had been addressed as James Canavan. " Pray, cull

The Real Charlotte. 53

the rose, miss," he continued, with a flourish of his hand ;
" sweets to the sweet ! "

Sir Benjamin aimed a backward stroke with his oak stick
at his attendant, a stroke in which long practice had failed
to make him perfect, and in the exchange of further ameni-
ties the party passed out of sight. This was not Miss Hope-
Drummond's first meeting with her host. His bath-chair
had daily, as it seemed to her, lain in wait in the shrubberies,
to cause terror to the solitary, and discomfiture to tete-a-
tetes ; and on one morning he had stealthily protruded the
crook of his stick from the door of his room as she went by,
and all but hooked her round the ankle with it.

*' Really, it is disgraceful that he is not locked up," she
said to herself crossly, as she gathered the contested bud,
and sat down to write letters ; " but in Ireland no one seems
to think anything of anything ! "

It was very hot down in the garden where Lady Dysart
and Pamela were at work ; Lady Dysart kneeling in the in-
adequate shade of a parasol, whose handle she had propped
among the pans in the wheelbarrow, and Pamela weeding a
flower-bed a few yards away. It was altogether a scene
worthy in its domestic simplicity of the Fairchild Family,
only that instead of Mr. Fairchild, " stretched on the grass
at a little distance with his book," a bronze-coloured dach-
shund lay roasting his long side in the sun ; and also that
Lady Dysart, having mistaken the young chickweed in a
seedling pan for the asters that should have been there, was
filling her bed symmetrically with the former, an imbeciHty
that Mrs. Sherwood would never have permitted in a parent.
The mother and daughter lifted their heads at the sound of
the conflict on the terrace.

" Papa will frighten Evelyn into a fit," observed Pamela,
rubbing a midge off her nose with an earthy gardening glove;
" I wish James Canavan could be induced to keep him away
from the house."

" It's all right, dear," said Lady Dysart, panting a little as
she straightened her back and surveyed her rows of chick-
weed ; " Christopher is with her, and you know he never
notices anyone else when Christopher is there."

Lady Dysart had in her youth married, with a little judi-
cious coercion, a man thirty years older than herself, and

54 The Real Charlotte.

after a long and, on the whole, extremely unpleasant period
of matrimony, she was now enjoying a species of Indian
summer, dating from six years back, when Christopher's
coming of age and the tenants' rejoicings thereat, had caused
such a paroxysm of apoplectic jealousy on the part of Chris-
topher's father as, combining with the heat of the day, had
brought on a "stroke." Since then the bath-chair and
James Canavan had mercifully intervened between him and
the rest of the world, and his offspring were now able to fly
before him with a frankness and success impossible in the
old days.

Pamela did not answer her mother at once.

*' Do you know I'm afraid Christopher isn't with her," she
said, looking both guilty and perturbed.

Lady Dysart groaned aloud.

" Why, where is he ? " she demanded. ** I left Evelyn
helping him to paste in photographs after breakfast; I
thought that would have been nice occupation for them for
at least two hours ; but as for Christopher — " she continued,
her voice deepening to declamation, " it is quite hopeless to
expect anything from him. I should rather trust Garry to
entertain anyone. The day he took her out in the boat they
weren't in till six o'clock ! "

'* That was because Garry ran the punt on the shallow,
and they had to wade ashore and walk all the way round."

" That has nothing to say to it ; at all events they had
something to talk about when they came back, which is
more than Christopher has when he has been out sailing.
It is most disheartening ; I ask nice girls to the house, but
I might just as well ask nice boys — Oh, of course, yes — "
in answer to a protest from her daughter ; " he talks to
them ; but you know quite well what I mean."

This complaint was not the first indication of Lady
Dysart's sentiments about this curious son whom she had
produced. She was a clever woman, a renowned solver of
the acrostics in her society paper, and a holder of strong
opinions as to the prophetic meaning of the Pyramids ; but
Christopher was an acrostic in a strange language, an enigma
beyond her sphere. She had a vague but rooted feeling
that young men were normally in love with somebody, or at
east pretending to be so ; it was, of course, an excellent

TJu Real Charlotte, 55

thing that Christopher did not lose his heart to the wrong
people, but she would probably have preferred the agitation
of watching his progress through the most alarming flirtations
to the security that deprived conversation with other mothers
of much of its legitimate charm.

" Well, there was Miss Fetherstone," began Pamela after
a moment of obvious consideration.

" Miss Fetherstone ! " echoed Lady Dysart in her richest
contralto, fixing eyes of solemn reproach upon her daughter,
" do you suppose that for one instant I thought there was
anything in that ? No baby, no idiot baby, could have
believed in it ! "

"Well, I don't know," said Pamela; "I think you and
Mrs. Waller believed in it^ at least I remember you both
settling what your wedding presents were to be ! "

"/never said a word about wedding presents, it was Mrs.
Waller ! Of course she was anxious about her own niece,
just as anybody would have been under the circumstances."
Lady Dysart here became aware of something in Pamela's
expression that made her add hurriedly, " Not that / ever
had the faintest shadow of belief in it. Too well do I know
Christopher's platonic philanderings ; and you see the aftair
turned out just as I said it would."

Pamela refrained from pursuing her advantage.

" If you like I'll make him come with Evelyn and me to
the choir practice this afternoon," she said after a pause.
" Of course he'll hate it, poor boy, especially as Miss Mullen
wrote to me the other day and asked us to come to tea after
it was over."

" Oh, yes ! " said Lady Dysart with sudden interest and
forgetfulness of her recent contention, "and you will see the
new importation whom we met with Mr. Lambert the other
day. What a charming young creature she looked ! * The
fair one with the golden locks ' was the only description for
her ! And yet that miserable Christopher will only say that
she is * chocolate-boxey ! ' Oh ! I have no patience with
Christopher's affectation ! " she ended, rising from her knees
and brushing the earth from her extensive lap with a gesture
of annoyance. She began to realise that the sun was hot
and luncheon late, and it was at this unpropitious moment
that Pamela, having finished the flower - bed she had

56 The Real Charlotte,

been weeding, approached the scene of her mother's
labours.

" Mamma," she said faintly, "you have planted the whole
bed with chickweed ! "

CHAPTER IX.

It had been hard work pulling the punt across from Bruff
to Lismoyle with two well-grown young women sitting in the
stern ; it had been a hot walk up from the landing-place to
the church, but worse than these, transcendently worse, in
that it involved the suffering of the mind as well as the body,
was the choir practice. Christopher's long nose drooped
despondingly over his Irish church hymnal, and his long
back had a disconsolate hoop in it as he leaned it against
the wall in his place in the backmost row of the choir
benches. The chants had been long and wearisome, and
the hymns were proving themselves equally enduring.
Christopher was not eminently musical or conspicuously
religious, and he regarded with a kind of dismal respect and
surprise the fervour in Pamela's pure profile as she turned
to Mrs. Gascogne and suggested that the hymn they had
just gone through twice should be sung over again. He
supposed it was because she had High Church tendencies
that she was able to stand this sort of thing, and his mind
drifted into abstract speculations as to how people could be
as good as Pamela was and live.

In the interval before the last hymn he derived a tempor-
ary solace from finding his own name inscribed in dull red
characters in the leaf of his hymn-book, with, underneath in
the same colour, the fateful inscription, " Written in blood
by Garrett Dysart," The thought of his younger brother
utilising pleasantly a cut finger and the long minutes of the
archdeacon's sermon, had for the moment inspired Christo-
pher with a sympathetic amusement, but he had relapsed
into his pristine gloom. He knew the hymn perfectly well
by this time, and his inoffensive tenor joined mechanically
with the other voices, while his eyes roamed idly over the
two rows of people in front of him. There was nothing
suggestive of ethereal devotion about Pamela's neighbours.

The Real Charlotte. 57

Miss Mullen's heaving shoulders and extended jaw spoke of
nothing but her determination to out-scream everyone else ;
Miss Hope-Drumraond and the curate, on the bench in
front of him, were singing primly out of the same hymn-
book, the curate obviously frightened, Miss Hope-Drummond
as obviously disgusted. The Misses Beattie were furtively
eyeing Miss Hope-Drummond's costume ; Miss Kathleen
Baker was openly eyeing the curate, whose hymn-book she
had been wont to share at happier choir practices, and Miss
Fitzpatrick, seated at the end of the row, was watching from
the gallery window with unaffected interest the progress of
the usual weekly hostilities between Pamela's dachshund
and the sexton's cat, and was not even pretending to occupy
herself with the business in hand. Christopher's eyes rested
on her appraisingly, with the minute observation of short
sight, fortified by an eyeglass, and was aware of a small
head with a fluffy halo of conventionally golden hair, a
straight and slender neck, and an appleblossom curve of
cheek ; he found himself wishing that she would turn a little
further round.

The hymn had seven verses, and Pamela and Mrs. Gas-
cogne were going inexorably through them all ; the school-
master and schoolmistress, an estimable couple, sole prop
of the choir on wet Sundays, were braying brazenly beside
him, and this was only the second hymn. Christopher's D
sharp melted into a yawn, and before he could screen it
with his hymn-book, Miss Fitzpatrick looked round and
caught him in the act. A suppressed giggle and a quick lift
of the eyebrows instantly conveyed to him that his sentiments
were comprehended and sympathised with, and he as in-
stantly was conscious that Miss Mullen was following the
direction of her niece's eye. Lady Dysart's children did
not share her taste for Miss Mullen ; Christopher vaguely
felt some offensive flavour in the sharp smiling glance in
which she included him and Francie, and an unexplainable
sequence of thought made him suddenly decide that her
niece was as second-rate as might have been expected.

Never had the choir dragged so hopelessly ; never had
Mrs. Gascogne and Pamela compelled their victims to deal
with so many and difificult tunes, and never at any previous
choir practice had Christopher registered so serious a vow

58 The Real Charlotte.

that under no pretext whatever should Pamela entice him
there again. They were all sitting down now, while the
leaders consulted together about the Kyrie, and the gallery
cushions slowly turned to stone in their well-remembered
manner. Christopher's ideas of church-going were insepar-
ably bound up with those old gallery cushions. He had sat
upon them ever since, as a small boy, he had chirped a treble
beside his governess, and he knew every knob in their anatomy.
There is something blighting to the devotional tendencies in
the atmosphere of a gallery. He had often formulated this
theory for his own exculpation, lying flat on his back in a
punt in some shady backwater, with the Oxford church bells
reminding him reproachfully of Lismoyle Sundays, and of
Pamela, — the faithful, conscientious Pamela, — whipping up
the pony to get to church before the bell stopped. Now, after
a couple of months' renewed acquaintance with the choir,
the theory had hardened into a tedious truism, and when at
last Christopher's long legs were free to carry him down the
steep stairs, the malign influence of the gallery had brought
their owner to the verge of free thought.

He did not know how it had happened or by whose dis-
position of the forces it had been brought about, but when
Miss Mullen's tea-party detached itself from the other mem-
bers of the choir at the churchyard gate, Pamela and Miss
Hope-Drummond were walking on either side of their hos-
tess, and he was behind with Miss Fitzpatrick.

"You don't appear very fond of hymns, Mr. Dysart,"
began Francie at once, in the pert Dublin accent that,
rightly or wrongly, gives the idea of familiarity.

*' People aren't supposed to look about them in church,"
replied Christopher with the pecuhar suavity which, com-
bined with his disconcerting infirmity of pausing before he
spoke, had often baflled the young ladies of Barbadoes, and
had acquired for him the reputation, perhaps not wholly
undeserved, of being a prig.

"Oh, I daresay!" said Francie, "I suppose that's why
you sit in the back seat, that no one'U see you doing it ! "

There was a directness about this that Lismoyle would
not have ventured on, and Christopher looked down at his
companion with an increase of interest.

** No ; I sit there because I can go to sleep."

The Real Charlotte. 59

" Well, and do you ? and who do you get to wake you ? "
— her quick voice treading sharply on the heels of his quiet
one. " I used always to have to sit beside Uncle Robert in
church to pinch him at the end of the sermon."

** / find it very hard to wake at the end of the sermon
too," remarked Christopher, with an experimental curiosity
to see what Miss Mullen's unexpected cousin would say
next.

"Do y' indeed?" said Francie, flashing a look at him of
instant comprehension and complete sangfroid. " I'll lend
the schoolmistress a hat-pin if you like ! What on earth
makes men so sleepy in church I don't know," she con-
tinued; "at our church in Dublin I used to be looking at
them. All the gentlemen sit in the corner seat next the
aisle, because they're the most comfortable, y' know, and
from the minute the clergyman gives out the text — " she
made a little gesture with her hand, showing thereby that
half the buttons were off her glove — " they're snoring ! "

How young she was, and how pretty, and how inex-
pressibly vulgar ! Christopher thought all these things in
turn, while he did what in him lay to continue the con-
versation in the manner expected of him. The effort was
perhaps not very successful, as, after a few minutes, it was
evident that Francie was losing her first freedom of dis
course, and was casting about for topics more appropriate
to what she had heard of Mr. Dysart's mental and literary
standard.

" I hear you're a great photographer, Mr. Dysart," she
began. " Miss Mullen says you promised to take a picture
of her and her cats, and she was telling me to remind you
of it. Isn't it awfully clever of you to be able to do
it?"

To this form of question reply is difficult, especially when
it is put with all the good faith of complete ignorance.
Christopher evaded the imbecilities of direct response.

" I shall think myself awfully clever if I photograph the
cats," he said.

" Clever ! " she caught him up with a little shriek of
laughter. " I can tell you you'll want to be clever ! Are
you able to photograph up the chimney or under Norry's
bed ? for that's where they always run when a man comes

6o TJie Real Charlotte.

into the house, and if you try to stop them they'd claw the
face off you ! Oh, they're terrors ! "

" It's very good of you to tell me all this in time,"
Christopher said, with a rather absent laugh. He was
listening to Miss Mullen's voice, and realising, for the first
time, what it would be to live under the same roof with her
and her cats ; and yet this girl seemed quite light-hearted
and happy. " Perhaps, on the whole, I'd better stay
away ? " he said, looking at her, and feeling in the sudden
causeless way in which often the soundest conclusions are
arrived at, how vast was the chasm between her ideal of
life and his own, and linking with the feeling a pity that
would have been self-sufficient if it had not also been per-
fectly simple.

" Ah ! don't say you won't come and take the cats ! "
Francie exclaimed.

They reached the Tally Ho gate as she spoke, and the
others were only a step or two in front of them. Charlotte
looked over her shoulder with a benign smile.

*' What's this I hear about taking my cats?" she said
jovially. " You're welcome to everything in my house, Mr.
Dysart, but I'll set the police on you if you take my poor
cats!"

'• Oh, but I assure you — "

'*He's only going to photo them," said Christopher and
Francie together.

" Do you hear them. Miss Dysart ? " continued Charlotte,
fumbUng for her latch key, " conspiring together to rob a
poor lone woman of her only live stock ! "

She opened the door, and as her visitors entered the hall
they caught a glance of Susan's large, stern countenance
regarding them with concentrated suspicion through the
rails of the staircase.

" My beauty-boy 1 " shouted his mistress, as he vanished
upstairs. " Steal him if you can, Mr. Dysart ! "

Miss Hope-Drummond looked rather more uninterested
than is usual in polite society. When she had left the
hammock, slung in the shade beside the tennis-ground at
Bruff, it had not been to share Mr. Corkran's hymn-book ;
still less had it been to walk from the church to Tally Ho
between Pamela and a woman whom, from having regarded

The Real Charlotte. 6r

as merely outree and incomprehensible, she had now come
to look upon as rather impertinent. Irish society was in-
tolerably mixed, she decided, as she sniffed the various
odours of the Tally Ho hall^ and, with some sub-connection
of ideas, made up her mind that photography was a detest-
able and silly pursuit for men. While these thoughts were
passing beneath her accurately curled fringe, Miss Mullen
opened the drawing-room door, and, as they walked in, a
short young man in light grey clothes arose from the most
comfortable chair to greet them.

There was surprise and disfavour in Miss Mullen's eye as
she extended her hand to him.

" This is an unexpected pleasure, Mr. Hawkins," she
said.

"Yes," answered Mr. Hawkins cheerfully, taking the
hand and doing his best to shake it at the height prescribed
by existing fashion, "I thought it would be; Miss Fitz-
patrick asked me to come in this afternoon; didn't you?"
addressing himself to Francie. " I got rather a nasty jar
when I heard you were all out, but I thought I'd wait for a
bit. I knew Miss Dysart always gives 'em fits at the choir
practice. All the same, you know, I should have begun to
eat the cake if you hadn't come in."

The round table in the middle of the room was spread,
in Louisa's accustomed fashion, as if for breakfast, and in
the centre was placed a cake, coldly decked in the silver
paper trappings that it had long worn in the grocer's
window.

" 'Twas well for you you didn't ! " said Francie, with, as
it seemed to Christopher, a most famihar and challenging
laugh.

" Why ? " inquired Hawkins, looking at her with a respon-
sive eye. " What would you have done ? "

" Plenty," returned Francie unhesitatingly ; " enough to
make you sorry anyway ! "

Mr. Hawkins looked delighted, and was openmg his
mouth for a suitable rejoinder, when Miss Mullen struck in
sharply :

" Francie, go tell Louisa that I suppose she expects us
to stir our tea with our fingers, for there's not a spoon on
the table."

62 The Real Charlotte.

" Oh, let me go," said Hawkins, springing to open the
door ; '' I know Louisa ; she was very kind to me just now.
She hunted all the cats out of the room." Francie was al-
ready in the hall, and he followed her.

The search for Louisa was lengthy, involving much calling
for her by Francie, with falsetto imitations by Mr. Hawkins,
and finally a pause, during which it might be presumed that
the pantry was being explored. Pamela brought her chair
nearer to Miss Mullen, who had begun wrathfully to stir
her tea with the sugar-tongs, and entered upon a soothing
line of questions as to the health and number of the cats ;
and Christopher, having cut the grocer's cake, and found
that it was the usual conglomerate of tallow, saw-dust, bad
eggs, and gravel, devoted himself to thick bread and butter,
and to conversation with Miss Hope-Drummond. The
period of second cups was approaching, when laughter, and
a jingle of falling silver in the hall, told that the search for
Louisa was concluded, and Francie and Mr. Hawkins re-
entered the drawing-room, the latter endeavouring, not un-
successfully, to play the bones with four of Charlotte's best
electro-plated teaspoons, while his brown boots moved in
the furtive rhythm of an imaginary break-down. Miss
Mullen did not even raise her eyes, and Christopher and
Miss Hope-Drummond continued their conversation un-
moved ; only Pamela acknowledged the histrionic intention
with a sympathetic but nervous smile. Pamela's finger was
always instinctively on the pulse of the person to whom she
was talking, and she knew better than either Francie or
Hawkins that they were in disgrace.

*' I'd be obliged to you for those teaspoons, Mr. Hawkins,
when you've quite done with them," said Charlotte, with an
ugly look at the chief offender's self-satisfied countenance ;
" it's a good thing no one except myself takes sugar in their
tea."

** We couldn't help it," replied Mr. Hawkins, unabashed ;
"Louisa was out for a walk with her young man, and
Miss Fitzpatrick and I had to polish up the teaspoons our-
selves."

Charlotte received this explanation and the teaspoons in
jilence as she poured out the delinquents' tea ; there were
Bioments when she permitted herself the satisfaction of

The Real Charlotte. 63

showing disapproval it she felt it. Francie accepted her
cousin's displeasure philosophically, only betraying her
sense of the situation by the expressive eye which she
turned towards her companion in disgrace over the rim
of her tea-cup. But Mr. Hawkins rose to the occasion.
He gulped his tepid and bitter cup of tea with every ap-
pearance of enjoyment, and having arranged his small
moustache with a silk handkerchief, addressed himself un-
dauntedly to Miss Mullen.

" Do you know, I don't believe you have ever been out
in our tea-kettle, Miss Mullen. Captain Cursiter and I are
feeling very hurt about it."

" If you mean by '■ tea-kettle ' that steamboat thing that
I've seen going about the lake," replied Charlotte, making
an effort to resume her first attitude of suave and unruffled
hospitality, and at the same time to administer needed correc-
tion to Mr. Hawkins, " I certainly have not. I have always
been taught that it was manners to wait till you're asked."

" I quite agree with you. Miss Mullen," struck in Pamela :
" we also thought that for a long time, but we had to give
it up in the end and ask ourselves ! You are much more
honoured than we were."

"Oh, I say. Miss Dysart, you know it was only our
grovelling humility," expostulated Hawkins, " and you
always said it dirtied your frock and spoiled the poetry of
the lake. You quite put us off taking anybody out. But
we've pulled ourselves together now. Miss Mullen, and if
you and Miss Fitzpatrick will fix an afternoon to go down
the lake, perhaps if Miss Dysart says she's sorry we'll let her
come too, and even, if she's very good, bring whoever she
likes with her."

Mr. Hawkins' manner towards ladies had precisely that
tone of self-complacent gallantry that Lady Dysart felt to be
so signally lacking in her own son, and it was not without its
effect even upon Charlotte. It is possible had she been
aware that this special compliment to her had been arranged
during the polishing of the teaspoons, it might have lost
some of its value ; but the thought of steaming forth with
the Bruff party and " th' officers," under the very noses of
the Lismoyle matrons, was the only point of view that
presented itself to her.

6^ The Real Charlotte.

'* Well, I'll give you no answer till I get Mr. Dysart*s
opinion. He's the only one of you that knows the lake,"
she said more graciously. *' \{ you say the steamboat is safe,
Mr. Dysart, and you'll come and see we're not drowned by
these harum-scarum soldiers, I've no objection to going."

Further discussion was interrupted by a rush and a scurry
on the gravel of the garden path, and a flying ball of fur
dashed up the outside of the window, the upper half of
which was open, and suddenly realising its safety, poised
itself on the sash, and crooned and spat with a collected
fury at Mr. Hawkins' bull terrier, who leaped unavailingly
below.

" Oh ! me poor darling Bruffy ! " screamed Miss Mullen,
springing up and upsetting her cup of tea ; " she'll be killed !
Call off your dog, Mr. Hawkins ! "

As if in answer to her call, a tall figure darkened the
window, and Mr. Lambert pushed Mrs. Bruff into the room
with the handle of his walking-stick.

" Hullo, Charlotte ! Isn't that Hawkins' dog ? " he began,
putting his head in at the window ; then, with a sudden
change of manner as he caught sight of Miss Mullen's
guests, *' oh — I had no idea you had anyone here," he said,
taking off his hat to as much of Pamela and Miss Hope-
Drummond as was not hidden by Charlotte's bulky person,
" I only thought I'd call round and see if Francie would like
to come out for a row before dinner."

CHAPTER X.

Washerwomen do not, as a rule, assimilate the principles
of their trade. In Lismoyle, the row of cottages most
affected by ladies of that profession was, indeed, planted by
the side of the lake, but except in winter, when the floods
sent a muddy wash in at the kitchen doors of Ferry Row,
the customers' linen alone had any experience of its waters.
The clouds of steam from the cauldrons of boiling clothes
ascended from morning till night, and hung in beads upon
the sooty cobwebs that draped the rafters ; the food and
wearing apparel of the laundresses and their vast families

The Real Charlotte. 65

mingled horribly with their professional apparatus, and,
outside in the road, the filthy children played among
puddles that stagnated under an iridescent scum of soap-
suds. A narrow strip of goose-nibbled grass divided the
road from the lake shore^ and at almost any hour of the day
there might be seen a slatternly woman or two kneeling by
the water's edge, pounding the wet linen on a rock with a flat
wooden weapon, according to the immemorial custom of
their savage class.

The Row ended at the ferry pier, and perhaps one reason
for the absence of self-respect in the appearance of its in-
habitants lay in the fact that the only passers-by were the
country people on their way to the ferry, which here, where
the lake narrowed to something less than a mile, was the
route to the Lismoyle market generally used by the dwellers
on the opposite side. The coming of a donkey-cart down
the Row was an event to be celebrated with hooting and
stone-throwing by the children, and, therefore, it can be
understood that when, on a certain still, sleepy afternoon
Miss Mullen drove slowly in her phaeton along the line of
houses, she created nearly as great a sensation as she would
have made in Piccadilly.

Miss Mullen had one or two sources of income which few
people knew of, and about which, with all her loud candour,
she did not enlighten even her most intimate friends. Even
Mr. Lambert might have been surprised to know that two
or three householders in Ferry Row paid rent to her, and
that others of them had money deahngs with her of a
complicated kind, not easy to describe, but simple enough
to the strong financial intellect of his predecessor's daughter.
No account books were taken with her on these occasions.
She and her clients were equally equipped with the abso-
lutely accurate business memory of the Irish peasant, a
memory that in few cases survives education, but, where it
exists, may be relied upon more than all the generations of
ledgers and account books.

Charlotte's visits to Ferry Row were usually made on
foot, and were of long duration, but her business on this
afternoon was of a trivial character, consisting merely in
leaving a parcel at the house of Dinny Lydon, the tailor,
and of convincing her washerwoman of iniquity in a manner

66 The Real Charlotte,

that brought every other washerwoman to her door, and
made each offer up thanks to her most favoured saint that
she was not employed by Miss Mullen.

The long phaeton was at last turned, with draggings at
the horse's mouth and grindings of the fore-carriage; the
children took their last stare, and one or two ladies whose
payments were in arrear emerged from their back gardens
and returned to their washing-tubs. If they flattered them-
selves that they had been forgotten, they were mistaken ;
Charlotte had given a glance of grim amusement at the
deserted washing-tubs, and as her old phaeton rumbled
slowly out of Ferry Row, she was computing the number of
customers, and the consequent approximate income of each
defaulter.

To the deep and plainly expressed chagrin of the black
horse, he was not allowed to turn in at the gate of Tally Ho,
but was urged along the road which led to Rosemount.
There aeain he made a protest, but, yielding to the weighty
arguments of Charlotte's whip, he fell into his usual melan-
choly jog, and took the turn to Gurthnamuckla with dull
resignation. Once steered into that lonely road, Charlotte
let him go at his own pace, and sat passive, her mouth
tightly closed, and her eyes blinking quickly as she looked
straight ahead of her with a slight furrow of concentration
on her low forehead. She had the unusual gift of thinking
out in advance her line of conversation in an interview, and,
which is even less usual, she had the power of keeping to it.
By sheer strength of will she could force her plan of action
upon other people, as a conjurer forces a card, till they came
to believe it was of their own choosing ; she had done it so
often that she was now confident of her skill, and she quite
understood the inevitable advantage that a fixed scheme of
any sort has over indefinite opposition. When the clump of
trees round Gurthnamuckla rose into view, Charlotte had
determined her order of battle, and was free to give her
attention to outward circumstances. It was a long time
since she had been out to Miss Duffy's farm, and as the
stony country began to open its arms to the rich, sweet
pastures, an often repressed desire asserted itself, and
Charlotte heaved a sigh that was as romantic in its way as if
she had been §weet and twenty, instead of tough and forty.

The Real Charlotte. 67

Julia Duffy did not come out to meet her visitor, and
when Charlotte walked into the kitchen, she found that the
mistress of the house was absent, and that three old women
were squatted on the floor in front of the fire, smoking short
clay pipes, and holding converse in Irish that was punctuated
with loud sniffs and coughs. At sight of the visitor the
pipes vanished in the twinkling of an eye, and one of the
women scrambled to her feet.

" Why, Mary HoUoran, what brings you here ? " said
Charlotte, recognising the woman who lived in the Rose-
mount gate lodge.

"It was a sore leg I have, yer honour, miss," whined
Mary HoUoran ; " it's running with me now these three
weeks, and I come to thry would Miss Duffy give me a bit
o' a plashther."

"Take care it doesn't run away with you altogether,"
rephed Charlotte facetiously; "and where's Miss Duffy
herself? "

" She's sick, the craythure," said one of the other women,
who, having found and dusted a chair, now offered it to
Miss Mullen ; " she have a wakeness like in her head, and
an impression on her heart, and Billy Grainy came afthei
Peggy Roche here, the way she'd mind her."

Peggy Roche groaned slightly, and stirred a pot of smutty
gruel with an air of authority.

" Could I see her, d'ye think ? " asked Charlotte, sitting
down and looking about her with sharp appreciation of the
substantial excellence of the smoke-blackened walls and
grimy woodwork. " There wouldn't be a better kitchen in
the country," she thought, " if it was properly done up."

" Ye can, asthore, ye can go up," replied Peggy Roche,
" but wait a while till I have the sup o' grool hated, and
maybe yerselfll take it up to herself."

" Is she eating nothing but that ?" asked Charlotte, view-
ing the pasty compound with disgust.

" Faith, 'tis hardly she'll ate that itself." Peggy Roche ;
rose as she spoke, and, going to the dresser, returned with a
black bottle. " As for a bit o' bread, or a pratie, or the like
o' that, she couldn't use it, nor let it past her shest ; with
respects to ye, as soon as she'd have it shwallied it'd come
up as simple and as pleashant as it wint down." She Hfted

68 The Real Charlotte.

the little three-legged pot off its heap of hot embers, and
then took the cork out of the black bottle with nimble,
dirty fingers.

*' What in the name of goodness is that ye have there ? "
demanded Charlotte hastily.

Mrs. Roche looked somewhat confused, and murmured
something about " a weeshy suppeen o' shperits to wet the
grool."

Charlotte snatched the bottle from her, and smelt it.

" Faugh ! " she said, with a guttural at the end of the
word that no Saxon gullet could hope to produce ; " it's
potheen ! that's what it is, and mighty bad potheen too.
D'ye want to poison the woman ? "

A loud chorus of repudiation arose from the sick-nurse
and her friends.

" As for you, Peggy Roche, you're not fit to tend a pig,
let alone a Christian. You'd murder this poor woman with
your filthy fresh potheen, and when your own son was dying,
you begrudged him the drop of spirits that'd have kept the
life in him."

Peggy flung up her arms with a protesting howl

" May God forgive ye that word, Miss Charlotte ! If
'twas the blood of me arrm, I didn't begridge it to him ; the
Lord have mercy on him — "

" Amen ! amen ! You would not, asthore," groaned the
other women.

" — but doesn't the world know its mortial sin for a poor
craythur to go into th' other world with the smell of dhrink
on his breath ! "

'' It's mortal sin to be a fool," replied Miss Mullen, whose
medical skill had often been baffled by such winds of
doctrine ; " here, give me the gruel. I'll go give it to the
woman before you have her murdered." She deftly emptied
the pot of gruel into a bowl, and, taking the spoon out of
the old woman's hand, she started on her errand of mercy.

The stairs were just outside the door, and making their
dark and perilous ascent in safety, she stood still in a low
passage into which two or three other doors opened. She
knocked at the first of these, and, receiving no answer,
turned the handle quietly and looked in. There was no
furniture in it except a broken wooden bedstead ; innumer-

The Real Charlotte. 69

able flies buzzed on the closed window, and in the slant of
sunlight tiiat fell through the dim panes was a box from
which a turkey reared its red throat, and regarded her with
a suspicion born, Hke her chickens, of long hatching.
Charlotte closed the door and noiselessly opened the next.
There was nothing in the room, which was of the ordinary
low-ceiled cottage type, and after a calculating look at the
broken flooring and the tattered wall-paper, she went quietly
out into the passage agam. '* Good servants' room," she
said to herself, " but if she's here much longer it'll be past
praying for."

If she had been in any doubt as to Miss Duffy's where-
abouts, a voice from the room at the end of the little
passage now settled the matter. " Is that Peggy ? " it
called

Charlotte pushed boldly into the room with the bowl of
gruel.

'' No, Miss Duff'y, me poor old friend, it's me, Charlotte
Mullen," she said in her most cordial voice ; " they told me
below you were ill, but I thought you'd see me, and I
brought your gruel up in my hand. I hope you'll like it
none the less for that ! "

The invalid turned her night-capped head round from the
wall and looked at her visitor with astonished, bloodshot
eyes. Her hatchety face was very yellow, her long nose was
rather red, and her black hair thrust itself out round the
soiled frill of her night-cap in dingy wisps.

" You're welcome. Miss Mullen," she said with a pitiable
attempt at dignity ; " won't you take a cheer ? "

" Not till I've seen you take this," replied Charlotte,
handing her the bowl of gruel with even broader bonhomie
than before.

Julia Duffy reluctantly sat up among her blankets, con-
scious almost to agony of the squalor of all her surroundings,
conscious even that the blankets were of the homespun,
madder-dyed flannel such as the poor people use, and tak-
ing the gruel, she began to eat it in silence. She tried to
prop herself in this emergency with the recollection that
Charlotte Mullen's grandfather drank her grandfather's port
wine under this very roof, and that it was by no fault of hers
that she had sunk while Charlotte had risen ; but the worn-

70 The Real Charlotte.

out boots that lay on the floor where she had thrown them
off, and the rags stuffed into the broken panes in the window,
were facts that crowded out all consolation from bygone
glories.

'' Well, Miss Duffy," said Charlotte, drawing up a chair
to the bedside, and looking at her hostess with a critical
eye, " I'm sorry to see you so sick ; when Billy Grainy left
the milk last night he told Norry you were laid up in bed,
and I thought I'd come over and see if there was anything I
could do for you."

" Thank ye, Miss Mullen," replied Julia stiffly, sipping
the nauseous gruel with ladylike decorum, " I have all I
require here."

" Well, ye know, Miss Duffy, I wanted to see how you
are," said Charlotte, slightly varying her attack ; " I'm a bit
of a doctor, like yourself Peggy Roche below told me you
had what she called ' an impression on the heart,' but it
looks to me more like a touch of liver."

The invalid does not exist who can resist a discussion of
symptoms, and Miss Duffy's hauteur slowly thawed before
Charlotte's intelligent and intimate questions. In a very
short time Miss Mullen had felt her pulse, inspected her
tongue, promised to send her a bottle of unfailing efficacy,
and delivered an exordium on the nature and treatment of
her complaint.

" But in deed and in truth," she wound up, " if you want
my opinion, I'll tell you frankly that what ails you is you're
just rotting away with the damp and loneliness of this place.
I declare that sometimes when I'm lying awake in my bed at
nights, I've thought of you out here by yourself, without an
earthly creature near you if you got sick, and wondered at
you. Why, my heavenly powers ! ye might die a hundred
deaths before anyone would know it ! "

Miss Duffy picked up a corner of the sheet and wiped the
gruel from her thin lips.

" If it comes to that, Miss Mullen/' she said with some
resumption of her earlier manner, " if I'm for dying I'd as
soon die by myself as in company ; and as for damp, I thank
God this house was built by them that didn't spare money
on it, and it's as dry this minyute as what it was forty years

The Real Charlotte. 71

'* What ! Do you tell me the roofs sound ? " exclaimed
Charlotte with genuine interest.

" I have never examined it, Miss Mullen," replied Julia
coldly, " but it keeps the rain out, and I consider that
suffeecient."

" Oh, I'm sure there's not a word to be said against the
house," Charlotte made hasty reparation ; " but, indeed,
Miss Duffy, I say — and I've heard more than myself say
the same thing — that a delicate woman like you has no
business to live alone so far from help. The poor Arch-
deacon frets about it, I can tell ye. I believe he thinks
Father Heffernan'll be raking ye into his fold ! And I can
tell ye," concluded Charlotte, with what she felt to be a
certain rough pathos, " there's plenty in Lismoyle would be
sorry to see your father's daughter die with the wafer in her
mouth ! "

*^ I had no idea the people in Lismoyle were so anxious
about me and my affairs," said Miss Duffy. " They're very
kind, but I'm able to look afther my soul without their help."
" Well, of course, everyone's soul is their own affair ; but,
ye know, when no one ever sees ye m your own parish
church — well, right or wrong, there are plenty of fools to
gab about it."

The dark bags of skin under Julia Duffy's eyes became
slowly red, a signal that this thrust had gone home. She
did not answer, and her visitor rose, and moving towards
the hermetically sealed window, looked out across the lawn
over Julia's domain. Her roundest and weightiest stone
was still in her sling, while her eye ran over the grazing
cattle in the fields.

" Is it true what I hear, that Peter Joyce has your grazing
this year ? " she said casually.

" It is quite true," answered Miss Duffy, a little defiantly.
A liver attack does not pre-dispose its victims to answer in
a Christian spirit questions that are felt to be impertinent.

"Well," returned Charlotte, still looking out of the
window, with her hands deep in the pockets of her black
alpaca coat, " I'm sorry for it."
'' Why so ? "

Julia's voice had a sharpness that v/as pleasant to Miss
Mullen's ear.

72 The Real Charlotte,

" I can't well explain the matter to ye now," Charlotte
said, turning round and looking portentously upon the sick
woman, " but I have it from a sure hand that Peter Joyce is
bankrupt, and will be in the courts before the year is out."

When, a short time afterwards, Julia Duffy lay back
among her madder blankets and heard the last sound of
Miss Mullen's phaeton wheels die away along the lake road,
she felt that the visit had at least provided her with subject
for meditation.

CHAPTER XT.

Mr. Roderick Lambert's study window gave upon the
flower garden, and consequently the high road also came
within the sphere of his observations. He had been sitting
at his writing-table, since luncheon-time, dealing with a
variety of business, and seldom lifting his glossy black head
except when some sound in the road attracted his attention.
It was not his custom to work after a solid luncheon on a
close afternoon, nor was it by any means becoming to his
complexion when he did so ; but the second post had
brought letters of an unpleasant character that required
immediate attention, and the flush on his face was not
wholly due to hot beef-steak pie and sherry. It was not
only that several of Sir Benjamin's tenants had attended a
Land League meeting the Sunday before, and that their
religious director had written to inform him that they had
there pledged themselves to the Plan of Campaign. That
was annoying, but as the May rents were in he had no
objection to their amusing themselves as they pleased during
the summer ; in fact, from a point of view on which Mr.
Lambert dwelt as little as possible even in his own mind,
a certain amount of nominal disturbance among the tenants
might not come amiss. The thing that was really vexing
was the crass obstinacy of his wife's trustees, who had
acquainted him with the fact that they were unable to
comply with her wish that some of her capital should be
sold out.

It is probably hardly necessary to say that the worthy
turkey hen had expressed no such desire. A feeble, " to be
sure, Roderick dear ; I daresay it'd be the best thing to do ;

The Real Charlotte, 73

but you know I don't understand such things," had been
her share of the transaction, and Mr. Lambert knew that
the refusal of her trustees to make the desired concession
would not ruffle so much as a feather ; but he wished he
could be as sure of the equanimity of his coachbuilder, one
of whose numerous demands for payment was lying upon
the table in front of him ; while others^ dating back five
years to the period of his marriage, lurked in the pigeon-
holes of his writing-table.

Mr. Lambert, like other young gentlemen of fashion, but
not of fortune, had thought that when he married a well-to-
do widow, he ought to prove his power of adjusting himsell
to circumstances by expending her ready money in as dis-
tinguished a manner as possible. The end of the ready
money had come in an absurdly short time, and, paradoxical
as it may seem, it had during its brief life raised a flourish-
ing following of bills which had in the past spring given Mr.
Lambert far more trouble than he felt them to be worth,
and though he had stopped the mouths of some of the more
rapacious of his creditors, he had done so with extreme
difficulty and at a cost that made him tremble. It was
especially provoking that the coachbuilder should have
threatened legal proceedings about that bill just now, when,
in addition to other complications, he happened to have
lost more money at the Galway races than he cared to think
about, certainly more than he wished his wife and her rela-
tions to know of.

Early in the afternoon he had, with an unregarding eye,
seen Charlotte drive by on her way to Gurthnamuckla ; but
after a couple of hours of gloomy calculation and letter-
writing, the realisation that Miss Mullen was not at her
house awoke in him, coupled with the idea that a little fresh
air would do him good. He went out of the house, some
unconfessed purpose quickening his step. He hesitated at
the gate while it expanded into determination, and then he
hailed his wife, whose poppy-decked garden-hat was pain-
fully visible above the magenta blossoms of a rhododendron
bush.

" Lucy ! I wouldn't be surprised if I fetched Francie
Fitzpatrick over for tea. She's by herself at Tally Ho. I
saw Charlotte drive by without her a little while ago."

74 T^^ i?^i?/ Charlotte.

When he reached Tally Ho he found the gate open, an
offence always visited with extremest penalties by Miss
Mullen, and as he walked up the drive he noticed that, be-
sides the broad wheel-tracks of the phaeton, there were
several thin and devious ones, at some places interrupted
by footmarks and a general appearance of a scuffle ; at
another heading into a lilac bush with apparent precipi-
tancy, and at the hall-door circling endlessly and crookedly
with several excursions on to the newly -mown plot of
grass.

" I wonder what perambulator has been running amuck
in here ? Charlotte will make it hot for them, whoever they
were," thought Lambert, as he stood waiting for the door to
be opened, and watched through the glass of the porch-door
two sleek tortoise-shell cats lapping a saucer of yellow cream
in a corner of the hall. " By Jove ! how snug she is in this
little place. She must have a pot of money put by ; more
than she'd ever own up to, I'll engage ! "

At this juncture the door opened, and he was confronted
by Norry the Boat, with sleeves rolled above her brown
elbows, and stockinged feet untrammelled by boots.

" There's noan of them within," she announced before
he had time to speak. " Miss Charlotte's gone dhriving to
Gurthnamuckla, and Miss Francie went out a while ago."

" Which way did she go, d'ye know ? "

" Musha, faith ! I do not know what way did she go,"
replied Norry, her usual asperity heightened by a recent
chase of Susan, who had fled to the roof of the turf-house
with a mackerel snatched from the kitchen-table. " I have
plinty to do besides running afther her. I heard her
spakin' to one outside in the avenue, and with that she
clapped the hall-doore afther her and she didn't come in
since."

Lambert thought it wiser not to venture on the suggestion
that Louisa might be better informed, and walked away
down the avenue trying hard not to admit to himself his
disappointment.

He turned towards home again in an objectless way,
thoroughly thwarted, and dismally conscious that the after-
noon contained for him only the prospect of having tea with
his wife and finishing his letters afterwards. His step be-

The Real Charlotte, 75

came slower and slower as he approached his own entrance
gates, and he looked at his watch.

" Confound it ! it's only half-past four. I can't go in
yet;" then, a new idea striking him, ''perhaps she went out
to meet Charlotte. I declare I might as well go a bit
down the road and see if they're coming back yet."

He walked for at least half a mile under the trees, whose
young June leaves had already a dissipated powdering of
white Hmestone dust, without meeting anything except a
donkey with a pair of creaking panniers on its back, walking
alone and discreetly at its own side of the road, as well
aware as Mr. Lambert that its owner was dallying with a
quart of porter at a roadside public house a mile away.
The turn to Gurthnamuckla was not far off when the distant
rumble of wheels became at last audible; Lambert had
only time to remember angrily that, as the Tally Ho
phaeton had but two seats, he had had his walk for nothing,
when the bowed head and long melancholy face of the
black horse came in sight, and he became aware that Char-
lotte was without a companion.

Her face had more colour in it than usual as she pulled
up beside him, perhaps from the heat of the afternoon and
the no small exertion of flogging her steed, and her manner
when she spoke was neither bluff nor hearty, but approxi-
mated more nearly to that of ordinary womankind than was
its wont. Mr. Lambert noticed none of these things ; and,
being a person whose bleeding was not always equal to
annoying emergencies, he did not trouble himself to take
off his hat or smile appropriately as Charlotte said —

" Well, Roddy, I'd as soon expect to see your two
horses sitting in the dog-cart driving you as to see you as
far from home as this on your own legs. Where are you
off to ? "

" I was taking a stroll out to meet you, and ask you to
come back and have tea with Lucy," replied Mr. Lambert,
recognising the decree of fate with a singularly bad grace.
" I went down to Tally Ho to ask you, and Norry told me
you had gone to Gurthnamuckla."

"^ Did you see Francie there ? " said Charlotte quickly.

" No ; I believe she was out somewhere."

" Well, you were a very good man to take so much trouble

^6 The Real Charlotte.

about us," she replied, looking at him with an expression
that softened the lines of her face in a surprising way. "Are
you too proud to have a lift home now ? "

" Thank you, I'd sooner walk — and — " casting about for
an excuse — " you mightn't like the smell of my cigar under
your nose."

"Come, now, Roddy," exclaimed Charlotte, "you ought
to know me better than that ! Don't you remember how
you used to sit smoking beside me in the office when I was
helping you to do your work ? In fact, I wouldn't say that
there hadn't been an occasion when I was guilty of a
cigarette in your company myself ! "

She turned her eyes towards him, and the provocative
look in them came as instinctively and as straight as ever it
did from Francie's, or as ever it has been projected from
the curbed heart of woman. But, unfair as it may be, it is
certain that if Lambert had seen it, he would not have been
attracted by it. He, however, did not look up.

" Well, if you don't mind going slow, I'll walk beside
you," he said, ignoring the reminiscence. " I want to know
whether you did better business with Julia Duffy than I did
last week."

The soft look was gone in a moment from Charlotte's face.

" I couldn't get much satisfaction out of her," she re-
plied ; " but I think I left a thorn in her pillow when I told
her Peter Joyce was bankrupt."

" I'll take my oath you did," said Lambert, with a short
laugh. " I declare I'd be sorry for the poor old devil if she
wasn't such a bad tenant, letting the whole place go to the
mischief, house and all."

" I tell you the house isn't in such a bad way as you
think ; it's dirt ails it more than anything else." Charlotte
had recovered her wonted energy of utterance. " Believe
me, if I had a few workmen in that house for a month you
wouldn't know it."

" Well, I believe you will, sooner or later. All the same,
I can't see what the deuce you want with it. Now, if / had
the place, I'd make a pot of money out of it, keeping young
horses there, as I've often told you. I'd do a bit of coping,
and making hunters to sell. There's no work on earth I'd
like as well."

The Real Charlotte. yj

He took a long pull at his cigar, and expelled a sigh and
a puff of smoke.

" Well, Roddy," said Charlotte, after a moment's pause,
speaking with an unusual slowness and almost hesitancy,
" you know I wouldn't like to come between you and your
fancy. If you want the farm, in God's name take it your-
self ! "

" Take it myself ! I haven't the money to pay the fine,
much less to stock it. I tell you what, Charlotte," he went
on, turning round and putting his hand on the splash-board
of the phaeton as he walked, '* you and I are old pals, and
I don't mind telling you it's the most I can do to keep going
the way I am now. I never was so driven for money in my
life," he ended, some vague purpose, added to the habit of
an earlier part of his life, pushing him on to be confi-
dential.

" Who's driving you, Roddy ? " said Charlotte, in a voice
in which a less preoccupied person than her companion
might have noticed a curiously gentle inflection.

It is perhaps noteworthy that while Mr. Lambert's lips
replied with heartfelt irritation, " Oh, they're all at me,
Langford the coachbuilder, and everyone of them," one
section of his brain was asking the other how much ready
money old Mrs. Mullen had had to leave, and was receiving
a satisfactory answer.

There was a pause in the conversation. It was so long
now since the black horse had felt the whip, that, acting on
the presumption that his mistress had fallen asleep, he
fell into an even more slumbrous crawl without any notice
being taken.

" Roddy," said Charlotte at last, and Lambert now
observed how low and rough her voice was, " do you re-
member in old times once or twice, when you were put to
it for a five-pound note, you made no bones about asking a
friend to help you ? Well, you know I'm a poor woman" —
even at this moment Charlotte's caution asserted itself —
*' but I daresay I could put my hand on a couple of
hundred, and if they'd be any use to you — "

Lambert became very red. The possibility of some such
a climax as this had floated in a sut>current of thought just
below the level of formed ideas, but now that it had come,

7^ The Real Charlotte.

it startled him. It was an unheard-of thing that Charlotte
should make such an offer as this. It gave him suddenly a
tingling sense of power, and at the same time a strange
instinct of disgust and shame.

" Oh, my dear Charlotte," he began awkwardly, " upon
my soul you're a great deal too good. I never thought of
such a thing — I — I — " he stammered, wishing he could
refuse, but casting about for words in which to accept.

"Ah, nonsense. Now, Roddy, me dear boy," interrupted
Charlotte, regaining her usual manner as she saw his em-
barrassment, " say no more about it. We'll consider it a
settled thing, and we'll go through the base business details
after tea."

Lambert said to himself that there was really no way out
of it. If she was so determined the only thing was to let
her do as she liked ; no one could say that the affair was of
his seeking.

" And, you know," continued Charlotte in her most
jocular voice, before he could frame a sentence of the right
sort, " who knows, if I get the farm, that we mightn't make
a joint-stock business out of it, and have young horses there,
and all the rest of it ! "

" You're awfully good, Charlotte," said Lambert, with an
emotion in his voice that she did not guess to be purely the
result of inward relief and exultation ; " I'm awfully obliged
to you — you always were a — a true friend — some day, per-
haps, I'll be able to show you what I think about it," he
stammered, unable to think of anything else to say, and,
lifting his hand from the splash-board, he put it on hers,
that lay in her lap with the reins in it, and pressed it for a
moment. Into both their minds shot simultaneously the
remembrance of a somewhat similar scene, when, long ago,
Charlotte had come to the help of her father's pupil, and he
had expressed his gratitude in a more ardent manner — a
manner that had seemed cheap enough to him at the time,
but that had been more costly to Charlotte than any other
thing that had ever befallen her.

" You haven't forgotten old times any more than I have,**
he went on, knowing very well that he was taking now much
the same simple and tempting method of getting rid of his
obligation that he had once found so efficacious, and to a

The Real Charlotte. 79

certain extent enjoying the thought that he could still make
a fool of her. " Ah, well ! " he sighed, '' there's no use try-
ing to get those times back, any more than there is in trying
to forget them." He hesitated. " But, after all, there's
many a new tune played on an old fiddle ! Isn't that so ? "
He was almost frightened at his own daring as he saw
Charlotte's cheek burn with a furious red, and her lips
quiver in the attempt to answer.

Upon their silence there broke from the distance a loud
scream, then another, and then a burst of laughter in a duet
of soprano and bass, coming apparently from a lane that
led into the road a little further on — a smooth and secluded
little lane, bordered thickly with hazel bushes — a private
road^ in fact, to a model farm that Mr. Lambert had estab-
lished on his employer's property. From the mouth of this
there broke suddenly a whirling vision of whiteness and
wheels, and Miss Fitzpatrick, mounted on a tricycle and
shrieking loudly, dashed across the high road and collapsed
in a heap in the ditch. Lambert started forward, but long
before he could reach her the Rev. Joseph Corkran emerged
at full speed from the lane, hatless, with long flying coat-
tails, and, with a skill born of experience, extricated Francie
from her difficulties.

" Oh, I'm dead ! " she panted. " Oh, the horrible thing !
What good were you that you let it go ? " unworthily attack-
ing the equally exhausted Corkran. Then, in tones of con-
sternation, ^' Goodness ! Look at Mr. Lambert and
Charlotte ! Oh, Mr. Lambert," as Lambert came up to
her, " did you see the toss I got ? The dirty thing ran
away with me down the hill, and Mr. Corkran was so tired
running he had to let go, and I declare I thought I was
killed — and you don't look a bit sorry for me ! "

" Well, what business had you to get up on a thing like
that ? " answered Lambert, looking angrily at the curate.
" I wonder, Corkran, you hadn't more sense than to let a
lady ride that machine."

" Well, indeed, Mr. Lambert, I told Miss Fitzpatrick it
wasn't as easy as she thought," replied the guilty Corkran, a
callow youth from Trinity College, Dublin, who had been
as wax in Francie's hands, and who now saw, with unfeigned
terror, the approach of Charlotte. " I begged of her not to

8o The Real Charlotte.

go outside Tally Ho, but— but — I think I'd better go back
and look for my hat " — he ended abruptly, retreating into
the lane just as Charlotte drew up the black horse and
opened her mouth to deliver herself of her indignation.

CHAPTER XII.

The broad limestone steps at Bruff looked across the lawn
to the lake, and to the south. They were flanked on either
hand by stone balustrades which began and ended in a pot
of blazing scarlet geraniums, and on their topmost plateau
on this brilliant ist of July, the four Bruff dogs sat on their
haunches and gazed with anxious despondency in at the
open hall-door. For the last half-hour Max and Dinah, the
indoor dogs, had known that an expedition was toward.
They had seen Pamela put on a hat that certainly was not
her garden one, and as certainly lacked the veil that be-
tokened the abhorred ceremony of church-going. They
knew this hat well, and at the worst it usually meant a choir
practice ; but taken in connection with a blue serge
skirt and the packing of a luncheon basket, they almost
ventured to hope it portended a picnic on the lake. They
adored picnics. In the first place, the outdoor dogs were
always left at home, which alone would have imparted a
delicious flavour to any entertainment, and in the second,
all dietary rules were remitted for the occasion, and they
were permitted to raven unchecked upon chicken bones, fat
slices of ham, and luscious leavings of cream when the pack-
ing-up time came. There was, however, mingled with this
enchanting prospect, the fear that they might be left behind,
and from the sounding of the first note of preparation they
had never let Pamela out of their sight. Whenever her
step was heard through the long passages, there had gone
with it the scurrying gallop of the two little waiters on pro-
vidence, and when her arrangements had culminated in the
luncheon basket, their agitation had become so poignant
that a growling game of play under the table, got up merely
to pass the time, turned into an acrimonious squabble, and
caused their ejection to the hall-door steps by Lady Dysart.
Now, sitting outside the door, they listened with trembling

The Real Charlotte. 8i

to the discussion that was going on in the hall, and with the
self-consciousness of dogs, were convinced that it was all
about themselves.

" No, I cannot allow Garry to go," exclaimed Lady
Dysart, her eyes raised to the ceiling as if to show her
remoteness from all human entreaty ; " he is not over the
whooping-cough ; I heard him whooping this morning in
his bedroom."

The person mentioned ceased from a game of fives with
a tennis-ball that threatened momentarily to break the
windows, and said indignantly, " Oh, I say, mother, that
was only the men in the yard pumping. That old pump
makes a row just like whooping-cough."

Lady Dysart faltered for a moment before this ingenious
falsehood, but soon recovered herself.

'* I don't care whether it was you or the pump that
whooped, it does not alter the fact of your superfluity at a
picnic."

" I think Captain Cursiter and Mr. Hawkins wanted him
to stoke," said Pamela from the luncheon basket.

" I have no doubt they do, but they shall not have him,"
said Lady Dysart with the blandness of entire decision,
though her eyes wavered from her daughter's face to her
son's ; " they're very glad indeed to save their own clothes
and spoil his."

" Well, then, I'll go with Lambert," said Garry rebelliously.

" You will do nothing of the sort ! " exclaimed Lady
Dysart, " whatever I may do about allowing you to go with
Captain Cursiter, nothing shall induce me to sanction any
plan that involves your going in that most dangerous yacht.
Christopher himself says she is over-sparred." Lady Dysart
had no idea of the meaning of the accusation, but she felt
the term to be good and telling. " Now, Pamela, will you
promise me to stay with Captain Cursiter all the time ? "

'^ Oh, yes, I will," said Pamela, laughing ; " but you know
in your heart that he would much rather have Garry."

" I don't care what my heart knows," replied Lady Dysart
magnificently, " I know what my mouth says, and that ia
that you must neither of you stir out of the steam-launch."

At this descent of his mother into the pit so artfully
dug for her, Garry withdrew to attire himself for the

F

82 The Real Charlotte.

position of stoker, and Pamela discreetly changed the
conversation.

It seemed a long time to Max and Dinah before their
fate was decided, but after some last moments of anguish on
the pier they found themselves, the one coiled determinedly
on Pamela's lap, and the other smirking in the bow in
Garry's arms, as Mr. Hawkins sculled the second relay of
the Bruff party out to the launch. The first relay, consist-
ing of Christopher and Miss Hope-Drummond, was already
on its way down the lake in Mr. Lambert's 5-ton boat, with
every inch of canvas set to catch the light and shifty breeze
that blew petulantly down from the mountains, and ruffled
the glitter of the lake with dark blue smears. The air
quivered hotly over the great stones on the shore, drawing
out the strong aromatic smell of the damp weeds and the
bog-myrtle, and Lady Dysart stood on the end of the pier,
and wrung her hands as she thought of Pamela's com-
plexion.

Captain Cursiter was one of the anomalous solcSers whose
happiness it is to spend as much time as possible in a boat,
dressed in disreputable clothes, with hands begrimed and
blistered with oil or ropes as the case may be, and steaming
or sailing to nowhere and back again with undying en-
thusiasm. He was a thin, brown man, with a moustache
rather lighter in colour than the tan of his face, and his
beaky nose, combined with his disposition to flee from the
haunts of men, had inspired his friends to bestow on him
the pet name of " Snipey." The festivity on which he was
at present embarked was none of his seeking, and it had
been only by strenuous argument, fortified by the artful
suggestion that no one else was really competent to work
the boat, that Mr. Hawkins had got him into clean flannels
and the conduct of the expedition. He knew neither Miss
Mullen nor Francie, and his acquaintance with the Dysarts,
as with other dwellers in the neighbourhood, was of a slight
and unprogressive character, and in strong contrast to the
manner in which Mr. Hawkins had become at Bruff" and
elsewhere what that young gentleman was pleased to term
"the gated infant." During the run from Lismoyle to
Bruff" he had been able to occupy himself with the affairs of
the steam-launch ; but when Hawkins, his prop and stay,

7^ he Real Charlotte, 83

bad rowed ashore for the Dysart party, the iron had entered
into his soul.

As the punt neared the launch, Mr. Hawkins looked
round to take his distance in bringing her alongside, and re-
cognised with one delighted glance the set smile of suffering
politeness that denoted that Captain Cursiter was making
himself agreeable to the ladies. Charlotte was sitting in
the stern with a depressing air of Sunday-outness about her,
and a stout umbrella over her head. It was not in her
nature to feel shy ; the grain of it was too coarse and strong
to harbour such a thing as diffidence, but she knew well
enough when she was socially unsuccessful, and she was al-
ready aware that she was going to be out of her element on
this expedition. Lambert, who would have been a kind of
connecting Unk, was already far in the offing. Captain
Cursiter she mentally characterised as a poor stick.
Hawkins, whom she had begun by liking, was daily — al-
most hourly — gaining in her disfavour, and from neither
Pamela, Francie, or Garry did she expect much entertain-
ment. Charlotte had a vigorous taste in conversation, and
her idea of a pleasure party was not to talk to Pamela
Dysart about the choir and the machinery of a school feast
for an hour and a half, and from time to time to repulse
with ill-assumed politeness the bird-like flights of Dinah on
to her lap. Francie and Mr. Hawkins sat forward on the
roof of the little cabin, and apparently entertained one
another vastly, judging by their appearance and the frag-
ments of conversation that from time to time made their
way aft in the environment of a cloud of smuts. Captain
Cursiter, revelHng in the well-known restrictions that en-
compass the man at the wheel, stood serenely aloof, steering
among the hump-backed green islands and treacherous
shallows, and thinking to himself that Hawkins was going
ahead pretty fast with that Dublin girl.

Mr. Hawkins had been for some time a source of anxiety
to his brother officers, who disapproved of matrimony for
the young of their regiment. Things had looked so serious
when he was quartered at Limerick that he had been hur-
riedly sent on detachment to Lismoyle before he had time
to " make an example of himself," as one of the most un-
married of the majors observed, and into Captain Cursiter's

84 The Real Charlotte.

trusted hands he had been committed, with urgent instruc-
tions to keep an eye on him. Cursiter's eye was renowned
for its blighting quahties on occasions such as these, and
his jibes at matrimony were looked on by his brother
officers as the most finished and scathing expressions of
proper feeling on the subject that could be desired ', but it
was agreed that he would have his hands full.

The launch slid smoothly along with a low clicking of the
machinery, cutting her way across the reflections of the
mountains in pursuit of the tall, white sail of the Daphne^
that seemed each moment to grow taller, as the yacht was
steadily overhauled by her more practical comrade. The
lake was narrower here, where it neared the end of its
twenty-mile span, and so calm that the sheep and cattle
grazing on the brown mountains were reflected in its depths,
and the yacht seemed as incongruous in the midst of them as
the ark on Mount Ararat. The last bend of the lake was
before them ; the Daphne crept round it, moved mysteriously
by a wind that was imperceptible to the baking company on
the steam-launch, and by the time the latter had churned her
way round the fir-clad point, the yacht was letting go her
anchor near the landing-place of a large wooded island.

At a picnic nothing is of much account before luncheon,
and the gloom of hunger hung like a pall over the party
that took ashore luncheon baskets, unpacked knives and
forks, and gathered stones to put on the corners of the
table-cloth. But such a hunger is Nature's salve for the in-
adequacy of human beings to amuse themselves ; the body
comes to the relief of the mind with the compassionate
superiority of a good servant, and confers inward festivity upon
many a dull dinner party. Max and Dinah were quite of
this opinion. They had behaved with commendablefortitude
during the voyage, though in the earlier part of it a shudder-
ing dejection on Max's part had seemed to Pamela's trained
eye to forebode sea-sickness, but at the lifting of the luncheon
basket into the punt their self-control deserted them. The
succulent trail left upon the air, palpable to the dog-nose as
the smoke of the steam-launch to the human eye, beguiled
them into eff'orts to follow, which were only suppressed by
their being secretly immured in the cabin by Garry. No
one but he saw the two wan faces that yearned at the tiny

The Real Charlotte. 85

cabin windows, as the last punt load left for the land, and
when at last the wails of the captives streamed across the
water, anyone but Garry would have repented of the
cruelty. The dogs will never forget it to Captain Cur-
siter that it was he who rowed out to the launch and
brought them ashore to enjoy their fair share of the picnic,
and their gratitude will never be tempered by the knowledge
that he had caught at the excuse to escape from the con-
versation which Miss Hope-Drummond, notwithstanding
even the pangs of hunger, was proffering to him.

There is something unavoidably vulgar in the aspect ot
a picnic party when engaged in the culminating rite of
eating on the grass. They may feel themselves to be
picturesque, gipsy-like, even romantic, but to the unpar-
ticipating looker-on, not even the gilded dignity of cham-
pagne can redeem them from being a mere group of greedy,
huddled backs, with ugly trimmings of paper, dirty plates,
and empty bottles. But at Innishochery the only passers-by
were straight-flying wild-duck or wood-pigeons, or an occa-
sional sea-gull lounging up from the distant Atlantic, all
observant enough in their way, but not critical. It is
probable they did not notice even the singular ungraceful-
ness of Miss Mullen's attitude, as she sat with her short
legs uncomfortably tucked away, and her large jaws moving
steadily as she indemnified herself for the stupidity of the
recent trip. The champagne at length had its usual
beneficent effect upon the conversation. Charlotte began
to tell stories about her cats and her servants to Christopher
and Pamela, with admirable dramatic effect and a sense of
humour that made her almost attractive. Miss Hope-
Drummond had discovered that Cursiter was one of the
Lincolnshire Cursiters, and, with mutual friends as stepping-
stones, was working her way on with much abihty ; and
Francie was sitting on a mossy rock, a little away from the
table-cloth, with a plate of cherry-pie on her lap, Mr.
Hawkins at her feet, and unlimited opportunities for
practical jestings with the cherry-stones. Garry and the
dogs were engaged in scraping out dishes and polishing
plates in a silence more eloquent than words ; Lambert
alone, of all the party, remained impervious to the influences
of luncheon, and lay on his side with his eyes moodily

S6 The Real Charlotte.

fixed upon his plate, only responding to Miss Mullen's
frequent references to him by a sarcastic grunt.

" Now I assure you, Miss Dysart, it's perfectly true," said
Charlotte, after one of these polite rejoinders. ^' He's too
lazy to say so, but he knows right well that when I com-
plained of my kitchen-maid to her mother, all the good I
got from her was that she said, * Would ye iDe agin havin' a
switch and to be switchin' her ! ' That was a pretty way
for me to spend my valuable time." Her audience laughed;
and inspired by another half glass of champagne, Miss
Mullen continued, " But big a fool as Bid Sal is, she's a
Solon beside Donovan. He came to me th' other day and
said he wanted * little Johanna for the garden.' ' Little
who ? * says I ; ' Little Johanna,' says he. ' Ye great, lazy
fool,' says I, ' aren't ye big enough and ugly enough to do
that little pick of work by yerself without wanting a girl to
help ye?* And after all," said Charlotte, dropping from
the tones of fury in which she had rendered her own part
in the interview, " all he wanted was some guano for my
early potatoes ! "

Lambert got up without a smile, and sauntering down to
the lake, sat down on a rock and began to smoke a cigar.
He could not laugh as Christopher and even Captain
Cursiter did, at Charlotte's dramatisation of her scene with
her gardener. At an earlier period of his career he had
found her conversation amusing, and he had not thought
her vulgar. Since then he had raised himself just high
enough from the sloughs of Irish middle-class society to see
its vulgarity, but he did not stand sufficiently apart from it
to be able to appreciate the humorous side, and in any
case he was at present little disposed to laugh at anything.
He sat and smoked morosely for some time, feeling that he
was making his dissatisfaction with the entertainment im-
posingly conspicuous ; but his cigar was a failure, the rock
was far from comfortable, and his bereaved friends seemed
to be enjoying themselves rather more than when he left
them. He threw the cigar into the water in front of him,
to the consternation of a number of minnows, who had hung
in the warm shallow as if listening, and now vanished in a
twinkling to spread among the dark resorts of the elder
^shes the tale of the thunderbolt that fell in their midst,

The Real Charlotte. 87

while Lambert stalked back to the party under the
trees.

Its component parts were little altered, saving that Miss
Hope-Drummond had, by the ingenious erection of a
parasol, isolated herself and Christopher from the others,
and that Garry had joined himself to Francie and Hawkins,
and was, in company with the latter, engaged in weaving
stalks of grass across the insteps of Miss Fitzpatrick's open-
worked stockings.

" Just look at them, Mr. Lambert," Francie called out in
cheerful complaint. " They're having a race to see which
of them will finish their bit of grass first, and they won't let
me stir, though I'm nearly mad with the flies ! "

She had a waving branch of mountain-ash in her hand ;
the big straw hat that she had trimmed for herself with dog-
roses the night before was on the back of her head ; her
hair clustered about her white temples, and the colour that
fighting the flies had brought to her face lent a lovely depth
to eyes that had the gaiety and the soullessness of a child.
Lambert had forgotten most of his classics since he had left
school, and it is probable that even had he remembered
them it would not have occurred to him to regard anything
in them as applicable to modern times. At all events
Francie's dryad-like fitness to her surroundings did not
strike him, as it struck another more dispassionate onlooker,
when an occasional lift of the Hope-Drummond parasol re-
vealed the white-clad figure, with its woody background, to
Christopher.

"It seems to me you're well able to take care of yourself,"
was Lambert's reply to Miss Fitzpatrick's appeal. He
turned his back upon her, and interrupted Charlotte in the
middle of a story by asking her if she would walk with him
across the island and have a look at the ruins of Ochery
Chapel.

One habit at least of Mr. Lambert's school life remained
with him. He was still a proficient at telling tales.

88 The Real Charlotte,

CHAPTER XIII.

Innishochery Island lay on the water like a great green
bouquet, with a narrow grey lace edging of stony beach.
From the lake it seemed that the foliage stood in a solid
impenetrable mass, and that nothing but the innumerable
wood-pigeons could hope to gain its inner recesses ; even
the space of grass which, at the side of the landing-place,
drove a slender wedge up among the trees, had still the
moss-grown stumps upon it that told it had been recovered
by force from the possession of the tall pines and thick
hazel and birch scrub. The end of the wedge narrowed
into a thread of a path which wound its briary way among
the trees with such sinuous vagueness, and such indifference
to branches overhead and rocks underfoot, that to follow it
was both an act of faith and a penance. Near the middle
of the island it was interrupted by a brook that slipped
along whispering to itself through the silence of the wood,
and though the path made a poor shift to maintain its con-
tinuity with stepping-stones, it expired a few paces farther
on in the bracken of a little glade.

It was a glade that had in some elfish way acquired an
expression of extremest old age. The moss grew deep in
the grass, lay deep on the rocks ; stunted birch-trees en-
circled it with pale twisted arms hoary with lichen, and, at
the farther end of it, a grey ruined chapel, standing over the
pool that was the birthplace of the stream, fulfilled the last
requirement of romance. On this hot summer afternoon
the glade had more than ever its air of tranced meditation
upon other days and superiority to the outer world, lulled in
its sovereignty of the island by the monotone of humming
insects, while on the topmost stone of the chapel a magpie
gabbled and cackled like a court jester. Christopher
thought, as he sat by the pool smoking a cigarette, that he
had done well in staying behind under the pretence of
photographing the yacht from the landing-place, and thus
eluding the rest of the party. He was only intermittently
unsociable, but he had always had a taste for his own
society, and, as he said to himself, he had been going strong
all the morning, and the time had come for solitude and
tobacco.

Tlie Real Charlotte, 89

He was a young man of a reflective turn, and had artistic
aspirations which, had he been of a hardier nature, would
probably have taken him further than photography. But
Christopher's temperament held one or two things unusual
in the amateur. He had the saving, or perhaps fatal power
of seeing his own handiwork with as unflattering an eye as
he saw other people's. He had no confidence in anything
about himself except his critical abiHty, and as he did not
satisfy that, his tentative essays in painting died an early
death. It was the same with everything else. His fastidi-
ous dislike of doing a thing indifferently was probably a
form of conceit, and though it was a higher form than the
common vanity whose geese are all swans, it brought about
in him a kind of deadlock. His relations thought him ex-
tremely clever, on the strength of his university career and
his intellectual fastidiousness, and he himself was aware
that he was clever, and cared very little for the knowledge.
Half the people in the world were clever nowadays, he said
to himself with indolent irritability, but genius was another
affair ; and, having torn up his latest efforts in water-colour
and verse, he bought a camera, and betook himself to the
more attainable perfection of photography.

It was delightful to lie here with the delicate cigarette
smoke keeping the flies at bay, and the grasshoppers whirring
away in the grass, like fairy sewing-machines, and with the
soothing knowledge that the others had been through the
glade, had presumably done the ruin thoroughly, and were
now cutting their boots to pieces on the water-fretted lime-
stone rocks as they scrambled round from the shore to the
landing-place. This small venerable wood, and the boulders
that had lain about the glade through sleepy centuries
till the moss had smothered their outlines, brought to
Christopher's mind the enchanted country through which
King Arthur's knights rode ; and he lay there mouthing to
himself fragments of half-remembered verse, and wondering
at the chance that had reserved for him this backwater in a
day of otherwise dubious enjoyment. He even found him-
self piecing together a rhyme or two on his own account ; but,
as is often the case, inspiration was paralysed by the over-
whelming fulness of the reality ; the fifth line refused to ex-
press his idea, and the interruption of lyric emotion caused

90 The Real Charlotte.

by the making and lighting of a fresh cigarette pioved fatal to
the prospects of the sonnet. He felt disgusted with himself
and his own futility. When he had been at Oxford not
thus had the springs of inspiration ceased to flow. He had
begun to pass the period of water-colours then, but not the
period when ideas are as plenty and as full of novelty as
leaves in spring, and the knowledge has not yet come that
they, like the leaves, are old as the world itself.

For the past three or four years the social exigencies of
Government House life had not proved conducive to
fervour of any kind, and now, while he was dawdling away
his time at Bruff, in the uninterested expectation of another
appointment, he found that he not only could not write,
but that he seemed to have lost the wish to try.

^' I suppose I am sinking into the usual bucolic stupor,"
he said to himself, as he abandoned the search for the
vagrant rhyme. " If I only could read the Field, and had
a more spontaneous habit of cursing, I should be an ideal
country gentleman."

He crumpled into his pocket again the envelope on the
back of which he had been scribbUng, and told himself that
it was more philosophic and more simple to enjoy things in
the homely, pre-historic manner, without trying to express
them elaborately for the benefit of others. He was in-
tellectually effete, and what made his effeteness more hope-
less was that he recognised it himself " I am perfectly
happy if I let myself alone," was the sum of his reflections.
" They gave me a little more cuhure than I could hold, and
it ran over the edge at first. Now I think I'm just about
sufficiently up in the bottle for Lismoyle form." He tilted
his straw hat over his nose, shut his eyes, and, leaning back,
soon felt the delicious fusion into his brain of the surround-
ing hum and soft movement that tells of the coming of out-
of-door summer sleep.

It is deplorable to think of the figure Christopher must
cut in the eyes of those whose robuster taste demands in a
young man some more potent and heroic qualities, a
gentlemanly hardihood in language and liquor, an interest-
ing suggestion of moral obliquity, or, at least, some heredi-
tary vice on which the character may make shipwreck with
magnificent helplessness. Christopher, with his preference

The Real Charlotte, 91

for his sister's society, and his lack of interest in the
majority of manly occupations, from hunting to music halls,
has small claim to respect or admiration. The invertebrate-
ness of his character seemed to be expressed in his attitude,
as he lay, supine, under the birch trees, with the grass mak-
ing a luxurious couch for his lazy limbs, and the faint
breeze just stirring about him. His sleep was not deep
enough to still the breath of summer in his ears, but it had
quieted the jabber of the magpie to a distant purring, and
he was fast falling into the abyss of unconsciousness, when
a gentle, regular sound made itself felt, the fall of a footstep
and the brushing of a skirt through the grass. He lay very
still, and cherished an ungenial hope that the white-stemmed
birches might mercifully screen him from the invader. The
step came nearer, and something in its solidity and deter-
mination gave Christopher a guess as to whose it was, that
was speedily made certainty by a call that jarred all the
sleepy enchantment of the glade.

" Fran-cie ! "

Christopher shrank lower behind a mossy stone, and
wildly hoped that his unconcealable white flannels might be
mistaken for the stem of a fallen birch.

" Fran-cie ! "

It had come nearer, and Christopher anticipated the
inevitable discovery by getting up and speaking.

" I'm afraid she's not here. Miss Mullen. She has not
been here for half an hcur at least." He did not feel bound
to add that when he first sat down by the pool, he had
heard Miss Fitzpatrick's and Mr. Hawkins' voices in high
and agreeable altercation on the opposite side of the island
to that taken by the rest of the party.

The asperity that had been discernible in Miss Mullen's
summons to her cousin vanished at once.

" My goodness me ! Mr. Dysart ! To think of your
being here all the time, ' Far from the madding crowd's
ignoble strife ! ' Here I am hunting for that naughty girl
to tell her to come and help to make tea, instead of letting
your poor sister have all the trouble by herself."

Charlotte was rather out of breath, and looked hot and
annoved, in spite of the smile with which she lubricated her
remark.

92 The Real Charlotte.

" Oh, my sister is used to that sort of thing," said
Christopher, '* and Miss Hope-Drummond is there to help,
isn't she ? "

Charlotte had seated herself on a rock, and was fanning
herself with her pocket-handkerchief; evidently going to
make herself agreeable, Christopher thought, with an irrita-
bility that lost no detail of her hand's ungainly action.

" I don't think Miss Hope-Drummond is much in the
utilitarian line," she said, with a laugh that was as sUghting
as she dared to make it. " Hers is the purely ornamental,
I should imagine. Now, I will say for poor Francie, if she
was there, no one would work harder than she would, and,
though I say it that shouldn't, I think she's ornamental
too."

" Oh, highly ornamental/' said Christopher politely. *' I
don't think there can be any doubt about that."

"You're very good to say so,"repHed Charlotte effusively;
** but I can tell you, Mr. Dysart, that poor child has had to
make herself useful as well as ornamental before now.
From what she tells me I suspect there were few things she
didn't have to put her hand to before she came down to me
here."

'^ Really ! " said Christopher, as politely as before, " that
was very hard luck."

" You may say that it was ! " returned Charlotte, planting
a hand on each knee with elbows squared outwards, as was
her wont in moments of excitement, and taking up her
parable against the Fitzpatricks with all the enthusiasm of a
near relation. '• Her uncle and aunt are very good people
in their way, I suppose, but beyond feeding her and putting
clothes on her back, I don't know what they did for her."

Charlotte had begun her sentence with comparative calm,
but she had gathered heat and velocity as she proceeded.
She paused with a snort, and Christopher, who had never
before been privileged to behold her in her intenser
moments, said, without a very distinct idea of what was ex-
pected of him :

" Oh, really, and who are these amiable people? "

" Fitzpatricks ! " spluttered Miss Mullen, " and no better
than the dirt under my poor cousin Isabella Mullen's feet.
It's through her Francie's related to me, and not through

The Real Charlotte, 93

the Fitzpatricks at all. Tm no relation of the Fitzpatricks,
thank God ! My father's brother married a Butler, and
Francie's grandmother was a Butler too — "

" It's very intricate," murmured Christopher ; " it sounds
as if she ought to have been a parlour-maid."

*' And that's the only connection I am of the Fitzpatricks,"
continued Miss Mullen at lightning speed, oblivious of
interruption ; " but Francie takes after her mother's family
and her grandmother's family, and your poor father would
tell you if he was able, that the Butlers of Tally Ho were as
well known in their time as the Dysarts of Bruff ! "

" I'm sure he would," said Christopher feebly, thinking
as he spoke that his conversations with his father had been
wont to treat of more stirring and personal topics than the
bygone glories of the Butlers.

" Yes, indeed, as good a family as any in the county.
People laugh at me, and say I'm mad about family and
pedigree ; but I declare to goodness, Mr. Dysart, I think
the French are right when they say, ^ hong song ne poo
tnongtir^^ and there's nothing like good blood after all."

Charlotte possessed the happy quality of believing in the
purity of her own French accent, and she felt a great satis-
faction in rounding her peroration with a quotation in that
tongue. She had, moreover, worked off some of the irrita-
tion which had, from various causes, been seething within
her when she met Christopher ; and when she resumed her
discourse it was in the voice of the orator, who, having
ranted out one branch of his subject, enters upon the next
with almost awful quietness.

" I don't know why I should bore you about a purely
family matter, Mr. Dysart, but the truth is, it cuts me to the
heart when I see your sister — your charming sister — yes,
and Miss Hope-Drummond too — not that I'd mention her
in the same breath with Miss Dysart — with every advantage
that education can give them, and then to think of that poor
girl, brought up from hand to mouth, and her little fortune
that should have been spent on herself going, as I may say,
to fill the stomachs of the Fitzpatricks' brood ! "

Christopher raised himself from the position of leaning
against a tree, in which he had listened, not without inter-
est, to the recital of Francie's wrongs.

94 l^hs Real Charlotte,

" I don't think you need apologise for Miss Fitzpatrick,"
he said, rather more coldly than he had yet spoken. He
had ceased to be amused by Miss Mullen ; eccentricity was
one thing, but vulgar want of reserve was another ; he
wondered if she discussed her cousin's affairs thus openly
with all her friends.

