Mary did not fail to start in good time for the White House on the
morning after Jackie's invitation, and reached the gates leading into
the stable-yard just as the clock was striking nine. The donkey-cart
was standing there ready, and the four elder children were busily
engaged round it stowing away large parcels to the best advantage, and
thrusting in a variety of small ones. There was an anxious look on all
their faces, for they had so many things to remember and the cart was
small. Rice, the old nurse, stood by with the youngest child in her
arms; she was to ride in the cart with her three charges, who were too
small to walk so far, but it seemed more than doubtful at present if
there would be room by the time the packing was finished. Taught by
experience, however, she wisely forebore to interfere with the
arrangements and waited patiently.
"Have you got everything?" asked Mary as she entered.
There was not much more visible of Jackie than his boots, for he was
making great exertions head-foremost in the cart, but he answered in a
muffled voice:
"I think so. Read the list, Agatha."
"Potatoes and apples to roast--" began Agatha.
"There, now!" said Jackie, and the next minute he was plunging in at the
kitchen door.
"I _knew_ you'd forget something," said Mary triumphantly. "What a good
idea it was of mine to have a list!"
Jackie soon came back with a knobbly-looking canvas bag in his hand, and
followed by Fraulein Schnipp the German governess.
"I say," he said, "we've forgotten Fraulein's camp-stool and sketching
things; and she says she can't go without them."
"Well," said Jennie in a low tone, "I don't believe you can get them in.
I should think she might carry them herself."
"Don't," said Patrick with a nudge of his elbow; "you'll make her cry."
It was a puzzling habit that Fraulein had, to weep silently at
unexpected moments, and say her feelings were hurt. This was so
distressing that the children were always anxious to avoid it if
possible. She stood looking on now with a pleased smile, grasping her
camp-stool, and understanding very little of the chatter going on round
her. Fraulein was very good-natured looking, with large soft blue eyes
and a quantity of frizzy fair hair.
At last the packing was done; camp-stool, sketching-books, and three
small children on the top of everything. Rice would have to walk by the
side of the cart. It really was a wonderfully hot day, and there was
scarcely any shade; the donkey went even slower than usual, and by the
time they reached Maskells the whole party was rather exhausted--
Fraulein more so than anyone, and she sank at once on the ground under
some beech-trees opposite the house. It was in this spot that the cart
was always unpacked, the cloth laid, and dinner spread. Later on in the
day a fire was made here to boil the kettle for tea, but until then the
children were free to roam about and do as they liked.
As Jackie had said, Fraulein was anxious to make a sketch of the old
house, and after dinner was over and she had a little recovered from her
fatigue she planted her camp-stool conveniently and set to work. The
children knew now that neither she nor Rice would be "in the way" that
afternoon; they were both comfortably settled and would not be likely to
stir for hours.
But it was almost too hot to play, and the games went on languidly until
four o'clock, when it began to get cooler, and there were pleasant
shadows round about.
"We ought to begin to pick up wood," said the careful Agatha, "or the
fire won't be ready for tea-time."
"Well, we'll just have one game of hide-and-seek first," said Jackie;
and so it was agreed.
Agatha hid first, but she was soon found, for she was not fond of
venturing far into the dark corners round Maskells; then it was Jackie's
turn, and then it came to Mary.
Determined to distinguish herself, and find a more difficult place than
the others, she wandered round to the side of the house which looked
upon the neglected orchard, and was furthest away from where Fraulein
and Rice were sitting. She would not cry "Whoop!" for a long while, she
thought, till she had found a very good place indeed. As she pushed her
way among the low boughs of the apple-trees, and through the tall
tangled grass which reached nearly to her waist, she felt very bold and
adventurous, for the children seldom ventured on this side--it was
unknown ground. Certainly the house looked far more mournful and
ruinous here than it did in front. Wooden shutters were fastened
outside most of the windows, and one of them had swung back and gave a
dismal creak now and then on its rusty hinges. Trailing masses of
convolvulus and ivy and Virginian creeper were hanging about everywhere,
and the walls were covered so thickly that for some time Mary looked in
vain for an entrance. But at last she saw a little low-arched door.
How inviting it looked! No doubt it would be locked; but at least she
would try it, and if she could get in it would be a splendid
hiding-place. The others would never, never find her. She lifted the
iron ring which hung from the lock, gave a little twist and a push, and
was surprised to find that it yielded easily. Before her was an almost
entirely dark room with a low vaulted ceiling; through the cracks in the
closed shutters came faint streaks of light, and she could just see that
at the end of it there was another door like the one she had entered.
