“Where have you been, frightening us all to death!” she exclaimed. “The child is sick; she must have some drugs to quiet her.”
“She's just come out of a spasm,” said Grandma Padgett distantly. “Seems as if a young man scared her.”
“Yes; that was Jarvey,” said the woman. “'E found her here. Carrie was always afraid of Jarvey after he-tried to teach her wire-walking, and let her fall. Jarvey would've fetched her right away with him, But 'e knows I don't like to 'ave 'im meddle with her now.”
“She says her name's Rose,” observed the wife of William Sebastian, taking no care to veil her suspicion.
“'Tis Rose,” replied the woman indifferently, passing her hand in repeated strokes down the child's face as it was pressed to her shoulder. “The h'other's professional—Fairy Carrie. We started 'igher. I never expected to come down with my child to such a miserable little combination. But we've 'ad misfortunes. Her father died coming over. We're English. We 'ad good engagements in the Provinces, and sometimes played in London. The manager as fetched us over, failed to keep his promises, and I had no friends 'ere. I had to do what I could.”
An actual resemblance to Carrie appeared in the woman's face. She wiped tears from, the dark rings under her eyes.
William Sebastian's wife rested her knuckles on the table, still regarding Carrie's mother with perplexed distrust.
While returning none of the caresses she received, the child lay quite docile and submissive.
“Well,” said Grandma Padgett, still distantly “folks bring up their children different. There's gypsies always live in tents, and I suppose show-people always expect to travel with shows. I don't know anything about it. But I do know when that child came to me she'd been dosed nearly to death with laudanum, or some sleepin' drug, and didn't really come to her senses till after her spasm.”
The woman cast a piteous expression at her judge.