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 