" It's very kind of you to say so," rejoined Miss Mullen
eagerly, " but I know very well you're not bUnd, any more
than I am, and all my affection for the girl can't make me
shut my eyes to what's unlady-like or bad style, though 1
know it's not her fault."

Christopher looked at his watch surreptitiously.

" Now I'm delaying you in a most unwarrantable way,"
said Charlotte, noting and interpreting the action at once,
^' but I got so hot and tired runnmg about the woods that I
had to take a rest. I was trying to get a chance to say a
word to your sister about Francie to ask her to be kind to
her, but I daresay it'll come to the same thing now that I've
had a chat with you," she concluded, rising from her seat
and smiling with luscious affability.

A Httle below the pond two great rocks leaned towards
each other, and between them a hawthorn bush had pressed
itself up to the light. Something like a path was trodden
round the rocks, and a few rags impaled on the spikes of
the thorn bush denoted that it marked the place of a holy
well. Conspicuous among these votive offerings were two
white rags, new and spotless, and altogether out of keeping
with the scraps of red flannel and dirty frieze that had been
left by the faithful in lieu of visiting cards for the patron
saint of the shrine. Christopher and Charlotte's way led
them within a few yards of the spot ; the latter's curiosity
induced her, as she passed, to examine the last contributions
to the thorn bush.

" I wonder who has been tearing up their best pocket-
handkerchiefs for a wish ? " said Christopher, putting up his
eye-glass and peering at the rags.

" Two bigger fools than the rest of them, I suppose," said
Miss Mullen shortly; "we'd better hurry on now, Mr. Dysart,
or we'll get no tea."

She swept Christopher in front of her along the narrow
path before he had time to see that the last two pilgrims

The Real Charlotte. 95

had determined that the saint should make no mistake
about their identit)^ and had struck upon the thorn bush
the corners of their handkerchiefs, one of them, a silken
triangle, having on it the initials G. H., while on the other
was a large and evidently home-embroidered F.

CHAPTER XIV.

Late that afternoon, when the sun was beginning to stoop
to the west, a wind came creeping down from somewhere
back of the mountains, and began to stretch tentative cats'
paws over the lake. It had pushed before it across the
Atlantic a soft mass of orange-coloured cloud, that caught
the sun's lowered rays, and spread them in a mellow glare
over everything. The lake turned to a coarse and furious
blue ; all the rocks and tree stems became like red gold,
and the polished brass top of the funnel of the steam-launch
looked as if it were on fire as Captain Cursiter turned the
Serpolette's sharp snout to the wind, and steamed at full
speed round Ochery Point. The yacht had started half an
hour before on her tedious zig-zag journey home, and was
already far down to the right, her sails all aglow as she
leaned aslant like a skater, swooping and bending under
the freshening breeze.

It was evident that Lambert wished to make the most
of his time, for almost immediately after the Daphne had
gone about with smooth precision, and had sprung away on
the other tack, the party on the launch saw a flutter of
white, and a top-sail was run up.

" By Jove ! Lambert didn't make much on that tack,"
remarked Captain Cursiter to his brother-in-arms, as with
an imperceptible pressure of the wheel he serenely headed
the launch straight for her destination. " I don't believe
he's done himself much good with that top-sail either."

Mr. Hawkins turned a sour eye upon the Daphne^ and
said laconically, " Silly ass ; he'll smother her."

" Upon my word, I don't think he'll get in much before
nine o'clock to-night," continued Cursiter ; " it's pretty
nearly dead in his teeth, and he doesn't make a hundred
yards on each tack."

g6 The Real Charlotte,

Mr. Hawkins slammed the lid of the coal bunker, and
stepped past his chief into the after-part of the launch.

" I say, Miss Mullen," he began with scarcely suppressed
malignity, " Captain Cursiter says you won't see your niece
before to-morrow morning. You'll be sorry you wouldn't
let her come home in the launch after all."

" If she hadn't been so late for her tea," retorted Miss
Mullen, " Mr. Lambert could have started half an hour
before he did."

" Half an hour will be neither here nor there in this
game. What Lambert ought to have done was to have
started after luncheon, but I think I may remind you, Miss
Mullen, that you took him off to the holy well then."

" Well, and if I did, I didn't leave my best pocket hand-
kerchief hanging in rags on the thorn bush, like some other
people I know of ! " Miss Mullen felt that she had scored,
and looked for sympathy to Pamela, who, having as was
usual with her, borne the heat and burden of the day in the
matter of packings and washings-up, was now sitting, pale
and tired, in the stern, with Dinah solidly implanted in her
lap, and Max huddled miserably on the seat beside her.
Miss Hope-Drummond, shrouded in silence and a long
plaid cloak, paid no attention to anyone or anything.
There are few who can drink the dregs of the cup of
pleasuring with any appearance of enjoyment, and Miss
Hope-Drummond was not one of them. The alteration
in the respective crews of the yacht and the steam-launch
had been made by no wish of hers, and it is probable that
but for the unexpected support that Cursiter had received
from Miss Mullen, his schemes for Mr. Hawkins' welfare
would not have prospered. The idea had indeed occurred
to Miss Hope-Drummond that the proprietor of the launch
had perhaps a personal motive in suggesting the exchange,
but when she found that Captain Cursiter was going to
stand with his back to her, and steer, she wished that she
had not yielded her place in the Daphne to a young person
whom she already thought of as " that Miss Fitzpatrick,"
applying in its full force the demonstrative pronoun that
denotes feminine animosity more subtly and expressively
than is in the power of any adjective. Hawkins she felt
was out of her jurisdiction and unworthy of attention, and

The Real Charlotte. 97

she politely ignored Pamela's attempts to involve her in
conversation with him. Her neat brown fringe was out of
curl ; long strands of hair blew unbecomingly over her
ears ; her feet were very cold, and she finally buried herself
to the nose in a fur boa that gave her the effect of a mous-
tached and bearded Russian noble, and began, as was her
custom during sermons and other periods of tedium, to
elaborate the construction of a new tea-gown.

To do Mr. Hawkins justice, he, though equally ill-treated
by fate, rose superior to his disappointment. After his en-
counter with Miss Mullen he settled confidentially down in
the corner beside Pamela, and amused himself by pulling
Dinah's short, fat tail, and puffing cigarette smoke in her face,
while he regaled her mistress with an assortment of the
innermost gossip of Lismoyle.

On board the Daphne the aspect of things was less com-
fortable. Although the wind was too much in her teeth for
her to make much advance for home, there was enough to
drive her through the water at a pace that made the long
tacks from side to side of the lake seem as nothing, and to
give Francie as much as she could do to keep her big hat
on her head. She was sitting up on the weather side with
Lambert, who was steering ; and Christopher, in the bows,
was working the head sails, and acting as movable ballast
when they went about. At first, while they were beating
out of the narrow channel of Ochery, Francie had found it
advisable to lie in a heap beneath a tarpaulin, to avoid the
onslaught of the boom at each frequent tack, but now that
they were out on the open lake, with the top-sail hoisted,
she had risen to her present position, and, in spite of her
screams as the sharp squalls came down from the mountains
and lifted her hat till it stood on end like a rearing horse,
was enjoying herself amazingly. Unhke Miss Hope-Drum-
mond, she was pre-eminently one of those who come home
unflagging from the most prolonged outing, and to-day's en-
tertainment, so far from being exhausting, had verified to
the utmost her belief in the charms of the British officer, as
well as Miss Fanny Hemphill's prophecies of her success in
such quarters. Nevertheless she was quite content to re-
turn in the yacht ; it was salutary for Mr. Hawkins to see
that she could do without him very well, it took her from

G

gS The Real Charlotte,

Charlotte's dangerous proximity, and it also gave her an
opportunity of appeasing Mr. Lambert, who, as she was quite
aware, was not in the best of tempers. So far her nimble
tongue had of necessity been idle. Christopher's position
in the bows isolated him from all conversation of the ordi-
nary pitch, and Lambert had been at first too much occupied
with the affairs of his boat to speak to her, but now, as a
sharper gust nearly snatched her hat from her restraining
hand, he turned to her.

"If it wasn't that you seem to enjoy having that hat blown
inside out every second minute," he said chillingly, " I'd
offer to lend you a cap."

" What sort is it ? " demanded Francie. " If it's anything
like that old deerstalker thing you have on your head now,
I wouldn't touch it with the tongs 1 "

Lambert's only reply was to grope under the seat with
one hand, and to bring out a red knitted cap of the conven-
tional sailoring type, which he handed to Francie without so
much as looking at her. Miss Fitzpatrick recognised its
merits with half a glance, and, promptly putting it on her
head, stuffed the chef-d^osuvre of the night before under the
seat among the deck-swabs and ends of rope that lurked
there. Christopher, looking aft at the moment, saw the
change of head-gear, and it was, perhaps, characteristic of
him that even while he acknowledged the appropriateness of
the red cap of liberty to the impertinence of the brilliant
face beneath it, he found himself reminded of the extra
supplement, in colours, of any Christmas number — indubit-
ably pretty, but a trifle vulgar.

In the meantime the object of this patronising criticism,
feeling herself now able to give her undivided attention to
conversation, regarded Mr. Lambert's sulky face with open
amusement, and said :

**Well, now, tell me what made you so cross all day.
Was it because Mrs. Lambert wasn't out ? "

Lambert looked at her for an instant without speaking.
" Ready about," he called out. " Mind your head ! Lee
helm ! "

The little yacht hung and staggered for a moment, and
then, with a diving plunge, started forward, with every sail
full and straining. Francie scrambled with some difficulty

The Real Charlotte. 99

to the other side of the tiny cockpit, and climbed up on to
the seat by Mr. Lambert, just in time to see a very fair imi-
tation of a wave break on the weather bow and splash
a sparkling shower into Christopher's face.

"Oh, Mr. Dysart ! are you drowned?" she screamed
ecstatically.

** Not quite," he called back, his hair hanging in dripping
points on his forehead as he took off his cap and shook the
water out of it. " I say, Lambert, it's beginning to blow
pretty stiff; I'd take that top-sail off her, if I were
you."

"She's often carried it in worse weather than this,"
returned Lambert ; '' a drop of water will do no one any
harm."

Mr. Lambert in private, and as much as possible in
public, affected to treat his employer's son as a milksop,
and few things annoyed him more than the accepted
opinion on the lake that there was no better man in a boat
than Christopher Dysart. His secret fear that it was true
made it now all the more intolerable that Christopher
should lay down the law to him on a point of seamanship,
especially with Francie by, ready in that exasperating way
of hers to laugh at him on the smallest provocation.

" It'll do him no harm if he does get a drop of water
over him," he said to her in a low voice, forgetting for the
moment his attitude of disapproval. " Take some of the
starch out of him for once ! " He took a pull on the main
sheet, and, with a satisfied upward look at the top-sail in
question, applied himself to conversation. The episode
had done him good, and it was with almost fatherly serious-
ness that he began :

" Now, Francie, you were telling me a while ago that I
was cross all day. I'm a very old friend of yours, and
I don't mind saying that I was greatly put out by the way "
— he lowered his voice — '' by the way you were going on
with that fellow Hawkins."

" I don't know what you mean by ' going on,' " interrupted
Francie, with a slight blush. " What's the harm in talking
to him if he likes to talk to me ? "

*' Plenty of harm," returned Lambert quickly, " when he
makes a fool of you the way he did to-day. If you don't

lOO The Real Charlotte.

care that Miss Dysart and the rest of them think you know
no better than to behave like that, 7 do ! "

" Behave like what ? "

" Well, for one thing, to let him and Garry Dysart go
sticking grass in your stockings that way after luncheon ;
and for another to keep Miss Dysart waiting tea for you for
half an hour, and your only excuse to be to tell her that he
was ' teaching you to make ducks and drakes ' the other
side of the island." The fatherly quality had died out of
his voice, and the knuckles of the hand that held the tiller
grew white from a harder grip.

Francie instinctively tucked away her feet under her
petticoats. She was conscious that the green pattern still
adorned her insteps, and that tell-tale spikes of grass still
projected on either side of her shoes.

" How could I help it ? It was just a silly game that he
and Garry Dysart made up between them ; and as for Miss
Dysart being angry with me, she never said a word to me.
She was awfully good ; and she and her brother had kept
the teapot hot for me, and everything." She looked
furtively at Christopher, who was looking out at the launch,
now crossing their path some distance ahead. *' It was
more than you'd have done for me ! "

*' Yes, very likely it was ; but I wouldn't have been laugh-
ing at you in my sleeve all the time as they were, or at least
as he was, anyhow ! "

" I believe that's a great lie," said Francie unhesitatingly ;
'' and I don't care a jack-rat what he thought, or what you
think either ! Mr. Hawkins is a very nice young man, and
I'll talk to him just as much as I like ! And he's coming
to tea at Tally Ho to-morrow ; and what's more, I asked
him ! So now ! "

" Oh, all right ! " said Lambert, in such a constrained
voice of anger, that even Francie felt a little afraid of him.
" Have him to tea by all means ; and if I were you I should
send down to Limerick and have Miss McCarthy up to meet
him ! "

" What are you saying ? Who's Miss M'Carthy ? " asked
Francie, with a disappointing sparkle of enjoyment in her
eyes.

" She's the daughter of a George's Street tobacconist that

The Real Charlotte, lOI

your friend Mr. Hawkins was so sweet about a couple of
months ago that they packed him off here to be out of
harm's way. Look out, Dysart, I'm going about now," he
continued without givmg Francie time to reply. " Lee-
helm ! "

" Oh, I'm sick of you and your old ' lee-helm ' ! " cried
Francie, as she grovelled again in the cockpit to avoid the
swing of the boom. "Why can't you go straight like Cap-
tain Cursiter's steamer, instead of bothering backwards and
forwards, side-ways, like this ? And you always do it just
when I want to ask you something."

This complaint, which was mainly addressed to Mr.
Lambert's canvas yachting shoes, received no attention.
When Francie came to the surface she found that the yacht
was at a more uncomfortable angle than ever, and with some
difficulty she estabhshed herself on the narrow strip of deck,
outside the coaming, with her feet hanging into the cockpit.

" Now, Mr. Lambert," she began at once, " you'd better
tell me Miss McCarthy's address, and all about her, and per-
haps if you're good I'll ask you to meet her too."

As she spoke, a smart squall struck the yacht, and Lam-
bert luffed her hard up to meet it. A wave with a ragged
white edge flopped over her bows, wetting Christopher
again, and came washing aft along the deck behind the
coaming.

" Look out aft there ! " he shouted. " She's putting her
nose into it ! I tell you that top-sail's burying her,
Lambert."

Lambert made no answer to either Francie or Christopher.
He had as much as he could do to hold the yacht, which
was snatching at the tiller like a horse at its bit, and ripping
her way deep through the waves in a manner too vigorous
to be pleasant. It was about seven o'clock, and though the
sun was still some height above the dark jagged wall of the
mountains, the clouds had risen in a tawny fleece across his
path, and it was evident that he would be seen no more that
day. The lake had turned to indigo. The beds of reeds
near the shore were pallid by contrast as they stooped under
the wind ; the waves that raced towards the yacht had each
an angry foam-crest, having, after the manner of lake waves,
lashed themselves into a high state of indignation on very

102 The Real Charlotte.

short notice, and hissed and effervesced like soda-water all
along the lee-gunwale of the flyin.s^ yacht. A few seagulls
that were trying to fight their way back down to the sea,
looked like fluttering scraps of torn white paper against the
angry bronze of the clouds, and the pine trees on the point,
under the lee of which they were scudding, were tossing
like the black plumes of a hearse.

Lambert put the yacht about, and headed back across the
lake.

"We did pretty well on that tack, Dysart," he shouted.
*^ We ought to get outside Screeb Point with the next one,
and then we'll get the wind a point fairer, and make better
weather of it the rest of the way home."

He could see the launch, half a mile or so beyond the
point, ploughing steadily along on her way to Lismoyle, and
in his heart he wished that Francie was on board of her.
He also wished that Christopher had held his confounded
tongue about the top-sail. If he nadn't shoved in his oar
where he wasn't wanted, he'd have had that top-sail off her
twenty minutes ago ; but he wasn't going to stand another
man ordering him about in his own boat.

" Look here, Francie," he said, " you must look out for
yourself when I'm going about next time. It's always a bit
squally round this point, so you'd better keep down in the
cockpit till we're well on the next tack."

" But I'll get all wet down there," objected Francie, "and
I'd much rather stay up here and see the fun."

"You talk as if it was the top of a tram in Sackville
Street," said Lambert, snatching a glance of provoked
amusement at her unconcerned face. "I can tell you it
will take a good deal more holding on to than that does.
Promise me now, hke a good child," he went on, with a
sudden thrill of anxiety at her helplessness and ignorance,
" that you'll do as I tell you. You used to mind what I
said to you."

He leaned towards her as he spoke, and Francie raised
her eyes to his with a laugh in them that made him
for the moment forgetful of everything else. They were
in the open water in the centre of the lake by this time.
And in that second a squall came roaring down upon
tiiem.

The Real Charlotte. 103

" Luff ! " shouted Christopher, letting go the head sheets.
" Luff, or we're over ! "

Lambert let go the main sheet and put the tiller hard
down with all the strength he was master of, but he was just
too late. In that moment, when he had allowed his
thoughts to leave his steering, the yacht had dragged her-
self a thought beyond his control. The rough hand of the
wind struck her, and, as she quivered and reeled under the
blow, another and fiercer gust caught hold of her, and flung
her flat on her side on the water.

Before Christopher had well realised what had happened,
he had gone deep under water, come to the surface again,
and was swimming, with a vision before him of a white
figure with a red cap falling headlong from its perch. He
raised himself and shook the water out of his eyes, and
swimming a stroke or two to get clear of the mast, with its
sails heaving prone on the water like the pinions of a great
wounded bird, he saw over the shoulders of the hurrying
waves the red cap and the white dress drifting away to
leeward. Through the noise of the water in his ears, and
the confusion of his startled brain, he heard Lambert's voice
shouting frantically he did not know what ; the whole force
of his nature was set and centred on overtaking the red cap,
to which each stroke was bringing him nearer and nearer as
it appeared and reappeared ahead of him between the
steely backs of the waves. She lay horribly still, with the
water washing over her face ; and as Christopher caught
her dress, and turned, oreathless, to try to fight his way
back with her to the wrecked yacht, he seemed to hear a
hundred voices ringing in his ears and telling him that she
was dead. He was a good and practised swimmer, but not
a powerful one. His clothes hung heavily about him, and
with one arm necessarily given to his burden, and the waves
and wind beating him back, he began to think that his task
was more than he would be able to accompHsh. He had
up to this, in the intensity of the shock and struggle, forgotten
Lambert's existence, but now the agonised shouts that he
had heard came back to him, and he raised himself high in
the water and stared about with a new anxiety. To his in-
tense relief he saw that the yacht was still afloat, was, in
fact, drifting slowly down towards him, and in the water

104 ^-^^ ^^^^ Oiarlotte.

not ten yards from him was her owner, labouring towards
him with quick splashing strokes, and evidently in a very
exhausted state. His face was purple-red, his eyes half
starting out of his head, and Christopher could hear his
hard breathing as he slowly bore down upon him.

" She's all right, Lambert ! " Christopher cried out,
though his heart belied the words. " I've got her ! Hold
hard ; the yacht will be down on us in a minute."

Whether Lambert heard the words or no was not ap-
parent. He came struggling on, and as soon as he got
within reach, made a snatch at Francie's dress. Chris-
topher had contrived to get his left arm round her waist,
and to prop her chin on his shoulder, so that her face
should be above the water, and, as Lambert's weight swung
on him, it was all he could do to keep her in this position.

*' You'll drown us all if you don't let go ! " Uttermost
exertion and want of breath made Christopher's voice wild
and spasmodic. " Can't you tread water till the boat gets
to us ? "

Lambert still speechlessly and convulsively dragged at
ner, his breath breaking from him in loud gasps, and his
face working.

" Good God, he's gone mad ! " thought Christopher ;
" we're all done for if he won't let go." In desperation he
clenched his fist, with the intention of hitting Lambert on
the head, but just as he gathered his forces for this extreme
measure something struck him softly in the back. Lam-
bert's weight had twisted him round so that he was no
longer facing the yacht, and he did not know how near
help was. It was the boom of the Daphne that had touched
him like a friendly hand, and he turned and caught at it
with a feeling of more intense thankfulness than he had
known in all his life.

The yacht was lying over on her side, half full of water,
but kept afloat by the air-tight compartments that Mrs.
Lambert's terrors had insisted on, and that her money had
paid for, when her husband had first taken to sailing on the
lake. Christopher was able with a desperate effort to get
one knee on to the submerged coaming of the cockpit, and
catching at its upper side with his right hand, he recovered
himself and prepared to draw Francie up after him.

The Real Charlotte. 105

" Come, Lambert, let go ! " he said threateningly, " and
help me to get her out of the water. You need not be
afraid, you can hold on to the boat."

Lambert had not hitherto tried to speak, but now with
the support that the yacht gave him, his breath came back
to him a little.

" Damn you ! " he spluttered, the loud sobbing breaths
almost choking him, " I'm not afraid ! Let her go ! Take
your arm from round her, I can hold her better than you
can. Ah ! " he shrieked, suddenly seeing Francie's face, as
Christopher, without regarding what he said, drew her
steadily up from his exhausted grasp, " she's dead ! you've
let her drown ! "

His head fell forward, and Christopher thought with the
calm of despair, " He's going under, and I can't help him if
he does. Here, Lambert ! man alive, don't let go I There !
do you hear the launch whistling ? They're coming to
us ? "

Lambert's hand, with its shining gold signet-ring, was
gripping the coaming under water with a grasp that was
already mechanical. It seemed to Christopher that it had
a yellow, drowned look about it. He put out his foot, and,
getting it under Lambert's chin, lifted his mouth out of the
water. The steam-launch was whistling incessantly, in
long notes, in short ones, in jerks, and he lifted up his
voice against the forces of the wind and the hissing and
dashing of the water to answer her. Perhaps it was the
dull weight on his arm and the stricken stillness of the face
that lay in uiter unconsciousness on his shoulder, but he
scarcely recognised his own voice, it was broken with such
a tone of stress and horror. He had never before heard such
music as Hawkins' shout hailing him in answer, nor seen a
sight so heavenly fair as the bow of the Serpolette cutting
its way through the thronging waves to their rescue. White
faces staring over her gunwale broke into a loud cry when
they saw him hanging, half-spent, against the tilted deck of
the Daphne. It was well, he thought, that they had not
waited any longer. The only question was whether they
were not even now too late. His head swam from excite-
ment and fatigue, bis arms and knees trembled, and when
at last Francie, Lambert, and finally he himself, were lifted

io6 The Real Charlotte

on board the launch, it seemed the culminating point of a
long and awful nightmare that Charlotte Mullen should
fling herself on her knees beside the bodies of her cousin
and her friend, and utter yell after yell of hysterical
lamentation.

CHAPTER XV.

" Sausages and bacon, Lady Dysart ! Yes, indeed, that
was his breakfast, and that for a man who — if you'll excuse
the expression. Lady Dysart, but, indeed, I know you're
such a good doctor that I'd like you to tell me if it was
quite safe — who was vomiting lake water for half an hour
after he was brought into the house the night before."

" Do you really mean that he came down to breakfast ? "
asked Lady Dysart, with the flattering sincerity of interest
that she bestowed on all topics of conversation, but
especially on those that related to the art and practice of
medicine. " He ought to have stayed in bed all day to let
the system recover from the shock."

" Those were the very words I used to him. Lady Dysart,"
returned Mrs. Lambert dismally ; " but indeed all the
answer he made was, ' Fiddle-de-dee ! ' He wouldn't have
so much as a cup of tea in his bed, and you may think what
I suffered, Lady Dysart, when I was down in the parlour
making the breakfast and getting his tray ready, when I
heard him in his bath overhead — just as if he hadn't been
half-drowned the night before. I didn't tell you that, Mrs.
Gascogne," she went on, turning her watery gaze upon the
thin refined face of her spiritual directress. " Now if it
was me such a thing happened to, I'd have that nervous
dread of water that I couldn't look at it for a week."

*'No, I am sure you would not," answered Mrs.
Gascogne with the over-earnestness which so often ship-
wrecks the absent-minded ; " of course you couldn't expect
him to take it if it wasn't made with really boiling water."

Mrs. Lambert stared in stupefaction, and Lady Dysart,
far from trying to cloak her cousin's confusion, burst into a
delighted laugh.

" Kate 1 I don't believe you heard a single word that

The Real Charlotte. 1 07

Mrs. Lambert said ! You were calculating how many
gallons of tea will be wanted for your school feast."

" Nonsense, Isabel ! " said Mrs. Gascogne hotly, with an
indignant and repressive glance at Lady Dysart, "and how
was it — " turning to Mrs. Lambert, " that he — a — swallowed
so much lake water ? "

" He was cot under the sail, Mrs. Gascogne. He made
a sort of a dash at Miss Fitzpatrick to save her when she
was falling, and he slipped someway, and got in under the
sail and he was half-choked before he could get out ! " A
tear of sensibility trickled down the good turkey-hen's red
beak. " Indeed, I don't know when I've been so upset.
Lady Dysart," she quavered.

" Upset ! " echoed Lady Dysart, raising her large eyes
dramatically to the cut glass chandelier, " I can well believe
it ! When it came to ten o'clock and there was no sign of
them, I was simply raging up and down between the house
and the pier like a mad bull robbed of its whelps ! " She
turned to Mrs. Gascogne, feeling that there was a bibhcal
ring in the peroration that demanded a higher appreciation
than Mrs. Lambert could give, and was much chagrined to
see that lady concealing her laughter behind a handker-
chief.

Mrs. Lambert looked bewilderedly from one to the other,
and, feeling that the ways of the aristocracy were beyond
her comprehension, went on with the recital of her own
woes.

" He actually went down to Limerick by train in the
afternoon — he that was half-drowned the day before, and a
paragraph in the paper about his narrow escape. I haven't
had a wink of sleep those two nights, what with palpitations
and bad dreams. I don't believe, Lady Dysart, I'll ever be
the better of it."

" Oh, you'll get over it soon, Mrs. Lambert," said Lady
Dysart cheerfully; "why, I had no less than three chil-
dren—"

" Calves," murmured Mrs. Gascogne, with still streaming
eyes.

" Children," repeated Lady Dysart emphatically, " and I
thought they were every one of them drowned ! "

** Oh, but a husband^ Lady Dysart," cried Mrs. Lambert

io8 The Real Charlotte.

with orthodox unction ; " what are children compared to the
husband ? "

" Oh — er — of course not," said Lady Dysart, with some-
thing less than her usual conviction of utterance, her
thoughts flying to Sir Benjamin and his bath chair.

" By the way," struck in Mrs. Gascogne, " my husband
desired me to say that he hopes to come over to-morrow
afternoon to see Mr, Lambert, and to hear all about the
accident."

Mrs. Lambert looked more perturbed than gratified. " It's
very kind of the Archdeacon, I'm sure," she said nervously ;
" but Mr. Lambert — " (Mrs. Lambert belonged to the large
class of women who are always [jarticular to speak of their
husbands by their full style and title) "Mr. Lambert is
most averse to talking about it, and perhaps— if the
Archdeacon didn't mind — "

*' That's just what I complain of in Christopher," ex-
claimed Lady Dysart, breaking with renewed vigour into
the conversation. " He was 7nost unsatisfactory about it all.
Of course, when he came home that night, he was so ex-
hausted that I spared him. I said, ' Not one word will I
allow you to say to-night, and I command you to stay in bed
for breakfast to-morrow morning ! ' I even went down at
one o'clock, and pinned a paper on William's door, so that
he shouldn't call him. Well — " Lady Dysart, at this
turning-point of her story, found herself betrayed into
saying " My dear," but had presence of mind enough to
direct the expression at Mrs. Gascogne. " Well, my dear,
when I went up in the morning, craving foF news, he was
most confused and unsatisfactory. He pretended he knew
nothing of how it had happened, and that after the upset
they all went drifting about in a sort of a knot till the yacht
came down on top of them. But, of course, something
more must have happened to them than that I It really
was the greatest pity that Miss Fitzpatrick got stunned by
that blow on the head just at the beginning of the whole
business. She would have told us all about it. But men
never can describe anything."

*' Oh, well, I assure you. Lady Dysart," piped the turkey
hen, " Mr. Lambert described to me all that he possibly
could, and he said Mr. Dysart gave every assistance in his

The Real Charlotte. 109

power, and was the greatest help to him in supporting that
poor girl in the water ; but the townspeople were so very
inquisitive, and really annoyed him so much with their ques-
tions, that he said to me this morning he hoped he'd hear
no more about it, which is why I took the liberty of asking
Mrs. Gascogne, that the Archdeacon wouldn't mention it to
him."

" Oh, yes, yes," said Mrs. Gascogne very politely, recall-
ing herself with difficulty from the mental excursion on
which she had started when Lady Dysart's unrelenting eye
had been removed. " I am sure he will — a — be delighted.
I think, you know, Isabel, we ought — "

Lady Dysart was on her feet in a moment. " Yes,
indeed, we ought ! " she responded briskly. " I have to
pick up Pamela. Good-bye, Mrs. Lambert ; I hope I shall
find you looking better the next time I see you, and remem-
ber, if you cannot sleep, that there is no opiate like an open
window 1 "

Mrs. Lambert's exclamation of horror followed her visitors
out of the room. Open windows were regarded by her as a
necessary housekeeping evil, akin to twigging carpets and
whitewashing the kitchen, something to be got over before
anyone came downstairs. Not even her reverence for Lady
Dysart would induce her to tolerate such a thing in any
room in which she was, and she returned to her woolwork,
well satisfied to let the July sunshine come to her through
the well-fitting plate-glass windows of her hideous drawing-
room.

** The person I do pity in the whole matter," remarked
Lady Dysart, as the landau rolled out of the Rosemount
gates and towards Lismoyle, " is Charlotte Mullen. Of
course, that poor excellent little Mrs. Lambert got a great
shock, but that was nothing compared with seeing the sail
go flat down on the water, as the people in the launch did.
In the middle of all poor Pamela's own fright, when she was
tearing open one of the luncheon baskets to get some whisky
out, Charlotte went into raging hysterics, and roared^ my
dear ! And then she all but fainted on to the top of Mr.
Hawkins. Who would ever have thought of her breaking
down in that kind of way ? "

" Faugh ! " said Mrs. Gascogne. " disgusting creature ! "

no The Real Charlotte,

" Now, Kate, you are always saying censorious things
about that poor woman. People can't help showing their
feelings sometimes, no matter how ugly they are ! All that
I can tell you is," said Lady Dysart, warming to fervour as
was her wont, " if you had seen her this afternoon as I did,
with the tears in her eyes as she described the whole thing
to me, and the agonies she was in about that girl, you would
have felt sorry for her."

Mrs. Gascogne shot a glance, bright with intelligence and
amusement, at her cousin's flushed handsome face, and held
her peace. With Mrs. Gascogne, to hold her peace was to
glide into the sanctuary of her own thoughts, and remain
there oblivious of all besides ; but the retribution that
would surely have overtaken her at the next pause in Lady
Dysart's harangue was averted by the stopping of the car-
riage at Miss Mullen's gate.

Francie lay back on her sofa after Pamela Dysart had left
her. She saw the landau drive away towards Bruff, with
the sun twinkling on the silver of the harness, and thought
with an ungrudging envy how awfully nice Miss Dysart was,
and how lovely it would be to have a carriage like that to
drive about in. People in Dublin, who were not half as
grand as the Dysarts, would have been a great deal too
grand to come and see her up in her room like this, but
here everyone was as friendly as they could be, and not a
bit stuck-up. It was certainly a good day for her when she
came down to Lismoyle, and in spite of all that Uncle
Robert had said about old Aunt Mullen's money, and how
Charlotte had feathered her own nest, there was no denying
that Charlotte was not a bad old thing after all. Her only
regret was that she had not seen the dress that Miss Dysart
had on this afternoon before she had got herself that horrid
ready-made pink thing, and the shirt with the big pink
horse-shoes on it. Fanny Hemphill's hitherto unquestioned
opinion in the matter of costume suddenly tottered in her
estimation, and, with the loosening of that buttress of her
former life, all her primitive convictions were shaken.

The latch of the gate clicked again, and she leaned
forward to see who was coming. "What nonsense it is
keeping me up here this way ! " she said to herself ; " there's
Roddy Lambert coming in, and won't he be cross when he

The Real Charlotte. 1 1 1

finds that there's only Charlotte for him to talk to ! T will
go down to - morrow, no matter what they say, but I
suppose it will be ages before the officers call again now."
Miss Fitzpatrick became somewhat moody at this reflection,
and tried to remember what it was that Mr. Hawkins had
said about "taking shooting leave for the 12th"; she
wished she hadn't been such a fool as not to ask him what
he had meant by the 12th. If it meant the 12th of July,
she mightn't see him again till he came back, and goodness
knows when that would be. Roddy Lambert was all very
well, but what was he but an old married man. " Gracious ! "
she interrupted herself aloud with a little giggle, " how mad
he'd be if he thought I called hira that ! " and Hawkins was
really a very jolly fellow. The hall-door opened again ; she
heard Charlotte's voice raised in leave-taking, and then Mr.
Lambert walked slowly down the drive and the hall-door
slammed. ** He didn't stay long," thought Francie ; " I
wonder if he's cross because I wasn't downstairs ? He's a
very cross man. Oh, look at him kicking Mrs. Bruff into
the bushes ! It's well for him Charlotte's coming upstairs
and can't see him 1 "

Charlotte was not looking any the worse for what she had
gone through on the day of the accident ; in fact, as she
came into the room, there was an air of youthfulness and
good spirits about her that altered her surprisingly, and her
manner towards her cousin was geniality itself,

" Well, me child ! " she began, " I hadn't a minute
since dinner to come and see you. The doorstep's worn
out with the world and his wife coming to ask how you are ;
and Louisa doesn't know whether she's on her head or her
heels with all the clean cups she's had to bring in ! "

** Well, I wish to goodness I'd been downstairs to help
her," said Francie, whirling her feet off the sofa and sitting
upright; "there's nothing ails me to keep me stuck up
here."

" Well, you shall come down to-morrow," replied Char-
lotte soothingly ; " I'm going to lunch with the Bakers, so
you'll have to come down to do your manners to Christopher
Dysart. His mother said he was coming to inquire for you
to-morrow. And remember that only for him the pike
would be eating you at the bottom of the lake this minute I

tl2 The Real Charlotte,

Mind that ! You'll have to thank him for saving your
life."

" Mercy on us," cried Francie ; " what on earth will I say
to him ? "

" Oh, you'll find plenty to say to him ! They're as easy
as me old shoe, all those Dysarts ; I'd pity no one that had
one of them to talk to, from the mother down. Did you
notice at the picnic how Pamela and her brother took all
the trouble on themselves ? That's what I call breeding,
and not sitting about to be waited on like that great lazy
hunks, Miss Hope-Drummond ! I declare I loathe the
sight of these English fine ladies, and my private belief is
that Christopher Dysart thinks the same of her, though he's
too well-bred to show it. Yes, my poor Susan," fondling
with a large and motherly hand the cat that was sprawling
on her shoulder ; " he's a real gentleman, like yourself, and
not a drop of dirty Saxon blood in him. He doesn't bring
his great vulgar bull-dog here to worry my poor son — "

" What did Mr. Lambert say, Charlotte ? " asked Francie,
who began to be a little bored by this rhapsody. " Was he
talking about the accident ? "

" Very little," said Charlotte, with a change of manner ;
" he only said that poor Lucy, who wasn't there at all, was
far worse than any of us. As I told him, you, that we
thought was dead, would be down to-morrow, and not
worth asking after. Indeed we were talking about business
most of the time — " She pressed her face down on the
cat's grey back to hide an irrepressible smile of recollection.
" But that's only interesting to the parties concerned."

CHAPTER XVL

Francie felt an unexpected weakness in her knees when
she walked downstairs next day. She found herself clutch-
ing the stair-rail with an absurdly tight grasp, and putting
her feet down with trembhng caution on the oil-cloth stair
covering, and when she reached the drawing-room she was
thankful to subside into Charlotte's arm-chair, and allow her
dizzy head to recover its equilibrium. She thought very
little about her nerves ; in fact, was too ignorant to know

The Real Charlotte. 113

whether she possessed such things, and she gave a feeble
laugh of surprise at the way her heart jumped and fluttered
when the door slammed unexpectedly behind her. The
old green sofa had been pulled out from the wall and placed
near the open window, with the Dublin Express laid upoi
it ; Francie noticed and appreciated the attention, and
noted, too, that an arm-chair, sacred to the use of visitors
had been planted in convenient relation to the sofa. " For
Mr. Dysart, I suppose," she thought, with a curl of her
pretty lip ; " he'll be as much obliged to her as I am." She
pushed the chair away, and debated with herself as to
whether she should dislodge the two cats who, with faces of
frowning withdrawal from all things earthly, were heaped
in simulated slumber in the corner of the sofa. She chose
the arm-chair, and, taking up the paper, languidly read the
list of places where bands would play in the coming week,
and the advertisement of the anthem at St. Patrick's for the
next day.

How remote she felt from it all ! How stale appeared
these cherished amusements ! Most people would think
the Lismoyle choir a poor substitute for the ranks of white
surplices in the chancel of St. Patrick's, with the banners of
the knights hanging above them, but Francie thought it
much better fun to look down over the edge of the Lismoyle
gallery at the red coats of Captain Cursiter's detachment,
than to stand crushed in the nave of the cathedral, even
though the most popular treble was to sing a solo, and
though Mr. Thomas VVhitty might be waiting on the steps
to disentangle her from the crowd that would slowly surge
up them into the street. A heavy booted foot came along
the passage, and the door was opened by Norry, holding in
her grimy hand a tumbler containing a nauseous-looking
yellow mixture.

" Miss Charlotte bid me give ye a bate egg with a half
glass of whisky in it whenever ye'd come downstairs." She
stirred it with a black kitchen fork, and proffered the sticky
tumbler to Francie, who took it, and swallowed the thin, flat
liquid which it contained with a shudder of loathing. "How
bad y'are ! Dhrink every dhrop of it now ! An empty
sack won't stand, and ye're as white as a masheroon this
minute. God knows it's in yer bed ye should be, and not

H

114 The Real Charlotte.

shtuck out in a chair in the middle of the flure readin' the
paper ! " Her eye fell on the apparently unconscious Mrs.
and Miss Bruif. " Ha, ha ! thin ! how cosy the two of yez
is on yer sofa ! Walk out, me Lady Ann ! "

This courtesy-title, the expression of Norry's supremest
contempt and triumph, was accompanied by a sudden on-
slaught with the hearth-brush, but long before it could reach
them, the ladies referred to had left the room by the open
window.

The room was very quiet after Norry had gone away.
Francie took the evicted holding of the cats, and fell speedily
into a doze induced by the unwonted half glass of whisky.
Her early dinner, an unappetising meal of boiled mutton
and rice pudding, was but a short interlude in the dulness
of the morning ; and after it was eaten, a burning tract of
afternoon extended itself between her and Mr. Dysart's
promised visit. She looked out of the window at the sailing
shreds of white cloud high up in the deep blue of the sky,
at the fat bees swinging and droning in the purple blossoms
of the columbine border, at two kittens playing furiously in
the depths of the mignonette bed ; and regardless of Char-
lotte's injunctions about the heat of the sun, she said to
herself that she would go out into the garden for a little.
It was three o'clock, and her room was as hot as an oven
when she went up to get her hat ; her head ached as she
stood before the glass and arranged the wide brim to her
satisfaction, and stuck her best paste pin into the sailor's
knot of her tie. Suddenly the door burst unceremoniously
open, and Norry's grey head and filthy face were thrust
round the edge of it.

" Come down, Miss Francie ! " she said in a fierce
whisper ; "give over making shnouts at yerself in the glass
and hurry on down ! Louisa isn't in, and sure I can't open
the doore the figure I am."

" Who's there ? " asked Francie, with flushing cheeks.

" How v/ould I know ? I'd say 'twas Misther Lambert's
knock whatever. Sich galloppin' in and out of the house as
there is these two days ! Ye may let in this one yerself ! "

When Francie opened the hall-door she was both relieved
and disappointed to find that Norry had been right in the
matter of the knock. Mr. Lambert was apparently more

The Real Charlotte. 1 15

taken by surprise than she was. He did not speak at once,
but, taking her hand, pressed it very hard, and when Francie,
finding the silence slightly embarrassing, looked up at him
with a laugh that was intended to simplify the situation, she
was both amazed and frightened to seea moisture suspiciously
hke tears in his eyes.

" You — you look rather washed out," he stammered.

" You're very polite ! Is that all you have to say to me ? "
she said, slipping her hand out of his, and gaily ignoring his
tragic tone. " You and your old yacht nearly washed me
out altogether ! At all events, you washed the colour out
of me pretty well." She put up her hands and rubbed her
cheeks. '^ Are you coming in or going out ? Charlotte's
lunching at the Bakers', and I'm going into the garden till
tea-time, so now you can do as you like."

" I'll come into the garden with you," he said, stepping
aside to let her pass out. " But are you sure your head is
well enough for you to go out in this sun ? "

" Sun your granny ! " responded Francie, walking gingerly
across the gravel in her high-heeled house shoes ; " I'm as
well as ever I was."

" Well, you don't look it," he said with a concerned glance
at the faint colour in her cheeks and the violet shadows
under her eyes. " Come and sit down in the shade ; it's
about all you're good for."

A path skirted the flower-beds and bent round the ever-
green-covered slope that rose between the house and the
road, and at the bend a lime-tree spread its flat, green boughs
lavishly over the path, shading a seat made of half-rotten
larch poles that extended its dilapidated arms to the passer-
by.

" Well now, tell me all about it," began Lambert as soon
as they had sat down. " What did you feel like when you
began to remember it all ? Were you very angry with
me?"

*' Yes, of course, I was angry with you, and I am now
this minute, and haven't I a good right, with my new hat at
the bottom of the lake ? "

" I can tell you we were both pretty nearly at the bottom
of the lake along with it," said Lambert, who disapproved
of this frivolous way of treating the affair. " I don't sup

Il6 The Real Charlotte.

pose I ever was nearer death than I was when the sail was
on top of me."

Francie looked at him for one instant with awe-struck
eyes, and Lambert was congratulating himself on having
made her realise the seriousness of the situation, when she
suddenly burst out laughing.

" Oh ! " she apologised, " the thought just came into my
head of the look of Mrs. Lambert in a widow's cap, and
how she'd adore to wear one ! You know she would, now
don't you ? "

" And I suppose you'd adore to see her in one ? "

" Of course I would ! " She gave him a look that was
equivalent to the wag of the tail with which a dog assures
the obtuse human being that its worrying and growling are
only play. "You might know that without being told.
And now perhaps you'll tell me how poor Mrs. Lambert is ?
I hear she was greatly upset by the fright she got about you,
and indeed you're not worthy of it."

" She's much better, thank you."

He looked at Francie under his lowered lids, and tried to
find it in his heart to wish that she could sometimes be a
little more grown up and serious. She was leaning back
with her hat crushed against a trunk of the tree, so that its
brim made a halo round her face, and the golden green
light that filtered through the leaves of the lime moved like
water over her white dress. If he had ever heard the story
of ^' Undine " it might have afforded him the comforting
hypothesis that this delicate, cool, youthful creature, with
her provoking charm, could not possibly be weighted with
the responsibility of a soul ; but an unfortunate lack of early
culture denied to Mr. Lambert this excuse for the levity
with which she always treated him — a man fifteen years
older than she was, her oldest friend, as he might say, who
had always been kind to her ever since she was a scut of a
child. Her eyes were closed ; but an occasional quiver of
the long lashes told him that she had no intention of sleep-
ing ; she was only pretending to be tired, *' out of tricks,"
he thought angrily. He waited for a moment or two, and
then he spoke her name. The corners of her mouth curved
a Httle, but the eyelashes were not raised

" Are you tired, or are you shamming ? "

The Real Charlotte, 117

" Shamming," was the answer, still with closed eyes.

" Don't you think you could open your eyes ? "
" No."

Another short period of silence ensued, and the sound
of summer in the air round them strengthened and deepened,
as the colour strengthens and deepens in a blush. A wasp
strayed in under the canopy of the lime and idled inquisi-
tively about Francie's hat and the bunch of mignonette in
her belt, but she lay so still under this supreme test that
Lambert thought she must be really asleep, and taking out
his handkerchief prepared to route the invader. At the
same moment there came a sound of wheels and a fast-
trotting horse on the road ; it neared them rapidly, and
Miss Fitzpatrick leaped to her feet and put aside the leaves
of the lime just in time to see the back of Mr. Hawkins'
head as his polo-cart spun past the Tally Ho gate.

" I declare I thought it was Mr. Dysart," she said, looking
a little ashamed of herself ; " I wonder where in the name
of fortune is Mr. Hawkins going ? "

" I thought you were so dead asleep you couldn't hear
anything," said Lambert, with a black look ; " he's not
coming here, anyhow."

She dropped back into the corner of the seat again as if
the start forward had tired her.

" Oh ! I was so frightened at the wasp, and I wouldn't
let on ! "

" I wonder why you're always so unfriendly with me now,"
began Lambert suddenly, fixing his eyes upon her; ''there
was once on a time when we were great friends, and you
used to write to me, and you'd say you were glad to see me
when I went up to town, but now you're so set up with your
Dysarts and your officers that you don't think your old
friends worth talking to."

" Oh ! " Francie sat up and faced her accuser valiantly,
but with an inwardly-stricken conscience. '* You know
that's a dirty, black lie ! "

" I came over here this afternoon," pursued Lambert,
"very anxious about you, and wanting to tell you how sorry
I was, and how I accused myself for what had happened —
and how am I treated ? You won't so much as take the
trouble to speak to me. I suppose if I was one of your

Il8 The Real Charlotte.

swell new friends — Christopher Dysart, for instance, who
you are looking out for so hard — it would be a very different
story."

By the time this indictment was delivered, Francie's face
had more colour in it than it had known for some days;
she kept her eyes on the ground and said nothing.

" I knew it was the way of the world to kick a fellow out
of the way when you had got as much as you wanted out of
him, and I suppose as I am an old married man I have no
right to expect anything better, but I did think you'd have
treated me better than this ! "

" Don't," she said brokenly, looking up at him with her
eyes full of tears ; " I'm too tired to fight you."

Lambert took her hand quickly. " My child," he said,
in a voice rough with contrition and pity, " I didn't mean
to hurt you ; I didn't know what I was saying." He
tenderly stroked the hand tha,t lay limply in his. " Tell me
you're not vexed with me."

" No," said P'rancie, with a childish sob ; " but you said
horrid things to me — "

" Well, I never will again," he said soothingly. " We'll
always be friends, won't we ? " with an interrogatory pressure
of the hand. He had never seen her in such a mood as
this ; he forgot the inevitable effect on her nerves of what
she had gone through, and his egotism made him believe
that this collapse of her usual supple hardihood was due to
the power of his reproaches.

** Yes," she answered, with the dawn of a smile.

"Till the next time, anyhow," continued Lambert, still
holding her hand in one of his, and fumbling in his breast
pocket with the other. ^' And now, look here what I
brought you to try and make up to you for nearly drowning
you." He gently pulled her hand down from her eyes, and
held up a small gold bangle, with a horse-shoe in pearls on
it. " Isn't that a pretty thing ? "

Francie looked at it incredulously, with the tears still
shining on her eyelashes.

" Oh, Mr. Lambert, you don't mean you got that for me?
I couJAn't take it. Why, it's real gold ! "

" \\ ell, you've got to take it. Look what's written on it."

She took it from him. and saw engraved inside the

The Real Charlotte. 119

narrow band of gold her own name and the date of the
accident.

" Now, you see it's yours already," he said. " No, you
mustn't refuse it," as she tried to put it back into his hand
again. "There," snapping it quickly on to her wrist, "you
must keep it as a sign you're not angry with me."

"It's like a policeman putting on a handcuff," said
Francie, with a quivering laugh. " I've often seen them
putting them on the drunken men at Dublin."

"And you'll promise not to chuck over your old friends?"
said Lambert urgently.

"No, I won't chuck them over," she replied, looking con-
fidingly at him.

" Not for anybody ? " He weighted the question with all
the expression he was capable of.

" No, not for anybody," she repeated, rather more readily
than he could have wished.

" And you're sure you're not angry with me ? " he per-
sisted, " and you like the bangle ? "

She had taken it off to re-examine it, and she held it up
to him.

"Here, put it on me again, and don't be silly," she said,
the old spirit beginning to wake in her eyes.

'• Do you remember when you were a child the way you
used to thank me when I gave you anything ? " he asked,
pressing her hand hard.

" But I'm not a child now ! "

Lambert, looking in her face, saw the provoking smile
spread like sunshine from her eyes to her lips, and, intoxi-
cated by it, he stooped his head and kissed her.

Steps came running along the walk towards them, and
the fat face and red head of the Protestant orphan appeared
under the boughs of the lime-tree.

" A messenger from Bruff s afther bringing this here,
Miss Francie," she panted, tendering a letter in her fingers,
" an' Miss Charlotte lef me word I should get tea when
ye'd want it, an' will I wet it now? "

Christopher had shirked the expression of Miss Fitz-
Patrick's gratitude.

I20 The Real Charlotte.

CHAPTER XVII.

" Tally Ho Lodge.
"My Dearest Fanny,

'^ Although I'm nearly dead after the bazaar I must write
you a Une or two to tell you what it was like. It was scrum-
shous. I wore my white dress with the embroidery the first
day and the pink dress that you and I bought together the
second day and everybody liked me best in the white one.
It was fearful hot and it was great luck it was at the flower
stall Mrs. Gascogne asked me to sell. Kathleen Baker and
the Beatties had the refreshments and if you saw the colour
of their faces with the heat at tea-time I declare you'd have
to laugh. The Dysarts brought in a lovely lot of flowers
and Mr. Dysart was very nice helping me to tie them up.
You needn't get on with any of your nonsense about him,
he'd never think of flirting with me or anyone though he's
fearfully polite and you'd be in fits if you saw the way Miss
Hopedrummond the girl I told you about was running after
him and anyone could see he'd sooner talk to his sister or
his mother and I don't wonder for their both very nice
which is more than she is. Roddy Lambert was there of
course and poor Mrs. L. in a puce dress and everybody
from the whole country round. Mr. Hawkins was grand
fun. Nothing would do him but to come behind the
counter with me and Mrs. Gascogne and go on with the
greatest nonsense selling buttonholes to the old ladies and
making them buy a lot of old rotten jeranium cuttings that
was all Charlotte would give to the stall. The second day
it was only just the townspeople that were there and I
couldn't be bothered selling to them all day and Httle thanks
you get from them. The half of them came thinking they'd
get every thing for nothing because it was the last day and
you'd hear them fighting Mrs. Gascogne as if she was a
shopwoman. I sat up in the gallery with Hawkins most of
the evening and he brought up tea there and strawberries
and Charlotte was shouting and roaring round the place
looking for me and nobody knew where we were. 'Twas
lovely — "

At this point Miss Fitzpatrick became absorbed in medita-

The Real Charlotte. 12 1

tion, and the portrayal on the blotting-paper of a profile of
a conventionally classic type, which, by virtue of a mous-
tache and a cigarette, might be supposed to represent Mr.
Hawkins. She did not feel inclined to give further details
of her evening, even to Fanny Hemphill. As a matter of
fact she had in her own mind pressed the possibilities of her
acquaintance with Mr. Hawkins to their utmost limit, and
it seemed to her not impossible that soon she might have a
good deal more to say on the subject ; but, nevertheless,
she could not stifle a certain anxiety as to whether, after all,
there would ever be anything definite to tell. Hawkins was
more or less an unknown quantity ; his mere idioms and
slang were the language of another world. It was easy to
diagnose Tommy Whitty or Jimmy Jemmison and their
fellows, but this was a totally new experience, and the light
of previous flirtations had no illuminating power. She had,
at all events, the satisfaction of being sure that on Fanny
Hemphill not even the remotest shadow of an allusion
would be lost, and that, whatever the future might bring
forth, she would be eternally credited with the subjugation
of an English officer.

The profile with the moustache and the cigarette was re-
peated several times on the blotting-paper during this inter-
val, but not to her satisfaction ; her new bangle pressed its
pearly horse-shoes into the whiteness of her wrist and hurt
her, and she took it off and laid it on the table. It also,
and the circumstances of its bestowal, were among the
things that she had not seen fit to mention to the friend of
her bosom. It was nothing of course ; of no more signifi-
cance than the kiss that had accompanied it, except that she
had been glad to have the bangle, and had cared nothing
for the kiss ; but that was just what she would never be able
to get Fanny Hemphill to believe.

The soft, clinging tread of bare feet became audible in
the hall, and a crack of the dining-room door was opened.

" Miss Francie," said a voice through the crack, " th'
oven's hot."

" Have you the eggs and everything ready, Eid ? " asked
Francie, who was adding a blotted smoke-wreath to the
cigarette of the twentieth profile.

" I have, miss," replied the invisible Bid Sal, " an' Norry

122 The Real Charlotte.

says to be hurrying, for 'tis short till Miss Charlotte '11 be
comin' in."

Francie closed the blotter on her half-finished letter, and
pursued the vanishing figure to the kitchen. Norry was
not to be seen, but on the table were bowls with flour,
eggs, and sugar, and beside them was laid a bunch of
twigs, tied together like a miniature birch-rod. The mak-
ing of a sponge-cake was one of Francie's few accomplish-
ments, and putting on an apron of dubious cleanliness, lent
by Louisa, she began operations by breaking the eggs,
separating the yolks from the whites, and throwing the
shells into the fire with professional accuracy of aim.

" Where's the egg-whisk. Bid ? " she demanded.

" 'Tis thim that she bates the eggs with. Miss," answered
Bid Sal in the small, bashful voice by which she indicated
her extreme humility towards those in authority over her,
handing the birch-rod to Francie as she spoke.

" Mercy on us ! What a thing ! I'd be all night beat-
ing them with that ! "

" Musha, how grand ye are ! " broke in Norry's voice
from the scullery, in tones of high disdain ; " if ye can't
bate eggs with that ye'd better lave it to thim that can ! "
Following her words came Norry herself, bearing an im-
mense saucepanful of potatoes, and having hoisted it on to
the fire, she addressed herself to Bid Sal. " Get out from
undher me feet out o' this ! I suppose it's to make cakes
ye'd go, in place of feedin' the pigs ! God knows I have
as much talked since breakfast as'd sicken an ass, but, in-
deed, I might as well be playin' the pianna as tellin' yer
business to the likes o' ye."

A harsh yell at this point announced that a cat's tail had
been trodden on, but, far from expressing compunction,
Norry turned with fury upon the latest offender, and seiz-
ing from a corner beside the dresser an ancient carriage
whip, evidently secreted for the purpose, she flogged the
whole assemblage of cats out of the kitchen. Bid Sal
melted away like snow in a thaw, and Norry, snatching the
bowl of eggs from Francie, began to thrash them with the
birch rod, scolding and grumbling all the time.

" That ye may be happy ! " (This pious wish was with
Norry always ironical.) *' God knows ye should be ashamed.

The Real Charlotte, 123

filling 7er shtummucks with what'U sicken thim, and
dhraggin' the people from their work to be runnin' afther
ye ! "

" I don't want you to be running after me," began
Francie humbly.

" Faith thin that's the truth ! " returned the inexorable
Norry ; " if ye have thim off'cers running afther ye ye're
satisfied. Here, give me the bowl till I butther it. I'd
sooner butther it meself than to be lookin' at ye doin' it ! "

A loud cough, coming from the scullery, of the pecu-
liarly doleful type affected by beggars, momentarily inter-
rupted this tirade.

^^Shdse mick, Nance ! Look at that, now, how ye have
poor Nance the Fool waitin' on me till I give her the
empty bottle for Julia Duffy."

Francie moved towards the scullery door, urged by a
natural curiosity to see what manner of person Nance the
Fool might be, and saw, squatted on the damp flags, an
object which could only be described as a bundle of rags with
a cough in it. The last characteristic was exhibited in such
detail at the sight of Francie that she retired into the
kitchen again, and ventured to suggest to Norry that the
bottle should be given as soon as possible, and the scullery
relieved of Nance the Fool's dreadful presence.

" There it is for her on the dhresser," replied Norry,
still furiously whipping the eggs ; " ye can give it yerself."

From the bundle of rags, as Francie approached it, there
issued a claw, which snatched the bottle and secreted it, and
Francie just caught a glimpse, under the swathing of rags,
of eyes so inflamed with crimson that they seemed to her
Hke pools of blood, and heard mouthings and mumblings
of Irish which might have been benedictions, but, if so,
were certainly blessings in disguise.

" That poor craythur walked three miles to bring me the
bottle I have there on the dhresser. It's yerr'b tay that
Julia Duffy makes for thim that has the colic." Norry was
softening a little as the whites of the eggs rose in stiff and
silvery froth. "Julia's a cousin of me own, through the
mother's family, and she's able to docthor as good as e'er a
docthor there's in it."

" I don't think I'd care to have her doctoring me," said

124 ^^^ ^^^/ Charlotte.

Francie, mindful of the touzled head and dirty face that
had looked down upon her from the window at Gurthna-
muckla.

" And little shance ye'd have to get her ! " retorted Norry;
" 'tis little she regards the likes o' you towards thim that
hasn't a Christhian to look to but herself." Norry defiantly
shook the foam from the birch rod, and proceeded with her
eulogy of Julia Duffy. " She's as wise a woman and as
good a scholar as what's in the country, and raany's the
poor craythure that's prayin' hard for her night and morning
for all she done for thim. B'leeve you me, there's plinty
would come to her funeral that'd be follyin' their own only
for her and her doctherin'."

'' She has a very pretty place," remarked Francie, who
wished to be agreeable, but could not conscientiously extol
Miss Duffy ; " it's a pity she isn't able to keep the house
nicer."

" Nice ! What way have she to keep it nice that hasn't
one but herself to look to ! And if it was clane itself, it's
all the good it'd do her that they'd throw her out of it
quicker."

" Who'd throw her out ? "

" I know that meself." Norry turned away and banged
open the door of the oven. " There's plinty that's ready to
pull the bed from undher a lone woman if they're lookin' for
it for theirselves."

The mixture had by this time been poured into its tin
shape, and, having placed it in the oven, Francie seated
herself on the kitchen table to superintend its baking. The
voice of conscience told her to go back to the dining-room
and finish her letter, but she repressed it, and, picking up a
kitten that had lurked, unsuspected, between a frying-pan
and the wall during the rout of its relatives, she proceeded
to while away the time by tormenting it, and insulting the
cockatoo with frivolous questions.

Miss Mullen's weekly haggle with the butcher did not
last quite as long as usual this Friday morning. She had,
in fact, concluded it by herself taking the butcher's knife,
and, with jocose determination, had proceeded to cut off
the special portion of the " rack " which she wished for, in
spite of Mr. Driscoll's protestations that it had been bespoke

The Real Charlotte. 12^

by Mrs. Gascogne. Exhilarated by this success, she walked
home at a brisk pace, regardless of the heat, and of the
weight of the rusty black tourists' bag which she always
wore, slung across her shoulders by a strap, on her ex-
peditions into the town. There was no one to be seen in
the house when she came into it, except the exiled cats,
who were sleeping moodily in a patch of sunshine on the
hall-mat, and after some passing endearments, their mistress
went on into the dining-room, in which, by preference, as
well as for economy, she sat in the mornings. It had, at all
events, one advantage over the drawing-room, in possessing
a sunny French window, opening on to the little grass-
garden — a few untidy flower-beds, with a high, undipped
hedge surrounding them, the resort of cats and their break-
fast dishes, but for all that a pleasant outlook on a hot day.
Francie had been writing at the dinner-table, and Charlotte
sat down in the chair that her cousin had vacated, and
began to add up the expenses of the morning. ^Vhen she
had finished, she opened the blotter to dry her figures, and
saw, lying in it, the letter that Francie had begun.

In the matter of reading a letter not intended for her eye,
Miss Mullen recognised only her own inclinations, and the
facilities afforded to her by fate, and in this instance one
played into the hands of the other. She read the letter
through quickly, her mouth set at its grimmest expression
of attention, and replaced it carefully in the blotting-case
where she found it. She sat still, her two fists clenched on
the table before her, and her face rather redder than
even the hot walk from Lismoyle had made it.

There had been a good deal of information in the letter
that was new to her, and it seemed important enough to de-
mand much consideration. The reflection on her own con-
tribution to the bazaar did not hurt her in the least_, in fact
it slightly raised her opinion of Francie that she should
have noticed it ; but that ingenuous confidence about the
evening spent in the gallery was another affair. At this
point in her reflections, she became aware that her eye was
attracted by something glittering on the green baize of the
dinner-table, half-hidden under two or three loose sheets of
paper. It was the bangle that she remembered having seen
on Francie's wrist, and she took it up and looked curiously

126 The Real Charlotte.

at the double horse-shoes as she appraised its value. She
never thought of it as being real — Francie was not at all
above an effective imitation — and she glanced inside to see
what the mark might be. There was the eighteen-carat
mark sure enough, and there also was Francie's name and
the date, July ist, 189 — . A moment's reflection enabled
Charlotte to identify this as the day of the yacht accident,
and another moment sufficed for her to determine that the
giver of the bangle had been Mr. Hawkins. She was only
too sure that it had not been Christopher, and certainly no
glimmer of suspicion crossed her mind that the first spend-
ings from her loan to Mr. Lambert were represented by the
bangle.

She opened the blotter, and read again that part of the
letter that treated of Christopher Dysart. " P'yah ! " she
said to herself, " the little fool ! what does she know about
him ? " At this juncture, the wheezing of the spring of the
passage-door gave kindly signal of danger, and Charlotte
deftly slipped the letter back into the blotter, replaced the
bangle under the sheets of paper, and was standing outside
the French window when Francie came into the room, with
flushed cheeks, a dirty white apron, and in her hands a
plate bearing a sponge-cake of the most approved shade of
golden-brown. At sight of Charlotte she stopped guiltily,
and, as the latter stepped in at the window, she became even
redder than the fire had made her.

♦' Oh — I've just made this, Charlotte — " she faltered \ " I
bought the eggs and the butter myself ; I sent Bid for them,
and Norry said — she thought you wouldn't mind — "

On an ordinary occasion Charlotte might have minded
considerably even so small a thing as the heating of the
oven and the amount of flour and sugar needed for the con-
struction of the cake; but a slight, a very slight sense of
wrong-doing, conspired with a little confusion, consequent
on the narrowness of her escape, to dispose her to com-
pliance.

"Why, me dear child, why would I mind anything so
agreeable to me and all concerned as that splendour of a
cake that I see there ? I declare I never gave you credit
for being able to do anything half as useful ! 'Pon me
honour, I'll give a tea-party on the strength of it." Even as

The Real Charlotte. 127

she spoke she had elaborated the details of a scheme of
which the motor should be the cake that Francie's own
hand had constructed.

The choir practice was poorly attended that afternoon.
A long and heavy shower, coming at the critical moment,
had combined with a still longer and heavier luncheon-
party given by Mrs. Lynch, the solicitor's wife, to keep
away several members. Francie had evaded her duties by
announcing that her only pair of thick boots had gone to be
soled, and only the most ardent mustered round Mrs.
Gascogne's organ bench. Of these was Pamela Dysart,
faithful, as was her wont, in the doing of what she had
undertaken; and as Charlotte kicked off her goloshes at
the gallery door, and saw Pamela's figure in its accustomed
place, she said to herself that consistency was an admirable
quality. Her approbation was still warm when she joined
Pamela at the church door after the practice was over, and
she permitted herself the expression of it.

•' Miss Dysart, you're the only young woman of the
rising generation in whom I place one ha'porth of reliance ;
I can tell you, not one step would I have stirred out on the
chance of meeting any other member of the choir on a day
of this kind, but I knew I might reckon on meeting jj/(i« here."

" Oh, I like coming to the practices," said Pamela, won-
dering why Miss Mullen should specially want to see her.
They were standing in the church porch waiting for Pamela's
pony-cart, while the rain streamed off the roof in a white veil
in front of them. " You must let me drive you home," she
went on ; " but I don't think the trap will come till this
downpour is over."

Under the gallery stairs stood a bench, usually appro-
priated to the umbrellas and cloaks of the congregation ;
and after the rest of the choir had launched themselves forth
upon the yellow torrent that took the place of the path
through the churchyard, Pamela and Miss Mullen sat them-
selves down upon it to wait. Mrs. Gascogne was practising
her Sunday voluntary, and the stairs were trembling with the
vibrations of the organ ; it was a Largo of Bach's, and
Pamela would infinitely have preferred to listen to it than
to lend a poUte ear to Charlotte's less tuneful but equally re-
verberating voice.

128 The Real Charlotte.

" I think I mentioned to you, Miss Dysart, that I have to
go to Dublin next week for three or four days ; teeth, you
know, teeth — not that I suppose you have any experience of
such miseries yet ! "

Pamela did not remember, nor, beyond a sympathetic
smile, did she at first respond. Her attention had been
attracted by the dripping, deplorable countenance of Max,
which was pleading to her round the corner of the church
door for that sanctuary which he well knew to be eternally
denied to him. There had been a time in Max's youth
when he had gone regularly with Pamela to afternoon ser-
vice, lying in a corner of the gallery in discreet slumber.
But as he emerged from puppydom he had developed habits
of snoring and scratching which had betrayed his presence
to Mrs. Gascogne, and the climax had come one Sunday
morning when, in defiance of every regulation, he had flung
himself from the drawing-room window at Bruff, and followed
the carriage to the church, at such speed as his crooked legs
could compass. Finding the gallery door shut, he had made
his way nervously up the aisle until, when nearing the
chancel steps, he was so overcome with terror at the sight
of the surpliced figure of the Archdeacon sternly fulminating
the Commandments, that he had burst out into a loud fit of
hysterical barking. Pamela and the culprit had made an
abject visit to the Rectory next day, but the sentence of ex-
communication went forth, and Max's religious exercises
were thenceforth limited to the churchyard. But on this
unfriendly afternoon the sight of his long melancholy nose,
and ears dripping with rain, was too much for even Pamela's
rectitude.

" Oh, yes, teeth are horrible things," she murmured,
stealthily patting her waterproof in the manner known to all
dogs as a signal of encouragement.

'* Horrible things ! Upon my word they are ! Beaks,
that's what we ought to have instead of them ! I declare I
don't know which is the worst, cutting your first set of teeth,
or your last ! But that's not what's distressing me most
about going to Dublin."

" Really," said Pamela, who, conscious that Max was now
securely hidden behind her petticoats, was able to give her
whole attention to Miss Mullen; '* I hope it's nothing serious."

The Real Charlotte. 129

" Well, Miss Dysart," said Charlotte, with a sudden burst
of candour, " I'll tell you frankly what it is. I'm not easy
in my mind about leaving that girl by herself — Francie y'
know — she's very young, and I suppose I may as well tell
the truth, and say she's very pretty." She paused for the
confirmation that Pamela readily gave. '' So you'll under-
stand now, Miss Dysart, that I feel anxious about leaving her
in a house by herself, and the reason I wanted to see you so
specially to-day was to ask if you'd do me a small favour,
which, being your mother's daughter, I'm sure you'll not re-
fuse." She looked up at Pamela, showing all her teeth. " I
want you to be the good angel that you always are, and
come in and look her up sometimes if you happen to be in
town."

The lengthened prelude to this modest request might
have indicated to a more subtle soul than Pamela's that
something weightier lay behind it ; but her grey eyes met
Miss Mullen's restless brown ones with nothing in them ex-
cept kindly surprise that it was such a little thing that she
had been asked to do.

" Of course I will," she answered ; ^ mamma and I will
have to come in about clearing away the rest of that awful
bazaar rubbish, and I shall be only too glad to come and
see her, and I hope she will come and lunch at Brufif some
day while you are away."

This was not quite what Charlotte was aiming at, but still
it was something.

'' You're a true friend, Miss Dysart," she said gushingly,
" I knew you would be ; it'll only be for a few days, at all
events, that I'll bother you with me poor relation ! I'm
sure she'll be able to amuse herself in the evenings and
mornings quite well, though indeed, poor child, I'm afraid
she'll be lonely enough ! "

Mrs. Gascogne, putting on her gloves at the top of the
stairs, thought to herself that Charlotte Mullen might be
able to impose upon Pamela, but other people were not so
easily imposed on. She leaned over the staircase railing,
and said, " Are you aware, Pamela, that your trap is waiting
at the gate ? " Pamela got up, and Max, deprived of the
comfortable shelter of her skirts, crawled forth from under
ihe bench and sneaked out of the church door. " I

I

130 The Real Charlotte.

wouldn't have that dog's conscience for a good deal," went
on Mrs. Gascogne as she came downstairs. " In fact, I am
beginning to think that the only people who get everything
they want are the people who have no consciences at
all."

" There's a pretty sentiment for a clergyman's wife ! " ex-
claimed Charlotte. *' Wait till I see the Archdeacon and
ask him what sort of theology that is ! Now wasn't that the
very image of Mrs. Gascogne ? " she continued as Pamela
and she drove away ; " the best and the most religious
woman in the parish, but no one's able to say a sharper
thing when she likes, and you never know what heterodoxy
she'll let fly at you next ! "

The rain was over, and the birds were singing loudly in
the thick shrubs at Tally Ho as Pamela turned the roan
pony in at the gate ; the sun was already drawing a steamy
warmth from the be-puddled road, and the blue of the after-
noon sky was glowing freshly and purely behind a widening
proscenium of clouds.

" Now you might just as well come in and hr:ve a cup of
tea ; it's going to be a lovely evening after all, and I happen
to know there's a grand sponge-cake in the house." Thus
spoke Charlotte, with hospitable warmth, and Pamela per-
mitted herself to be persuaded. " It was Francie made it
herself; she'll be as proud as Punch at having you to — "
Charlotte stopped short with her hand on the drawing-room
door, and then opened it abruptly.

There was no one to be seen, but on the table were two
half-empty cups of tea, and the new sponge-cake, reduced
by one-third, graced the centre of the board. Miss Mullen
glared round the room. A stifled giggle broke from the
corner behind the piano, and Francie's head appeared over
the top, instantly followed by that of Mr. Hawkins.

" We thought 'twas visitors when we heard the wheels,"
said Miss Fitzpatrick, still laughing, but looking very much
ashamed of herself, " and we went to hide when they passed
the window for fear we'd be seen." She paused, not know-
ing what to say, and looked entreatingly at Pamela. " I
never thought it'd be you — "

It was borne in on her suddenly that this was not the
manner in which Miss Dysart would have acted under

The Real Charlotte 131

similar circumstances, and for the first time a doubt as to
the fitness of her social methods crossed her mind.

Pamela, as she drove home after tea, thought she under-
stood why it was that Miss Mullen did not wish her cousin
to be left to her own devices in Lismoyle.

CHAPTER XVIII.

There was no sound in the red gloom, except the steady
trickle of running water, and the anxious breathing of the
photographer. Christopher's long hands moved mysteri-
ously in the crimson light, among phials, baths, and cases of
negatives, while uncanny smells of various acids and com-
pounds thickened the atmosphere. Piles of old trunks
towered dimly in the corners, a superannuated sofa stood
on its head by the wall, with its broken hind-legs in the air,
three old ball skirts hung like ghosts of Bluebeard's wives
upon the door, from which, to Christopher's developing tap,
a narrow passage forced its angular way.

There was presently a step on the uncarpeted flight of
attic stairs, accompanied by a pattering of broad paws, and
Pamela, closely attended by the inevitable Max, slid with
due caution into the room.

" Well, Christopher," she began, sitting gingerly down
in the darkness on an old imperial, a rehc of the period
when Sir Benjamin posted to Dublin in his own carriage,
" Mamma says she is to come ! "

" Lawks ! " said Christopher succinctly, after a pause
occupied by the emptying of one photographic bath into
another.

" Mamma said she * felt Charlotte Mullen's position so
keenly in having to leave that girl by herself,' " pursued
Pamela, '' ' that it was only common charity to take her in
here while she was away.' "

" Well, my dear, and what are you going to do with
her ? " said Christopher cheerfully.

''Oh, I can't think," replied Pamela despairingly; "and
I know that Evelyn does not care about her ; only last
night she said she dressed like a doll at a bazaar."

132 The Real Charlotte.

Christopher busied himself with his chemicals and said
nothing.

" The fact is, Christopher," went on his sister decisively,
^^ you will have to undertake her. Of course, I'll help you,
but I really cannot face the idea of entertaining both her
and Evelyn at the same time. Just imagine how they
would hate it."

" Let them hate it," said Christopher, with the crossness
of a good-natured person who feels that his good nature is
going to make him do a disagreeable thing.

" Ah, Christopher, be good ; it will only be for three
days, and she's very easy to talk to ; in fact," ended Pamela
apologetically, ** I think I rather like her ! "

*' Well, do you know," said Christopher, ** the curious
thing is, that though I can't talk to her and she can't talk
to me, I rather like her, too — when I'm at the other end of
the room."

" That's all very fine," returned Pamela dejectedly ; " it
may amuse you to study her through a telescope, but it
won't do anyone else much good ; after all, you are the
person who is really responsible for her being here. You
saved her life."

" I know I did," replied her brother irritably, staring at
the stumpy candle behind the red glass of the lantern,
unaware of the portentous effect of its light upon his eye-
glass, which shone like a ball of fire ; " that's much the
worst feature of the case. It creates a dreadful bond of
union. At that infernal bazaar, whenever I happened to
come within hail of her. Miss Mullen collected a crowd
and made a speech at us. I will say for her that she hid
with Hawkins as much as she could, and did her best to
keep out of my way. As I said before, I have no personal
objection to her, but I have no gift for competing with
young women. Why not have Hawkins to dinner every
night and to luncheon every day ? It's much the simplest
way of amusing her, and it will save me a great deal of
wear and tear that I don't feel equal to."

Pamela got up from the imperial.

" I hate you when you begin your nonsense of theorising
about yourself as if you were a mixture of INIethuselah and
Diogenes y I have seen you making yourself just as agree-

The Real Charlotte, 1 33

able to yonng women as Mr. Hawkins or anyone ; " she
paused at the door. " She'll be here the day after to-
morrow," with a sudden collapse into pathos. " Oh, Chris-
topher, you must help me to amuse her."

Two days afterwards Miss Mullen left for Dublin by the
early train, and in the course of the morning her cousin got
upon an outside car in company with her trunk, and em-
barked upon the preliminary stage of her visit to Bruif.
She was dressed in the attire which in her own mind she
specified as her " Sunday clothes," and as the car rattled
through Lismoyle, she put on a pair of new yellow silk
gloves with a confidence in their adequacy to the situation
that was almost touching. She felt a great need of their
support. Never since she was grown up had she gone on a
visit, except for a night or two to the Hemphills' summer
lodgings at Kingstown, when such "things " as she required
were conveyed under her arm in a brown paper parcel, and
she and the three Miss Hemphills had sociably slept in the
back drawing-room. She had been once at Bruff, a visit of
ceremony, when Lady Dysart only had been at home, and
she had sat and drunk her tea in unwonted silence, wishing
that there were sugar in it, but afraid to ask for it, and re-
specting Charlotte for the ease with which she accepted her
surroundings, and discoursed of high and difficult matters
with her hostess. It was only the thought of writing to her
Dublin friends to tell them of how she had stayed at Sir
Benjamin Dysart's place that really upheld her during the
drive ; no matter how terrible her experiences might be, the
fact would remain to her, sacred and unalterable.

Nevertheless, its consolations seemed very remote at the
moment when the car pulled up at the broad steps of Bruft,
and Gorman the butler came down them, and solemnly
assisted her to alight, while the setter and spaniel, who had
greeted her arrival with the usual official chorus of barking,
smelt round her politely but with extreme firmness. She
stood forlornly in the big cool hall, waiting till Gorman
should be pleased to conduct her to the drawing-room,
uncertain as to whether she ought to take off her coat,
uncertain what to do with her umbrella, uncertain of all
things except of her own ignorance. A white stone double
staircase rose overawingly at the end of the hall ; the floor

134 ^^^ i?^^/ Charlotte,

under her feet was dark and slippery, and when she did
at length prepare to follow the butler, slie felt that visiting
at grand houses was not as pleasant as it sounded.

A door into the hall suddenly opened, and there issued
from it the hobbling figure of an old man wearing a rusty
tall hat down over his ears, and followed by a cadaverous
attendant, who was holding an umbrella over the head of
his master, like a Siamese courtier.

" D — n your eyes, James Canavan ! " said Sir Benjamin
Dysart, " can't you keep the rain off my new hat, you black-
guard ! " Then spying Francie, who was crossing the hall,
' Ho-ho ! That's a fine girl, begad 1 What's she doing in
my hall ? "

" Oh, hush, hush, Sir Benjamin ! " said James Canavan,
In tones of shocked propriety. " That is a young lady
visitor."

"Then she's my visitor," retorted Sir Benjamin, striking
his ponderous stick on the ground, "and a devilish pretty
visitor, too ! I'll drive her out in my carriage to-morrow."

" You will, Sir Benjamin, you will," answered his hench-
man, hurrying the master of the house along towards the
hall door ; while Francie, with a new and wholly unexpected
terror added to those she had brought with her, followed
the butler to the drawing-room.

It was a large room. Francie felt it to be the largest she
had ever been in, as she advanced round a screen, and saw
Lady Dysart at an immeasurable distance working at a heap
of dingy serge, and behmd her, still further off, the well-
curled head of Miss Hope-Drummond just topping the
cushion of a low arm-chair.

" Oh, how do you do," said Lady Dysart, getting up
briskly, and dropping as she did so a large pair of scissors
and the child's frock at which she had been working.
" You are very good to have come over so early."

The geniality of Lady Dysart's manner might have assured
anyone less alarmed than her visitor that there was no ill
intention in this remark ; but such discernment was beyond
Francie.

"Miss Mullen told me to be over here by twelve. Lady
Dysart," she said abjectly, " and as she had the car ordered
for me I didn't like — "

The Real Charlotte. 1 35

Lady Dysart began to laugh, with the large and yet re-
fined bonhonwiie that was with her the substitute for tact.

" Why shouldn't you come early, my dear child ? " she
said, looking approvingly at Francie's embarrassed counten-
ance. " I'll tell Pamela you are here. Evelyn, don't you
know Miss Fitzpatrick? "

Miss Hope-Drummond, thus adjured, raised herself
/anguidly from her chair, and shook hands with the new-
comer, as Lady Dysart strode from the room with her
customary business-like rapidity. Silence reigned for nearly
a minute after the door closed ; but at length Miss Hope-
Drummond braced herself to the exertion of being agree-
able.

" Very hot day, isn't it ? " looking at Francie's flushed
cheeks.

