Madge felt bound to say something as the sunburnt face looked kind
and motherly.
'I suppose you live at Great Oakhurst?'
'Yes. I do: my husband, God bless him! he was a kind of foreman at
The Towers, and when he died I was left alone and didn't know what to
be at, as both my daughters were out and one married; so I took the
general shop at Great Oakhurst, as Longwood used to have, but it
don't pay for I ain't used to it, and the house is too big for me,
and there isn't nobody proper to mind it when I goes over to Darkin
for anything.'
'Are you going to leave?'
'Well, I don't quite know yet, miss, but I thinks I shall live with
my daughter in London. She's married a cabinetmaker in Great Ormond
Street: they let lodgings, too. Maybe you know that part?'
'No, I do not.' 'You don't live in London, then?'
'Yes, I do. I came from London this morning.'
'The Lord have mercy on us, did you though! I suppose, then, you're
a-visitin' here. I know most of the folk hereabouts.'
'No: I am going back this afternoon.'
Her interrogator was puzzled and her curiosity stimulated. Presently she looked in Madge's face.
'Ah! my poor dear, you'll excuse me, I don't mean to be forward, but
I see you've been a-cryin': there's somebody buried here.'
'No.' That was all she could say. The walk from Letherhead, and the
excitement had been too much for her and she fainted. Mrs Caffyn,
for that was her name, was used to fainting fits. She was often 'a
bit faint' herself, and she instantly loosened Madge's gown, brought
out some smelling-salts and also a little bottle of brandy and water.
Something suddenly struck her. She took up Madge's hand: there was
no wedding ring on it.
Presently her patient recovered herself.
'Look you now, my dear; you aren't noways fit to go back to London
to-day. If you was my child you shouldn't do it for all the gold in
the Indies, no, nor you sha'n't now. I shouldn't have a wink of
sleep this night if I let you go, and if anything were to happen to
you it would be me as 'ud have to answer for it.'
'But I must go; my mother and sister will not know what has become of
me.' 'You leave that to me; I tell you again as you can't go. I've been a
mother myself, and I haven't had children for nothing. I was just a-
goin' to send a little parcel up to my daughter by the coach, and her
husband's a-goin' to meet it. She'd left something behind last week
when she was with me, and I thought I'd get a bit of fresh butter
here for her and put along with it. They make better butter in the
farm in the bottom there, than they do at Great Oakhurst. A note
inside now will get to your mother all right; you have a bit of
something to eat and drink here, and you'll be able to walk along of
me just into Letherhead, and then you can ride to Great Oakhurst;
it's only about two miles, and you can stay there all night.'