Aurelia turned away to leave the room.
“Yes, it is, ma’am! On my bended knees I will swear it,” cried Loveday, throwing herself on them and catching her dress. “It is because I know my lady has worse in store for you!”
“Nothing can be worse than wrong-doing,” said Aurelia.
“Ah! you don’t know. Now, listen, one moment. I would not—indeed I would not—if I did not know that he meant true and honourable—as he does, indeed he does. He is madder after you then ever he was for my lady, for he says you have all her beauty, and freshness and simplicity besides. He is raving. And you should never leave me, indeed you should not, miss, if you slipped out after me in Deb’s muffler—and we’d go to the Fleet. I have got a cousin there, poor fellow—he is always in trouble, but he is a real true parson notwithstanding, and I’d never leave your side till the knot was tied fast. Then you would laugh at my lady, and be one of the first ladies in the land, for my Lord Aresfield is half a fool, and can’t live long, and when you are a countess you will remember your poor Loveday.”
“Let me go. You have said too much to a married woman,” said Aurelia, and as the maid began the old demonstrations of the invalidity of the marriage, and the folly of adhering to it when nobody knew where his honour was gone, she said resolutely, “I shall write to Lady Belamour to send me a more trustworthy messenger.”
On this Loveday fairly fell on the floor, grovelling in her wild entreaty that my Lady might hear nothing of this, declaring that it was not so much for the sake of the consequences to herself as to the young lady, for there was no guessing what my lady might not be capable of if she guessed at Colonel Mar’s admiration of her prisoner. Aurelia, frightened at her violence, finally promised not to appeal to her ladyship as long as Loveday abstained from transmitting his messages, but on the least attempt on her part to refer to him, a complaint should certainly be made to my lady.
“Very well, madam,” said Loveday, wiping her eyes. “I only hope it will not be the worse for you in the end, and that you will not wish you had listened to poor Loveday’s advice.”
“I can never wish to have done what I know to be a great sin,” said Aurelia gravely.
“Ah! you little know!” said Loveday, shaking her head sadly and ominously.
Something brought to Aurelia’s lips what she had been teaching the children last Sunday, and she answered,