"It is indeed, roasting ! I was nearly melting with the
heat on the jaunting-car coming over," replied Francie, with
a desire to be as responsive as possible, " but it's lovely and
cool in here."

She looked at Miss Hope-Drummond's spotless white
gown, and wished she had not put on her Sunday terra-
cotta.

"Oh, is it?"

Silence ; during which Francie heard the wheels of her
car grinding away down the avenue, and wished that she
were on it.

" Have you been out on the lake much lately, Miss
Hope-Drummond ? "

Francie's wish was merely the laudable one of trying to
keep the heavy ball of conversation rolling, but the question
awoke a slumbering worm of discontent in her companion's
well-ordered breast. Christopher was even now loosing
from his moorings at the end of the park, without having
so much as mentioned that he was going out ; and Captain
Cursiter, her own compatriot, attached — almost linked — to
her by the bonds of mutual acquaintances, and her thorough
knowledge of the Lincolnshire Cursiters, had not risen to
the fly that she had only yesterday thrown over him on the
subject of the steam-launch.

" No ; I had rather more than I cared for the last time
we were out, the day of the picnic. I've had neuralgia in

136 The Real Charlotte,

my face ever since that evening, we were all kept out so
late."

" Oh, my ! That neuralgia's a horrid thing," said Francie
sympathetically. " I didn't get any harm out of it with all
the wetting and the knock on my head and everything. I
thought it was lovely fun ! But " — forgetting her shyness in
the interest of the moment — " Mr. Hawkins told me that
Cursiter said to him the world wouldn't get him to take out
ladies in his boat again ! "

Miss Hope-Drummond raised her dark eyebrows.

"Really? That is very crushing of Captain Cursiter."

Francie felt in a moment an emphasis on the word
Captain ; but tried to ignore her own confusion.

" It doesn't crush me, I can tell you ! I wouldn't give a
pin to go in his old boat. I'd twice sooner go in a yacht,
upsets and all 1 "

^^Oh!"

Miss Hope-Drummond said no more than this, but her
tone was sufficient. Her eyes strayed towards the book
that lay in her lap, and the finger inserted in its pages
showed, as if unconsciously, a tendency to open it again.

There was another silence, during which Francie studied
the dark and unintelligible oil-paintings on the expanses of
wall, the flowers, arranged with such easy and careless
lavishness in strange and innumerable jars and vases ; and
lastly, Dinah, in a distant window, catching and eating flies
with disgusting avidity. She felt as if her petticoats showed
her boots more than was desirable, that her gloves were of
too brilliant a tint, and that she ought to have left her
umbrella in the hall. At this painful stage of her reflections
she heard Lady Dysart's incautious voice outside :

" It's always the way with Christopher ; he digs a hole
and buries himself in it whenever he's wanted. Take her
out and let her eat strawberries now ; and then in the
afternoon — " the voice suddenly sank as if in response to
an admonition, and Francie's already faint heart sank along
with it. Oh, to be at the Hemphills, making toffee on the
parlour fire, remote from the glories and sufferings of
aristocratic houses I The next moment she was shaking
hands with Pamela, and becoming gradually aware that she
was in an atmosphere of ease and friendliness, much as the

The Real Charlotte. 1 37

slow pleasure of a perfume makes itself slowly felt. The
fact that Pamela had on a grass hat of sunburnt maturity,
and a skirt which bore the imprint of dogs' paws was in
itself reassuring, and as they went together down a shrubbery
walk, and finally settled upon the strawberry beds in the
fvide, fragrant kitchen-garden, the first terrors began to
subside in Francie's trembling soul, and she found herself
breathing more naturally in this strange, rarefied condition
of things. Even luncheon was less formidable than she had
expected. Christopher was not there, the dreaded Sir
Benjamin was not there, and Lady Dysart consulted her
about the cutting-out of poor clothes, and accepted with an
almost alarming enthusiasm the suggestions that Francie
diffidently brought up from the depths of past experience of
the Fitzpatrick wardrobe.

The long, unusual leisure of the afternoon passed by her
like a pleasant dream, in which, as she sat in a basket-chair
under the verandah outside the drawing-room windows,
illustrated papers, American magazines, the snoring lethargy
of the dogs, and the warm life and stillness of the air were
about equally blended. Miss Hope-Drummond lay aloof
in a hammock under a horse-chestnut tree at the end of the
flower-garden, working at the strip of Russian embroidery
that some day was to languish neglected on the stall of an
English bazaar ; Francie had seen her trail forth with her
arms full of cushions, and dimly divined that her fellow-
guest was hardly tolerating the hours that were to her like
fragments collected from all the holidays she had ever
known. No wonder, she thought, that Pamela wore a brow
of such serenity, when days like this were her ordinary
portion. Five o'clock came, and with it, with the majestic
punctuality of a heavenly body, came Gorman and the tea
equipage, attended by his satellite, William, bearing the tea-
table. Francie had never heard the word idyllic, but the
feeling that it generally conveys came to her as she lay back
in her chair, and saw the roses swaying about the pillars of
the verandah, and watched the clots of cream sliding into
her cup over the broad hp of the cream jug, and thought
how incredibly brilliant the silver was, and that Miss
Dysart's hands looked awfully pretty while she was pouring
out tea, and weren't a bit spoiled by being rather brown.

138 The Real Charlotte.

It was consolatory that Miss Hope-Drummond had elected
to have her tea conveyed to her in the hammock ; it was
too much trouble to get out of it, she called, in her shrill,
languid voice, and no one had argued the matter with her.
Lady Dysart, who had occupied herself during the afternoon
in visiting the garden-beds and giving a species of clinical
lecture on each to the wholly unimpressed gardener, had
subsided into a chair beside Francie, and began to discuss
with her the evangelical preachers of Dublin, a mark of con-
fidence and esteem which Pamela noticed with astonish-
ment. Francie had got to her second cup of tea, and had
evinced an edifying familiarity with Lady Dysart's most
chosen divines, when the dogs, who had been seated
opposite Pamela, following with lambent eyes the passage
of each morsel to her lips, rushed from the verandah, and
charged with furious barkings across the garden and down
the lawn towards two figures, whom in their hearts they
knew to be the sons of the house, but whom, for histrionic
purposes, they affected to regard as dangerous strangers.

Miss Hope-Drummond sat up in her hammock and
pinned her hat on straight.

" Mr. Dysart," she called, as Christopher and Garry
neared her chestnut tree, " you've just come in time to get
me another cup of tea."

Christopher dived under the chestnut branches, and
presently, with what Miss Hope-Drummond felt to be un-
exampled stupidity, returned with it, but without his own.
He had even the gaucherie to commend her choice of the
hammock, and having done so, to turn and walk back to
the verandah, and Miss Hope-Drummond asked herself for
the hundredth time how the Castlemores could have put up
with him.

" I met the soldiers out on the lake to-day," Christopher
remarked as he sat down ; *' I told them to come and dine
to-morrow." He looked at Pamela with an eye that chal-
lenged her gratitude, but before she could reply, Garry in-
terposed in tones muffled by cake.

*' He did, the beast ; and he might have remembered it
was my birthday, and the charades and everything."

" Oh, Garry, 7nust we have charades ? " said Pamela la-
mentably.

The Real Charlotte. 139

'^Well, of course we must, you fool," returned Garry with
Scriptural directness ; " I've told all the men about the
place, and Kitty Gascogne's coming to act, and James
Canavan's going to put papa to bed early and help us — *
Garry's voice sank to the fluent complaining undertone that
distinguishes a small boy with a grievance, and Christopher
turned to his mother's guest.

'' I suppose you've acted in charades, Miss Fitzpatrick ? "

" Is it me act ? Oh goodness, no, Mr, Dysart ! I never
did such a thing but once, when I had to read Lady Mac-
beth's part at school, and I thought I'd died laughing the
whole time."

Pamela and Lady Dysart exchanged glances as they
laughed at this reminiscence. Would Christopher ever talk
to a girl with a voice like this ? was the interpretation of
Pamela's glance, while Lady Dysart's was a mere note of
admiration for the way that the sunlight caught the curls on
Francie's forehead as she sat up to speak to Christopher,
and for the colour that had risen in her cheeks since his
arrival, more especially since his announcement that Captain
Cursiter and Mr. Hawkins were coming to dinner. There
are few women who can avoid some slight change of manner
and even of appearance, when a man is added to the com-
pany, and it may at once be said that Francie was far
from trying to repress her increased interest on such an
occasion.

"What made you think I could act, Mr. Dysart?" she
said, looking at him a little self-consciously ; " do you think
I look like an actress ? "

The question was interrupted by a cry from the chestnut
tree, and Miss Hope-Drummond's voice was heard appeal-
ing to someone to come and help her out of the ham-
mock.

" She can get out jolly well by herself," remarked Garry,
but Christopher got up and lounged across the grass in re-
sponse to the summons, and Francie's question remained
unanswered. Lady Dysart rose too, and watched her son
helping Miss Hope-Drummond on to her feet, and strolling
away with her in the direction of the shrubbery. Then she
turned to Francie.

" Now. Miss Fitzpatrick, you shall come and explain that

140 The Real Charlotte.

Dorcas Society sleeve to me, and I should not be surprised
if you could help me with the acrostic."

Lady Dysart considered herself to be, before all things, a
diplomatist.

CHAPTER XIX.

Dinner was over. Gorman was regaling his fellows in the
servants' hall with an account of how Miss Fitzpatrick had
eaten her curry with a knife and fork, and her Scotch wood-
cock with a spoon, and how she had accepted every variety
of wine that he had offered her, and taken only a mouthful
of each, an eccentricity of which William was even now
reaping the benefit in the pantry. Mrs. Brady, the cook,
dared say that by all accounts it was the first time the poor
child had seen a bit served the way it would be fit to put
into a Christian's mouth, and, indeed, it was little she'd
learn of behaviour or dinners from Miss Mullen, except to
make up messes for them dirty cats — a remark which ob-
tained great acceptance from her audiencef Mr. Gorman
then gave it as his opinion that Miss Fitzpatrick was as fine
a girl as you'd meet between this and Dublin, and if he was
Mr. Christopher, he'd prefer her to Miss Hope-Drummond,
even though the latter might be hung down with diamonds.
The object of this criticism was meantime congratulating
herself that she had accomplished the last and most dreaded
of the day's ceremonies, and, so far as she knew, had gone
through it without disaster. She certainly felt as if she
never had eaten so much in her life, and she thought to
herself that, taking into consideration the mental anxiety
and the loss of time involved in the consumption of one of
these grand dinners, she infinitely preferred the tea and
poached eggs which formed her ordinary repast. Pamela
was at the piano, looking a long way off in the dim pink
light of the shaded room, and was playing such strange
music as Francie had never heard before, and secretly hoped
never to hear again. She had always believed herself to be
extremely fond of music, and was wont to feel very senti-
mental when she and one of that tribe whom it is to be
feared she spoke of as her " fellows," sat on the rocks at the

The Real Charlotte. 141

back of Kingstown pier and listened to the band playing
" Dorothy," or " The Lost Chord," in the dark of the
summer evening ; but these mmor murmurings, that seemed
to pass by steep and painful chromatic paths from one woe
to another, were to her merely exercises of varying difficulty
and ugliness, in which Miss Dysart never seemed to get the
chords quite right. She was too shy to get up and search
for amusement among the books and papers upon a remote
table, and accordingly she lay back in her chair and regarded
Lady Dysart and Miss Hope-Drummond, both comfortably
absorbed in conversation, and wondered whether she
should ever have money enough to buy herself a tea-
gown.

The door opened, and Christopher sauntered in"; he
looked round the room through his eye-glass^ and then
wandered towards the piano, where he sat down beside
Pamela. Francie viewed this proceeding with less resent-
ment than if he had been any other man in the world ; she
did not so much mind a neglect in which Miss Hope-
Drummond was equally involved, and she was rather fright-
ened than otherwise, when soon afterwards she saw him, in
evident obedience to a hint from his sister, get up and come
towards her with a large photograph-book under his arm.
He sat down beside her, and, with what Pamela, watching
from the distant piano, felt to be touching docihty, began to
expound its contents to her. He had done this thing so
often before^ and he knew, or thought he knew so well what
people were going to say, that nothing but the unfailing
proprietary interest in his own handiwork supported him on
these occasions. He had not, however, turned many pages
before he found that Francie's comments were by no means
of the ordinary tepid and perfunctory sort. The Oxford
chapels were, it is true, surveyed by her in anxious silence ;
but a crowd of undergraduates leaning over a bridge to look
at an eight — an instantaneous photograph of a bump-race,
with its running accompaniment of maniacs on the bank —
Christopher's room, with Dinah sitting in his armchair with
a pipe in her mouth — were all examined and discussed with
fervid interest, and a cry of unfeigned excitement greeted
the page on which his own photography made its delmi with
a deep-brown portrait of Pamela.

142 The Real Charlotte.

" Mercy on us ! That's not Miss Dysart ! What has she
her face blackened for ? "

" Oh, I did that when I didn't know much about it last
winter, and it's rather over-exposed," answered Christopher,
regarding his work of art with a lenient parental eye.

" The poor thing I And was it the cold turned her black
that way ? "

Christopher glanced at his companion's face to see whether
this ignorance was genuine, but before he had time to offer
the scientific explanation, she had pounced on a group
below.

" Why, isn't that the butler ? Goodness ! he's the dead
image of the Roman Emperors in Mangnall's questions !
And who are all the other people? I declare, one of
them's that queer man I saw in the hall with the old gentle-
man— " She stopped and stammered as she realised that
she had touched on what must necessarily be a difficult
subject.

" Yes, this is a photograph of the servants," said Chris-
topher, filling the pause with compassionate speed, ^' and
that's James Canavan. You'll see him to-morrow night
taking a leading part in Garry's theatricals."

" Why, d'ye tell me that man can act ? "

" Act ? I should think so ! " he laughed, as if at some
recollection or other. " He can do anything he tries, or
thinks he can. He began by being a sort of hedge-school-
master, but he was too mad to stick to it. Anyhow, my
father took him up, and put him into the agency office, and
now he's his valet, and teaches Garry arithmetic when he's
at home, and writes poems and plays. I envy you your
first sight of James Canavan on the boards," he ended,
laughing again.

" The boards ! " Francie thought to herself, " I wonder
is it like a circus ? "

The photographs progressed serenely after this. Francie
began to learn something of the discreetness that must be
observed in inspecting amateur portrait photography, and
Christopher, on his side, found he was being better enter-
tained by Miss Mullen's cousin than he could have believed
possible. They turned page after page steadily and con-
versationally, until Christopher made a pause of unconscious

The Real Charlotte. 143

pride and affection at a group of photographs of yachts in
different positions.

" These are some of the best I have," he said ; " that's
my boat, and that is Mr. Lambert's."

" Oh, the nasty thing ! I'm sure I don't want to see her
again ! and I shouldn't think you did either ! " with an un-
certain glance at him. It had seemed to her when, once or
twice before, she had spoken of the accident to him, that it
was a subject he did not care about. " Mr. Lambert says
that the upsetting wasn't her fault a bit, and he hkes going
out in her just the same. I think he's a very brave man,
don't you ? "

" Oh, very," replied Christopher perfunctorily ; " but he
rather overdoes it, I think, sometimes, and you know you
got the worst of that business."

" I think you must have had the worst of it," she said
timidly. " I never was able to half thank you — " Even
the equalising glow from the pink lampshades could not
conceal the deepening of the colour in her cheeks.

" Oh, please don't try," interrupted Christopher, surprised
into a fellow-feeling of shyness, and hastily turning over the
yachting page ; " it was nothing at all."

" Indeed, I wanted to say it to you before," persevered
Francie, "that time at the bazaar, but there always were
people there. Charlotte told me that only for you the pike
would be eating me at the bottom of the lake ! " she ended
with a nervous laugh.

" What a very unpleasant thing to say, and not strictly
true," said Christopher lightly. "Do you recognise Miss
Mullen in this?" he went on, hurrying from the
subject.

" Oh, how pretty ! " cried Francie, peering into a small
and dark picture ; " but I don't see Charlotte. It's the
waterfall in the grounds, isn't it ? "

Pamela looked over from the piano again, amazed to hear
her brother's voice raised in loud laughter. There was no
denying that the picture was like a waterfall, and Francie at
first rejected with scorn the explanation that it represented
a Sunday-school feast.

" Ah, go on, Mr. Dysart ! Why, I see the white water
and the black rocks, and all 1 "

144 T^^^^ ^^<^/ Charlotte.

" That's the table-cloth, and the black rocks are the
children's faces, and that's Miss Mullen."

" Well, I'm very glad you never took any Sunday-school
feast ever /was at, if that's what you make them look like."

" You don't mean to say you go to Sunday-school
feasts ? "

" Yes, why wouldn't I ? I never missed one till this year ;
they're the grandest fun out ! "

Christopher stared at her. He was not prepared for a re-
ligious aspect in Miss Mullen's remarkable young cousin.

" Do you teach in Sunday-schools ? " He tried to keep
the incredulity out of his voice, but Francie caught the
tone.

"You're very polite! I suppose you think I know
nothing at all, but I can tell you I could say down all the
judges of Israel, or the journeyings of St. Paul this minute,
and that's more than you could do ! "

" By Jove, it is ! " answered Christopher, with another
laugh. "And is that what you talk about at school
feasts ? "

Francie laid her head back on the cushion of her chair,
and looked at him from under her lowered eyelashes.
*' Wouldn't you like to know ? " she said. She suddenly
found that this evening she was not in the least afraid of
Mr. Dysart. There were some, notably Roddy Lambert,
who called him a prig, but she said to herself that she'd tell
him as soon as she saw him that Mr. Dysart was a very nice
young man, and not a bit stuck-up.

*' Very much," Christopher replied, sticking his eye-glass
into his eye, *' that was why I asked." He really felt curious
to know more of this unwonted young creature, with her
ingenuous impudence and her lovely face. If anyone else
had said the things that she had said, he would have been
either bored or revolted, and it is possibly worth noting
that, concurrently with a nascent interest in Francie, he was
consciously surprised that he was neither bored nor revolted.
Perhaps it was the influence of the half-civilised northern
music that Pamela was playing, with its blood-stirring fresh-
ness, like the whistling wind of dawn, and its strange
snatches of winding sweetness, that woke some slumbering
part of him to a sense of her charm and youth. But Pamela

The Real Charlotte. I45

guessed nothing of what Grieg's " Peer Gynt " was doing
for her brother, and only thought how gallantly he was
fulfilling her behest.

Before he said good-night to Francie, Christopher had
learned a good deal that he did not know before. He had
heard how she and Mr. Whitty, paraphrased as " a friend of
mine/' had got left behind on Bray Head, while the rest of
the Sunday-school excursion was being bundled into the
train, and how she and the friend had missed three trains,
from causes not thoroughly explained, and how Mr. Lambert,
who had gone there with her, just for the fun of the thing,
had come back to look for them, and had found them
having tea in the station refreshment room, and had been
mad. He had heard also of her stay at Kingstown, and of
how a certain Miss Carrie Jemmison — sister, as was ex-
plained, of another " friend " — was wont to wake her up
early to go out bathing, by the simple expedient of pulling
a string which hung out of the bedroom window over the
the hall door, and led thence to Miss Fitzpatrick's couch,
where it was fastened to her foot ; in fact, by half-past ten
o'clock, he had gathered a surprisingly accurate idea of
Miss Fitzpatrick's manner of life, and had secretly been a
good deal taken aback by it.

He said to himself, as he smoked a final cigarette, that
she must be a nice girl somehow not to have been more
vulgar than she was, and she really must have a soul to be
saved. There was something about her — some hmpid
quality — that kept her transparent and fresh like a running
stream, and cool, too, he thought, with a grin and with a
great deal of reflective stroking of Dinah's apathetic head,
as she lay on his uncomfortable lap trying to make the best
of a bad business. He had not failed to notice the
recurrence of Mr. Lambert's name in these recitals, and was
faintly surprised that he could not call to mind having
heard Miss Fitzpatrick mentioned by that gentleman until
just before her arrival in Lismoyle. Lambert was not
usually reticent about the young ladies of his acquaintance,
and from Francie's own showing he must have known her
very well indeed. He wondered how she came to be such
a friend of his ; Lambert was a first-rate man of business
and all that, but there was nothing else first-rate about him

n

146 The Real Charlotte.

that he could see. It showed the social poverty of the land
that she should speak of him with confidence and even
admiration ; it was almost pathetic that she should know no
better than to think Roddy Lambert a fine fellow. His
thoughts wandered to the upset of the Daphne; what an
ass Lambert had made of himself then. If she could know
how remarkably near her friend, Mr. Lambert, had come to
drowning her on that occasion, she would not, perhaps,
have quoted him so largely as a final opinion upon all
matters. No one blamed a man for not being able to swim,
but the fact that he was a bad swimmer was no excuse for
his losing his head and coming cursing and swearing and
doing his best to drown everyone else.

Christopher let Dinah slip on to the floor, and threw the
end of his cigarette out of the open window of his room.
He listened to the sleepy quacking of a wild-duck, and the
far-away barking of the gate-house dog. The trees loomed
darkly at the end of the garden ; between them glimmered
the pale ghost of the lake, streaked here and there with the
long quivering reflections of the stars, and in and through
the warm summer night, the darting flight of the bats wove
a phantom net before his eyes. The Grieg music still
throbbed an untiring measure in his head, and the thought
of Lambert gave way to more accustomed meditations. He
had leaned his elbows on the sill, and did not move till
some time afterwards, when a bat brushed his face with her
wings in an attempt to get into the lighted room. Then he
got up and yawned a rather dreary yawn.

** Well, the world's a very pretty place," he said to himself;
" it's a pity it doesn't seem to meet all the requirements of
the situation."

He was still young enough to forget at times the conven-
tionality of cynicism.

CHAPTER XX.

Lieutenant Gerald Hawkins surveyed his pink and
newly shaven face above his white tie and glistening shirt-
front with a smile of commendation. His moustache was
looking its best, and showing most conspicuously. There

The Real Charlotte. 147

was, at least, that advantage in a complexion that burned
red, he thought to himself, that it made a fair moustache
tell. In his button-hole was a yellow rose, given him by
Mrs. Gascogne on condition, as she said (metaphorically it
is to be presumed), that he ^' rubbed it well into Lady
Dysart " that she had no blossom to equal it in shape and
beauty. A gorgeous red silk sachet with his initials em-
broidered in gold upon it lay on the table, and as he took a
handkerchief out of it his eye fell on an open letter that had
lain partially hidden beneath one side of the sachet. His
face fell perceptibly ; taking it up he looked through it
quickly, a petulant wrinkle appearing between his light
eyebrows.

" Hang it ! She ought to know I can't get any leave now
before the Twelfth, and then I'm booked to Glencairn. It's
all rot going on like this — " He took the letter in both
hands as if to tear it up, but changing his mind, stuffed it in
among the pocket handkerchiefs, and hurried downstairs in
response to a shout from below. His polo-cart was at the
door, and in it sat Captain Cursiter, wearing an expression
of dismal patience that scarcely warranted Mr. Hawkins'
first remark.

"Well, you seem to be in a good deal of a hurry, old
chap. Is it your dinner or is it Hope-Drummond ? "

" When I'm asked to dinner at eight, I like to get there
before half-past," replied Cursiter sourly ; " and when you're
old enough to have sense you will too."

Mr. Hawkins drove at full pace out of the barrack gates
before he replied, " It's all very fine for you to talk as if
you were a thousand, Snipey, but, by George ! we're all
getting on a bit." His ingenuous brow clouded under the
peak of his cap, and his thoughts reverted to the letter that
he had thrust into the sachet. " I've been pretty young at
times, I admit, but that's the sort of thing that makes you a
lot older afterwards."

^' Good thing, too," put in Cursiter unsympathetically.

" Yes, by Jove ! " continued Mr. Hawkins ; " I've often
said I'd take a pull, and somehow it never came off, but
I'm dashed if I'm not going to do it this time."

Captain Cursiter held his peace, and waited for the con-
fidence that experience had told him would inevitably

148 The Real Charlotte.

follow. It did not come quite in the shape in which he
had expected it.

" I suppose there isn't the remotest chance of my getting
any leave now, is there ? "

" No, not the faintest ; especially as you want to go away
for the Twelfth."

" Yes, I'm bound to go then," acknowledged Mr.
Hawkins with a sigh not unmixed with relief; " I suppose
I've just got to stay here."

Cursiter turned round and looked up at his young friend.
" What are you up to now ? "

*' Don't be such an owl, Cursiter," responded Mr.
Hawkins testily; "why should there be anything up
because I want all the leave I can get? It's a very
common complaint."

"Yes, it's a very common complaint," replied Cursiter,
with a certain acidity in his voice that was not lost upon
Hawkins ; " but what gave it to you this time ? "

" Oh, hang it all, Cursiter ! I know what you're driving
at well enough ; but you're wrong. You always think you're
the only man in the world who has any sense about women."

" I didn't think I had said anything about women," re-
turned the imperturbable Cursiter, secretly much amused at
the sensitiveness of Mr. Hawkins' conscience.

*' Perhaps you didn't ; but you're always thinking about
them and imagining other people are doing the same," re-
torted Hawkins ; " and may I ask what my wanting leave
has to say to the question ? "

" You're in a funk," said Cursiter ; " though mind you,"
he added, " I don't blame you for that."

Mr. Hawkins debated with himself for an instant, and a
confession as to the perturbed condition of that overworked
organ, his heart, trembled on his lips. He even turned
round to speak, but found something so discouraging to
confidence in the spare, brown face, with its uncompromis-
ingly bitten moustache and observant eyes, that the mipulse
was checked.

" Since you seem to know so much about me and the
reasons why I want leave, and all the rest of it, I need
say no more."

Captain Cursiter laughed. *'Oh ! don't on my account."

The Real Charlotte. 149

HawTcins subsided into a dignified silence, which Cursiter,
as was his wont, did not attempt to break. He fell into
meditation on the drift of what had been said to him, and
thought that he would write to Greer (Greer was the ad-
jutant), and see about getting Hawkins away from Lismoyle;
and he was doing so well here, he grumbled mentally, and
getting so handy in the launch. If only this infernal Fitz-
patrick girl would have stayed with her cads in Dublin
everything would have been as right as rain. There was no
other woman here that signified except Miss Dysart, and it
didn't seem hkely she'd look at him, though you never
could tell what a woman would or would not do.

Captain Cursiter was "getting on," as captains go, and he
was the less disposed to regard his junior's love affairs with
an indulgent eye, in that he had himself served a long and
difficult apprenticeship in such matters, and did not feel
that he had profited much by his experiences. It had
happened to him at an early age to enter ecstatically into
the house of bondage, and in it he had remained with eyes
gradually opening to its drawbacks, until, a few years before,
the death of the only apparent obstacle to his happiness had
brought him face to face with its realisation. Strange to
say, when this supreme moment arrived, Captain Cursiter
was disposed for further delay ; but it shows the contrariety
of human nature, that when he found himself superseded by
his own subaltern, an habitually inebriated viscount, instead
of feeling grateful to his preserver, he committed the im-
becility of horse-whipping him ; and finding it subsequently
advisable to leave his regiment, he exchanged into the in-
fantry with a settled conviction that all women were liars.

The coach-house at Bruff, though not apparently adapted
for theatrical purposes, had been for many years compelled
to that use by Garry Dysart, and when, at half-past nine
o'clock that night, Lady Dysart and her guests proceeded
thither, they found that it had been arranged to the best
possible advantage. The seats were few, and the carriages,
ranging from an ancestral yellow chariot to Pamela's pony-
trap, were drawn up for the use of the rest of the audience.
A dozen or so of the workmen and farm labourers lined the
walls in respectful silence ; and the servants of the house-
hold were divided between the outside car and the chariot

I50 The Real Charlotte,

In front of a door leading to the harness-room, two clothes-
horses, draped with tablecloths, a long ottoman, once part
of the furniture of a pre-historic yacht of Sir Benjamin's, two
chairs, and a ladder, indicated the stage, and four stable-
lanterns on the floor served as footlights. Lady Dysart, the
Archdeacon, and Mrs. Gascogne sat in three chairs of
honour ; the landau was occupied by the rest of the party,
with the exception of Francie and Hawkins, who had
followed the others from the drawing-room at a little
distance. When they appeared, the coach-box of the
landau seemed their obvious destination ; but at the same
instant the wrangling voices of the actors in the harness-
room ceased, the play began, and when Pamela next
looked round neither Francie nor Mr. Hawkins was vis-
ible, and from the open window of an invalided brougham
that had been pushed into the background, came
sounds of laughter that sufficiently indicated their where-
abouts.

The most able and accustomed of dramatic critics would
falter in the attempt to master the leading idea of one of
Garry's entertainments ; so far as this performance made
itself intelligible, it consisted of nightmare snatches of
" Kenilworth," subordinated to the exigencies of stage
properties, chiefest among these being Sir Benjamin's
deputy-lieutenant's uniform. The sword and cocked hat
found their obvious wearer in the Earl of Leicester, and the
white plume had been yielded to Kitty Gascogne, whose
small crimson face grinned consciously beneath the limp
feathers. Lady Dysart's white bernouse was felt to confer
an air of simplicity appropriate to the part of Amy Robsart,
and its owner could not repress a groan as she realised that
the heroine would inevitably be consigned to the grimy
depths of the yacht ottoman, a receptacle long consecrated
to the office of stage tomb. At present, however, it was
employed as a sofa, on which sat Leicester and Amy,
engaged in an exhausting conversation on State matters,
the onus of which fell entirely upon the former, his com-
panion's part in it consisting mainly of a sustained giggle,
it presently became evident that even Garry was flagging,
ana glances towards the door of the harness-room told that
expected relief delayed its coming.

The Real Charlotte. 151

" He's getting a bit blown,'* remarked Mr. Hawkins from
the window of the brougham. " Go it, Leicester ! "

Garry's only reply was to rise and stalk towards the dooi
with a dignity somewhat impaired by the bagginess of the
silver-laced trousers. The deserted countess remained
facing the audience in an agony of embarrassment that
might have softened the heart of anyone except her lord>
whose direction, " Talk about Queen Elizabeth, you ass ! "
was audible to everyone in the coach-house. Fortunately
for Kitty Gascogne, her powers of soliloquy were not long
tested. The door burst open, Garry hurried back to the
ottoman, and had only time to seize Amy Robsart's hand
and kneel at her feet when a tall figure took the stage with
a mincing amble. James Canavan had from time immemo-
rial been the leading lady in Garry's theatricals, and his
appearance as Queen Elizabeth was such as to satisfy his
oldest admirers. He wore a skirt which was instantly
recognised by the household as belonging to Mrs. Brady
the cook, a crown made of gold paper inadequately re-
strained his iron-grey locks, a ham-frill ruff concealed his
whiskers, and the deputy-lieutenant's red coat, with the old-
fashioned long taxis and silver epaulettes, completed his
equipment.

His entrance brought down the house ; even Lady Dysart
forgot her anxiety to find out where Mr. Hawkins' voice
had come from, and collapsed into a state afterwards de-
scribed by the under-housemaid as ^* her ladyship in spHts."

" Oh fie^ fie, fie ! " said Queen Elizabeth in a piping
falsetto, paying no heed to the demonstrations in her
favour ; *' Amy Robsart and Leicester ! Oh, dear, dear,
this will never do ! "

Leicester still stooped over Amy's hand, but even the
occupants of the brougham heard the whisper in which he
said, " You're not half angry enough ! Go on again ! "

Thus charged, Queen Elizabeth swept to the back of the
stage, and, turning there, advanced again upon the lovers,
stamping her feet and gesticulating with clenched fists.
" What ! Amy Robsart and Leicester ! Shocking ! dis-
graceful ! " she vociferated ; then with a final burst, " D — n
it ! I can't stand this ! "

A roar of delight broke from the house i the delight

152 The Real Charlotte,

always provoked in rural audiences by the expletive that
age has been powerless to wither or custom to stale. Haw-
kins' amusement found vent in such a stentorian " Bravo ! "
that Lady Dysart turned quickly at the sound, and saw his
head and Francie's at the window of the brougham. Even
in the indifferent light of the lamps, Francie discerned dis-
approval in her look. She sat back precipitately.

" Oh, Mr. Hawkins ! " she exclaimed, rashly admitting
that she felt the position to be equivocal ; " I think I'd
better get out."

Now, if ever, was the time for Mr. Hawkins to take that
pull of which he had spoken so stoutly to Captain Cursiter,
but in addition to other extenuating circumstances, it must
be adiwitted that Sir Benjamin's burgundy had to some
slight extent made summer \u his veins, and caused him to
forget most things except the fact that the prettiest girl he
had ever seen was sitting beside him.

" No, you sha'n't," he replied, leaning back out of the
light, and taking her hand as if to prevent her from moving ;
" you won't go, will you ? "

He suddenly felt that he was very much in love, and
threw such entreaty into the foregoing unremarkable words
that Francie's heart beat foolishly, and her efforts to take
away her hand were very feeble.

" You don't want to go away, do you ? You like sitting
here with me ? "

The powers of repartee that Tommy Whitty had often
found so baffling failed Francie unaccountably on this occa-
sion. She murmured something that Hawkins chose to take
for assent, and in a moment he had passed his arm round
her waist, and possessed himself of the other hand.

" Now, you see, you can't get away," he whispered, taking
a wary look out of the window of the brougham. All the
attention of the audience was engrossed upon the stage,
where, at this moment. Queen Elizabeth having chased
Amy and Leicester round the ottoman, was now doing her
best not to catch them as they together scaled the clothes-
horse. The brougham was behind everyone ; no one was
even thinking of them, and Hawkins leaned towards Francie
till his lips almost touched her cheek. She drew back from
him, but the kiss came and went in a moment, and was fol-

The Real Charlotte. 1 53

lowed by more, that she did not try to escape. The loud
clapping of the audience on the exit of Queen Elizabeth
brought Hawkins back to his senses ; he heard the quick
drawing of Francie's breath and felt her tremble as he
pressed her to him, and he realised that so far from " taking
a pull," he had let himself get out of hand without a struggle.
For this rash, enchanting evening, at all events, it was too
late to try to recover lost ground. What could he do now
but hold her hand more tightly than before, and ask her un-
repentingly whether she forgave him. The reply met with
an unlooked-for interruption.

The drama on the stage had proceeded to its cHmax.
Amy Robsart was understood to have suffered a violent
death in the harness-room, and her entombment in the otto-
man had followed as a matter of course. The process had
been difficult ; in fact, but for surreptitious aid from the
corpse, the burial could scarcely have been accomplished ; but
the lid was at length closed, and the bereaved earl flung him-
self on his knees by the grave in an abandonment of grief.
Suddenly from the harness-room came sounds of discordant
triumph, and Queen Elizabeth bounded upon the stage,
singing a war-song, of which the refrain,

** With me long sword, saddle, bridle,
Whack, fol de rol ! "

was alone intelligible. Amy Robsart's white plume was
stuck in the queen's crown in token of victory, and its
feathers rose on end as, with a flourish of the drawing-room
poker which she carried as her sceptre, she leaped upon the
grave, and continued her dance and song there. Clouds of
dust and feathers rose from the cushions, and encouraged
by the shouts of her audience, the queen's dance waxed
more furious. There was a stagger, a crash, and a shrill
scream rose from the corpse, as the lid gave way, and Queen
Elizabeth stood knee-deep in Amy Robsart's tomb. An
answering scream came from Mrs. Gascogne and Lady
Dysart, both of whom rushed from their places on to the
stage, and dragged forth the unhappy Kitty, smothered in
dust, redder in the tace than ever, but unhurt, and still
giggling.

154 The Real Charlotte,

Francie and Hawkins emerged from the brougham, and
mingled quietly with the crowd in the general break-up that
followed. The point at issue between them had not been
settled, but arrangements had been made for the following
day that ensured a renewal of the argument.

CHAPTER XXI.

The crash of the prayer gong was the first thing that Francie
heard next morning. She had not gone to sleep easily the
night before. It had been so much pleasanter to lie awake,
that she had done so till she had got past the stage when
the process of going to sleep is voluntary, and she had
nearly exhausted the pleasant aspect of things and got to
their wrong side when the dawn stood at her window, a
pallid reminder of the day that was before her, and she
dropped into prosaic slumber. She came downstairs in a
state of some anxiety as to whether the chill that she had
perceived last night in Lady Dysart's demeanour would be
still apparent. Breakfast was nearly over when she got into
the room, and when she said good morning to Lady Dysart.
she felt, though she was not eminently perceptive of the
shades in a well-bred manner, that she had not been re-
stored to favour.

She sat down at the table, with the feeling that was very
familiar to her of being in disgrace, combating with the
excitement and hurry of her nerves in a way that made her
feel almost hysterical ; and the fear that the strong reveal-
ing light of the long windows opposite to which she was
sitting would show the dew of tears in her eyes, made her
bend her head over her plate and scarcely raise it to re-
spond to Pamela's good-natured efforts to put her at her
ease. Miss Hope-Drummond presently looked up from
her letters and took a quiet stare at the discomposed face
opposite to her. She had no particular dislike for Francie
beyond the ordinary rooted distrust which she felt as a
matter of course for those whom she regarded as fellow-
competitors, but on general principles she was pleased that
discomfiture had come to Miss Fitzpatrick. It occurred to
her that a deepening of the discomfiture would suit well

TJlc Real Charlotte. 155

with Lady Dysart's present mood, and might also be to her
own personal advantage.

'' I hope your dress did not suffer last night, Miss Fitz-
patrick ? Mine was ruined, but that was because Mr.
Dysart would make me climb on to the box for the last
scene."

"No, thank you, Miss Hope-Drummond — at least, it
only got a little sign of dust."

" Really ? How nice ! How lucky you were, weren't
you'! "

'^ She may have been lucky about her dress," interrupted
Garry, " but I'm blowed if she could have seen much of
the acting ! Why on earth did you let Hawkins jam you
into that old brougham, Miss Fitzpatrick ? "

" Garry," said Lady Dysart with unusual asperity, " how
often am I to tell you not to speak of grown-up gentlemen
as if they were little boys like yourself ? Run off to your
lessons. If you have finished, Miss Fitzpatrick," she con-
tinued, her voice chilling again, " I think we will go into
the drawing-room."

It is scarcely to be wondered at that Francie found the
atmosphere of the drawing-room rather oppressive. She
was exceedingly afraid of her hostess ; her sense of her
misdoings was, like a dog's, entirely shaped upon other
people's opinions, and depended in no way upon her own
conscience ; and she had now awakened to a belief that
she had transgressed very badly indeed. " And if she "
C'she" was Lady Dysart, and for the moment Francie's
standard of morality) " was so angry about me sitting in the
brougham with him," she thought to herself, as, having
escaped from the house, she wandered alone under the
oaks of the shady back avenue, '* what would she think if
she knew the whole story ? "

In Francie's society " the whole story " would have beon
listened to with extreme leniency, if not admiration ; in
fact, some episodes of a similar kind had before now been
confided by our young lady to Miss Fanny Hemphill, and
had even given her a certain standing in the eyes of that
arbiter of manners and morals. But on this, as 0:1 a previ-
ous occasion, she did not feel disposed to take Miss Hemp-
hill into her confidence. For one thintj, she was less dis-

156 The Real Charlotte,

tinct in her recollection of what had happened than was
usual. It had seemed to her that she had lost her wonted
clear and mocking remembrance of events from the mo-
ment when he had taken her hand, and what followed was
blurred in her memory as a landscape is blurred by the
quiver of heat in the air. For another, she felt it all to be
so improbable, so uncertain, that she could not quite
believe in it herself. Hawkins was so radically different
from any other man she had ever known ; so much more
splendid in all ways, the very texture of his clothes, the
scent on his handkerchief, breathed to her his high estate.
That she should have any part in this greatness was still a
little beyond belief, and as she walked softly in the deep
grass under the trees, she kept saying to herself that he
could not really care for her, that it was too good to be
true.

It was almost pathetic that this girl, with her wild-rose
freshness and vivid spring-like youth, should be humble
enough to think that she was not worthy of Mr. Hawkins,
and sophisticated enough to take his love-making as a
matter of common occurrence, that in no way involved any-
thing more serious. Whatever he might think about it,
however, she was certain that he would come here to-day,
and being wholly without the power of self-analysis, she
passed easily from such speculations to the simpler mental
exercise of counting how many hours would have to crawl
by before she could see him again. She had left the
avenue, and she strolled aimlessly across a wide marshy
place between the woods and the lake, that had once been
covered by the water, but was now so far reclaimed that
sedgy grass and bog-myrtle grew all over it, and creamy
meadow-sweet and magenta loose-strife glorified the swampy
patches and the edges of the drains. The pale azure of the
lake lay on her right hand, with, in the distance, two or
three white sails just tilted enough by the breeze to make
them look like acute accents, gaily emphasising the purpose
of the lake and giving it its final expression. In front of
her spread a long, low wood, temptingly cool and green,
with a gate pillared by tall fir-trees, from which, as she
lifted the latch, a bevy of wood-pigeons dashed out
startling her with the sudden frantic clapping of their wings

The Real Charlotte. 157

It was a curious wood— very old, judging by its scattered
knots of hoary, weather-twisted pine-trees ; very young,
judging by the growth of ash saplings and slender larches
that made dense every inch of space except where rides had
been cut through them for the woodcock shooting. Francie
walked along the quiet path, thinking little of the beauty
that surrounded her, but unconsciously absorbing its rich
harmonious stillness. The little grey rabbits did not hear
her coming, and hopped languidly across the path, "for all
the world like toys from Robinson's," thought Francie ; the
honeysuckle hung in delicious tangle from tree to tree ; the
wood-pigeons crooned shrilly in the fir-trees, and every now
and then a bumble-bee started from a clover blossom in the
grass with a deep resentful note, as when one plucks the
lowest string of a violoncello. She had noticed a triple
wheel-track over the moss and primrose leaves of the path,
and vaguely wondered what had brought it there ; but at a
turn where the path took a long bend to the lake she was
no longer left in doubt. Drawn up under a solemn pine-
tree near the water's edge was Sir Benjamin's bath-chair,
and in it the dreaded Sir Benjamin himself, vociferating at
the top of his cracked old voice, and shaking his oaken staff
at some person or persons not apparent.

Francie's first instinct was flight, but before she had time
to turn, her host had seen her, and changing his tone of
fury to one of hideous affability he called to her to come
and speak to him. Francie was too uncertain as to the
exact extent of his intellect to risk disobedience, and she
advanced tremblingly.

*' Come here, Miss," said Sir Benjamin, goggling at her
through his gold spectacles. "You're the pretty little
visitor, and I promised I'd take you out driving in my
carriage and pair. Corne here and shake hands with me
Miss. Where's your manners ? "

This invitation was emphasised by a thump of his stick
on the floor of the chair, and Francie, with an almost
prayerful glance round for James Canavan, was reluctantly
preparing to comply with it, when she heard Garry's voice
caUing her.

** Miss Fitzpatrick ! Hi ! Come here ! "

Miss Fitzpatrick took one look at the tremulous, irritable

158 The Real Charlotte,

old claw outstretched for her acceptance, and plunged in-
continently down a ride in the direction of the voice. In
front of her stood a sombre ring of immense pine-trees, and
in their shadow stood Garry and James Canavan, apparently
in committee upon some small object that lay on the thick
mat of moss and pine-needles.

" I heard the governor talking to you," said Garry with a
grin of intelligence, *' and I thought you'd sooner come and
look at the rat that's just come out of this hole. Stinking
Jemima's been in there for the last half hour after rabbits.
She's my ferret, you know, a regular ripper," he went on in
excited narration, "and I expect she's got the muzzle off
and is having a high old time. She's just bolted this
brute."

The brute in question was a young rat that lay panting
on its side, unable to move, with blood streaming from its
face.

" Oh ! the creature ! " exclaimed Francie with compas-
sionate disgust ; " what'll you do with it ? "

" I'll take it home and try and tame it," replied Garry ;
" it's quite young enough. Isn't it, Canavan ? "

James Canavan, funereal in his black coat and rusty tall
hat, was regarding the rat meditatively, and at the question
he picked up Garry's stick and balanced it in his hand.

** Voracious animals that we hate,
Cats, rats, and bats deserve their fate,"

he said pompously, and immediately brought the stick
down on the rat's head with a determination that effectually
disposed of all plans for its future, educational or otherwise.

Garry and Francie cried out together, but James Canavan
turned his back unregardingly upon them and his victim,
and stalked back to Sir Benjamin, whose imprecations,
since Francie's escape, had been pleasantly audible.

" The old beast ! " said Garry, looking resentfully after
his late ally ; " you never know what he'll do next. I be-
lieve if mother hadn't been there last night, he'd have gone
on jumping on Kitty Gascogne till he killed her. By the
bye, Miss Fitzpatrick, Hawkins passed up the lake just
now, and he shouted out to me to say that he'd be at the

The Real Charlotte. 159

turf-boat pier at four o'clock, and he hoped none of you
were going out."

Then he had not forgotten her ; he was going to keep his
word, thought Francie, with a leap of the heart, but further
thoughts were cut short by the sudden appearance of
Pamela, Christopher, and Miss Hope-Drummond at the end
of the ride. The treacherous slaughter of the rat was im-
mediately recounted to Pamela at full length by Garry, and
Miss Fitzpatrick addressed herself to Christopher.

" How sweet your woods are, Mr. Dysart," she began,
feeling that some speech of the kind was suitable to the
occasion. "I declare, I'd never be tired walking in them!"

Christopher was standing a little behind the others, look-
ing cool and lank in his flannels, and feeling a good deal
less interested in things in general than he appeared. He
had an agreeably craven habit of simulating enjoyment in
the society of whoever fate threw him in contact with, not
so much from a wish to please as from a politeness that had
in it an unworthy fear of exciting displeasure ; and so ably
had he played the part expected of him that Miss Hope-
Drummond had felt, as she strolled with him and his sister
through the sunshiny wood, that he really was far more in-
terested in her than she had given him credit for, and that
if that goose Pamela were not so officious in always pursuing
them about everywhere, they would have got on better still.
She did not trouble her brothers in this way, and the idea
that Mr. Dysart would not have come at all without his
sister did not occur to her. She was, therefore, by no means
pleased when she heard him suggest to Miss Fitzpatrick
that she should come and see the view from the point, and
saw them walk away in that direction without any reference
to the rest of the party.

Christopher himself could hardly have explained why he
did it. It is possible that he felt Francie's ingenuous, un-
affected vulgarity to be refreshing after the conversation in
which Miss Hope-Drummond's own especial tastes and
opinions had shed their philosophy upon a rechauffe of the
society papers, and recollections of Ascot and Hurhngham.
Perhaps also, after his discovery that Francie had a soul to
be saved, he resented the absolute possession that Hawkins
had taken of her the night before. Hawkins was a good

l6o The Real Charlotte.

little chap, but not the sort of person to develop a nascent
intellectuality, thought this sage of seven-and twenty.

"Why did you come out here by yourself?" he said to
her, some httle time after they had left the others.

" And why shouldn't I ? " answered Francie, with the
pertness that seldom failed her, even when, as on this morn-
ing, she felt a little uninterested in every subject except one.

" Because it gave us the trouble of coming out to look
for you."

" To see I didn't get into mischief, I suppose ! *'

** That hadn't occurred to me. Do you always get into
mischief when you go out by yourself?"

" I would if I thought you were coming out to stop me ! "

** But why should I want to stop you ? " asked Christopher,
aware that this class of conversation was of a very undevelop-
ing character, but feeling unable to better it.

*' Oh, I don't know ; I think everyone's always wanting
to stop me," repHed Francie with a cheerful laugh ; " I
declare I think it's impossible for me to do anything right."

*' Well, you don't seem to mind it very much," said
Christopher, the thought of how like she was to a typical
" June " in a Christmas Number striking him for the second
time ; " but perhaps that's because you're used to it."

" Oh, then, I can tell you I am used to it, but, indeed, I
don't like it any better for that."

There was a pause after this. They scrambled over the
sharp loose rocks, and between the stunted fir-trees of the
lake shore, until they gained a comparatively level tongue
of sandy gravel, on which the sinuous line of dead rushes
showed how high the fretful waves had thrust themselves in
winter. A glistening bay intervened between this point
and the promontory of Bruff, a bay dotted with the humped
backs of the rocks in the summer shallows, and striped with
dark green beds of rushes, among which the bald coots
dodged in and out with shrill metaUic chirpings. Outside
Bruff Point the lake spread broad and mild, turned to a
translucent lavender grey by an idly-drifting cloud ; the slow
curve of the shore was followed by the woods, till the hay
fields of Lismoyle showed faintly beyond them, and, further
on, the rival towers of church and chapel gave a finish to
the landscape that not even conventionality could deprive

The Real Charlotte. i6i

of charm. Christopher knew every detail of it by heart.
He had often solaced himself with it when, as now, he had
led forth visitors to see the view, and had discerned their
boredom with a keenness that was the next thing to
sympathy ; he had lain there on quiet Autumn evenings,
and tried to put into fitting words the rapture and the
despair of the sunset, and had gone home wondering if his
emotions were not mere self-conscious platitudes, rather
more futile and contemptible than the unambitious adjec-
tives, or even the honest want of mterest, of the average
sight-seer. He waited rather curiously to see whether Miss
Fitzpatrick's problematic soul would here utter itself. From
his position a little behind her he could observe her without
seeming to do so ; she was looking down the lake with a
more serious expression than he had yet seen on her face,
and when she turned suddenly towards him, there was a
wistfulness in her eyes that startled him.

" Mr. Dysart," she began, rather more shyly than usual ;
•' d'ye know whose is that boat with the httle sail, going
away down the lake now ? "

Christopher's mood received an unpleasant jar.

•' That's Mr. Hawkins' punt," he replied shortly.

"Yes, I thought it was," said Francie, too much pre-
occupied to notice the flatness of her companion's tone.

There was another pause, and then she spoke again.

" Mr. Dysart, d'ye think — would you mind telling me,
was Lady Dysart mad with me last night ? " She blushed
as she looked at him, and Christopher was much provoked
to feel that he also became red.

" Last night ? " he echoed in a tone of as lively perplexity
as he could manage ; " what do you mean ? Why should
my mother be angry with you ? " In his heart he knew
well that Lady Dysart had been, as Francie expressed it,
"mad."

"I know she was angry," pursued Francie. "I saw the
look she gave me when I was getting out of the brougham,
and then this morning she w^as angry too. I didn't think it
was any harm to sit in the brougham."

" No more it is. I've often seen her do it herself."

" Ah ! Mr. Dysart, I didn't think you'd make fun of me,'*
she said with an accent on the " you " that was flattering,

L

1 62 The Real Charlotte.

but did not altogether please Christopher. " You know,"
she went on, " I've never stayed in a house like this before.
I mean — you're all so different — "

" I tliink you must explain that remarkable statement,"
said Christopher, becoming Johnsonian as was his wont
when he found himself in a difficulty. " It seems to me
we're even depressingly like ordinary human beings."

" You're different to me," said Francie in a low voice,
" and you know it well."

The tears came to her eyes, and Christopher^ who could
not know that this generality covered an aching thought of
Hawkins, was smitten with horrified self-questioning as to
whether anything he had said or done could have wounded
this girl, who was so much more observant and sensitive than
he could have believed.

" I can't let you say things like that," he said clumsily.
" If we are different from you, it is so much the worse for
us."

" You're trying to pay me a compliment now to get out
of it," said Francie, recovering herself; " isn't that just like
a man ? "

She felt, however, that she had given him pain, and the
knowledge seemed to bring him more within her compre-
hension.

CHAPTER XXII.

There are few things that so stimulate life, both social and
vegetable, in a country neighbourhood, as the rivalry that
exists, sometimes unconfessed, sometimes bursting into an
open flame, among the garden owners of the district. The
Brutf garden was a little exalted and removed from such
competition, but the superiority had its depressing aspect
for Lady Dysart in that it was counted no credit to her to
excel her neighbours, although those neighbours took to
themselves the highest credit when they succeeded in
excelling her. Of all these Mr. Lambert was the one she
most feared and respected. He knew as well, if not better
than she, the joints in the harness of Doolan the gardener,
the weak battalions in his army of bedding-out plants, the
failures in the ranks of his roses. Doolan himself, the

The Real Charlotte. 163

despotic and self-confident, felt an inward qualm when he
saw Mr. Lambert strolling slowly through the garden with
her ladyship, as he was doing this very afternoon, his
observant eye taking in everything that Doolan would have
preferred that it should not take in, while he paid a fitting
attention to Lady Dysart's conversation.

" I cannot understand why these Victor Verdiers have
not better hearts," she was saying, with the dejection of a
clergyman disappointed in his flock. " Mrs. Waller told
me they were very greedy feeders, and so I gave them the
cleanings of the scullery drain^ but they don't seem to care
for it. Doolan, of course, said Mrs. Waller was wrong, but
I should like to know what you thought about it."

Mr. Lambert delivered a diplomatic opinion, which
sufficiently coincided with Lady Dysart's views, and yet
kept her from feeling that she had been entirely in the
right. He prided himself as much on his knowledge of
women as of roses, and there were ultra feminine qualities
in Lady Dysart, which made her act up to his calculations
on almost every point. Pamela did not lend herself equally
well to his theories ; " she hasn't half the go of her mother.
She'd as soon talk to an old woman as to the smartest chap
in Ireland," was how he expressed the fine impalpable
barrier that he always felt between himself and Miss Dysart.
She was now exactly fulfilling this opinion by devoting her-
•^If to the entertainment of his wife, while the others were
amusing themselves down at the launch \ and being one of
those few who can go through unpleasant social duties with
'' all grace, and not with half disdain hid under grace," not
even Lambert could guess that she desired anything more
agreeable.

" Isn't it disastrous that young Hynes is determined
upon going to America ? " remarked Lady Dysart presently,
as they left the garden; "just when he had learned
Doolan's ways, and Doolan is so hard to please."

" America is the curse of this country," responded Mr.
Lambert gloomily ; *' the people are never easy till they get
there and make a bit of money, and then they come
swaggering back, saying Ireland's not fit to live in, and end
by setting up a public-house and drinking themselves to
death. They're sharp enough to know the only way of

164 "^he Real Charlotte.

making money in Ireland is by selling drink." Lambert
spoke with the conviction of one who is sure, not only of
his facts, but of his hearer's sympathy. Then seeing his
way to a discussion of the matter that had brought him to
Bruff, he went on, " I assure you, Lady Dysart, the amount
of money that's spent in drink in Lismoyle would frighten
you. It's easy to know where the rent goes, and those that
aren't drunken are thriftless, and there isn't one of them
has the common honesty to give up their land when they've
ruined it and themselves. Now, there's that nice farm,
Gurthnamuckla, down by the lake-side, all going to moss
from being grazed year after year, and the house falling to
pieces for the want of looking after ; and as for paying her
rent — " he broke off with a contemptuous laugh.

" Oh, but what can you expect from that wretched old
Julia Duffy ? " said Lady Dysart good-naturedly ; " she's
too poor to keep the place in order."

"I can expect one thing of her," said Lambert, with
possibly a little more indignation than he felt ; " that she'd
pay up some of her arrears, or if she can't, that she'd go
out of the farm. I could get a tenant for it to-morrow
that would give me a good fine for it and put the house to
rights into the bargain."

" Of course, that would be an excellent thing, and I can
quite see that she ought to go," replied Lady Dysart, falling
away from her first position ; " but what would happen to
the poor old creature if she left Gurthnamuckla ? "

" That's just what your son says," replied Lambert with
an almost irrepressible impatience ; " he thinks she oughtn't
to be disturbed because of some promise that she says Sir
Benjamin made her, though there isn't a square inch of
paper to prove it. But I think there can be no doubt that
she'd be better and healthier out of that house ; she keeps
it like a pig-stye. Of course, as you say, the trouble is to
find some place to put her."

Lady Dysart turned upon him a face shining with the
light of inspiration.

"The back-lodge!" she said, with Delphic finality. "Let
her go into the back-lodge when Hynes goes out of it ! "

Mr. Lambert received this suggestion with as much
admiration as if he had not thought of it before.

The Real Charlotte. 165

" By Jove ! Lady Dysart, I always say that you have a
better head on your shoulders than any one of us ! That's
a regular happy thought."

Any new scheme, no matter how revolutionary, was
sure to be viewed with interest, if not with favour, by Lady
Dysart, and if she happened to be its inventor, it was
endowed with virtues that only flourished more strongly in
the face of opposition. In a few minutes she had estabhshed
Miss Duffy in the back-lodge, with, for occupation, the care
of the incubator recently imported to Bruff, and hitherto a
failure except as a cooking-stove ; and for support, the milk
of a goat that should be chained to a laurel at the back of
the lodge, and fed by hand. While these details were still
being expanded, there broke upon the air a series of shrill,
discordant whistles, coming from the direction of the
lake.

" Good heavens ! " ejaculated Lady Dysart. " What
can that be ? Something must be happening to the steam-
launch ; it sounds as if it were in danger ! "

^^ It's more likely to be Hawkins playing the fool,"
replied Lambert ill-temperedly. " I saw him on the launch
with Miss Fitzpatrick just after we left the pier."

Lady Dysart said nothing, but her expression changed
with such dramatic swiftness from vivid alarm to disapproval,
that her mental attitude was as evident as if she had
spoken.

" Hawkins is very popular in Lismoyle," observed Lam-
bert, trepidly.

"That I can very well understand," said Lady Dysart,
opening her parasol with an abruptness that showed annoy-
ance, " since he takes so much trouble to make himself
agreeable to the Lismoyle young ladies."

Another outburst of jerky, amateur whistles from the
steam launch gave emphasis to the remark.

" Oh, the trouble's a pleasure," said Lambert acidly.
" I hope the pleasure won't be a trouble to the young ladies
one of these days."

" Why, what do you mean ? " cried Lady Dysart, much
interested.

^'Oh, nothing," said Lambert, with a laugh, "except that
he's been known to love and ride away before now."

1 66 The Real Charlotte.

He had no particular object in lowering Hawkins in Lady
Dysart's eyes, beyond the fact that it was an outlet for his in-
dignation at Francie's behaviour in leaving him, her oldest
friend, to go and make a common laughing-stock of herself
with that young puppy, which was the form in which the
position shaped itself in his angry mind. He almost de-
cided to tell Lady Dysart the episode of the Limerick
tobacconist's daughter, when they saw Miss Hope-Drum mond
and Captain Cursiter coming up the shrubbery path towards
them, and he was obliged to defer it to a better occasion.

"What was all that whistling about, Captain Cursiter?"
asked Lady Dysart, with a certain vicarious severity

Captain Cursiter seemed indisposed for discussion. " Mr.
Hawkins was trying the whistle, I think," he repUed with
equal severity.

^' Oh, yes, Lady Dysart ! " broke in Miss Hope-
Drummond, apparently much amused ; " Mr. Hawkins has
nearly deafened us with that ridiculous whistle ; they would
go off down the lake, and when we called after them to ask
where they were going, and told them they would be late
for tea, they did nothing but whistle back at us in that
absurd way."

" Why ? What ? Who have gone ? Whom do you
mean by they ? " Lady Dysart's handsome eyes shone like
stars as they roved in wide consternation from one speaker
to another.

" Miss Fitzpatrick and Mr. Hawkins ! " responded Miss
Hope-Drummond with childlike gaiety ; " we were all talk-
ing on the pier, and we suddenly heard them calling out
* good-bye ! ' And Mr. Hawkins said he couldn't stop the
boat, and off they went down the lake ! I don't know when
we shall see them again."

Lady Dysart's feelings found vent in a long-drawn groan.
" Not able to stop the boat ! Oh, Captain Cursiter, is there
any danger ? Shall I send a boat after them ? Oh, how I
wish this house was in the Desert of Sahara, oi that that in-
tolerable lake was at the bottom of the sea ! "

This was not the first time that Captain Cursiter had been
called upon to calm Lady Dysart's anxieties in connection
with the lake, and he now unwillingly felt himself bound to
assure her that Hawkins thoroughly understood the manage-

The Real Charlotte. 167

ment of the Serpolette^ that he would certainly be back in a
few minutes, and that in any case, the lake was as calm as
the conventional mill-pond. Inwardly he was cursing him-
self for having yielded to Hawkins in putting in to Bruff ; he
was furious with Francie for the vulgar liberties taken by her
with the steam-whistle, an instrument employed by all true
steam-launchers in the most abstemious way ; and lastly, he
was indignant with Hawkins for taking his boat without his
permission, and leaving him here, as isolated from all means
of escape, and as unprotected, as if his clothes had been
stolen while he was bathing.

The party proceeded moodily into the house, and, as
moodily, proceeded to partake of tea. It was just about the
time that Mrs. Lambert was asking that nice, kind Miss
Dysart for another cup of very weak tea — " Hog-wash, in-
deed, as Mr. Lambert calls it " — that the launch was sighted
by her proprietor crossing the open space of water beyond
Bruff Point, and heading for Lismoyle. Almost immediately
afterwards Mrs. Lambert received the look from her husband
which intimated that the time had arrived for her to take
her departure, and some instinct told her that it would be
advisable to relinquish the prospect of the second cup and
to go at once.

If Mr. Lambert's motive in hurrying back to Lismoyle was
the hope of finding the steam-launch there, his sending along
our friend the black mare, till her sleek sides were in a
lather of foam, was unavailing. As he drove on to the quay
the Serpolette was already steaming back to Bruff round the
first of the miniature headlands that jagged the shore, and
the good turkey-hen's twitterings on the situation received
even less attention than usual, as her lord pulled the mare's
head round and drove home to Rosemount.

The afternoon dragged wearily on at Bruff ; Lady Dysart's
mood alternating between anger and fright as dinner-time
came nearer and nearer and there was still no sign of the
launch.

" What will Charlotte Mullen say to me ? " she wailed, as
she went for the twentieth time to the window and saw no
sign of the runaways upon the lake vista that was visible
from it. She found small consolation in the other two
occupants of the drawing-room. Christopher, reading the

l68 The Real Charlotte.

newspaper with every appearance of absorbed interest,
treated the alternative theories of drowning or elopement
with optimistic indifference; and Miss Hope-Drummond,
while disclaiming any idea of either danger, dwelt on the
social aspect of the affair so ably as almost to reduce her
hostess to despair. Cursiter was down at the pier, seriously
debating with himself as to the advisability of rowing the
long four miles back to Lismoyle, and giving his opinion to
Mr. Hawkms in language that would, he hoped, surprise
even that bland and self-satisfied young gentleman. There
Pamela found him standing, as desolate as Sir Bedivere when
the Three Queens had carried away King Arthur in their
barge, and from thence she led him, acquiescing with sombre
politeness in the prospect of dining out for the second time
in one week, and wondering whether Providence would
again condemn him to sit next Miss Hope-Drummond, and
prattle to her about the Lincolnshire Cursiters. He felt as
if talking to Pamela would make the situation more endur-
able. She knew how to let a man alone, and when she did
talk she had something to say, and did not scream twaddle
at you like a peacock. These unamiable reflections will
serve to show the irritation of Captain Cursiter's mind, and
as he stalked into dinner with Lady Dysart, and found that
for her sake he had better make the best of his subaltern's
iniquity, he was a man much to be pitied.

CHAPTER XXIII

At about this very time it so happened that Mr. Hawkins
was also beginning to be sorry for himself. The run to
Lismoyle had been capital fun, and though the steering and
the management of the machinery took up more of his
attention than he could have wished, he had found Francie's
society more delightful than ever. The posting of a letter,
which he had fortunately found in his pocket, had been the
pretext for the expedition, and both he and Francie
confidently believed that they would get back to Bruff at
about six o'clock. It is true that Mr. Hawkins received
ratiier a shock when, on arriving at Lismoyle, he found that

The Real Charlotte. 169

It was already six o'clock, but he kept this to himself, and
lost no time in starting again for Bruff.

The excitement and hurry of the escapade had conspired,
with the practical business of steering and attending to the
various brass taps, to throw sentiment for a space into the
background, and that question as to whether forgiveness
should or should not be extended to him, hung enchant-
ingly on the horizon, as delightful and as seductive as the
blue islands that floated far away in the yellow haze of the
lowered sun. There was not a breath of wind, and the
launch slit her way through tranquil, oily spaces of sky that
lay reflected deep in the water, and shaved the long rocky
points so close that they could see the stones at the bottom
looking like enormous cairngorms in the golden shallows.

"That was a near thing," remarked Mr. Hawkins com-
placently, as a slight grating sound told that they had
grazed one of these smooth-backed monsters. "Good
business old Snipey wasn't on board ! "

"Well, I'll tell old Snipey on you the very minute I get
back ! "

" Oh, you little horror ! " said Mr. Hawkins.

Both laughed at this brilliant retort, and Hawkins looked
down at her, where she sat near him, with an expression of
fondness that he did not take the least pains to conceal.

" Hang it ! you know," he said presently, " I'm sick of
holding this blooming wheel dead amidships ; I'll just
make it fast, and let hei rip for a bit by herself." He
suited the action to the word, and came and sat down
"beside her.

"Now you're going to drown me again, I suppose, the
way Mr. Lambert did," Francie said. She felt a sudden
trembling that was in no way caused by the danger of which
she had spoken ; she knew quite well why he had left the
wheel, and her heart stood still with the expectation of that
explanation that she knew was to come.

" So you think I want to drown you, do you ? " said
Hawkins, getting very close to her, and trying to look under
the wide brim of her hat. " Turn round and look me in
the face and say you're ashamed of yourself for thinking ot
such a thing."

" Go on to your steering," responded Francie, still look-

170 The Real Charlotte.

ing down and wondering if he saw how her hands were
trembling.

* But I'm not wanted to steer, and you do want me here,
don't you ? " replied Hawkins, his face flushing through the
sunburn as he leaned nearer to her, ^'and you know you
never told me last night if you were angry with me or
not."

"Well, I was."

"Ah, not very — " A rather hot and nervous hand,
burned to an unromantic scarlet, turned her face upwards
against her will. " Not very ? " he said again, looking into
her eyes, in which love lay helpless like a prisoner.

"Don't," said Francie, yielding the position, powerless,
indeed, to do otherwise.

Her delicate defeated face was drawn to his ; her young
soul rushed with it, and with passionate, innocent sincerity,
thought it had found heaven itself. Hawkins could not tell
how long it was before he heard again, as if in a dream, the
click-clicking of the machinery, and wondered, in the dazed
way of a person who is " coming to " after an anaesthetic,
how the boat was getting on.

" I must go back to the wheel, darling," he whispered in
the small ear that lay so close to his lips ; " I'm afraid we're
a little bit off the course."

As he spoke, his conscience reminded him that he him-
self had got a good deal off his course, but he put the
thought aside. The launch was duly making for the head-
land that separated them from Bruff, but Hawkins had not
reflected that in rounding the last point he had gone rather
nearer to it than was usual, and that he was consequently
inside the proper course. This, however, was an easy
matter to rectify, and he turned the Serpolette's head out
towards the ordinary channel. A band of rushes lay
between him and it, and he steered wide of them to avoid
their parent shallow. Suddenly there was a dull shock, a
quiver ran through the launch, and Hawkins found himself
sitting abruptly on the india-rubber matting at Francie's
feet. The launch had run at full speed upon the soft,
muddy shallow that extended unconscionably far beyond
the bed of rushes, and her sharp nose was now digging it-
self deeper and deeper into the mud. Hawkins lost do

The Real Charlotte. 171

time in reversing the engine, but by the time they had gone
full speed astern for five minutes, and had succeeded only
in lashing the water into a thick, pea-soupy foam all round
them, he began to feel exceedingly anxious as to their pro-
spects of getting off again.

" Well, we've been and gone and done it this time," he
said, with a laugh that had considerably more discomfiture
than mirth in it ; "I expect we've got to stay here till we're
taken off."

Francie looked all round the lake ; not a boat was in
sight, not even a cottage on the shore from which they
might hope for help. She was standing up, pale, now that
the tide of excitement had ebbed a little, and shaken by a
giddy remembrance of that moment when the yacht heeled
over and flung her into blackness.

*' I told you you were going to drown me," she said,
shivering and laughing together ; " and oh — ! what in the
name of goodness will I say to Lady Dysart ? "

" Oh, we'll tell her it was an accident, and she won't say
a word," said Hawkins with more confidence than he felt.
" If the worst comes to the worst I'll swim ashore and get a
boat."

^^ Oh don't, don't ! you mustn't do that ! " she cried,
catching at his arm as if she already saw him jumping over-
board ; " I'd be frightened — I couldn't bear to see you —
don't go away from me ! "

Her voice failed pathetically, and, bared of all their wiles,
her eyes besought him through the tears of a woman's terror
and tenderness. Hawkins looked at her with a kind of
ecstacy.

" Do you care so much as all that," he said, " you silly
little thing ! "

After this there was nothing to be done except sit down
again, and with her head on his shoulder, allow that fatal
anaesthetic to rob him of all considerations beyond Francie's
kisses.

CHAPTER XXIV.

Dinner at BrufFwas over. It had been delayed as long as
possible in the belief that each moment would bring back

172 The Real Charlotte.

the culprits, and it had dragged painfully through its eight
courses, in spite of Lady Dysart's efforts to hasten Gorman
and his satellite in their inexorable orbit. Everyone except
Garry and Miss Hope-Drummond had been possessed by
an anxiety which Lady Dysart alone had courage to express.
She indeed, being a person who habitually said what other
people were half afraid to think, had dilated on all possible
calamities till Cursiter, whose temper was momently be-
coming worse, many times wished himself on the lake, row-
ing dinnerless and vengeful on the track of the fugitives.

The whole party was now out of doors, and on its way
down to the landing-place, in the dark twilight; Lady
Dysart coming last of all, and driving before her the much
incensed Gorman, whom she had armed with the gong, in
the idea that its warlike roar would be at once a guide and
a menace to the wanderers. So far it had only had the
effect of drawing together in horrified questioning all the
cattle in the lower part of the park, and causing them to
rush, bellowing, along by the railings that separated them
from the siren who cried to them with a voice so command-
ing and so mysterious. Gorman was fully alive to the in-
dignity of his position, and to the fact that Master Garry,
his ancient enemy, was mocking at his humiliation ; but
any attempt to moderate his attack upon the gong was de-
tected by his mistress.

" Go on, Gorman ! Beat it louder ! The more they
bellow the better; it will guide them into the landing-place."

Christopher's affected misapprehension of his mother's
pronouns created a diversion for some time, as it was per-
haps intended to do. He had set himself to treat the
whole affair with unsympathetic levity, but, in spite of him-
self, an insistent thorn of anxiety made it difficult for him to
make little of his mother's vigorous panic. It was absurd,
but her lamentations about the dangers of the lake and of
steam-launches found a hollow echo in his heart. He re-
membered, with a shudder that he had not felt at the time,
the white face rising and dipping in the trough of the grey
lake waves ; and though his sense of humour, and of the
supreme inadequacy and staleness of swearing, usually de-
prived him of that safety valve, he was conscious that in the
background of his mind the traditional adjective was mono-

The Real Charlotte. 173

tonously coupling itself with the name of Mr. Hawkins. He
was walking behind the others down the path to the pier.
Here and there great trees that looked tired from their
weight of foliage stood patiently spreading their arms to the
dew, and in the intervals between Gorman's fantasias on
the gong, he could hear how the diffident airs from the lake
whispered confidentially to the sleeping leaves. There was
no moon ; the sky was thickened with a light cloudiness,
and in the mystical twilight the pale broad blossoms of an
elder-bush looked like constellated stars in a nearer and
darker firmament. Christopher walked on, that cold memory
of danger and disquiet jarring the fragrance and peace of
the rich summer night.

The searchers ranged themselves on the pier ; the gong
was stilled, and except for the occasional stamping of a hoof,
or low booming complaint from the cattle, there was perfect
silence. All were listening for some sound from the lake
before Christopher and Cursiter carried out their intention
of starting in a boat to look for the launch. Suddenly in
the misty darkness into which all were staring, a vivid spark
of light sprang out. It burned for a few seconds only, a
sharp distinct star, and then disappeared.

" There they are ! " cried Lady Dysart. " The gong,
Gorman ! The gong ! "

Gorman sounded with a will, and the harsh, brazen blare
spread and rolled over the lake, but there was no response.

" They must hear that," said Cursiter to Christopher ;
" why the devil don't he whistle ? "

" How should I know ? " answered Christopher, with a
crossness which was in some irrational way the outcome of
extreme relief; " I suppose he fooled with it till it broke."

" Perhaps they are not there after all," suggested Miss
Hope-Drummond cheerfully.

'' How can you say such a thing, Evelyn ! " exclaimed
Lady Dysart indignantly ; " I know it was they, and the
light was a signal of distress ! "

" More likely to have been Hawkins lighting a cigarette,"
said Christopher ; " if everyone would stop talking at the
same time we might be able to hear something."

A question ran like a ripple through Pamela's mind
" What makes Christopher cross to-night ? " but the next in-

174 T^^^^ ^^«/ Charlotte.

stant she forgot it. A distant shout, unmistakably uttered
by Hawkins, came thinly to them across the water, and in
another second or two the noise of oars could be distinctly
heard. The sound advanced steadily.

** Show a light there on the pier ! " called out a voice that
was not Hawkins'.

Cursiter struck a match, a feeble illuminant that made
everything around invisible except the faces of the group on
the pier, and by the time it had been tossed, like a falling
star, into the tarry blackness of the water, the boat was within
conversational distance.

" Is Miss Fitzpatrick there ? " demanded Lady Dysart.

" She is," said Lambert's voice.

*' What have you done with the launch ? " shouted
Cursiter, in a tone that made his subaltern quake.

" She's all right," he made haste to reply. *' She's on
that mud-shallow off Curragh Point, and Lambert's man is
on board her now. Lambert saw us aground there from his
window, and we were at her for an hour trying to get her off,
and then it got so dark, we thought we'd better leave her
and come on. She's all right, you know."

" Oh," said Captain Cursiter, in, as Hawkins thought tc
himself, a deuced disagreeable voice.

The boat came up alongside of the pier, and in the
hubbub of inquiry that arose, Francie was conscious of a
great sense of protection in Lambert's presence, angry
though she knew he was. As he helped her out of the
boat, she whispered tremulously :

" It was awfully good of you to come."

He did not answer, and stepped at once into the boat
again. In another minute the necessary farewells had been
made, and he, Cursiter, and Hawkins, were rowing back tc
the launch, leaving Francie to face her tribunal alone.

CHAPTER XXV.

It was noon on the following day — a soaking, windy noon.
Francie felt its fitness without being aware that she did so,
as she knelt in front of her trunk, stuffing her few fineries
into it with unscientific recklessness, and thinking with terror

The Real Charlotte. 175

that it still remained for her to fee the elderly English upper
housemaid with the half-crown that Charlotte had diplomati-
cally given her for the purpose.

Everything had changed since yesterday, and changed
for the worse. The broad window, out of which yesterday
afternoon she had leaned in the burning sunshine to see the
steam-launch puffing her way up the lake, was now closed
against the rain ; the dirty flounces of her best white frock,
that had been clean yesterday, now thrust themselves out
from under the lid of her trunk in disreputable reminder of
last night's escapade ; and Lady Dysart, who had been at
all events moderately friendly yesterday, now^ evidently con-
sidered that Francie had transgressed beyond forgiveness,
and had acquiesced so readily in Francie's suggestion oif
going home for luncheon, that her guest felt sorry that she
had not said breakfast. Even the padlock of her bonnet-
box refused to lock — was " going bandy with her," as she
put it in a phrase learnt from the Fitzpatrick cook — and she
was still battling with it when the sound of wheels on the
gravel warned her that the ordeal of farewell was at hand.
The blase calm with which Sarah helped her through the
presentation of Charlotte's half-crown made her feel her
social inferiority as keenly as the coldness of Lady Dysart's
adieux made her realise that she was going away in disgrace,
when she sought her hostess and tried to stammer out the
few words of orthodox gratitude that Charlotte had enjoined
her not to forget.

Pamela, whose sympathies were always with the sinner,
was kinder than ever, even anxiously kind, as Francie dimly
perceived, and in some unexpected way her kindness
brought a lump into the throat of the departing guest.
Francie hurried mutely out on to the steps, where, in spite
of the rain, the dogs and Christopher were waiting to bid
her good-bye.

" You are very punctual," he said. " I don't know why
you are in such a hurry to go away."

" Oh, I think you've had quite enough of me," Francie
replied with a desperate attempt at gaiety. " I'm sure
you're all very glad to be shut of me."

*' That isn't a kind thing to say, and I think you ought to
know that it is not true either."

J 76 The Real Charlotte.

" Indeed then I know it is true," answered Francie, pre-
paring in her agitation to plunge into the recesses of the
landau without any further ceremonies of farewell.

" Well, won't you even shake hands with me ? "

She was already in the carriage ; but at this reproach she
thrust an impulsive hand out of the window. " Oh,
gracious — ! I mean — I beg your pardon, Mr. Dysart," she
cried incoherently, " I — I'm awfully grateful for all your
kindness, and to Miss Dysart — "

She hardly noticed how tightly he held her hand in his ;
but, as she was driven away, and, looking back, saw him
and Pamela standing on the steps, the latter holding Max
in her arms, and waving one of his crooked paws in token
of farewell, she thought to herself that it must be only out
of good nature they were so friendly to her ; but anyhow
they were fearfully nice.

" Thank goodness ! " said Lady Dysart fervently, as she
moved away from the open hall-door — " thank goodness
that responsibility is off my hands. I began by liking the
creature, but never, no, never, have I seen a girl so abomin-
ably brought up."

" Not much notion of the convenances, has she ? " ob-
served Miss Hope-Drummond, who had descended from
her morning task of writing many letters in a tall, square
hand, just in time to enjoy the sight of Francie's departure,
without having the trouble of saying good-bye to her.

" Convenances I " echoed Lady Dysart, lifting her dark
eyes till nothing but the whites were visible ; " I don't
suppose she could tell you the meaning of the word. ' One
master passion in the breast, like Aaron's serpent, swallows
up the rest,' and of all the man-eaters I have ever seen, she
is the most cannibalistic ! "

Miss Hope-Drummond laughed in polite appreciation,
and rustled crisply away towards the drawing-room. Lady
Dysart looked approvingly after the tall, admirably neat
figure, and thought, with inevitable comparison, of Francie's
untidy hair, and uncertainly draped skirts. She turned to
Christopher and Pamela, and continued, with a lowered
voice :

" Do you know, even the servants are all talking about
her Of course, they can't help noticing what goes on."

The Real Charlotte. 177

Christopher looked at his mother with a singularly ex-
pressionless face.

" Gorman hasn't mentioned it to me yet, or William
either."

