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■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 


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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 
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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, 

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