“They did tell you aright, lady,” said Turner, sternly—but she interrupted him.
“One, the elder, went out to service, I fancy. This one dropped, miraculously, on my door-step. Well, well, my good Turner, no one thinks of quarrelling with this fanciful way of adopting your own children; but her mother—unless you are really married to this woman, she must go. I cannot answer it to society—to Lord Clare, the most particular man on earth—if she is allowed to remain on the estate a day longer.”
“Madam,” said Turner, “I have said but the truth; Zana, there, is no more my daughter than her Spanish bonne is my wife!”
“Who is her—her father?—who is her mother then?” asked Lady Catherine.
I remarked that her voice faltered in putting this question, and she could not look in Turner’s face.
Turner regarded her firmly, and a faint smile stirred his lip. Lady Catherine saw it, and once more there arose a shade of color in her cheek.
“Lady, I can answer these questions no more than yourself, for you were present when I found the poor child.”
“And had you never seen her before?” questioned the lady.
Turner hesitated and seemed to reflect; but at last he answered firmly enough.
“It is impossible for me to say yes or no.”