" If you had not interrupted me, Christopher," said poor
Lady Dysart, resentful of this irreproachably filial rebuke,
" I would have told you that none of the servants breathed
a word on the subject to me. Evelyn was told it by her
maid."

" How Evelyn can discuss such things with her maid, I
cannot imagine," said Pamela, with unwonted heat ; " and
Davis is such a particularly detestable woman."

" I do not care in the least what sort of woman she is, she
does hair beautifully, which is more than I can say for you,"
replied Lady Dysart, with an Uhlan-like dash into the
enemy's country.

" I suppose it was by Davis' advice that Evelyn made a
point of ignoring Miss Fitzpatrick this whole morning,"
continued Pamela, with the righteous wrath of a just
person.

" It was quite unnecessary for her to trouble herself,"
broke in Lady Dysart witheringly ; '' Christopher atoned
for all her deficiencies — taking advantage of Mr. Hawkins'
absence, I suppose."

" If Hawkins had been there," said Christopher, with the
slowness that indicated that he was trying not to stammer,
" it would have saved me ihe trouble of making c — conver-
sation for a person who did not care about it."

" You may make your mind easy on that point, my
dear ! " Lady Dysart shot this parting shaft after her son
as he turned away towards the smoking-room. " To do her
justice, I don't think she is in the least particular, so long
as she has a man to talk to ! "

It is not to be wondered at, that, as Francie drove
through Lismoyle, she felt that the atmosphere was laden
with reprobation of her and her conduct.

Her instinct told her that the accident to Captain
Cursiter's launch, and her connection with it, would be a
luscious topic of discourse for everyone, from Mrs. Lambert
downwards ; and the thought kept her from deriving full
satisfaction from the Bruff carriage and pair. Even when

178 The Real Charlotte,

she saw Annie Beattie standing at her window with a duster
in her hand, the triumph of her position was blighted by the
reflection that if Charlotte did not know everything before
the afternoon was out, full details would be supplied to her
at the party to which on this very evening they had been
bidden by Mrs. Beattie.

The prospect of the cross-examination which she would
have to undergo grew in portentousness during the hour
and a half of waiting at Tally Ho for her cousin's return,
while, through and with her fears, the dirt and vulgarity of
the house and the furniture, the sickly familiarities of Louisa,
and the all-pervading smell of cats and cooking, impressed
themselves on her mind with a new and repellent vigour
But Charlotte, when she arrived, was evidently still in happy
ignorance of the events that would have interested her so
profoundly. Her Dublin dentist had done his spiriting
gently, her friends had been so hospitable that her lodging-
house breakfasts had been her only expense in the way of
meals, and the traditional battle with the Lismoyle car-
driver and his equally inevitable defeat had raised her spirits
so much that she accepted Francie's expurgated account
of her sojourn at Bruff with almost boisterous approval.
She even extended a jovial feeler in the direction of
Christopher.

" Well, now, after all the chances you've had, Francie, I'll
not give tuppence for you if you haven't Mr. Dysart at your
feet ! "

It was not usually Francie's way to object to jests of this
kind, but now she shrank from Charlotte's heavy hand.

" Oh, he was awfully kind," she said hurriedly ; " but I
don't think he'll ever want to marry anyone, not even Miss
Hope-Drummond, for all as hard as she's trying ! "

" Paugh ! Let her try ! She'W. not get him, not if she
was to put her eyes on sticks ! But believe you me, child,
there never was a man yet that pretended he didn't want to
marry that wasn't dying for a wife ! "

This statement demanded no reply, and Miss Mullen
departed to the kitchen to see the new kittens and to hold
high inquisition into the doings of the servants during her
absence.

Mrs. Beattie gave but two parties in the year — one at

TJie Real Charlotte. 179

Christmas, on account of the mistletoe ; and one in July,
on account of the raspberries, for which her garden was
justly famous. This, it need scarcely be said, was the rasp-
berry party, and accordingly when the afternoon had brought
a cessation of the drizzling rain, Miss Ada and Miss Flossie
Beattie might have been seen standing among the wet over-
arching raspberry canes, devoured by midges, scarlet from
the steamy heat, and pestered by that most maddening of
all created things, the common fly, but, nevertheless, filling
basket after basket with fruit. Miss May and Miss Carrie
spent a long and arduous day in the kitchen making tartlets,
brewing syrupy lemonade, and decorating cakes with pink
and white sugar devices and mottos archly stimulative of
conversation. Upon Mrs. Beattie and her two remaining
daughters devolved the task of arranging the drawing-room
chairs in a Christy minstrel circle, and borrowing extra tea-
cups from their obliging neighbour, Mrs. Lynch ; while Mr.
Beattie absented himself judiciously until his normal five
o'clock dinner hour, when he returned to snatch a per-
functory meal at a side table in the hall, his womenkind,
after their wont, decUning anything more substantial than
nomadic cups of tea, brewed in the kitchen tea-pot, and
drunk standing, like the Queen's health.

But by eight o'clock all preparations were completed, and
the young ladies were in the drawing-room, attired alike in
white muslin and rose-coloured sashes, with faces pink and
glossy from soap and water. In Lismoyle, punctuality was
observed at all entertainments, not as a virtue but as a
pleasure, and at half-past eight the little glaring drawing-
room had rather more people in it than it could con-
veniently hold. Mrs. Beattie had trawled Lismoyle and its
environs with the purest impartiality ; no one was invidiously
omitted, not even young Mr. Redmond the solicitor's clerk,
who came in thick boots and a suit of dress clothes so much
too big for him as to m.ake his trousers look like twin
concertinas, and also to suggest the more massive pro-
portions of his employer, Mr. Lynch. In this assemblage,
Mrs. Baker, in her celebrated maroon velvet, was a star of
the first magnitude, only excelled by Miss Mullen, whose
arrival with her cousin was, in a way, the event of the
evening. Everyone knew that Miss Fitzpatrick had re-

i8o The Real Charlotte.

turned from Bruff that day, and trailing clouds of glory
followed her in the mind's eye of the party as she came into
the room. Most people, too, knew of the steam-launch
adventure, so that when, later in the proceedings, Mr.
Hawkins made his appearance, poor Mrs. Beattie was given
small credit for having secured this prize.

^' Are they engaged, do you think ? " whispered Miss
Corkran, the curate's sister, to Miss Baker.

" Engaged indeed ! " echoed Miss Baker, *' no more than
you are ! If you knew him as well as I do you'd know that
flirting's all he cares for ! "

Miss Corkran, who had not the pleasure of Mr. Hawkins'
acquaintance, regarded him coldly through her spectacles,
and said that for her own part she disapproved of flirting,
but liked making gentlemen-friends.

" Well, I suppose I might as well confess," said Miss
Baker with a frivolous laugh, ''that there's nothing I care for
like flirting, but p'pa's awful particular! Wasn't he for
turning Dr. M'Call out of the house last summer because
he cot me curling his moustache with my curling-tongs ! ' I
don't care what you do with officers,' says p'pa, ' but I'll not
have you going on with that Rathgar bounder of a fellow ! '
Ah, but that was when the poor ' Foragers ' were quartered
here ; they were the j oiliest lot we ever had ! "

Miss Corkran paid scant attention to these memories,
being wholly occupied with observing the demeanour of
Mr. Hawkins, who was holding Miss Mullen in conversa-
tion. Charlotte's big, pale face had an intellectuality and
power about it that would have made her conspicuous in a
gathering more distinguished than the present, and even
Mr. Hawkins felt something like awe of her, and said to
himself that she would know how to make it hot for him if
she chose to cut up rough about the launch business.

As he reflected on that escapade he felt that he would
have given a good round sum of money that it had not
taken place. He had played the fool in his usual way, and
now it didn't seem fair to back out of it. That, at all
events, was the reason he gave to himself for coming to this
blooming menagerie, as he inwardly termed Mrs. Beattie's
highest social effort ; it wouldn't do to chuck the whole
thing up all of a sudden, even though, of course, the little

The Real Charlotte. i8i

girl knew as well as he did that it was all nothing but a lark.
This was pretty much the substance of the excuses that he
had offered to Captain Cursiter ; and they had seemed so
successful at the time that he now soothed his guilty
conscience with a rechauffe of them, while he slowly and
conversationally made his way round the room towards the
green rep sofa in the corner, whereon sat Miss Fitzpatrick,
looking charming things at Mr. Corkran, judging, at least,
by the smile that displayed the reverend gentleman's pro-
minent teeth to such advantage. Hawkins kept on looking
at her over the shoulder of the Miss Beattie to whom he was
talking, and with each glance he thought her looking more
and more lovely. Prudence melted in a feverish longing
to be near her again, and the direction of his wandering eye
became at length so apparent that Miss Carrie afterwards
told her sister that " Mr. Hawkins was/^^rfuily gone about
Francie Fitzpatrick — oh, the tender looks he cast at her ! "

Mrs. Beattie's entertainments always began with music,
and the recognised musicians of Lismoyle were now con-
tributing his or her share in accustomed succession.
Hawkins waited until the time came for Mr. Corkran to
exhibit his wiry bass, and then definitely took up his
position on the green sofa. When he had first come into
the room their eyes had met with a thrilling sense of under-
standing, and since then Francie had felt rather than seen
nis steady and diplomatic advance in her direction. But
somehow, now that he was beside her, they seemed to find
little to say to each other.

" I suppose they're all talking about our running aground
yesterday," he said at last in a low voice. " Does she
know anything about it yet ? " indicating Miss Mullen with
a scarcely perceptible turn of his eye.

" No," replied Francie in the same lowered voice ; " but
she will before the evening's out. Everyone's quizzing me
about it." She looked at him anxiously as she spoke, and
his light eyebrows met in a frown.

"Confound their cheek!" he said angrily; "why don t
you shut them up ? "

" I don't know what to say to them. They only roar
laughing at me, and say I'm not born to be drowned
anyway."

1 82 The Real Charlotte.

*' Look here,** said Hawkins impatiently, " what do
they do at these shows ? Have we got to sit here all the
evening ? "

" Hush ! Look at Charlotte looking at you, and that's
Carrie Beattie just in front of us."

" I didn't come here to be wedged into a corner of this
little beastly hole all the evening," he answered rebelliously ;
" can't we get out to the stairs or the garden or some-
thing?"

" Mercy on us ! " exclaimed Francie, half-frightened and
half-delighted at his temerity. '^ Of course we can't !
Why, they'll be going down to tea now in a minute — after
that perhaps — "

"There won't be any perhaps about it," said Hawkins,
looking at her with an expression that made her blush and
tremble, " will there ? "

" I don't know — not if you go away now," she murmured,
" I'm so afraid of Charlotte."

" I've nowhere to go ; I only came here to see you."

Captain Cursiter, at this moment refilling his second pipe,
vs^ould not have studied the fascinating pages of the Engineer
with such a careless rapture had he at all realised how Mr.
Hawkins was fulfilling his promises of amendment.

At this juncture, however, the ringing of a bell in the hall
notified that tea was ready, and before Hawkins had time
for individual action, he found himself swept forward by his
hostess, and charged with the task of taking Mrs. Rattray,
the doctor's bride, down to the dining-room. The supply
of men did little more than yield a sufficiency for the
matrons, and after these had gone forth with due state,
Francie found herself in the midst of a throng of young
ladies following in the wake of their seniors. As she came
down the stairs she was aware of a tall man taking off his
coat in a corner of the hall, and before she reached the
dining-room door Mr. Lambert's hand was laid upon her
arm.

CHAPTER XXVL

Tea at Mrs. Beattie's parties was a serious meal, and, as a
considerable time had elapsed since any of the company,

The Real Charlotte. 183

except Mr. Hawkins, had dined, they did full justice to her
hospitality. That young gentleman toyed with a plate of
raspberries and cream and a cup of coffee, and spasmodically
devoted himself to Mrs. Rattray in a way that quite repaid
her for occasional lapses of attention. Francie was sitting
opposite to him, not at the table, where, indeed, there was
no room for her, but on a window-sill, where she was shar-
ing a small table with Mr. Lambert. They were partly
screened by the window curtains, but it seemed to Hawkins
that Lambert was talking a great deal and that she was eat-
ing nothing. Whatever was the subject of their conversation
they were looking very serious over it, and, as it progressed,
Francie seemed to get more and more behind her window
curtain. The general clamour made it impossible for him
to hear what they were talking about, and Mrs. Rattray's
demands upon his attention became more intolerable every
moment, as he looked at Francie and saw how wholly
another man was monopolising her.

" And do you like being stationed here, Mr. Hawkins ? "
said Mrs. Rattray after a pause.

" Eh ? what ? Oh yes, of course I do — awfully ! you're
all such delightful people, y'know ! "

Mrs. Rattray bridled with pleasure at this audacity.

" Oh, Mr. Hawkins, I'm afraid you're a terrible flatterer !
Do you know that one of the officers of the Foragers said
he thought it was a beastly spawt ! "

" Beastly what ? Oh yes, I see. I don't agree with him
at all ; I think it's a capital good spot." (Why did that old
ass, Mrs. Corkran, stick her great widow's cap just between
him and the curtain ? Francie had leaned forward and
looked at him that very second, and that infernal white tow-
row had got in his way.)

Mrs. Rattray thought it was time to play her trump card.

" I suppose you read a great deal, Mr. Hawkins ? Dr.
Rattray takes the — a — the Pink One I think he calls it — I
know, of course, it's only a paper for gentlemen," she added
hurriedly, " but I believe it's very comical, and the doctoi
would be most happy to lend it to you."

Mr. Hawkins, whose Sunday mornings would have been
a blank without the solace of the Sporting Ti7nes, explained
that the loan was unnecessary, but Mrs. Rattray felt that she

184 The Real Charlotte.

had nevertheless made her point, and resolved that she
would next Sunday study the Pink One's inscrutable pages,
so that she and Mr. Hawkins might have, at least, one sub-
ject in common.

By this time the younger members of the company had
finished their tea, and those nearest the door began to make
a move. The first to leave the room were Francie and
Lambert, and poor Hawkins, who had hoped that his time
of release had at length come, found it difficult to behave as
becomes a gentleman and a soldier, when Mrs. Rattray, with
the air of one who makes a concession, said she thought she
could try another saucer of raspberries. Before they left the
table the piano had begun again upstairs, and a muffled
thumping, that shook flakes from the ceiling down on to the
tea-table, told that the realities of the evening had begun at
last.

" I knew the young people would be at that before the
evening was out," said Mrs. Beattie with an indulgent laugh,
" though the girls let on to me it was only a musical party
they wanted."

" Ah well, they'll never do it younger ! " said Mrs, Baker,
leaning back with her third cup of tea in her hand. " Girls
will be girls, as I've just been saying to Miss Mullen."

" Girls will be tom-fools ! " said Miss Mullen with a brow
of storm, thrusting her hands into her gloves, while her eyes
followed Hawkins, who had at length detached Mrs. Rattray
from the pleasures of the table, and was hurrying her out of
the room.

" Oh now. Miss Mullen, you mustn't be so cynical," said
Mrs. Beattie from behind the tea-urn ; " we have six girls,
and I declare now Mr. Beattie and I wouldn't wish to have
one less."

" Well, they're a great responsibility," said Mrs. Corkran
with a slow wag of her obtrusively widowed head, " and no
one knows that better than a mother. I shall never forget
the anxiety I went through — it was just before we came to
this parish — when my Bessy had an offer. Poor Mr. Cork-
ran and I disapproved of the young man, and we were both
quite distracted about it. Indeed we had to make it a sub-
ject of prayer, and a fortnight afterwards the young man
died. Oh, doesn't it show the wonderful force of prayer ? '^

The Real Charlotte. 185

** Well now, I think it's a pity you didn't let it alone," said
Mr. Lynch, with something resembling a wink at Miss
Mullen.

" I daresay Bessy's very much of your opinion," said
Charlotte^ unable to refrain from a jibe at Miss Corkran,
pre-occupied though she was with her own wrath. She
pushed her chair brusquely back from the table. " I think,
with your kind permission, Mrs. Beattie, I'll go upstairs and
see what's going on. Don't stir, ]Mr. Lynch, I'm able to get
that far by myself."

When Miss Mullen arrived at the top of the steep flight
of stairs, she paused on the landing amongst the exiled
drawing-room chairs and tables, and looked in at seven or
eight couples revolving in a space so limited as to make
movement a difficulty, if not a danger, and in an atmosphere
already thickened with dust from the carpet. She saw to
her surprise that her cousin was dancing with Lambert, and,
after a careful survey of the room, espied Mr. Hawkins
standing partnerless in one of the windows.

" I wonder what she's at now," thought Charlotte to her-
self; " is she trying to play Roddy off against him? The
little cat, I wouldn't put it past her ! "

As she looked at them wheeling slowly round in the
cramped circle she could see that neither he or Francie spoke
to each other, and when, the dance being over, they sat
down together in the corner of the room, they seemed
scarcely more disposed to talk than they had been when
dancing.

^' Aha ! Roddy's a good fellow," she thought, "he's doing
his best to help me by keeping her away from that young
scamp."

At this point the young scamp in question crossed the
room and asked Miss Fitzpatrick for the next dance in a
manner that indicated just displeasure. The heat of the
room and the exertion of dancing on a carpet had endued
most of the dancers with the complexions of ripe plums^
but Francie seemed to have been robbed of all colour. She
did not look up at him as he proffered his request.

" I'm engaged for the next dance."

Hawkins became very red. " Well, the next after that,"
he persisted, trying to catch her eye.

iS6 The Real Chai-lotte.

"There isn't any next," said Francie, looking suddenly at
him with defiant eyes ; " after the next we're going home."

Hawkins stared for a brief instant at her with a sparkle of
anger in his eyes. " Oh, very well," he said with exaggerated
politeness of manner, " I thought I was engaged to you for
the first dance after supper, that was all."

He turned away at once and walked out of the room,
brushing past Charlotte at the door, and elbowed his way
through the uproarious throng that crowded the staircase.
Mrs. Beattie, coming up from the tea-table with her fellow-
matrons, had no idea of permitting her prize guest to escape
so early. Hawkins was captured, his excuses were disre-
garded, and he was driven up the stairs again.

" Very well," he said to himself, " if she chooses to throw
me over, I'll let her see that I can get on without her." It
did not occur to him that Francie was only acting in
accordance with the theory of the affair that he had himself
presented to Captain Cursiter. His mind was now wholly
given to revenging the snub he had received, and, spurred
by this desire, he advanced to Miss Lynch, who was reposing
in an armchair in a corner of the landing, while her partner
played upon her heated face with the drawing-room bellowS;
and secured her for the next dance.

When Mr. Hawkins gave his mind to rollicking, there
were few who could do it more thoroughly, and the ensuing
polka was stamped through by him and Miss Lynch with a
vigour that scattered all opposing couples like ninepins.
Even his strapping partner appealed for mercy.

" Oh, Mr. Hawkins," she panted, " wouldn't you chassy
now please ? if you twirl me any more, I think I'll die ! "

But Mr. Hawkins was deaf to entreaty ; far from modera-
ting his exertions, he even snatched the eldest Miss Beattie
from her position as on-looker, and, compelling her to avail
herself of the dubious protection of his other arm, whirled
her and Miss Lynch round the room with him in a many-
elbowed triangle. The progress of the other dancers was
necessarily checked by this performance, but it was viewed
with the highest favour by all the matrons, especially those
whose daughters had been selected to take part in it.
Francie looked on from the doorway, whither she and her
partner, the Reverend Corkran, had been driven for safety.

The Real Charlotte. 187

with a tearing pam at her heart. Her lips were set in a
fixed smile — a smile that barely kept their quivering in
check — and her beautiful eyes shone upon the dazzled
curate through a moisture that was the next thing to
tears.

" I want to find Miss Mullen," she said at last, dragging
Mr. Corkran towards the stairs, when a fresh burst of
applause from the dancing-room made them both look back.
Hawkins' two partners had, at a critical turn, perfidiously
let him go with such suddenness that he had fallen flat on
the floor, and having pursued them as they polkaed round
the room, he was now encircling both with one arm, and
affecting to box their ears with his other hand, encouraged
thereto by cries of " Box them, Mr. Hawkins ! " from Mrs.
Beattie. " Box them well ! "

Charlotte was in the dining-room, partaking of a
gentlemanly glass of Marsala with Mr. Beattie, and other
heads of families.

*' Great high jinks they're having upstairs ! " she remarked,
as the windows and tea-cups rattled from the stamping
overhead, and Mr. Beattie cast many an anxious eye
towards the ceiling. " I suppose my young lady's in the
thick of it, whatever it is ! " She always assumed the
attitude of the benevolently resigned chaperon when she
talked about Francie, and Mr. Lynch was on the point of
replying in an appropriate tone of humorous condolence,
when the young lady herself appeared on Mr. Corkran's
arm, with an expression that at once struck Charlotte as
being very unlike high jinks.

'' Why, child, what do you want down here ? " she said.
" Are you tired dancing ? "

"I am ; awfully tired ; would you mind going home,
Charlotte ? "

" What a question to ask before our good host here ! Of
course I mind going home ! " eyeing Francie narrowly as
she spoke ; " but I'll come if you like."

" Why, what people you all are for going home ! " pro-
tested Mr. Beattie hospitably ; " there was Hawkins that
we only stopped by main strength, and Lambert slipped
away ten minutes ago, saying Mrs. Lambert wasn't well, and
he had to go and look after her ! What's your reverence

1 88 The Real Charlotte.

about letting her go away now, when they're having the fun
of Cork upstairs ? "

Francie smiled a pale smile, but held to her point, and a
few minutes afterwards she and Charlotte had made their
way through the knot of loafers at the garden gate, and
were walking through the empty moon-lit streets of Lismoyle
towards Tally Ho. Charlotte did not speak till the last
clanging of the Bric-a-brac polka had been left behind, and
then she turned to Francie with a manner from which the
affability had fallen like a garment.

" And now I'll thank you to tell me what's the truth of
this I hear from everyone in the town about you and that
young Hawkins being out till all hours of the night in the
steam-launch by yourselves ? "

" It wasn't our fault. We were in by half-past nine."
Francie had hardly spirit enough to defend herself, and the
languor in her voice infuriated Charlotte.

*^ Don't give me any of your fine-lady airs," she said
brutally ; " I can tell ye this, that if ye can't learn how to
behave yourself decently I'll pack ye back to Dublin ! "

The words passed over Francie like an angry wind, dis-
turbing, but without much power to injure.

" All right, I'll go away when you like."

Charlotte hardly heard her. ^' I'll be ashamed to look
me old friend. Lady Dysart, in the face ! " She stormed
on. " Disgracing her house by such goings on with an un-
principled blackguard that has no more idea of marrying
you than I have — not that that's anything to be regretted !
An impudent little upstart without a halfpenny in his
pocket, and as for family — " her contempt stemmed her
volubility for a mouthing moment. " God only knows
what gutter he sprang from j I don't suppose he has a drop
of blood in his whole body ! "

" I'm not thinking of marrying him no more than he is of
marrying me," answered Francie in the same Hfeless voice,
but this time faltering a little. "You needn't bother me
about him, Charlotte ; he's engaged."

" Engaged ! " yelled Charlotte, squaring round at her
cousin, and standing stock still in her amazement. " Why
didn't you tell me so before ? When did you hear it ? "

" I heard it some time ago from a person whose name I

The Real Charlotte. 189

won*t give you,'' said Francie, walking on. "They're to be
married before Christmas." The lump rose at last in her
throat, and she trod hard on the ground as she walked, in
the effort to keep the tears back.

Charlotte girded her velveteen skirt still higher, and
hurried clumsily after the light, graceful figure.

" Wait, child ! Can't ye wait for me ? Are ye sure it's
true?"

Francie nodded.

'• The young reprobate ! To be m.aking you so remark-
able, and to have the other one up his sleeve all the time !
Didn't I say he had no notion of marrying ye ? "

Francie made no reply, and Charlotte with some diffi-
culty disengaged her hand from her wrappings and patted
her on the back.

"Well, never mind, me child," she said with noisy cheer-
fulness ; " you're not trusting to the likes of that fellow !
wait till ye're me Lady Dysart of Bruff, and it's little ye'H
think of him then ! "

They had reached the Tally Ho gate by this time;
Francie opened it, and plunged into the pitch-dark tunnel
of evergreens without a word.

CHAPTER XXVH.

The pre-eminently domestic smell of black currant jam per-
vaded Tally Ho next day. The morning had been spent
by Charlotte and her retainers in stripping the straggling
old bushes of the berries that resembled nothing so much
as boot-buttons in size, colour and general consistency ; the
preserving pan had been borrowed, according to imme-
morial custom, from Miss Egan of the hotel, and at three
o'clock of the afternoon the first relay was sluggishly seeth-
ing and bubbling on the kitchen fire, and Charlotte, Norry,
and Bid Sal were seated at the kitchen table snipping the
brown tips of the shining fruit that still awaited its fate.

It was a bright, steamy day, when the hot sun and the
wet earth turned the atmosphere into a Turkish bath, and
the cats sat out of doors, but avoided the grass like the
plague. Francie had docilely picked currants with the

igo The Real Charlotte.

others. She was accustomed to making herself useful, and
it did not occur to her to shut herself up in her room, or go
for a walk, or, in fact, isolate herself with her troubles in
any way. She had too little self-consciousness for these
deliberate methods, and she moved among the currant
bushes in her blue gown, and was merely uncomplainingly
thankful that she was able to pull the broad leaf of her hat
down so as to hide the eyes that were heavy from a sleepless
night and red from the sting of tears. She went over again
what Lambert had told her, as she mechanically dropped
the currants into her tin can ; the soldier-servant had read
the letters, and had told Michael, the Rosemount groom,
and Michael had told Mr. Lambert. She wouldn't have
cared a pin about his being engaged if he had only told her
so at first. She had flirted with engaged men plenty of times,
and it hadn't done anybody any harm, but this was quite
different. She couldn't believe, after the way he went on,
that he cared about another girl all the time, and yet
Michael had said that the soldier had said that they were
to be married at Christmas. Well, thank goodness, she
thought, with a half sob, she knew about it now ; he'd find
it hard to make a fool of her again.

After the early dinner the practical part of the jam-making
began, and for an hour Francie snipped at the currant-tops
as industriously as Charlotte herself But by the time that
the first brew was ready for the preserving pan, the heat of
the kitchen, and the wearisomeness of Charlotte's endless
discussions with Norry, made intolerable the headache that
had all day hovered about her forehead, and she fetched
her hat and a book and went out into the garden to look
for coolness and distraction. She wandered up to the seat
where she had sat on the day that Lambert gave her the
bangle, and, sitting down, opened her book, a railway novel,
bought by Charlotte on her journey from Dublin. She
read its stodgily sensational pages with hot tired eyes, and
tried hard to forget her own unhappiness in the infinitely
more terrific woes of its heroine ; but now and then some
chance expression, or one of those terms of endearment
that were lavished throughout its pages, would leap up into
borrowed life and sincerity, and she would shut her eyes
and drift back into the golden haze on Lough Moyle, when

The Real Charlotte. 191

his hand had pressed her head down on his shoulder, and
his kisses had touched her soul. At such moments all the
heated stillness of the lake was round her, with no creature
nearer than the white cottages on the far hillsides ; and
when the inevitable present swam back to her, with carts
ratthng past on the road, and insects buzzing and blunder-
ing against her face, and Bid Sal's shrill summoning of the
hens to their food, she would fling herself again into the
book to hide from the pursuing pain and the undying,
insane voice of hope.

Hope mastered pain, and reality mastered both, when,
with the conventionality of situation to which life sometimes
condescends, there came steps on the gravel, and looking
up she saw that Hawkins was coming towards her. Her
heart stopped and rushed on again like a startled horse, but
all the rest of her remained still and almost impassive, and
she leaned her head over her book to keep up the affecta-
tion of not having seen him.

" I saw your dress through the trees as I was coming up
the drive," he said after a moment of suffocating silence,
"and so — " he held out his hand, ^'aren't you going to
shake hands with me ? "

*' How d'ye do, Mr. Hawkins ? " she gave him a limp
hand and withdrew it instantly.

Hawkins sat down beside her, and looked hard at her
half-averted face. He had solved the problem of her treat-
ment of him last night in a way quite satisfactory to himself,
and he thought that now that he had been sharp enough to
have found her here, away from Miss Mullen's eye, things
would be very different. He had quite forgiven her her
share in the transgression ; in fact, if the truth were known
he had enjoyed himself considerably after she had left
Mrs. Beattie's party, and had gone back to Captain Cursiter
and disingenuously given him to understand that he had
hardly spoken a word to Miss Fitzpatrick the whole evening.

" So you wouldn't dance with me last night," he said, as
if he were speaking to a child ; " wasn't that very unkind of
you ? "

" No it was not," she replied^ without looking at him.

"Well, /think it was," he said, lightly touching the hand
that held the novel.

192 The Real Charlotte.

Francie took her hand sharply away.

" I think you are being very unkind now," he continued ;
*' aren't you even going to look at me ? "

" Oh yes, I'll look at you if you like," she said, turning
upon him in a kind of desperation ; " it doesn't do me
much harm, and I don't suppose it does you much good."

The cool, indifferent manner that she had intended to
assume was already too difficult for her, and she sought a
momentary refuge in rudeness. He showed all the white
teeth, that were his best point, in a smile that was patronis-
ingly free from resentment.

" Why, what's the matter with her ? " he said caressingly.
" I believe I know what it's all about. She's been catching
it about that day in the launch 1 Isn't that it ? "

" I don't know what you're talking about, Mr. Hawkins,"
said Francie, with an indifferent attempt at hauteur ; "but
since you're so clever at guessing things I suppose there's
no need of me telling you."

Hawkins came closer to her, and forcibly took possession
of her hands. " What's the matter with you ? " he said in a
low voice ; " why are you angry with me ? Don't you know
I love you ? " The unexpected element of uncertainty
sharpened the edge of his feelings and gave his voice an
earnestness that was foreign to it.

Francie started visibly ; '' No, I know you don't," she said,
facing him suddenly, like some trapped creature ; " I know
you're in love with somebody else ! "

His eyes flinched as though a light had been flashed in
them. *^ What do you mean ? " he said quickly, while a
rush of blood darkened his face to the roots of his yellow
hair, and made the veins stand out on his forehead ; " who
told you that ? "

" It doesn't matter who told me," she said with a miser-
able satisfaction that her bolt had sped home ; " but I know-
it's true."

" I give you my honour it's not ! " he said passionately ;
" you might have known better than to believe it."

" Oh yes, I might," she said with all the scorn she was
master of; "but I think 'twas as good for me I didn't.'*
Her voice collapsed at the end of the sentence, and the dry
sob that rose in her throat almost choked her. She stood

The Real Charlotte. 193

up and turned her face away to hide the angry tears that in
spite of herself had sprung to her eyes.

Hawkins caught her hand again and held it tightly. " I
know what it is. I suppose they've been teUing you of that
time I was in Limerick ; and that was all rot from beginning
to end ; anyone could tell you that."

" It's not that ; I heard all about that — "

Hawkins jumped up. " I don't care what you heard," he
said violently. '' Don't turn your head away from me like
that^ I won't have it. I know that you care about me, and
I know that I shouldn't care if everyone in the world was
dead, so long as you were here." His arm was round her,
but she shook herself free.

" What about Miss Coppard ? " she said ; " what about
being married before Christmas ? "

For a moment Hawkins could find no words to say.
" So you've got hold of that, have you ? " he said, after some
seconds of silence that seemed endless to Francie. " And
do you think that will come between us ? "

" Of course it must come between us," she said in a stifled
voice ; " and you knew that all through."

Mr. Hawkins' engagement was a painful necessity about
which he affaired himself as little as possible. He recog-
nised it as a certain and not disagreeable road to paying his
debts, which might with good luck be prolonged till he got
his company, and, latterly, it had fallen more than ever into
the background. That it should interfere with his amuse-
ments in any way made it an impertinence of a wholly
intolerable kind.

" It shall not come between us ! " he burst out ; " I don't
care what happens, I won't give you up ! I give you my
honour I never cared twopence about her — I've never
thought of her since I first saw you — I've thought of no
one but you."

His hot, stammering words were like music to her , but
that staunchness of soul that was her redeeming quality still
urged her to opposition.

" It's no good your going on like this. You know you're
going to marry her. Let me go."

But Mr. Hawkins was not in the habit of being baulked
of anything on which he had set his heart.

N

194 ^^^ i?^<3:/ Charlotte,

" No, I will not let you go," he said, drawing her towards
him with bullying tenderness. " In the first place, you're
not able to stand, and in the second place, I'm not going to
marry anybody but you."

He spoke with a certainty that convinced himself; the
certainty of a character that does not count the cost either
for itself or for others ; and, in the space of a kiss, her dis-
trust was left far behind her as a despicable thing.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

Nearly three weeks had gone by since Mrs. Beattie's party,
and as Charlotte Mullen walked slowly along the road
towards Rosemount one afternoon, her eyes fixed on the
square toes of her boots, and her hands, as was her custom,
in the pockets of her black jacket, she meditated agreeably
upon recent events. Of these perhaps the pleasantest was
Mr. Hawkins' departure to Hythe, for a musketry course,
which had taken place somewhat unexpectedly a fortnight
ago. He was a good-for-nothing young limb, and engage-
ment or no engagement it was a good job he was out of the
place ; and, after all, Francie had not seemed to mind.
Almost equally satisfactory was the recollection of that
facetious letter to Christopher Dysart, in which she had so
playfully reminded him of the ancient promise to photograph
the Tally Ho cats, and hoped that she and her cousin would
not come under that category. Its success had even been
surprising, for not only had Christopher come and spent a
long afternoon in that difficult enterprise, but had come
again more than once, on pretexts that had appeared to
Charlotte satisfactorily flimsy, and had apparently set aside
what she knew to be his repugnance to herself. That he
should lend Francie "John Inglesant" and Rossetti's Poems,
made Charlotte laugh in her sleeve. She had her own very
sound opinion of her cousin's literary capacity, and had no
sympathy for the scientific interest felt by a philosopher in
the evolution of a nascent soul. Christopher's manner did
not, it is true, coincide with her theory of a lover, which was
crude, and founded on taste rather than experience, but she
had imagination enough to recognise that Christopher, in

The Real Charlotte. 195

love-making, as in most other things, would pursue methods
unknown to her.

At this point in her reflections, congratulation began to
wane. She thought she knew every twist and turn in
Roddy Lambert, but lately she had not been able to explain
him at all to her satisfaction. He was always coming to
Tally Ho, and he always seemed in a bad temper when he
was there ; in fact she had never known him as ill-mannered
as he was last week, one day when he and Christopher were
there together, and she had tried, for various excellent
reasons, to get him off into the dining-room to talk business.
She couldn't honestly say that Francie was running after
him, though of course she had that nasty flirty way with
every man, old or young, married or single ; but all the
same, there was something in it she didn't like. The girl
was more trouble than she was worth ; and if it wasn't for
Christopher Dysart she'd have sent her packing back to
Letitia Fitzpatrick, and told her that whether she could
manage it or not she must keep her. But of course to have
Sir Christopher Dysart of Bruff— she rolled the title on her
tongue — as a cousin was worthy of patience.

As she walked up the trim Rosemount avenue she spied
the owner of the house lying in a basket-chair in the shade,
with a pipe in his mouth, and in his hand that journal
politely described by Mrs. Rattray as the " the Pink One."

" Hallo, Charlotte ! " he said lazily, glancing up at her
from under the peak of his cap, " you look warm."

" And you look what you are, and that's cool, in manners
and body," retorted Miss Mullen, coming and standing
beside him, "and if you had tramped on your four bones
through the dust, maybe you'd be as hot as I am."

*' What do you wear that thick coat for ? " he said, look-
ing at it with a disfavour that he took no trouble to
hide.

Charlotte became rather red. She had the Irish peasant-
woman's love of heavy clothing and dislike of abating any
item of it in summer.

" If you had my tendency to bronchitis, me fine fellow/^
she said, seating herself on the uncomfortable garden bench
beside which his chair had been placed, " you'd think more
of your health than your appearance."

196 The Real Charlotte.

*' Very likely/' said Mr. Lambert, yawning and relapsing
into silence.

** Well, Roddy," resumed Charlotte more amicably, " I
didn't walk all the way here to discuss the fashions with
you. Have y'any more news from the seat of war ? "

" No j confound her, she won't stir, and I don't see what's
going to make her unless I evict her."

" Why don't ye writ her for the money ? " said Charlotte,
the spirit of her attorney grandfather gleaming in her eyes ;
^'that'd frighten her!"

^* I don't want to do that if I can help it. I spoke to her
about the lodge that Lady Dysart said she could have, and
the old devil was fit to be tied ; but we might get her to it
before we've done with her."

'* If it was me I'd writ her now," repeated Charlotte
venomously ; " you'll find you'll have to come to it in the
end."

*' It's a sin to see that lovely pasture going to waste,"
said Lambert, leaning back and puffing at his pipe. " Peter
Joyce hasn't six head of cattle on it this minute."

'' If you and I had it, Roddy," said Charlotte, eyeing him
with a curious, guarded tenderness, "it wouldn't be that
way."

Some vibration of the strong, incongruous tremor that
passed through her as she spoke, reached Lambert's in-
dolent perception and startled it. It reminded him of the
nebulous understanding that taking her money seemed to
have involved him in ; he believed he knew why she had
given it to him, and though he knew also that he held his
advantage upon precarious terms, even his coarse-fibred
nature found something repellent in the thought of having
to diplomatise with such affections as Charlotte's.

*' I was up at Murphy's yesterday," he said, as if his train
of ideas had not been interrupted. " He has a grand filly
there that I'd buy to-morrow if I had the money, or any
place to put her. There's a pot of money in her."

" Well, if you'll get me Gurthnamuckla," said Charlotte
with a laugh, in which nervousness was strangely apparent,
''you may buy up every young horse in the country and
stable them in the parlour, so long as you'll leave the attics
for me and the cats."

The Real Charlotte. 1 97

Lambert turned his head upon its cushion, and looked at
her.

" I think I'll leave you a little more space than that,
Charlotte, if ever we stable our horses together."

She glanced at him, as aware of the double entendre^ and
as stirred by it as he had intended her to be. Perhaps a
little more than he had intended ; at all events, he jerked
himself into a sitting position, and, getting on to his feet,
stretched himself with almost ostentatious ease.

" Where's Francie ? " he asked, yawning.

*' At home, dressmaking," replied Miss Mullen. She was
a little paler than usual. " I think I'll go in now and have
a cup of tea with Lucy," she said, rising from the garden
bench with something like an effort.

" Well, I daresay I'll take the mare down to Tally Ho,
and make Francie go for a ride," said Lambert ; " it's a
pity for anyone to be stewing in the house on a day like this."

" I wanted her to come here with me, but she wouldn't,"
Charlotte called after him as he turned towards the path
that led to the stables. " Maybe she thought there might
be metal more attractive for her at home ! "

She grinned to herself as she went up the steps. *' Me
gentleman may put that in his pipe and smoke it," she
thought ; "that little hussy would let him think it was for
him she was sitting at home ! "

Ever since Mrs. Lambert's first entrance into Lismoyle
society, she had found in Charlotte her most intimate and
reliable ally. If Mr. Lambert had been at all uneasy as to
his bride's reception by Miss Mullen, he must have been
agreeably surprised to find that after a month or so Charlotte
had become as useful and pleasant to Mrs. Lambert as in
older days she had been to him. That Charlotte should
have recognised the paramount necessity of his marrying
money, had been to Lambert a proof of her eminent com-
mon sense. He had always been careful to impress his ob-
vious destiny upon her, and he had always been grateful to
that destiny for having harmlessly fulfilled itself, while yet
old Mrs. Mullen's money was in her own keeping, and her
niece was, beyond all question, ineligible. That was Mr.
Lambert's view of the situation; whatever Charlotte's
opinion was, she kept it to herself.

198 The Real Charlotte.

Mrs. Lambert was more than usually delighted to see her
ever-sympathising friend on this hot afternoon. One of her
chiefest merits in the turkey-hen's eyes was that she " was
as good as any doctor, and twice better than Dr. Rattray,
who would never believe the half she went through with pal-
pitations, and buzzings in her ears and roarings in her head,"
and the first half hour or so of her visit was consumed in
mmute detail of her more recent symptoms. The fact that
large numbers of women entertain their visitors with biog-
raphies, mainly abusive, of their servants, has been dwelt on
to weariness by many writers ; but, nevertheless, in no history
of Mrs. Lambert could this characteristic be conscientiously
omitted.

" Oh, my dear," she said, as her second cup of sweet
weak tea was entered upon, " you know that Eliza Hackett,
that I got with the highest recommendations from the
Honourable Miss Carrick, and thinking she'd be so steady,
being a Protestant ? Well, last Sunday she went to mass ! "
She paused, and Charlotte, one of whose most genuine
feelings was a detestation of Roman Catholics, exclaimed :

" Goodness alive ! what did you let her do that for ? "

" How could I stop her ? " answered Mrs. Lambert plain-
tively, " she never told one in the house she was going, and
this morning, when I was looking at the meat with her in
the larder, I took the opportunity to speak to her about it,
* Oh,' says she, turnmg round as cool as you please, ' I con-
sider the Irish Church hasn't the Apostolic succession ! ' "

" You don't tell me that fat-faced Eliza Hackett said
that ? " ejaculated Charlotte.

" She did, indeed," replied Mrs. Lambert deplorably ; " I
was quite upset. ' Eliza,' says I, ' I wonder you have the
impudence to talk to me like that. You that was taught
better by the Honourable Miss Carrick.' ' Ma'am,' says
she, up to my face, ' Moses and Aaron was two holy Roman
Catholic priests, and that's more than you can say of the
archdeacon ! ' ' Indeed, no,' says I, ' thank God he's not ! '
but I ask you, Charlotte, what could I say to a woman like
that, that would wrest the Scriptures to her own purposes?"

Even Charlotte's strong brain reeled in the attempt to
follow the arguments of Eliza the cook and Mrs. Lambert.

'* Well, upon my word, Lucy, it's little I'd have argued

The Real Charlotte. 199

with her. I'd have just said to her, * Out of my house you
march, if you don't go to your church ! ' I think that would
have composed her rehgious scruples."

" Oh ! but, Charlotte," pleaded the turkey-hen, '' I couldn't
part with her ; she knows just what gentlemen like, and Ro-
derick's so particular about savouries When I told him
about her, he said he wouldn't care if she was a Mormon
and had a dozen husbands, so long as she made good
soup."

Charlotte laughed out loud. Mr. Lambert's turn of
humour had a robustness about it that always roused a
sympathetic chord in her.

" Well, that's a man all over ! His stomach before any-
one else's soul !"

^ Oh, Charlotte, you shouldn't say such things ! Indeed,
Roderick will often take only the one cut of meat at his
dinner these times, and if it isn't to his likmg he'll take
nothing ; he's a great epicure, I don't know what's over
him those last few weeks," continued Mrs. Lambert gloomily.
" unless it's the hot weather, and all the exercise he's taking,
that's making him cross "

'' Well, from all I've ever seen of men," said Charlotte,
with a laugh, "the hotter they get the better pleased they
are. Take my word for it, there's no time a man's so proud
of himself as when he's ' larding the lean earth ' ! "

Mrs. Lambert looked bewildered; but was too much
affaired with her own thoughts to ask for an explanation of
what seemed to her a strange term in cookery.

" Did he know Francie Fitzpatrick much in Dublin ? ' she
said after a pause, in which she had given a saucerful of
cream and sopped cake to her dog.

Charlotte looked at her hostess suddenly and searchingly
as she stooped with difficulty to take up the saucer.

" He's known her since she was a child," she replied, and
waited for further developments.

" I thought it must be that way," said Mrs. Lambert with
a dissatisfied sound in her voice ; " they're so very familiar-
like talking to each other."

Charlotte's heart paused for an instant in its strong,
regular course. Was it possible, she thought, that wisdom
was being perfected in the mouth of Lucy Lambert ?

2CX5 The Real Charlotte.

" I never noticed anything so wonderfully familiar," she
said, in a tone meant to provoke further confidence ; " I
never knew Roddy yet that he wasn't civil to a pretty girl ;
and as for Francie, any man comes handy to her ! Upon
my word, she'd dote on a tongs, as they say ! "

Mrs. Lambert fidgeted nervously with her long gold
watchchain. " Well, Charlotte," she said, a little defiantly,
" I've been married to him five years now, and I've never
known him particular with any girl."

"Then, my dear woman, what's this nonsense you're
talking about him and Francie ? " said Charlotte, with
Mephistophelian gaiety.

** Oh, Charlotte ! " said Mrs. Lambert, suddenly getting
very red, and beginning to whimper, " I never thought to
speak of it — '* she broke off and began to look for her
handkerchief, while her respectable middle-aged face began
to wrinkle up like a child's, " and, indeed, I don't want to
say anything against the girl, for she's a nice girl, and so
I've always found her, but I can't help noticing — " she
broke off again.

" What can't ye help noticing ? " demanded Charlotte
roughly.

Mrs. Lambert drew a long breath that was half-suffocated
by a sob. " Oh, I don't know," she cried helplessly ; " he's
always going down to Tally Ho, by the way he'll take her
out riding or boating or something, and though he doesn't
say much, a little thing'il slip out now and again, and you
can't say a word to him but he'll get cross."

*' Maybe he's in trouble about money unknown to you,"
suggested Charlotte, who, for some reason or other, was not
displaying her usual capacity for indictment, "or maybe he
finds ' life not worth living because of the liver ' ! " she
ended, with a mirthless laugh.

" Oh, no, no, Charlotte ; indeed, it's no laughing joke at
all — " Mrs. Lambert hesitated, then, with a little hysterical
burst of sobs, " he talks about her in his sleep ! " she
quavered out, and began to cry miserably.

Charlotte sat perfectly still, looking at Mrs. Lambert with
eyes that saw, but held no pity for, her abundant teais.
How far more serious was this thing, it true, to her, than to
that contemptible whining creature, whose snuffling gasps

The Real Charlotte. 20l

were exasperating her almost beyond the bounds of endur-
ance. She waited till there was a lull.

" What did he say about her ? " she asked in a hard, jeer-
ing voice.

** Oh, Charlotte, how can I tell you ? all sorts of things
he says, nonsense like, and springing up and saying she'll
be drowned."

" Well, it it's any comfort to you," said Charlotte, " she
cares no more for him than the man in the moon ! She
has other fish to fry, I can tell you ! "

" But what signifies that, Charlotte," sighed Mrs. Lam-
bert, ^' so long as he thinks about her ? "

" Tell him he's a fool to waste his time over her," sug-
gested Charlotte scoftingly.

" Is it me tell him such a thing ! " The turkey-hen lifted
her wet red eyes from her saturated pocket handkerchief and
began to laugh hysterically. " Much regard he has for what
/ say to him ! Oh, don't make me laugh, Charlotte — " a
frightened look came over her face, as if she had been
struck, and she fell back in her chair. " It's the palpita-
tions," she said faintly, with her hand on her heart " Oh,
Fm going — I'm going — "

Charlotte ran to the chimney-piece, and took from it a
bottle of smelling salts. She put it to Mrs. Lambert's nose
with one hand, and with the other unfastened the neck of
her dress without any excitement or fuss. Her eyes were
keen and quiet as she bent over the pale blotched face that
lay on the antimacassar ; and when Mrs. Lambert began to
realise again what was going on round her, she was con-
scious of a hand chafing her own, a hand that was both
gentle and skilful.

CHAPTER XXIX.

" Metal more attractive ! " Lambert thought there could
not be a more offensive phrase in the English language than
this, that had rung in his ears ever since Charlotte had
flung it at him when he parted from her on his own avenue.
He led the black mare straight to the dilapidated loose-box
at Tally Ho Lodge, in which she had before now waited so

202 The Real Charlotte.

often and so dismally, with nothing to do except nose about
the broken manger for a stray oat or two, or make spiteful
faces through the rails at her comrade, the chestnut, in the
next stall. Lambert swung open the stable door, and was
confronted by the pricked ears and interested countenance
of a tall bay horse, whom he instantly recognised as being
one of the Bruff carriage horses, lookmg out of the loose-
box. Mr. Lambert's irritation culminated at this point in
appropriate profanity ; he felt that all these thmgs were
against him, and the thought that he would go straight back
to Rosemount made him stand still on the doorstep. But
the next moment he had a vision of himself and the two
horses turning in at the Rosemount gate, with the certain
prospect of being laughed at by Charlotte and condoled
with by his wife, and without so much as a sight of that
maddening face that was every day thrusting itself more and
more between him and his peace. It would be a confession
of defeat at the hands of Christopher Dysart, which alone
would be intolerable ; besides, there wasn't a doubt but
that, if Francie were given her choice, she would rather go
out riding with him than anything.

Buoyed up by this reflection, he put the chestnut into the
stable, and the mare mto the cow-shed, and betook himself
to the house. The hall door was open, and stepping over
the cats on the door-mat, he knocked lightly at the drawing-
room door, and walked in without waiting for an answer.
Christopher was sitting with his back to him, holding one
end of a folded piece of pink cambric, while Francie, stand-
ing up in front of him, was cutting along the fold towards
him, with a formidable pair of scissors.

" Must I hold on to the end ? " he was saying, as the
scissors advanced in leaps towards his fingers.

" I'll kill you if you let go ! " answered Francie, rather
thickly, by reason of a pin between her front teeth. " Good-
ness, Mr. Lambert ! you frightened the heels off me ! I
thought you were Louisa with the tea."

" Good evening, Francie ; good evening, Dysart," said
Lambert with solemn frigidity.

Christopher reddened a little as he looked round. " I'm
afraid I can't shake hands with you, Lambert," he said
with an unavoidably foolish laugh, " I'm dressmaking."

The Real Charlotte, 203

'^ So I see," replied Mr. Lambert, with something as near
a sneer as he dared. He always felt it a special unkindness
of Providence to have placed this young man to reign over
him, and the practical sentiment that it is well not to quarrel
with your bread and butter, had not unfrequently held him
back from a much-desired jibe. " I came, Francie," he
went on with the same portentous politeness, " to see if
you'd care to come for a ride with me."

" When ? Now ? " said Francie, without much enthusiasm.

" Oh, not unless you like," he replied in a palpably
offended tone.

" Well, how d'ye know I wouldn't like ? Keep quiet
now, Mr. Dysart, I've another one for you to hold ! "

" I'm afraid I must be going — " began Christopher, look-
ing helplessly at the billows of pink cambric which sur-
rounded him on the floor. Lambert's arrival had suddenly
made the situation seem vulgar.

" Ah, can't you sit still now ? " said Francie, thrusting
another length of material into his hand, and beginning to
cut swiftly towards him. '' I declare you're very idle ! "

Lambert stood silent while this went on, and then, with
an angry look at Francie^ he said, " I understand, then, that
you're not coming out riding to-day ? "

" Do you ? " asked Francie, pinning the seam together
with marvellous rapidity ; " take care your understanding
isn't wrong ! Have you the horse down here ? "

" Of course I have."

" Well, I'll tell you what we'll do ; we'll have tea first, and
then we'll ride back with Mr. Dysart ; will that do you ? "

" I wanted to ride in the opposite direction," said
Lambert; *' I had some business — "

" Oh, bother your old business ! " interrupted Francie ;
" anyway, I hear her bringing in the tea."

'' Oh, I hope you'll ride home with me," said Christopher;
" I hate riding by myself,"

" Much I pity you ! " said Francie, flashing a side-long
look at him as she went over to the tea-table ; " I sup-
pose you'd be frightened ! "

" Quite so. Frightened and bored. That is what I feel
like when I ride by myself," said Christopher, trying to
eliminate from his manner the constraint that Lambert's

204 '^^^ Real Charlotte.

arrival had imparted to it, *' and my horse is just as bored ;
I feel apologetic all the time and wishing I could do some-
thing to amuse him that wouldn't be dangerous. Do come ;
I'm sure he'd like it."

" Oh, how anxious you are about him ! *' said Francie,
cutting bread and butter with a dexterous hand from the
loaf that Louisa had placed on the table in frank confession
of incapacity. " I don't know what I'll do till I've had my
tea. Here now, here's yours poured out for both of you ; I
suppose you'd like me to come and hand it to you ! " with a
propitiatory look at Lambert.

Thus adjured, the two men seated themselves at the table,
on which Francie had prepared their tea and bread and
butter with a propriety that reminded Christopher of his
nursery days. It was a very agreeable feeling, he thought ;
and as he docilely drank his tea and laughed at Francie for
the amount of sugar that she put into hers, the idealising
process to which he was unconsciously subjecting her ad-
vanced a stage. He was beginning to lose sight of her vul-
garity, even to wonder at himself for ever having applied that
crudely inappropriate word to her. She had some reflected
vulgarities of course, thought the usually hypercritical Mr.
Christopher Dysart, and her literary progress along the lines
he had laid down for her was slow ; but, lately, since his
missionary resolve to let the light of culture illuminate her
darkness, he had found out subtle depths of sweetness and
sympathy that were, in their responsiveness, equivalent to
intellect.

When Francie went up a few minutes later to put on her
habit, Christopher did not seem disposed to continue the
small talk in which his proficiency had been more surprising
than pleasing to Mr. Lambert.

He strolled over to the window, and looked meditatively
out at Mrs. Bruff and a great-grandchild or two embowered
in a tangle of nasturtiums, and putting his hands in his
pockets began to whistle sotto voce. Lambert looked him
up and down, from his long thin legs to his small head, on
which the light brown hair grew rather long, with a wave in
it that was to Lambert the height of effeminacy. He began
to drum with his fingers on the table to show that he too
was quite undisturbed and at his ease.

The Real Charlotte. 205

" By the bye, Dysart," he observed presently, " have you
heard anything of Hawkins since he left ? "

Christopher turned round. " No, I don't know anything
about him except that he's gone to Hythe."

" Gone to hide, d'ye say ? " Lambert laughed noisily in
support of his own joke.

" No, Hythe."

" It seems to me its more likely it's a case of hide,"
Lambert went on with a wink ; he paused, fiddled with his
teaspoon, and smiled at his own hand as he did so.
" P'raps he thought it was time for him to get out of this."

" Really ? " said Christopher, with a lack of interest that
was quite genuine.

Lambert's pulse bounded with the sudden desire to wake
this supercilious young hound up for once, by telling him a
few things that would surprise him,

" Well, you see it's a pretty strong order for a fellow to
carry on as Hawkins did, when he happens to be engaged."

The fact of Mr. Hawkins' engagement had, it need
scarcely be said, made its way through every highway and
byway of Lismoyle ; inscrutable as to its starting-point, im-
possible of verification, but all the more fascinating for its
mystery. Lambert had no wish to claim its authorship ; he
had lived among gentlemen long enough to be aware that
the second-hand confidences of a servant could not credit-
ably be quoted by hmi. What he did not know, however,
was whether the story had reached Bruff, or been believed
there, and it was extremely provoking to him now that in-
stead of being able to observe its effect on Christopher,
whose back was to the light, his discoveries should be
limited to the fact that his own face had become very red
as he spoke.

"I suppose he knows his own affairs best," said Christopher,
after a silence that might have meant anything, or nothing.

" Well," leaning back and putting his hands in his pockets,
" I don't pretend to be strait-laced, but d — n it, you know,
I think Hawkins went a bit too far."

" I don't think I have heard who it is that he is engaged
to," said Christopher, who seemed remarkably unaffected by
Mr. Hawkins' misdemeanours.

*' Oh, to a Yorkshire girl, a Miss — what's this her name

2o6 The Real Charlotte.

is ? — Coppard. Pots of money, but mighty plain about the
head, I believe. He kept it pretty dark, didn't he ? "

" Apparently it got out, for all that."

Lambert thought he detected a tinge of ridicule in the
voice, whether of him or of Hawkins he did not know ; it
gave just the necessary spur to that desire to open
Christopher's eyes for him a bit.

" Oh, yes, it got out," he said, putting his elbow on the
table, and balancing his teaspoon on his forefinger, " but I
think there are very few that know for certain it's a fact, —
fortunately for our friend."

"Why fortunately? I shouldn't think it made much
difference to anyone."

" Well, as a rule, girls don't care to flirt with an engaged
man."

" No, I suppose not," said Christopher, yawning with a
frankness that was a singular episode in his demeanour
towards his agent.

Lambert felt his temper rising every instant. He was a
man whose jealousy took the form of reviling the object of
his affections, if, by so doing, he could detach his rivals.

'^ Well, Francie Fitzpatrick knows it for one ; but perhaps
she's not one of the girls who object to flirting with an
engaged man."

Lambert got up and walked to the window ; he felt that
he could no longer endure seeing nothing of Christopher
except a lank silhouette with an offensive repose of attitude.
He propped his back against one of the shutters, and
obviously waited for a comment.

" I should think it was an inexpensive amusement/' said
Christopher, in his most impersonal and academic manner,
*' but likely to pall."

" Pall ! Deuce a bit of it ! " Lambert put a toothpick in
his mouth, and began to chew it, to convey the effect of
ease. " I can tell you I've known that girl since she was
the length of my stick, and I never saw her that she wasn't
up to some game or other ; and she wasn't over particular
about engagements or anything else ! "

Christopher slightly shifted his position, but did not
speak, and Lambert went on :

*' I'm very fond of the girl, and she's a good-hearted little

The Real Charlotte. 207

thing ; but, by Jove ! 1 was sorry to see the way she went
on with that fellow Hawkins. Here he was, morning, noon,
and night, walking with her, and steam-launching, and
spooning, and setting all the old women in the place prat-
ing. I spoke to her about it, and much thanks I got,
though there was a time she was ready enough to mind
what I said to her." During this recital Mr. Lambert's
voice had been deficient in the accent of gentlemanlike
self importance that in calmer moments he was careful to
impart to it, and the raw Limerick brogue was on top as he
said, " Yes, by George ! I remember the time when she wasn't
above fancying your humble servant ! "

He had almost forgotten his original idea ; his own
position, long brooded over, rose up out of all proportion,
and confused his mental perspective, till Christopher
Dysart's opinions were lost sight of. He was recalled to
himself by a startling expression on the face of his con-
fidant, an expression of almost unconcealed disgust, that
checked effectively any further outpourings. Christopher
did not look at him again, but turned from the window,
and, taking up Miss Mullen's photograph-book, proceeded
to a minute inspection of its contents. Neither he nor
Lambert quite knew what would happen next, each in his
own way being angry enough for any emergency, and both
felt an extreme relief when Francie's abrupt entrance closed
the situation.

" Well, I wasn't long now, was I ? " she said breathlessly \
" but what'll I do ? 1 can't find my gloves ! " She swept
out of the corner of the sofa a cat that had been slumbering
unseen behind a cushion. " Here they are ! and full of
fleas, I'll be bound, after Clementina sleeping on them !
Oh, goodness ! Are both of you too angry to speak to me?
I didn't think I was so long. Come on out to the yard ;
you can't say I'm keeping you now."

She whirled out of the room, and by the time Lambert
and Christopher got into the yard, she had somehow
dragged the black mare out of the cow-shed and was
clambering on to her back with the aid of a wheel-barrow.

Riding has many charms, but none of its eulogists have
properly dwelt on the advantages it offers to the unconver-
satjonaL To ride in silence is the least marked form of un-

2o8 The Real Charlotte.

sociability, for something of the same reason that talking on
horseback is one of the pleasantest modes of converse.
The power of silence cuts both ways, and simplifies either
confidence or its reverse amazingly. It so happened, how-
ever, that had Lambert had the inclination to make himself
agreeable to his companions he could not have done so.
Christopher's carriage-horse trotted with the machine-like
steadiness of its profession, and the black mare, roused to
emulation, flew along beside him, ignoring the feebly
expressed desire of her rider that she should moderate her
pace. Christopher, indeed, seldom knew or cared at what
pace his horse was going, and was now by no means sorry
to find that the question of riding along with Lambert had
been settled for him. The rough, young chestnut was filled
with a vain-glory that scorned to trot, and after a great deal
of brilliant ramping and curveting he fell into a kind of
heraldic action, half-canter, half-walk, that left him more
and more hopelessly in the rear, and raised Lambert's
temper to boiling point.

" We're gomg very fast, aren't we ? " panted Francie, try-
ing to push down her rebellious habit-skirt with her whip,
as they sped along the flat road between Lismoyle and
Bruff. " I'm afraid Mr. Lambert can't keep up. That's a
dreadfully wild horse he's riding."

"Are we?" said Christopher vaguely. "Shall we pull
up ? Here, woa, you brute ! " He pulled the carriage-
horse into a walk, and looked at Francie with a laugh.
" I'm beginning to hope you're as bad a rider as I am," he
said sympathetically. " Let me hold your reins, while
you're pinning up that plait."

" Oh, botheration take it ! Is my hair down again ? It
always comes down if I trot fast," bewailed Francie, putting
up her hands to her dishevelled hair, that sparkled like gold
in the sun.

" Do you know, the first time I ever saw you, your hair
had come down out riding," said Christopher, looking at
her as he held her rein, and not giving a thought to the in-
timate appearance they presented to the third member of the
party; " if I were you I should start with it down my back."

" Ah, nonsense, Mr. Dysart ; why would you have me
make a Judy of myself that way ? "

The Real Charlotte, 209

" Because it's the loveliest hair I've ever seen," answered
Christopher, the words coming to his lips almost without his
volition, and in their utterance causing his heart to give one
or two unexpected throbs.

" Oh ! " There was as much astonishment as pleasure
in the exclamation, and she became as red as fire. She
turned her head away, and looked back to see where Lam-
bert was.

She had heard from Hawkins only this morning, asking
her for a piece of the hair that Christopher had called
lovely. She had cut off a little curl from the place he had
specified, near her temple, and had posted it to him this
very afternoon after Charlotte went out ; but all the things
that Hawkins had said of her hair did not seem to her so
wonderful as that Mr. Dysart should pay her a compli-
ment.

Lambert was quite silent after he joined them. In his
heart he was cursing everything and everyone, the chestnut,
Christopher, Francie, and most of all himself, for having
said the things that he had said. All the good he had
done was to leave no doubt in Christopher's mind that
Hawkins was out of the running, and as for telling him that
Francie was a flirt, an ass like that didn't so much as know
the meaning of the word flirting. He knew now that he
had made a fool of himself, and the remembrance of that
disgusted expression on Christopher's face made his better
judgment return as barningly as the blood into veins
numbed with cold. At the cross-roads next before Bruff, he
broke in upon the exchange of experiences of the Dublin
theatres that was going on very enjoyably beside him.

" I'm afraid we must part company here, Dysart," he said
in as civil a voice as he could muster ; " I want to speak to
a farmer who lives down this way."

Christopher made his farewells, and rode slowly down
the hill towards Bruff". It was a hill that had been cut
down in the Famine, so that the fields on either side rose
high above its level, and the red poppies and yellowing corn
nodded into the sky over his head. The bay horse was
collecting himself for a final trot to the avenue gates^ when
he found himself stopped, and, after a moment of hesitation
on the part of his rider, was sent up the hill again a good

o

210 The Real Charlotte.

deal faster than he had come down. Christopher pulled up
again on the top of the hill. He was higher now than the
corn, and, looking across its multitudinous, rustHng surface,
he saw the figure that some errant impulse had made him
come back to see. Francie's head was turned towards
Lambert, and she was evidently talking to him. Christopher's
eyes followed the pair till they were out of sight, and then
he again turned his horse, and went home to Bruff.

CHAPTER XXX.

One fine morning towards the end of August, Julia Duffy
was sitting on a broken chair in her kitchen, with her hands
in her lap, and her bloodshot eyes fixed on vacancy. She
was so quiet that a party of ducks, which had hung uncer-
tainly about the open door for some time, filed slowly in,
and began to explore an empty pot or two with their long,
dirty bills. The ducks knew well that Miss Duffy, though
satisfied to accord the freedom of the kitchen to the hens
and turkeys, had drawn the line at them and their cousins
the geese, and they adventured themselves within the for-
bidden limits with the utmost caution, and with many side
glances from their blinking, beady eyes at the motionless
figure in the chair. They had made their way to a plate of
potato skins and greasy cabbage on the floor by the table,
and, forgetful of prudence, were clattering their bills on the
delf as they gobbled, when an arm was stretched out above
their heads, and they fled in cumbrous consternation.

The arm, however, was not stretched out in menace;
Julia Duff"y had merely extended it to take a paper from the
table, and having done so, she looked at its contents in en-
tire obliviousness of the ducks and their maraudings. Her
misfortunes were converging. It was not a week since she
had heard of the proclaimed insolvency of the man who had
taken the grazing of Gurthnamuckla, and it was not half an
hour since she had been struck by this last arrow of out-
rageous fortune, the letter threatening to process her for the
long arrears of rent that she had felt lengthening hopelessly
with every sunrise and sunset. She looked round the dreary
kitchen that had about it all the added desolation of past

The Real Charlotte. 211

respectability, at the rusty hooks from which she could re-
member the portly hams and flitches of bacon hanging ; at
the big fire-place where her grandfather's Sunday sirloin
used to be roasted. Now cobwebs dangled from the hooks,
and the old grate had fallen to pieces, so that the few sods
of turf smouldered on the hearthstone. Everything spoke
of bygone plenty and present wretchedness.

Julia put the letter into its envelope again and groaned a
long miserable groan. She got up and stood for a minute,
staring out of the open door with her hands on her hips, and
then went slowly and heavily up the stairs, groaning again
to herself from the exertion and from the bhnding headache
that made her feel as though her brain were on fire. She
went into her room and changed her filthy gown for the
stained and faded black rep that hung on the door. From
a band-box of tanned antiquity she took a black bonnet that
had first seen the light at her mother's funeral, and tied its
clammy satin strings with shaking hands. Flashes of light
came and went before her eyes, and her pallid face was
flushed painfully as she went downstairs again, and finding,
after long search, the remains of the bottle of blacking,
laboriously cleaned her only pair of boots. She was going
out of the house when her eye fell upon the plate from which
the ducks had been eating; she came back for it, and, taking
it out with her, scattered its contents to the turkeys, me-
chanically holdmg her dress up out of the dirt as she did so.
She left the plate on the kitchen window-sill, and set slowly
forth down the avenue.

Under the tree by the gate, Billy Grainy was sitting, en-
gaged, as was his custom in moments of leisure, in counting
the coppers in the bag that hung round his neck. He
looked in amazement at the unexpected appearance of his
patroness, and as she approached him he pushed the bag
under his shirt.

" Where are ye goin' ? " he asked.

Julia did not answer ; she fumbled blindly with the bit ot
stick that fastened the gate, and, having opened it, went on
without attempting to shut it.

" Where are ye goin' at all ? " said Billy again, his bleared
eyes following the unfamiliar outline of bonnet and gown.

Without turning, she said, " Lismoyle," and as she walked

212 The Real Charlotte.

on along the sunny road; she put up her hand and tried to
wipe away the tears that were running down her face. Per-
haps it was the excitement with which every nerve was
trembling that made the three miles to Rosemount seem as
nothing to this woman, who, for the last six months, had
been too ill to go beyond her own gate ; and probably it was
the same unnatural strength that prevented her from break-
ing down, when, with her mind full of ready-framed sentences
that were to touch Mr. Lambert's heart and appeal to his
sense of justice, she heard from Mary Holloran at the gate
that he was away for a couple of days to Limerick. With-
out replying to Mary Holloran's exclamations of pious horror
at the distance she had walked, and declining all offers of
rest or food, she turned and walked on towards Lismoyle.

She had suddenly determined to herself that she would
walk to Bruff and see her landlord, and this new idea took
such possession of her that she did not reaUse at first the
magnitude of the attempt. But by the time she had reached
the gate of Tally Ho the physical power that her impulse
gave her began to be conscious of its own limits. The
flashes were darting like lightning before her eyes, and the
nausea that was her constant companion robbed her of her
energy. After a moment of hesitation she decided that she
would go in and see her kinswoman, Norry the Boat, and
get a glass of water from her before going further. It
wounded her pride somewhat to go round to the kitchen —
she, whose grandfather had been on nearly the same social
level as Miss Mullen's \ but Charlotte was the last person
she wished to meet just then. Norry opened the kitchen
door, beginning, as she did so, her usual snarling maledic-
tions on the supposed beggar, which, however, were lost in
a loud invocation of her patron saint as she recognised her
first cousin. Miss Duffy.

" And is it to leg it in from Gurthnamuckla ye done ? "
said Norry, when the first greetings had been exchanged,
and Julia was seated in the kitchen, " and you looking as
white as the dhrivelling snow this minnit."

" I did," said Julia feebly, " and I'd be thankful to you
for a drink of water. The day's very close."

'* Faith ye'U get no wather in this house," returned Norry
in grim hospitality ; '' I'll give you a sup of milk, or would

The Real Charlotte. 213

it be too much delay on ye to wait till I bile the kittle for a
cup o' tay ? Bad cess to Bid Sal ! There isn't as much hot
wather in the house this minute as'd write yer name ! "

" I'm obliged to ye, Norry/' said Julia stiffly, her sick pride
evolving a supposition tiiat she could be in want of food ;
"but I'm only after my breakfast myself. Indeed," she
added, assuming from old habit her usual attitude of medical
adviser, "you'd be the better yourself for taking less tea."

" Is it me ? " replied Norry indignantly. " I take me cup
o' tay morning and evening, and if 'twas throwing afther me
I wouldn't take more."

" Give me the cold wather, anyway," said Julia wearily j
'* I must go on out of this. It's to Bruff I'm going."

" In the name o' God what's taking ye into Bruff, you
that should be in yer bed, in place of sthreelin' through the
counthry this way ? "

" I got a letter from Lambert to-day," said Julia, putting
her hand to her aching head, as if to collect herself, '' and I
want to speak to Sir Benjamin about it."

" Ah, God help yer foolish head ! " said Norry impatiently ;
" sure ye might as well be talking to the bird above there,"
pointing to the cockatoo, who was looking down at them
with ghostly solemnity. " The owld fellow's light in his
head this long while."

" Then I'll see some of the family," said Julia ; " they
remember my fawther well, and the promise I had about the
farm, and they'll not see me wronged."

" Throth, then, that's thrue," said Norry, with an un-
wonted burst of admiration ; " they was always and ever a
fine family, and thim that they takes in their hands has
the luck o' God ! But what did Lambert say t'ye ? " with
a keen glance at her visitor from under her heavy eye-
brows.

Julia hesitated for a moment.

" Norry Kelly," she said, her voice shaking a little ; " if
it wasn't that you're me own mother's sister's child, I would
not reveal to you the disgrace that man is trying to put
upon me. I got a letter from him this morning saying he'd
process me if I didn't pay him at once the half of what's
due. And Joyce that has the grazing is bankrupt, and owes
me what I'll never get from him."

214 T^^^ ^^^^ Charlotte,

" Blast his sowl ! " interjected Norry, who was peeling
onions with furious speed.

" I know there's manny would be thankful to take the
grazing," continued Julia, passing a dingy pocket handker-
chief over her forehead ; " but who knows when I'd be paid
for it, and Lambert will have me out on the road before
that if I don't give him the rent."

Norry looked to see whether both the kitchen doors were
shut, and then, putting both her hands on the table, leaned
across towards her cousin.

" Herself wants it," she said in a whisper.

" Wants what ? What are you saying ? "

" Wants the farm, I tell ye, and it's her that's driving
Lambert."

*' Is it Charlotte Mullen ? " asked Julia, in a scarcely
audible voice.

" Now ye have it," said Norry, returning to her onions,
and shutting her mouth tightly.

The cockatoo gave a sudden piercing screech, like a
note of admiration. Julia half got up, and then sank back
into her chair.

" Are ye sure of that ? "

" As sure as I have two feet," replied Norry, '* and I'll
tell ye what she's afther it for. It's to go live in it, and to
let on she's as grand as the other ladies in the counthry."

Julia clenched the bony, discoloured hand that lay on the
table.

** Before I saw her in it I'd burn it over my
head ! "

" Not a word out o' ye about what I tell ye," went on
Norry in the same ominous whisper. " Shure she have it
all mapped this minnit, the same as a pairson'd be makin' a
watch. She's sthriving to make a match with young Misther
Dysart and Miss Francie, and b'leeve you me, 'twill be a
quare thing if she'll let him go from her Sure he's the
gentlest crayture ever came into a house, and he's that
innocent he wouldn't think how cute she was. If ye'd seen
her, ere yestherday, follying him down to the gate, and she
smilin' up at him as sweet as honey ! The way it'll be,
she'll sell Tally Ho house for a fortune for Miss Francie,
though, indeed, it's little fortune himselfU ax ! "

The Real Charlotte. 215

The words drove heavily through the pain of Julia's
head, and their meaning followed at an interval.

" Why would she give a fortune to the likes of her?" she
asked ; " isn't it what the people say, it's only for a charity
she has her here ? "

Norry gave her own peculiar laugh of derision, a laugh
with a snort in it.

"Sharity! It's Httle sharity ye'll get from that one!
Didn't I hear the old misthress teUin' her, and she sthretched
for death — and Miss Charlotte knows well I heard her say
it — 'Charlotte,' says she, and her knees, dhrawn up in the
bed, 'Francie must have her share.' And that was the
lasht word she spoke." Norry's large wild eyes roved sky-
wards out of the window as the scene rose before her. " God
rest her soul, 'tis she got the death aisy ! "

'' That Charlotte Mullen may get it hard ! " said Julia
savagely. She got up, feeling new strength in her tired
limbs, though her head was reeling strangely, and she had
to grasp at the kitchen table to keep herself steady.
" I'll go on now. If I die for it I'll go to Bruff this
day."

Norry dropped the onion she was peeling, and placed
herself between Julia and the door.

*' The divil a toe will ye put out of this kitchen," she
said, flourishing her knife ; " is \\. you walk to Bruff?"

" I must go to Bruff," said Julia again, almost mechani-
cally; " but if you could give me a taste of sperrits, I think
I'd be better able for the road."

Norry pulled open a drawer, and took from the back of
it a bottle containing a colourless liquid.

" Drink this to your health ! " she said in Irish, giving
some in a mug to Julia ; " it's potheen I got from friends of
me own, back in Curraghduff." She put her hand into the
drawer again, and after a little search produced from the
centre of a bundle of amorphous rags a cardboard box
covered with shells. Julia heard, without heeding it, the
clink of money, and then three shillings were slapped down
on the table beside her. " Ye'll go to Conolly's now, and
get a car to dhrive ye," said Norry defiantly; " or howld on
till I send Bid Sal to get it for ye. Not a word out o' ye
now 1 Sure, don't I know well a pairson wouldn't think to

2i6 The Real Charlotte.

put his money in his pocket whin he'd be hasting that way
lavin' his house."

She did not wait for an answer, but shuffled to the scul-
lery door, and began to scream for Bid Sal in her usual
tones of acrid ill-temper. As she returned to the kitchen,
Julia met her at the door. Her yellow face, that Norry
had likened by courtesy to the driven snow, was now very
red, and her eyes had a hot stare in them.

" I'm obliged to you, Norry Kelly," she said, ** but when
I'm in need of charity I'll ask for it. Let me out, if you
please."

The blast of fury with which Norry was preparing to
reply was checked by a rattle of wheels in the yard, and
Bid Sal appeared with the intelligence that Jimmy Daly was
come over with the Bruff cart, and Norry was to go out to
speak to him. When she came back she had a basket of
grapes in one hand and a brace of grouse in the other, and
as she put them down on the table, she informed her cousin,
with distant pohteness, that Jimmy Daly would drive her to
Bruff.

CHAPTER XXXI.

The drive in the spring-cart was the first moment of com-
parative ease from suffering that Julia had known that day.
Her tormented brain was cooled by the soft steady rush of
air in her face, and the mouthful of " potheen " that she had
drunk had at first the effect of dulling all her perceptions.
The cart drove up the back avenue, and at the yard gate
Julia asked the man to put her down. She clambered out
of the cart with great difficulty, and going round to the hall
door, went toilfully up the steps and rang the bell. Sir
Benjamin was out. Lady Dysart was out, Mr. Dysart was
out ; so Gorman told her, with a doubtful look at the black
Sunday gown that seemed to him indicative of the bearer of
a begging petition, and he did not know when they would
be in. He shut the door, and Julia went slowly down the
steps again.

She had begun to walk mechanically away from the house,
when she saw vSir Benjamin in his chair coming up a side
walk. His face, with its white hair, gold spectacles, and

The Real Charlotte. 217

tall hat, looked so sane and dignified, that, in spite of what
Norry had said, she determined to carry out her first
intention of speaking to him. She shivered, though the
sun blazed hotly down upon her, as she walked towards the
chair, not from nervousness, but from the creeping sense of
illness, and the ground rose up in front of her as it she were
going up-hill. She made a low bow to her landlord, and
James Canavan, who knew her by sight, stopped the onward
course of the chair.

" I wish to speak to you on an important matter, Sir
Benjamin," began Julia in her best voice ; " I was unable
to see your agent, so I determined to come to yourself."

The gold spectacles were turned upon her fixedly, and
the expression of the eyes behind them was more inteUigent
than usual.

*' Begad, that's one of the tenants, James," said Sir
Benjamin, looking up at his attendant.

" Certainly, Sir Benjamin, certainly ; this lady is Miss
Duffy, from Gurthnamuckla," replied the courtly James
Canavan. " An old tenant, I might almost say an old friend
of your honour's."

" And what the devil brings her here ? " inquired Sir
Benjamin, glowering at her under the wide brim of his hat.

" Sir Benjamin," began Julia again, " I know your
memory's failing you, but you might remember that after
the death of my father, Hubert Duffy — " Julia felt all the
Protestant and aristocratic associations of the name as she
said it — "you made a promise to me in your office that I
should never be disturbed in my holding of the land."

" Devil so ugly a man as Hubert Duffy ever I saw," said
Sir Benjamin, with a startling flight of memory ; " and you're
his daughter, are you? Begad, the dairymaid didn't dis-
tinguish herself ! "

"Yes, I am his daughter. Sir Benjamin," replied Julia,
catching at this flattering recognition. " I and my family
have always lived on your estate, and my grandfather has
often had the honour of entertaining you and the rest of the
gentry, when they came fox-hunting through Gurthnamuckla
I am certain that it is by no wish of yours, or of your kind
and honourable son, Mr. Christopher, that your agent is
pairsecuting me to make me leave the farm — " Her voice

2l8 The Real Charlotte.

failed her, partly from the suffocating anger that rose in her
at her own words, and partly from a dizziness that made the
bath-chair, Sir Benjamin, and James Canavan, float up and
down in the air before her.

Sir Benjamin suddenly began to brandish his stick.
" What the devil is she saying about Christopher ? What
has Christopher to say to my tenants. D — n his insolence 1
He ought to be at school ! "

The remarkable grimaces which James Canavan made
at Julia from the back of the bath-chair informed her that
she had lighted upon the worst possible method of in-
gratiating herself with her landlord, but the information
came too late.

