CHAPTER IX.
The following Saturday turned out to be a misty November morning. Towards noon the fog lifted, and at half-past one, when Dame Hursey prepared to start to keep her appointment with her son, it was tolerably clear, but the old wool-gatherer, who was as weather-wise as John Shelley himself, shook her head as she scanned the horizon from the door of her miserable cottage, and muttered to herself she doubted the fog would come on worse than ever at sunset.
As this was the first time she had seen her son for twelve or thirteen years, and would probably be the last, seeing that he was going back to Australia, probably never to return, at least in her lifetime, Dame Hursey regarded the occasion as a festive one, and had taken a holiday in honour of it. Her morning had been spent in cleaning her miserable cottage, in the faint hope that her son might be persuaded to come home and spend the evening with her. In this hope all her wool-gatherings had been taken upstairs instead of lying about the floor and corners of the kitchen, as they usually did; the floor had been scrubbed, a fire was lighted, two rickety armchairs drawn up to it, and a cup and saucer, a mug, and two or three plates—Dame Hursey’s stock of crockery—placed on the table. She dispensed with dinner, and contenting herself with a piece of bread and cheese, reserved two red herrings for her tea on her return with her son.
Then she dressed herself in her Sunday dress, not without some qualms lest the fog should turn to rain. Even if it did, on such an occasion as this she must wear her best things, so she put on her black stuff dress, a black and white plaid shawl, and a bonnet that might have come out of the ark, judging from its antique shape, and which, to Dame Hursey’s pride, was ornamented with some dirty old artificial flowers. Thus attired, and having made up the fire and left the kettle on the hob, she locked up her hut, put the key in her pocket, and providing herself with a gigantic cotton umbrella, to answer the purpose of a walking-stick as well as in case of rain, she set out for Mount Harry.
Though Dame Hursey knew all the short cuts, it was more than an hour’s walk from her house to the top of Mount Harry, but the old woman was longing to see her son again, so she started in good time, and reached the spot a quarter of an hour before he did, though he was punctual. The fog was rolling up again, as the old wool-gatherer had predicted, and, accustomed as her black eyes were to piercing the mists which so often wrap those rounded hills like a damp clinging garment, her son was close upon her before she saw his form, looming like a gigantic grey figure close beside her. It was twelve years and a half since they had met, and George Hursey was very much altered in appearance since, in the character of John Smith, carpenter on board the French yacht Hirondelle, he had laid the baron’s little daughter on John Shelley’s doorstep; but for all that his mother declared she would have recognised him in a crowd.
“You’ll come home and have a cup of tea and a chat, George, after all these years, won’t you?” said the old dame, gazing with pride and affection on her ne’er-do-well son.
“No, mother, no; I might be recognised, and I don’t want to be arrested for making off with a child, before I go back to my own wife and children.”
“The child is safe enough, if you mean the child you left on John Shelley’s doorstep thirteen years ago come next June.”
George Hursey gave a sigh of relief, for many a nightmare had that innocent baby, which, for aught he knew to the contrary, might have perished from cold or exposure through his fault, given him.
“John Shelley took it in then, as I thought he would?”
“Yes, and a beauty she is, and no mistake. George, tell me who the child is, will you, honey?” said Dame Hursey, in a wheedling tone.
“That’s what I have come here for chiefly, that and to see you once again, for when I say good-bye to England to-morrow it will be for good this time; I am going to give up the sea, and live at home now.”
“Well, you know your own affairs best; but about the lassie, George; whose child is she? No poor person’s, I’ll be bound,” said Dame Hursey, whose curiosity about Fairy exceeded even her interest in her son’s family affairs.
“She is the niece of my late master, a French gentleman, and it was by his wish I took her to John Shelley, only instead of going in as I pretended I had done, I left her on the doorstep, and went off with the purse; and if ever I cursed in my life I have cursed that money, which, for aught I knew till a few minutes ago, had made me a murderer, though for that matter I may be one still, for the baroness may have fretted herself into her grave for her baby.”
