Stella Cranstoun possessed the instinctive reverence for age which exists in all generous-minded young people. The uncanny appearance of the old woman considerably startled her in her overwrought state of mind; but she easily forgot her temporary alarm in an unselfish fear as to what might befall the aged creature before her should Sir Philip chance to hear of her presence within his grounds.
“Are you a gypsy?” Stella asked, stopping short, and looking fixedly at the old woman.
“Ay, my deary; I’m a gypsy, sure enough. Old Sarah is a true Romany. But the Romanys are your friends, my pretty. You’ve got no call to be afraid of them.”
“Do you know who I am, then?” the young girl asked, fascinated in spite of herself by those strangely bright eyes.
Sarah Carewe burst into a hoarse, mirthless laugh, which reminded Stella more of a raven’s croak than of the ordinary way of expressing amusement.
“Do I know my Clare’s girl when I see her?” she asked. “My Clare, that died in my arms when you was a little, helpless baby. You’ve got her eyes, my pretty, and her face; for all you’re not so round and dimber as she was in her prime.”
“You are making some mistake,” Stella said. “I am the daughter of Sir Philip Cranstoun, of the Chase. If you want money I will give you what I have about me with pleasure; but you must get out of the park as soon as possible, for my father is dreadfully bitter against tramps and gypsies, especially gypsies.”
An evil scowl contracted the hag’s white eyebrows.
“Sallah!” she muttered, under her breath; and although Stella did not understand her, she easily guessed that the expression conveyed a malediction. “He’s hard on us, is he? Let him wait a bit.” Then, changing suddenly to a wheedling tone, she begged again to be allowed to tell Stella’s fortune. In vain the girl pressed money upon her, and tried by warnings and entreaties to get rid of her, while she hurried on toward the house. Old Sarah was not to be shaken off, and professed herself fearless as to the consequences which might befall her if seen by one of Sir Philip’s keepers. Stella began to be seriously frightened at length lest the woman might come to some harm, knowing her father’s orders.
“Now, pray, take this half-sovereign,” she urged, “and go back out of the park at once. In a few seconds we shall be in sight of the house, and the dogs are trained to fly at any one who is not smartly dressed. And only yesterday Stephen Lee, one of the keepers, shot a gentleman, who was accidentally trespassing, in the shoulder, and wounded him very seriously.”