" Send that woman away, James Canavan ! " he screamed,
making sweeps at her with his oak stick. " She shall never
put her d — d splay foot upon my avenue again. I'll thrash
her and Christopher out of the place ! Turn her out, I tell
you, James Canavan ! "

Julia stood motionless and aghast beyond the reach of the
stick, until James Canavan motioned to her to move aside ;
she staggered back among the long arms of a lignum vUce^
and the bath-chair, with its still cursing, gesticulating
occupant, went by her at a round pace. Then she came
slowly and uncertainly out on to the path again, and looked
after the chariot wheels of the Caesar to whom she had
appealed.

James Canavan's coat-tails were standing out behind him
as he drove the bath-chair round the corner of the path, and
Sir Benjamin's imprecations came faintly back to her as she
stood waiting till the throbbing giddiness should cease suffi-
ciently for her to begin the homeward journey that stretched,
horrible and impossible, before her. Her head ached
wildly, and as she walked down the avenue she found herself
stumbling against the edge of the grass, now on one side
and now on the other. She said to herself that the people
would say she was drunk, but she didn't care now what they
said. It would be shortly till they saw her a disgraced
woman, with the sheriff coming to put her out of her
father's house on to the road. She gave a hard, short sob as
this occurred to her, and she wondered if she would have
the good luck to die, supposing she let herself fall down on

The Real Charlotte. 219

the grass, and lay there in the burning sun and took no
more trouble about anything. Her thoughts came to her
slowly and with great difficulty, but, once come, they whirled
and hammered in her brain with the reiteration of chiming
bells. She walked on, out of the gate, and along the road
to Lismoyle, mechanically going in the shade where there
was any, and avoiding the patches of broken stones, as pos-
sibly a man might who was walking out to be shot, but
apathetically unconscious of what was happening.

At about this time the person whose name Julia Duffy
had so unfortunately selected to conjure with was sitting
under a tree on the slope opposite the hall door at Tally
Ho, reading aloud a poem of Rossetti's.

** Her eyes were like the wave within,
Like water reeds the poise
Of her soft body, dainty thin ;
And like the water's noise
Her plaintive voice.

*'For him the stream had never welled
In desert tracts malign
So sweet ; nor had he ever felt
So faint in the sunshine
Of Palestine."

Francie's attention, which had revived at the description
of the Queen, began to wander again. The sound in
Christopher's voice told that the words were touching some-
thing deeper than his literary perception, and her sympathy
answered to the tone, though the drift of the poem was dark
to her. The music of the lines had just power enough upon
her ear to predispose her to sentiment, and at present, senti-
ment with Francie meant the tender repose of her soul
upon the thought of Mr. Gerald Hawkins.

A pause at turning over a leaf recalled her again to the
fact of Christopher, with a transition not altogether unpleas-
ant ; she looked down at him as he lay on the grass, and
began to wonder, as she had several times wondered before,
if he really were in love with her. Nothing seemed more
unhkely. Francie admitted it to herself as she watched his
eyes following the lines in complete absorption, and knew

220 The Real Charlotte.

that she had neither part nor lot in the things that touched
him most nearly.

But the facts were surprising, there was no denying that.
Even without Charlotte to tell her so she was aware that
Christopher detested the practice of paying visits even more
sincerely than most men, and was certainly not in the habit
of visiting in Lismoyle. Except to see her, there was no
reason that could bring him to Tally Ho. Surer than all
fact, however, and rising superior to mere logic, was her in-
stinctive comprehension of men and their ways, and some-
times she was almost sure that he came, not from kindness,
or from that desire to improve her mind which she had
discerned and compassionated, but because he could not
help himself. She had arrived at one of these thrilling
moments of certainty when Christopher's voice ceased upon
the words, " Thy jealous God," and she knew that the time
had come for her to say something appropriate.

" Oh thank you, Mr. Dysart — that's — that's awfully pretty.
It's a sort of religious thing, isn't it ? "

" Yes, I suppose so," answered Christopher, looking at her
with a wavering smile, and feeling as if he had stepped sud-
denly to the ground out of a dream of flying ; " the hero's
a pilgrim, and that's always something."

" I know a lovely song called ' The Pilgrim of Love,
said Francie timidly ; " of course it wasn't the same thing
as what you were reading, but it was awfully nice too."

Christopher looked up at her, and was almost convinced
that she must have absorbed something of the sentiment if
not the sense of what he had read, her face was so sympa-
thetic and responsive. With that expression in her limpid
eyes it gave him a peculiar sensation to hear her say the
name of Love ; it was even a delight, and fired his imagina-
tion with the picturing of what it would be like to hear her
say it with all her awakened soul. He might have said
something that would have suggested his feeling, in the
fragmentary, inferential manner that Francie never knew
what to make of, but that her eyes strayed away at a click
of the latch of the avenue gate, and lost their unworldliness
in the sharp and easy glance that is the unvalued privilege
of the keen-sighted.

*' Who in the name of goodness is this ? " she said, sitting

> >»

The Real Charlotte. 221

up and gazing at a black figure in the avenue ; " it's some
woman or other, but she looks very queer."

" I can't see that it matters much who it is," said Christo-
pher irritably, " so long as she doesn't come up here, and
she probably will if you let her see you."

" Mercy on us ! she looks awful ! " exclaimed Francie
incautiously ; " why, it's Miss Duffy, and her face as red as
I don't know what — oh, she's seen us ! "

The voice had evidently reached Julia Duffy's ears ; she
came stumbling on, with her eyes fixed on the light blue
dress under the beech tree, and when Christopher had
turned, and got his eye-glass up, she was standing at the
foot of the slope, looking at him with a blurred recognition.

^' Mr. Dysart," she said in a hoarse voice, that, com-
bined with her flushed face and staring eyes, made Christo-
pher think she was drunk, " Sir Benjamin has driven me
out of his place like a beggar ; me, whose family is as long
on his estate as himself; and his agent wants to drive me
out of my farm that was promised to me by your father I
should never be disturbed in it."

" You're Miss Duffy from Gurthnamuckla, are you not ? "
interrupted Christopher, eyeing her with natural disfavour,
as he got up and came down the slope towards her.

" I am, Mr. Dysart, I am," she said defiantly, " and you
and your family have a right to know me, and I ask you to
do me justice, that I shall not be turned out into the ditch
for the sake of a lying double-faced schemer — " Her voice
failed, as it had failed before when she spoke to Sir
Benjamin, and the action of her hand that carried on her
meaning had a rage in it that hid its despair,

" I think if you have anything to say you had better
write it," said Christopher, beginning to think that Lambert
had some excuse for his opinion of Miss Duffy, but begin-
ning also to pity what he thought was a spectacle of miser-
able middle-aged drunkenness ; " you may be sure that no
injustice will be done to you — "

" Is it injustice ? " broke in Julia, while the fever cloud
seemed to roll its weight back for a moment from her brain ;
" maybe you'd say there was injustice if you knew all I
know. Where's Charlotte Mullen, till I tell her to her face
that I know her plots and her thricks ? 'Tis to say that to

222 The Real Charlotte,

her I came here, and to tell her 'twas she lent money to
Peter Joyce that was grazing my farm, and refused it to him
secondly, the way he'd go bankrupt on me, and she's to have
my farm and my house that my grandfather built, thinking
to even herself with the rest of the gentry — "

Her voice had become wilder and louder, and Christopher,
uncomfortably aware that Francie could hear this indictment
of Miss Mullen as distinctly as he did, intervened again.

" Look here. Miss Duffy," he said in a lower voice, " it's
no use talking like this. If I can help you I will, but it
would be a good deal better if you went home now. You —
you seem ill, and it's a great mistake to stay here exciting
yourself and making a noise. Write to me, and I'll see that
you get fair play."

Julia threw back her head and laughed, with a venom
that seemed too concentrated for drunkenness.

" Ye'd better see ye get fair play yerself before you talk
so grand about it 1 " She pointed up at Francie. " Mrs.
Dysart indeed 1 " — she bowed with a sarcastic exaggeration,
that in saner moments she would not have been capable of
— " Lady Dysart of Bruff, one of these days I suppose ! " —
she bowed again. " That's what Miss Charlotte Mullen has
laid out for ye," addressing herself to Christopher, " and
ye'U not get away from that one till ye're under her foot ! "

She laughed again ; her face became vacant and yet full
of pain, and she staggered away down the avenue, talking
violently and gesticulating with her hands.

CHAPTER XXXII.

Mrs. Lambert gathered up her purse, her list, her bag, and
her parasol from the table in Miss Greely's wareroom, and
turned to give her final directions.

" Now, Miss Greely, before Sunday for certain ; and
you'll be careful about the set of the skirt, that it doesn't
firk up at the side, the way the black one did — "

'* We understand the set of a skirt, Mrs. Lambert," inter-
posed the elder Miss Greely in her most aristocratic voice ;
" I think you may leave that to us."

Mrs. Lambert retreated, feeling as snubbed as it was

The Real Charlotte. 223

intended that she should feel, and with a last injunction to
the girl in the shop to be sure not to let the Rosemount
messenger leave town on Saturday night without the parcel
that he'd get from upstairs, she addressed herself to the
task of walking home. She was in very good spirits, and
the thought of a new dress for church next Sunday was
exhilarating ; it was a pleasant fact also that Charlotte
Mullen was coming to tea, and she and Muffy, the Maltese
terrier, turned into Barrett's to buy a tea-cake in honour of
the event. Mrs. Beattie was also there, and the two ladies
and Mrs. Barrett had a most enjoyable discussion on tea ;
Mrs. Beattie advocating " the one and threepenny from the
Stores," while Mrs. Barrett and her other patroness agreed
in upholding the Lismoyle three-and-sixpenny against all
others. Mrs. Lambert set forth again with her tea-cake in
her hand, and with such a prosperous expression of coun-
tenance that Nance the Fool pursued her down the street
with a confidence that was not unrewarded.

*' That the hob of heaven may be your scratching post ! "
she screamed, in the midst of one of her most effective fits
of coughing, as Mrs. Lambert's round little dolmaned figure
passed complacently onward, " that Pether and Paul may
wait on ye, and that the saints may be surprised at yer
success ! She's sharitable, the craythur," she ended in a
lower voice, as she rejoined the rival and confederate who
had yielded to her the right of plundering the last passer-by,
" and sign's on it, it thrives with her ; she's got very gross ! '

** Faith it wasn't crackin' blind nuts made her that fat,"
said the confidante unamiably, " and with all her riches she
didn't give ye the price of a dhrink itself ! "

Mrs. Lambert entered her house by the kitchen, so as to
give directions to Eliza Hackett about the tea-cake, and
when she got upstairs she found Charlotte already awaiting
her in the dining-room, occupied in reading a pamphlet on
stall feeding, with apparently as complete a zest as if it had
been one of those yellow paper-covered volumes whose
appearance aroused such a respectful horror in Lismoyle.

" Well, Lucy, is this the way you receive your visitors 1 "
she began jocularly, as she rose and kissed her hostess's
florid cheek ; " I needn't ask how you are, as you're
looking blooming."

224 The Real Charlotte.

"I declare I think this hot summer suits me. I feel
stronger than I've done this good while back, thank God.
Roddy was saying this morning he'd have to put me and
Muffy on banting, we'd both put up so much flesh."

The turkey-hen looked so pleased as she recalled this
conjugal endearment that Charlotte could not resist the
pleasure of taking her down a peg or two.

" I think he's quite right," she said with a laugh ; " no-
thing ages ye like fat, and no man likes to see his wife
turning into an old woman."

Poor Mrs. Lambert took the snub meekly, as was her
wont. "Well, anyway, it's a comfort to feel a little stronger,
Charlotte; isn't it what they say, Maugh and grow fat.'"
She took off her dolman and rang the bell for tea. *' Tell
me, Charlotte," she went on^ " did you hear anything about
that poor Miss Duffy ? "

" I was up at the infirmary this morning asking the Sister
about her. It was Rattray himself found her lying on the
road, and brought her in ; he says it's inflammation of the
brain, and if she pulls through she'll not be good for any-
tiling afterwards."

" Oh, my, my ! " said Mrs. Lambert sympathetically.
" And to think of her being at our gate lodge that very day!
Mary Holloran said she had that dying look in her face you
couldn't mistake."

" And no wonder, when you think of the way she lived,"
said Charlotte angrily ; " starving there in Gurthnamuckla
like a rat that'd rather die in his hole than come out of it."

" Well, she's out of it now, poor thing," ventured Mrs.
Lambert.

** She is ! and I think she'll stay out of it. She'll never
be right in her head again, and her things'U have to be sold
to support her and pay some one to look after her, and if
they don't fetch that much she'll have to go into the county
asylum. I wanted to talk to Roddy about that very thing,"
went on Charlotte, irritation showing itself in her voice ;
"but I suppose he's going riding or boating or amusing
himself somehow, as usual."

" No, he's not ! " replied Mrs. Lambert, with just a shade
of triumph. " He's taken a long walk by himself. He
thought perhaps he'd better look .after his figure as well as

The Real Charlotte. 225

me and Muffy, and he wanted to see a horse he's thinking
of buying. He says he'd like to be able to leave me the
mare to draw me in the phaeton."

" Where will he get the money to buy it ? " asked
Charlotte sharply.

" Oh ! I leave all the money matters to him," said Mrs.
Lambert, with that expression of serene satisfaction in her
husband that had already had a malign effect on Miss
Mullen's temper. " I know I can trust him."

''You've a very different story to-day to what you had the
last time I was here," said Charlotte with a sneer. " Are
all your doubts of him composed ? "

The entrance of the tea-tray precluded all possibihty of
answer ; but Charlotte knew that her javelin was quivering
in the wound. The moment the door closed behind the
servant, Mrs. Lambert turned upon her assailant with the
whimper in her voice that Charlotte knew so well.

" I greatly regretted, Charlotte," she said, with as much
dignity as she could muster, "speaking to yoa the way!
did, for I believe now I was totally mistaken."

It might be imagined that Charlotte would have taken
pleasure in Mrs. Lambert's security, inasmuch as it implied
her own; but, so far from this being the case, it was intoler-
able to her that her friend should be blind to the fact that
tortured her night and day.

'•' And what's changed your mind, might I ask ? "

" His conduct has changed my mind, Charlotte," replied
Mrs. Lambert severely ; " and that's enough for me."

^'Well, I'm glad you're pleased with his conduct, Lucy;
but if he was my husband I'd find out what he was doing at
Tally Ho every day in the week before I was so rejoiced
about him."

Charlotte's face had flushed in the heat of argument, and
Mrs. Lambert felt secretly a little frightened.

" Begging your pardon, Charlotte," she said, still striving
after dignity, "he's not there every day, and when he does
go it's to talk business with you he goes, about Gurthna-
muckla and money and things like that."

Charlotte sat up with a dangerous look about her jaw.
She could hardly beHeve that Lambert could have babbled
her secrets to this despised creature in order to save himself.

p

226 The Real Charlotte,

" He appears to tell you a good deal about his business
affairs," she said, her eyes quelling the feeble resistance in
Mrs. Lambert's ; " but he doesn't seem to tell you the truth
about other matters. He's telling ye lies about what takes
him to Tally Ho ; it isn't to talk business — " the colour
deepened in her face. " I tell ye once for all, that as sure
as God's in heaven he's fascinated with that girl ! This isn't
the beginning of it — ye needn't think it ! She flirted with
him in Dublin, and though she doesn't care two snaps of
her fingers for him she's flirting with him now ! "

The real Charlotte had seldom been nearer the surface
than at this moment ; and Mrs. Lambert cowered before the
manifestation.

" You're very unkind to me, Charlotte," she said in a voice
that was tremulous with fright and anger ; " I wonder at
you, that you would say such things to me about my own
husband."

" Well, perhaps you'd rather I said it to you now in con-
fidence than that every soul in Lismoyle should be prating
and talking about it, as they will be if ye don't put down
yer foot, and tell Roddy he's making a fool of himself ! "

Mrs. Lambert remained stunned for a few seconds at the
bare idea of putting down her foot where Roderick was con-
cerned, or of even insinuating that that supreme being could
make a fool of himself, and then her eyes filled with tears
of mortification.

" He is not making a fool of himself, Charlotte," she said,
endeavouring to pluck up spirit, "and you've no right to say
anything of the kind. You might have more respect for
your family than to be trying to raise scandal this way and
upsetting mc, and I not able for it 1 "

Charlotte looked at her, rmd kept back with an effort the
torrent of bullying fury that was seething in her. She had
no objection to upsetting Mrs. Lambert, but she preferred
that hysterics should be deferred until she had established
her point. Why she wished to establish it she did not ex-
plain to herself, but her restless jealousy, combined with her
intolerance of the Fool's Paradise in which Mrs. Lambert
had entrenched herself, made it impossible for her to leave
the subject alone.

** I think ye know it's not my habit to raise scandal, Lucy,

The Real Charlotte. 227

and I'm not one to make an assertion without adequate
grounds for it/' she said in her strong, acrid voice ; '• as I
said before, this flirtation is an old story. I have my own
reasons for knowing that there was more going on than any-
one suspected, from the time she was in short frocks till she
came down here, and now, if she hadn't another affair on
hand, she'd have the whole country in a blaze about it.
Why, d'ye know that habit she wears ? It was your hus-
band paid for that ! '*

She emphasised each word between her closed teeth, and
her large face was so close to Mrs. Lambert's, by the time
she had finished speaking, that the latter shrank back.

" I don't believe you, Charlotte," she said with trembling
lips ; " how do you know it ? "

Charlotte had no intention of telling that her source of in-
formation had been the contents of a writing-case of Francie's,
an absurd receptacle for photographs and letters that bore
the word " Papeterie " on its greasy covers, and had a lock
bearing a family resemblance to the lock of Miss Mullen's
work-box. But a cross-examination by the turkey-hen was
easily evaded.

"Never you mind how I know it. It's true." Then, with
a connection of ideas that she would have taken more pains
to conceal in dealing with anyone else, ''Did ye ever see
any of theietters she wrote to him when she was in Dublin?"

" No, Charlotte ; I'm. not in the habit of looking at my
husband's letters. I think the tea is drawn," she continued,
making a last struggle to maintain her position, " and I'd
be glad to hear no more on the subject." She took the
cosy off the tea-pot, and began to pour out the tea, but her
hands were shaking, and Charlotte's eye made her nervous.
" Oh, I'm very tired — I'm too long without my tea. Oh,
Charlotte, why do you annoy me this way when you know
it's so bad for me?" She put down the tea-pot, and
covered her face with her hands. " Is it me own dear
husband that you say such things of? Oh, it couldn't be
true, and he always so kind to me ; indeed, it isn't true,
Charlotte," she protested piteously between her sobs.

" Me dear Lucy," said Charlotte, laying her broad hand
on Mrs. Lambert's knee, " I wish I could say it wasn't,
though of course the wisest of us is liable to error. Come

228 The Real Charlotte,

now ! " she said, as if struck by a new idea. " I'll tel! ye
how we could settle the matter ! It's a way you won't like,
and it's a way I don't like either, but I solemnly think you
owe it to yourself, and to your position as a wife. Will you
let me say it to you ? "

" Oh, you may, Charlotte, you may," said Mrs. Lambert
tearfully.

" Well, my advice to you is this, to see what old letters
of hers he has, and ye'U be able to judge for yourself what
the truth of the case is. If there's no harm in them I'll be
only too ready to congratulate ye on proving me in the
wrong, and if there is, why, ye'll know what course to
pursue."

" Is it look at Roddy's letters ? " cried Mrs. Lambert,
emerging from her handkerchief with a stare of horror ;
" he'd kill me if he thought I looked at them ! "

" Ah, nonsense, woman, he'll never know you looked at
them," said Charlotte, scanning the room quickly ; " is it in
his study he keeps his private letters ? "

" No, I think it's in his old despatch-box up on the shelf
there," answered Mrs. Lambert, a little taken with the idea,
in spite of her scruples.

" Then ye're done," said Charlotte, looking up at the
despatch-box in its absolute security of Bramah lock ; " of,
course he has his keys with him always."

" Well then, d'ye know," said Mrs. Lambert hesitatingly
*' I think I heard his keys jingling in the pocket of the coa^
he took off before he went out, and I didn't notice him tak-
ing them out of it — but, oh, my dear, I wouldn't dare to open
any of his things. I might as well quit the house if he
found it out."

" I tell you it's your privilege as a wife, and your plain
duty besides, to see those letters," urged Charlotte. " I'd re-
commend you to go up and get those keys now, this minute ;
it's like the hand of Providence that he should leave them
behind him."

The force of her will had its effect. Mrs. Lambert got
up, and, after another declaration that Roderick would kill
her, went out of the room and up the stairs at a pace that
Charlotte did not think her capable of. She heard her step
hurrying into the room overhead, and in a surprisingly short

The Real Charlotte. 229

time she was back again, uttering pants of exhaustion and
alarm, but holding the keys in her hand.

" Oh," she said, " I thought every minute I heard him
coming to the door ! Here they are for you, Charlotte, take
them ! I'll not have anything more to say to them."

She flung the keys into Miss Mullen's lap, and prepared
to sink into her chair again. Charlotte jumped up, and the
keys rattled on to the floor.

"And d'ye think I'd lay a finger on them? " she said, in
such a voice that Mrs. Lambert checked herself in the
action of sitting down, and Muffy fled under his mistress's
chair and barked in angry alarm. " Pick them up yourself!
It's no affair of mine ! " She pointed with a fateful finger at
the keys, and Mrs. Lambert obediently stooped for them.
" Now, there's the desk, ye'd better not lose any more time,
but get it down."

The shelf on which the desk stood was the highest one of
a small book-case, and was just above the level of Mrs.
Lambert's head, so that when, after many a frightened look
out of the window, she stretched up her short arms to take
it down, she found the task almost beyond her.

" Come and help me, Charlotte," she cried ; " I'm afraid
it'll fall on me ! "

" I'll not put a hand to it," said Charlotte, without moving,
while her ugly, mobile face twitched with excitement ; *' it's
you have the right and no one else, and I'd recommend ye
to hurry ! "

The word hurry acted electrically on Mrs. Lambert ; she
put forth all her feeble strength, and lifting the heavy de-
spatch-box from the shelf, she staggered with it to the
dinner-table.

" Oh, it's the weight of the house ! " she gasped, collap-
sing on to a chair beside it.

" Here, open it now quickly, and we'll talk about the
weight of it afterwards" said Charlotte so imperiously that
Mrs. Lambert, moved by a power that was scarcely her own,
fumbled through the bunch for the key.

" There it is ! Don't you see the Bramah key ? " ex-
claimed Charlotte, hardly repressing the inclination to call
her friend a fool and to snatch the bunch from her ; " press
it in hard now, or ye'il not get it to turn.'*

230 Tne Reai CfUinoUe.

If the lock had not been an easy one, it is probable that
Mrs. Lambert's helpless fingers would never have turned the
key, but it yielded to the first touch, and she lifted the lid.
Charlotte craned over her shoulder with eyes that ravened
on the contents of the box.

" No, there's nothing there," she said, taking in with one
look the papers that lay in the tray ; " lift up the tray ! "

Mrs. Lambert, now past remonstrance, did as she was
bid, and some bundles of letters and a few photographs were
brought to light.

" Show the photographs ! " said Charlotte in one fierce
breath.

But here Mrs. Lambert's courage failed. " Oh, I can't,
don't ask me ! " she wailed, clasping her hands on her
bosom, with a terror of some irrevocable truth that might
await her adding itself to the fear of discovery.

Charlotte caught one of her hands, and, with a guttural
sound of contempt, forced it down on to the photograph.

"Show it to me!"

Her victim took up the photographs, and turning them
round, revealed two old pictures of Lambert in riding
clothes, with Francie beside him in a very badly made habit,
with her hair down her back.

" What d'ye think of that ? " said Charlotte. She was
gripping Mrs. Lambert's sloping shoulder, and her breath
was coming hard and short. "Now, get out her letters.
There they are in the corner ! "

" Ah, she's only a child in that picture," said Mrs.
Lambert in a tone of relief, as she hurriedly put the photo-
graphs back.

" Open the letters and ye'U see what sort of a child she
was."

Mrs. Lambert made no further demur. She took out the
bundle that Charlotte pointed to, and drew the top one from
its retaining india-rubber strap. Even in affairs of the heart
Mr. Lambert was a tidy man.

" My dear Mr. Lambert," she read aloud, in a deprecating,
tearful voice that was more than ever like the quivering
chirrup of a turkey-hen, " the cake was scrumptious, all the
girls were after me for a bit of it, and asking where I got it,
but I wouldn't tell. I put it under my pillow three nights,

The Real Charlotte. 231

but all I dreamt of was Uncle Robert walking round and
round Stephen's Green in his night-cap. You must have
had a grand wedding. Why didn't you ask me there to
dance at it ? So now no more from your affectionate friend,
F. Fitzpatrick."

Mrs. Lambert leaned back, and her hands fell into her
lap.

" Well, thank God there's no harm in that, Charlotte,"
she said, closing her eyes with a sigh that might have been
relief, though her voice sounded a little dreamy and be-
wildered.

** Ah, you began at the wrong end," said Charlotte, little
attentive to either sigh or tone, " that was written five years
ago. Here, what's in this ? " She indicated the one lowest
in the packet.

Mrs. Lambert opened her eyes.

" The drops ! " she said with sudden energy, " on the
sideboard — oh, save me — ! "

Her voice fainted away, her eyes closed, and her head fell
limply on to her shoulder. Charlotte sprang instinctively
towards the sideboard, but suddenly stopped and looked
from Mrs. Lambert to the bundle of letters. She caught it
up, and plucking out a couple of the most recent, read them
through with astonishing speed. She was going to take out
another when a slight movement from her companion made
her throw them down.

Mrs. Lambert was slipping off the high dining-room chair
on which she was sitting, and there was a look about her
mouth that Charlotte had never seen there before. Char-
lotte had her arm under her in a moment, and, letting her
slip quietly down, laid her flat on the floor. Through the
keen and crowding contingencies of the moment came a
sound from outside, a well-known voice calling and whistling
to a dog, and in the same instant Charlotte had left Mrs.
Lambert and was deftly and swiftly replacing letters and
photographs in the despatch-box. She closed the lid noise-
lessly, put it back on its shelf with scarcely an effort, and
after a moment of uncertainty, slipped the keys into Mrs.
Lambert's pocket. She knew that Lambert would never
guess at his wife's one breach of faith. Then, with a
quickness almost incredible in a woman of her build, she

232 The Real Charlotte,

got the drops from the sideboard, poured them out, and, on
her way back to the inert figure on the floor, rang the bell
violently. Muffy had crept from under the table to snuff
with uncanny curiosity at his mistress's livid face, and as
Charlotte approached, he put his tail between his legs and
yapped shrilly at her.

" Get out, ye damned cur ! " she exclaimed, the coarse,
superstitious side of her nature coming uppermost now that
the absorbing stress of those acts of self-preservation was
over. Her big foot lifted the dog and sent him flying across
the room, and she dropped on her knees beside the motion-
less, tumbled figure on the floor. " She's dead ! she's
dead ! " she cried out, and as if in protest against her own
words she flung water upon the unresisting face, and tried
to force the drops between the closed teeth. But the face
never altered ; it only acquired momentarily the immovable
preoccupation of death, that asserted itself in silence, and
gave the feeble features a supreme dignity, in spite of the
thin dabbled fringe and the gold ear-rings and brooch, that
were instinct with the vulgarities of life.

CHAPTER XXXni.

Few possessed of any degree of imagination can turn their
backs on a churchyard, after having witnessed there the
shovelling upon and stamping down of the last poor refuge
of that which all feel to be superfluous, a mere fragment of
the inevitable debris of life, without a clinging hope that in
some way or other the process may be avoided for them-
selves. In spite of philosophy, the body will not picture its
surrender to the sordid thraldom of the undertaker and the
mastery of the spade, and preferably sees itself falling
through cold miles of water to some vague resting-place
below the tides, or wedged beyond search in the grip of an
ice crack, or swept as grey ash into a cinerary urn ; anything
rather than the prisoning coffin and blind weight of earth.
So Christopher thought impatiently, as he drove back to
Bruff" from Mrs. Lambert's funeral, in the dismal solemnity
of black clothes and a brougham, while the distant rattle of
a reaping-machine was like a voice full of the health and

The Real Charlotte. 233

energy of life, that talked on of harvest, and would not hear
of graves.

That the commonplace gloom of a funeral should have
plunged his general ideas into despondency is, however, too
much to believe of even such a supersensitive mind as
Christopher's. It gave a darker wash of colour to what was
already clouded, and probably it was its trite, terrific sneer
at human desire and human convention that deadened his
heart from time to time with fatalistic suggestion ; but it
was with lesser facts than these that he strove. Miss
Mullen depositing hysterically a wreath upon her friend's
coffin, in the acute moment of lowering it into the grave ;
Miss Mullen sitting hysterically beside him in the carriage
as he drove her back to Tally Ho in the eyes of all men ;
Miss Mullen lying, still hysterical, on her drawing-room sofa,
holding in her black-gloved hand a tumbler of sal volatile
and water, and eventually commanding her emotion suffi-
ciently to ask him to bring her, that afternoon, a few books
and papers, to quiet her nerves, and to rob of its weariness
the bad night that would inevitably be her portion.

It was opposite these views, which, as far as tears went,
might well be called dissolving, that his mind chiefly took
its stand, in unutterable repugnance, and faint endeavour to
be blind to his own convictions. He was being chased.
Now that he knew it he wondered how he could ever have
been unaware of it ; it was palpable to anyone, and he felt
in advance what it would be like to hear the exultant wind-
ing of the huntsman's horn, if the quarry were overtaken.
The position was intolerable from every rational point of
view ; Christopher with his lethargic scorn of social tyrannies
and stale maxims of class, could hardly have believed that
he was sensible of so many of these points, and despised
himself accordingly. Julia Duffy's hoarse voice still tor-
mented his ear in involuntary spasms of recollection, keep-
ing constantly before him the thought of the afternoon of
four days ago, when he and Francie had been informed of
the destiny allotted to them. The formless and unques-
tioned dream through which he had glided had then been
broken up, like some sleeping stretch of river when the jaws
of the dredger are dashed into it, and the mud is dragged
to light, and the soiled waves carry the outrage onward in

234 ^^^^ Real Charlotte.

ceaseless escape. Nothing now could place him where he
had been before, nor could he wish to regain that purpose-
less content. It was better to look things in the face at
last, and see where they were going to end. It was better
to know himself to be Charlotte's prize than to give up
Francie.

This was what it meant, he said to himself, while he
changed his funeral garb, and tried to get into step with the
interrupted march of the morning. The alternative had
been with him for four days, and now, while he wrote his
letters, and sat at luncheon, and collected the books that
were to interpose between Miss Mullen and her grief, the
choice became more despotic than ever, in spite of the
antagonism that met it in every surrounding. All the
chivalry that smouldered under the modern malady of
exhausted enthusiasm ranged itself on Francie's side ; all
the poetry in which he had steeped his mind, all his own
poetic fancy, combined to bhnd him to many things that he
would otherwise have seen. He acquitted her of any share
in her cousin's coarse scheming with a passionateness that
in itself testified to the terror lest it might be true. He
had idealised her to the pitch that might have been ex-
pected, and clothed her with his own refinement, as with a
garment, so that it was her position that hurt him most, her
embarrassment that shamed him beyond his own.

Christopher's character is easier to feel than to describe ;
so conscious of its own weakness as to be almost incapable
of confident effort, and with a soul so humble and straight-
forward that it did not know its own strength and simplicity.
Some dim understanding of him must have reached Francie,
with her ignorant sentimentalities and her Dublin brogue ;
and as a sea-weed stretches vague arms up towards the
light through the conflict of the tides, her pliant soul rose
through its inherited vulgarities, and gained some vision of
higher things. Christopher could not know how un-
paralleled a person he was in her existence, of how wholly
unknown a type. Hawkins and he had been stars of un-
imagined magnitude ; but though she had attained to the
former's sphere with scarcely an effort, Christopher re-
mained infinitely remote. She could scarcely have believed
that as he drove from Bruff in the quiet sunshine of the

The Real Charlotte. 235

afternoon, and surmounted the hill near its gate, the magic
that she herself had newly learned about was working its
will with him.

The corn that had stood high between him and Francie
that day when he had ridden back to look after her, was
bound in sheaves on the yellow upland, and the foolish
omen set his pulses going. If she were now passing along
that other road there would be nothing between him and
her. He had got past the stage of reason, even his power
of mocking at himself was dead, or perhaps it was that there
seemed no longer anything that could be mocked at. In
spite of his knowledge of the world the position had an
aspect that was so serious and beautiful as to overpower the
others, and to become one of the mysteries of life into
which he had thought himself too cheap and shallow to
enter. A few weeks ago a visit to Tally Ho would have
been a penance and a weariness of the flesh, a thing to be
groaned over with Pamela, and endured only for the sake
of collecting some new pearl of rhetoric from Miss Mullen.
Now each thought of it brought again the enervating thrill,
the almost sickening feeling of subdued excitement and ex-
pectation.

It was the Lismoyle market-day, and Christopher made
his way slowly along the street, squeezing between carts
and barrels, separating groups locked together in the
extremity of bargaining, and doing what in him lay to avoid
running over the old women, who, blinded by their over-
hanging hoods and deaf by nature, paraded the centre of
the thoroughfare with a fine obliviousness of dog-carts and
their drivers. Most of the better class of shops had their
shutters up in recognition of the fact that Mrs. Lambert, a
customer whom neither co-operative stores or eighteen-
penny teas had been able to turn from her allegiance, had
this morning passed their doors for the last time, in slow,
incongruous pomp, her silver-mounted coffin commanding
all eyes as the glass-sided hearse moved along with its
quivering bunches of black plumes. The funeral was still
a succulent topic in the gabble of the market ; Christopher
heard here and there such snatches of it as :

" Rest her sowl, the crayture ! 'Tis she was the good
wife and more than all, she was the beautiful housekeeper ! '■

236 The Real Charlotte.

" Is it he lonesome afther her ? No, nor if he berrid ten
Hke her."

" She was a spent little woman always, and 'tis she that
doted down on him."

" And ne'er a child left afther her ! Well, she must be
exshcused."

" Musha, I'd love her bones ! " shouted Nance the Fool,
well aware of the auditor in the dog-cart, " there wasn't one
like her in the nation, nor in the world, no, nor in the town
o' Galway ! "

Towards the end of the street, at the corner of a lane
leading to the quay, something like a fight was going on,
and, as he approached, Christopher saw, over the heads of
an admiring audience, the infuriated countenance of a
Lismoyle beggar-woman, one of the many who occasionally
legalised their existence by selling fish, between long bouts
of mendicancy and drunkenness. Mary Norris was ap-
parently giving what she would call the length and breadth
of her tongue to some customer who had cast doubts upon
the character of her fish, a customer who was for the
moment quiescent, and hidden behind the tall figure of her
adversary.

" Whoever says thim throuts isn't leppin' fresh out o' the
lake he's a dom liar, and it's little I think of teUin' it t'ye
up to yer nose ! There's not one in the counthry but knows
yer thricks and yer chat, and ye may go home out o' that, with
yer bag sthrapped round ye, and ye can take the tay-leaves
and the dhrippin' from the servants, and huxther thim to feed
yer cats, but thanks be to God ye'll take nothing out o' my
basket this day ! "

There was a titter of horrified delight from the crowd.

" Ye never spoke a truer word than that, Mary Norris,"
replied a voice that sent a chill down Christopher's back ;
*' when I come into Lismoyle, it's not to buy rotten fish from
a drunken fish-fag, that'll be begging for crusts at my hall-
door to-morrow. If I hear another word out of yer mouth
I'll give you and your fish to the police, and the streets'll be
rid of you and yer infernal tongue for a week, at all events,
and the prison'U have a treat that it's pretty well used to ! "

Another titter rewarded this sally, and Charlotte, well
pleased, turned to walk away. As she did so, she caught

The Real Charlotte. 237

sight of Christopher, looking at her with an expression from
which he had not time to remove his emotions, and for a
moment she wished that the earth would open and swallow
her up. She reddened visibly, but recovered herself, and at
once made her way out into the street towards him.

" How are you again, Mr. Dysart ? You just came in
time to get a specimen of the res angusta domi,^^ she said,
in a voice that contrasted almost ludicrously with her last
utterances. ^' People like David, who talk about the ad-
vantages of poverty, have probably never tried buying fish
in Lismoyle. It's always the way with these drunken old
hags. They repay your charity by impudence and bad
language, and one has to speak pretty strongly to them to
make one's meaning penetrate to their minds."

Her eyes were still red and swollen from her violent crying
at the funeral. But for them, Christopher could hardly
have believed that this was the same being whom he had
last seen on the sofa at Tally Ho, with the black gloves and
the sal volatile.

" Oh yes, of course," he said vaguely ; " everyone has to
undergo Mary Norris some time or other. If you are going
back to Tally Ho now, I can drive you there."

The invitation was lukewarm as it well could be, but had
it been the most fervent in the world Charlotte had no in-
tention of accepting it.

" No thank you, Mr. Dysart. I'm not done my market-
ing yet, but Francie's at hone and she'll give you tea. Don't
wait for me. I've no appetite for anything to-day. I only
came out to get a mouthful of fresh air, in hopes it might
give me a better night, though, indeed, I've small chance of
it after what I've gone through."

Christopher drove on, and tried not to think of Miss
Mullen or of his mother or Pamela, while his too palpably
discreet hostess elbowed her way through the crowd in the
opposite direction.

Francie was sitting in the drawing-room awaiting her
visitor. She had been up very early making the wreath of
white asters that Charlotte had laid on Mrs. Lambert's
coffin, and had shed some tears over the making of it, for
the sake of the kindly little woman who had never been
anything but good to her. She had spent a trying morning

238 The Real Charlotte.

in ministering to Charlotte ; after her early dinner she had
dusted the drawing-room, and refilled the vases in a manner
copied as nearly as possible from Pamela's arrangement of
flowers ; and she was now feeling as tired as might reason-
ably have been expected. About Christopher she felt
thoroughly disconcerted and out of conceit with herself.
It was strange that she, like him, should least consider her
own position when she thought about the things that Julia
Duffy had said to them ; her motive was very different, but
it touched the same point. It was the effect upon Christo-
pher that she ceaselessly pictured, that she longed to under-
stand : whether or not he believed what he had heard, and
whether, if he believed, he would ever be the same to her.
His desertion would have been much less surprising than
his allegiance, but she would have felt it very keenly, with
the same aching resignation with which we bear one of
nature's acts of violence. When she met him this morning
her embarrassment had taken the simple form of distance
and avoidance, and a feeling that she could never show him
plainly enough that she, at least, had no designs upon him ;
yet, through it all, she clung to the belief that he would not
change towards her. It was burning humiliation to see
Charlotte spread her nets in the sight of the bird, but it did
not prevent her from dressing herself as becomingly as she
could when the afternoon came, nor, so ample are the
domains of sentiment, did some nervous expectancy in the
spare minutes before Christopher arrived deter her from
taking out of her pocket a letter w®rn by long sojourn there,
and reading it with delaying and softened eyes.

Her correspondence with Hawkins had been fraught with
difficulties ; in fact, it had been only by the aid of a judici-
ous shilling and an old pair of boots bestowed on Louisa,
that she had ensured to herself a first sight of the contents
of the post-bag, before it was conveyed, according to custom,
to Miss Mullen's bedroom. Somehow since Mr. Hawkins
had left Hythe and gone to Yorkshire the quantity and
quality of his letters had dwindled surprisingly. The three
thick weekly budgets of sanguine anticipation and profuse
endearments had languished into a sheet or two every ten
days of affectionate retrospect in which less and less refer-
ence was made to breaking off his engagement with Miss

TJie Real Charlotte. 239

Coppard, that trifling and summary act which was his
ostensible mission in going to Mi^fianUe's house; and this,
the last letter from him, had been merely a few lines of
excuse for not having written before, ending with regret that
his leave would be up in a fortnight, as he had had a rip-
ping time on old Coppard's moor, and the cubbing was just
beginning, a remark which puzzled Francie a good deal,
though its application was possibly clearer to her than the
writer had meant it to be. Inside the letter was a photo-
graph of himself, that had been done at Hythe, and was
transferred by Francie from letter to letter, in order that it
might never leave her personal keeping ; and, turning from
the barren trivialities over which she had been poring,
Francie fell to studying the cheerful, unintellectual face
therein portrayed above the trim glories of a mess jacket.

She was still looking at it when she heard the expected
wheels ; she stufifed the letter back into her pocket, then
remembering the photograph, pulled the letter out again
and put it into it. She was putting the letter away for the
second time when Christopher came in, and in her guilty
self-consciousness she felt that he must have noticed the
action.

" How did you get in so quickly ? " she said, with a con-
fusion that heightened the general effect of discovery.

" Donovan was there and took the trap," said Christopher,
"and the hall door was open^ so I came in."

He sat down, and neither seemed certain for a moment
as to what to say next.

" I didn't really expect you to come, Mr. Dysart," began
Francie, the colour that the difficulty with the photograph
had given her ebbing slowly away ; " you have a right to
be tired as well as us, and Charlotte being upset that way
and all, made it awfully late before you got home, I'm
afraid."

" I met her a few minutes ago, and was glad to see that
she was all right again," said Christopher perfunctorily;
" but certainly if I had been she, and had had any option
in the matter, I should have stayed at home this morning."

Both felt the awkwardness of discussing Miss Mullen,
but it seemed a shade less than the awkwardness of ignor-
ing her.

240 The Real Charlotte.

" She was such a friend of poor Mrs. Lambert's," said
Francie ; " and I declare," she added, glad of even this
trivial chance of showing herself antagonistic to Charlotte,
" I think she delights in funerals."

" She has a peculiar way of showing her delight," replied
Christopher, with just enough ill-nature to make Francie
feel that her antagonism was understood and sympathised
with.

Francie gave an irrepressible laugh. *' I don't think she
minds crying before people. I wish everyone minded cry-
ing as little as she does."

Christopher looked at her, and thought he saw something
about her eyes that told of tears.

" Do you mind crying ? " he said, lowering his voice
while more feeling escaped into his glance than he had
intended ; " it doesn't seem natural that you should ever
cry."

'• You're very inquisitive ! " said Francie, the sparkle
coming back to her eye in a moment ; " why shouldn't I
cry if I choose ? "

" I should not like to think that you had anything to
make you cry."

She looked quickly at him to see if his face were as sin-
cere as his voice ; her perceptions were fine enough to
suggest that it would be typical of Christopher to show her
by a special deference and friendliness that he was sorry for
her, but now, as ever, she was unable to classify those deli-
cate shades of manner and meaning that might have told
her where his liking melted into love. She had been accus-
tomed to see men as trees walking, beings about whose
individuality of character she did not trouble herself;
generally they made love to her, and, if they did not, she
presumed that they did not care about her, and gave them
no further attention. But this test did not seem satisfactory
in Christopher's case.

*' I know what everyone thinks of me," she said, a heart
truth welling to the surface as she felt herself pitied and
comprehended ; " no one believes I ever have any trouble
about anything."

Christopher's heart throbbed at the bitterness in a voice
that he had always known so whollj^ careless and undisturbed;

The Real Charlotte. 241

it increased his pity for her a thousandfold, but it stirred
him with a strange and selfish pleasure to think that she had
suffered. Whatever it was that was in her mind, it had
given him a glimpse of that deeper part of her nature, so
passionately guessed at, so long unfindable. He did not
for an instant think of Hawkins, having explained away that
episode to himself some time before in the light of his new
reading of Francie's character ; it was Charlotte's face as she
confronted Mary Norris in the market that came to him,
and the thought of what it must be to be under her roof and
dependent on her. He saw now the full pain that Francie
bore in hearing herself proclaimed as the lure by which he
was to be captured, and that he should have brought her
thus low roused a tenderness in him that would not be gain-
said.

"/don't think it," he said, stammering ; "you might be-
lieve that I think more about you than other people do. I
know you feel things more than you let anyone see, and
that makes it all the worse for anyone who — who is sorry
for you, and wants to tell you so — "

This halting statement, so remarkably different in diction
from the leisurely sentences in which Christopher usually
expressed himself, did not tend to put Francie more at her
ease. She reddened slowly and painfully as his short-
sighted, grey eyes rested upon her. Hawkins filled so
prominent a place in her mind that Christopher's ambiguous
allusions seemed to be directed absolutely at him, and her
hand instinctively slipped into her pocket and clasped the
letter that was there, as if in that way she could hold her
secret fast.

" Ah, well," — she tried to say it lightly — " I don't want so
very much pity yet awhile ; when I do, I'll ask you
for it ! "

She disarmed the words of her flippancy by the look with
which she lifted her dark-lashed eyes to him, and Christo-
pher's last shred of common sense sank in their tender
depths and was lost there.

" Is that true ? " he said, without taking his eyes from her
face. " Do you really trust me ? would you promise always
to trust me?"

"Yes, I'm sure I'd always trust you," answered Francie,

Q

242 The Real Charlotte.

beginning in some inexplicable way to feel frightened ; " I
think you're awfully kind,"

" No, I am not kind," he said, turning suddenly very
white, and feeling his blood beating down to his finger-tips ;
" you must not say that when you know it's — " Something
seemed to catch in his throat and take his voice away. *' It
gives me the greatest pleasure to do anything for you," he
ended lamely.

The clear crimson deepened in Francie's cheeks. She
knew in one startling instant what Christopher meant, and
her fingers twined and untwined themselves in the crochet
sofa-cover as she sat, not daring to look at him, and not
knowing in the least what to say.

" How can I be kind to you ? " went on Christopher, his
vacillation swept away by the look in her downcast face that
told him she understood him ; " it's just the other way, it's
you who are kind to me. If you only knew what happiness
it is to me — to — to be with you — to do anything on earth
for you — you know what I mean — I see you know what I
mean."

A vision rose up before Francie of her past self, loitering
about the Dublin streets, and another of an incredible and
yet possible future self, dwelling at Bruff in purple and fine
linen, and then she looked up and met Christopher's eyes.
She saw the look of tortured uncertainty and avowed pur-
pose that there was no mistaking ; Bruff and its glories
melted away before it, and in their stead came Hawkins'
laughing face, his voice, his touch, his kiss, in overpower-
ing contrast to the face opposite to her, with its uncompre-
hended intellect and refinement, and its pale anxiety.

" Don't say things like that to me, Mr. Dysart," she said
tremulously ; " I know how good you are to me, twice, twice
too good, and if I was in trouble, you'd be the first I'd come
to. But I'm all right," with an attempted gaiety and uncon-
cern that went near bringing the tears to her eyes ; '' I can
paddle my own canoe for a while yet ! "

Her instinct told her that Christopher would be quicker
than most men to understand that she was putting up a line
of defence, and to respect it ; and with the unfaifing recoil
of her mind upon Hawkins, she thought how little such a
method would have prevailed with him.

TJie Real Charlotte. 243

" Then you don't want me ? " said Christopher, almost in
a whisper.

''Why should I want you or anybody?" she answered,
determined to misunderstand him, and to be like her usual
self in spite of the distress and excitement that she felt ;
" I'm well able to look after myself, though you mightn't
think it, and I don't want anything this minute, only my tea,
and Norry's as cross as the cats, and I know she won't have
the cake made ! " She tried to laugh, but the laugh
faltered away into tears. She turned her head aside, and
putting one hand to her eyes, felt with the other in her
pocket for her handkerchief. It was underneath Hawkins'
letter, and as she snatched it out, it carried the letter along
with it.

Christopher had started up, unable to bear the sight of
her tears, and as he stood there, hesitating on the verge of
catching her in his arms, he saw the envelope slip down on
to the floor. As it fell the photograph slid out of its worn
covering, and lay face uppermost at his feet. He picked it
up, and having placed it with the letter on the sofa beside
Francie, he walked to the window and looked sightlessly out
into the garden. A heavily-laden tray bumped against the
door, the handle turned, and Louisa, having pushed the
door open with her knee, staggered in with the tea-tray.
She had placed it on the table and was back again in the
kitchen, talking over the situation with Bid Sal, before
Christopher spoke.

" I'm afraid I can't stay any longer," he said, in a voice
that was at once quieter and rougher than its wont ; " you
must forgive me if anything that I said has — has hurt you
— I didn't mean it to hurt you." He stopped short and
walked towards the door. As he opened it, he looked back
at her for an instant, but he did not speak again.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

The kitchen at Tally Ho generally looked its best at ten
o'clock in the morning. Its best is, in this case, a relative
term, implying the temporary concealment of the plates,
loaves of bread, dirty rubbers, and jam-pots full of congealed

244 ^-^^ Real Charlotte.

dripping that usually adorned the tables, and the sweeping
of out-lying potato-skins and cinders into a chasm beneath
the disused hothearth. When these things had been done,
and Bid Sal and her bare feet had been effaced into some
outer purlieu, Norry felt that she was ready to receive the
Queen of England if necessary, and awaited the ordering
of dinner with her dress let down to its full length, a
passably clean apron, and an expression of severe and ex-
alted resignation. On the morning now in question
Charlotte was standing in her usual position, with her back
to the fire and her hands spread behind her to the warmth,
scanning with a general's eye the routed remnants of yester-
day's dinner, and debating with herself as to the banner
under which they should next be rallied.

*'A curry, I think, Norry," she called out; "plenty of
onions and apples in it, and that's all ye want."

" Oh, musha ! God knows ye have her sickened with
yer curries," replied Norry's voice from the larder, ** 'twas
ere yestherday ye had the remains of th' Irish stew in curry,
an' she didn't ate what'd blind your eye of it. Wasn't
Louisa tellin' me ! "

" And so I'm to order me dinners to please Miss
Francie ! " said Charlotte, in tones of surprising toleration ;
'* well, ye can make a haricot of it if ye like. Perhaps her
ladyship will eat that."

" Faith 'tis aiqual to me what she ates — " here came a
clatter of crockery, and a cat shot like a comet from the
larder door, followed by Norry's foot and Norry's blasphemy
— " or if she never ate another bit. And where's the carrots
to make a haricot ? Bid Sal's afther tellin' me there's ne'er
a one in the garden ; but sure, if ye sent Bid Sal to look for
salt wather in the say she wouldn't find it ! "

Miss Mullen laughed approvingly. " There's carrots in
plenty; and see here, Norry, you might give her a jam
dumpling — use the gooseberry jani that's going bad. I've
noticed meself that the child isn't eating, and it won't do to
have the people saying we're starving her."

^* Whoever'!! say that, he wasn't looking at me yestherday,
and I makin' the cake for herself and Misther Dysart !
Eight eggs, an' a cupful of sugar and a cupful of butther,
and God knows what more went in it, an' the half of me

The Real Charlotte. 245

day gone bating it, and afther all they left it afther
thim ! "

" And whose fault was that but your own for not sending
it up in time ? " rejoined Cb.arlotte, her voice sharpening at
once to vociferative argument ; " Miss Francie told me that
Mr. Dysart was forced to go without liis tea."

" Late or early I'm thinkin' thim didn't ax it nor want it,"
replied Norry, issuing from the larder with a basketful of
crumpled linen in her arms, and a visage of the utmost
sourness ; " there's your clothes for ye now, that was waitin'
on me yestherday to iron them, in place of makin' cakes."

She got a bowl of water and began to sprinkle the clothes
and roll them up tightly, preparatory to ironing them, her
ill-temper imparting to the process the air of whipping a
legion of children and putting them to bed. Charlotte
came over to the table, and, resting her hands on it, watched
Norry for a few seconds in silence.

" What makes you say they didn't want anything to eat?"
she asked ; " was Miss Francie ill, or was anything the
matter with her ? "

" How do I know what ailed her ? " replied Norry,
pounding a pillow-case with her fist before putting it away ;
" I have somethin' to do besides followin' her or mindin' her."

** Then what are ye talking about ? "

" Ye'd betther ax thim that knows. 'Twas Louisa seen
her within in the dhrawn'-room, an' whatever was on her
she was cryin' ; but, sure^ Louisa tells lies as fast as a pig'd
gallop."

" What did she say ? " Charlotte darted the question at
Norry as a dog snaps at a piece of meat.

" Then she said plinty, an' 'tis she that's able. If ye told
that one a thing and locked the doore on her the way she
couldn't tell it agin, she'd bawl it up the chimbley."

" Where's Louisa ? " interrupted Charlotte impatiently.

" Meself can tell ye as good as Louisa," said Norry
instantly taking offence ; " she landed into the dhrawn'-room
with the tay, and there was Miss Francie sittin' on the sofa
and her handkerchief in her eyes, and Misther Dysart be-
yond in the windy and not a word nor a stir out of him,
only with his eyes shtuck out in the garden, an' she crvin'
always.'*

246 The Real Charlotte,

*' Psha ! Louisa's a fool ! How does she know Miss
Francie was crying ? I'll bet a shilling 'twas only blowing
her nose she was."

Norry had by this time spread a ragged blanket on the
table, and, snatching up the tongs, she picked out of the
heart of the fire a red-hot heater and thrust it into a box-
iron with unnecessary violence.

" An' why wouldn't she cry ? Wasn't I listenin' to her
cry in' in her room lasht night an' I goin' up to bed ? "
She banged the iron down on the table and began to rub it
to and fro on the blanket. " But what use is it to cry, even
if ye dhragged the hair out of yer head ? Ye might as well
be singin' and dancin'."

She flung up her head, and stared across the kitchen
under the wisps of hair that hung over her unseeing eyes
with such an expression as Deborah the Prophetess might
have worn. Charlotte gave a grunt of contempt, and pick-
ing Susan up from the bar of the table, she put him on her
shoulder and walked out of the kitchen.

Francie had been since breakfast sitting by the window
of the dining-room, engaged in the cheerless task of darning
a stocking on a soda-water bottle. Mending stockings was
not an art that she excelled in ; she could trim a hat or cut
out a dress, but the dark, unremunerative toil of mending
stockings was as distasteful to her as stone-breaking to a
tramp, and the simile might easily be carried out by com-
paring the results of the process to macadamising. It was
a still, foggy morning ; the boughs of the scarlet-blossomed
fuchsia were greyed with moisture, and shining drops
studded the sash of the open window like sea-anemones.
It was a day that was both close and chilly, and intolerable
as the atmosphere of the Tally Ho dining-room would have
been with the window shut, the breakfast things still on the
table, and the all-pervading aroma of cats, the damp, lifeless
air seemed only a shade better to Francie as she raised her
tired eyes from time to time and looked out upon the dis-
couraging prospect. Everything stood in the same trance
of stillness in which it had been when she had got up at
five o'clock and looked out at the sluggish dawn broadening
in blank silence upon the fields. She had leaned out of
her window till she had become cold through and through,

The Real Charlotte. 247

and after that had unlocked her trunk, taken out Hawkins'
letters, and going back to bed had read and re-read them
there. The old glamour was about them ; the convincing
sincerity and assurance that was as certain of her devotion
as of his own, and the unfettered lavishness of expression
that made her turn hot and cold as she read them. She
had time to go through many phases of feeling before the
chapel-bell began to ring for eight o'clock Mass, and she
stole down to the kitchen to see if the post had come in.
The letters were lying on the table; three or four for
Charlotte, the local paper, a circular about peat litter
addressed to the Stud-groom, Tally Ho, and, underneath
all, the thick, rough envelope with the ugly boyish writing
that had hardly changed since Mr. Hawkins had written his
first letters home from Cheltenham College. Francie
caught it up, and was back in her own room in the twink-
ling of an eye. It contained only a few words.

" Dearest Francie, only time for a line to-day to say that
I am staying on here for another week, but I hope ten days
will see me back at the old mill. I want you like a good
girl to keep things as dark as possible. I don't see my way
out of this game yet. No more to-day. Just off to play
golf; the girls here are nailers at it. Thine ever, Gerald."

This was the ration that had been served out to her
hungry heart, the word that she had wearied for for a week;
that once more he had contrived to postpone his return,
and that the promise he had made to her under the tree in
the garden was as far from being fulfilled as ever. Chris-
topher Dysart would not have treated her this way, she
thought to herself, as she stooped over her darning and bit
her lip to keep it from quivering, but then she would not
have minded much whether he wrote to her or not —
that was the worst of it. Francie had always confidently
announced to her Dublin circle of friends her intention
of marrying a rich man, good-looking, and a lord if possible,
but certainly rich. But here she was, on the morning after
what had been a proposal, or what had amounted to one,
from a rich young man who was also nice-looking, and
almost the next thing to a lord, and instead of sitting down
triumphantly to write the letter that should thrill the North
Side down to its very grocers' shops, she was darning stock-

248 The Real Charlotte.

ings, red-eyed and dejected, and pondering over how best
to keep from her cousin any glimmering of what had
happened. All her old self posed and struck attitudes
before the well-imagined mirror of her friends' minds, and
the vanity that was flattered by success cried out petulantly
against the newer soul that enforced silence upon it. She
felt quite impartially how unfortunate it was that she should
have given her heart to Gerald in this irrecoverable way,
and then with a headlong change of ideas she said to her-
self that there was no one like him, and she would always,
always care for him, and nobody else.

This point having been emphasised by a tug at her
needle that snapped the darning cotton. Miss Fitzpatrick
was embarking upon a more pleasurable train of possi-
bilities when she heard Charlotte's foot in the hall, and fell
all of a sudden down to the level of the present. Charlotte
came in and .shut the door with her usual decisive slam ;
she went over to the sideboard and locked up the sugar
and jam with a sharp glance to see if Louisa had tampered
with either, and then sat down at her davenport near
Francie and began to look over her account books.

"Well, I declare," she said after a minute or two, "it's a
funny thing that I have to buy eggs, with my yard full of
hens ! This is a state of things unheard of till you came
into the house, my young lady ! "

Francie looked up and saw that this was meant as a
pleasantry.

" Is it me ? I wouldn't touch an egg to save my life ! "

" Maybe you wouldn't," replied Charlotte with the same
excessive jocularity, "but you can give tea-parties, and
treat your friends to sponge-cakes that are made with
nothing but eggs ! *'

Francie scented danger in the air, and having laughed
nervously to show appreciation of the jest, tried to change
the conversation.

'' How do you feel to-day, Charlotte?" she asked, work-
ing away at her stocking with righteous industry ; " is your
headache gone? I forgot to ask after it at breakfast."

" Headache ? I'd forgotten I'd ever had one. Three
tabloids of antipyrin and a good night's rest ; that was all /
wanted to put me on my pegs again. But if it comes to

TJie Real Charlofte. 249

that, me dear child, I'd trouble you to tell me what makes
you the colour of blay calico last night and this morning ?
It certainly wasn't all the cake you had at afternoon tea. I
declare I was quite vexed when I saw that lovely cake in
the larder, and not a bit gone from it."

Francie coloured. *' I was up very early yesterday mak-
ing that cross, and I daresay that tired me. Tell me, did
Mr. Lambert say anything about it ? Did he like it ? "

Charlotte looked at her, but could discern no special ex-
pression in the piquant profile that was silhouetted against
the light.

" He had other things to think of besides your wreath,"
she said coarsely ; " when a man's wife isn't cold in her
coffin, he has something to think of besides young ladies'
wreaths ! "

There was silence after this, and Francie wondered what
had made Charlotte suddenly get so cross for notliing ; she
had been so good-natured for the last week. The thought
passed through her mind that possibly Mr. Lambert had
taken as little notice of Charlotte as of the wreath ; she was
just sufficiently aware of the state of affairs to know that
such a cause might have such an effect, and she wished she
had tried any other topic of conversation. Darning is, how-
ever, an occupation that does not tend to unloose the
strings of the tongue, and even when carried out according
to the unexacting methods of Macadam, it demands a cer-
tain degree of concentration, and Francie left to Charlotte
the task of finding a more congenial subject. It was
chosen with unexpected directness.

" What was the matter with you yesterday afternoon when
Louisa brought in the tea ? "

Francie felt as though a pistol had been let off at her ear ;
the blood surged in a great wave from her heart to her head,
her heart gave a shattering thump against her side, and
then went on beating again in a way that made her hands
shake.

"Yesterday afternoon, Charlotte?" she said, while her
brain sought madly for a means of escape and found none ;
"there — there was nothing the matter with me."

'* Look here now, Francie ; " Charlotte turned away from
her davenport, and faced her cousin with her fists clenched

250 The Real Charlotte.

on her knees ; '* I'm in loco parentis to you for the time
being — your guardian, if you understand that better — and
• there's no good in your beating about the bush with me.
What happened between you and Christopher Dysart yester-
day afternoon ? "

" Nothing happened at all," said Francie in a low voice
that gave the lie to her words.

" You're telling me a falsehood ! How have you the
face to tell me there was nothing happened when even
that fool Louisa could see that something had been
going on to make you cry, and to send him packing out
of the house not a quarter of an hour after he came
into it ! "

" I told you before he couldn't wait," said Francie, trying
to keep the tremble out of her voice. She held the con-
ventional belief that Charlotte was queer, but very kind and
jolly, but she had a fear of her that she could hardly have
given a reason for. It must have been by that measuring
and crossing of weapons that takes place unwittingly and
yet surely in the consciousness of everyone who lives in in-
timate connection with another, that she had learned, like
her great-aunt before her, the weight of the real Charlotte's
will, and the terror of her personality.

" Stuff and nonsense ! " broke out Miss Mullen, her eyes
beginning to sparkle ominously ; ** thank God I'm not such
an ass as the people you've taken in before now ; ye'll not
find it so easy to make a fool of me as ye think ! Did he
make ye an offer or did he not ? " She leaned forward with
her mouth half open, and Francie felt her breath strike on
her face, and shrank back.

" He—he did not."

Charlotte dragged her chair a pace nearer so that her
knees touched Francie.

*' Ye needn't tell me any lies. Miss ; if he didn't propose,
he said something that was equivalent to a proposal. Isn't
that the case ? "

Francie had withdrawn herself as far into the corner of the
window as was possible, and the dark folds of the maroon rep
curtain made a not unworthy background for her fairness.
Her head was turned childishly over her shoulder in the
attempt to get as far as she could from her tormentor, and

The Real Charlotte. 251

her eyes travelled desperately and yet unconsciously over
the dingy lines of the curtain.

" I told you already, Charlotte, that he didn't propose to
me," she answered ; " he just paid a visit here like anyone
else, and then he had to go away early."

" Don't talk such baldherdash to me ! I know what he
comes here for as well as you do, and as well as every soul
in Lismoyle knows it, and I'll trouble ye to answer one ques-
tion— do ye mean to marry him ? " She paused and gave
the slight and shapely arm a compelling squeeze.

Francie wrenched her arm away. " No, I don't ! " she
said, sitting up and facing Charlotte with eyes that had a
dawning light of battle in them.

Charlotte pushed back her chair, and with the same
action was on her feet.

" Oh, my God ! " she bawled, flinging up both her arms
with the fists clenched ; " d'ye hear that ? She dares to
tell me that to me face after all I've done for her ! " Her
hands dropped down, and she stared at Francie with her
thick lips working in a dumb transport of rage. '' And who
are ye waiting for ? Will ye tell me that ! You, that aren't
fit to lick the dirt off Christopher Dysart's boots ! " she went
on, with the uncontrolled sound in her voice that told that
rage was bringing her to the verge of tears ; " for the Prince
of Wales' son, I suppose ? Or are ye cherishing hopes that
your friend Mr. Hawkins would condescend to take a fancy
to you again ? " She laughed repulsively, waiting with a
heaving chest for the reply, and Francie felt as if the knife
had been turned in the wound.

" Leave me alone ! What is it to you who I marry ? "
she cried passionately ; " I'll marry who I like, and no
thanks to you ! "

" Oh, indeed," said Charlotte, breathing hard and loud
between the words ; " it's nothing to me, I suppose, that
I've kept the roof over your head and put the bit into your
mouth, while ye're carrying on with every man that ye can
get to look at ye ! "

" I'm not asking you to keep me,'* said Francie, starting
up in her turn and standing in the window facing her cousin ;
" I'm able to keep myself, and to wait as long as I choose
till I get married ; /'m not afraid of being an old maid ! '

252 The Real Charlotte.

They glared at each other, the fire of anger smiting on
both their faces, lighting Francie's cheek with a malign
brilliance^ and burning in ugly purple-red on Charlotte's
leathery skin. The girl's aggressive beauty was to Charlotte
a keener taunt than the rudimentary insult of her words ; it
brought with it a swarm of thoughts that buzzed and stung
in her soul like poisonous flies.

''And might one be permitted to ask how long you're
going to wait ? " she said, with quivering lips drawn back ;
" will six months be enough for you, or do you consider the
orthodox widower's year too long to wait ? I daresay you'll
have found out what spending there is in twenty-five pounds
before that, and ye'll go whimpering to Roddy Lambert, and
asking him to make ye Number Two, and to pay your debts
and patch up your character ! "

" Roddy Lambert ! " cried Francie, bursting out into shrill
unpleasant laughter ; " I think I'll try and do better than
that, thank ye, though you're so kind in making him a
present to me ! " Then, firing a random shot, *' I'll not
deprive you of him, Charlotte ; you may keep him all to
yourself ! "

It is quite within the bounds of possibility that Charlotte
might at this juncture have struck Francie, and thereby
have put herself for ever into a false position, but her
guardian angel, in the shape of Susan, the grey tom-cat,
intervened. He had jumped in at the window during the
discussion, and having rubbed himself unnoticed against
Charlotte's legs with stiff, twitching tail, and cold eyes fixed
on her face, he, at this critical instant, sprang upwards at
her, and clawed on to the bosom of her dress, hanging there
in expectation of the hand that should help him to the
accustomed perch on his mistress's shoulder. The blow
that was so near being Francie's descended upon the cat's
broad confident face and hurled him to the ground. He
bolted out of the window again, and when he was safely on
the gravel walk, turned and looked back with an expression
of human anger and astonishment.

When Charlotte spoke her voice was caught away from
her as Christopher Dysart's had been the day before. All
the passions have but one instrument to play on when they

The Real Charlotte. 253

wish to make themselves heard, and it will yield but a
broken sound when it is too hardly pressed.

" Dare to open your mouth to me again, and I'll throw
you out of the window after the cat ! " was what she said in
that choking whisper. " Ye can go out of this house to-
morrow and see which of your lovers will keep ye the
longest, and by the time that they're tired of ye, maybe
ye'll regret that your impudence got ye turned out of a
respectable house ! " She turned at the last word, and, like
a madman who is just sane enough to fear his own mad-
ness, flung out of the room without another glance at her
cousin.

Susan sat on the gravel path, and in the intervals of lick
ing his paws in every crevice and cranny, surveyed his
mistress's guest with a stony watchfulness as she leaned her
head against the window-sash and shook in a paroxysm of
sobs.

CHAPTER XXXV.

More than the half of September had gone by. A gale
or two had browned the woods, and the sky was beginning
to show through the trees a good deal. Miss Greely re-
moved the sun-burned straw hats from her window, and
people lighted their fires at afternoon tea-time, and daily
said to each other with sapient gloom, that the evenings
were closing in very much. The summer visitors had gone,
and the proprietors of lodgings had moved down from the
attics to the front parlours, and were restoring to them their
usual odour of old clothes, sour bread, and apples. All the
Dysarts, with the exception of Sir Benjamin, were away ;
the Bakers had gone to drink the waters at Lisdoonvarna ;
the Beatties were having their yearly outing at the Sea
Road in Galway ; the Archdeacon had exchanged duties
with an Enghsh cleric, who was married, middle-aged, and
altogether unadvantageous, and Miss Mullen played the
organ, and screamed the highest and most ornate tunes in
company with the attenuated choir.

The barracks kept up an outward seeming of life and
cheerfulness, imparted by the adventitious aid of red coats
and bugle-blowing, but their gaiety was superficial, and even

254 ^-^'^ i?^«/ Charlotte.

upon Cursiter, steam-launching to nowliere in particular and
back again, had begun to pall. He looked forward to his
subaltern's return with an eagerness quite out of proportion
to Mr. Hawkins' gifts of conversation or companionship ;
solitude and steam-launching were all very well in modera-
tion, but he could not get the steam-launch in after dinner
to smoke a pipe, and solitude tended to unsettling reflections
on the vanity of his present walk of life. Hawkins, when
he came^ was certainly a variant in the monotony, but
Cursiter presently discovered that he would have to add to
the task of amusing himself the still more arduous one of
amusing his companion. Hawkins dawdled, moped, and
grumbled, and either spent the evenings in moody silence,
or in endless harangues on the stone-broken nature of his
finances, and the contrariness of things in general. He ad-
mitted his engagement to Miss Coppard with about as ill
a grace as was possible, and when rallied about it, became
sulky and snappish, but of Francie he never spoke, and
Cursiter augured no good from these indications. Captain
Cursiter knew as little as the rest of Lismoyle as to the
reasons of Miss Fitzpatrick's abrupt disappearance from
Tally Ho, but, unlike the generality of Francie's acquaint-
ances, had accepted the fact unquestioningly, and with a
simple gratitude to Providence for its interposition in the
matter. If only partridge- shooting did not begin in Ireland
three weeks later than in any civilised country, thought this
much harassed child's guide, it would give them both some-
thing better to do than loafing about the lake in the
Serpolette. Well, anyhow, the 20th was only three days off
now, and Dysart had given them leave to shoot as much as
they liked over Bruff, and, thank the Lord, Hawkins was
fond of shooting, and there would be no more of this talk of
running up to Dublin for two or three days to have his
teeth overhauled, or to get a new saddle, or some nonsense
of that kind. Neither Captain Cursiter nor Mr. Hawkins
paid visits to anyone at this time ; in fact, were never seen
except when, attired in all his glory, one or the other took
the soldiers to church, and marched them back again with
as little delay as possible ; so that the remnant of Lismoyle
society pronounced them very stuck-up and unsociable, and
mourned for the days of the Tipperary Foragers.

The Real Charlotte. 25s

It was on the first day of the partridge shooting that Mr.
Lambert came back to Rosemount. The far-away banging
of the guns down on the farms by the lake was the first
thing he heard as he drove up from the station ; and the
thought that occurred to him as he turned in at his own
gate was that public opinion would scarcely allow him to
shoot this season. He had gone away as soon after his
wife's funeral as was practicable, and having honeymooned
with his grief in the approved fashion (combining with this
observance the settling of business matters with his wife's
trustees in Limerick), the stress of his new position might
be supposed to be relaxed. He was perfectly aware that
the neighbourhood would demand no extravagance of sorrow
from him ; no one could expect him to be more than
decently regretful for poor Lucy. He had always been a
kind husband to her, he reflected, with excusable satis-
faction ; that is to say, he had praised her housekeeping,
and generally bought her whatever she asked for, out of her
own money. He was glad now that he had had the good
sense to marry her \ it had made her very happy, poor
thing, and he was certainly now in a better position than he
could ever have hoped to be if he had not done so. All
these soothing and comfortable facts, however, did not
prevent his finding the dining-room very dreary and silent
when he came downstairs next morning in his new black
clothes. His tea tasted as if the water had not been boiled,
and the urn got in his way when he tried to prop up the
newspaper in his accustomed manner ; the bacon dish had
been so much more convenient, and the knowledge that his
wife was there, ready to receive gratefully any crumb of news
that he might feel disposed to let fall, had given a zest to
the reading of his paper that was absent now. Even Muffy's
basket was empty, for Muffy, since his mistress's death, had
relinquished all pretence at gentility, and after a day of
miserable wandering about the house, had entered into a
league with the cook and residence in the kitchen.

Lambert surveyed all his surroundings with a loneliness
that surprised himself: the egg-cosy that his wife had
crocheted for him, the half-empty medicine bottle on the
chimney-piece, the chair in which she used to sit, and felt
that he did not look forward to the task before him of sort-

256 TJte Real Charlotte.

ing her papers and going through her afifairs generally. He
got to work at eleven o'clock, taking first the letters and
papers that were locked up in a work-table, a walnut-topped
and silken-fluted piece of furniture that had been given to
Mrs. Lambert by a Limerick friend, and, having been con-
sidered too handsome for everyday use, had been consecrated
by her to the conservation of letters and of certain valued
designs for Berlin wool work and receipts for crochet
stitches. Lambert lighted a fire in the drawing-room, and
worked his way down through the contents of the green
silk pouch, finding there every letter, every note even, that
he had ever written to his wife, and committing them to the
flames with a curious sentimental regret. He had not re-
membered that he had written her so many letters, and he
said to himself that he wished those old devils of women in
Lismoyle, who, he knew, had always been so keen to pity
Lucy, could know what a good husband he had been to her.
Inside the envelope of one of his own letters was one from
Francie Fitzpatrick, evidently accidentally thrust there ; a
few crooked lines to say that she had got the lodgings for
Mrs. Lambert in Charles Street, but the landlady wouldn't
be satisfied without she got two and sixpence extra for the
kitchen fire. Lambert put the note into his pocket, where
there was already another document in the same hand-
writing, bearing the Bray postmark with the date of Sep-
tember 18, and when all was finished, and the grate full of
flaky spectral black heaps, he went upstairs and unlocked
the door of what had been his wife's room. The shutters
were shut, and the air of the room had a fortnight's close-
ness in it. When he opened the shutters there was a
furious buzzing of flies, and although he had the indifference
about fresh air common to his class, he flung up the win-
dow, and drew a long breath of the briUiant morning before
he went back to his dismal work of sorting and destroying.
What was he to do with such things as the old photographs
of her father and mother, her work-basket, her salts-bottle,
the handbag that she used to carry into Lismoyle with her ?
He was not an imaginative man, but he was touched by the
smallness, the familiarity of these only relics of a trivial life,
and he stood and regarded the sheeted furniture, and the
hundred odds and ends that lay about the room, with an

The Real Charlotte. 257

acute awakening to her absence that, for the time, almost
obliterated his own figure, posing to the world as an interest-
ing young man, who, while anxious to observe the decencies
of bereavement, could not be expected to be mconsolable
for a woman so obviously beneath his level.

A voice downstairs called his name, a woman's voice,
saying, "Roderick!" and for a moment a superstitious
thrill ran through him. Then he heard a footstep in the
pas.sa2;e, and the voice called him again, " Are you there,
Roderick?"

This time he recognised Charlotte Mullen's voice, and
went out on to the landing to meet her. The first thing
that he noticed was that she was dressed in new clothes,
black and glossy and well made. He took them in with the
glance that had to be responsive as well as observant, as
Charlotte advanced upon him, and, taking his hand in both
hers, shook it long and silently.

"Well, Roderick," she said at length, "I'm glad to see
you back again, though it's a sad home-coming for you and
for us all."

Lambert pressed her large well-known hand, while his
eyes rested solemnly upon her face. " Thank you, Char-
lotte, I'm very much obliged to you for coming over to see
me this way, but it's no more than what I'd have expected
of you."

He had an ancient confidence in Charlotte and an ease
in her society — after all, there are very few men who will
not find some saving grace in a woman whose affections
they believe to be given to them — and he was truly glad to
see her at this juncture. She was exactly the person that he
wanted to help him in the direful task that he had yet to
perform ; her capable hands should undertake all the
necessary ransacking of boxes and wardrobes, while he sat
and looked on at what was really much more a woman's
work than a man's. These thoughts passed through his
mind while he and Charlotte exchanged conventionalities
suitable to the occasion, and spoke of Mrs. Lambert as
" she," without mentioning her name.

*' Would you like to come downstairs, Charlotte, and sit
in the drawing-room?" he said, presently; "if it wasn't
that I'm afraid you might be tired after your walk, I'd ask

R

258 The Real Charlotte.

you to help me with a very painful bit of work that I was
just at when you came."

They had been standing in the passage, and Charlotte's
eyes darted towards the half-open door of Mrs. Lambert's
room.

" You're settling her things, I suppose ? " she said, her
voice treading eagerly upon the heels of his ; " is it that you
want me to help you with ? "

He led the way into the room without answering, and
indicated its contents with a comprehensive sweep of his
hand.

" I turned the key in this door myself when I came back
from the funeral, and not a thing in it has been touched
since. Now I must set to work to try and get the things
sorted, to see what I should give away, and what I should
keep, and what should be destroyed," he said, his voice re-
suming its usual business tone, tinged with just enough
gloom to mark his sense of the situation.

Charlotte peeled off her black gloves and stuffed them
into her pocket. *' Sit down, my poor fellow, sit down, and
I'll do it all," she said, stripping an arm-chair of its sheet
and dragging it to the window ; ^' this is no fit work for
you."

There was no need to press this view upon Lambert ; he
dropped easily into the chair provided for him, and in a
couple of minutes the work was under weigh.

" Light your pipe now and be comfortable," said Char-
lotte, issuing from the wardrobe with an armful of clothes
and laying them on the bed; "there's work here for the
rest of the morning." She took up a black satin skirt and
held it out in front of her ; it had been Mrs. Lambert's
" Sunday best," and it seemed to Lambert as though he
could hear his wife's voice asking anxiously if he thought
the day was fine enough for her to wear it. " Now what
would you wish done with this ? " said Charlotte, looking at
it fondly, and holding the band against her own waist to see
the length. " It's too good to give to a servant."

Lambert turned his head away. There was a crudeness
about this way of dealing that was a little jarring at first.

" I don't know what's to be done with it," he said, with
all a man's helpless dislike of such details.

The Real Charlotte. 259

" Well, there's this, and her sealskin, and a lot of other
things that are too good to be given to servants," went on
Charlotte, rapidly bringing forth more of the treasures of
the poor turkey-hen's wardrobe, and proceeding to sort
them into two heaps on the floor. " What would you
think of making up the best of the things and sending
them up to one of those dealers in Dublin ? It's a sin to
let them go to loss."

" Oh, damn it, Charlotte ! I can't sell her clothes ! " said
Lambert hastily. He pretended to no sentiment about his
wife, but some masculine instinct of chivalry gave him a
shock at the thought of making money out of the conven-
tional sanctities of a woman's apparel.

" Well, what else do you propose to do with them ? " said
Charlotte, who had already got out a pencil and paper and
was making a list.

" Upon my soul, I don't know," said Lambert, beginning
to realise that there was but one way out of the difficulty,
and perceiving with irritated amusement that Charlotte had
driven him towards it Hke a sheep, " unless you'd like them
yourself?"

''And do you think I'd accept them from you?" de-
manded Charlotte, with an indignation so vivid that even
the friend of her youth was momentarily deceived and
almost frightened by it ; " I, that was poor Lucy's oldest
friend ! Do you think I could bear — "

Lambert saw the opportunity that had been made for
him.

" It's only because you were her oldest friend that I'd
offer them to you," he struck in \ "and if you won't have
them yourself, I thought you might know of someone that
would."

