Neither William Sebastian, the Quaker landlord, nor his wife, returning with the damson preserves in her hand—not even Grandma Padgett and her family, looked at Fairy Carrie more anxiously than the lawyer.
“Is this your mother, Sissy?” inquired Grandma Padgett.
“No,” replied the child; A blank, stupid expression replacing her excitement. “Yes. Mamma?”
The woman sat down and took Carrie upon her lap, twisting her curls and caressing her.
“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.
“She's so nervous, poor pet! Perhaps I'm in the 'abit of giving her too much. But she lives in terror of the company we 'ave to associate with, and I can't see her nerves be racked.”
“Thee ought to stop such wrong doings,” pronounced William Sebastian, laying his palm decidedly on the table. “Set theeself to some honest work and put the child to school. Her face is a rebuke to us that likes to feel at peace.”
The woman glanced resentfully at him.
“The child is gifted,” she maintained. “I'm going to make a hartist of her.”
She smoothed Carrie's wan hands, and, as if noticing her borrowed clothing for the first time, looked about the room for the tinsel and gauze.
{Illustration: THE CHILD LAY QUITE DOCILE AND SUBMISSIVE.}
“The things she had on her when she come to us,” said Grandma Padgett, “were literally gone to nothing. The children had run so far and rubbed over fences and sat in the grass. I didn't even think it was worth while to save the pieces; and I put my least one's clothes on her for some kind of a covering.
“It was her concert dress,” said the woman, regarding aunt Corinne's pantalets with some contempt. “I suppose I hought to thank you, but since she was hinticed away, I can't. When one 'as her feelings 'arrowed up for nearly a week as mine have been 'arrowed, one can't feel thankful. I will send these 'ere things back by Jarvey. Well, ladies and gentlemen, let me bid you good evening. The performance 'as already begun and we professionals cannot shirk business.”
“You give an exhibition in Greenfield to-night, do you?” inquired the lawyer.
“Yes, sir,” replied the woman, standing with Carrie in arms. She had some difficulty in getting at her pocket, but threw him a handbill.
Then passing out through the hall, she shut the front door behind her.
There were two other front doors to the house, though only the central one was in constant use, being left open in the summer weather, excepting on occasions such as the present, when William Sebastian's wife thought it should be locked. One of the other front doors opened into the sitting-room, but was barred with a tall bureau. The third let into a square room devoted to the lumber accumulations of the house. A bar and shelves for decanters remained there, but these William Sebastian had never permitted to be used since his name was painted on the sign.
Mrs. Sebastian felt a desire to confuse the outgoing woman by the three doors and imprison her in the old store room.
“I don't think the child's hers,” exclaimed Mrs. Sebastian.
“Thee isn't Solomon,” observed the Quaker, twinkling at his wife. “Thee cannot judge who the true mother may be.”
“She shouldn't got in here if I'd had the keeping of the door,” continued Mrs. Sebastian. “I may not be Solomon, but I think I could keep the varmints out of my own chicken house.”
Grandma Padgett set her glasses in a perplexed stare at the door.
“She didn't let us say good-by to Fairy Carrie,” exclaimed aunt Corinne indignantly, “and kept her face hid away all the time so she couldn't look at us. I'd hate to have such a ma!”
“She'll whip the poor little thing for running off with us, when she gets her away,” said Robert Day, listening for doleful sounds.
“Well, what does thee think of this business?” inquired William Sebastian of the lawyer who was busying himself drawing squares on the tablecloth with a steel fork. “It ought to come in thy line. Thee deals with criminals and knows the deceitfulness of our human hearts. What does thee say to the woman?”
The lawyer smiled as he laid down his fork, and barely mentioned the conflicting facts:
“She took considerable pains to tell something about herself: more than was necessary. But if they kidnapped the child, they are dangerously bold and confident in exhibiting and claiming her.”
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