Love and Life: An Old Story in Eighteenth Century Costume

“It’s the little misses. They’ve a bin here with their maid, but their nurse have been and fetched ‘em away this morning, and a good riddance too.”

“Who was the maid?—on your oath!”

“One Deborah Davis, a deaf woman, and pretty nigh a dumb one. She be gone too.”

Nor could the old woman tell where she was to be found. “My Lady’s woman sent her in,” she said, “and she was glad enough to be rid of her.”

“Come, now, my good woman, speak out, and it will be better for you,” said the Major. “I know my daughter was here yesterday.”

“And what do I know of where she be gone? She went off in a sedan-chair this morning before seven o’clock, and if you was to put me to the rack I couldn’t say no more.”

As to which way or with whom she had gone, the old woman was, apparently, really ignorant.

The poor Major had to return home baffled and despairing, still taking the tipstaff with him, in case, on consultation with Mr. Belamour, it should be deemed expedient to storm Hanover Square itself, and examine Lady Belamour and her servants upon oath.

Behold, the parlour was empty. Even Betty and Eugene were absent. The Major hastened to knock at Mr. Belamour’s door. There was no answer; and when he knocked louder it was still in vain. He tried the door and found it locked. Then he retreated to the sitting-room, rang, and made inquiries of the waiter who answered the bell.

Mr. Belamour had received a note at about ten o’clock, and had gone out with him “in great disorder,” said the waiter.

At the same moment there was a knock at the door, and a billet was brought in from Lady Belamour. The Major tore it open and read:—

  “MY DEAR COUSIN,

      “I grieve for you, but my Suspicions were correct.  We have all been completely hoodwinked by that old Villain, my Brother-in-law. I can give him no other Name, for his partial Aberration of Mind has only sharpened his natural Cunning. Would you believe it? He had obtained access to Delavie House, and had there hidden the unfortunate Object of your Search, while he pretended to be assisting you, and this Morning he carried her off in a Sedan. I have sent the good Doves to Bowstead in case he should have the Assurance to return to his old Quarters, but I suspect that they are on the Way to Dover. You had better consult with Hargrave on the means of confirming the strange Marriage Ceremony that has passed between them, since that affords the best Security for your Daughter’s Maintenance and Reputation. Believe me, I share in your Distress. Indeed I have so frightful a Megrim that I can scarcely tell what I write, and I dare not admit you to-day.

“I remain,

 “Your loving and much-grieved Cousin,

“URANIA BELAMOUR.”

Poor Major! His horror, perplexity, and despair were indescribable. He had one only hope—that Sir Amyas and Betty might be on the track.

CHAPTER XXX. THE FIRST TASK

 
    After all these there marcht a most faire dame,
    Led of two gryslie villains, th’ one Despight,
    The other cleped Crueltie by name.
 

                                      SPENSER.

The traces of occupation had not deceived Major Delavie; Aurelia had been recently in Delavie House, and we must go back some way in our narrative to her arrival there.

She had, on her return from Sedhurst on that Sunday, reached Bowstead, and entered by the lobby door just as Lady Belamour was coming down the stairs only attended by her woman, and ready to get into the carriage which waited at the hall door.

Sinking on her knees before her with clasped hands, Aurelia exclaimed, “O madam, I ought not to have come away. Here I am, do what you will with me, but spare my father. He knew nothing of it. Only, for pity’s sake, do not put me among the poor wicked creatures in gaol.”

“Get into that carriage immediately, and you shall know by decision,” said Lady Belamour, with icy frigidness, but not the same fierceness as before; and Aurelia submissively obeyed, silenced by an imperious gesture when she would have asked, “How is it with him?” whom she durst not name.

Lady Belamour waited a minute or two while sending Loveday on a last message to the sick room, then entered the large deep carriage, signing to her captive to take a corner where she could hardly be seen if any one looked through the window. Loveday followed, the door was shut by a strange servant, as it was in fact Lady Aresfield’s carriage, borrowed both for the sake of speed, and of secrecy towards her own household.

A few words passed by which Aurelia gathered something reassuring as to the state of the patient, and then Lady Belamour turned on her, demanding, “So, young miss, you tried to escape me! Where have you been?”

“Only as far as Sedhurst Church, madam. I would have gone home, but I feared to bring trouble on my father, and I came back to implore you to forgive.”