Charlotte swallowed her wrath with a magnanimous effort.
" Well. Roddy, if you put it in that way, I don't like to
refuse," she said, wiping a ready tear away with a black-
edged pocket handkerchief; "it's quite true, I know plenty
would be glad of a help. There's that unfortunate Letitia
Fitzpatrick, that I'll be bound hasn't more than two gowns
to her back ; I might send her a bundle."

" Send them to whom you like," said Lambert, ignoring
the topic of the Fitzpatricks as intentionally as it had been

26o The Real Charlotte.

introduced ; " but I'd be glad if you could find some things
for Julia Duffy ; I suppose she'll be coming out of the
infirmary soon. What we're to do about that business I
don't know," he continued, filling another pipe. " Dysart
said he wouldn't have her put out if she could hold on
anyway at all — "

" Heavenly powers ! " exclaimed Charlotte, letting fall a
collection of roUed-up kid gloves, " d'ye mean to say you
didn't hear she's in the Ballinasloe Asylum ? She was sent
there three days ago.'*

" Great Scot ! Is she gone mad ? I was thinking all
this time what I was to do with her ! "

" Well, you needn't trouble your head about her any
more. Her wits went as her body mended, and a board of
J.P.'s and M.D.'s sat upon her, and as one of them was old
Fatty FfoUiott, you won't be surprised to hear that that was
the end of Julia Duffy."

Both laughed, and both felt suddenly the incongruity of
laughter in that room. Charlotte went back to the chest
of drawers whose contents she was ransacking, and con-
tinued :

" They say she sits all day counting her fingers and toes
and calling them chickens and turkeys, and saying that she
has the key of Gurthnamuckla in her pocket, and not a one
can get into it without her leave."

'* And are you still on for it ? " said Lambert, half re-
luctantly, as it seemed to Charlotte's acute ear, " lor if you
are, now's your time. I might have put her out of it two
years ago for non-payment of rent, and I'll just take posses-
sion and sell off what she has left behind her towards the
arrears."

" On for it ? Of course T am. You might know I'm not
one to change my mind about a thing I'm set upon. But
you'll have to let me down easy with the fine, Roddy.
There isn't much left in the stocking these times, and
one or two of my poor little dabblings in the money-market
have rather ' gone agin me' "

Lambert thought in a moment of those hundreds that
had been lent to him, and stirred uneasily in his chair.
" By the way, Charlotte," he said, trying to speak like a
man to whom such things were trifles, " about that money

The Real Charlotte. 261

you lent me — I'm afraid I can't let you have it back for a
couple of months or so. Of course, I needn't tell you, poor
Lucy's money was only settled on me for my life, and now
there's some infernal delay before they can hand even the
interest over to me ; but, if you don't mind waiting a bit, I
can make it all square for you about the farm, 1 know."

He inwardly used a stronger word than infernal as he re-
flected that if Charlotte had not got that promise about the
farm out of him when he was in a hole about money, he
might have been able, somehow, to get it himself now.

" Don't mention that — don't mention that," said Char-
lotte, absolutely blushing a little, " it was a pleasure to me
to lend it to you, Roddy ; if I never saw it again I'd rather
that than that you should put yourself out to pay me before
it was convenient to you." She caught up a dress and
shook its folds out with unnecessary vehemence. " I won't
be done all night if I delay this way. Ah ! how well I re-
member this dress ! Poor dear Lucy got it for Fanny
Waller's wedding. Who'd ever think she'd have kept it for
all those years ! Roddy, what stock would you put on
Gurthnamuckla ? "

" Dry stock," answered Lambert briefly.

*' And how about the young horses ? You don't forget
the plan we had about them ? You don't mean to give it
up, I hope ? "

" Oh, that's as you please," replied Lambert. He was
very much interested in the project, but he had no inten-
tion of letting Charlotte think so.

She looked at him, reading his thoughts more clearly
than he would have liked, and they made her the more
resolved upon her own line of action. She saw herself
settled at Gurthnamuckla, with Roddy riding over three or
four times a week to see his young horses, that should graze
her grass and fill her renovated stables, while she, the
bland lady of the manor, should show what a really intelli-
gent woman could do at the head of affairs ; and the three
hundred pound debt should never be spoken of, but should
remain, like a brake, in readiness to descend and grip at
the discretion of the driver. There was no fear of his pay-
ing it of his own accord. He was not the rnan she took
him for if he paid a debt without due provocation ; he had

262 The Real Charlotte.

a fine crop of them to be settled as it was, and that would
take the edge off his punctilious scruples with regard to
keeping her out of her money.

The different heaps on the floor increased materially
while these reflections passed through Miss Mullen's brain.
It was characteristic of her that a distinct section of it had
never ceased from appraising and apportioning dresses,
dolmans and bonnets, with a nice regard to the rival claims
of herself, Eliza Hackett the cook, and the rest of the
establishment, and still deeper in its busy convolutions —
though this simile is probably unscientific — lurked and
grew the consciousness that Francie's name had not yet
been mentioned. The wardrobe was cleared at last, a
scarlet flannel dressing-gown topping the heap that was des-
tined for Tally Ho, and Charlotte had already settled the
question as to whether she should bestow her old one upon
Norry or make it into a bed for a cat. Lambert finished
his second pipe, and stretching himself, yawned drearily, as
though, which was indeed the case, the solemnity of the
occasion had worn off and its tediousness had become pro-
nounced. He looked at his watch.

" Half-past twelve, by Jove ! Look here, Charlotte, let's
come down and have a glass of sherry."

Charlotte got up from her knees with alacrity, though the
tone in which she accepted the invitation was fittingly
lugubrious. She was just as glad to leave something un-
finished for the afternoon, and there was something very
intimate and confidential about a friendly glass of sherry in
the middle of a joint day's work. It was not until Lambert
had helped himself a second time from the decanter of
brown sherry that Miss Mullen saw her opportunity to
approach a subject that was becoming conspicuous by its
absence. She had seated herself, not without consciousness,
in what had been Mrs. Lambert's chair ; she was feeling
happier than she had been since the time when Lambert
was a lanky young clerk in her father's office, with a pre-
cocious moustache and an affectionately free and easy
manner, before Rosemount had been built, or Lucy Galvin
thought of. She could think of Lucy now without resent-
ment, even with equanimity, and that last interview, when
her friend had died on the very spot where the sunlight was

The Real Charlotte. 263

now resting at her feet, recurred to her without any un-
pleasantness. She had fought a losing battle against fate
all her life, and she could not be expected to regret having
accepted its first overture of friendship, any more than she
need be expected to refuse another half glass of that
excellent brown sherry that Lambert had just poured out for
her. " Charlotte could take her whack," he was wont to
say to their mutual friends in that tone of humorous appre-
ciation that is used in connection with a gentlemanlike
capacity for liquor.

" Well, how are you all getting on at Tally Ho ? " he said
presently, and not all the self-confidence induced by the
sherry could make his voice as easy as he wished it to be ;
" I hear you've lost your young lady ?"

Charlotte was provoked to feel the blood mount slowly to
her face and remain like a hot straddle across her cheeks
and nose.

" Oh yes," she said carelessly, inwardly cursing the
strength of Lambert's liquor, " she took herself off in a huff,
and I only hope she's not repenting of it now."

" What was the row about ? Did you smack her for
pulling the cats' tails ? " Lambert had risen from the table
and was trimming his nails with a pocket-knife, but out of
the tail of his eye he was observing his visitor very closely.

" I gave her some good advice, and I got the usual
amount of gratitude for it," said Charlotte, in the voice of a
person who has been deeply wounded, but is not going to
make a fuss about it. She had no idea how much Lambert
knew, but she had, at all events, one line of defence that
was obvious and secure.

Lambert, as it happened, knew nothing except that there
had been what the letter in his pocket described as " a real
awful row," and his mordant curiosity forced him to the
question that he knew Charlotte was longing for him to ask.

" What did you give her advice about ? "

"I may have been wrong," replied Miss Mullen, with the
liberality that implies the certainty of having been right,
" but when I found that she was carrying on with that good-
for-nothing Hawkins, I thought it my duty to give her my
opinion, and upon me word, as long as he's here she's well
out of the place.''

264 The Real Charlotte.

" How did you find out she was carrying on with
Hawkins ? " asked Lambert, with a hoarseness in his voice
that belied its indifiference.

" I knew that they were corresponding, and when I taxed
her with carrying on with him she didn't attempt to deny it,
and told me up to my face that she could mind her own
affairs without my interference. * Very well, Miss,' says I,
' you'll march out of my house ! ' and off she took herself
next morning, and has never had the decency to send me a
line since."

" Is she in Dubhn now ? " asked Lambert with the
carelessness that was so much more remarkable than an
avowed interest.

*' No ; she's with those starving rats of Fitzpatricks ; they
were glad enough to get hold of her to squeeze what they
could out of her twenty-five pounds a year, and I wish them
joy of their bargain ! "

Charlotte pushed back her chair violently, and her hot
face looked its ugliest as some of the hidden hatred showed
itself But Lambert felt that she did well to be angry. In
the greater affairs of life he believed in Charlotte, and he
admitted to himself that she had done especially well in
sending Francie to Bray.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

The house that the Fitzpatricks had taken in Bray for the
winter was not situated in what is known as the fashionable
part of the town. It commanded no view either of the
Esplanade or of Bray Head ; it had, in fact, little view of
any kind except the hacks of other people's houses, and an
oblique glimpse of a railway bridge at the end of the road.
It was just saved from the artisan level by a tiny bow win-
dow on either side of the hall door, and the name, Albatross
Villa, painted on the gate posts ; and its crowning claim to
distinction was the fact that by standing just outside the
gate it was possible to descry, under the railway bridge, a
small square of esplanade and sea that was Mrs. Fitzpatrick's
justification when she said gallantly to her Dublin friends

The Real Charlotte. 265

that she'd never have come to Bray for the winter only for
being able to look out at the waves all day long.

Poor Mrs. Fitzpatrick did not tell her friends that she
had, nowadays, things to occupy herself with that scarcely
left her time tor taking full advantage of this privilege. P>om
the hour of the awakening of her brood to that midnight
moment when, with fingers roughened and face flushed from
the darning of stockings, she toiled up to bed, she was
scarcely conscious that the sea existed, except when Dottie
came in with her boots worn into holes by the pebbles of
the beach, or Georgie's Sunday trousers were found to be
smeared with tar from riding astride the upturned boats.
There were no longer for her the afternoon naps that were
so pleasantly composing after four o'clock dinner ; it was
now her part to clear away and wash the dishes and plates,
so as to leave Bridget, the "general," free to affair herself
with the clothes-lines in the back garden, whereon the family
linen streamed and ballooned in the east wind that is the
winter prerogative of Bray. She had grown perceptibly
thinner under this discipline, and her eyes had dark swellings
beneath them that seemed pathetically unbecoming to any-
one who, like Francie, had last seen her when the rubicund
prosperity of Mountjoy Square had not yet worn away.
Probably an Englishwoman of her class would have kept her
household in comparative comfort with less effort and more
success, but Aunt Tish was very far from being an English-
woman ; her eyes were not formed to perceive dirt, nor her
nose to apprehend smells, and her idea of domestic economy
was to indulge in no extras of soap or scrubbing brushes,
and to feed her family on strong tea and indifferent bread
and butter, in order that Ida's and Mabel's hats might be
no whit less ornate than those of their neighbours.

Francie had plunged into the heart of this squalor with
characteristic recklessness ; and the effusion of welcome
with which she had been received, and the comprehensive
abuse lavished by Aunt Tish upon Charlotte, were at first
sufficient to make her forget the frouziness of the dining-
room, and the fact that she had to share a bedroom with
her cousins, the two Misses Fitzpatrick. Francie had kept
the particulars of her fight with Charlotte to herself Per-
haps she felt that it would not be easy to make the position

266 The Real Charlotte,

clear to Aunt Tish's comprehension which was of a rudi-
mentary sort in such matters, and apt to jump to crude con-
clusions. Perhaps she had become aware that even the
ordinary atmosphere of her three months at Lismoyle was
as far beyond Aunt Tish's imagination as the air of Paradise,
but she certainly was not inclined to enlarge on her senti-
mental experiences to her aunt and cousins \ all that they
knew was, that she had '* moved in high society," and that
she had fought with Charlotte Mullen on general and
laudable grounds. It was difficult at times to parry the
direct questions of Ida, who, at sixteen, had already, with
the horrible precocity prevalent in her grade of society,
passed through several flirtations of an out-door and illicit
kind ; but if Ida's curiosity could not be parried it could be
easily misled, and the family belief in Francie's power of
breaking, impartially, the hearts of all the young men whom
she met, was a shield to her when she was pressed too
nearly about " young Mr. Dysart," or " th' officers." Loud,
of course, and facetious were the lamentations that Francie
had not returned " promised " to one or other of these
heroes of romance, but not even Ida's cultured capacity
could determine which had been the more probable victim.
The family said to each other in private that Francie had
" got very close " ; even the boys were conscious of a certain
strangeness about her, and did not feel inclined to show her,
as of yore, the newest subtlety in catapults, or the latest
holes in their coats.

She herself was far more conscious of strangeness and
remoteness ; though, when she had first arrived at Albatross
Villa, the crowded, carpetless house, and the hourly conflict
of living were reviving and almost amusing after the thunder-
ous gloom of her exit from Tally Ho. Almost the first
thing she had done had been to write to Hawkins to tell
him of what had happened ; a letter that her tears had
dropped on, and that her pen had flown in the writing of,
telling how she had been turned out because she had re-
fused— or as good as refused — Mr. Dysart for his — Gerald's
— sake, and how she hoped he hadn't written to Tally Ho,
" for it's little chance there'd be Charlotte would send on the
letter." Francie had intended to break off at this point, and
leave to Gerald's own conscience the application of the

The Real Charlotte. 267

hint ; but an unused half sheet at the end of her letter
tempted her on, and before she well knew what she was
saying, all the jealousy and hurt tenderness and helpless
craving of the past month were uttered without a thought
of diplomacy or pride. Then a long time had gone by, and
there had been no answer from Hawkins. The outflung
emotion that had left her spent and humbled, came back in
bitterness lo her, as the tide gives back in a salt flood the
fresh waters of a river, and her heart closed upon it, and
bore the pain as best it might.

It was not till the middle of October that Hawkins
answered her letter. She knew before she opened the
envelope that she was going to be disappointed ; how could
anyone explain away a silence of two months on one sheet
of small note-paper, one side of which, as she well knew,
was mainly occupied by the regimental crest, much less
reply in the smallest degree to that letter that had cost so
much in the writing, and so much more in the repenting of
its length and abandonment ? Mr. Hawkins had wisely
steered clear of both difficulties by saying no more than
that he had been awfully glad to hear from her, and he
would have written before if he could, but somehow he
never could find a minute to do so. He would have given
a good deal to have seen that row with Miss Mullen, and
as far as Dysart was concerned, he thought Miss Mullen
had the rights of it ; he was going away on first leave now,
and wouldn't be back at Lismoyle till the end of the year,
when he hoped he would find her and old Charlotte as
good friends as ever. He, Mr. Hawkins, was really not
worth fighting about ; he was stonier broke than he had
ever been, and, in conclusion, he was hers (with an illegible
hieroglyphic to express the exact amount), Gerald Hawkins.

Like the last letter she had had from him, this had come
early in the morning, but on this occasion she could not go
up to her room to read it in peace. The apartment that
she shared with Ida and Mabel offered few facihties for
repose, and none for seclusion, and, besides, there was too
much to be done in the way of helping to lay the table and
get the breakfast. She hurried about the kitchen in her
shabby gown, putting the kettle on to a hotter corner of the
range, pouring treacle into a jampot, and filling the sugar-

268 The Real Charlotte.

basin from a paper bag with quick, trembling fingers ; her
breath came pantingly, and the letter that she had hidden
inside the front of her dress crackled with the angry rise and
fall of her breast. That he should advise her to go and
make friends with Charlotte, and tell her she had made a
mistake in refusing Mr. Dysart, and never say a word about
all that she had said to him in her letter — !

"Francie's got a letter from her sweetheart !" said Mabel,
skipping round the kitchen, and singing the words in a
kind of chant. " Ask her for the lovely crest for your
album, Bobby ! "

Evidently the ubiquitous Mabel had studied the contents
of the letter-box.

"Ah, it's well to be her," said Bridget, joining in the
conversation with her accustomed ease ; " it's long before
my fella would write me a letter ! "

"And it's little you want letters from him/* remarked
Bobby, in his slow, hideous, Dublin brogue, " when you're
out in the lane talking to another fella every night."

" Ye lie ! " said Bridget, with a flattered giggle, while
Bobby ran up the kitchen stairs after Francie, and took ad-
vantage of her having the teapot in one hand and the milk-
jug in the other to thrust his treacly fingers into her pocket
in search of the letter.

" Ah, have done ! " said Francie angrily ; " look, your
after making me spill the milk ! "

But Bobby who had been joined by Mabel, continued his
persecutions, till his cousin, freeing herself of her burdens,
turned upon him and boxed his ears with a vigour that sent
him howling upstairs to complain to his mother.

After this incident, Francie's life at Albatross Villa went
on, as it seemed to her, in a squalid monotony of hopeless-
ness. The days became darker and colder, and the food
and firing more perceptibly insufficient, and strong tea a
more prominent feature of each meal, and even Aunt Tish
lifted her head from the round of unending, dingy cares,
and saw some change in Francie. She said to Uncle
Robert, with an excusable thought of Francie's ungrudging
help in the household, and her contribution to it of five
shillings a week, that it would be a pity if the sea air didn't
suit the girl ; and Uncle Robert, arranging a greasy satin tie

The Real Charlotte, 269

under his beard at the looking-glass, preparatory to catching
the 8.30 train for Dublin, had replied that it wasn't his fault
if it didn't, and if she chose to be fool enough to fight with
Charlotte Mullen she'd have to put up with it. Uncle
Robert was a saturnine little man of small abilities, whose
reverses had not improved his temper, and he felt that
things were coming to a pretty pass if his wife was going to
make him responsible for the sea air, as well as the smoky
kitchen chimney, and the scullery sink that Bobby had
choked with a dead jelly fish, and everything else.

The only events that Francie felt to be at all noteworthy
were her letters from Mr. Lambert. He was not a briUiant
letter writer, having neither originality, nor the gift which is
sometimes bestowed on unoriginal people, of conveying
news in a simple and satisfying manner ; but his awkward
and sterile sentences were as cold waters to the thirsty soul
that was always straining back towards its time of abundance.
She could scarcely say the word Lismoyle now without a
hesitation, it was so shrined in dear and miserable remem-
brance, with all the fragrance of the summer embalming it
in her mind, that, unselfconscious as she was, the word
seemed sometimes too difficult to pronounce. Lambert
himself had become a personage of a greater world, and had
acquired an importance that he would have resented had he
known how wholly impersonal it was. In some ways she did
not like him quite as much as in the Dublin days, when he
had had the advantage of being the nearest thing to a
gentleman that she had met with ; perhaps her glimpses of
his home life and the fact of his friendship with Charlotte
had been disillusioning, or perhaps the comparison of him
with other and newer figures upon her horizon had not
been to his advantage ; certainly it was more by virtue of
his position in that other world that he was great.

It was strange that in these comparisons it was to
Christopher that she turned for a standard. For her there
was no flaw in Hawkins ; her angry heart could name no
fault in him except that he had wounded it; but she
illogically felt Christopher's superiority without being aware
of deficiency in the other. She did not understand
Christopher ; she had hardly understood him at that
moment to which she now looked back with a gratified

2/0 The Real Charlotte.

vanity that was tempered by uncertainty and not unmingled
with awe ; but she knew him just well enough, and had
just enough perception to respect him. Fanny Hemphill
and Delia Whitty would have regarded him with a terror
that would have kept them dumb m his presence, but for
which they would have compensated themselves at other
times by explosive gigglings at his lack of all that they
admired most in young men. Some errant streak of finer
sense made her feel his difference from the men she knew,
without wanting to laugh at it ; as has already been said, she
respected him, an emotion not hitherto awakened by a varied
experience of *' gentlemen friends."

There were times when the domestic affairs of Albatross
Villa touched their highest possibility of discomfort, when
Bridget had gone to the christening of a friend's child at
Enniskerry, and returned next day only partially recovered
from the potations that had celebrated the event ; or when
Dottie, unfailing purveyor of diseases to the family, had im-
ported German measles from her school. At these times
Francie, as she made fires, or beds, or hot drinks, would
think of Bruff and its servants with a regret that was none
the less burning for its ignobleness. Several times when she
lay awake at night, staring at the blank of her own future,
while the stabs of misery were sharp and unescapable, she
had thought that she would write to Christopher, and tell
him what had happened, and where she was. In those
hours when nothing is impossible and nothing is unnatural,
his face and his words, when she saw him last, took on their
fullest meaning, and she felt as if she had only to put her
hand out to open that which she had closed. The diplo-
matic letter, about nothing in particular, that should make
Christopher understand that she would like to see him again,
was often half composed, had indeed often lulled her sore
heart and hot eyes to sleep with visions of the divers luxuries
and glories that this single stepping-stone should lead to.
But in the morning, when the children had gone to school,
and she had come in from marketing, it was not such an
easy thing to sit down and write a letter about nothing in
particular to Mr. Dysart. Her defeat at the hands of
Hawkins had taken away her belief in herself. She could
not even hint to Christopher the true version of her fight

The Real Charlotte, 271

with Charlotte, sure though she was that an untrue one had
already found its way to Bruff ; she could not tell him that
Bridget had got drunk, and that butter was so dear they had
to do without it ; such emergencies did not somehow come
within the scope of her promise to trust him, and, besides,
there was the serious possibility of his volunteering to see her.
She would have given a good deal to see him, but not at
Albatross Villa. She pictured him to herself, seated in the
midst of the Fitzpatrick family, with Ida making eyes at
him from under her fringe, and Bridget scuffling audibly
with Bobby outside the door. Tally Ho was a palace com-
pared with this, and yet she remembered what she had felt
when she came back to Tally Ho from Bruff. When she
thought of it all, she wondered whether she could bring
herself to write to Charlotte, and try to make friends with
her again. It would be dreadful to do, but her life at
Albatross Villa was dreadful, and the dream of another visit
to Lismoyle, when she could revenge herself on Hawkins
by showing him his unimportance to her, was almost too
strong for her pride. How much of it was due to her thirst
to see him again at any price, and how much to a pitiful
hankering after the flesh-pots of Egypt, it is hard to say ;
but November and December dragged by, and she did not
write to Christopher or Charlotte, and Lambert remained her
only correspondent at Lismoyle.

It was a damp, dark December, with rain and wind nearly
every day. Bray Head was rarely without a cap of grey
cloud, and a restless pack of waves mouthing and leaping
at its foot. The Esplanade was a mile-long vista of soaked
grass and glistening asphalte, whereon the foot of man
apparently never trod ; once or twice a storm had charged
in from the south-east, and had hurled sheets of spray and
big stones on to it, and pounded holes in the concrete of its
sea-wall. There had been such a storm the week before
Christmas. The breakers had rushed upon the long beach
with "a broad-flung, shipwrecking roar," and the windows
of the houses along the Esplanade were dimmed with salt
and sand. The rain had come in under the hall door at
Albatross Villa, the cowl was blown off the kitchen chimney,
causing the smoke to make its exit through the house by
yjirious routes, and, worst of all, Dottie and the boys had

272 The Real Charlotte.

not been out of the house for two days. Christmas morn-
ing was signalised by the heaviest downpour of the week.
It was hopeless to think of going to church, least of all for
a person whose most presentable boots were relics of the
past summer, and bore the cuts of lake rocks on their dulled
patent leather. The post came late, after its wont, but it
did not bring the letter that Francie had not been able to
help expecting. There had been a few Christmas cards,
and one letter which did indeed bear the Lismoyle post-
mark, but was only a bill from the Misses Greely, forwarded
by Charlotte, for the hat that she had bought to replace the
one that was lost on the day of the capsize of the Daphne.

The Christmas mid-day feast of tough roast-beef and
pallid plum-pudding was eaten, and then, unexpectedly, the
day brightened, a thin sunlight began to fall on the wet
roads and the dirty, tossing sea, and Francie and her
younger cousins went forth to take the air on the Esplanade.
They were the only human beings upon it when they first
got there ; in any other weather Francie might have ex-
pected to meet a friend or two from Dubhn there, as had
occurred on previous Sundays, when the still enamoured
Tommy Whitty had ridden down on his bicycle, or Fanny
Hemphill and her two medical student brothers had asked
her to join them in a walk round Bray Head. The society
of the Hemphills and Mr. Whitty had lost, for her, much of
its pristine charm, but it was better than nothing at all ; in
fact, those who saw the glances that Miss Fitzpatrick, from
mere force of habit, levelled at Mr. Whitty, or were wit-
nesses of a pebble-throwing encounter with the Messrs.
Hemphill, would not have guessed that she desired any-
thing better than these amusements.

" Such a Christmas Day ! " she thought to herself,
" without a soul to see or to talk to ! I declare, I think I'll
turn nurse in a hospital, the way Susie Brennan did. They
say those nurses have grand fun, and 'twould be better than
this awful old place anyhow ! " She had walked almost to
the squat Martello tower, and while she looked discon-
tentedly up at Bray Head, the last ray of sun struck on its
dark shoulder as if to challenge her with the magnificence
of its outline and the untruthfulness of her indictment.
" Oh, you may shine away ! " she exclaimed, turning her

The Real Charlotte. 273

back upon both sunlight and mountain and beginning to
walk back to where Bobby and Dottie were searching for
jelly-fish among the sea-weed cast up by the storm, " the
day's done for now, it's as good for me to go up to the four
o'clock service as be streeling about in the cold here."

Almost at the same moment the chimes from the church
on the hill behind the town struck out upon the wind with
beautiful severity, and obeying them listlessly, she left the
children and turned up the steep suburban road that was
her shortest way to Christ Church.

It was a long and stiffish pull ; the wind blew her hair
about till it looked like a mist of golden threads, the colour
glowed dazzlingly in her cheeks, and the few men whom she
passed bestowed upon her a stare of whose purport she was
well aware. This was a class of compliment which she
neither resented nor was surprised at, and it is quite possible
that some months before she might have allowed her sense
of it to be expressed in her face. But she felt now as if the
approval of the man in the street was not worth what it used
to be. It was, of course, agreeable in its way, but on this
Christmas afternoon, with all its inevitable reminders of the
past and the future, it brought with it the thought of how
soon her face had been forgotten by the men who ha(;^
praised it most.

The gas was lighted in the church, and the service was
just beginning as she passed the decorated font and went
uncertainly up a side-aisle till she was beckoned into a pew
by a benevolent old lady. She knelt down in a corner, be-
side a pillar that was wreathed with a thick serpent of ever-
greens, and the old lady looked up from her admission oi
sin to wonder that such a pretty girl was allowed to walk
through the streets by herself. The heat of the church had
brought out the aromatic smell of all the green things, the
yellow gas flared from its glittering standards, and the
glimmering colours of the east window were dying into
darkness with the dying daylight. When she stood up for
the psalms she looked round the church to see if there were
anyone there whom she knew ; there were several familiar
faces, but no one with whom she had ever exchanged a word,
and turning round again she devoted herself to the hopeless
task of finding out the special psalms that the choir were

s

274 The Real Charlotte.

singing. Having failed in this, she felt her religious duties
to be for the time suspended, and her thoughts strayed
afield over things in general, setthng down finally on a sub-
ject that had become more pressing than was pleasant.

It is a truism of ancient standing that money brings no
cure for heartache, but it is also true that if the money were
not there the heartache would be harder to bear. Probably
if Francie had returned from Lismoyle to a smart house in
Merrion Square, with a carriage to drive in, and a rich rela-
tive ready to pay for new winter dresses, she would have
been less miserable over Mr. Hawkins' desertion than she
was at Albatross Villa; she certainly would not have felt
as unhappy as she did now, standing up with the shrill sing-
ing clamouring in her ears, while she tried in different ways
to answer the question of how she was to pay for the dresses
that she had bought to take to Lismoyle. Twenty-five
pounds a year does not go far when more than half of it
is expended upon board and lodging, and a whole quarter
has been anticipated to pay for a summer visit, and Lam-
bert's prophecy that she would find herself in the county
court some day, seemed not unlikely to come true. In her
pocket was a letter from a Dublin shop, containing more
than a hint of legal proceedings ; and even if she were able
to pay them a temporising two pounds in a month, there
still would remain five pounds due, and she would not have
a farthing left to go on with. Everything was at its darkest
for her. Her hardy, supple nature was dispirited beyond
its power of reaction, and now and then the remembrance
of the Sundays of last summer caught her, till the pain
came in her throat, and the gaslight spread into shaking
stars.

The service went on, and Francie rose and knelt
mechanically with the rest of the congregation. She was
not irreligious, and even the name of scepticism was scarcely
understood by her, but she did not consider that religion
was applicable to love affairs and bills ; her mind was too
young and shapeless for anything but a healthy, negligent
belief in what she had been taught, and it did not enter into
her head to utilise religion as a last resource, when every-
thing else had turned out a failure. She regarded it with
respect, and believed that most people grew good when they

The Real Charlotte. 275

grew old, and the service passed over her head with a
vaguely pleasing effect of music and light. As she came
out into the dark lofty porch, a man stepped forward to
meet her. Francie started violently.

*' Oh, goodness gracious ! " she cried, '* you frightened
my life out ! "

But for all that, she was glad to see Mr Lambert.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

That evening when Mrs. Fitzpatrick was puttmg on her
best cap and her long cameo ear-rings she said to her
husband :

" Well now, Robert, you mark my words, he's after her."

" Tchah ! " replied Mr. Fitzpatrick, who was not in a
humour to admit that any woman could be attractive, owing
to the postponement of his tea by his wife so that cakes
might be baked in Mr. Lambert's honour ; " you can't see
a man without thinking he's in love with someone 01
other."

"I suppose you think it's to see yourself he's come all
the way from Lismoyle," rejoined Mrs. Fitzpatrick with
becoming spirit, " and says he's going to stop at Breslin's
Hotel for a week ? "

" Oh, very well, have it your own way," said Mr. Fitz-
patrick acrimoniously, " I suppose you have it all settled,
and he'll be married to her by special Hcense before the
week's out."

"Well, I don't care, Robert, you wouldn't think to Icok
at him that he'd only buried his wife four months and a
half ago— though I will say he's in deep mourning — but for
all that no one'd blame him that he didn't think much of
that poor creature, and 'twould be a fine match for Francie
if she'd take him."

"Would she take him!" echoed Mr. Fitzpatrick scorn-
fully; "would a duck swim? I never saw the woman yet
that wouldn't half hang herself to get married ! "

"Ah, have done being so cross, Robert, Christmas day
and all ; I wonder you married at all since you think so
little of women."

276 TJie Real Charlotte.

Finding this argument not easy to answer, Mr. Fitzpatrick
said nothing, and his wife, too much interested to hnger
over side issues, continued,

" The girls say they heard him asking her to drive to the
Dargle with him to-morrow, and he's brought a grand box
of sweets for the children as a Christmas box, and six lovely
pair of gloves for Francie ! 'Pon me word, I call her a very
lucky girl ! "

" Well, if I was a woman it isn't that fellow I'd fancy,"
said Mr. Fitzpatrick, unexpectedly changing his ground,
" but as, thank God, I'm not, it's no affair of mine." Hav-
ing delivered himself of this sentiment, Mr. Fitzpatrick went
downstairs. The smell of hot cakes rose deliciously upon
the air, and, as his niece emerged from the kitchen with a
plateful of them in her hand, and called to him to hurry
before they got cold, he thought to himself that Lambert
would have the best of the bargain if he married her.

Francie found the evening surprisingly pleasant. She
was, as she had always been, entirely at her ease with Mr.
Lambert, and did not endure, on his account, any vicarious
suffering because the table-cloth was far from clean, and the
fact that Bridget put on the coal with her fingers wa*t
recorded on the edges of the plates. If he chose to come
and eat hot cakes in the bosom of the Fitzpatrick family
instead of dining at his hotel, he was just as well able to do
without a butter-knife as she was, and, at all events, he need
not have stayed unless he liked, she thought, with a little
flash of amusement and pride that her power over him, at
least, was not lost. There had been times during the last
month or two when she had believed that he, like everyone
else, had forgotten her, and it was agreeable to find that she
had been mistaken.

The next day proved to be one of the softest and sunniest
of the winter, and, as they flew along the wet road towards
the Dargle, on the smartest of the Bray outside cars, a great
revival took place in Francie's spirits. They left their car
at the gate of the glen to which the Dargle river has given
its name, and strolled together along the private road that
runs from end to end of it. A few holiday-makers had
been tempted down from Dublin by the fine day, but there
was nothing that even suggested the noisy pleasure parties

The Real Charlotte, 277

that vulgarise the winding beauty of the ravine on summer
bank holidays.

" Doesn't it look fearful lonely to-day ? " said Francie,
who had made her last visit there as a member of one of
these same pleasure parties, and had enjoyed herself highly.
" You can't hear a thing but the running of the water."

They were sitting on the low parapet of the road, looking
down the brown slope of the tree-tops to the river, that was
running a foaming race among the rocks at the bottom of
the cleft.

" I don't call it lonely," said Lambert, casting a discon-
tented side-long glance at a couple walking past arm-in-arm,
evidently in the silendy blissful stage of courtship ; " how
many more would you like ? "

" Oh, lots," replied Francie, " but I'm not going to tell
you who they are ! "

" I know one, anyhow," said Lambert, deliberately lead-
ing up to a topic that up to this had been only slightly
touched on.

When he had walked home from the church with Francie
the evening before, he had somehow not been able to talk
to her consecutively ; he had felt a nervous awkwardness
that he had not believed himself capable of, and the fact
that he was holding an umbrella over her head and that she
had taken his arm had seemed the only thing that he could
give his mind to.

" Who do you know ? "

Francie had plucked a ribbon of hart's-tongue from the
edge of the w^all^ and was drawing its cold satiny length
across her lips.

" Wouldn't you like it now if you saw — " he paused and
looked at Francie — " who shall we say — Charlotte Mullen
coming up the road ? '*

" I wouldn't care."

" Wouldn't you though ! You'd run for your life, the
way you did before out of Lismoyle," said Lambert, looking
hard at her and laughing not quite genuinely.

The strip of hart's-tongue could not conceal a rising glow
in the face behind it, but Francie's voice was as undaunted
as ever as she repHed,

" Who told you I ran for my life ? '^

2/8 The Real Charlotte.

" You told me so yourself."

" I didn't. I only told you I'd had a row with her."

"Well, that's as good as saying you had to run. You
don't suppose I thought you'd get the better of Charlotte ? "

" I daresay you didn't, because you're afraid of her
yourself ! "

There was a degree of truth in this that made Mr.
Lambert suddenly realise Francie's improper levity about
serious things.

'* I'll tell you one thing I'm afraid of,'' he said severely,
" and that is that you made a mistake in fighting with Char-
lotte. If you'd chosen to — to do as she wished, she's easy
enough to get on with."

Francie flung her fern over the parapet and made no
answer.

" I suppose you know she's moved into Gurthnamuckla ? "
he went on.

" I know nothing about anything," interrupted Francie ;
'" I don't know how long it isn't since you wrote to me, and
when you do you never tell me anything. You might be all
dead and buried down there for all I know or care ! "

The smallest possible glance under her eyelids tempered
this statement and confused Mr. Lambert's grasp of his
subject.

"Do you mean that, about not caring if I was dead
or no? I daresay you do. No one cares now what
happens to me.'

He almost meant what he said, her elusiveness was so
exasperating, and his voice told his sincerity. Last summer
she would have laughed pitilessly at his pathos^ and made
it up with him afterwards. But she was changed since last
summer, and now as she looked at him she felt a forlorn
kinship with him.

*' Ah, what nonsense ! " she said caressingly. '* I'd be
awfully sorry if anything happened you." As if he could
not help himself he took her hand, but before he could
speak she had drawn it away. " Indeed, you might have
been dead," she went on hurriedly, " for all you told me in
your letters. Begin now and tell me the Lismoyle news. I
think you said the Dysarts were away from Bruff still,
didn't you ? "

The Real Charlotte. 279

Lambert felt as if a hot and a cold spray of water had
been turned on him alternately. " The Dysarts ? Oh, yes,
they've been away for some time," he said, recovering him-
self ; " they've been in London, I believe, staying with her
people, since you're so anxious to know about them."

"Why wouldn't I want to know about them?" said
Francie, getting off the wall. ** Come on and walk a bit ;
it's cold sitting here."

Lambert walked on by her side rather sulkily ; he was
angry with himself for having let his feelings run away with
him, and he was angry with Francie for pulling him up so
quickly.

" Christopher Dysart's off again," he said abruptly ; " he's
got another of these diplomatic billets." He believed that
Francie would find the information unpleasant, and he was
in some contradictory way disappointed that she seemed
quite unaffected by it. *' He's unpaid attache to old Lord
Castlemore at Copenhagen," he went on; "he started last
week."

So Christopher was gone from her too, and never wrote
her a line before he went. They're all the same, she
thought, all they want is to spoon a girl for a bit, and if she
lets them do it they get sick of her, and whatever she does
they forget her the next minute. And there was Roddy
Lambert trying to squeeze her hand just now, and poor
Mrs. Lambert, that was worth a dozen of him, not dead six
months. She walked or, and forced herself to talk to him,
and to make inquiries about the Bakers, Dr. Rattray, Mr.
Corkran, and other lights of Lismoyle society. It was
absurd, but it was none the less true that the news that Mr.
Corkran was engaged to Carrie Beattie gave her an
additional pang. The enamoured glances of the curate
were fresh in her memory, and the thought that they were
being now bestowed upon Carrie Beattie's freckles and
watering eyes was, though ludicrous, not altogether pleasing.
She burst out laughing suddenly.

" I'm thinking of what all the Beatties will look like
dressed as bridesmaids," she explained; "four of them, and
every one of them roaring, crying, and their noses bright
red ! "

The day was clouding over a little, and a damp wind

28o The Real Charlotte,

began to stir among the leaves that still hung red on the
beech trees. Lambert insisted with paternal determination
that Francie should put on the extra coat that he was
carrying for her, and the couple who had recently passed
them, and whom they had now overtaken, looked at them
sympathetically, and were certain that they also were
engaged. It took some time to reach the far gate of the
Dargle, sauntering as they did from bend to bend of the
road, and stopping occasionally to look down at the river,
or up at the wooded height opposite, with conventional
expressions of admiration ; and by the time they had passed
down between the high evergreens at the lodge, to where
the car was waiting for them, Francie had heard all that
Lambert could tell her of Lismoyle news. She had also
been told what a miserable life Mr. Lambert's was, and how
lonely he was at Rosemount since poor Lucy's death, and
she knew how many young horses he had at grass on
Gurthnamuckla, but neither mentioned the name of Mr.
Hawkins.

The day of the Dargle expedition was Tuesday, and
during the remainder of the week Mr. Lambert became so
familiar a visitor at Albatross Villa, that Bridget learned to
know his knock, and did not trouble herself to pull down
her sleeves, or finish the mouthful of bread and tea with
which she had left the kitchen, before she opened the door.
Aunt Tish did not attempt to disguise her satisfaction when
he was present, and rallied Francie freely in his absence ;
the children were quite aware of the state of affairs, having
indeed discussed the matter daily with Bridget ; and Uncle
Robert, going gloomily up to his office in Dublin, had to
admit to himself that Lambert was certainly paying her
great attention, and that after all, all things considered, it
would be a good thing for the girl to get a rich husband for
herself when she had the chance. It was rather soon after
his wife's death for a man to come courting, but of course
the wedding wouldn't come off till the twelve months were
up, and at the back of these reflections was the remem-
brance that he. Uncle Robert, was Francie's trustee, and
that the security in which he had invested her five hundred
pounds was becoming less sound than he could have
wished.

The Real Charlotte, 281

As is proverbially the case, the principal persons con-
cerned were not as aware as the lookers-on of the state of
the game. Francie, to whom flirtation was as ordinary and
indispensable as the breath of her nostrils, did not feel that
anything much out of the common was going on, though
she knew quite well that Mr. Lambert was very fond of her ;
and Mr. Lambert had so firmly resolved on allowing a
proper interval to elapse between his wife's death and that
election of her successor upon which he was determined,
that he looked upon the present episode as of small import-
ance, and merely a permissible relaxation to a man whose
hunting had been stopped, and who had, in a general way,
been having the devil of a dull time He was to go back
to Lismoyle on Monday, the first of the year ; and it was
settled that he was to take Francie on Sunday afternoon to
walk on Kingstown pier. The social laws of Mrs Fitz-
patrick's world were not rigorous, still less was her interpre-
tation of them ; an unchaperoned expedition to Kingstown
pier would not, under any circumstances, have scandalised
her, and considering that Lambert was an old friend and
had been married, the proceeding became almost prudishly
correct. As she stood at her window and saw them turn
the corner of the road on their way to the station, she
observed to Mabel that there wouldn't be a handsomer
couple going the pier than what they were, Francie had that
stylish way with her that she always gave a nice set to a
skirt, and it was wonderful the way she could trim up an
old hat the same as new.

It was a very bright clear afternoon, and a touch of frost
in the air gave the snap and brilliancy that are often lack-
ing in an Irish winter day On such a Sunday Kingstown
pier assumes a fair semblance of its spring and summer
gaiety ; the Kingstown people walk there because there is
nothing else to be done at Kingstown, and the Dublin
people come down to snatch what they can of sea air before
the short afternoon darkens, and the hour arrives when
they look out for members of the St. George's Yacht Club
to take them in to tea. There was a fair sprinkling of
people on the long arm of granite that curves for a mile
into Dublin Bay, and as Mr Lambert paced along it he
w^s as agreeably conscious as his companion of the glances

282 The Real Charlotte.

that met and followed their progress. It satisfied his
highest ambition that the girl of his choice should be thus
openly admired by men whom, year after year, he had
looked up at with envious respect as they stood in the bow-
window of Kildare Street Club, with figures that time was
slowly shaping to its circular form, on the principle of
correspondence with environment. He was a man who
had always valued his possessions according to other
people's estimation of them, and this afternoon Francie
gained a new distinction in his eyes.

Abstract admiration, however, was one thing, but the
very concrete attentions of Mr. Thomas Whitty were quite
another affair. Before they had been a quarter of an hour
on the pier, Francie was hailed by her Christian name, and
this friend of her youth, looking more unmistakably than
ever a solicitor's clerk, joined them, flushed with the effort
of overtaking them, and evidently determined not to leave
them again.

" I spotted you by your hair, Francie," Mr. Whitty was
pleased to observe, after the first greetings ; " you must have
been getting a new dye for it ; I could see it a mile
off!"

** Oh, yes," responded Francie, " I tried a new bottle the
other day, the same you use for your moustache, y'know !
I thought I'd like people to be able to see it without a
spy-glass."

As Mr. Whitty's moustache was represented by three
sickly hairs and a pimple, the sarcasm was sufificiently biting
to yield Lambert a short-lived gratification.

" Mr. Lambert dyes his black," continued Francie, with-
out a change of countenance. She had the Irish love of a
scrimmage in her, and she thought it would be great fun to
make Mr. Lambert cross.

"D'ye find the colour comes off ?" murmured Tommy
Whitty, eager for revenge, but too much afraid of Lambert
to speak out loud.

Even Francie, though she favoured the repartee with a
giggle, was glad that Lambert had not heard.

" D'ye find you want your ears boxed ? " she returned in
the same tone of voice; "I won't walk with you if you
don't behave." Inwardly, however, she decided that

The Real Charlotte, 283

Tommy Whitty was turning into an awful cad, and felt
that she would have given a good deal to have wiped
out some lively passages in her previous acquaintance
with him.

At the end of half an hour Mr. Whitty was still with them,
irrepressibly intimate and full of reminiscence. Lambert,
after determined efforts to talk to Francie, as if unaware of
the presence of a third person, had sunk into dangerous
silence, and Francie had ceased to see the amusing side of
the situation, and was beginning to be exhausted by much
walking to and fro. The sun set in smoky crimson behind
the town, the sun-set gun banged its official recognition of
the fact, followed by the wild, clear notes of a bugle, and a
frosty after-glow lit up the sky, and coloured the motionless
water of the harbour. A big bell boomed a monotonous
summons to afternoon service, and people began to leave
the pier. Those who had secured the entree of the St.
George's Yacht Club proceeded comfortably thither for tea,
and Lambert felt that he would have given untold sums for
the right to take Francie in under the pillared portico, leav-
ing Tommy Whitty and his seedy black coat in outer dark-
ness. The party was gloomily tending towards the station,
when the happy idea occurred to Mr. Lambert of having
tea at the Marine Hotel ; it might not have the distinction
of the club, but it would at all events give him the power of
shaking off that damned presuming counter-jumper, as in
his own mind he furiously designated Mr. Wliitty.

" I'm going to take you up to the hotel for tea, Francie,"
he said decisively, and turned at once towards the gate of
the Marine gardens. " Good evening, Whitty."

The look that accompanied this valedictory remark was
so conclusive that the discarded Tommy could do no more
than accept the position. Francie would not come to his
help, being indeed thankful to get rid of him, and he could
only stand and look after the two figures, and detest Mr.
Lambert with every fibre of his little heart. The coffee-
room at the hotel was warm and quiet, and Francie sank
thankfully into an armchair by the fire.

" I declare this is the nicest thing I've done to-day," she
said, with a sigh of tired ease ; " I was dead sick of walking
up and down that old pier."

284 The Real Charlotte,

This piece of truckling was almost too flagrant, and
Lambert would not even look at her as he answered,

^' I thought you seemed to be enjoying yourself, or I'd
have come away sooner."

Francie felt none of the amusement that she would once
have derived from seeing Mr. Lambert in a bad temper ;
he had stepped into the foreground of her life and was
becoming a large and serious object there, too important
and powerful to be teased with any degree of pertinacity.

" Enjoy myself! " she exclaimed, " I was thinking all the
time that my boots would be cut to pieces with the horrid
gravel ; and," she continued, laying her head on the plush-
covered back of her chair, and directing a laughing, pro-
pitiatory glance at her companion, " you know I had to talk
twice as much to poor Tommy because you wouldn't say a
word to him. Besides, I knew him long before I knew you."

" Oh, of course if you don't mind being seen with a
fellow that looks like a tailor's apprentice, I have nothing
to say against it," replied Lambert, looking down on her, as
he stood fingering his moustache, with one elbow on the
chimney-piece. His eyes could not remain implacable
when they dwelt on the face that was upturned to him,
especially now, when he felt both in face and manner some-
thing of pathos and gentleness that was as new as it was
intoxicating.

If he had known what it was that had changed her he
might have been differently affected by it ; as it was, he put
it down to the wretchedness of life at Albatross Villa, and
was glad of the adversity that was making things so much
easier for him. His sulkiness melted away in spite of him ;
it was hard to be sulky, with Francie all to himself, pouring
out his tea and talking to him with an intimateness that was
just tipped with flirtation ; in fact, as the moments slipped
by, and the thought gripped him that the next day would
find him alone at Rosemount, every instant of this last
afternoon in her society became unspeakably precious.
The the-a-te/e across the tea-table prolonged itself so en-
grossingly that Lambert forgot his wonted punctuality, and
their attempt to catch the five o'clock train for Bray re-
sulted in bringing them breathless to the station as th^ir
tr^in steamed out of it.

The Real Charlotte. 285

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

The Irish mail-boat was well up to time on that frosty
thirty-first of December. She had crossed from Holyhead
on an even keel, and when the Bailey light on the end of
Howth had been sighted, the passengers began to think
that they might risk congratulations on the clemency of the
weather, and some of the hardier had ordered tea in the
saloon, and were drinking it with incredulous enjoyment.

" I shall go mad, Pamela, perfectly mad, if you cannot
think of any word for that tenth light. C and H— can't
you think of ^^ything with C and H ? I found out all the
others in the train, and the least you might do is to think
of this one for me. That dreadful woman snoring on the
sofa just outside my berth put everything else out of my
head."

This plaint, uttered in a deep and lamentable contralto,
naturally drew some attention towards Lady Dysart, as she
swept down the saloon towards the end of the table, and
Pamela, becoming aware that the lady referred to was
among the audience, trod upon her mother's dress and thus
temporarily turned the conversation.

" C and H," she repeated, " I'm afraid I can't think of
anything ; the only word I can think of beginning with C is
Christopher."

" Christopher ! ** cried Lady Dysartj " why, Christopher
ends with an R."

As Lady Dysart for the second time pronounced her
son's name the young man who had just come below, and
was having a whisky and soda at the bar at the end of the
saloon, turned quickly round and put down his glass. Lady
Dysart and her daughter were sitting with their backs to
him, but Mr. Hawkins did not require a second glance, and
made his way to them at once.

' " And so you've been seeing poor Christopher off to the
North Pole," he said, after the first surprise and explana-
tions had been got over. " I can't say I envy him. They
make it quite cold enough in Yorkshire to suit me."

" Don't they ever make it hot for you there ? " asked
Lady Dysart, unable to resist the chance of poking fun at

286 The Real Charlotte.

Mr. Hawkins, even though in so doing she violated her own
cherished regulations on the subject of slang. All her old
partiality for him had revived since Francie's departure from
Lismoyle, and she found the idea of his engagement far
more amusing than he did.

" No, Lady Dysart, they never do," said Hawkins, getting
very red, and feebly trying to rise to the occasion ; " they're
always very nice and kind to me."

*' Oh, I daresay they are ! " replied Lady Dysart archly,
with a glance at Pamela like that of a naughty child who
glories in its naughtiness. *' And is it fair to ask when the
wedding is to come off? We heard something about the
spring ! "

" Who gave you that interesting piece of news ? " said
Hawkins, trying not to look foolish.

*^ A bridesmaid," said Lady Dysart, closing her lips
tightly, and leaning back with an irrepressible gleam in hei
eye.

" Well, she knows more than I do. All I know about it
is, that I believe the regiment goes to Aldershot in May,
and I suppose it will be some time after that." Mr.
Hawkins spoke with a singularly bad grace, and before
further comment could be made he turned to Pamela. " I
saw a good deal of Miss Hope-Drummond in the north," he
said, with an effort so obvious and so futile at turning the
conversation that Lady Dysart began to laugh.

" Why, she was the bridesmaid — " she began incauti-
ously, when the slackening of the engines set her thoughts
flying from the subject in hand to settle in agony upon the
certainty that Doyle would forget to put her scent-bcttle
into her dressing-bag, and then the whole party went up on
deck.

It was dark, and the revolving light on the end of the
east pier swung its red eye upon the steamer as she passed
within a few yards of it, churning a curving road towards
the double line of lamps that marked the jetty. The lights'
of Kingstown mounted row upon row, like an embattled
army of stars, the great sweep of Dublin Bay was pricked
out in lessening yellow points, and a new moon that looked
pale green by contrast, sent an immature shaft along the sea
in meek assertion of her presence. The paddles dropped

The Real Charlotte. 287

their blades more and more languidly into the water, then
they ceased, and the vessel slid silently alongside the jetty,
with ihe sentient ease of a living thing. The warps were
flung ashore, the gangways thrust on board, and in an
instant the sailors were running ashore with the mail bags
on their backs, like a string of ants with their eggs. The
usual crowd of loafers and people vvho had come to meet
their friends formed round the passengers' gangway, and the
passengers filed down it in the brief and uncoveted dis-
tinction that the exit from a steamer affords.

Lady Dysart headed her party as they left the steamer,
and her imposing figure in her fur-lined cloak so filled the
gangway that Pamela could not, at first, see who it was that
met her mother as she stepped on to the platform. The
next moment she found herself shaking hands with Mr.
Lambert, and then, to her unbounded astonishment, with
Miss Fitzpatrick. The lamps were throwing strong light
and shadow upon Francie's face, and Pamela's first thought
was how much thinner she had become.

" Mr. Lambert and I missed our train back to Bray,"
Francie began at once in a hurried deprecating voice, " and
we came down to see the boat come in just to pass the
time — " Her voice stopped as if she had suddenly gasped
for breath, and Pamela heard Hawkins' voice say behind
her :

*' How de do. Miss Fitzpatrick ? Who'd have thought of
meetin' you here ? " in a tone of cheerfully casual acquaint-
anceship.

Even Pamela, with all her imaginative sympathy, did not
guess what Francie felt in that sick and flinching moment,
when everything rung and tingled round her as if she had
been struck ; the red had deserted her cheek like a cowardly
defender, and the ground felt uneven under her feet, but
the instinct of self-control that is born of habit and con-
vention in the feeblest of us came mechanically to her
help.

" And I never thought I'd see you either," she answered,
in the same tone ; " I suppose you're all going to Lismoyle
together, Miss Dysart ? "

" No, we stay in Dublin to-night," said Pamela, with
sufficient consciousness of the situation to wish to shorten

28b The Real Charlotte.

it. " Oh, thank you, Mr. Hawkins, I should be very glad
if you would put these rugs in the carriage."

Hawkins disappeared with the rugs in the wake of Lady
Dysart, and Lambert and Pamela and Francie followed
slowly together in the same direction. Pamela was in the
difficult position of a person who is full of a sympathy that
it is wholly out of the question to express.

" I am so glad that we chanced to meet you here," she
said, " we have not heard anything of you for such a long
time."

The kindness in her voice had the effect of conveying to
Francie how much in need of kindness she was, and the
creeping smart of tears gathered under her eyelids.

" It's awfully kind of you to say so. Miss Dysart," she
said, with something in her voice that made even the
Dublin brogue pathetic ; " I didn't think anyone at Lismoyle
remembered me now."

" Oh, we don't forget people quite so quickly as that,"
said Pamela, thinking that Mr. Hawkins must have behaved
worse than she had believed ; *' I see this is our carriage.
Mamma, did you know that Miss Fitzpatrick was here ? "

Lady Dysart was already sitting in the carriage, her face
fully expressing the perturbation that she felt, as she counted
the parcels that Mr. Hawkins was bestowing in the netting.

" Oh yes," she said, with a visible effort to be poHte, " I
saw her just now ; do get in, my dear, the thing may start
at any moment."

If her mind had room for anything beside the anxieties of
travelling, it was disapprobation of Francie and of the fact
that she was going about alone with Mr. Lambert, and the
result was an absence of geniality that added to Francie's
longing to get away as soon as possible. Lambert was now
talking to Pamela, blocking up the doorway of the carriage
as he stood on the step, and over his shoulder she could see
Hawkins, still with his back to her, and still apparently very
busy with the disposal of the dressing-bags and rugs. He
was not going to speak to her again, she thought, as she
stood a little back from the open door with the frosty air
nipping her through her thin jacket ; she was no more to
him than a stranger, she, who knew every turn of his head,
and the feeling ol his yellow hair that the carriage lamp was

The Real Charlotte. 289

shining upon. The very look of the first-class carriage
seemed to her, who had seldom, if ever, been in one, to em-
phasise the distance that there was between them. The
romance that always clung to him even in her angriest
thoughts, was slaughtered by this glimpse of him, like some
helpless atom of animal life by the passing heel of a school-
boy. There was no scaffold, with its final stupendous
moment, and incentive to heroism ; there was nothing but
an ignoble end in commonplace neglect.

The ticket-collector slammed the door of the next carriage,
and Francie stepped back still further to make way for
Lambert as he got off the step. She had turned her back
on the train, and was looking vacantly at the dark outlines
of the steamer when she became aware that Hawkins was
beside her.

" Er — good-bye — " he said awkwardly, " the train's just
off."

" Good-bye," replied Francie, in a voice that sounded
strangely to her, it was so everyday and conventional.

*' Look here," he said, looking very uncomfortable, and
speaking quickly, "I know you're angry with me. I couldn't
help it. I tried to get out of it, but it — it couldn't be done.
I'm awfully sorry about it — "

If Francie had intended to reply to this address, it was
placed beyond her power to do so. The engine, which had
been hissing furiously for some minutes, now set up the
continuous ear-piercing shriek that precedes the departure
of the boat train, and the guard, hurrying along the platform,
signified to Hawkins in dumb show that he was to take his
seat. The whistle continued unrelentingly ; Hawkins put
out his hand, and Francie laid hers in it. She looked
straight at him for a second, and then, as she felt his fingers
close hard round her hand in dastardly assurance of friend-
ship if not affection, she pulled it away, and turned to
Lambert, laughing and putting her hands up to her ears to
show that she could hear nothing in the din. Hawkins
jumped into the carriage again, Pamela waved her hand at
the window, and Francie was left with Lambert on the plat-
form, looking at the red light on the back of the guard's van,
as the train wound out of sight into the tunnel.

igo The Real Charlotte,

CHAPTER XXXIX.

It was a cold east-windy morning near the middle of
March, when the roads were white and dusty, and the
clouds were grey, and Miss Mullen, seated in her new
dining-room at Gurthnamuckla, was finishing her Saturday
balancing of accounts. Now that she had become a landed
proprietor, the process was more complicated than it used
to be. A dairy, pigs, and poultry cannot be managed and
made to pay without thought and trouble, and, as Charlotte
had every intention of making Gurthnamuckla pay, she
spared neither time nor account books, and was beginning
to be well satisfied with the result. She had laid out a good
deal of money on the house and farm, but she was going to
get a good return for it, or know the reason why ; and as no
tub of skim milk was given to the pigs, or barrow of turnips
to the cows, without her knowledge, the chances of success
seemed on her side.

She had just entered, on the page headed Receipts, the sale
of two pigs at the fair, and surveyed the growing amount,
in its neat figures with complacency ; then, laying down her
pen, she went to the window, and directed a sharp eye at the
two men who were spreading gravel on the reclaimed avenue,
and straightening the edges of the grass.

*"Pon my word, it's beginning to look like a gentleman's
avenue," she said to herself, eyeing approvingly the arch of
the elm tree branches, and the clumps ot yellow daffodils,
the only spots of light in the colourless landscape, while the
cawing of the building rooks had a pleasant manorial sound
in her ears. A young horse came galloping across the lawn,
with floating mane and tail, and an intention to jump the
new wooden railings that only failed him at the last moment,
and resulted in two soapy slides in the grass, that Charlotte
viewed from her window with wonderful equanimity. " I'll
give Roddy a fine blowing up when he comes over," she
thought, as she watched the colt cutting capers among the
daffodils; "I'll ask him it he'd like me to have his four
precious colts in to tea. He's as bad about them as I am
about the cats ! ' Miss Mullen's expression denoted that
the reproof would not be of the character to which Louisa

The Real Charlotte. 291

was accustomed, and Mrs. Bruff, who had followed her
mistress into the window, sprang on a chair, and arching
her back, leaned against the well-known black alpaca apron
with a feeling that the occasion was exceptionally propitious.
The movements of Charlotte's character, for it cannot be
said to possess the power of development, were akin to those
of some amphibious thing, whose strong, darting course
under the water is only marked by a bubble or two, and it
required almost an animal instinct to note them. Every
bubble betrayed the creature below, as well as the limita-
tions of its power of hiding itself, but people never thought
of looking out for these indications in Charlotte, or even
suspected that she had anything to conceal. There was an
almost blatant simplicity about her^ a humorous rough and
readiness which, joined with her literary culture, proved
business capacity, and her dreaded temper seemed to leave no
room for any further aspect, least of all of a romantic kind.
Having opened the window for a minute to scream
abusive directions to the men who were spreading gravel,
she went back to the table, and, gathering her account-
books together, she locked them up in her davenport. The
room that, in Julia Duffy's time, had been devoted to the
storage of potatoes, was now beginning life again, dressed
m the faded attire of the Tally Ho dining-room. Charlotte's
books lined one of its newly-papered walls ; the fox-hunting
prints that dated from old Mr. Butler's reign at Tally Ho
hung above the chimney-pit;ce, and the maroon rep curtains
were those at which Francie had stared during her last and
most terrific encounter with their owner. The air of occu-
pation was completed by a basket on the rug in front of the
fire with four squeaking kittens in it, and by the Bible and
the grey manual of devotion out of which Charlotte read
daily prayers to Louisa the orphan and the cats. It was an
ugly room, and nothing could ever make it anything else,
but with the aid of the brass-mounted grate, a few bits of
Mrs. Mullen's silver on the sideboard, and the deep-set
windows, it had an air of respectability and even dignity
that appealed very strongly to Charlotte. She enjoyed
every detail of her new possessions, and unlike Norry and
the cats, felt no regret for the urban charms and old
associations of Tally Ho. Indeed, since her aunt's death.

292 The Real Charlotte.

she had never liked Tally Ho. There was a strain of
superstition in her that, like her love of land, showed
how strongly the blood of the Irish peasant ran in her veins;
since she had turned Francie out of the house she had
not liked to think of the empty room facing her own, in
which Mrs. Mullen's feeble voice had laid upon her the
charge that she had not kept ; her dealings with table-turning
and spirit-writing had expanded for her the boundaries of the
possible, and made her the more accessible to terror of the
supernatural. Here, at Gurthnamuckla, there was nothing
to harbour these suggestions ; no brooding evergreens rust-
ling outside her bedroom window, no rooms ahve with the
little incidents of a past life, no doors whose opening and
shuttmg were like familiar voices reminding her of the foot-
steps that they had once heralded. This new house was
peopled only by the pleasant phantoms of a future that she
had fashioned for herself out of the slightest and vulgarest
materials, and her wakeful nights were spent in schemings
in which the romantic and the practical were logically
blended.

Norry the Boat did not, as has been hinted, share her
mistress's satisfaction in Gurthnamuckla. For four months
she had reigned in its kitchen, and it found no more favour
in her eyes than on the day when she, with her roasting-jack
in one hand and the cockatoo's cage in the other, had made
her official entry into it. It was not so much the new
range, or the barren tidyness of the freshly-painted cup-
boards ; these things had doubtless been at first very
distressing. But time had stored the cupboards with the
miscellanies that Norry loved to hoard, and Bid Sal had
imparted a home-like feeling to the range by wrenching the
hinge of the oven-door so that it had to be kept closed with
the poker. Even the unpleasantly dazzling whitewash was
now turning a comfortable yellow brown, and the cobwebs
were growing about the hooks in the ceiling. But none of
these things thoroughly consoled Norry. Her complaints,
it is true, did not seem adequate to account for her general
aspect of discontent. Miss Mullen heard daily lamentations
over the ravages committed by Mr. Lambert's young horses
on the clothes bleaching on the furze-bushes, the loss of
"the clever little shcullery that we had in Tally Ho," and

The Real Charlotte. 293

the fact that " if a pairson was on his dying bed for the
want of a grain o' tay itself, he should thravel three miles
before he'd get it," but the true grievance remained locked
in Norry's bosom. Not to save her life would she have
admitted that what was really lacking in Gurthnamuckla was
society. The messengers from the shops, the pedlar-woman;
above all, the beggars ; of these she had been deprived at a
blow, and life had become a lean ill-nurtured thing without
the news with which they had daily provided her. Billy
Grainy and Nance the Fool were all that remained to her
of this choice company, the former having been retained in
his offices of milk-seller, messenger, and post-boy, and the
latter, like Abdiel, faithful among the faithless, was unde-
terred by the distance that had discouraged the others of
her craft, and limped once a week to Gurthnamuckla for the
sake of old times and a mug of dripping.

By these inadequate channels a tardy rill of news made
its way to Miss Mullen's country seat, but it came poisoned
by the feeling that every one else in Lismoyle had known it
for at least a week, and Norry felt herself as much aggrieved
as if she had been charged " pence apiece " for stale eggs.

It was therefore the more agreeable that, on this same
raw, grey Saturday morning, when Norry's temper had been
unusually tried by a search for the nest of an out-lying hen,
Mary Holloran, the Rosemount lodgewoman, should have
walked into the kitchen.

" God save all here ! " she said, sinking on to a chair,
and wiping away with her apron the tears that the east wind
had brought to her eyes ; " I'm as tired as if I was afther
walking from Galway with a bag o' male ! "

" Musha, then, cead failthe, Mary," repHed Norry with
unusual geniality ; " is it from Judy Lee's wake ye're
comin' ? "

" I am, in throth ; Lord ha' mercy on her ! " Mary
Holloran raised her eyes to the ceiUng and crossed herself,
and Norry and Bid Sal followed her example. Norry was
sitting by the fire singeing the yellow carcase of a hen, and
the brand of burning paper in her hand heightened the
effect of the gesture in an almost startling way. " Well
now," resumed Mary Holloran, " she was as nice a woman
as ever threw a tub of clothes on the hill, and an honest

294 ^-^^ i^^<^/ Charlotte.

poor craythure through all. She battled it out well, as owld
as she was."

" Faith thin, an' if she did die itself she was in the want
of it," said Norry sardonically ; " sure there isn't a winther
since her daughther wint to America that she wasn't
anointed a couple of times. I'm thinking the people th'
other side o' death will be throuncin' her for keepin' them
waitin' on her this way ! "

Mary Holloran laughed a little and then wiped her face
with the corner of her apron, and sighed so as to restore a
fitting tone to the conversation.

" The neighbours was all gathered in it last night," she
observed ; " they had the two rooms full in it, an' a half
gallon of whisky, and porther and all sorts. Indeed, her
sisther's two daughthers showed her every respect ; there
wasn't one comin' in it, big nor little, but they'd fill them
out a glass o' punch before they'd sit down. God bless ye,
Bid Sal/' she went on, as if made thirsty by the recollection 3
" have ye a sup o' tay in that taypot that's on th' oven ? I'd
drink the lough this minute ! "

" Is it the like o' that ye'd give the woman ? " vociferated
Norry in furious hospitality, as Bid Sal moved forward to
obey this behest ; *' make down the fire and bile a dhrop of
wather the way she'll get what'U not give her a sick
shtummuck. Sure, what's in that pot's the lavin's afther
Miss Charlotte's breakfast for Billy Grainy when he comes
with the post ; and good enough for the likes of him."

"There was a good manny axing for ye last night,"
began Mary Holloran again, while Bid Sal broke up a box
with the kitchen cleaver, and revived the fire with its frag-
ments and a little paraffin oil. " And you a near cousin o'
the corp'. Was it herself wouldn't let you in it ? "

" Whether she'd let me in it or no I have plenty to do
besides running to every corp'-house in the counthry," re-
turned Norry with an acerbity that showed how accurate
Mary Holloran's surmise had been ; " if thim that was in
the wake seen me last night goin' out to the cow that's
afther calvin' with the quilt off me bed to put over her,
maybe they'd have less chat about me."

Mary Holloran was of a pacific turn, and she tried
another topic. *^ Did ye hear that John Kenealy was

The Real Charlotte. 295

afther summonsing me mother before the Binch ? " she said,
unfastening her heavy blue cloak and putting her feet up on
the fender of the range.

" Ah, God help ye, how would I hear annything ? "
grumbled Norry ; " it'd be as good for me to be in heaven
as to be here, with ne'er a one but Nance the Fool comin'
next or nigh me."

" Oh, indeed, that's the thruth," said Mary Holloran with
polite but transient sympathy. "Well, whether or no, he
summonsed her, and all the raison he had for putting that
scandal on her, was thim few little hins and ducks she have,
that he seen different times on his land, themselves and an
owld goat thraveUin' the fields, and not a bit nor a bite be-
fore them in it that they'd stoop their heads to, only what
sign of grass was left afther the winther, and faith ! that's
little. 'Twas last Tuesday, Lady-Day an' all, me mother
was bringin' in a goaleen o' turf, an' he came thundherin'
round the house, and every big rock of English he had he
called it to her, and every soort of liar and blagyard — oh,
indeed, his conduck was not fit to tell to a jackass — an' he
summonsed her secondly afther that. Ye'd think me
mother'd lose her life when she seen the summons, an'
away she legged it into Rosemount to meself, the way I'd
spake to the masther to lane heavy on Kenealy the day he'd
bring her into coort. ' An' indeed,' says I to the masther,
' is it to bring me mother into coort ! ' says 1 3 ^ sure she's
hardly able to lave the bed,' says I, ' an owld little woman
that's not four stone weight ! She's not that size,' says I — "
Mary Holloran measured accurately off the upper joints of
her first two fingers — *' ' Sure ye'd blow her off yer hand !
And Kenealy sayin' she pelted the pavement afther him,
and left a backward sthroke on him with the shovel ! ' says
I. But in any case the masther gave no satisfaction to
Kenealy, and he arbithrated him the way he wouldn't be let
bring me mother into coort, an' two shillin' she paid for
threspass, and thank God she's able to do that same, for as
desolate as Kenealy thinks her."

" Lambert's a fine arbithrator," said Norry, dispassion-
ately. " Here, Bid Sal, run away out to the lardher and
lave this within in it," handing over the singed hen, " and
afther that, go on out and cut cabbages for the pigs. Divil's

296 TJic Real Charlotte.

cure to ye ! Can't ye make haste ! I suppose ye think it's
to be standin' lookin' at the people that ye get four pounds
a year an' yer dite ! Thim gerrls is able to put annyone
that'd be with them into a decay," she ended, as Bid Sal re-
luctantly withdrew, " and there's not a word ye'U say but
they'll gallop through the counthry tellin' it." Then, drop-
ping into a conversational tone, *' Nance was sayin' Lambert
was gone to Dublin agin, but what signifies what the likes
of her'd say ; it couldn't be he'd be goin' in it agin and he
not home a week from it."

Mary Holloran pursed up her mouth portentously.

" Faith he could go in it, and it's in it he's gone," she said,
beginning upon a new cup of tea, as dark and sweet as
treacle, that Norry had prepared for her. " Ah, musha !
Lord have mercy on thim that's gone ; 'tis short till they're
forgotten ! "

Norry contented herself with an acquiescing sound,
devoid of interrogation, but dreary enough to be encourag-
ing. Mrs. Holloran's saucer had received half the contents
of her cup, and was now delicately poised aloft on the out-
spread fingers of her right hand, while her right elbow
rested on the table according to the etiquette of her class,
and Norry knew that the string of her friend's tongue would
loosen of its own accord.

" Seven months last Monday," began Mary Holloran in
the voice of a professional reciter ; " seven months since he
berrid her, an' if he gives three more in the widda ye may
call me a liar."

" Tell the truth ! " exclaimed Norry, startled out of her
self-repression and stopping short in the act of poking the
fire. " D'ye tell me it's to marry again he'd go, an' the first
wife's clothes on his cook this minit ? "

Mary KoUoran did not reveal by look or word the grati-
fication that she felt. " God forbid I'd rise talk or dhraw
scandal," she continued with the same pregnant calm, " but
the thruth it is an' no slandher, for the last month there's
not a week — arrah what week — no, but there's hardly the
day, but a letther goes to the post for — for one you know
well, an' httle boxeens and re/'^^tered envelopes an' all sorts.
An' letthers coming from that one to him to further ordhers !
Sure I'd know the writin'. Hav'n't she her name written

The Real Charlotte. 297

the size of I don't know what on her likeness that he have
shtuck out on the table."

Mary HoUoran broke off like a number of a serial story,
with a carefully interrupted situation, and sipped her tea
assiduously. Norry advanced slowly from the fireplace with
the poker still clutched in her hand, and her glowing eyes
fixed upon her friend, as if she were stalking her.

'* For the love o' God, woman ! " she whispered, " is it
Miss Francie ? "

" Now ye have it," said Mary HoUoran.

Norry clasped her hands, poker and all, and raised them
in front of her face, while her eyes apparently communed
with a familiar spirit at the other end of the kitchen. They
puzzled ]Mary HoUoran, who fancied she discerned in them
a wild and quite irrelevant amusement, but before further
opinions could be interchanged, a dragging step was heard
at the back door, a fumbling hand lifted the latch, and Billy
Grainy came in with the post-bag over his shoulder and an
empty milk-can in his hand.

" Musha, more power to ye, Billy ! " said Mary HoUoran,
concealing her disgust at the interruption with laudable good
breeding, and making a grimace of lightning quickness at
Norry, expressive of the secrecy that was to be observed ;
" 'tis you're the grand post-boy ! "

" Och thin I am," mumbled Billy sarcastically, as he let
the post-bag slip from his shoulders to the table, " divil a
boot nor a leg is left on me with the thraveUing ! " He
hobbled over to the fireplace, and, taking the teapot off the
the range, looked into it suspiciously. " This is a quare
time o' day for a man to be atin' his breakfast ! Divil dom
the bit I'd ate in this house agin' if it wasn't for the nathure
I have for the place — "

Norry banged open a cupboard, and took from it a mug
with some milk in it, and a yellow pie-dish, in which were
several stale ends of loaves.

" Take it or lave it afther ye ! " she said, putting them
down on the table. " If ye had nathure for risin' airly out
o' yer bed the tay wouldn't be waitin' on ye this way, an' if
ourselves can't plaze ye, ye can go look for thim that will.
* Thim that's onaisy let thim quit ! ' " Norry cared little
whether Billy Grainy was too deaf to take in this retort or

298 The Real Charlotte,

no. Mary Holloran and her own self-respect were alike
gratified, and taking up the post-bag she proceeded with it
to the dining-room.

"Well, Norry," said Charlotte jocularly, looking round
from the bookshelf that she was tidjang, "is it only now that
old thief s brought the post ? or have ye been flirting with
him in the kitchen all this time ? "

Norry retired from the room with a snarl of indescribable
scorn, and Charlotte unlocked the bag and drew forth its
contents. There were three letters for her, and she laid one
of them aside at once while she read the other two. One
was from a resident in Ferry Lane, an epistle that began
startlingly, " Honored Madman," and slanted over two sides
of the note-paper in lamentable entreaties for a reduction of
the rent and a little more time to pay it in. The other was
an invitation from Mrs. Corkran to meet a missionary, and
tossing both down with an equal contempt, she addressed
herself to the remaining one. She was in the act of opening
it when she caught sight of the printed name of a hotel upon
its flap, and she suddenly became motionless, her eyes star-
ing at the name, and her face slowly reddening all over.

"Bray!" she said between her teeth, "what takes him
to Bray, when he told me to write to him to the Shel-
bourne ? "

She opened the letter, a long and very neatly written one,
so neat, in fact, as to give to a person who knew Mr.
Lambert's handwriting in all its phases the idea of very un-
usual care and a rough copy.

" My dear Charlotte," it began, " I know you will be
surprised at the news I have to tell you in this letter, and
so will many others ; indeed I am almost surprised at it my-
self." Charlotte's left hand groped backwards till it caught
the back of a chair and held on to it, but her eyes still flew
along the hnes. '^ You are my oldest and best friend, and
so you are the first I would like to tell about it, and I would
value your good wishes far beyond any others that might be
off'ered to me, especially as I hope you will soon be my re-
lation as well as my friend. I am engaged to Francie Fitz-
patrick, and we are to be married as soon as possible.*'

The reader sat heavily down upon the chair behind her,

The Real Charlotte. 299

her colour fading from red to a dirty yellow as she read on.
" I am aware that many will say that 1 am not showing proper
respect towards poor dear Lucy in doing this, but you, or any
one that knew her well, will support me in saying that I
never was wantmg in that to her when she was alive, and
that she would be the last to wish I should live a lonely and
miserable life now that she is gone. It is a great pleasure to
me to think that she always had such a liking for Francie, for
her own sake as well as because she was your cousin. It was
my intention to have put off the marriage for a year, but I
heard a couple of days ago from Robert Fitzpatrick that the
investment that Francie's Httle fortune had been put into was
in a very shaky state, and that there is no present chance of
dividends from it. He offered to let her live with them as
usual, but they have not enough to support themselves.
Francie was half starved there, and it is no place for her to
be, and so we have arranged to be married very quietly down
here at Bray, on the twentieth — ^just a week from to-day. I
will take her to London, or perhaps a little further for a week
or so, and about the first or second week in April I hope to
be back in Rosemount. I know, my dear Charlotte, my
dear old friend, that this must appear a sudden and hasty
step, but I have considered it well and thoroughly. I know
too that when Francie left your house there was some trifling
little quarrel between you, but I trust you will forget all
about that, and that you will be the first to welcome her
when she returns to her new home. She begs me to say
that she is sorry for anything she said to annoy you, and
would write to you if she thought you would like to hear
from her. I hope you will be as good a friend to her as you
have always been to me, and will be ready to help and ad-
vise her in her new position. I would be greatly obliged to
you if you would let the Lismoyle people know of my marri-
age, and of the reasons that I have told you for hurrying it
on this way ; you know yourself how glad they always are
to get hold of the wrong end of a story. I am going to
write to Lady Dysart myself. Now, my dear Charlotte, I
must close this letter. The above will be my address for a
week, and I will be very anxious to hear from you. With
much love from Francie and myself, I remain your attached
friend, Roderick Lambert."

500 The Real Charlotte.

A human soul, when it has broken away from its diviner
part and is left to the anarchy of the lower passions, is a
poor and humiliating spectacle, and it is unfortunate that in
its animal want of self-control it is seldom v/ithout a ludicrous
aspect. The weak side of Charlotte's nature was her ready
abandonment of herself to fury that was, as often as not,
wholly incompatible with its cause, and now that she had
been dealt the hardest blow that life could give her, there
were a few minutes in which rage, and hatred, and thwarted
passion took her in their fierce hands, and made her for the
time a wild beast. When she came to herself she was
standing by the chimney-piece, panting and trembling ; the
letter lay in pieces on the rug, torn by her teeth, and stamped
here and there with the semicircle of her heel ; a chair was
lying on its side on the floor, and Mrs. Bruff was crouching
aghast under the sideboard, looking out at her mistress with
terrified inquiry.

Charlotte raised her hand and drew it across her mouth
with the unsteadiness of a person in physical pain, then,
grasping the edge of the chimney-piece, she laid her fore-
head upon it and drew a few long shuddering breaths. It
is probable that if anyone had then come into the room,
the human presence, with its mysterious electric quality,
would have drawn the storm outwards in a burst of
hysterics ; but solitude seems to be a non-conductor, and a
parched sob, that was strangled in its birth by an impreca-
tion, was the only sound that escaped from her. As she
lifted her head again her eyes met those of a large cabinet
photograph of Lambert that stared brilliantly at her with the
handsome fatuity conferred by an over-touched negative.
It was a recent one, taken during one of those visits
to Dublin whose object had been always so plausibly
explained to her, and, as she looked at it, the biting
thought of how she had been hoodwinked and fooled,
by a man to whom she had all her life laid down the law,
drove her half mad again. She plucked it out of its frame
with her strong fingers, and thrust it hard down into the
smouldering fire.

" If it was hell I'd do the same for you ! " she said, with
a moan like some furious feline creature, as she watched
the picture writhe in the heat, " and for her too ! " She

The Real Charlotte. 301

took up the poker, and with it drove and battered the
photograph into the heart of the fire, and then, flinging
down the poker with a crash that made Louisa jump as she
crossed the hall, she sat down at the dinner-table and made
her first effort at self-control.