“The baroness, did you say, George? Sure, I was right, she is no common child, no fit wife even for gentleman Jack,” exclaimed the old woman, opening her umbrella, partly to keep the fog off, partly as a sort of screen to shut in the secret she had yearned so long to learn. But George was following up his own train of thought, and went on, heedless of her interruption—
“Though, as true as I stand here, I never knew till last week that Monsieur Léon was drowned, and the Hirondelle lost a day or two after I left her. Likely as not the baron thinks the child was drowned too, since they have never found her. I might never have known, only I happened to ask at Yarmouth if they had ever had a French yacht named Hirondelle over there, and some of the fishermen remembered all about the wreck. When I heard that I determined to come and see if the child was safe, and now I know it is, I want to do the rest, mother.”
“Yes, honey, what is it? You may trust me. I guessed the night I met you you knew all about the fairies’ child, and I have kept your secret and watched the child ever since, for your sake, George.”
“Well, I want you to go to John Shelley, or to the parson if you like, or both, and tell them the child belongs to the Baron de Thorens, of Château de Thorens, near Carolles, in Normandy. Shall I write it down for you?”
“No, no, I can’t read it if you do; I shall remember fast enough—Baron de Thorens, Château de Thorens, near Carolles, Normandy. I shall think of Christmas carols, De Thorens, Château de Thorens,” repeated Dame Hursey.
“Never mind château, it only means castle, but don’t forget the name, De Thorens. Here, I’ll cut that word on your umbrella handle with my knife in printed letters. You can read print, I know.”
“All right; and what else am I to tell them?”
“Why, that my master and the baron gave me the child twelve years and a half ago to put out to nurse with an Englishwoman. I went ashore at Brighton in a little boat with Pierre Legros, one of the sailors, and I walked across the downs with the child, and left it on John Shelley’s doorstep; then I told Monsieur Léon John had taken it in and promised to look after it. He took the address, and the only person I thought I had robbed was John Shelley, though I knew the baron would make it up to him when he heard of it.”
“Are they rich, George?” asked the old woman, taking a pinch of snuff as she peered at her son through the fog.
“Yes, I think so. The château is a beautiful place, and stands in a park.”
“Is that all I am to say?”
“Yes, leave the rest to the parson to decide; he will write to the baron in French very likely. You may tell them as soon as you like, for I shall be out of the country to-morrow.”
“I shall wait till you are gone; one day more can’t make any difference, and it is best to be on the safe side, then if they want to know where you are, I can say on your way to Australia, so there’ll be no fear of their catching you, though it is so long ago there isn’t much danger of that now.”
“Please yourself, and now I must be off. Here are five sovereigns for you, mother; they are honestly earned, so you need not be afraid to take them, and now I must say good-bye. How thick the fog is; there is no danger of anyone seeing me this evening; it is as much as I shall do to find my way down to the Brighton Road without breaking my neck in a chalk pie. Take care of yourself, mother; but you know these downs better than I do,” said George Hursey, kissing his mother.
“Ay, ay, lad, never fear for me; I have been out in worse fogs than this. Good-bye, God bless you,” and the old wool-gatherer strained her eyes till her son’s figure disappeared, as it very quickly did, in the fog.
She stood still for a minute or two after he had gone, gloating over the secret she had at last discovered, and muttering to herself again and again, “Baron de Thorens, Carolles, Normandy,” and then she too turned and walked slowly off through the fog in a different direction.
It was quite true she had been out in worse fogs than this, but whether it was that she was too much occupied with her own thoughts to think of where she was going, or whether the fog, which gradually increased, was worse than she fancied, she suddenly, after wandering about for half-an-hour, awoke to the conclusion that she did not know where she was. If she had come right she ought to have been at the bottom of the hill by now, whereas she was still on flat ground, and had not begun the descent.
