“Allowed to come? Surely. Lady Cranstoun lived there until a few weeks before your birth, when, presumably after a quarrel with your father, she fled from her home at night, and went back to her own people.”
Stella sank into a chair, her hands tightly clasped together. Dr. Netherbridge saw the unmistakable relief in her face, and hastened to remove any doubt which might still trouble her as to her position.
“Your mother’s maiden name was Clare Carewe. She herself told me her history. As a very little girl, she ran away from the caravan in which she was brought up, and her beauty having attracted the attention of a very rich lady, who was Sir Philip Cranstoun’s sister, she was educated and adopted by her; and from her house at Torquay, Sir Philip secretly married her. Their first child died, and, so far as I could judge, it was a most unhappy marriage. Finally, one night, when some of your mother’s relations made their way into the plantation to speak to her, they were savagely attacked by gamekeepers as poachers; one of the gypsies, who was unhappily Lady Cranstoun’s father, was accidentally shot, and her brother was sentenced to five years’ imprisonment, in spite of Sir Philip’s efforts to save him.”
“How terrible!” burst from Stella’s lips. “How she must have suffered!”
“She did indeed. Very soon after your birth, I was sent for by a gypsy lad, and on the following day I accompanied two nursewomen to your father’s house. Your mother, meanwhile, had died, and the gypsies had removed her body. I broke the news to Sir Philip, but as soon as he heard that the child was a girl, he flew into a furious passion, and ordered the women to take you away; nor could I do more than insist that he should know the address in London to which you were taken and provide some money for your maintenance. From that day I never met you until yesterday. But I shall never forget your mother’s face, and at first sight of you the likeness impressed me so strongly that I spoke without thinking.”
“Thank you,” she said, after a pause, rising and giving him her hand. “Thank you for your kindness to my mother, and to me also. I must be getting back now.”
She paused a minute. Then she asked curiously:
“What were they like, these gypsy people, my mother’s relations?”
“Very big, handsome men, from what I remember, and evidently of very strong family affections. There was an old woman, too, reputed to be a witch. I believe she is still alive, and that the peasants about here actually go to her to have illnesses or scars and moles charmed away. I hope I have told you nothing to distress you,” he added, kindly.
“No; I am grateful to you,” she answered, rewarding him with a smile as she passed from the room, almost colliding with Mrs. Netherbridge, who was fluttering about in the passage outside suspiciously near the keyhole.