There was no softening of the terrible, beautiful face before her, and she durst put no objective case to her verb. However, the answer was somewhat less dreadful than she had anticipated.

“I have been shamefully duped,” said Lady Belamour, “but it is well that it is no worse; nor shall I visit our offences on your father if you show your penitence by absolute submission. The absurd ceremony you went through was a mere mockery, and the old fool, Belamour, showed himself crazed for consenting to such an improper frolic on the part of my son. Whether your innocence be feigned or not, however, I cannot permit you to go out of my custody until the foolish youth or yourself be properly bestowed in marriage elsewhere. Meantime, you will remain where I place you, and exactly fulfil my commands. Remember that any attempt to communicate with any person outside the house will be followed by your Father’s immediate dismissal.”

“May I not let him know that I am safe?”

“Certainly not; I will see to your father.”

It was a period when great ladies did not scruple to scold at the top of their voices, and sometimes proceed to blows, but Lady Belamour never raised her low silvery tones, and thus increased the awfulness of her wrath and the impressiveness of her determination. Face to face with her, there were few who did not cower under her displeasure; and poor Aurelia, resolute to endure for her father’s sake, could only promise implicit obedience.

She only guessed when the entered London by the louder rumbling, and for one moment the coach paused as a horse was reined up near it, and with plumed hat in hand the rider bent forward to the window, exclaiming, “Successful, by all that is lovely! Captured, by Jove!”

“You shall hear all another time,” said lady Belamour. “Let us go on now.”

They did so, but the horseman continued to flash across the windows, and when the coach, after considerable delay, had entered the walled court, rumbled over the pavement, and stopped before a closed door, he was still there. When, after much thundering, the door was opened, Aurelia had a moment’s glimpse of a splendid figure in gold and scarlet handing out Lady Belamour, who stood talking with him on the steps of the house for some moments. Then, shrugging his shoulders, he remounted, and cantered off, after which my Lady signed to Aurelia to alight, and followed her into the hall.

“Madge,” said Lady Belamour to the witch-like old woman who had admitted her, “this young lady is to remain here. You will open a bedroom and sitting-room for her at the back of the house. Let her be properly cared for, and go out in the court behind, but on no account approach the front gates. Let no one know she is here.”

Madge muttered some demands about supplies and payments, and Lady Belamour waved her to settle them with Mrs. Loveday, turning meantime to the prisoner and saying, “There, child, you are to remain here on your good behaviour. Do your best to merit my good will, so that I may overlook what is past. Recollect, the least attempt to escape, or to hold intercourse with the young, or the old, fool, and it shall be the worse with them and with your father.”

Therewith she departed, followed by Loveday, leaving Aurelia standing in the middle of the hall, the old hag gazing on her with a malignant leer. “Ho! ho’! So that’s the way! He has begun that work early, has he? What’s your name, my lass? Oh, you need give yourself airs! I cry you mercy,” and she made a derisive curtsey.

Poor Aurelia, pride had less to do with her silence than absolute uncertainty what to call herself. The wedding ring was on her finger, and she would not deny her marriage by calling herself Delavie, but Belamour might be dangerous, and the prefix was likewise a difficulty, so faltered, “You may call me Madam Aurelia.”

“Madam Really. That’s a queer name, but it will serve while you are here.”

“Pray let me go to my room,” entreated the poor prisoner, who felt as ineffable disgust at her jailor, and was becoming sensible to extreme fatigue.

“Your room, hey? D’ye think I keep rooms and beds as though this were an inn, single-handed as I am? You must wait, unless you be too fine to lend a hand.”

“Anything will do,” said Aurelia, “if I may only rest. I would help, but I am so much tired that I can hardly stand.”

“My Lady has given it to you well, Mistress Really or Mistress Falsely, which ever you may be,” mumbled Madge, perhaps in soliloquy, fumbling at the lock of a room which at last she opened. It smelt very close and fusty, and most of the furniture was heaped together under a cloth in the midst, dimly visible by the light of a heart-shaped aperture in the shutters. Unclosing one of the leaves, the old woman admitted enough daylight to guide Aurelia to a couch against the wall, saying, “You can wait there till I see to your bed. And you’ll be wanting supper too!” she added in a tone of infinite disgust.

