While all this was going on Mary felt as guilty as if she had stolen the fowls and killed the turkey gobbler. She knew where the thieves were, safely hidden in the old house, and no doubt planning some other dreadful deed. If she could only have spoken! Her food tasted like dry chips in her mouth, she swallowed it with the utmost difficulty, and it was only by taking great gulps of tea that she could get on at all.

Mrs Vallance noticed her disturbed looks.

"I think you ran about in the sun too much yesterday, Mary," she said at last. "I will send up to Fraulein and ask her to excuse your lessons this morning. You will be better for a quiet day at home with me."

Mary was relieved not to go to the White House, for she dreaded more questions from the children, but as to spending a "quiet" day at home, that was not possible. It never would be possible any more, she thought, for now she had to consider and contrive how to get her money to the appointed place at six o'clock that evening. She knew the spot well, it was only a little distance beyond the White House. Just where the four roads met there stood a sign-post; near this was a large old oak-tree, and at its foot a broad flat stone with a hollow under one side. It was there she had to put her money, but how to get it there without observation?

Her mind was so full of this as the day went on that everything else seemed like a sort of dream; she heard Mrs Vallance talking to her, and answered, but so absently that her mother looked at her in surprise.

"She is certainly very much over-tired," she said to herself; "I always knew that Maskells was not a place for the children, and I shall tell Mrs Chelwood so."

Meanwhile the dreaded hour drew nearer and nearer, the bell was ringing for evening service, and Mr Vallance came out of his study and put on his wide-awake.

"Would you rather not go to church this evening, Mary?" said Mrs Vallance.

"My head aches," answered Mary. "If they will only go without me," she said to herself, "I can do it."

"Very well, darling," said kind Mrs Vallance; "I will stay with you, and we will go on with that nice book you like so much."

Mary's face became as red as it had been white a moment ago.

"Oh, no," she stammered; "I'd rather be alone. May I go and lie down on my bed until you come back?"

What a strange request from the ever-active Mary!

"Do as you like, dear," said Mrs Vallance, and as she left the house she added to her husband, "I hope the child's not going to be ill, she looks so dull, and flushes up so."

Mary listened until she heard the click of the garden gate, then she sprang up from her bed, wrapped all her money in a piece of paper and put it in her pocket. She looked at the clock, in five minutes they would be in church, then she would start, and if she ran all the way she would be in time.

Concealment was so new to her that she felt as though she were doing something very wicked as she ran quickly along the familiar road; she met no one, but every rustle in the hedge, every innocent sound, made her start and tremble, and when in the distance she saw the tall sign-post standing there with outstretched arms she shook with fear.

She reached it; no one in sight; all the four roads silent and bare; and having hidden her packet tremblingly under the broad stone she turned to go, with guilty footsteps, when suddenly, from the tree above, there fell at her feet a small screwed-up piece of paper. She looked up; amongst the thick leafy branches in the very heart of the oak there was a freckled face peering down at her. It was the youth Bennie. She stood motionless with terror, staring at him, and he pointed at the piece of paper, making signs that she was to pick it up. As she stooped to do so there sounded in the distance the steady trot of a horse, and looking round the tree she saw, coming along the road from Dorminster, a st.u.r.dy grey cob with a broad-shouldered man on his back. Even at that distance Mary knew the cob and she knew the man. It was Squire Chelwood: Bennie's quick eye saw him too.

"Hide!" he said, in a low threatening voice, and pointed to a gap in the hedge opposite.

Mary's brain reeled. Should she stop Mr Chelwood and betray Bennie?

But then the gypsies would claim her, she would belong to them, they would take her away. Anything was better than that. She jumped through the gap, and crouched down behind the hedge.

On came the squire, nearer and nearer, his square shoulders rising and falling with his horse's movement, his jolly brown face puckered with a frown of annoyance; no doubt he had been trying to find out the thieves.

How strong he looked, how ready he would be to help her, how glad to know where Bennie was! Now he was pa.s.sing close, close to her hiding-place; if she sprang out now she could stop him. But no, she could not; in another minute it was too late, the cob had turned briskly into the Wensdale Road, and the sound of his hoofs soon became faint in the distance.

She now saw Bennie slide nimbly to the ground, cast one quick glance round, and s.n.a.t.c.h the money from under the stone; then stooping low, he ran swiftly along under the hedge in the direction of Maskells, like some active wild animal, and disappeared.

