It was settled that they should leave Fenmarket. Their departure caused but little surprise. They had scarcely any friends, and it was always conjectured that people so peculiar would ultimately find their way to London. They were particularly desirous to conceal their movements, and therefore determined to warehouse their furniture in town, to take furnished apartments there for three months, and then to move elsewhere. Any letters which might arrive at Fenmarket for them during these three months would be sent to them at their new address; nothing probably would come afterwards, and as nobody in Fenmarket would care to take any trouble about them, their trace would become obliterated. They found some rooms near Myddelton Square, Pentonville, not a particularly cheerful place, but they wished to avoid a more distant suburb, and Pentonville was cheap. Fortunately for them they had no difficulty whatever in getting rid of the Fenmarket house for the remainder of their term.

For a little while London diverted them after a fashion, but the absence of household cares told upon them. They had nothing to do but to read and to take dismal walks through Islington and Barnsbury, and the gloom of the outlook thickened as the days became shorter and the smoke began to darken the air. Madge was naturally more oppressed than the others, not only by reason of her temperament, but because she was the author of the trouble which had befallen them. Her mother and Clara did everything to sustain and to cheer her. They possessed the rare virtue of continuous tenderness. The love, which with many is an inspiration, was with them their own selves, from which they could not be separated; a harsh word could not therefore escape from them. It was as impossible as that there should be any failure in the pressure with which the rocks press towards the earth’s centre. Madge at times was very far gone in melancholy. How different this thing looked when it was close at hand; when she personally was to be the victim! She had read about it in history, the surface of which it seemed scarcely to ripple; it had been turned to music in some of her favourite poems and had lent a charm to innumerable mythologies, but the actual fact was nothing like the poetry or mythology, and threatened to ruin her own history altogether. Nor would it be her own history solely, but more or less that of her mother and sister.

Had she believed in the common creed, her attention would have been concentrated on the salvation of her own soul; she would have found her Redeemer and would have been comparatively at peace; she would have acknowledged herself convicted of infinite sin, and hell would have been opened before her, but above the sin and the hell she would have seen the distinct image of the Mediator abolishing both. Popular theology makes personal salvation of such immense importance that, in comparison therewith, we lose sight of the consequences to others of our misdeeds. The sense of cruel injustice to those who loved her remained with Madge perpetually.

To obtain relief she often went out of London for the day; sometimes her mother and sister went with her; sometimes she insisted on going alone. One autumn morning, she found herself at Letherhead, the longest trip she had undertaken, for there were scarcely any railways then. She wandered about till she discovered a footpath which took her to a mill-pond, which spread itself out into a little lake. It was fed by springs which burst up through the ground. She watched at one particular point, and saw the water boil up with such force that it cleared a space of a dozen yards in diameter from every weed, and formed a transparent pool just tinted with that pale azure which is peculiar to the living fountains which break out from the bottom of the chalk. She was fascinated for a moment by the spectacle, and reflected upon it, but she passed on. In about three-quarters of an hour she found herself near a church, larger than an ordinary village church, and, as she was tired, and the gate of the church porch was open, she entered and sat down. The sun streamed in upon her, and some sheep which had strayed into the churchyard from the adjoining open field came almost close to her, unalarmed, and looked in her face. The quiet was complete, and the air so still, that a yellow leaf dropping here and there from the churchyard elms—just beginning to turn—fell quiveringly in a straight path to the earth. Sick at heart and despairing, she could not help being touched, and she thought to herself how strange the world is—so transcendent both in glory and horror; a world capable of such scenes as those before her, and a world in which such suffering as hers could be; a world infinite both ways. The porch gate was open because the organist was about to practise, and in another instant she was listening to the Kyrie from Beethoven’s Mass in C. She knew it; Frank had tried to give her some notion of it on the piano, and since she had been in London she had heard it at St Mary’s, Moorfields. She broke down and wept, but there was something new in her sorrow, and it seemed as if a certain Pity overshadowed her.

She had barely recovered herself when she saw a woman, apparently about fifty, coming towards her with a wicker basket on her arm. She sat down beside Madge, put her basket on the ground, and wiped her face with her apron.

‘Marnin’ miss! its rayther hot walkin’, isn’t it? I’ve come all the way from Darkin, and I’m goin’ to Great Oakhurst. That’s a longish step there and back again; not that this is the nearest way, but I don’t like climbing them hills, and then when I get to Letherhead I shall have a lift in a cart.’

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.’

Madge was greatly touched; she took Mrs Caffyn’s hands in hers, pressed them both and consented. She was very weary, and the stamp on Mrs Caffyn’s countenance was indubitable; it was evidently no forgery, but of royal mintage. They walked slowly to Letherhead, and there they found the carrier’s cart, which took them to Great Oakhurst.