“O never mind supper, if I can only go to bed,” sighed Aurelia, sinking on the couch as the old woman hobbled off. Lassitude and exhaustion had brought her to a state like annihilation—unable to think or guess, hope or fear, with shoes hurting her footsore feet, a stiff dress cramping her too much for sleep, and her weary aching eyes gathering a few impressions in a passive way. On the walls hung dimly seen portraits strangely familiar to her. The man in a green dressing gown with floating hair had a face she knew; so had the lady in the yellow ruff. And was that not the old crest, the Delavie butterfly, with the motto, Ma Vie et ma Mie, carved on the mantelpiece? Thus she knew that she must be in Delavie House, and felt somewhat less desolate as she recognised several portraits as duplicates of those at the Great House at Carminster, and thought they looked at her in pity with their eyes like her father’s. The youngest son in the great family group was, as she knew, an Amyas, and he put her in mind of her own. Oh, was he her own, when she could not tell whether those great soft, dark-grey eyes that looked so kindly on her had descended to the young baronet? She hoped not, for Harriet and she had often agreed that they presaged the fate of that gallant youth, who had been killed by Sir Bevil Grenville’s side. He must have looked just as Sir Amyas did, lying senseless after the hurt she had caused.

No more definite nor useful thought passed through the brain of the overwearied maiden as she rest on the couch, how long she knew not; but it was growing dark by the time Madge returned with a guttering candle, a cracked plate and wedge of greasy-looking pie, a piece of dry bread, a pewter cup of small beer, and an impaired repulsive steel knife with a rounded end, and fork with broken prong. The fact of this being steel was not distressing to one who had never seen a silver fork, but the condition of both made her shudder, and added to the sick sense of exhaustion that destroyed her appetite. She took a little of the bread, and, being parched with thirst, drank some of the beer before Madge came back again. “Oh ho, you’re nice I see, my fine Dame Really!”

“Thank you, indeed I can’t eat, I am so much tired,” said Aurelia apologetically.

“You’ll have to put up with what serves your betters, I can tell you,” was all the reply she received. “Well be ye coming to your bed?”

So up the creaking stairs she was guided to a room, very unlike that fresh white bower at Bowstead, large, eerie, ghostly-looking, bare save for a dark oak chest, and a bed of the same material, the posts apparently absolute trees, squared and richly carved, and supporting a solid wooden canopy with an immense boss as big as a cabbage, and carved something like one, depending from the centre, as if to endanger the head of the unwary, who should start up in bed. No means of ablution were provided, and Aurelia felt so grimed and dusty that she ventured to beg for an ewer and basin; but her amiable hostess snarled out that she had enough to do without humouring fiddle-faddle whimsies, and that she might wash at the pump if nothing else would serve her.

Aurelia wished she had known this before going up stairs, and, worn out as she was, the sense implanted by her mother that it was wicked to go to sleep dirty, actually made her drag herself down to a grim little scullery, where she was permitted to borrow a wooden bowl, since she was too nice forsooth to wash down stairs. She carried it up with a considerable trouble more than half full, and a bit of yellow soap and clean towel were likewise vouchsafed to her. The wash—perhaps because of the infinite trouble it cost her—did her great good,—it gave her energy to recollect her prayers and bring good angels about her. If this had been her first plunge from home, when Jumbo’s violin had so scared her, such a place as this would have almost killed her; but the peace that had come to her in Sedhurst Church lingered still round her, and as she climbed up into the lofty bed the verse sang in her ears “Love is strong as death.” Whether Love Divine or human she did not ask herself, but with the sense of soothing upon her, she slept—and slept as a seventeen-years’-old frame will sleep after having been thirty-six hours awake and afoot.

When she awoke it was with the sense of some one being in the room. “O gemini!” she heard, and starting up, only just avoiding the knob, she saw Mrs. Loveday’s well-preserved brunette face gazing at her.

“Your servant, ma’am,” she said. “You’ll excuse me if I speak with you here, for I must be back by the time my Lady’s bell rings.”

“Is it very late?” said Aurelia, taking from under her pillow her watch, which had stopped long ago.

“Nigh upon ten o’clock,” said Loveday. “I must not stay, but it is my Lady’s wish that you should have all that is comformable, and you’ll let me know how Madge behaves herself.”

“Is there any news from Bowstead?” was all Aurelia could at first demand.

