They were in the month of March.  Her dear mistress had been begging my lord through Mr. Woodseer constantly of late for an allowance of money; on her knees to him, as it seemed; and Mr. Woodseer was expected at Esslemont.  Her mistress was looking for him eagerly.  Something her heart was in depended on it, and only her brother could be the object, for now she loved only him of these men; though a gentleman coming over from Barlings pretty often would pour mines of money into her lap for half a word.

Carinthia had walked up to Croridge in the morning to meet her brother at Lekkatts.  Madge was left guardian of the child.  She liked a stroll any day round Esslemont Park, where her mistress was beginning to strike roots; as she soon did wherever she was planted, despite a tone of pity for artificial waters and gardeners’ arts.  Madge respected them.  She knew nothing of the grandeur of wildness.  Her native English veneration for the smoothing hand of wealth led her to think Esslemont the home of all homes for a lady with her husband beside her.  And without him, too, if he were wafted over seas and away:  if there would but come a wind to do that!

The wild North-easter tore the budded beeches.  Master John Edward Russett lay in the cradling-basket drawn by his docile donkey, Martha and Madge to right and left of him; a speechless rustic, graduating in footman’s livery, to rear.

At slow march round by the wrinkled water, Madge saw the park gates flung wide.  A coach drove up the road along on the farther rim of the circle, direct for the house.  It stopped, the team turned leisurely and came at a smart pace toward the carriage-basket.  Lord Fleetwood was recognized.

He alighted, bidding one of his grooms drive to stables.  Madge performed her reverence, aware that she did it in clumsy style; his presence had startled her instincts and set them travelling.

‘Coldish for the youngster,’ he said.  ‘All well, Madge?’

‘Baby sleeps in the air, my lord,’ she replied.  ’My lady has gone to Croridge.’

‘Sharp air for a child, isn’t it?’

’My lady teaches him to breathe with his mouth shut, like her father taught her when she was little.  Our baby never catches colds.’

Madge displayed the child’s face.

The father dropped a glance on it from the height of skies.

‘Croridge, you said?’

‘Her uncle, Lord Levellier’s.’

‘You say, never catches cold?’

‘Not our baby, my lord.’

Probably good management on the part of the mother.  But the wife’s absence disappointed the husband strung to meet her, and an obtrusion of her practical motherhood blurred the prospect demanded by his present step.

‘When do you expect her to return, Madge?’

‘Before nightfall, my lord.’

‘She walks?’

‘Oh yes, my lady is fond of walking.’

‘I suppose she could defend herself?’