“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.”