Left alone, Mary also crept out of her hiding-place and took her way back to the vicarage as fast as she could. Humble and crest-fallen, how different to the Mary of two days ago, who had such lofty ambitions!

How foolish now seemed those vain dreams and fancies! No "Lady Mary,"

but a gypsy child; it was a change indeed. She got home before service was over, threw herself on her little bed, and hid her face on her pillow. How unhappy she was! No one could help her, and yet she had many kind friends near, who would be so sorry for her if they knew. But they must not know, that was the worst part of it, she must bear this dreadful thing all alone. She had been fond once of having "a secret,"

a mystery she could share with Jackie only, and talk about in corners.

What a different matter it was to have a real one to keep!

Presently she heard Mrs Vallance's step on the stairs; Mary felt that she could not answer any questions about her headache, so she shut her eyes and pretended to be asleep. When her kind mother bent over her and kissed her, how hard it was not to put her arms round her neck and tell her how miserable she was; but she must not, she must lie quite still, and soon she knew that Mrs Vallance was going softly out of the room.

It grew gradually dusk; Mary got up and began to undress herself, she would not go down-stairs again that night, she would go to bed at once, she thought. As she put her hand into her pocket, she felt something there beside her handkerchief, and drew it quickly out. There was the dirty sc.r.a.p of paper Bennie had thrown from the tree, and which she had quite forgotten. What did it mean? Was there anything inside it? With a thrill of fear she darted to the window, untwisted the paper, and by the dim light could just make out the following scrawl: "Leeve the en roost oppen nex Munday nite." Mary gazed at it with horror, unable for the first few minutes to take in the sense, but when she did so she sank down on the ground and burst into tears. What wicked, wicked people they were! Not content with taking all her money, they wanted to rob the hen-roost, to steal her pretty bantams and Mrs Vallance's splendid white cochin-chinas. It was too cruel. She clenched her fist pa.s.sionately. "They sha'n't do it," she said to herself starting to her feet. "I will tell the squire; I will have them punished. They shall be put in prison."

Then another thought came, and she drooped her head mournfully. "If I do that they will claim me for their child. 'Not all the parsons and all the squires as ever was could prevent it,' Seraminta had said. What would happen then? I should have to go away from Wensdale, from father and mother, from Jackie, and all of them at the White House. They would all know that I belonged to thieves--not only to common, poor people, but to bad people. I should have to tramp about the country in dirty old clothes, and perhaps no shoes. Anything would be better. I would rather they stole all the chickens. Perhaps after that they will go away, and I shall never see them again."

She seized the sc.r.a.p of paper and spelt it over a second time. Monday night--that was Jackie's birthday, a whole week off. Surely something might happen before then. The squire might find out the gypsies'

hiding-place, and lock them up. Oh, if she might only give him the least little hint!

But she soon made up her mind firmly that she would risk nothing. She would do all they told her, she would leave the door unlocked, and help them to steal the chickens, and neither by word or look would she do anything to lead to their discovery. For she felt certain of what would follow if she did--disgrace, ragged clothes, and utter misery.

After many sorrowful thoughts of this kind she at last sobbed herself to sleep, and dreamed that she saw Perrin the gypsy man stealing stealthily out of the garden with a hen under each arm.

During the week that followed she felt as though she were dreaming still, though everything went on as usual with quiet regularity. She worked in her garden and fed her chickens, and went to the White House for her lessons with Fraulein. Outwardly it was all exactly the same, but within what a heavy heart she carried about with her! If she forgot her troubles for a few minutes in a merry game or a book, they all came back to her afterwards with double force. She belonged to gypsies; Monday they would steal the chickens; it was Jackie's birthday, and she could give him no present. Those three things weighed on her mind like lead and altered her in so many ways that everyone was puzzled. She was submissive at home and obedient to Fraulein at the White House, never even smiling at her funniest English words; she was ready to give up her own will and pleasure to the other children; and more than once Jackie had discovered her in tears--she was "proud Mary" no longer.