" His old friend ! " she said, gasping and choking over
the words ; " the cur, the double-dyed cur ! Lying and
cringing to me, and borrowing my money, and — and — "
even to herself she could not now admit that he had gulled
her into believing that he would eventually marry her —
" and sneaking after her behind my back all the time ! And
now he sends me her love — her love ! Oh, my God
Almighty — " she tried to laugh, but instead of laughter
came tears, as she saw herself helpless, and broken, and
aimless for the rest of her life — " I won't break down — I
won't break down — " she said, grinding her teeth together
with the effort to repress her sobs. She staggered blindly
to the sideboard, and, unlocking it, took out a bottle of
brandy. She put the bottle to her mouth and took a long
gulp from it, while the tears ran down her face.

CHAPTER XL.

Sometimes there comes in Paris towards the beginning of
April a week or two of such weather as is rarely seen in
England before the end of May. The horse-chestnut buds
break in vivid green against the sober blue of the sky, there
is a warmth about the pavements that suggests the coming
blaze of summer, the gutter rivulets and the fountains
sparkle with an equal gaiety, and people begin to have their
coffee out of doors again. The spring, that on the day
Francie was married at Bray was still mainly indicated by
east wind and fresh mackerel, was burgeoning in the woods
at Versailles with a hundred delicate surprises of blossom
and leaf and thick white storm of buds, and tourists were
being forced, like asparagus, by the fine weather, and began
to appear in occasional twos and threes on the wide square
in front of the palace. A remnant of the winter quiet still
hung over everything, and a score or two of human beings,
dispersed through the endless rooms and gardens, only

302 The Real Charlotte,

made more emphatic the greatness of the extent and of the
soUtude. They certainly did not bring much custom to
the little woman who had been beguiled by the fine weather
to set up her table of cakes and oranges in a sunny angle of
the palace wall, and sat by it all day, picturesque and
patient in her white cap, while her strip of embroidery
lengthened apace in the almost unbroken leisure. Even
the first Sunday of April, from which she had hoped great
things, brought her, during many bland and dazzling hours,
nothing except the purchase of a few sous worth of sweets,
and the afternoon was well advanced before she effected a
sale of any importance. A tall gentleman, evidently a
Monsieur Anglais, was wandering about, and she called to
him to tell him of the excellence of her brioches and the
beauty of her oranges. Ordinarily she had not found that
English gentlemen were attracted by her wares, but there
was something helpless about this one that gave her confi-
dence. He came up to her table and inspected its dainties
with bewildered disfavour, while a comfortable clink of
silver came from the pocket in which one hand was
fumbling.

" Pain d'epices ! Des gateaux ! Ver' goot, ver' sveet ! "
she said encouragingly, bringing forth her entire English
vocabulary with her most v/inning smile.

" I wish to goodness I knew what the beastly things are
made of," the Englishman murmured to himself. " I can't
go wrong with oranges anyhow. Er — cela, et cela s'ils vous
plait," producing in his turn his whole stock of French,
"combieng." He had only indicated two oranges, but the
little woman had caught the anxious glance at her cakes, and
without more ado chose out six of the most highly-glazed
brioches, and by force of will and volubility made her cus-
tomer not only take them but pay her two francs for them
and the oranges.

The tall Englishman strode away round the corner of the
palace with these provisions, and along the great terrace
towards a solitary figure sitting forlornly at the top of one
of the flights of steps that drop in noble succession down to
the expanses of artificial water that seem to stretch away
into the heart of France.

'* I couldn't find anywhere to get tea/' he said as soon as

The Real Charlotte. 303

he was within speaking distance ; " I couldn't find any-
thing but an old woman selling oranges, and I got you some
of those, and she made me get some cakes as well — I don't
know if they're fit to eat."

Mr. Lambert spoke with a very unusual timorousness, as
he placed his sticky purchases in Francie's lap, and sat down
on the step beside her.

" Oh, thank you awfully, Roddy, I'm sure they're lovely,"
she answered, looking at her husband with a smile that was
less spontaneous than it used to be, and looking away again
immediately.

There was something ineffably wearying to her in the
adoring, proprietary gaze that she found so unfailingly fixed
upon her whenever she turned her eyes towards him ; it
seemed to isolate her from other people and set her upon a
ridiculous pedestal, with one fooHsh worshipper declaiming
his devotion with the fervour and fatuity of those who for
two hours shouted the praises of Diana of the Ephesians.
The supernatural mist that blurs the irksome and the ludi-
crous till it seems like a glory was not before her eyes;
every outline was clear to her, with the painful distinctness
of a caricature.

" I don't think you could eat the oranges here," he said,
*' they'd be down on us for throwing the skins about. Are
you too tired to come on down into the gardens where they
wouldn't spot us ? " He laid his hand on hers, " You are
tired. What fools we were to go walking round all those
infernal rooms ! Why didn't you say you had enough of
it?"

Francie was aching with fatigue from walking slowly over
leagues of pohshed floor, with her head thrown back in per-
petual perfunctory admiration of gilded ceilings and battle
pictures, but she got up at once, as much to escape from
the heavy warmth of his hand as from the mental languor
that made discussion an effort. They went together
down the steps, too much jaded by uncomprehended
sight-seeing to take heed of the supreme expression of
art in nature that stretched out before them in mirrors of
Triton and dolphin-guarded water and ordered masses of
woodland, and walked slowly along a terrace till they came
to another flight of steps that fell suddenly from the stately

304 The Real Charlotte.

splendours of the terraces down to the simplicities of a path
leading into a grove of trees.

The path wound temptingly on into the wood, with prim-
roses and celandine growing cool and fresh in the young
grass on either side of it ; the shady greenness was like the
music of stringed instruments after the brazen heroics of a
military band. They loitered along, and Francie slipped
her hand into Lambert's arm, feeling, unconsciously, a little
more in sympathy with him, and more at ease with life.
She had never pretended either to him or to herself that she
was in love with him ; her engagement had been the inevit-
able result of poverty, and aimlessness, and bitterness of
soul, but her instinctive leniency towards any man who liked
her, joined with her old friendliness for Mr. Lambert, made
it as easy a way out of her difficulties as any she could have
chosen. There was something flattering in the knowledge
of hei power over a man whom she had been accustomed
to look up to, and something, too, that appealed incessantly
to her good nature ; besides which there is to nearly every
human being some comfort in being the first object of
another creature's life. She was almost fond of him as she
walked beside him, glad to rest her weight on his arm, and
to feel how big and reliable he was. There was nothing in
the least romantic about having married him, but it was
eminently creditable. Her friends in the north side of
Dublin had been immensely impressed by it, and she knew
enough of Lismoyle society to be aware that there also she
would be regarded with gratifying envy. She quite looked
forward to meeting Hawkins again, that she might treat him
with the cool and assured patronage proper to the heights
of her new position ; he had himself seared the wound that
he had given her, and now she felt that she was thankful to
him.

" Hang this path ! it has as many turns as a corkscrew,"
remarked Mr. Lambert, bending his head to avoid a down-
stretched branch of hawthorn, covered with baby leaves and
giant thorns. " I thought we'd have come to a seat long
before this ; if it was Stephen's Green there'd have been
twenty by this time."

" There would, and twenty old men sitting on each of
them ! " retorted Francie. '^ Mercy ! who's that hiding

TJie Real Charlotte. 305

behind the tree? Oh, I declare, it's only one of those
everlasting old statues, and look at a lot more of them ! 1
wonder if it was that they hadn't room enough for them
up in the house that they put them out here in the
woods? "

They had come to an enclosed green space in the wood,
a daisy-starred oval of grass, holding the sprmg sunshine in
serene remoteness from all the outer world of terraces and
gardens, and made mysterious and poetical as a vale in Ida
by the strange pale presences that peopled every nook of an
ivy-grown crag at its further side. A clear pool reflected
them, but wavenngly, because of the ripples caused by a
light drip from the overhanging rock ; the trees towered on
the encircling high ground and made a wall of silence round
the intenser silences of the statues as they leaned and
postured in a trance of suspended activity ; the only sound
was the monotone of the falling water, dropping with a
cloistered gravity in the melodious hollow of the cave.

" I'm not going to walk another foot," said Francie,
sitting down on the grass by the water's edge \ " here, give
me the oranges, Roddy, no one'll catch us eating them here,
and we can peg the skins at that old thing with its clothes
dropping off and the harp in its hand."

It was thus that Mrs. Lambert described an Apollo with
a lyre who was regarding them from the opposite rock with
classic preoccupation. Lambert lighted a cigar, and leaning
back on his elbow in the grass, watched Francie's progress
through her inelegant meal with the pride of the provider.
He looked at her half wonderingly, she was so lovely in his
eyes, and she was so incredibly his own ; he felt a sudden
insanity of tenderness for her that made his heart throb and
his cheek redden, and would have ennobled him to the
pitch of dying for her on the spot, had such an extrava-
gance been demanded of him. He longed to put his
arms round her, and tell her how dear, how adorable, how
entirely delightful she was, but he knew that she would
probably only laugh at him in that maddening way of hers,
or at all events, make him feel that she was far less
interested in the declaration than he was. He gave a quick
sigh, and stretching out his hand laid it on her shoulder as
if to assure himself of his ownership of her.

u

3o6 The Real Charlotte.

" That dress fits you awfully well. I like you better in
that than in anything."

" Then I'd better take care and not get the juice on it,"
Francie replied, with her mouth full of orange ; " lend me a
loan of your handkerchief."

Lambert removed a bundle of letters and a guide-book
from his pocket, and finally produced the handkerchief.

" Why, you've a letter there from Charlotte, haven't
you ? " said Francie, with more interest than she had yet
shown, " I didn't know you had heard again from her."

" Yes, I did/' said Lambert, putting the letters back in
his pocket; ^' I wish to goodness w^e hadn't left our address
at the Charing Cross Hotel. People might let a man alone
when he's on his honeymoon."

*' What did she say ? " inquired Francie lightly. '^ Is she
cross ? The other one she wrote was as sweet as syrup, and
' Love to dear Francie ' and all."

" Oh; no, not a bit," said Mr. Lambert, who had been
secretly surprised and even slightly wounded by the fortitude
with which Miss Mullen had borne the intelligence of his
second marriage, " but she's complaining that my colts have
eaten her best white petticoat."

''You may give her one of my new ones," suggested
Francie.

" Oh yes, she'd like that, wouldn't she ? " said Lambert
with a chuckle ; ^' she's so fond of you^ y'know ! "

" Oh, she's quite friendly with me now, though I know
you're dying to make out that she'll not forgive me for
marrying you," said Francie, flinging her last bit of orange-
peel at the Apollo ; '^ you're as proud as Punch about it. I
believe you'd have married her, only she wouldn't take

you

I »

" Is that your opinion ! " said Mr. Lambert with a smile
that conveyed a magnanimous reticence as to the facts of
the case ; " you're beginning to be jealous, are you ? I
think I'd better leave you at home the day I go over to talk
the old girl into good humour about her petticoat ! "

In his heart Mr. Lambert was less comfortable than the
tone of his voice might have implied ; there had been in
the letter, in spite of its friendliness and singular absence of
feminine pique, an allusion to that three hundred pound#=

The Real Charlotte. 307

that circumstances had forced him to accept from her.
His honeymoon, and those new clothes that Francie had
bought in London, had run away with no end of money,
and it would be infernally inconvenient if Charlotte was
going, just at this time of all others, to come down on him
for money that he had never asked her for. He turned
these things over uncomfortably in his mind as he lay back
on the grass, looking up at Francie's profile, dark against
the soft blue of the sky ; and even while he took one of her
hands and drew it down to his lips he was saying to himself
that he had never yet failed to come round Charlotte when
he tried, and it would not be for want of trying if he failed
now.

The shadows of the trees began to stretch long fingers
across the grass of the Bosquet d'ApoUon, and Lambert
looked at his watch and began to think of table d'hote at the
Louvre Hotel. Pleasant, paradisaically pleasant as it was
here in the sun, with Francie's hand in his, and one of his
best cigars in his mouth, he had come to the age at which
not even Paradise would be enjoyable without a regular
dinner hour.

Francie felt chilly and exhausted as they walked back
and climbed the innumerable flights of steps that lay be-
tween them and the Palace ; she privately thought that
Versailles would be a horrible place to live in, and not
to be compared in any way to BrufF, but, at all events, it
would be a great thing to say she had been there, and she
could read up all the history part of it in the guide-book
when she got back to the hotel. They were to go up the
Eiffel tower the next day ; that would be some fun, anyhow,
and to the Hippodrome in the evening, and, though that
wouldn't be as good as Hengler's circus, the elephants and
horses and things wouldn't be talking French and expecting
her to answer them, like the housemaids and shopmen. It
was a rest to lean back in the narrow carriage with the pair
of starveHng ponies, that rattled along with as much whip-
cracking and general pomp as if it were doing ten miles an
hour instead of four, and to watch the poplars and villas
pass by in placid succession, delightfully devoid of historical
interest.

It was getting dark when they reached Paris, and the

3o8 The Real Charlotte.

breeze had become rough and cold. The lamps were shin-
ing among the trees on the Boulevards, and the red and
green eyes of the cabs and trams crossed and recrossed
each other like a tangle of fire-flies. The electric lights of
the Place du Louvre were at length in sights lofty and pale,
like globes of imprisoned daylight above the mundane flare
of the gas, and Francie's eyes turned towards them with a
languid relief. Her old gift of living every moment of her
day seemed gone, and here, in this wonderful Paris, that
had so suddenly acquired a real instead of a merely geo-
graphical existence for her, the stream of foreign life was
passing by her, and leaving her face as uninterested and
wearied as it ever had been when she looked out of the
window at Albatross Villa at the messenger boys and bakers'
carts. The street was crowded, and the carriage made
slower and slower way through it, till it became finally
wedged in the centre of a block. Lambert stood up, and
entered upon a one-sided argument with the driver as to
how to get out, while Francie remained silent, and indiff'er-
ent to the situation. A piano-organ at a little distance from
them was playing the Boulanger March, with the brilliancy
of its tribe, its unfaltering vigour dominating all other
sounds. It was a piece of music in which Francie had
herself a certain proficiency, and, shutting her eyes with a
pang of remembrance, she was back in the Tally Ho draw-
ing-room, strumming it on Charlotte's piano, while Mr.
Hawkins, holding the indignant Mrs. Bruff on his lap,
forced her unwilling paws to thump a bass. Now the
difficult part, in which she always broke down, was being
played ; he had pretended there that he was her music
teacher, and had counted out loud, and rapped her over
the knuckles with a tea-spoon, and gone on with all kinds
of nonsense. The carriage started forward again with a
jerk, and Lambert dropped back into his place beside her.

" Of all the asses unhung these French fellows are the
biggest," he said fervently, " and that infernal organ bang-
ing away the whole time till I couldn't hear my own voice,
much less his jabber. Here we are at last, anyhow, and
you've got to get out before me."

The tears had sprung overwhelmingly to her eyes, and
she could not answer a word. She turned her back on her

The Real Charlotte. 309

husband, and stepping out of the carriage she walked un-
steadily across the courtyard in the white glare of the
electric light, leaving the hotel servant, who had offered his
arm at the carriage door, to draw what conclusions seemed
good to him from the spectacle of her wet cheeks and
trembling lips. She made for the broad flight of steps, and
went blindly up them under the drooping fans of the palms,
into the reading-room on the first floor. The piano-organ
was still audible outside, reiterating to madness the tune
that had torn open her past, and she made a hard effort to
forget its associations and recover herself, catching up an
illustrated paper to hide her face from the people in the
room. It was a minute or two before Lambert followed
her.

" Here's a go ! " he said, coming towards her with a green
envelope in his hand, ^' here's a wnre to say that Sir Benja-
min's dead, and they want me back at once."

CHAPTER XLI.

The morning after Lambert received the telegram announ-
cing Sir Benjamin's death, he despatched one to Miss Char-
lotte Mullen at Gurthnamuckla, in which he asked her to
notify his immediate return to his household at Rosemount.
He had always been in the habit of relying on her help in
small as well as great occasions, and now that he had had
that unexpectedly civil letter from her, he had turned to her
at once without giving the matter much consideration. It
was never safe to trust to a servant's interpretation of the
cramped language of a telegram, and moreover, in his self-
sufficient belief in his own knowledge of women, he thought
that it would flatter her and keep her in good humour if he
asked her to give directions to his household. He would have
been less confident of his own sagacity had he seen the set
of Miss Mullen's jaw as she read the message, and heard the
laugh which she permitted to herself as soon as Louisa had
left the room.

" It's a pity he didn't hire me to be his major-domo as
well as his ste\yard and siud-groom ! " she said to herself.

3IO The Real Charlotte,

"and his financier into the bargain ! I declare I don't know
what he'd do without me ! "

The higher and more subtle side of Miss Mullen's nature
had exacted of the quivering savage that had been awakened
by Lambert's second marriage that the answer to his letter
should be of a conventional and non-committing kind ; and
so, when her brain was still on fire with hatred and invective,
her facile pen glided pleasantly over the paper in stale feli-
citations and stereotyped badinage. It is hard to ask pity
for Charlotte, whose many evil qualities have without pity
been set down, but the seal of ignoble tragedy had been set
on her life ; she had not asked for love, but it had come to
her J twisted to burlesque by the malign hand of fate. There
is pathos as well as humiliation in the thought that such a
thing as a soul can be stunted by the trivialities of personal
appearance, and it is a fact not beyond the reach of sym-
pathy that each time Charlotte stood before her glass her
ugliness spoke to her of failure, and goaded her to revenge.

It was a wet morning, but at half-past eleven o'clock the
black horse was put into the phaeton, and Miss Mullen,
attired in a shabby mackintosh, set out on her mission to
Rosemount. A cold north wind drove the rain in her face
as she flogged the old horse along through the shelterless
desolation of rock and scrub, and in spite of her mackin-
tosh she felt wet and chilled by the time she reached Rose-
mount yard. She went into the kitchen by the back door,
and delivered her message to Eliza Hackett, whom she
found sitting in elegant leisure, retrimming a bonnet that
had belonged to the late Mrs. Lambert.

" And is it the day after to-morrow, Miss, please ? " de-
manded Eliza Hackett with cold resignation.

" It is, me poor woman, it is," replied Charlotte, in the
tone of facetious intimacy that she reserved for otlier people's
servants. " You'll have to stir your stumps to get the house
ready for them."

'.* The house is cleaned down and ready for them as soon
as they like to walk into it," replied Eliza Hackett with
dignity, " and if the new lady faults the drawing-room chim-
bley for not being swep, the master will know it's not me
that's to blame for it, but the sweep that's gone dhrilling
with the Mileetia."

The Real Charlotte. 311

" Oh, she's not the one to find fault with a man for being
a soldier any more than yourself, Eliza ! " said Charlotte,
who had pulled off her wet gloves and was warming her
hands. " Ugh ! How cold it is ! Is there any place up-
stairs where I could sit while you were drying my things for
me?"

The thought had occurred to her that it would not be
uninteresting to look round the house, and as it transpired
that fires were burning in the dining-room and in Mr. Lam-
bert's study she left her wet cloak and hat in the kitchen
and ascended to the upper regions. She glanced into the
drawing-room as she passed its open door, and saw the blue
rep chairs ranged in a solemn circle, gazing with all their
button eyes at a three-legged table in the centre of the
room; the bUnds were drawn down, and the piano was
covered with a sheet ; it was altogether as inexpressive of
everything, except bad taste, as was possible. Charlotte
passed on to the dining-room and stationed herself in front
of an indifferent fire there, standing with her back to the
chimney-piece and her eyes roving about in search of enter-
tainment. Nothing was changed, except that the poor
turkey-hen's medicine bottles and pill boxes no longer lurked
behind the chimney-piece ornaments ; the bare dinner-table
suggested only how soon Francie would be seated at its
head, and Charlotte presently prowled on to Mr. Lambert's
study at the end of the passage, to look for a better fire, and
a room less barren of incident.

The study grate did not fail of its reputation of being the
best in the house, and Mr. Lambert's chair stood by the
hearthrug in wide-armed invitation to the visitor. Charlotte
sat down in it and slowly warmed one foot after the other,
while the pain rose hot and unconquerable in her heart.
The whole room was so gallingly famihar, so inseparably
connected with the time when she had still a future, vague
and improbable as it was, and could live in sufficient con-
tent on its slight sustenance. Another future had now to
be constructed, she had already traced out some lines of it,
and in the perfecting of these she would henceforward find
the cure for what she was now suffering. She roused her
self, and glancing towards the table saw that on it lay a heap
of unopened newspapers and letters ; she got up with

312 TJie Real Charlotte.

alacrity, and addressed herself to the congenial task of ex-
amining each letter in succession.

^' H'm ! They're of a very bilious complexion," she said
to herself. " There's one from Langford," turning it over
and looking at the name on the back. " I wonder if he's
ordering a Victoria for her ladyship ? I wouldn't put it past
him. Perhaps he'd like me to tell her whose money it was
paid Langford's bill last year ! "

She fingered the letter longingly, then, taking a hairpin
from the heavy coils of her hair, she inserted it under the
flap of the envelope. Under her skilful manipulation it
opened easily, and without tearing, and she took out its
contents. They consisted of a short but severe letter from
the head of the firm, asking for " a speedy settlement of
this account, now so long overdue," and of the account in
question. It was a bill of formidable amount, from which
Charlotte soon gathered the fact that twenty pounds only
of the money she had lent Lambert last May had found its
way into the pockets of the coachbuilder. She replaced
the bill and letter in the envelope, and, after a minute of
consideration, took up for the second time two large and
heavy letters that she had thrown aside when first looking
through the heap. They had the stamp of the Lismoyle
bank upon them, and obviously contamed bank - books.
Charlotte saw at a glance that the hairpin would be of no
avail with these envelopes, and after another pause for
deliberation she replaced all the letters in their original
position, and went down the passage to the top of the
kitchen stairs.

" Eliza," she called out, ** have ye a kettle boiling down
there ? Ah, that's right — " as Eliza answered in the affirma-
tive. " I never knew a well kept kitchen yet without boiling
water in it ! I'm chilled to me bones, Eliza," she continued,
" I wonder could you put your hand on a drop of spirits
anywhere, and I'd ask ye for a drop of hot grog to keep the
life in me, and " — as Eliza started with hospitable speed in
search of the materials, — " let me mix it meself, like a good
woman ; I know very well I'd be in the lock-up before night
if I drank what you'd brew for me ! "

Retiring on this jest, Miss Mullen returned to the study;

The Real Charlotte, 313

and was sitting over the fire with a newspaper when the
refreshment she had asked for was brought in.

" I cut ye a sandwich to eat with it, Miss," said Eliza
Hackett, on whom Charlotte's generosity in the matter of
Mrs. Lambert's clothing had not been thrown away ; " I
know meself that as much as the smell itself o' sperrits
would curdle under me nose, takin' them on an empty
stomach. Though^ indeed, if ye walked Lismoyle ye'd get
no better brandy than what's in that little bottle. 'Tis out
o' the poor mistress's medicine chest I got it. Well, well,
she's where she won't want brandy now ! "

Eliza withdrew with a well-ordered sigh, that, as Charlotte
knew, was expressive of future as well as past regret, and
Mr. Lambert's "oldest friend" was left in sole possession
of his study. She first proceeded to mix herself a tumbler
of brandy and water, and then she hfted the lid of the brass
punch kettle, and taking one of the envelopes that contained
the bank-books, she held it in the steam till the gum of the
flap melted. The book in it was Lambert's private banking
account, and Charlotte studied it for some time with greedy
interest, comparing the amounts of the drafts and cash
payments with the dates against each. Then she opened
the other envelope, keeping a newspaper ready at hand to
throw over the books in case of interruption, and found, as
she had anticipated, that it was the bank-book of the Dysart
estate. After this she settled down to hard work for half an
hour, comparing one book with another, making lists of
figures, sipping her brandy and water meanwhile, and
munching Eliza Hackett's sandwiches. Having learned
what she could of the bank-books, she fastened them up in
their envelopes, and, again having recourse to the kettle that
was simmering on the hob, she made, with slow, unslaked
avidity, an examination of some of the other letters on the
table. When everything was tidy again she leaned back in
the chair, and remained in deep meditation over her paper
of figures, until the dining-room cloak sent a muffled re-
minder through the wall that it was two o'clock.

Ferry Row had, since Charlotte's change of residence,
breathed a freer air. Even her heavy washing was now
done at home, and her visits to her tenantry might be looked
forward to only when rents were known to be due. There

314 ^^^^ Real Charlotte.

was nothing that they expected less than that, on this wet
afternoon, so soon, too, after a satisfactory quarter-day, they
should hear the well-known rattle of the old phaeton^ and
see Miss Mullen, in her equally well-known hat and water-
proof, driving slowly past house after house, until she arrived
at the disreputable abode of Dinny Lydon the tailor. Hav-
ing turned the cushions of the phaeton upside down to keep
them dry, Miss Mullen knocked at the door, and was ad-
mitted by Mrs. Lydon, a very dirty woman, with a half-
finished waistcoat over her arm.

" Oh, ye're welcome, Miss Mullen, ye're welcome ! Come
in out o' the rain, asthore," she said, with a manner as
greasy as her face. " Himself have the coat waitin' on ye
these three days to thry on."

" Then I'm afraid the change for death must be on Dinny
if he's beginning to keep his promises," replied Charlotte,
adventuring herself fearlessly into the dark interior. " I'd
be thrown out in all me calculations, Dinny, if ye give up
telling me Hes."

This was addressed through a reeking fog of tobacco
smoke to a half-deformed figure seated on a table by the
window.

" Oh, with the help o' God I'll tell yer honour a few lies
yet before I die," replied Dinny Lydon, removing his pipe
and the hat which, for reasons best known to himself,
he wore while at work, and turning on Charlotte a face
that, no less than his name, told of Spanish, if not Jewish
blood.

" Well, that's the truth, anyway," said Charlotte, with a
friendly laugh ; " but I won't believe in the coat being
ready till I see it. Didn't ye lose your apprentice since I
saw ye ? "

" Is it that young gobsther ? " rejoined Mrs. Lydon
acridly, as she tendered her unsavoury assistance to Char-
lotte in the removal of her waterproof; "if that one was in
the house yer coat wouldn't be finished in a twelvemonth
with all the time Dinny lost cursing him. Faith ! it was
last week he hysted his sails and away with him. Mind ye,
'twas he was the first-class puppy ! "

" Was it the trade he didn't hke ? " asked Charlotte ; " or
vyas it the skelpings he got from Dinny ? "

The Real Charlotte, 315

" Throth, it was not, but two plates in the sate of his
breeches was what he faulted, and the divil mend him ! "

" Two plates ! " exclaimed Charlotte, in not unnatural
bewilderment ; '* what m the name of fortune was he doing
with them ? "

" Well, indeed, Miss Mullen, with respex t'ye, when he
came here he hadn't as much rags on him as'd wipe a
candlestick," repHed Mrs. Lydon, with fluent spitefulness ;
" yerself knows that ourselves has to be losing with puttin'
clothes on thim apprentices, an' feedin' them as lavish and
as natty as ye'd feed a young bonnuf, an' afiher all they'd
turn about an' say they never got so much as the wettin' of
their mouths of male nor tay nor praties — " Mrs. Lydon
replenished her lungs with a long breath, — " and this lad
the biggest dandy of them all, that wouldn't be contint with-
out Dinny'd cut the brea'th of two fingers out of a lovely
throusers that was a little sign bulky on him and was
gethered into nate plates — "

" Oh, it's well known beggars can't bear heat," said Char-
lotte, interrupting for purposes of her own a story that
threatened to expand unprofitably, "and that was always
the way with all the M'Donaghs. Didn't I meet that lad's
cousin, Shamus Bawn, driving a new side-car this morning,
and his father only dead a week. I suppose now he's got
the money he thinks he'll never get to the end of it, though
indeed it isn't so long since I heard he was looking for
money, and found it hard enough to get it."

Mrs. Lydon gave a laugh of polite acquiescence, and
wondered inwardly whether Miss Mullen had as intimate a
knowledge of everyone's affairs as she seemed to have of
Shamus Bawn's.

" Oh, they say a manny a thing — " she observed with
well-simulated inanity. " Arrah ! dheen dheffeth^ Dinny !
thiirrum cussoge mri'na."

" Yes, hurry on and give me the coat, Dinny," said
Charlotte, displaying that knowledge of Irish that always
came as a shock to those who were uncertain as to its
limitations.

The tailor untwisted his short legs and descended stiffly
to the floor, and having helped Charlotte into the coat,
pushed her into the light of the open door, and surveyed

3i6 The Real Charlotte.

his handiwork with his large head on one side, and the
bitten ends of thread still hanging on his lower lip.

*' It turrned well," he said, passing his hand approvingly
over Miss Mullen's thick shoulder ; " afther all, the good
stuff's the best ; that's fine honest stuff that'll wear forty of
thim other thrash. That's the soort that'll shtand."

" To the death ! " interjected Mrs. Lydon fervently.

" How many wrinkles are there in the back ? " said
Charlotte ; " tell me the truth now, Dinny ; remember
'twas only last week you were * making your sowl ' at the
mission."

" Tchah ! " said Dinny Lydon contemptuously, " it's little
I regard the mission, but I wouldn't be bothered tellin' ye
lies about the hkes o' this," surreptitiously smoothing as he
spoke a series of ridges above the hips; "that's a grand
clane back as ever I see."

" How independent he is about his missions ! " said
Charlotte jibingly. " Ha ! Dinny me man, if you were
sick you'd be the first to be roaring for the priest ! "

" Faith, divil a roar," returned the atheistical Dinny ; " if
I couldn't knock the stone out of the gap for meself, the
priest couldn't do it for me."

" Oh, Gaad ! Dinny, have conduct before Miss Mullen ! "
cried Mrs. Lydon.

" He may say what he likes, if he wouldn't drop candle
grease on my jacket," said Charlotte, who had taken off the
coat and was critically examining every seam ; ''or, indeed,
Mrs. Lydon, I believe it was yourself did it ! " she ex-
claimed, suddenly intercepting an indescribable glance of
admonition from Mrs. Dinny to her husband ; " that's wax
candle grease ! I believe you wore it yourself at Michael
M'Donagh's wake, and that's why it was finished four days
ago."

Mrs. Lydon uttered a shriek of merriment at the absurdity
of the suggestion, and then fell to disclaimers so voluble as
at once to convince Miss Mullen of her guilt. The accusa-
tion was not pressed home, and Dinny's undertaking to re-
move the grease with a hot iron was accepted with surpris-
ing amiability. Charlotte sat down on a chair whose
shattered frame bore testimony to the renowned violence of
Mrs. Lydon when under the influence of liquor, and en-

The Real Charlotte. 317

couraging the singed and half-starved cat on to her lap, she
addressed herself to conversation.

" Wasn't Michael M'Donagh husband to your mother's
cousin?" she said to the tailor; "I'm told he had a very
large funeral."

" He had that," answered Dinny, pushing the black hair
back from his high forehead, and looking more than ever
like a Jewish rabbi ; " three priests, an' five an' twenty cars,
an' fifteen pounds of althar money."

" Well, the three priests have a right to pray their big
best for him, with five pounds apiece in their pockets," re-
marked Charlotte; "I suppose it was the M'Donagh side
gave the most of the altar. Those brothers of old Michael's
are all stinking of money."

" Oh, they're middhn' snug," said Dinny, who had just
enough family feeling for the M'Donaghs to make him
chary of admitting their wealth ; " annyway, they're able to
slap down their five shillin's or their ten shillin' bit upon the
althar as well as another."

" Who got the land ? " asked Charlotte, stroking the cat's
filthy head, and thereby perfuming her fingers with salt
fish.

*' Oh, how do I know what turning and twisting of keys
there was in it afther himself dyin' ? " said the tailor, with
the caution which his hearers understood to be a fatiguing
but inevitable convention ; " they say the daughter got the
biggest half, an' Shamus Bawn got the other. There's
where the battle'll be between them." He laughed sardoni-
cally, as he held up the hot iron and spat upon it to
ascertain its heat.

"He'd better let his sister alone, said Charlotte.
" Shamus Bawn has more land this minute than he has
money enough to stock, with that farm he got from Mr.
Lambert the other day, without trying to get more."

^' Oh, Jim's not so poor altogether that he couldn't
bring the law on her if he'd like," said Dinny, immediately
resenting the slighting tone \ " he got a good lump of a
fortune with the wife."

" Ah, what's fifty pounds ! " said Charlotte scornfully.
" I daresay he wanted every penny of it to pay the fine on
Knocklara."

3i8 The Real Charlotte.

" Arrah, fifty pounds ! God help ye ! " exclaimed Dinny
Lydon with superior scorn. "No, but a hundhred an'
eighty was what he put down on the table to Lambert for
it, and it's Uttle but he had to give the two hundhred
itself."

Mrs. Lydon looked up from the hearth where she was
squatted, fanning the fire with her red petticoat to heat
another iron for her husband. " Sure I know Dinny's safe
tellin' it to a lady," she said, rolling her dissolute cunning
eye from her husband to Miss Mullen ; " but ye'll not
spake of it asthore. Jmimy had some dhrink taken when
he shown Dinny the docket, because Lambert said he
wouldn't give the farm so chape to e'er a one but Jimmy,
an' indeed Jimmy'd break every bone in our body if he got
the wind of a word that 'twas through us the neighbours
had it to say he had that much money with him. Jimmy's
very close in himself that way."

Charlotte laughed good-humouredly. "Oh, there's no
fear of me, Mrs. Lydon. It's no affair of mine either way,"
she said reassuringly. " Here, hurry with me jacket,
Dinny ; I'll be glad enough to have it on me going home."

CHAPTER XLII.

Sir Benjamin Dysart's funeral was an event of the past.
It was a full three weeks since the family vault in Lismoyle
Churchyard had closed its door upon that ornament of county
society; Lady Dysart's friends were beginning to recover from
the strain of writing letters of condolence to her on her
bereavement, and Christopher, after sacrificing to his de-
parted parent's memory a week of perfect sailing weather, had
had his boat painted, and had relapsed into his normal habit
of spending as much of his time as was convenient on the
lake.

There was still the mingled collapse and stir in the air
that comes between the end of an old regime and the be-
ginning of a new. Christopher had resigned his appoint-
ment at Copenhagen, feeling that his life would, for the
future, be vaguely filled with new duties and occupations,
but he had not yet discovered anything very novel to do be-

The Real Charlotte. 319

yond signing his name a good many times, and trying to be-
come accustomed to hearing himself called Sir Christopher;
occupations that seemed rather elementary in the construc-
tion of a career. His want of initiative energy in every-day
matters kept him motionless and apathetic, waiting for his
new atmosphere to make itself palpable to him, and pre-
pared to resign himself to its conditions. He even, in his
unquenchable self-consciousness, knew that it would be
wholesome for him if these were such as he least liked ; but
in the meantime, he remained passively unsettled, and a
letter from Lord Castlemore, in which his tact and con-
scientiousness as a secretary were fully set forth, roused no
outside ambition in him. He re-read it on a shimmering
May morning, with one arm hanging over the tiller of his
boat, as she crept with scarcely breathing sails through the
pale streaks of calm that lay like dreams upon the lake.
He was close under the woods of Bruff, close enough to
feel how still and busy they were in the industry of spring.
It seemed to him that the sound of the insects was like the
humming of her loom, and almost mechanically he turned
over the envelope of Lord Castlemore's letter, and began in
the old familiar way to scrawl a line or two on the back of
it.

The well-known crest, however, disconcerted his fancy,
and he fell again to ruminating upon the letter itself. If
this expressed the sum of his abilities, diplomatic life was
certainly not worth living. Tact and conscientiousness were
qualities that would grace the discharge of a doctor's butler,
and might be expected from anyone of the most ordinary
intelligence. He could not think that his services to his
country, as concentrated in Lord Castlemore, were at all re-
markable ; they had given him far less trouble than the
most worthless of those efforts in prose and verse, that, as he
thought contemptuously, were like the skeletons that mark
the desert course of a caravan ; he did not feel the diffi-
culty, and he, therefore, thought the achievement small. A
toying breeze fluttered the letter in his hand, and the boat
tilted languidly in recognition of it. The water began to
murmur about the keel, and Christopher presently found
himself gliding smoothly towards the middle of the lake.

He looked across at Lismoyle, spreading placidly along

320 The Real Charlotte.

the margin of the water, and as he felt the heat of the sun
and the half-forgotten largeness of summer in the air, he
could have believed himself back in the August of last year,
and he turned his eyes to the trees of Rosemount as if the
sight of them would bring disillusionment. It was some
time now since he had first been made ashamed of the dis-
covery that disillusionment also meant relief For some
months he had clung to his dream ; at first helplessly, with
a sore heart, afterwards with a more conscious taking hold,
as of something gained, that made life darker, but for ever
richer. It had been torture of the most simple, unbear-
able kind, to drive away from Tally Ho, with the knowledge
that Hawkins was preferred to him ; but sentiment had
deftly usurped the place of his blind suffering, and that stage
came that is almost inevitable with poetic natures, when the
artistic sense can analyse sorrow, and sees the beauty of de-
feat. Then he had heard that Francie was going to marry
Lambert, and the news had done more in one moment to
disillusion him than common sense could do in years. The
thought stung him with a kind of horror for her that she
could tolerate such a fate as marrying Roddy Lambert. He
knew nothing of the tyrannies of circumstance. To pros-
perous young men like Christopher, poverty, except bare-
footed and in rags, is a name, and unpaid bills a joke.
That Albatross Villa could have driven her to the tremen-
dous surrender of marriage was a thing incredible. All
that was left for him to believe was that he had been mis-
taken, and that the lucent quality that he thought he had
found in her soul had existed only in his imagination. Now
when he thought of her face it was with a curious half re-
gret that so beautiful a thing should no longer have any
power to move him. Some sense of loss remained, but it
was charged with self pity for the loss of an ideal. Another
man in Christopher's position would not probably have
troubled himself about ideals, but Christopher, fortunately,
or unfortunately for him, was not like other men.

The fact must even be faced that he had probably never
been in love with her, according to the common acceptation
of the term. His intellect exhausted his emotions and killed
them with solicitude, as a child digs up a flower to see if it
is growing, and his emotions themselves had a feminine re-

The Real Charlotte. 321

finement, but lacked the feminine quality of unreasoning
pertinacity. From self-pity for the loss of an ideal to
gratitude for an escape is not far to go, and all that now
remained to him of bitterness was a gentle self-contempt for
his own inadequacy iu falling in love, as in everything
else.

It may be imagined that in Lismoyle Francie was a valued
and almost invariable topic of conversation. Each visitor to
Rosemount went there in the character of a scout, and a de-
tailed account of her interview was published on every
possible occasion.

" Well, I took my time about calling on her," observed
Mrs. Baker ; " I thought I'd let her see I was in no hurry."

Mrs. Corkran, with whom Mrs. Baker was having tea, felt
guiltily conscious of having called on Mrs. Lambert two
days after her arrival, and hastened to remind the company
of the pastoral nature of the attention.

" Oh, of course we know clergymen's families can't pick
their company," went on Mrs. Baker, dismissing the inter-
ruption not without a secret satisfaction that Carrie Beattie,
who, in the absence of Miss Corkran, was pouring out tea
for her future mother-in-law, should see that other people
did not consider the Rev. Joseph such a catch as she did.
*' Only that Lambert's such a friend of Mr. Baker's, and
always banked with him, I declare I don't know that I'd
have gone at all. I assure you it gave me quite a turn to
see her stuck up there in poor Lucy Lambert's chair, talk-
ing about the grand hotels that she was in, in London and
Paris, as if she never swept out a room or cleaned a saucepan
in her life."

" She had all the walls done round with those penny
fans," struck in Miss Kathleen Baker, " and a box of French
bongbongs out on the table ; and oh, mamma ! did you
notice the big photograph of him and her together on the
chimney-piece ? "

" I could notice nothing, Kathleen, and I didn't want to
notice them," replied Mrs. Baker ; " I could think of noth-
ing but of what poor Lucy Lambert would say to see her
husband dancing attendance on that young hussy without so
much as a mourning ring on him, and her best tea-service
thrashed about as if it was kitchen delf,"

X

322 The Real Charlotte.

" Was he very devoted, Mrs. Baker ? " asked Miss Beattie
with a simper.

" Oh, I suppose he was," answered Mrs. Baker, as if in
contempt for any sentiment inspired by Francie, "but I
can't say I observed anything very particular."

" Oh, then, / did ! " said Miss Baker with a nod of
superior intelHgence ; " I was watching them all the time ;
every word she uttered he was listening to it, and when she
asked for the tea-cosy h&Jlew for it ! "

" Eliza Hackett told my Maria there was shocking waste
going on in the house now ; fires in the drawing-room from
eight o'clock in the morning, and this the month of May ! "
said Mrs. Corkran with an approving eye at the cascade of
cut paper that decked her own grate, " and the cold meat
given to the boy that cleans the boots ! "

^' Roddy Lambert'll be sorry for it some day when it's
too late," said Mrs. Baker darkly, " but men are all aHke ;
it's out of sight out of mind with them ! "

" Oh, Mrs. Baker," wheezed Mrs. Corkran with asthmatic
fervour, " I think you're altogether too cynical ; I'm sure
that's not your opinion of Mr. Baker."

" I don't know what he might do if I was dead," replied
Mrs. Baker, " but I'll answer for it he'll not be carrying on
with Number Two while Fm aUve, like other people I
know 1 "

" Oh, don't say such things before these young ladies,"
said Mrs. Corkran ; "I wish them no greater blessing
of Providence than a good husband, and I think I may say
that dear Carry will find one in my Joseph."

The almost death-bed solemnity of this address paralysed
the conversation for a moment, and Miss Beattie concealed
her blushes by going to the window to see whose was the
vehicle that had just driven by.

" Oh, it's Mr. Hawkins ! " she exclaimed, feeling the im-
portance of the information.

Kathleen Baker sprang from her seat and ran to the
window. "So it is !" she cried, "and I bet you sixpence
he's going to Rosemount ! My goodness, I wish it was to-
day we had gone there I "

The Real Charlotte, 323

CHAPTER XLIII.

Hawkins had, like Mrs. Baker, been in no hurry to call
upon the bride. He had seen her twice in church, he had
once met her out driving with her husband, and, lastly, he
had come upon her face to face in the principal street of
Lismoyle, and had received a greeting of aristocratic hauteur,
as remarkable as the newly acquired English accent in
which it was delivered. After these things a visit to her
was unavoidable, and, in spite of a bad conscience, he felt,
when he at last set out for Rosemount, an excitement that
was agreeable after the calm of life at Lismoyle.

There was no one in the drawing-room when he was
shown into it, and as the maid closed the door behind him
he heard a quick step run through the hall and up the
stairs. *' Gone to put on her best bib and tucker," he said
to himself with an increase of confidence ; " I'll bet she saw
me coming." The large photograph alluded to by Miss
Baker was on the chimneypiece, and he walked over and
examined it with great interest. It obeyed the traditions of
honeymoon portraits, and had the inevitable vulgarity of
such ; Lambert, sitting down, turned the leaves of a book,
and Francie, standing behind him, rested one hand on his
shoulder, while the other held a basket of flowers. In spite
of its fatuity as a composition, both portraits were good, and
they had moreover an air of prosperity and new clothes that
Mr. Hawkins found to be almost repulsive. He studied the
photograph with deepening distaste until he was aware of a
footstep at the door, and braced himself for the encounter,
with his heart beating uncomfortably and unexpectedly.

They shook hands with the politeness of slight acquaint-
ance, and sat down, Hawkins thinking he had never seen
her look so pretty or so smart, and wondering what he was
going to talk to her about. It was evidently going to be
war to the knife, he thought, as he embarked haltingly upon
the weather, and found that he was far less at his ease than
he had expected to be.

"Yes, it's warmer here than it was in England," said P'rancie,
looking languidly at the rings on her left hand ; " we were
perished there after Paris."

324 The Real Charlotte,

She felt that the familiar mention of such names must of
necessity place her in a superior position, and she was so
stimulated by their associations with her present grandeur
that she raised her eyes, and looked at him. Their eyes
met with as keen a sense of contact as if their hands had
suddenly touched, and each, with a perceptible jerk, looked
away.

" You say that Paris was hot, was it ? " said Hawkins, with
something of an effort. '^ I haven't been there since I went
with some people the year before last, and it was as hot
then as they make it. I thought it rather a hole."

*^ Oh, indeed ? " said Francie, chillingly ; " Mr. Lambert
and I enjoyed it greatly. You've been here all the spring,
I suppose ? "

*' Yes ; I haven't been out of this place, except for
Punchestown, since I came back from leave ; " then with a
reckless feeling that he would break up this frozen sea of
platitudes, " since that time that I met you on the pier at
Kingstown."

" Oh yes," said Francie, as if trying to recall some unim-
portant incident ; " you were there with the Dysarts,
weren't you ? "

Hawkins became rather red. She was palpably overdoing
it, but that did not diminish the fact that he was being
snubbed, and though he might, in a general and guarded
way, have admitted that he deserved it, he realised that he
bitterly resented being snubbed by Francie.

" Yes," he said, with an indifference as deliberately
exaggerated as her own, " I travelled over with them. I
remember how surprised we were to see you and Mr. Lam-
bert there."

She felt the intention on his part to say something
disagreeable, and it stung her more than the words.

''Why were you surprised?" she asked coolly.

" Well — er — I don't exactly know," stammered Mr.
Hawkins, a good deal taken aback by the directness of the
mquiry ; '* we didn't exactly know where you were — thought
Lambert was at Lismoyle, you know." He began to wish
he had brought Cursiter with him; no one could have guessed
that she would have turned into such a cat and given herself
such airs ; her ultra-refinement, and her affected accent, and

The Real Charlotte. 325

her exceeding prettiness, exasperated him in a way that
he could not have explained, and though the visit did not
fail of excitement, he could not flatter himself that he was
taking quite the part in it that he had expected. Certainly
Mrs. Lambert was not maintaining the role that he had
allotted her ; huffiness was one thing, but infernal swagger
was quite another. It is painful for a young man of Mr.
Hawkins' type to realise that an affection that he has
inspired can wane and even die, and Francie's self-
possession was fast robbing him of his own.

" I hear that your regiment is after being ordered to
India ? " she said cheerfully, when it became apparent that
Hawkins could find no more to say.

" Yes, so they say ; next trooping season will about see
us, I expect, and they're safe to send us to Aldershot first,
so we may be out of this at any minute." He glanced at
her as he spoke, to see how she took it.

" Oh, that'll be very nice for you/' answered Francie, still
more cheerfully. " I suppose," she went on with her most
aristocratic drawl, " that you'll be married before you go
out ? "

She had arranged the delivery of this thrust before she
came downstairs, and it glided from her tongue as easily as
she could have wished.

" Yes, I daresay I shall," he answered defiantly, though
the provokingly ready blush of a fair man leaped to his face.
He looked at her, angry with himself for reddening, and
angrier with her for blazoning her indifference, by means of
a question that seemed to him the height of bad taste and
spitefulness. As he looked, the colour that burned in his
own face repeated itself in hers with slow relentlessness ; at
the sight of it a sudden revulsion of feeling brought him
dangerously near to calling her by her name, with reproaches
for her heartlessness, but before the word took form she had
risen quickly, and, saying something incoherent about
ordering tea, moved towards the bell, her head turned from
him with the helpless action of a shy child.

Hawkins, hardly knowing what he was doing, started
forward, and as he did so the door opened, and a well-known
voice announced,

'♦ Miss Charlotte Mullen ] "

326 The Real Charlotte,

The owner of the voice advanced into the room, and saw,
as anyone must have seen, the flushed faces of its two
occupants, and felt that nameless quality in the air that tells
of interruption.

" I took the liberty of announcing myself," she said, with
her most affable smile; ''I knew you were at home, as I
saw Mr. Hawkins' trap at the door, and I just walked
in."

As she shook hands and sat down she expanded easily
into a facetious description of the difficulties of getting her
old horse along the road from Gurthnamuckla, and by the
time she had finished her story Hawkins' complexion had
regained its ordinary tone, and Francie had resumed the air
of elegant nonchalance appropriate to the importance of the
married state. Nothing, in fact, could have been more
admirable than Miss Mullen's manner. She praised Francie's
new chair covers and Indian tea ; she complimented Mr.
Hawkins on his new pony ; even going so far as to reproach
him for not having been out to Gurthnamuckla to see her,
till Francie felt some pricks of conscience about the sceptical
way that she and Lambert had laughed together over
Charlotte's amiability when she paid her first visit to them.
She found inexpressible ease in the presence of a third
person as capable as Charlotte of carrying on a conversation
with the smallest possible assistance ; sheltered by it she
slowly recovered from her mental overthrow, and, furious as
she was with Hawkins for his part in it, she was beginning
to be able to patronise him again by the time that he got
up to go away.

" Well, Francie, my dear child," began Charlotte, as soon
as the door had closed behind him, "I've scarcely had a
word with you since you came home. You had such a
reception the last day I was here that I had to content
myself with talking to Mrs. Beattie, and hearing all about
the price of underclothes. Indeed I had a good mind to
tell her that only for your magnanimity she wouldn't be
having so much to say about Carrie's trousseau ! "

"Indeed she was welcome to him !" said Francie, putting
her chin in the air, " that Httle wretch, indeed ! "

It was one of the moments when she touched the extreme
of satisfaction in being married, and in order to cover, for

The Real Charlotte. 327

her own and Charlotte's sake, the remembrance of that
idiotic blush, she assumed a little extra bravado.

" Talking of your late admirers — " went on Charlotte,
" for I hope for poor Roddy's sake they're not present ones
— I never saw a young fellow so improved in his manners
as Mr. Hawkins. There was a time I didn't fancy him — as
you may remember, though we've agreed to say nothing
more about our old squabbles — but I think he's chastened
by adversity. That engagement, you know — " she paused,
and cast a side-long, unobtrusive glance at Francie. " He's
not the first young man that's been whipped in before
marriage as well as after it, and I think the more he looks
at it the less he likes it."

" He's been looking at it a long time now," said Francie
with a laugh that was intended to be careless, but into
which a sneer made its way. " I wonder Roddy isn't in,"
she continued, changing the subject to one in which no pit-
falls lurked ; "I wouldn't be surprised if he'd gone to
Gurthnamuckla to see you, Charlotte ; he's been saying
ever since we came back he wanted to have a talk with you,
but he's been so busy he hadn't a minute."

" If I'm not greatly mistaken," said Charlotte, standing
up so as to be able to see out of the window, " here's the
man of the house himself. What horse is that he's on ? "
her eyes taking in with unwilling admiration the swaggering
ease of seat and squareness of shoulder that had so often
captivated her taste, as Lambert, not unaware of spectators
at the window, overcame much callow remonstrance on the
part of the young horse he was riding, at being asked to
stand at the door till a boy came round to take him.

" Oh, that's the new four-year-old that Roddy had taken
in off Gurthnamuckla while we were away," said Francie,
leaning her elbow against the shutter and looking out too.
'* He's an awful wild young brat of a thing ! Look at the
way he's hoisting now ! Roddy says he'll have me up on
him before the summer's out, but I tell him that if he does
I won't be on him long." Her eyes met her husband's, and
she laughed and tapped on the glass, beckoning imperiously
to him to come in.

Charlotte turned away from the window, and when, a few
minutes afterwards, Mr. Lambert came into the room, the

328 272^ Real Charlotte.

visitor had put her gloves on, and was making her farewells
to her hostess.

" No, Roddy," she said, " I must be off now. I'm like
the beggars, ' tay and turn out ' is my motto. But suppos-
ing now that you bring this young lady over to lunch with
me to-morrow — no, not to-morrow, that's Sunday — come on
Monday. How would that suit your book ? "

Lambert assented with a good grace that struck Francie
as being wonderfully well assumed, and followed Miss
Mullen out to put her in her phaeton.

Francie closed the door behind them, and sat down.
She was glad she had met Hawkins and got it over, and as
she reviewed the incidents of his visit, she thought that on
the whole she had come very near her own ideal of behavi-
our. Cool^ sarcastic, and dignified, even though she had,
for one moment, got a little red, he could not but feel that
she had acted as became a married lady, and shown him
his place once for all. As for him, he had been horrible,
she thought bitterly ; sitting up and talking to her as if he
had never seen her before, and going on as if he had never
— she got up hastily as if to escape from the hateful memo-
ries of last year that thrust themselves suddenly into her
thoughts. How thankful she was that she had shown him
she was not inconsolable ; she wished that Roddy had come
in while he was there, and had stood over him, and over-
shadowed him with his long legs and broad shoulders, and
his air of master of the house. Why on earth had Charlotte
praised him ? Gurthnamuckla must have had the most
extraordinarily sweetening effect upon her, for she seemed
to have a good word for everybody now, and Roddy's notion
that she would waat to be coaxed into a good temper was
all nonsense, and conceited nonsense too, and so she would
tell him. It was not in Francie's light, wholesome nature
to bear malice ; the least flutter of the olive branch, the
faintest glimmer of the flag of truce, was enough to make
her forgive an injury and forget an insult.

When her husband came back she turned towards him
with a sparkle in her eye.

" Well, Roddy, I hope you squeezed her hand when you
were saying good-bye ! I daresay now you'll want me to
believe that it's all in honour of you that she's asked us

The Real Charlotte. 329

over to lunch to-morrow, and I suppose that's what she was
telHng you out in the hall ? Aren't you sorry you didn't
marry her instead of me ? "

Lambert did not answer, but came over to where she was
standing, and putting his arm round her, drew her towards
him and kissed her with a passion that seemed too serious
an answer to her question. She could not know, as she
laughed and hid her face from him, that he was saying to
himself, " Of course he was bound to come and call, he'd
have had to do that no matter who she was I "

CHAPTER XLIV.

Spring, that year, came delicately in among the Galway
hills ; in primroses, in wild bursts of gorse, and in the later
snow of hawthorn, unbeaten by the rain or the wet west
wind of rougher seasons. A cuckoo had dropped out of
space into the copse at the back of Gurthnamuckla, and
kept calhng there with a lusty sweetness ; a mist of green
was breathed upon the trees, and in the meadows by the
lake a corncrake was adding a diffident guttural or two to
the chirruping chorus of coots and moorhens. Mr. Lambert's
three-year-olds grew and flourished on the young rich grass,
and, in the turbulence of their joie de vivre, hunted the
lambs, and bit the calves, and jumped every barrier that the
ingenuity of Miss Mullen's herdsman could devise. " Those
brutes must be put into the Stone Field," the lady of the
house had said, regarding their gambols with a sour eye ;
" I don't care whether the grass is good or bad, they'll have
to do with it ; " and when she and her guests went forth
after their lunch to inspect the farm in general and the
young horses in particular, it was to the Stone Field that
they first bent their steps.

No one who has the idea of a green-embowered English
lane can hope to realise the fortified alley that wound through
the heart of the pastures of Gurthnamuckla, and was known
as the Farm Lane. It was scarcely wide enough for two
people to walk abreast ; loose stone walls, of four or five
feet in thickness, towered on either side of it as high as the
head of a tall man ; to meet a cow in it involved either re-

330 The Real Charlotte.

treat or the perilous ascent of one of the walls. It em-
bodied the simple expedient of bygone farmers for clearing
their fields of stones, and contained raw material enough to
build a church. Charlotte, Mr. Lambert, and Francie ad-
vanced in single file along its meaningless windings, until it
finished its career at the gate of the Stone Field, a long
tongue of pasture that had the lake for a boundary on three
of its sides, and was cut off from the mainland by a wall not
inferior in height and solidity to those of the lane.

" There, Roddy," said Miss Mullen, as she opened the
gate, " there's where I had to banish them, and I don't
think they're too badly off."

The young horses were feeding at the farthest point of
the field, fetlock deep in the flowery grass, with the sparkling
blue of the lake making a background to their slender shapes.

" They look like money, Charlotte, I think. That brown
filly ought to bring a hundred at least next Ballinasloe fair,
when she knows how to jump," said Lambert, as he and
Charlotte walked across the field, leaving Francie, who saw
no reason for pretending an interest that was not expected
of her, to amuse herself by picking cowslips near the gate.

"I'm glad to hear you say that, Roddy," replied Charlotte.
*' It's a comfort to think anything looks like money these
bad times ; I've never known prices so low."

" They're lower than I ever thought they'd go, by Jove,"
Lambert answered gloomily. " I'm going up to Mayo,
collecting, next week, and if I don't do better there than I've
done here, I daresay Dysart won't think so much of his
father's shoes after all."

He was striding along, taking no trouble to suit his pace
to Charlotte's, and perhaps the indifference to her com-
panionship that it showed, as well as the effort involved in
keeping beside him, had the effect of irritating her.

"Maybe he might think them good enough to kick people
out with," she said with a disagreeable laugh ; " I remember,
in the good old times, when my father and Sir Benjamin
ruled the roast, we heard very little about bad collections."

It struck Lambert that though this was the obvious
moment for that business talk that he had come over for, it
was not a propitious one. " I wonder if the macaroni
cheese disagreed with her ? " he thought ; " it was beastly

The Real Charlotte. 331

enough to do it, anyhow. You may remember," he said
aloud, " that in the good old times the property was worth
just about double what it is now, and a matter of three or
four hundred pounds either way made no difference to
signify."

*' D'ye think ye'U be that much short this time ? "

She darted the question at him with such keenness that
Lambert inwardly recoiled before it, though it was the point
to which he had wished to bring her.

" Oh, of course one can't be sure," he said, retreating from
his position ; " but I've just got a sort of general idea that
I'll be a bit under the mark this time."

He was instinctively afraid of Charlotte, but in this
moment he knew, perhaps for the first time, how much
afraid. In theory he believed in his old power over her,
and clung to the belief with the fatuity of a vain man, but
he had always been uncomfortably aware that she was intel-
lectually his master, and though he thought he could still
sway her heart with a caress, he knew he could never outwit
her.

** Oh, no one knows better than I do what a thankless
business it is, these times," said Charlotte with a reassuring
carelessness; "it's a case of 'pull devil, pull baker,' though
indeed I don't know under which head poor Christopher
Dysart comes. And as we've got on to the sordid topic of
money, Roddy, I'm not going to ask yer honour for a re-
duction of the rint, ye needn't be afraid — but I've been
rather pinched by the expense I've been put to in doing up
the house and stocking the farm, and it would be mighty
convaynient to nie^ if it would be convaynient to you, to let
me have a hundred pounds or so of that money I lent you
last year."

" Well — Charlotte — " began Lambert, clearing his throat,
and striking with his stick at the heads of the buttercups,
" that's the very thing I've been anxious to talk to you
about. The fact is, I've had an awful lot of expense myself
this last twelve months, and, as I told you, I can't lay a
finger on anything except the interest of what poor Lucy left
me — and — er — I'd give you any percentage you like, you
know — ? " He broke off for an instant, and then began
again. " You can see for yourself what a sin it would be to

332 The Real Charlotte.

sell those things now," he pointed at the three young horses,
" when they'll just bring three times the money this time
next year."

" Oh yes," said Charlotte, " but my creditors might say it
was more of a sin for me not to pay my debts."

Lambert stood still, and dug his stick into the ground,
and Charlotte, watching him, knew that she had put in her
sickle and reaped her first sheaf.

*' All right," he said, biting his lip, " if your creditors can
manage to hold out till after the fair next week, I daresay by
selling every horse I've got I could let you have your money
then." As he made the offer, he trusted that its quixotic
heroism would make Charlotte ashamed of herself; no
woman could possibly expect such a sacrifice as that from a
man, and the event proved that he was right

This was not the sacrifice that Miss Mullen wished for.

" Oh, pooh, pooh, Roddy ! you needn't take me up in
such earnest as that," she said in her most friendly voice,
and Lambert congratulated himself upon his astuteness ; " I
only meant that if you could let me have a hundred or so in
the course of the next month, it would be a help to my
finances."

Lambert could not bring himself to admit that he was as
little able to pay her one hundred as three ; at all events, a
month would give him time to look about him, and if he
made a good collection he could easily borrow it from the
estate account.

*' Oh, if that's all," he answered, affecting more relief than
he felt, " I can let you have it in a fortnight or so."

They were near the lake by this time, and the young
horses feeding by its margin flung up their heads and stared
in statuesque surprise at their visitors.

"They'll not let you near them," said Charlotte, as
Lambert walked slowly towards them; *' they're as wild
as hawks. And, goodness me ! that girl's gone out of
the field and left the gate open ! Wait a minute till I go
back and shut it."

Lambert stood and looked after her as she hastened
cumbrously back towards the gate, and wondered how he
had ever hked her, or brought himself to have any dealings
with her, and his eye left her quickly to follow the red

The Real Charlotte. 333

parasol that, moving slowly aloro; above the grey wall,
marked Francie's progress along the lane. Charlotte hurried
on towards the gate, well satisfied with the result of her con-
versation, and she was within some fifty yards of it when a
loud and excited shout from Lambert, combined with the
thud of galloping hoofs, made her start round. The young
horses had been frightened by Lambert's approach, and after
one or two circling swoops, had seen the open gate, and,
headed by the brown filly, were careering towards it.

" The gate ! Charlotte ! " roared Lambert, rushing futilely
after the horses, " shut the gate ! "

Charlotte was off in an instant, realising as quickly as
Lambert what might happen if Francie were charged in the
narrow lane by this living avalanche ; even in the first in-
stant of comprehension another idea had presented itself.
Should she stumble and so not reach the gate in time ? It
was fascinatingly simple, but it was too simple, and it was
by no means certain.

Charlotte ran her hardest, and, at some slight personal
risk, succeeded in slamming the gate in the face of the
brown filly, as she and her attendant squires dashed up to
it. There was a great deal of slipping about and snorting,
before the trio recovered themselves, and retired to pass off
their discomfiture in a series of dislocating bucks and squeal-
ing snaps at each other, and then Charlotte, purple from her
exertions, advanced to meet Lambert with the smile of the
benefactor broad upon her face. His was blotched white
and red with fright and running ; without a breath left to
thank her, he took her hand, and wrung it with a more
genuine emotion than he had ever before felt for her.

Francie, meanwhile, strolled slowly up the lane towards
the house, with her red parasol on her shoulder and her
bunch of cowsUps in her hand. She knew that the visit to
the Stone Field was only the preliminary to a crawling in-
spection of every cow, sheep, and potato ridge on the farm,
and she remembered that she had seen a novel of attractive
aspect on the table in the drawing-room. She felt singu-
larly uninterested in everything; Gurthnamuckla was nothing
but Tally Ho over again on a larger and rather cleaner
scale ; the same servants, the same cats, the same cockatoo,
the same leathery pastry and tough mutton. Last summer

334 ^-^^^ Real Charlotte.

these things had mingled themselves easily into her every-
day enjoyment of life, as amusing and not unpleasant
elements ; now she promised herself that, no matter what
Roddy said, this was the last time she would come to lunch
with Charlotte.

Roddy was very good to her and all that, but there was
nothing new about him either, and marriage was an awful
humdrum thing after all. She looked back with something
of regret to the crowded drudging household at Albatross
Villa ; she had at least had something to do there, and she
had not been lonely ; she often found herself very lonely at
Rosemount. Before she reached the house she decided
that she would ask Ida Fitzpatrick down to stay with her
next month, and give her her return ticket, and a summer
dress, and a new — Her thoughts came to a startling full stop,
as round the corner of the house, she found herself face to
face with Mr. Hawkins.

She had quite made up her mind that when she next
saw him she would merely bow to him, but she had not
reckoned on the necessities of such an encounter as this,
and before she had time to collect herself she was shaking
hands with him and listening to his explanation of what had
brought him there.

" I met Miss Mullen after church yesterday," he said
awkwardly, "and she asked me to come over this afternoon.
I was just going out to look for her."

" Oh, really," said Francie, moving on towards the hall
door ; " she and Mr. Lambert are off in those fields there."

Hawkins stood looking irresolutely at her as she walked
up to the open door that in Miss Duffy's time had been
barricaded against all comers. She went in as unswervingly
as if she had already forgotten his existence, and then
yielding, according to his custom, to impulse, he followed
her.

She had already taken up a book, and was seated in a
chair by the window when he came in, and she did not even
lift her eyes at his entrance. He went over to the polished
centre table, and, opening a photograph book, turned over
a few of the leaves noisily. There was a pause, tense on
both sides as silence and self-consciousness could make it,
and broken only by the happy, persistent call of the cuckoo

The Real Charlotte. 335

and the infant caws of the young rooks in the elms by the
gate. The photograph book was shut with a bang, and
Hawkins, taking his resolution in both hands, came across
the room, and stood in front of Francie.

" Look here ! ** he said, with a strange mixture of anger
and entreaty in his voice ; " how much longer is this sort
of thing to go on ? Are you always going to treat me in
this sort of way ? "

" I don't know what you mean," answered Francie, look-
ing up at him with eyes of icy blue, and then down at her
book again. Her heart was beating in leaps, but of this
Hawkins was naturally not aware.

" You can't pretend not to know what I mean — this sort
of rot of not speaking to me, and looking as if you had
never seen me before. I told you I was sorry and all that.
I don't know what more you want ! "

" I don't want ever to speak to you again." She turned
over a page of her book, and forced her eyes to follow
its lines.

" You know that's impossible ; you know you've got to
speak to me again, unless you want to cut me and kick up
a regular row. I don't know why you're going on like this.
It's awfully unfair, and it's awfully hard lines." Since his
visit to Rosemount, the conviction had been growing on
him that in marrying another man she had treated him
heartlessly, and he spoke with the fervour of righteous re-
sentment.

" Oh, that comes well from you ! " exclaimed Francie,
dropping the book, and sitting up with all her pent-in wrath
ablaze at last ; " you that behaved in a way anyone else
would be ashamed to think of ! Telling me lies from first
to last, and trying to make a fool of me — It was a good
thing I didn't believe more than the half you said ! "

" I told you no lie," said Hawkins, trying to stand his
ground. " All I did was that I didn't answer your letters
because I couldn't get out of that accursed engagement, and
I didn't know what to say to you, and then the next thing I
knew was that you were engaged, without a word of ex-
planation to me or anything."

"And will you tell me what call there was tor me to
explain anything to you ? " burst out Francie, looking, with

336 The Real Charlotte.

the hot flash in her eyes, more lovely than he had ever
seen her ; " for all I knew of you, you were married already
to your English heiress — Miss Coppers, or whatever her
name is — I wonder at your impudence in daring to say
things like that to me ! " The lift of her head, and the
splendid colour in her cheeks would have befitted any
angry goddess, and it is not surprising that Hawkins did not
take offence at the crudity of the expression, and thought
less of the brogue in which it was uttered than of the quiver
of the young voice that accused him.

" Look here," he said, for the second time, but with a
new and very different inflection, " don't let us abuse each
other any more. I couldn't answer your letters. I didn't
know what to say, except to tell you that I was a cad and a
beast, and I didn't see much good in doing that. Evi-
dently," he added, with a bitterness that was at least half
genuine, " it didn't make much difference to you whether I
did or not."

She did not reply, except by a glance that was intended
to express more than words could convey of her contempt
for him, but somewhere in it, in spite of her, he felt a touch
of reproach, and it was it that he answered as he said :

" Of course if you won't believe me you won't, and it
don't make much odds now whether you do or no ;
but I think if you knew how — " he stammered, and then
went on with a rush — "how infernally I've suffered over
the whole thing, you'd be rather sorry for me."

Francie shaped her lips to a thin and tremulous smile of
disdain, but her hands clutched each other under the book
in her lap with the effort necessary to answer him. " Oh,
yes, I am sorry for you ; I'd be sorry for anyone that would
behave the way you did," she said, with a laugh that would
have been more effective had it been steadier ; " but I can't
say you look as if you wanted my pity."

Hawkins turned abruptly away and walked towards the
door, and then, as quickly, came back to her side.

" They're coming across the lawn now," he said ; " before
they come, don't you think you could forgive me — or just
say you do, anyhow. I did behave like a brute, but I never
thought you'd have cared. You may say the worst things
about me you can think of, if you'll only tell me you forgive

The Real Charlotte. 337

me." His voice broke on the last words in a way that gave
them irresistible conviction.

Francie glanced out of the window, and saw her husband
and Charlotte slowly approaching the house. '^ Oh, very
well," she said proudly, without turning her head ; " atter
all there's nothing to forgive."

CHAPTER XLV

Lambert and Francie were both very silent as they drove
away from Gurthnamuckla. He was the first to speak.

" I've asked Charlotte to come over and stay with you
while I'm away next week I find I can't get through the
work in less than a fortnight, and I may be kept even longer
than that, because I've got to go to Dublin."

" Asked Charlotte ! " said Francie, in a tone of equal sur-
prise and horror. " What on earth made you do that ? "

" Because I didn't wish you should be left by yourself all
that time."

" I think you might have spoken to me first," said
Francie, with deepening resentment. *' I'd twice sooner be
left by myself than be bothered with that old cat."

Lambert looked quickly at her. He had come back to
the house with his nerves still strained from his fright about
the open gate, and his temper shaken by his financial diffi-
culties, and the unexpected discovery of Hawkins in the
drawing-room with his wife had not been soothing.

" I don't choose that you should be left by yourself," he
said, in the masterful voice that had always, since her child-
hood, roused Francie's opposition. " You're a deal too
young to be left alone, and — " with a voluntary softening of
his voice — " and a deal too pretty, confound you ! ' He
cut viciously with his whip at a long-legged greyhound of a
pig that was rooting by the side of the road.

" D'ye mean me or the pig ? " said Francie, with a laugh
that was still edged with defiance.

" I mean that I'm not going to have the whole country
prating about you, and they would if I left you here by
yourself."

" Very well, then, if you make me have Charlotte to stay

Y

338 TJie Real Charlotte.

with me I'll give tea-parties every day, and dinners and
balls every night. FJl make the country prate, I can tell
you, and the money fly too ! "

Her eyes were brighter than usual, and there was a fitful-
ness about her that stirred and jarred him, though he could
hardly tell why.

" I think I'll take you with me," he said, with the im-
potent wrath of a lover who knows that the pain of farewell
will be all on his side. " I won't trust you out of my sight."

" All right ! I'll go with you," she said, becoming half
serious. " I'd like to go."

They were going slowly up hill, and the country lay bare
and desolate in the afternoon sun, without a human being
in sight. Lambert took the reins in his right hand, and put
his arm round her.

" I don't believe you. I know you wouldn't care a hang
if I never came back — kiss me ! " She lifted her face
obediently, and as her eyes met his she wondered at the un-
happiness in them. *' I can't take you, my darling," he
whispered ; " I wish to God I could. I'm going to places
you couldn't stay at, and — and it would cost too much."

'' Very well ; never say I didn't make you a good offer,"
she answered, her unconquerable eyes giving him a look
that told she could still flirt with her husband.

"Put my cloak on me, Roddy; the evening's getting
cold."

They drove on quickly, and Lambert felt the gloom
settling down upon him again. He hated going away and
leaving Francie ; he hated his financial difficulties, and
their tortuous, uncertain issues; and above all, he hated
Hawkins. He would have given the whole world to know
how things had been between him and Francie last year ;
anything would be less intolerable than suspicion.

The strip of grass by the roadside widened as they left
the rocky country, and the deep dints of galloping hoofs
became apparent on it. Lambert pointed to them with his
whip, and laughed contemptuously.

" If I had a thick-winded pony like your friend Mr,
Hawkins, I wouldn't bucket her up hill in that sort of
way. She'd do well enough if he had the sense to take her
easy ; but in all my knowledge of soldiers — and I've seen a

The Real Charlotte. 339

good few of them here now — I've never seen a more self-
sufficient jackass in the matter of horses than Hawkins. I
wouldn't trust him with a donkey."

" You'd better tell him so," said Francie indifferently.
Lambert chose to suspect a sneer in the reply.

" Tell him so ! " he said hotly. " I'd tell him so pretty
smart, if I thought there was a chance of his getting outside
a horse of mine. But I think it'll be a long day before that
happens ! "

" Maybe he wouldn't thank you for one of your horses."

*' No, I'll bet he wouldn't say thank you," said Lambert,
a thrill of anger darting to his brain. '' He's a lad that'll
take all he can get, and say nothing about it, and chuck it
away to the devil when he's done with it."

" I'm sure I don't care what he does ! " exclaimed Francie,
with excusable impatience. " I wonder if he's able to
get into a passion about nothing, the way you're doing
now!"

" It didn't look this afternoon as if you cared so little
about what he does ! " said Lambert, his breath coming
short. " May I ask if you knew he was coming, that you
were in such a hurry back to the house to meet him? I
suppose you settled it when he came to see you on Satur-
day."

" Since you know all about it, there's no need for me to
contradict you ! " Francie flashed back.

One part of Lambert knew that he was making a fool of
himself, but the other part, which was unfortunately a hun-
dred times the stronger, drove him on.

'' Oh, I daresay you found it very pleasant, talking over
old times," he retorted, releasing the thought at last like a
long caged beast ; " or was he explaining how it was he got
tired of you ? "

Francie sat still and dumb ; the light surface anger startled
out of her in a moment, and its place taken by a suffocating
sense of outrage and cruelty. She did not know enough
of love to recognise it in this hideous disguise of jealousy ;
she only discerned the cowardly spitefulness, and it cut
down to that deep place in her soul, where, since childhood,
had lain her trust in him. She did not say a word, and
Lambert went on :

340 The Real Charlotte.

" Oh, I see you are too grand to answer me ; I suppose
it's because I'm only your husband that you think I'm not
worth talking to." He gave the horse a lash of the whip,
and then chucked up its head as it sprang forward, making
the trap rock and jerk. The hateful satisfaction of taunt-
ing her about Hawkins was beginning to die in him like
drunkenness, and he dimly saw what it was going to cost
him. " You make me say these sort of things to you," he
broke out, seeing that she would not speak. " How can I
help it, when you treat me like the dirt under your feet, and
fight with me if I say a word to you that you don't Hke ?
I'd Hke to see the man that would stand it ! "

He looked down at her, and saw her head drooping for-
ward, and her hand up to her face. He could not say more,
as at that moment Mary Holloran was holding the gate open
for him to drive in ; and as he lifted his wife out of the trap
at the hall door, and saw the tears that she could no longer
hide from him, he knew that his punishment had begun, and
the iron entered into his soul.

CHAPTER XLVI.

A FEW days afterwards Lambert started on his rent-collect-
ing tour. Peace of a certain sort was restored, complete in
outward seeming, but with a hidden flaw that both knew and
pretended to ignore. When Lambert sat by himself in the
smoking-carriage of the morning train from Lismoyle, with
the cold comfort of a farewell kiss still present with him, he
was as miserable and anxious a man as could easily have
been found. Charlotte had arrived the night before, and
with all her agreeability had contrived to remind him that
she expected a couple of hundred pounds on his return.
He could never have beUeved that she would have dunned
him in this way, and the idea occurred to him for the first
time that she was perhaps taking this method of paying him
out for what, in her ridiculous vanity, she might have ima-
gined to be his bad treatment of her. But none the less, it
was a comfort to him to think that she was at his house.
He did not say so to himself, but he knew that he could not
have found a better spy.

TJie Real Charlotte. 341

Dislike, as has been said, was a sentiment that Francie
found great difficulty in cultivating. She conducted a feud
in the most slipshod way, with intervals of illogical friend-
ship, of which anyone with proper self-respect would have
been ashamed, and she consequently accepted, without
reservation, the fact that Charlotte was making herself
pleasant with a pleasantness that a more suspicious person
would have felt to be unwholesome.

Charlotte, upon whose birth so many bad fairies had shed
their malign influence, had had at all events one attraction
bestowed upon her, the gift of appreciation, and of being
able to express her appreciation — a faculty that has been
denied to many good and Christian people. The evil spirit
may have torn her at sight of Francie enthroned at the head
of Roddy Lambert's table, but it did not come out of her in
any palpable form, nor did it prevent her from enjoying to
the utmost the change from the grease and smoke of Norry's
cooking, and the slothful stupidity of the Protestant orphan.
Charlotte was one of the few women for whom a good cook
will exert herself to make a savoury ; and Eliza Hackett
felt rewarded when the parlour-maid returned to the kitchen
with the intelligence that Miss Mullen had taken two help-
ings of cheese-souffle, and had sent her special compliments
to its constructor. Another of the undoubted advantages
of Rosemount was the chance it afforded Charlotte of paying
off with dignity and ease the long arrears of visits that the
growing infirmities of the black horse were heaping up
against her. It was supremely bitter to hear Francie
ordering out the waggonette as if she had owned horses and
carriages all her life, but she could gulp it down for the sake
of the compensating comfort and economy. In the long
tUe-a-tetes that these drives involved, Charlotte made herself
surprisingly pleasant to her hostess. She knew every
scandal about every family in the neighbourhood, and
imparted them with a humour and an easy acquaintance
with the aristocracy that was both awe-inspiring and en-
couraging to poor Francie, whose heart beat fast with shyness
and conscious inferiority, as, card-case in hand, she preceded
Miss Mullen to Mrs. Ffolliott's or Mrs. Flood's drawing-
room. It modified the terror of Mrs. Flood's hooked nose
to remember that her mother had been a Hebrew barmaid,

342 The Real Charlotte,

and it was some consolation to reflect that General
Ffolliott's second son had had to leave his regiment for
cheating at cards, when she became aware that she alone,
among a number of afternoon callers at Castle Ffolliott,
had kept on her gloves during tea.

In every conversation with Charlotte it seemed to Francie
that she discovered, as if by accident, some small but
disagreeable fact about her husband. He had been refused
by such and such a girl ; he had stuck so and so with a
spavined horse ; he had taken a drop too much at the hunt
ball ; and, in a general way he owed the agency and his
present position in society solely to the efforts of Miss
Mullen and her father.

Francie accepted these things, adding them to her
previous store of disappointment in Roddy, with the phil-
osophy that she had begun to learn at Albatross Villa, and
that life was daily teaching her more of. They un-
consciously made themselves into a background calculated
to give the greatest effect to a figure that now occupied a
great deal of her thoughts.

It was at Mrs. Waller's house that she first met Hawkins
after her encounter with him at Gurthnamuckla. He came
into the room when it was almost time for her to face the
dreadful ordeal of leave-taking, and she presently found
herself talking to him with considerably less agitation than
she had felt in talking about Paris to Miss Waller. The
memory of their last meeting kept her eyes from his, but it
made the ground firm under her feet, and in the five
minutes before she went away she felt that she had effectually
shown him the place she intended him to occupy, and that
he thoroughly understood that conversation with her was
a grace, and not a right. The touch of deference and
anxiety in his self-assured manner were as sweet to her as
the flowers strewed before a conqueror, and laid themselves
like balm on the wound of her husband's taunt. Some day
Roddy would see for himself the sort of way things were
between her and Mr. Hawkins, she thought, as she drove
down the avenue, and unconsciously held her head so high
and looked so brilliant, that Charlotte, with that new-born
amiability that Francie was becoming accustomed to,
complimented her upon her colour, and declared that, after

The Real Charlotte. 343

Major Waller's attentions, she would have to write to
Roderick and decline further responsibility as a chaperone.