“Not yet; but bless you, my dear young lady, you had best put all that matter out of your head for ever and a day. I know what these young gentlemen are. They are not to be hearkened to one moment, not the best of them. Let them be ever so much in earnest at the time, their parents and guardians have the mastery of them sooner or later, and the farther it has gone, the worse it is. I saw you lying asleep here looking so innocent that it went to my heart, and I heard you mutter in your sleep ‘Love is strong as death,’ but that’s only a bit of some play-book, and don’t you trust to it, for I never saw love that was stronger than a spider’s web.”

“Oh, hush, Mrs. Loveday. It is in the Bible!”

“You don’t say so, ma’am,” the woman said awestruck.

“I would show it you, only all my things are away. God is love, you know,” said Aurelia, sitting up with clasped hands, “and He gives it, so it must be strong.”

“Well, all the love I’ve ever seen was more the devil’s,” said Loveday truly enough; “and you’ll find it so if you mean to trust to these fine young beaux and what they say.”

Aurelia shook her head a little as she sat up in bed with her clasped hands; and there was a look on her face that Mrs. Loveday did not understand, as she went on with her advice.

“So, my dear young lady, you see all that is left for you is to frame your mind to keep close here, and conform to my Lady’s will till all is blown over one way or another.”

“I know that,” said Aurelia.

“Don’t’ you do anything to anger her,” added the waiting-woman, “for there’s no one who can stand against her; and I’ll speak up for you when I can, for I know how to come round my Lady, if any one does. Tell me what you want, and I’ll get it for you; but don’t try to get out, and don’t send Madge, for she is not to be trusted with money. If I were you, I’d not let her see that watch, and I’d lock my door at night. You’re too innocent, whatever my Lady may say. Here’s half a pound of tea and sugar, which you had best keep to yourself, and I’ve seen to there being things decent down stairs. Tell me, my dear, is there anything you want? Your clothes, did you say? Oh, yes, you shall have them—yes, and your books. Here’s some warm water,” as a growling was heard at the door; “I must not wait till you are dressed, but there’s a box of shells down in your room that Mr. Wayland sent home for my Lady to line a grotto with, and she wants them all sorted out. ‘Tell her she must make herself of use if she wants to be forgiven,’ says my Lady, for she is in a mighty hurry for them now she has heard of the Duchess of Portland’s grotto; though she has let them lie here unpacked for this half year and more. So if they are all done by night, maybe may Lady will be pleased to let you have a bit more liberty.”

Mrs. Loveday departed, having certainly cheered the captive, and Aurelia rose, weary-limbed and sad-hearted, with a patient trust in her soul that Love Divine would not fail her, and that earthly love would do its best.

She found matters improved in the down-stairs room, the furniture was in order, a clean cloth on the table, a white roll, butter, and above all clean bright implements, showing Mrs. Loveday’s influence. She ate and drank like a hungry girl, washed up for herself rather than let Madge touch anything she could help, and looked from the window into a dull court of dreary, blighted-looking turf divided by flagged walks, radiating from a statue in the middle, representing a Triton blowing a conch—no doubt intended to spout water, for there was a stone trough round him, but he had long forgotten his functions, and held a sparrow’s nest with streaming straws in his hand. This must be the prison-yard, where alone she might walk, since it lay at the back of the house; and with a sense of depression she turned to the task that awaited her.

A very large foreign-looking case had been partly opened, and when she looked in she was appalled at the task to be accomplished in one day. It was crammed with shells of every size and description, from the large helmet-conch and Triton’s trumpet, down to the tiny pink cowry and rice-volute, all stuffed together without arrangement or packing, forming a mass in which the unbroken shells reposed in a kind of sand, of debris ground together out of the victims; and when she took up a tolerably-sized univalve, quantities of little ones came tumbling out of its inner folds. She took up a handful, and presently picked out one perfect valve like a rose petal, three fairy cups of limpets, four ribbed cowries, and a thing like a green pea. Of course she knew no names, but a kind of interest was awakened by the beauty and variety before her. A pile of papers had been provided, and the housewife [a pocket-size container for small articles (as thread)—D.L.] which Betty made her always carry in her pocket furnished wherewithal to make up a number of bags for the lesser sorts; and she went to work, her troubles somewhat beguiled by the novel beauties of each delicate creature she disinterred, but remembering with a pang how, if she could have described them to Mr. Belamour, he would have discoursed upon the Order of Nature.