As the days went on it became almost impossible to be so unhappy without telling someone. Often, when she and Jackie were alone together, her heart was so full that the words were on the very tip of her tongue, but fear kept them back. It was a heart-rending thing just now to feed the chickens and to hear Mrs Vallance talk so unconsciously about them, and say how many eggs they laid. Only three more days and they would all be gone; the fowl-house would be empty, and there would be no white c.o.c.k to waken her in the morning with his cheerful crow.

There seemed no chance now that the gypsies would be discovered, for the stir which the robbery had caused had quite quieted down. No other theft had been heard of, and the village people had ceased to talk about the affair, and settled their minds to the idea that the scamps had got off to some great distance. Only Mary knew better.

The Chelwood children did not let the matter drop so lightly. They had composed a game founded on the event, which they called "Robbers," and were much disappointed when Mary steadily refused to join them in it, for they had counted on her help in adding interesting details and finishing touches. She seemed, however, to shudder at the very idea.

"I believe Mary's afraid," said Patrick jeeringly; but even this taunt failed to rouse her. She took it quite quietly. What _could_ be the matter with Mary?

"I shouldn't be a bit surprised," was Rice's remark, "if Miss Mary's sickening for something."

The days flew past. Sat.u.r.day now, and Mary came down to breakfast in a state of dull despair.

"Mary, dear," said Mrs Vallance, smiling as she entered the room, "I have just made a plan for you that you will like. Your father is going to drive in to Dorminster, and you are to go with him and buy Jackie's present."

She waited for the look of delight which she felt sure of seeing, for she knew what Mary had set her heart on for Jackie--the squirrel out of Greenop's shop.

Poor Mary! Her thoughts flew to the empty post-office upstairs. Not a penny in it. No squirrel for Jackie, no drive to Dorminster for her.

As she remembered what a jolly little squirrel it was, what bright eyes it had, what soft red-brown fur, and how Jackie would have liked it, her heart swelled. Now, she must go to his birthday party empty-handed, and it would have been the best present there.

With eyes full of tears and a scarlet flush on her cheeks she muttered very low:

"I've changed my mind. I don't want to buy the squirrel."

"You don't want the squirrel!" repeated Mrs Vallance in great surprise.

"N-no," stammered Mary, and she put her head suddenly down on the table and cried.

Mrs Vallance was much perplexed and very sorry for Mary's distress, for she knew how she had looked forward to giving the squirrel to Jackie.

It was not like her to change her mind about such an important matter for any slight cause.

"I'm afraid you and Jackie have been quarrelling," she said, stroking Mary's hair gently; "but if I were you I should take this opportunity of making it up. Give him the squirrel and be friends, and then you'll be happy again."

How Mary wished she could! She made no answer, only sobbed more bitterly, and felt that she was the most miserable child in the world.

For now she had no longer any hope. Evidently nothing would happen to discover the gypsies and save the chickens. The days went on with cruel quickness, and Monday would be here in no time--a black Monday indeed.

Sunday morning came, and she sat with those thoughts in her mind by Mrs Vallance's side, and looked round at all the well-known objects in church with a half feeling that one of them might help her. They were such old friends. From the painted window opposite the twelve apostles in their gorgeous coloured robes had gazed seriously down at her every Sunday for the last five years. Much study of them during sermon time, though she always tried to attend, had made her quite familiar with their faces, and to-day she fancied that Peter would be the one she would choose to ask for advice and a.s.sistance. Turning from these her eye fell on another acquaintance of her earliest childhood--the life-size stone figure of a man. He lay in a niche in the chancel, peacefully at rest on his side, with closed eyes and one hand under his cheek. He had a short peaked beard and wore an enormous ruff; his face looked very grave and quiet--so quiet that it always filled Mary with a sort of awe. He had lain there for more than three hundred years, undisturbed by pain, or trouble, or joy. Would he be sorry for her, she wondered, if he knew how unhappy she was? But no--he would not mind-- his calm face would not alter; "nothing matters any more," it seemed to say. There was no comfort for her there. With a sigh she turned a little to the right where the Chelwoods sat--the Squire and Mrs Chelwood in front, and Fraulein with the children behind. Restless Jackie, to whom it was torture to sit still so long, was not ready as usual to catch her eye, for he was following with breathless interest, which Patrick shared, the progress of a large black spider towards Fraulein's ungloved hand. Fraulein was very frightened of spiders, and there was every reason to hope that, when it touched her hand, she would give a great jump and shriek out "Himmel!"