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 