London noises were not the continuous roar of vehicles of the present day, but there was sound enough to remind the country girl where she was, and the street cries “Old Clothes!” “Sprats, oh!” “Sweep!” were heard over the wall, sometimes with tumultuous voices that seemed to enhance her loneliness, as she sat on the floor, hour after hour, sifting out the entire shells, and feeling a languid pleasure in joining the two halves of a bivalve, especially those lovely sunset shells that have rosy rays diverging from their crimson hinge over their polished surface, white, or just tinted with the hues of a daffodil sky. She never clasped a pair together without a little half-uttered ejaculation, “Oh, bring me and my dear young love thus together again!” And when she found a couple making a perfect heart, and holding together through all, she kissed it tenderly in the hope that thus it might be with her and with him whose hand and whose voice returned on her, calling her his dearest life!

She durst only quit the shells to eat the dinner which Madge served at one o’clock—a tolerable meal of slices of cold beef from a cook’s-shop, but seasoned with sour looks and a murmur at ladies’ fancies. The weariness and languor of the former day’s exertions made her for the present disinclined to explore the house, even had she had time, and when twilight came there could have been little but fragments at the bottom of the case, though she could see no more to sort them.

And what were these noises around her making her start? Rats! Yes, here they were, venturing out from all the corners. They knew there had been food in the room. This was why Madge had those to gaunt, weird-looking cats in her kitchen! Aurelia went and sat on the step into the court to be out of their way, but Madge hunted her in that the door might be shut and barred; and when she returned trembling to the sitting room, she heard such a scampering and a scrambling that she durst not enter, and betook herself to her chamber and to bed.

Alas! that was no refuge. She had been too much tired to hear anything the night before, but to-night there was scratching, nibbling, careering, fighting, squeaking, recoil and rally, charge and rout, as the grey Hanover rat fought his successful battle with his black English cousin all over the floors and stairs—nay, once or twice came rushing up and over the bed—frightening its occupant almost out of her senses, as she cowered under the bed-clothes, not at all sure that they would not proceed to eating her. Happily daylight came early. Aurelia, at its first ray, darted across the room, starting in horror when she touched a soft thing with her bare foot, opened the shutter, and threw open the casement. Light drove the enemy back to their holes, and she had a few hours’ sleep, but when Mrs. Loveday came to the room when she was nearly dressed, she exclaimed, “Why, miss, you look paler than you did yesterday.”

“The rats!” said Aurelia under her breath.

“Ah! the rats! Of course they are bad enough in an old desolate place like this. But you’ve done the shells right beautiful, that I will say; and you may leave this house this very day if you will only give your consent to what my Lady asks. You shall be sent down this very day to Carminster, if so be you’ll give up that ring of yours, and sign a paper giving up all claim to be married to his Honour. See, here it is, all ready, in my Lady’s letter.”

“I cannot,” said Aurelia, with her hands behind her.

“You can read my Lady’s letter,” said Loveday; “that can do you no harm.”

Aurelia felt she must do that at least.

  “CHILD,

      “I will overlook your Transgression on the One Condition, that you sign this Paper and send it with your so-called Wedding Ring back to me immediately. Otherwise you must take the Consequences, and remain where you are till after my Son’s Marriage.

“URANIA BELAMOUR.”

The paper was a formal renunciation of all rights or claims from the fictitious marriage by which she had been deceived, and an absolute pledge never to renew any contract with Sir Amyas Belamour, Knight Baronet, who had grossly played on her.

“No, I cannot,” said Aurelia, pushing it from her.

“Indeed, miss, I would not persuade you to it if it were not for your own good; but you may be sure it is no use holding out against her Ladyship. If you sign it now, and give it up honourable, she will send Mr. Dove home with you, and there you’ll be as if nothing had been amiss, no one knowing nothing about it; but if you persist it will not make the marriage a bit more true, and you will only be kept moped up in this dismal place till his Honour is married, and there’s no saying what worse my Lady may do to you.”

Another night of rats came up before Aurelia’s imagination in contrast with the tender welcome at home; but the white face and the tones that had exclaimed, “Madam, what are you doing to my wife?” arose and forbade her. She would not fail him. So she said firmly once more, “No, Mrs. Loveday, I cannot. I do not know what lawyers may say, but I feel myself bound to Sir Amyas, and I will not break my vow—God helping me,” she added under breath.