She had been so absorbed in wondering what the Shelleys, particularly “gentleman Jack,” as she always called Jack, would say to her news, and in picturing to herself the amazement on learning that Fairy was the daughter of a French nobleman, perhaps a baroness herself or a countess, for Dame Hursey had very vague ideas on the subject of French titles; and in thinking how pleased Fairy would be to hear she was a rich lady, that she forgot all about the fog and where she was going. Loving gossip as she did, the secret George had put in her power was dearer to her than the five sovereigns tied up in the corner of her pocket-handkerchief; it would add to her importance in the neighbourhood more than the gold. Moreover, it might lead to a reward for her, since she had had no part in leaving the child to the care of the shepherd, and Fairy she was sure would not suffer her to be forgotten when the Shelleys came to be rewarded.
“Why, but for me Fairy might never find her parents after all; if I were to keep this secret to myself she would never know for certain she was a lady born, perhaps a countess. I shall make them understand that before I tell them. Or, if anything was to happen to me now before I have told them, why they’d like to never know it. Bless me, where am I? This fog is worse than I thought; I ought to have been home by now, and here I am still on the top. De Thorens, Carolles, Normandy,” and so muttering to herself Dame Hursey disappeared in the fog.
That same afternoon, Fairy, little thinking her name and birth were so soon to be revealed, and her happy life in the shepherd’s cottage exchanged for a very different one in a French château, had gone for a walk with Charlie, and, to Mrs. Shelley’s great anxiety, at half-past five o’clock, when her husband and Jack came in to tea, they were not home. The fog now was so dense that you could hardly see your hand before you, and even with a lantern you could not discern anything a yard or two in advance of you, and Mrs. Shelley was intensely relieved when John and Jack came home safe.
“Thank God you are both back safely; it is an awful fog, isn’t it, John?” asked Mrs. Shelley, as John stood wiping the fog from his beard and face.
“Yes, it is a bad one; luckily both Jack and I saw it was coming on and got the sheep home before dark, or we might have been half the night on the downs.”
“Isn’t it tiresome? Charlie and Fairy went out for a walk soon after dinner, and they are not back now; I have been in such a fright about them,” said Mrs. Shelley.
“What, mother? Fairy out in this fog? Good heavens! the child may be killed! What on earth does that little idiot mean by taking her out in a fog? He deserves a sound thrashing,” burst out Jack.
“Hush, Jack; Charlie may be in danger as well,” said Mrs. Shelley.
“Serve him right too,” muttered Jack, as he went in search of a lantern without another word.
“Fairy and Charlie out, wife? Dear me, we shall have to go and look for them; why, they may fall into a chalkpit and break their necks. Where have they gone?” asked John, leisurely putting on his hat and scarf.
“I don’t know, but I fancy to Mount Harry; I heard Fairy talking about it.”
“Here, Jack, we shall have to go and look for them children, I think,” called out the shepherd to Jack.
“Of course we shall; I am lighting the lantern; let’s be off at once, father,” said Jack, who had made the necessary preparations for the search while his father was taking in the fact that the children were lost, and now stood with the lantern in his hand and his dog by his side at the open door.
“Where are we to go, father?” said Jack as they started.
“Well, your mother says they are gone to Mount Harry, so if we were to go along the Oatham-road and search those chalkpits as we go, that is the only place they are likely to have fallen down. If they are not there, and God forbid they should be, we shall know they have not come to much harm beyond a fright. When we have passed the chalkpits we can climb up Mount Harry and come back by the jail; I have my compass, we can’t go far wrong with that.”
Jack fell in with this plan at once; it was by far the best thing they could do; but then John Shelley, in his slow, methodical way, invariably hit upon the wisest plan of action in an emergency, as Jack very well knew. Accordingly, off they started, each with a lantern and the shepherd’s dog leading the way. Jack’s own dog was younger and not so steady as Rover, so he kept him at home. This Rover was a son of the Rover who had first discovered the fairies’ baby on his master’s doorstep that midsummer evening, but John Shelley called all his dogs Rover, and was rather scandalised when Jack insisted on naming his dog Bruce; it was an innovation, and the shepherd disliked anything new; however, in this he was persuaded to yield, Mrs. Shelley and Fairy taking Jack’s part, and saying two Rovers in one family at the same time would never do.
(To be continued.)
MILAN CATHEDRAL.