They drove to Bruff two or three days afterwards, to return
the state visit paid by Pamela on her mother's behalf, and,
during some preUminary marketing in Lismoyle, they came
upon Hawkins walking through the town in the Rosemount
direction, with an air of smartness and purpose about him
that bespoke an afternoon call.

" I was just going to see you," he said, looking rather
blank.

" We're on our way to Bruff," replied Francie, too resolved
on upholding her dignity to condescend to any conventional
regrets.

Mr. Hawkins looked more cheerful, and observing that
as he also owed a visit at Bruff this would be a good day to
pay it, was turning back to the barracks for his trap, when
Miss Mullen intervened with almost childlike impulsiveness.

*' I declare now, it vexes my righteous soul to think of
your getting out a horse and trap, with two seats going a-
begging here. It's not my carriage, Mr. Hawkins, or I
promise you you should have one of them."

Hawkins looked gratefully at her, and then uncertainly
at Francie.

" He's welcome to come if he likes," said Francie frigidly,
thinking with a mixture of alarm and satisfaction of what
Roddy would say if he heard of it.

Hawkins waited for no further invitation, and got into
the waggonette. A trait of character as old as humanity
was at this time asserting itself, with singular freshness and
force, in the bosom of Mr. Gerald Hawkins. He had
lightly taken Francie's heart in his hand, and as lightly
thrown it away, without plot or premeditation; but now
that another man had picked it up and kept it for his own,
he began to see it as a thing of surpassing value. He could
have borne with a not uninteresting regret the idea of Francie
languishing somewhere in the suburbs of Dublin, and would
even, had the chance come in his way, have flirted with her
in a kind and consolatory manner. But to see her here,
prosperous, prettier than ever, and possessing the supreme
attraction of having found favour in someone else's eyes,
was a very different affair. The old glamour took him

344 '^^ i?^«/ Charlotte.

again, but with tenfold force, and, while he sat in the
waggonette and talked to his ancient foe, Miss Mullen, with
a novel friendliness, he gnawed the ends of his moustache
in the bitterness of his soul because of the coldness of the
eyes that were fascinating him.

It was a bright and blowy afternoon, with dazzling masses
of white cloud moving fast across the blue, and there was
a shifting glimmer of young leaves in the Bruff avenue, and
a gusty warmth of fragrance from lilacs and laurel blossoms
on either side. As this strangely compounded party of
visitors drove up to the hall door they caught sight of
Christopher going down the lawn towards the boat-house,
and in answer to a call from Mr. Hawkins, he turned and
came back to meet them. He was only on his way to the
boat-house to meet Cursiter, he explained, and he was the
only person at home, but he hoped that they would, none
the less, come in and see him. Hawkins helped Francie
out of the carriage, giving her a hand no less formal than
that which she gave him. She recognised the formality, and
was not displeased to think that it was assumed in obedience
to her wish.

They all strolled slowly on towards the boat-house,
Hawkins walking behind with Miss Mullen, Francie in front
with her host. It was not her first meeting with him since
her return to Lismoyle, and she found it quite easy to talk
with him of her travels, and of those small things that make
up the sum of ordinary afternoon conversation. She had
come to beheve now that she must have been mistaken on
that afternoon when he had stood over her in the Tally Ho
drawing-room and said those unexpected things to her —
things that, at the time, seemed neither ambiguous nor
Platonic. He was now telling her, in the quietly hesitating
voice that had always seemed to her the very height of good
breeding, that the weather was perfect, and that the lake
was lower than he had ever known it at that time of year,
with other like commonplaces, and though there was some-
thing wanting in his manner that she had been accustomed
to, she discerned none of the awkwardness that her experi-
ence had made her find inseparable from the rejected state.

There was no sign of Captain Cursiter or his launch
when they reached the pier, and, after a fruitless five minutes

The Real Charlotte. 345

of waiting, they went on, at Christopher's suggestion, to see
the bluebells in the wood that girdled the little bay of Bruff.
Before they reached the gate of the wood, Miss Mullen had
attached herself to Christopher, having remarked, with
engaging frankness, that Mr. Hawkins could only talk to her
about Lismoyle, and she wanted Sir Christopher to tell her
of the doings of the great world ; and Francie found herself
following them with Hawkins by her side. The walk turned
inwards and upwards from the lake, climbing, by means of
a narrow flight of moss-grown stone steps, till it gained the
height of about fifty feet above the water. Walking there,
the glitter of the lake came up brokenly to the eye, through
the beech-tree branches, that lay like sprays of maiden-
hair beneath them; and over the hill and down to the
water's edge and far away among the grey beech stems, the
bluebells ran like a blue mist through all the wood. Their
perfume rose like incense about Francie and her companion
as they walked slowly, and ever more slowly, along the path.
The spirit of the wood stole into their veins, and a pleasure
that they could not have explained held them in silence that
they were afraid to break.

Hawkins was the first to make a diffident comment.

** They're ripping, aren't they ? They're a great deal
better than they were last year."

" I didn't see them last year."

" No, I know you didn't," he said quickly ; " you didn't
come to Lismoyle till the second week in June."

" You seem to remember more about it than I do," said
Francie, still maintaining her attitude of superiority.

" I don't think I'm likely to forget it," he said, turning
and looking at her.

She looked down at the ground with a heightening colour
and a curl of the lip that did not come easily. If she found
it hard to nurse her anger against Charlotte, it was thrice
more difficult to harden herself to the voice to which one
vibrating string in her heart answered in spite of her.

" Oh, there's nothing people can't forget if they try ! " she
said, with a laugh. " I always find it much harder to re-
member ! "

" But people sometimes succeed in doing things they
don't like," said Hawkins pertinaciously.

346 The Real Charlotte.

" Not if they don't want to," replied Francie, holding her
own, with something of her habitual readiness.

Hawkins' powers of repartee weakened a little before this
retort. " No, I suppose not," he said, trying to make up
by bitterness of tone for want of argument.

Francie was silent, triumphantly silent, it seemed to him,
as he walked beside her and switched off the drooping heads
of the bluebells with his stick. He had experiences that
might have taught him that this appetite for combat, this
determination to trample on him, was a more measurable
thing than the contempt that will not draw a sword ; but he
was able to think of nothing except that she was unkind to
him, and that she was prettier now than he had ever seen
her. He was so thoroughly put out that he was not aware
of any awkwardness in the silence that had progressed, un-
broken, for a minute or two. It was Francie to whom it
was apparently most trying, as, at length, with an obvious
effort at small talk, she said :

" I suppose that's Captain Cursiter coming up the lake?"
indicating, through an opening in the branches, a glimpse
of a white funnel and its thong of thinly streaming vapour \
" he seems as fond of boating as ever."

" Yes, I daresay he is," said Hawkins, without pretend-
ing any interest, real or polite, in the topic. He was in the
frame of mind that lies near extravagance of some kind,
whether of temper or sentiment, and, being of a disposition
not versed in self-repression, he did not attempt diplomacy.
He looked sulkily at the launch, and then, with a shock of
association, he thought of the afternoon that he and Francie
had spent on the lake, and the touch of unworthiness that
there was in him made him long to remind her of her sub-
jugation.

*' Are you as fond of boating as — as you were when we
ran aground last year?" he said, and looked at her
daringly.

He was rewarded by seeing her start perceptibly and turn
her head away, and he had the grace to feel a little ashamed
of himself. Francie looked down the bluebell slope till
her eyes almost ached with the soft glow of colour, conscious
that every moment of delay in answering told against her,
but unable to find the answer. The freedom and impert-

The Real Charlotte. 347

inence of the question did not strike her at all ; she only
felt that he was heartlessly trying to humiliate her.

*' I'd be obliged to you, Mr. Hawkins," she said, her
panting breath making her speak with extreme difficulty, " if
you'd leave me to walk by myself.'*

Before she spoke he knew that he had made a tremendous
mistake, and, as she moved on at a quickened pace, he felt
he must make peace with her at any price.

" Mrs. Lambert," he said, with a gravity and deference
which he had never shown to her before, ''is it any use to
beg your pardon? I didn't know what I was saying — I
hardly know now what I did say — but if it made you angry
or — or offended you, I can only say I'm awfully sorry."

" Thank you, I don't want you to say anything," she
answered, still walking stiffly on.

" If it would give you any pleasure, I swear I'll promise
never to speak to you again ! " Hawkins continued ; " shall
I go away now ? " His instinct told him to risk the
question.

" Please yourself. It's nothing to me what you do."

*' Then I'll stay—"

Following on what he said, like an eldritch note of
exclamation, there broke in the shrill whistle of the Serpo-
lette as she turned into the bay of Bruff, and an answering
hail from Christopher rose to them, apparently from the
lower path by the shore of the lake.

" That's Cursiter/' said Hawkins irritably \ " I suppose
we shall have to go back now."

She turned, as if mechanically accepting the suggestion,
and, in the action, her eyes passed by him with a look that
was intended to have as little reference to him as the gaze
of a planet in its orbit, but which, even in that instant, was
humanised by avoidance. In the space of that glance, he
knew that his pardon was attainable, if not attained, but he
had cleverness enough to retain his expression of gloomy
compunction.

It was quite true that Francie's anger, always pitiably
short-lived, had yielded to the flattery of his respect. Every
inner, unformed impulse was urging her to accept his
apology, when three impatient notes from the whistle of
the steam-launch came up through the trees, and seemed to

348 The Real Charlotte.

open a way for her to outside matters from the narrow stress
of the moment.

" Captain Cursiter seems in a great hurry about some-
thing," she said, her voice and manner conveying suffici-
ently well that she intended to pass on with dignity from the
late dispute. " I wonder what he wants."

" Perhaps we've got the route," said Hawkins, not sorry
to be able to remind her of the impending calamity of his
departure ; " I shouldn't be a bit surprised."

They walked down the flight of stone steps, and reached
the gate of the wood in silence. Hawkins paused with his
hand on the latch.

^' Look here, when am I going to see you again ? " he
said.

*' I really don't know,** said Francie, with recovered ease.
She felt the wind blowing in on her across the silver scales
of the lake, and saw the sunshine flashing on Captain
Cursiter's oars as he paddled himself ashore from the
launch, and her spirits leaped up in " the inescapable joy
of spring." *' I should think anyone that goes to church
to-morrow will see me there."

Her glance veered towards his cloudy, downcast face, and
an undignified desire to laugh came suddenly upon her.
He had always looked so babyish when he was cross, and it
had always made her feel inclined to laugh. Now that she
was palpably and entirely the conqueror, the wish for further
severity had died out, and the spark of amusement in her
eye was recklessly apparent when Hawkins looked at her.

His whole expression changed m a moment. " Then
we're friends ? " he said eagerly.

Before any answer could be given, Christopher and
Charlotte came round a bend in the lower path, and even
in this moment Francie wondered what it was that should
cause Charlotte to drop her voice cautiously as she neared
them.

CHAPTER XLVIL

It was very still inside the shelter of the old turf quay at
Bruff. The stems of the lilies that curved up through its
brown-golden depths were visible almost down to the black

The Real Charlotte. 349

mud out of which their mystery of silver and gold was born ;
and, while the water outside moved piquantly to the breeze,
nothing stirred it within except the water spiders, who were
darting about, pushing a little ripple in front of them, and
finding themselves seriously inconvenienced by the pieces of
broken rush and the sodden fragments of turf that perpetu-
ally stopped their way. It had rained and blown very hard
all the day before, and the innermost corners of the tiny
harbour held a motionless curve of foam, yellowish brown,
and flecked with the feathers of a desolated moorhen's nest.

Civilisation at Bruff had marched away from the turf
quay. The ruts of the cart-track were green from long
disuse, and the willows had been allowed to grow across it,
as a last sign of superannuation. In old days every fire at
Bruff had been landed at the turf quay from the bogs at the
other side of the lake ; but now, since the railway had come
to Lismoyle, coal had taken its place. It was in vain that
Thady, the turf-cutter, had urged that turf was a far hand-
somer thing about a gentleman's place than coal. The last
voyage of the turf boat had been made, and she now lay,
grey from rottenness and want of paint, in the corner of the
miniature dock that had once been roofed over and formed
a boat-house. Tall, jointed reeds, with their spiky leaves
and stiff stems, stood out in the shallow water, leaning
aslant over their own reflections, and, further outside, green
rushes grew thickly in long beds, the homes of dabchicks,
coots, and such like water people. Standing on the brown
rock that formed the end of the quay, the spacious sky was
so utterly reproduced in the lake, cloud for cloud, deep for
deep, that it only required a little imagination to beheve
oneself floating high between two atmospheres, The young
herons, in the fir trees on Curragh Point, were giving utter-
ance to their meditations on things in general in raucous
monosyllables, and Charlotte Mullen, her feet planted firmly
on two of the least rickety stones of the quay, was continu-
ing a conversation that had gone on one-sidedly for some
time.

" Yes, Sir Christopher, my feeling for your estate is like
the feeling of a child for the place where he was reared ; it
is the affection of a woman whose happiest days were passed
with her father in your estate office ! "

350 The Real Charlotte,

The accurate balance of the sentence and its nasal
cadence showed that Charlotte was delivering herself of a
well-studied peroration. Her voice clashed with the stillness
as dissonantly as the clamour of the young herons. Her
face was warm and shiny, and Christopher looked away from
it, and said to himself that she was intolerable.

*' Of course — yes — I understand — " he answered stam-
meringly, her pause compelling him to speak ; " but these
are very serious things to say — "

" Serious ! " Charlotte dived her hand into her pocket
to make sure that her handkerchief was within hail. " D'ye
think. Sir Christopher, I don't know that well ! I that have
lain awake crying every night since I heard of it, not know-
ing how to decide between me affection for me friend and
my duty to the son of my dear father's old employer ! "

" I think anyone who makes charges of this kind," inter-
rupted Christopher coldly, " is bound to bring forward some-
thing more definite than mere suspicion."

Charlotte took her hand out of her pocket without the
handkerchief, and laid it for a moment on Christopher's
arm.

" My dear Sir Christopher, I entirely agree with you," she
said in her most temperate, ladylike manner, "and I
am prepared to place certain facts before you, on whose
accuracy you may perfectly rely, although circumstances
prevent my telling you how I learned them."

The whole situation was infinitely repugnant to Chris-
topher. He would himself have said that he had not nerve
enough to deal with Miss Mullen ; and joined with this, and
his innate and overstrained dislike of having his affairs
discussed, was the unendurable position of conniving with
her at a treachery. Little as he liked Lambert, he sided with
him now with something more than a man's ordinary resent-
ment against feminine espionage upon another man. He
was quite aware of the subdued eagerness in Charlotte's
manner, and it mystified while it disgusted him ; but he was
also aware that nothing short of absolute flight would check
her disclosures. He could do nothing now but permit
himself the single pleasure of staring over her head with a
countenance barren of response to her histrionic display of
expression.

The Real Charlotte. 351

'' You ask me for something more definite than mere sus-
picion," continued Charlotte, approaching one of the
supremest gratifications of her hfe with full and luxurious
recognition. " I can give you two facts, and if, on investi-
gation, you find they are not correct, you may go to
Roderick Lambert, and tell him to take an action for libel
against me ! I daresay you know that a tenant of yours,
named James M'Donagh — commonly called Shamus Bawn
— recently got the goodwill of Knocklara, and now holds it
in addition to his father's farm, which he came in for last
month." Christopher assented. " Jim M'Donagh paid one
hundred and eighty pounds fine on getting Knocklara. I
ask you to examine your estate account, and you will see
that the sum credited to you on that transaction is no more
than seventy."

*' May I ask how you know this ? " Christopher turned
his face towards her for a moment as he asked the question,
and encountered, with even more aversion than he had ex-
pected, her triumphing eyes.

" I'm not at liberty to tell you. All I say is, go to Jim
M'Donagh, and ask him the amount of his fine, and see if
he won't tell you just the same sum that I'm telling you
now."

Captain Cursiter, at this moment steering the Serpolette
daintily among the shadows of Bruff Bay, saw the two in-
congruous figures on the turf quay, one short, black, and
powerful, the other tall, white, and passive, and wondered,
through the preoccupation of crawling to his anchorage,
what it was that Miss Mullen was holding forth to Dysart
about, in a voice that came to him across the water like the
gruff barking of a dog. He thought, too, that there was an
almost ship-wrecked welcome in the shout with which
Christopher answered his whistle, and was therefore sur-
prised to see him remain where he was, apparently enthralled
by Miss Mullen's conversation, instead of walking round to
meet him at the boat-house pier.

Charlotte had, in fact, by this time, compelled Christopher
to give her his whole attention. As he turned towards her
again, he admitted to himself that the thing looked rather
serious, though he determined, with the assistance of a good
deal of antagonistic irritability, to keep his opinion to himself.

352 The Real Charlotte,

This feeling was uppermost as he said : " I have never had
the least reason to feel a want of confidence in Mr. Lambert,
Miss Mullen, and I certainly could not discredit him by
going privately to M'Donagh to ask him about the fine."

" It's a pity all unfaithful stewards haven't as confiding a
master as you, Sir Christopher," said Charlotte, with a
laugh. She felt Christopher's attitude towards her, as a
man in armour may have felt the arrows strike him, and no
more, and it came easily to her to laugh. " However," she
went on, correcting her manner quickly, as she saw a very
slight increase of colour in Christopher's face, " the burden
of proof does not lie with James M'Donagh. Last
November, as you may possibly remember, my name
made its first appearance on your rent-roll, as the tenant
of Gurthnamuckla, and in recognition of that honour," —
Charlotte felt that there was an academic pohsh about her
sentences that must appeal to a University man — " I wrote
your agent a cheque for one hundred pounds, which was
duly cashed some days afterwards." She altered her posi-
tion, so that she could see his face better, and said deliber-
ately : " Not one penny of that has been credited to the
estate ! This I know for a fact."

" Yes," said Christopher, after an uncomfortable pause,
" that's very — very curious, but, of course — until I know a
little more, I can't give any opinion on the matter. I think,
perhaps, we had better go round to meet Captain Cursiter — "

Charlotte interrupted him with more violence than she
had as yet permitted to escape.

" If you want to know more, I can tell you more, and
plenty more! For the last year and more, Roddy Lambert's
been lashing out large sums of ready money beyond his
income, and I know his income to the penny and the farth-
ing ! Where did he get that money from ? I ask you.
What paid for his young horses, and his new dog-cart, and
his new carpets, yes ! and his honeymoon trip to Paris ? I
ask you what paid for all that? It wasn't his first wife's
money paid for it, I know that for a fact, and it certainly
wasn't the second wife's ! "

She was losing hold of herself ; her gestures were of the
sort that she usually reserved for her inferiors, and the
corners of her mouth bubbled like a snail. Christopher

The Real Charlotte. 353

looked at her, and began to walk away. Charlotte followed
him, walking unsteadily on the loose stones, and inwardly
cursing his insolence as well as her own forgetfulness of the
method she had laid down for the interview. He turned
and waited for her when he reached the path, and had time
to despise himself for not being able to conceal his feelings
from a woman so abhorrent and so contemptible.

" I am — er — obliged for your information," he said stiffly.
In spite of his scorn for his own prejudice, he would not
gratify her by saying more.

" You will forgive me, Sir Christopher," replied Charlotte
with an astonishing resumption of dignity, " if I say that
that is a point that is quite immaterial to me. I require no
thanks. I felt it to be my duty to tell you these painful
facts, and what I suffer in doing it concerns only myself."

They walked on in silence between the lake and the
wood, with the bluebells creeping outwards to their feet
through the white beech stems, and as the last turn of the
path brought them in sight of Francie and Hawkins,
Charlotte spoke again :

*' You'll remember that all this is in strict confidence, Sir
Christopher."

'* I shall remember," said Christopher curtly.

An hour later, Pam.ela, driving home with her mother,
congratulated herself, as even the best people are prone to
do, when she saw on the gravel-sweep the fresh double
wheel tracks that indicated that visitors had come and gone.
She felt that she had talked enough for one afternoon dur-
ing the visit to old Lady Eyrecourt, whose deaf sister had
fallen to her share, and she did not echo her mother's regret
at missing Miss Mullen and her cousin. She threw down
the handful of cards on the hall table again, and went with
a tired step to look for Christopher in the smoking-room,
where she found him with Captain Cursiter, the latter in
the act of taking his departure. The manner of her greeting
showed that he was an accustomed sight there, and, as a
matter of fact, since Christopher's return Captain Cursiter
had found himself at Bruff very often. He had discovered
that it was, as he expressed it, the only house in the country
where the women let him alone. Lady Dysart had expressed
the position from another point of view, when she had de-

z

354 ^^^ Real Charlotte.

plored to Mrs. Gascogne Pamela's " hopeless friendliness "
towards men, and Mrs. Gascogne had admitted that there
might be something discouraging to a man in being treated
as if he were a younger sister.

This unsuitable friendliness was candidly apparent in
Pamela's regret when she heard that Cursiter had come to
Bruff with the news that his regiment was to leave Ireland
for Aldershot in a fortnight,

" Here's Captain Cursiter trying to stick me with the
launch at an alarming reduction, as the property of an
officer going abroad," said Christopher. '^ He wants to
take advantage of my grief, and he won't stay and dine here
and let me haggle the thing out comfortably."

" I'm afraid I haven't time to stay," said Cursiter rather
cheerlessly. " I've got to go up to Dublin to-morrow, and
I'm very busy. I'll come over again— if I may — when I
get back." He felt all the awkwardness of a self-conscious
man in the prominence of making a farewell that he is
beginning to find more unpleasant than he had expected.

^* Oh, yes ! indeed, you must come over again," said
Pamela, in the soft voice that was just Irish enough for
Saxons of the more ignorant sort to fail to distinguish, save
in degree, between it and Mrs. Lambert's Dublin brogue.

It remained on Captain Cursiter's ear as he stalked down
through the shrubberies to the boat-house, and, as he
steamed round Curragh Point, and caught the sweet, turfy
whiff of the Irish air, he thought drearily of the arid glare
of Aldershot, and, without any apparent connection of ideas,
he wondered if the Dysarts were really coming to town next
month.

Not ]ong after his departure Lady Dysart rustled into the
smoking-room in her solemnly sumptuous widow's dress.

''Is he gone?" she breathed in a stage whisper, pausing
on the threshold for a reply.

*'No; he's hiding behind the door," answered Christopher;
"he always does when he hears you coming." When
Christopher was irritated, his method of showing it was
generally so subtle as only to satisfy himself; it slipped
through the wide and generous mesh of his mother's under-
standing without the smallest friction.

'* Nonsense, Christopher 1 " she said, not without a furtive

The Real Charlotte. 355

glance behind the door. " What a visitation you must have
had from the whole set ! Had they anything interesting to
say for themselves ? Charlotte Mullen generally is a great
alleviation."

**0h yes," replied her son, examining the end of his
cigarette with a peculiar expression, '^ she — she alleviated
about as much as usual ; but it was Cursiter who brought
the news."

" I can't imagine Captain Cursiter so far forgetting him-
self as to tell any news/' said Lady Dysart ; " but perhaps he
makes an exception in your favour."

"They're to go to Aldershot in a fortnight," said
Christopher.

" You don't say so ! " exclaimed his mother, with an ir-
repressible look at Pamela, who was sitting on the floor in
the window, taking a thorn out of Max's spatulate paw.
" In a fortnight ? I wonder how Mr. Hawkins will hke
that ? Evelyn said that Miss Coppard told her the marri-
age was to come off when the regiment went back to
England."

Christopher grunted unsympathetically, and Pamela con-
tinued her researches for the thorn.

" Well," resumed Lady Dysart, " I, for one, shall not re-
gret them. Selfish and second-rate ! "

" Which is which ? " asked Christopher, eliminating any
tinge of interest or encouragement from his voice. He was
quite aware that his mother was in this fashion avenging the
slaughter of the hope that she had secretly nourished about
Captain Cursiter, and, being in a perturbed frame of mind,
it annoyed him.

" I think your friend is the most self-centred, ungenial
man I have ever known," replied Lady Dysart, in sonorous
denunciation, " and if Mr. Hawkins is not second-rate, his
friends are, which comes to the same thing ! And, by the
by, how was it that he went away before Captain Cursiter ?
Did not they come together ? "

" Miss Mullen and Mrs. Lambert gave him a lift," said
Christopher, uncommunicatively ; " I believe they overtook
him on his way here."

Lady Dysart meditated, with her dark eyebrows drawn
into a frown.

35^ The Real Charlotte.

" I think that girl will make a very great mistake if she
begins a flirtation with Mr. Hawkins again," slie said pre-
sently ; " there has been quite enough talk about her
already in connection with her marriage." Lady Dysart r.n-
tied her bonnet strings as if with a need of more air, 5^nd
flung them back over each shoulder. In the general con-
trariety of things, it was satisfactory to find an object so un-
deniably deserving of reprobation as the new Mrs. Lambe t.
" I call her a thorough adventuress ! " she continued. " She
came down here, determined to marry some one, and as
Mr. Hawkins escaped from her, she just snatched at the
next man she could find ! "

Pamela came over and sat down on the arm of her
mother's chair. " Now, mamma," she said putting her arm
round Lady Dysart's crape-clad shoulder, ** you can't deny
that she knew all about the Dublin clergy and went to
Sunday-school regularly for ten years, and she guessed two
lights of an acrostic for you."

** Yes, two that happened to be slangy ! No, my dear
child, I admit that she is very pretty, but, as I said before,
she has proved herself to be nothing but an adventuress.
Everyone in the country has said the same thing."

" I can scarcely imagine anyone less like an adventuress,"
said Christopher, with the determined quietness by which he
sometimes mastered his stammer.

His mother looked at him with the most unaffected surprise.
" And I can scarcely imagine anyone who knows less about
the matter than you ! " she retorted. " Oh, my dear boy,
don't smoke another of those horrid things," as Christopher
got up abruptly and began to fumble rather aimlessly in a
cigarette-box on the chimney-piece, *^ I'm sure you've
smoked more than is good for you. You look quite white
already."

He made no reply, and his mother's thoughts reverted to
the subject under discussion. Suddenly a little cloud of
memory began to appear on her mental horizon. Now that
she came to think of it, had not Kate Gascogne once
mentioned Christopher's name to her in preposterous con-
nection with that of the present Mrs. Lambert ?

" Let me tell you ! " she exclaimed, her deep-set eyes
glowing with the triumphant eff'ort of memory, "that people

The Real Charlotte, 357

said she did her utmost to capture you ! and I can very well
believe it of her ; a grievous waste of ammunition on her
part, wasn't it, Pamela? Though it did not result in an
engagement r^ she added, highly pleased at being able to
press a pun into her argument.

" Oh, I think she spared Christopher," struck in Pamela
with a conciliatory laugh ; " * Poor is the conquest of the
timid hare,' you know ! " She was aware of something
portentously rigid in her brother's attitude, and would have
given much to have changed the conversation, but the situa-
tion was beyond her control.

^' I don't think she would have thought it such a poor
conquest," said Lady Dysart indignantly ; " a girl like that,
accustomed to attorneys' clerks and commercial travellers
— she'd have done anything short of suicide for such a
chance ! "

Christopher had stood silent during this discussion. He
was losing his temper, but he was doing it after his fashion,
slowly and almost imperceptibly. The pity for Mr. Lam-
bert's wife, that had been a primary result of Charlotte's
indictment, flamed up into quixotism, and every word his
mother said was making him more hotly faithful to the time
when his conquest had been complete.

" I daresay it will surprise you to hear that I gave her the
chance, and she didn't take it," he said suddenly.

Lady Dysart grasped the arms of her chair, and then fell
back into it.

""yb^^did!"

"Yes, I did," replied Christopher, beginning to walk
towards the door. He knew he had done a thing that was
not only superfluous, but savoured repulsively of the pseudo-
heroic, and the attitude in which he had placed himself was
torture to his reserve. ^' This great honour was offered to
her," he went on, taking refuge in lame satire, "last August,
unstimulated by any attempts at suicide on her part, and
she refused it. I — I think it would be kinder if you put
her down as a harmless lunatic, than as an adventuress, as
far as I am concerned." He shut the door behind him as
he finished speaking, and Lady Dysart was left staring at
her daughter, complexity of emotions making speech an
idle thing.

ZS^ The Real Charlotte.

CHAPTER XLVIII.

The question, ten days afterwards, to anyone who had
known all the features of the case, would have been whether
Francie was worth Christopher's act of championing.

At the back of the Rosemount kitchen-garden the ground
rose steeply into a knoll of respectable height, where grew
a tangle of lilac bushes, rhododendrons, seringas, and yellow
broom. A gravel path wound ingratiatingly up through
these, in curves artfully devised by Mr. Lambert to make
the most of the extent and the least of the hill, and near
the top a garden-seat was sunk in the bank, with laurels
shutting it in on each side, and a laburnum " showering
golden tears " above it. Through the perfumed screen of
the lilac bushes in front unromantic glimpses of the roof of
the house were obtainable — eyesores to Mr. Lambert, who
had concentrated all his energies on hiding everything
nearer than the semi-circle of lake and distant mountain
held in an opening cut through the rhododendrons at the
corner of the little plateau on which the seat stood. With-
out the disturbance of middle distance the eye lay at ease
on the far-oif struggle of the Connemara mountains, and on
a serene vista of Lough Moyle ; a view that enticed forth, as
to a playground, the wildest and most foolish imaginations,
and gave them elbow-room ; a world so large and remote
that it needed the sound of wheels on the road to recall the
existence of the petty humanities of Lismoyle.

Francie and Hawkins were sitting there on the afternoon
of the day on which Lambert was expected to come home,
and as the sun, that had stared in at them through the
opening in the rhododendrons when they first went there,
slid farther round, their voices sank in unconscious accord
with the fading splendours of the afternoon, and their
silences seemed momently more difficult to break. They
were nearing the end of the phase that had begun in the
wood at Bruff, impelled to its verge by the unspoken know-
ledge that the last of the unthinking, dangerous days was
dying with the sun, and that a final parting was looming up
beyond. Neither knew for certain the mind of the other,
or how they had dropped into this so-called friendship that

The Real Charlotte. 359

in half a dozen afternoons had robbed all other things of
reality, and made the intervals between their meetings like
a feverish dream. Francie did not dare to think much
about it ; she lived in a lime-light glow that surrounded her
wherever she went, and all the world outside was dark.
He was going in a fortnight, in ten days, in a week ; that
was the only fact that the future had held for her since
Captain Cursiter had met them with the telegram in his
hand on the lake shore at BrufT. She forgot her resolu-
tions ; she forgot her pride ; and before she reached home
that afternoon the spell of the new phase, that was the old,
only intensified by forgiveness, was on her. She shut her
eyes, and blindly gave house-room in her heart to the
subtle passion that came in the garb of an old friend, with
a cant about compassion on its lips, and perfidious promises
that its life was only for a fortnight.

To connect this supreme crisis of a life with such a
person as Mr. Gerald Hawkins may seem incongruous ;
but Francie was not aware of either crisis or incongruity.
All she knew of was the enthralment that lay in each prosaic
afternoon visit, all she felt, the tired effort of conscience
against fascination. Her emotional Irish nature, with all
its frivolity and recklessness, had also, far down in it, an
Irish girl's moral principle and purity ; but each day she
found it more difficult to hide the truth from him ; each day
the under-currents of feeling drew them helplessly nearer to
each other. Everything was against her. Lambert's
business had, as he expected, taken him to Dublin, and
kept him there ; Cursiter^ like most men, was chary of
active interference in another man's affairs, whatever his
private opinion might be ; and Charlotte^ that guardian of
youth, that trusty and vigilant spy, sat in her own room
writing interminable letters, or went on long and com-
plicated shopping expeditions whenever Hawkins came to
the house.

On this golden, still afternoon, Francie strayed out soon
after lunch, half dazed with unhappiness and excitement.
To-night her husband would come home. In four days
Hawkins would have gone, as eternally, so far as she was
concerned, as if he were dead ; he would soon forget her,
she thought, as she walked to and fro among the blossoming

360 The Real Charlotte,

apple trees in the kitchen-garden. Men forgot very easily*
and, thanks to the way she had tried her best to make him
think she didn't care, there was not a word of hers to bring
him back to her. She hated herself for her discretion ; her
soul thirsted for even one word of understanding, that would
be something to live upon in future days of abnegation,
when it would be nothing to her that she had gained his
respect, and one tender memory would be worth a dozen
self-congratulations.

She turned at the end of the walk and came back again
under the apple trees ; the ground under her feet was white
with fallen blossoms ; her fair hair gleamed among the
thick embroidery of the branches, and her face was not
shamed by their translucent pink and white. At a little
distance Eliza Hackett, in a starched lilac calico, was
gathering spinach, and meditating no doubt with comfort-
able assurance on the legitimacy of Father Heffernan's
apostolic succession, but outwardly the embodiment of solid
household routine and respectabihty. As Francie passed
her she raised her decorous face from the spinach-bed with
a question as to whether the trout would be for dinner or
for breakfast ; the master always fancied fish for his break-
fast, she reminded Francie. Eliza Hackett's tone was
distant, but admonitory, and it dispelled in a moment the
visions of another now impossible future that were holding
high carnival before Francie's vexed eyes. The fetter made
itself coldly felt, and following came the quick pang of
remorse at the thought of the man who was wasting on her
the best love he had to give. Her change of mood was
headlong, but its only possible expression was trivial to
absurdity, if indeed any incident in a soul's struggle can be
called trivial. Some day, further on in eternity, human
beings will know what their standards of proportion and
comparison are worth, and may perhaps find the glory of
some trifling actions almost insufferable.

She gave the necessary order, and hurrying into the house
brought out from it the piece of corduroy that she was
stitching in lines of red silk as a waistcoat for her husband,
and with a childish excitement at the thought of this
expiation, took the path that led to the shrubbery on the
hill. As she reached its first turn she hesitated and stopped,

The Rial Charlotte. 36 1

an idea of further and fuller renunciation occurring to her.
Turning, she called to the figure stooping among the glossy
rows of spinach to desire that the parlour-maid should say
that this afternoon she was not at home. Had Eliza
Hackett then and there obeyed the order, it is possible that
many things would have happened differently. But fate is
seldom without a second string to her bow, and even if
Francie's message had not been delayed by Eliza Hackett's
determination to gather a pint of green gooseberries before
she went in, it is possible that Hawkins would, none the less
have found his way to the top of the shrubbery, where
Francie was sewing with the assiduity of Penelope. It was
about four o'clock when she heard his step coming up the
devious slants of the path, and she knew as she heard it
that, in spite of all her precautions^ she had expected him.
His manner and even his look had nothing now in them of
the confident lover of last year ; his flippancy was gone, and
when he began by reproaching her for having hidden from
him, his face was angry and wretched, and he spoke like a
person who had been seriously and unjustly hurt. He was
more in love than he had ever been before, and he was
taking it badly, like a fever that the chills of opposition were
driving back into his system.

She made excuses as best she might, with her eyes bent
upon her work.

" I might have been sitting in the drawing-room now,"
he said petulantly ; " only that Miss Mullen had seen you
going off here by yourself, and told me I'd better go and
find you."

An unreasoning fear came over Francie, a fear as of
something uncanny.

" Let us go back to the house," she said ; " Charlotte
will be expecting us." She said it to contradict the thought
that had become definite for the first time. " Come ; I'm
going in."

Hawkins did not move. *' I suppose you forget that
this is Wednesday, and that I'm going on Saturday," he re-
plied dully. " In any case you'll not be much good to
Charlotte. She's gone up to pack her things. She told
me herself she was going to be very busy, as she had to
start at six o'clock."

362 The Real Charlotte.

Francie leaned back, and realised that now she had no
one to look to but herself, and happiness and misery fought
within her till her hands trembled as she worked.

Each knew that this was, to all intents and purposes,
their last meeting, and their consciousness was charged to
brimming with unexpressed farewell She talked of in-
different subjects ; of what Aldershot would be like, of what
Lismoyle would think of the new regiment, of the trouble
that he would have in packing his pictures^ parrying, with a
weakening hand, his efforts to make every subject personal;
and all the time the laburnum drooped in beautiful despair
above her, as if listening and grieving, and the cool-leaved
lilac sent its fragrance to mingle with her pain, and to stir
her to rebellion with the ecstasy of spring-time. The
minutes passed barrenly by, and, as has been said, the
silences became longer and more clinging, and the thoughts
that filled them made each successive subject more bare
and artificial. At last Hawkins got up, and walking to the
opening cut in the shrubs, stood, with his hands in his
pockets, looking out at the lake and the mountains.
Francie stitched on ; it seemed to her that if she stopped
she would lose her last hold upon herself; she felt as if her
work were a talisman to remind her of all the things that
she was in peril of forgetting. When, that night, she took
up the waistcoat again to work at it, she thought that her
heart's blood had gone into the red stitches.

It was several minutes before Hawkins spoke. "Francie,"
he said, turning round and speaking thickly, " are you
going to let me leave you in this — in this kind of way ?
Have you realised that when I go on Saturday it's most
likely — it's pretty certain, in fact — that we shall never see
each other again ? "

** Yes, I have," she said, after a pause of a second or two.
She did not say that for a fortnight her soul had beaten it-
self against the thought, and that to hear it in words was as
much as her self-command could bear.

" You seem to care a great deal ! " he said violently ;
" you're thinking of nothing but that infernal piece of work,
that I loathe the very sight of. Don't you think you could
do without it for five minutes, at all events ? "

She let her hands drop into her lap, but made no other reply.

The Real Charlotte. 363

" You're not a bit like what you used to be. You seem
to take a delight in snubbing me and shutting me up. I
must say, I never thought you'd have turned into a prig ! "
He felt this reproach to be so biting that he paused upon it
to give it its full effect. " Here I am going to England in
four days, and to India in four months, and it's ten to one
if I ever come home again. I mean to volunteer for the
very first row that turns up. But it's just the same to you,
you won't even take the trouble to say you're sorry."

" If you had taken the trouble to answer my letters last
autumn, you wouldn't be saying these things to me now,"
she said, speaking low and hurriedly.

" I don't believe it ! I believe if you had cared about
me then you wouldn't treat me like this now."

" I did care for you," she said, while the hard-held tears
forced their way to her eyes; "you made me do it, and
then you threw me over, and now you're trying to put the
blame on me 1 "

He saw the glisten on her eyelashes, and it almost took
from him the understanding of what she said.

"Francie," he said, his voice shaking, and his usually
confident eyes owning the infection of her tears, ^'you
might forget that. I'm miserable. I can't bear to leave
you ! " He sat down again beside her, and, catching her
hand, kissed it with a passion of repentance. He felt it
shrink from his lips, but the touch of it had intoxicated him,
and suddenly she was in his arms.

For a speechless instant they clung to each other ; her
head dropped to his shoulder, as if the sharp release from
the tension of the last fortnight had killed her, and the
familiar voice murmured in her ear :

" Say it to me — say you love me."

" Yes I do — my dearest— " she said, with a moan that
was tragically at variance with the confession. " Ah, why
do you make me so wicked ! " She snatched herself away
from him, and stood up, trembling all over. " I wish I had
never seen you — I wish I was dead."

" I don't care what you say now," said Hawkins, spring-
ing to his feet, " you've said you loved me, and I know you
mean it. Will you stand by it ? " he went on wildly. " If
you'll only say the word I'll chuck everything overboard — ■

364 The Real Charlotte.

I can't go away from you like this. Once I'm in England
I can't get back here, and if I did, what good would it be
to me ? He'd never give us a chance of seeing each other,
and we'd both be more miserable than we are, unless —
unless there was a chance of meeting you in Dublin or
somewhere — ? " He stopped for an instant. Francie
mutely shook her head. " Well, then, I shall never see you."

There was silence, and the words settled down into both
their hearts. He cursed himself for being afraid of her, she,
whom he had always felt to be his inferior^ yet when he
spoke it was with an effort.

" Come away with me out of this — come away with me
for good and all ! What's the odds ? We can't be more
than happy ! "

Francie made an instinctive gesture with her hand while
he spoke, as if to stop him, but she said nothing, and
almost immediately the distant rush and rattle of a train
came quietly into the stillness.

" That's his train ! " she exclaimed, looking as startled as
if the sound had been a sign from heaven. " Oh, go
away ! He mustn't meet you coming away from here."

" I'll go if you give me a kiss," he answered drunkenly.
His arms were round her again, when they dropped to his
side as if he had been shot.

There was a footstep on the path immediately below the
lilac bushes, and Charlotte's voice called to Francie that she
was just starting for home and had come to make her
adieux.

CHAPTER XLIX

Christopher Dysart drove to Rosemount next morning
to see Mr. Lambert on business. He noticed Mrs. Lambert
standing at the drawing-room window as he drove up, but
she left the window before he reached the hall door, and he
went straight to Mr. Lambert's study without seeing her
again.

Francie returned listlessly to the seat that she had sprung
from with a terrified throb of the heart at the thought that
the wheels might be those of Hawkins' trap, and, putting
her elbow on the arm of the chair, rested her forehead on

The Real Charlotte. 365

her hand ; her other hand drooped over the side of the
chair, holding still in it the sprig of pink hawthorn that her
husband had given her in the garden an hour before. Her
attitude was full of languor, but her brain was working at its
highest pressure, and at this moment she was asking herself
what Sir Christopher would say when he heard that she had
gone away with Gerald. She had seen him vaguely as one
of the crowd of contemptuous or horror-stricken faces that
had thronged about her pillow in the early morning, but his
opinion had carried no more restraining power than that of
Aunt Tish, or Uncle Robert, or Charlotte. Nothing had
weighed with her then \ the two principal figures in her life
contrasted as simply and convincingly as night and day, and
like night and day, too, were the alternative futures that
were in her hand to choose from. Her eyes were open to
her wrong-doing, but scarcely to her cruelty \ it could not be
as bad for Roddy, she thought, to live without her as for
her to stay with him and think of Gerald in India, gone
away from her for ever. Her reasoning power was easily
mastered, her conscience was a thing of habit, and not fitted
to grapple with this turbulent passion. She swept towards
her ruin like a little boat staggering under more sail than
she can carry. But the sight of Christopher, momentary
as it was, had startled for an instant the wildness of her
thoughts ; the saner breath of the outside world had come
with him, and a touch of the self-respect that she had
always gained from him made her press her hot forehead
against her hand, and realise that the way of transgressors
would be hard.

She remained sitting there, almost motionless, for a long
time. She had no wish to occupy herself with anything ;
all the things about her had already the air of belonging to
a past existence ; her short sovereignty was over, and even
the furniture that she had, a few weeks ago, pulled about
and rearranged in the first ardour of possession seemed to
look at her in a decorous, clannish way, as if she were
already an alien. At last she heard the study door open,
and immediately afterwards, Christopher's dog-cart went
down the drive. It occurred to her that now, if ever, was
the time to go to her husband and see whether, by diplo-
macy, she could evade the ride that he had asked her to

366 The Real Charlotte.

take with him that afternoon. Hawkins had sent her a
note saying that he would come to pay a farewell visit, a
cautiously formal note that anyone might have seen, but
that she was just as glad had not been seen by her husband,
and at all hazards she must stay in to meet him. She got
up and went to the study with a nervous colour in her
cheeks, glancing out of the hall window as she passed it,
with the idea that the threatening grey of the sky would be
a good argument for staying at home. But if it rained,
Roddy might stay at home too, she thought, and that would
be worse than anything. That was her last thought as she
went into the study.

Lambert was standing with his hands in his pockets>
looking down at the pile of papers and books on the table,
and Francie was instantly struck by something unwonted in
his attitude, something rigid and yet spent, that was very
different from his usual bearing. He looked at her with
heavy eyes, and going to his chair let himself drop into it \
then, still silently, he held out his hand to her. She thought
he looked older, and that his face was puffy and unattrac-
tive, and in the highly-strung state of her nerves she felt a
repugnance to him that almost horrified her. It is an un-
fortunate trait of human nature that a call for sympathy
from a person with whom sympathy has been lost has a
repellent instead of an attractive power, and if a strong
emotion does not appear pathetic, it is terribly near the
ludicrous. In justice to Francie it must be said that her
dominant feeling as she gave Lambert her hand and was
drawn down on to his knee was less repulsion than a sense
of her own hypocrisy.

" What's the matter, Roddy?" she asked, after a second or
two of silence, during which she felt the labouring of his breath.

" I'm done for," he said, "that's what's the matter."

" Why ! what do you mean ? " she exclaimed, turning her
startled face half towards him, and trying not to shrink as
his hot breath struck on her cheek.

** I've lost the agency."

" Lost the agency ! " repeated Francie, feeling as though
the world with all the things she believed to be most solid
were rocking under her feet, " Do you mean he's after
dismissing you ? "

The Real Charlotte. 367

Lambert moved involuntarily, from the twitch of pain that
the word gave him. It was this very term that Lismoyle
would soon apply to him, as if he were a thieving butler or
a drunken coachman.

** That's about what it will come to," he said bitterly.
" He was too damned considerate to tell me so to-day, but
he's going to do it. He's always hated me just as I have
hated him, and this is his chance, though God knows what's
given it to him."

"You're raving!" cried Francie incredulously; "what
on earth would make him turn you away ? " She felt that
her voice was sharp and unnatural, but she could not make
it otherwise. The position was becoming momently more
horrible from the weight of unknown catastrophe, the sight
of her husband's suffering and the struggle to sympathise
with it, and the hollow disconnection between herself and
everything about her.

" I can't tell you — all in a minute," he said with difificulty.
" Wouldn't you put your arm round my neck, Francie, as if
you were sorry for me? You might be sorry for me, and
for yourself too. We're ruined. Oh my God ! " he groaned,
" we're ruined ! "

She put her arm round his neck, and pity, and a sense
that it was expected of her, made her kiss his forehead. At
the touch of her lips his sobs came suddenly and dread-
fully, and his arms drew her convulsively to him. She lay
there helpless and dry-eyed, enduring a wretchedness that
in some ways was comparable to his own, but never becom-
ing merged in the situation, never quite losing her sense of
repulsion at his abasement.

" I never meant to touch a farthing of his — in the long
run — " he went on, recovering himself a little; "I'd have
paid him back every half-penny in the end — but, of course,
he doesn't believe that. What does he care what I say ! "

*^ Did you borrow money from him, or what was it ? "
asked Francie gently.

" Yes, I did," replied Lambert, setting his teeth ; " but I
didn't tell him. I was eaten up with debts, and I had to —
to borrow some of the estate money." It was anguish to
lower himself from the pedestal of riches and omnipotence
on which he had always posed to her, and he spoke stumb-

368 The Real Charlotte.

lingly. " It's very hard to explain these things to you — it's
— it's not so unusual as you'd think — and then, before I'd
time to get things square again, some infernal mischief-
maker has set him on to ask to see the books, and put him
up to matters that he'd never have found out for himself."

" Was he angry ? " she asked, with the quietness that was
so unlike her.

" Oh, I don't know — I don't care — " moving again rest-
lessly in his chair ; ** he's such a rotten, cold-blooded devil,
you can't tell what he's at." Even at this juncture it gave
him pleasure to make little of Christopher to Francie. " He
asked me the most beastly questions he could think of, in
that d — d stammering way of his. He's to write to me in
two or three days, and I know well what he'll say," he went
on with a stabbing sigh ; " I suppose he'll have it all over
the country in a week's time. He's been to the bank and
seen the estate account, and that's what's done me. I
asked him plump and plain if he hadn't been put up to it,
and he didn't deny it, but there's no one could have known
what was paid into that account but Baker or one of the
clerks, and they knew nothing about the fines — I mean —
they couldn't understand enough to tell him anything. But
what does it matter who told him. The thing's done now,
and I may as well give up."

" What will you do ? " said Francie faintly.

** If it wasn't for you I think I'd put a bullet through my
head," he answered, his innately vulgar soul prompting him
to express the best thought that was in him in conventional
heroics, "but I couldn't leave you, Francie — I couldn't
leave you — " he broke down again — " it was for our honey-
moon I took the most of the money — " He could not go
on, and her whole frame was shaken by his sobs.

" Don't, Roddy, don't cry," she murmured, feeling cold
and sick.

" He knows I took the money," Lambert went on in-
coherently ; " I'll have to leave the country — I'll sell
everything — " he got up and began to walk about the
room — " I'll pay him — damn him — I'll pay him every
farthing. He sha'n't have it to say he was kept waiting for
his money ! He shall have it this week ! "

" But how will you pay him if you haven't the money ? "

The Real Charlotte. 369

said Francie, with the same lifelessness of voice that had
characterised her throughout.

" I'll borrow the money — I'll raise it on the furniture j
I'll send the horses up to Sewell's, though God knows what
price I'll get for them this time of year, but I'll manage it
somehow. I'll go out to Gurthnamuckla this very afternoon
about it. Charlotte's got a head on her shoulders — " He
stood still, and the idea of borrowing from Charlotte herself
took hold of him. He felt that such trouble as this must
command her instant sympathy, and awaken all the warmth
of their old friendship, and his mind turned towards her
stronger intelligence with a reliance that was creditable to
his ideas of the duties of a friend. " I could give her a bill
of sale on the horses and furniture," he said to himself.

His eyes rested for the first time on Francie, who had
sunk into the chair from which he had risen, and was look-
ing at him as if she did not see him. Her hair was ruffled
from lying on his shoulder, and her eyes were wild and
fixed, like those of a person who is looking at a far-off
spectacle of disaster and grief.

CHAPTER L.

The expected rain had not come, though the air was heavy
and damp with the promise of it. It hung unshed, above
the thirsty country, looking down gloomily upon the dusty
roads, and the soft and straight young grass in the meadows j
waiting for the night, when the wind would moan and cry
for it, and the newborn leaves would shudder in the dark at
its coming.

At three o'clock Francie was sure that the afternoon
would be fine, and soon afterwards she came downstairs in
her habit, and went into the drawing-room to wait for the
black mare to be brought to the door. She was going to
ride towards Gurthnamuckla to meet Lambert, who had
gone there some time before; he had made Francie promise
to meet him on his way home, and she was going to keep
her word. He had become quite a different person to her
since the morning, a person who no longer appealed to her
admiration or her confidence, but solely and distressingly
to her pity. She had always thought of him as invincible,

2 A

370 The Real Charlotte.

self-sufRcing, and possessed of innumerable interests besides
herself; she knew him now as dishonest and disgraced,
and miserable, stripped of all his pretensions and vanities,
but she cared for him to-day more than yesterday. It was
against her will that his weakness appealed to her; she
would have given worlds for a heart that did not smite her
at its claim, but her pride helped out her compassion. She
told herself that she could not let people have it to say that
she ran away from Roddy because he was in trouble.

She felt chilly, and she shivered as she stood by the fire,
whose unseasonable extravagance daily vexed the righteous
soul of Eliza Hackett. Hawkins' note was in her hand,
and she read it through twice while she waited ; then, as
she heard the sound of wheels on the gravel, she tore it in
two and threw it into the fire, and, for the second time that
morning, ran to the window.

It was Christopher Dysart again. He saw her at the
window and took off his cap, and before he had time to
ring the bell, she had opened the hall door. She had, he
saw at once, been crying, and her paleness, and the tell-tale
heaviness of her eyes, contrasted pathetically with the
smartness of her figure in her riding habit, and the boyish
jauntiness of her hard felt hat.

" Mr. Lambert isn't in, Sir Christopher," she began at
once, as if she had made up her mind whom he had come
to see ; " but won't you come in ? "

" Oh — thank you — I — I haven't much time — I merely
wanted to speak to your husband," stammered Christopher.

** Oh, please come in," she repeated, " I want to speak to
you." Her eyes suddenly filled with tears, and she turned
quickly from him and walked towards the drawing-room.

Christopher followed her with the mien of a criminal.
He felt that he would rather have been robbed twenty times
over than see the eyes that, in his memory, had always been
brilliant and undefeated, avoiding his as if they were afraid
of him, and know that he was the autocrat before whom she
trembled. She remained standing near the middle of the
room, with one hand on the corner of the piano, whose
gaudy draperies had, even at this juncture, a painful sub
eff"ect upon Christopher ; her other hand fidgeted restlessly
with a fold of the habit that she was holding up, and it was
evident that whatever her motive had been in bringing him

The Real Charlotte, 371

in, her courage was not equal to it. Christopher waited for
her to speak, until the silence became unendurable.

" I intended to have been here earlier," he said, saying
anything rather than nothing, '* but there was a great deal
to be got through at the Bench to-day, and I've only just
got away. You know I'm a magistrate now, and indiffer-
ently minister justice — "

"I'm glad I hadn't gone out when you came," she
interrupted, as though, having found a beginning, she could
not lose a moment in using it. " I wanted to say that if
you — if you'll only give Roddy a week's time he'll pay you.
He only meant to borrow the money, like, and he thought
he could pay you before ; but, indeed, he says he'll pay you
in a week." Her voice was low and full of bitterest
humiliation, and Christopher wished that before he had ar-
raigned his victim, and offered him up as an oblation to his
half-hearted sense of duty, he had known that his infirmity
of purpose would have brought him back three hours after-
wards to offer the culprit a way out of his difficulties. It
would have saved him from his present hateful position, and
what it would have saved her was so evident, that he turned
his head away as he spoke, rather than look at her.

^' I came back to tell your husband that — that he could
arrange things in — in some such way," he said, as guiltily
and awkwardly as a boy. " I'm sorry — more sorry than I
can say — that he should have spoken to you about it. Of
course, that was my fault. I should have told him then
what I came to tell him now."

" He's gone out now to see about selling his horses and
the furniture/' went on Francie, scarcely realising all of
Christopher's leniency in her desire to prove Lambert's
severe purity of action. Her mind was not capable of more
than one idea — one, that is, in addition to the question that
had monopolised it since yesterday afternoon, and Chris-
topher's method of expressing himself had never been easily
understood by her.

" Oh, he mustn't think of doing that ! " exclaimed Chris-
topher, horrified that she should think him a Shylock, de-
manding so extreme a measure of restitution ; " it wasn't
the actual money question that — that we disagreed about ;
he can take as long as he likes about repaying me. In fact
— in fact you can tell him from me that — he said something

372 The Real Charlotte.

this morning about giving up the agency. Well, I — I
should be glad if he would keep it."

He had stultified himself now effectually ; he knew that
he had acted like a fool, and he felt quite sure that Mr.
Lambert's sense of gratitude would not prevent his holding
the same opinion. He even foresaw Lambert's complacent
assumption that Francie had talked him over, but he could
not help himself. The abstract justice of allowing the
innocent to suffer with the guilty was beyond him ; he for-
got to theorise, and acted on instinct as simply as a savage.
She also had acted on instinct. When she called him in
she had nerved herself to ask for reprieve, but she never
hoped for forgiveness, and as his intention penetrated the
egotism of suffering, the thought leaped with it that, if
Roddy were to be let off, everything would be on the same
footing that it had been yesterday evening. A blush that
was incomprehensible to Christopher swept over her face ;
the grasp of circumstances relaxed somewhat, and a jangle
of unexplainable feelings confused what self-control she had
left.

*' You're awfully good," she began half hysterically. *' I
always knew you were good ; I wish Roddy was like you !
Oh, I wish I was like you ! I can't help it — I can't help
crying ; you were always too good to me, and I never was
worth it ! " She sat down on one of the high stiff chairs,
for which her predecessor had worked beaded seats, and
hid her eyes in her handkerchief. " Please don't talk to
me ; please don't say anything to me — " She stopped
suddenly. " What's that ? Is that anyone riding up ? "

'* No. It's your horse coming round from the yard,"
said Christopher, taking a step towards the window, and trying
to keep up the farce of talking as if nothing had happened.

" My horse ! " she exclaimed, starting up. ^' Oh, yes, I
must go and meet Roddy. I mustn't wait any longer."
She began, as if unconscious of Christopher's presence, to
look for the whip and gloves that she had laid down. He
saw them before she did, and handed them to her.

"Good-bye," he said, taking her cold, trembling hand,
" I must go too. You will tell your husband that it's —
it's all right."

" Yes. I'll tell him. I'm going to meet him. I must
start now," she answered, scarcely seeming to notice what

The Real Charlotte. 373

he said, and withdrawing her hand from his^ she began
hurriedly to button on her gloves.

Christopher did not wait for further dismissal, but when
his hand was on the door, her old self suddenly woke.

" Look at me letting you go away without telling you a
bit how grateful I am to you ! " she said, with a lift of her
tear-disfigured eyes that was like a changeling of the look
he used to know ; '' but don't you remember what Mrs.
Baker said about me, that 'you couldn't expect any
manners from a Dublin Jackeen.' ? "

She laughed weakly, and Christopher, stammering more
than ever in an attempt to say that there was nothing to be
grateful for, got himself out of the room.

After he had gone, Francie gave herself no time to think.
Everything was reeling round her as she went out on to the
steps, and even Michael the groom thought to himself that
if he hadn't the trap to wash, he'd put the saddle on the
chestnut and folly the misthress, she had that thrimulous
way with her when he put the reins into her hands, and
only for it was the mare she was riding he wouldn't see her
go out by herself.

It was the first of June, and the gaiety of the spring was
nearly gone. The flowers had fallen from the hawthorn,
the bluebells and primroses were vanishing as quietly as
they came, the meadows were already swarthy, and the
breaths of air that sent pale shimmers across them, were full
of the unspeakable fragrance of the ripening grass. Under
the trees, near Rosemount, the shadowing greenness had
saturated the daylight with its gloom, but out among the
open pastures and meadows the large grey sky seemed
almost bright, and, in the rich sobriety of tone, the red
cattle were brilliant spots of colour.

The black mare and her rider were now on thoroughly
confidential terms, and, so humiliatingly interwoven are soul
and body, as the exercise quickened the blood in her
veins, Francie's incorrigible youth rose up, and while it
brightened her eyes and drove colour to her cheeks, it
whispered that somehow or other happiness might come to
her. She rode fast till she reached the turn to Gurthna-
muckla, and there, mindful of her husband's injunctions
that she was not to ride up to the house, but to wait for him
on the road, she relapsed into a walk.

374 I'he Real Charlotte.

As she slackened her pace, all the thoughts that she had
been riding away from came up with her again. What
claim had Roddy on her now ? She had got him out of
his trouble, and that was the most he could expect her to do
for him. He hadn't thought much about the trouble he
was bringing on her ; he never as much as said he was
sorry for the disgrace it would be to her. Why should she
break her heart for him and Gerald's heart too ? — as she
said Hawkins' name to herself, her hands fell into her lap,
and she moaned aloud. Every step the mare was taking
was carrying her farther from him, but yet she could not
turn back. She was changed since yesterday ; she had seen
her husband's soul laid bare, and it had shown her how
tremendous were sin and duty ; it had touched her slumber-
ing moral sense as well as her kindness, and though she
rebelled she did not dare to turn back.

It was not till she heard a pony's quick gallop behind her,
and looking back, saw Hawkins riding after her at full
speed, that she knew how soon she was to be tested. She
had scarcely time to collect herself before he was pulUng up
the pony beside her, and had turned a flushed and angry
face towards her.

" Didn't you get my note ? Didn't you know I was com-
ing ? " he began in hot remonstrance. Then, seeing in a
moment how ill and strange she looked, "What's the
matter ? Has anything happened ? "

" Roddy came home yesterday evening," she said, with
her eyes fixed on the mare's mane.

" Well, I know that," interrupted Hawkins. " Do you
mean that he was angry ? Did he find out anything about
me ? If he did see the note I wrote you, there was nothing
in that." Francie shook her head. *' Then it's nothing ?
It's only that you've been frightened by that brute," he said,
kicking his pony up beside the mare, and trying to look
into Francie's downcast eyes. " Don't mind him. It won't
be for long."

" You mustn't say that," she said hurriedly. " I was very
wrong yesterday, and I'm sorry for it now."

" I know you're not ! " he burst out, with all the con-
viction that he felt. " You can't unsay what you said to
me yesterday, I sat up the whole night thinking the thing
over and thinking of you, and at last I thought of a fellow I

The Real Charlotte. 375

know out in New Zealand, who told me last year I ought to
chuck the army and go out there." He dropped his reins
on the pony's neck, and took Francie's hand. " Why
shouldn't we go there together, Francie? I'll give up
everything for you, my darling 1 "

She feebly tried to take her hand away, but did not reply.

" I've got three hundred a year of my own, and we can
do ourselves awfully well on that out there. We'll always
have lots of horses, and it's a ripping climate — and — and I
love you, and I'll always love you ! "

He was carried away by his own words, and, stooping his
head, he kissed her hand again and again.

Every pulse in her body answered to his touch, and when
she drew her hand away, it was with an effort that was more
than physical.

" Ah ! stop, stop," she cried. " I've changed — I didn't
mean it."

" Didn't mean what ? " demanded Hawkins, with his light
eyes on fire.

** Oh, leave me alone," she said, turning her distracted
face towards him. " I'm nearly out of my mind as it is.
What made you follow me out here ? I came out so as
I wouldn't see you, and I'm going to meet Roddy now."

Hawkins' colour died slowly down to a patchy white.
" What do you think it was that made me follow you ? Do
you want to make me tell you over again what you know
already ? " She did not answer, and he went on, trying to
fight against his own fears by speaking very quietly and
rationally. " I don't know what you're at, Francie. I
don't believe you know what you're saying. Something
must have happened, and it would be fairer to tell me what
it is, than to drive me distracted in this sort of way."

There was a pause of several seconds, and he was framing
a fresh remonstrance when she spoke.

" Roddy's in great trouble. I wouldn't leave him,"
she said, taking refuge in a prevarication of the exact truth.

Something about her told Hawkins that things were
likely to go hard with him, and there was something, too,
that melted his anger as it rose ; but her pale face drew him
to a height of passion that he had not known before.

" And don't you think anything about me ? " he said with
a breaking voice. "Are you ready to throw me overboard

3/6 The Real Charlotte.

just because he's in trouble, when you know he doesn't care
for you a tenth part as much as I do ? Do you mean to
tell me that you want me to go away, and say good-bye to
you for ever ? If you do, I'll go, and if you hear I've gone
to the devil, you'll know who sent me."

The naive selfishness of this argument was not perceived
by either. Hawkins felt his position to be almost noble,
and did not in the least realise what he was asking Francie
to sacrifice for him. He had even forgotten the idea that
had occurred to him last night, that to go to New Zealand
would be a pleasanter way of escaping from his creditors
than marrying Miss Coppard. Certainly Francie had no
thought of his selfishness or of her own sacrifice. She was
giddy with struggle ; right and wrong had lost their meaning
and changed places elusively ; the only things that she saw
clearly were the beautiful future that had been offered to
her, and the look in Roddy's face when she had told him that
wherever he had to go she would go with him.

The horses had moved staidly on, while these two lives
stood still and wrestled with their fate, and the summit was
slowly reached of the long hill on which Lambert had once
pointed out to her the hoof-prints of Hawkins' pony. The
white road and the grey rock country stretched out before
them, colourless and discouraging under the colourless sky,
and Hawkins still waited for his answer. Coming towards
them up the tedious slope was a string of half-a-dozen carts,
with a few people walking on either side ; an unremarkable
procession, that might have meant a wedding, or merely a
neighbourly return from market, but for a long, yellow coffin
that lay, hemmed in between old women, in the midmost
cart. Francie felt a superstitious thrill as she saw it ; a
country funeral, with its barbarous and yet fitting crudity,
always seemed to bring death nearer to her than the plumed
conventionalities of the hearses and mourning coaches that
she was accustomed to. She had once been to the funeral
of a fellow Sunday-school child in Dublin, and the first
verse of the hymn that they had sung then, came back, and
began to weave itself in with the beat of the mare's hoofs.

** Brief life is here our portion,
Brief sorrow, short-lived care,
The life that knows no ending,
The tearless life is there."

The Real Charlotte, 377

"Francie, are you going to answer me? Come away
\vith me this very day. We could catch the six o'clock train
before any one knew — dearest, if you love me — " His
roughened, unsteady voice seemed to come to her from a
distance, and yet was like a whisper in her own heart.

" Wait till we are past the funeral," she said, catching, in
her agony, at the chance of a minute's respite.

At the same moment an old man, who had been standing
by the side of the road, leaning on his stick, turned towards
the riders, and Francie recognised in him Charlotte's
retainer, Billy Grainy. His always bloodshot eyes were
redder than ever, his mouth dribbled Hke a baby's, and the
smell of whisky poisoned the air all around him.

" I'm waitin' on thim here this half-hour," he began, in a
loud drunken mumble, hobbling to Francie's side, and mov-
ing along beside the mare, " as long as they were taking her
back the road to cry her at her own gate. Owld bones is
wake, asthore, owld bones is wake ! " He caught at the hem
of Francie's habit to steady himself; ^'be cripes ! Miss
Duffy was a fine woman, Lord ha' maircy on her. And a
great woman ! And divil blasht thim that threw her out of
her farm to die in the Union — the dom ruffins."

As on the day, now very long ago, when she had first
ridden to Gurthnamuckla, Francie tried to shake his hand
off her habit ; he released it stupidly, and staggering to the
side of the road, went on grumbling and cursing. The first
cart, creaking and rattling under its load of mourners, was
beside them by this time, and Billy, for the benefit of its
occupants, broke into a howl of lamentation.

*' Thanks be to God Almighty, and thanks be to His
Mother, the crayture had thim belonging to her that would
bury her like a Christian." He shook his fist at Francie.
" Ah — ha ! go home to himself and owld Charlotte, though
it's little thim regards you — " He burst into drunken laugh-
ter, bending and tottering over his stick.

Francie, heedless of the etiquette that required that
she and Hawkins should stop their horses till the funeral
passed, struck the mare, and passed by him at a quickened
pace. The faces in the carts were all turned upon her,
and she felt as if she were enduring, in a dream, the
eyes of an implacable tribunal ; even the mare seemed
to share in her agitation, and sidled and fidgeted on

378 The Real Charlotte,

the narrow strip of road, that was all the space left to her by
the carts. The coffin was almost abreast of Francie now,
and her eyes rested with a kind of fascination on its bare,
yellow surface. She became dimly aware that Norry the
Boat was squatted beside it on the straw, when one of the
other women began suddenly to groan and thump on the
coffin-lid with her fists, in preparation for a burst of the Irish
Cry, and at the signal Norry fell upon her knees, and flung
out her arms inside her cloak, with a gesture that made her
look like a great vulture opening its wings for flight. The
cloak flapped right across the mare's face, and she swerved
from the cart with a buck that loosened her rider in the
saddle, and shook her hat ofl". There was a screech of
alarm from all the women, the frightened mare gave a second
and a third buck, and at the third Francie was shot into the
air, and fell, head first, on the road.

CHAPTER LI.

The floor of the potato loft at Gurthnamuckla had for a
long time needed repairs, a circumstance not in itself dis-
tressing to Miss Mullen, who held that eff"ort after mere
theoretical symmetry was unjustifiable waste of time in either
housekeeping or farming. On this first of June, however,
an intimation from Norry that " there's ne'er a pratie ye have
that isn't ate with the rats," given with the thinly-veiled
triumph of servants in such announcements, caused a tru-
culent visit of inspection to the potato loft ; and in her first
spare moment of the afternoon. Miss Mullen set forth with
her tool-basket, and some boards from a packing-case, to
make good the breaches with her own hands. Doing it her-
self saved the necessity of taking the men from their work,
and moreover ensured its being properly done.

So she thought, as, having climbed the ladder that led
from the cowhouse to the loft, she put her tools on the
ground, and surveyed with a workman's eye the job she had
set herself. The loft was hot and airless, redolent of the
cowhouse below, as well as of the clayey mustiness of the
potatoes that were sprouting in the dirt on the floor, and
even sending pallid, worm-like roots down into space through
the cracks in the boards. Miss Mullen propped the window-

The Real Charlotte 379

shutter open with the largest potato, and, pinning up her
skirt, fell to work.

She had been hammering and sawing for a quarter of an
hour when she heard the clatter of a horse's hoofs on the
cobble-stones of the yard, and, getting up from her knees,
advanced to the window with caution and looked out. It
was Mr. Lambert, in the act of pulling up his awkward
young horse, and she stood looking down at him in silence
while he dismounted, with a remarkable expression on her
face, one in which some acute mental process was mixed
with the half-unconscious and yet all-observant recognition
of an intensely familiar object.

''Hullo, Roddy!" she called out at last, "is that you?
What brings you over so early ? "

Mr. Lambert started with more violence than the occa-
sion seemed to demand.

" Hullo ! " he replied, m a voice not like his own, " is
that where you are ? "

" Yes, and it's where I'm going to stay. This is the kind
of fancy work I'm at," brandishing her saw ; " so if you
want to talk to me you must come up here."

" All right," said Lambert, gloomily, " I'll come up as
soon as I put the colt in the stable."

It is a fact so improbable as to be worth noting, that
before Lambert found his way up the ladder, Miss Mullen
had unpinned her skirt and fastened up the end of a plait
that had escaped from the massive coils at the back of her
head.

" Well, and where's the woman that owns you ? " she
asked, beginning to work again, while her visitor stood in
obvious discomfort, with his head touching the rafters, and
the light from the low window striking sharply up against
his red and heavy eyes.

"At home," he replied, almost vacantly. "I'd have
been here half an hour ago or more," he went on after a
moment or two, " but the colt cast a shoe, and I had to go
on to the forge beyond the cross to get it put on."

Charlotte, with a flat pencil in her mouth, grunted re-
sponsively, while she measured off a piece of board, and,
holding it with her knee on the body of a legless wheel-
barrow, began to saw it across. Lambert looked on, pro-
voked and disconcerted by this engrossing industry. With

380 The Real Charlotte.

his brimming sense of collapse and crisis, he felt that even
this temporary delay of sympathy was an unkindness.

'* That colt must be sold this week, so I couldn't afford
to knock his hoof to bits on the hard road." His manner
was so portentous that Charlotte looked up again, and per-
mitted herself to remark on what had been apparent to her
the moment she saw him.

"Why, what's the matter with you, Roddy? Now I
come to see you, you look as if you'd been at your own
funeral."

" I wish to God I had ! It would be the best thing
could happen me."

He found pleasure in saying something to startle her,
and in seeing that her face became a shade hotter than the
stifling air and the stooping over her work had made it.

" What makes you talk like that ? " she said, a little
strangely, as it seemed to him.

He thought she was moved, and he immediately felt his
position to be more pathetic than he had beheved. It
would be much easier to explain the matter to Charlotte
than to Francie, he felt at once ; Charlotte understood
business matters, a formula which conveyed to his mind
much comfortable flexibility in money affairs.

" Charlotte," he said, looking down at her with eyes that
self-pity and shaken self-control were moistening again,
" I'm in most terrible trouble. Will you help me ? "

*'Wait till I hear what it is and I'll tell you that,"
replied Charlotte, with the same peculiar, flushed look on
her face, and suggestion in her voice of strong and latent
feeling. He could not tell how it was, but he felt as if she
knew what he was going to say.

" I'm four hundred pounds in debt to the estate, and
Dysart has found it out," he said, lowering his voice as if
afraid that the spiders and wood-lice might repeat his
secret.

" Four hundred," thought Charlotte; " that's more than I
reckoned ; " but she said aloud, " My God ! Roddy, how
did that happen ? "

" I declare to you I don't know how it happened. One
thing and another came against me, and I had to borrow
this money, and before I could pay it he found out."

Lambert was a pitiable figure as he made his confession,

The Real Charlotte. 381

his head, his shoulders, and even his moustache drooping
limply, and his hands nervously twisting his ash plant.

" That's a bad business," said Charlotte reflectively, and
was silent for a moment, while Lambert realised the satis-
faction of dealing with an intelligence that could take in
such a situation instantaneously, without alarm or even sur-
prise.

" Is he going to give you the sack ? " she asked.

" I don't know yet. He didn't say anything definite."

Lambert found the question hard to bear, but he endured
it for the sake of the chance it gave him to lead up to the
main point of the interview. " If I could have that four
hundred placed to his credit before I see him next, I believe
there'd be an end of it. Not that I'd stay with him," he
went on, trying to bluster, " or with any man that treated
me this kind of way, going behind my back to look at the
accounts."

" Is that the way he found you out ? " asked Charlotte,
taking up the lid of the packing-case and twisting a nail out
of it with her hammer " He must be smarter than you took
him for."

" Someone must have put him up to it," said Lambert,
" someone who'd got at the books. It beats me to make it
out. But what's the good of thinking of that ? The thing
that's setting me mad is to know how to pay him." He
waited to see if Charlotte would speak, but she was occu-
pied in straightening the nail against the wall with her
hammer, and he went on with a dry throat. " I'm going to
sell all my horses, Charlotte, and I daresay I can raise some
money on the furniture ; but it's no easy job to raise money
in such a hurry as this, and if I'm to be saved from being
disgraced, I ought to have it at once to stop his mouth. I
believe if I could pay him at once he wouldn't have spunk
enough to go any further with the thing." He waited again,
but the friend of his youth continued silent. " Charlotte,
no man ever had a better friend, through thick and thin,
than I've had in you. There's no other person living that
I'd put myself under an obligation to but yourself. Char-
lotte, for the sake of all that's ever been between us, would
you lend me the money ? "

Her face was hidden from him as she knelt, and he
stooped and placed a clinging, affectionate hand upon her

382 The Real Charlotte,

shoulder. Miss Mullen got up abruptly, and Lambert*s
hand fell.

" All that's ever been between us is certainly a very
weighty argument, Roddy," she said with a smile that
deepened the ugly lines about her mouth, and gave Lambert
a chilly qualm. *' There's a matter of three hundred pounds
between us, if that's what you mean."

" I know, Charlotte," he said hastily. " No one remem-
bers that better than I do. But this is a different kind of
thing altogether. I'd give you a bill of sale on everything
at Rosemount — and there are the horses out here too. Of
course, I suppose I might be able to raise the money at the
bank or somewhere, but it's a very different thing to deal
with a friend, and a friend who can hold her tongue too.
You never failed me yet, Charlotte, old girl, and I don't
believe you'll do it now ! "

His handsome, dark eyes were bent upon her face with
all the pathos he was master of, and he was glad to feel
tears rising in them.

" Well, I'm afraid that's just what I'll have to do," she
said, flinging away the nail that she had tried to straighten,
and fumbling in her pocket for another ; " I may be able to
hold my tongue, but I don't hold with throwing good money
after bad."

Lambert stood quite still, staring at her. trying to believe
that this was the Charlotte who had trembled when he
kissed her, whose love for him had made her his useful and
faithful thrall.

" Do you mean to say that you'll see me ruined and dis-
graced sooner than put out your hand to help me?" he
said passionately.

" I thought you said you could get the money somewhere
else," she replied, with undisturbed coolness, " and you
might know that coming to me for money is like going to
the goat's house for wool. I've got nothing more to lend,
and no one ought to know that better than your-
self!"

Charlotte was standing, yellow-faced and insolent, opposite
to Lambert, with her hands in the pockets of her apron ; in
every way a contrast to him, with his flushed forehead and
suffused eyes. The dull, white light that struck up into the
xoof from the whitewashed kitchen wall, showed Lambert

The Real Charlotte. 383

the furrowed paths of implacability in his adversary's face,
as plainly as it showed her his defeat and desperation.

" You've got no more money to lend, d'ye say ! " he re-
peated, with a laugh that showed he had courage enough
left to lose his temper; " I suppose you've got all the money
you got eighteen months ago from the old lady lent out ?
'Pon my word, considering you got Francie's share of it
for yourself, I think it would have been civiller to have given
her husband the first refusal of a loan ! I daresay I'd have
given you as good interest as your friends in Ferry Lane ! "

Charlotte's eyes suddenly lost their exaggerated indiffer-
ence.

** And if she ever had the smallest claim to what ye call a
share ! " she vociferated, " haven't you had it twenty times
over ? Was there ever a time that ye came cringing and
crawling to me for money that I refused it to ye ? And
how do you thank me ? By embezzling the money I paid
for the land, and then coming to try and get it out of me
over again, because Sir Christopher Dysart is taught sense
to look into his own affairs, and see how his agent is cheat-
ing him ! "

Some quality of triumph in her tone, some light of previ-
ous knowledge in her eye, struck Lambert.

" Was it you told him ? " he said hoarsely, " was it you
spoke to Dysart ? "

Even now and then in the conduct of her affairs, Miss
Mullen permitted the gratification of her temper to take the
place of the slower pleasure of secrecy.

" Yes, I told him," she answered, without hesitation.

" You went to Dysart, and set him on to ruin me ! " said
Lambert, in a voice that had nearly as much horror as rage
in it.

** And may I ask you what you've ever done for me,"
she said, gripping her hammer with a strong, trembling
hand, " that I was to keep your tricks from being found out
for you ? What reason was there in God's earth that I
wasn't to do my plain duty by those that are older friends
than you ? *'

" What reason ! " Lambert almost choked from the in-
tolerable audacity and heartlessness of the question. " Are
you in your right mind to ask me that ? You, that's been
like a — a near relation to me all these years, or pretending

384 The Real Charlotte,

to be ! There was a time you wouldn't have done this to
me, you know it damned well, and so do I. You were glad
enough to do anything for me then, so long as I'd be as
much as civil to you, and now, I suppose, this is your dirty
devilish spite, because you were cut out by someone else ! "

She did not flinch as the words went through and through
her.

" Take care of yourself ! " she said, grinning at him,
" perhaps you're not the one to talk about being cut out !
Oh, I don't think ye need look as if ye didn't understand
me. At all events, all ye have to do is to go home and ask
your servants — or, for the matter of that, anyone in the
streets of Lismoyle — who it is that's cut ye out, and made
ye the laughing-stock of the country ? '*

She put her hand on the dusty beam beside her, giddy
with her gratified impulse, as she saw him take the blow
and wither under it.

She scarcely heard at first the strange and sudden sound
of commotion that had sprung up like a wind in the
house opposite. The windows were all open, and through
them came the sound of banging doors and running foot-
steps, and then Norry's voice screaming something as she
rushed from room to room. She was in the kitchen now,
and the words came gasping and sobbmg through the open
door.

** Where's Miss Charlotte? Where is she? O God!
O God ! Where is she ? Miss Francie's killed, her neck's
broke below on the road ! O God of Heaven, help us ! "

Neither Charlotte nor Lambert heard clearly what she
said, but the shapeless terror of calamity came about them
like a vapour and blanched the hatred in their faces. In a
moment they were together at the window, and at the same
instant Norry burst out into the yard, with outflung arms
and grey hair streaming. As she saw Lambert, her strength
seemed to go from her. She staggered back, and, catching
at the door for support, turned from him and hid her face in
her cloak.

FINIS,

PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY
THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, ABERDEEN