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 



