She positively laughed, and Carstairs turned to go away. She stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. "I'm not her mother," she said.
"What! Then who is?"
"Lady Cleeve's sister. She's dead."
"Holy God! But that man—Sir Thomas, said——"
"He didn't know and didn't care much. She's his child, but not mine; mine died, and we stole this one. God forgive me! She's been more than a daughter to me. And he—he was always drunk, always drunk when he wasn't playing the fiddle, always drunk. And now he's dead."
"Oh!" Carstairs said; it was all he could think of at the time.
The gipsy woman sat on the top step of the little ladder, her head in her hands, crooning to herself. "My God! My God! And now he's dead! He charmed me with his singing and his playing, and he was in the gutter playing for coppers and drink, while his lawful wife lay dying in her mother's home. Oh, my God! my God!"
Carstairs stood in wonder; he did not know whether to stay or go. She took no notice of him, but crooned on, rocking herself from side to side. "And now he's dead. Dead! Him that opened the gates of Heaven with his fiddle! dead and along with her, but I shall have him; he's mine, mine, and there's another. O my God! My God! but I'm going too! I shall be the first."
Carstairs tapped her on the shoulder. "Pull yourself together," he said. "Shall I get you some brandy?"
"Brandy? No! that's been the curse of it all." She raised her head and glared at him with eyes like live coals. "I stole this child, his child, that ought to have been brought up in the lap of luxury, I stole her and brought her up like a gipsy to try and bring him back." She dropped her head into her hands again and wailed. "God forgive me! God forgive me!"