“You must write it to her ladyship then. She will never take such a message through me. Here is paper and pen that I brought, in hopes that you would be wise and submit for your honoured father’s sake.”

“My father cannot be persecuted for what he has nothing to do with,” said Aurelia, with the gentle dignity that had grown on her since her troubles. And taking the pen, she wrote her simple refusal, signing it Aurelia Belamour.

“As you please, ma’am,” said Mrs. Loveday, “but I have my Lady’s orders to bring this paper every day till you sign it, and it would be better for you if you would do it at once.”

Aurelia only shook her head, and asked if Mrs. Loveday had seen that she had finished sorting the shells. Yes; and as she was now dressed they went down together to the sitting-room. The shutters were still closed, Madge would not put a hand to the room except on the compulsion, and Aurelia’s enemies had left evidence of their work; not only was the odour of the room like that of a barn, but the paper bags had in some cases been bitten through, and the shells scattered about, and of the loaf and butter which Aurelia had left on a high shelf in the cupboard nothing remained but a few fragments.

Loveday was very much shocked, all the more when Aurelia quietly said she should not mind it so much if the rats would only stay down stairs, and not run over her in bed.

“Yet you will not sign the paper.”

“I cannot,” again said Aurelia.

“My stars, I never could abear rats! Why they fly at one’s throat sometimes!”

“I hope God will take care of me,” said Aurelia, in a trembling voice. “He did last night.”

Loveday began a formal leave-taking curtsey, but presently turned back. “There now,” she said, “I cannot do it, I couldn’t sleep a wink for thinking of you among the rats! Look here, I shall send a porter to bring away those shells if you’ll make up their bags again that the nasty vermin have eaten, and there’s a little terrier dog about the place that no one will miss, he shall bring it down, and depend upon it, the rats won’t venture near it.”

“Oh! thank you, Mrs. Loveday, how good you are!”

“Ah, don’t then! If you could say that my dear!”

Mrs. Loveday hurried away, and after breakfasting, Aurelia repaired the ravages of the rats, and made a last sorting of the residuum of shell dust, discovering numerous minute beauties, which awoke in her the happy thought of the Creator’s individual love.

She had not yet finished before Madge’s voice was heard in querulous anger, and a heavy tread came along with her. A big man, who could have carried ten times the weight of the box of shells, came in with a little white dog with black ears, under his arm.

“There,” said the amiable guardian of the house, “that smart madam says that it’s her ladyship’s pleasure you should have that little beast to keep down the rats. As if my cats was not enough! But mind you, Madam Really, if so be he meddles with my cats, it will be the worse for him.”

The porter took up the box, and departed, and Aurelia was left with her new companion sniffing all round the room, much excited by the neighbourhood of his natural enemies. However, he obeyed her call, and let her make friends, and read the name on the brass plate upon his collar. When she read “Sir A. Belamour, Bart.,” she took the little dog in her arms and kissed it’s white head.

Being fairly rested, and having no task to accomplish, she felt the day much longer, though less solitary, in the companionship of the dog, to whom she whispered many fond compliments, and vain questions as to his name. With him at her heels and Madge and her cats safely shut into the kitchen, she took courage to wander about the dull court, and then to explore the mansion and try to get a view from the higher windows, in case they were not shuttered up like the lower ones. The emptiness of Bowstead was nothing to this, and she smiled to herself at having thought herself a prisoner there.

Most of the rooms were completely dismantled, or had only ghastly rags of torn leather or tapestry hanging to their walls. The upper windows, however, were merely obscured by dust and cobwebs. Her own bedroom windows only showed the tall front of an opposite house, but climbing to the higher storey, she could see at the back over the garden wall the broad sheet of the Thames, covered with boats and wherries, and the banks provided with steps and stairs, at the opening of every street on the opposite side, where she beheld a confused mass of trees, churches, and houses. Nearer, the view to the westward was closed in by a stately edifice which she did not know to be Somerset House; and from another window on the east side of the house she saw, over numerous tiled roofs, a gateway which she guessed to be Temple Bar, and a crowded thoroughfare, where the people looked like ants, toiling towards the great dome that rose in the misty distance. Was this the way she was to see London?

Coming down with a lagging step, she met Madge’s face peering up. “Humph! there you be, my fine miss! No gaping after sweethearts from the window, or it will be the worse for you.”