Mary's heart beat fast with excitement. What was on the other side of
that door? Hidden treasure, perhaps, or a dungeon where some captive
had been pining for years! Here was an adventure, indeed! Everything
else was now completely forgotten. She had no doubt that she was on the
very edge of some great discovery; and though she did wish for a second
that Jackie was there too, she decided directly afterwards that there
was more honour and glory in being quite alone.
So she went boldly up to the door with a fast-beating heart and turned
the handle. Wonderful! It opened at once, and straight in front of her
there rose a short steep flight of stone steps, with another door,
partly open, at the top. But here she stopped uncertainly, and for the
first time fear was mingled with curiosity, for plainly to be heard
through that half-open door came the sound of voices. It was unpleasant
to remember Patrick's ghost just then. Was this where it lived? If so,
she thought she would go back. Yet it would be a pity, now that she had
got so far, and something urged her strongly to go and peep into the
room above. Mary had many faults but she was no coward, and besides
this, her proud spirit made her ashamed to run away, so after a little
hesitation she crept softly up the stone steps. She hardly dared to
breathe lest she should be heard, and as she went the voices became
clearer and clearer: they certainly sounded just like a man and woman
talking. When she reached the top she paused a minute to gather
courage, and then peeped cautiously round the door.
It was a large room--one of those which Jackie had called forbidden
rooms--for there was quite a big hole in one corner where the floor had
given way. There was a wide open fireplace with a high carved stone
mantel-piece, and on the hearth a fire of sticks crackled away under a
black pipkin which stood on legs; from this there came a strange and
savoury smell. A woman was crouching on the ground in front of it with
her back to the door, and a tall dark man leant against the mantel-piece
and fed the fire with some dry boughs which he broke into pieces. Here
were no ghosts at any rate. There was something reassuring in the sight
of the fire and the black pot and the smell of food; but what were they
doing here, and who were they? It was perhaps some dark affair
connected with "Chancery."
Mary felt frightened. She could not see the woman's face, but the man
looked so evil and dark, and had such bright black eyes! She drew back
her head and prepared to creep softly down the steps and make her way
out. Now that she had seen these ghosts she would have plenty to tell
Jackie and the others, and they would all think her very brave. She
began to feel anxious to be with them again.
Just then the woman spoke.
"Bennie's late," she said. "Supper's most ready."
"He's havin' a look round," answered the man, "against to-night."
"What's the old chap's name?" continued the woman.
"Chelwood," said the man. "He's a JP."
"What's that?"
"A bloke wot sits in court and sends yer to prison," answered the man.
Mary listened with all her ears and her eyes starting with horror. Here
was some dreadful plot--they were going to murder Squire Chelwood,
perhaps! Should she run at once and give the alarm, or wait to hear
more? While she hesitated the woman spoke again.
"I suppose it's best to begin there?"
"There's nowhere else, not to speak of," answered the man, "'cept the
parson's."
The woman gave a low laugh. "I wonder how he liked the present you made
him this time seven years back," she said.
She got up as she spoke to lift the lid of the pot and stir its
contents; and Mary, afraid of being discovered, turned to go, trembling
with excitement. Treading with great care, and feeling her way with one
hand on the wall, she was almost half-way down when there fell on her
ear a sound which brought her to a sudden stand-still. Towards her,
coming through the empty room at the bottom of the stairs, there were
footsteps plainly to be heard! Without doubt it was "Bennie" returning.
The thought darted through Mary's mind, leaving her cold with terror.
What could she do? To go backwards or forwards was equally dreadful--
she was caught in a kind of trap. Oh for Jackie, Fraulein, Rice, who
were so near, and yet powerless to help her! All her courage gone, she
sank down on the stone step, covered her face with her hands, and
waited. The footsteps came nearer. In another minute the door at the
foot of the stairs swung back, and a youth of eighteen or twenty came
quickly up, almost stumbling over Mary in the dim light.
"Hullo!" he exclaimed, "it's a child!" He put his fingers in his mouth
and gave a low strange whistle, and in a moment the gypsy and his wife
came out of the room above.
"Here's a shine!" said Bennie.
He pointed to Mary, who still crouched motionless on the step with her
hair falling over her shoulders. They all stood staring at her in
surprise.
"Belongs to a party outside, I bet," said Bennie. "There's a lot of 'em
t'other side of the house. Seed 'em as I wur comin' back."
"Did they see you?" asked the man.
"No fear," answered Bennie shortly. "Got over the wall."
They muttered hoarsely together over Mary's head, using a strange
language which she could not understand; but she made out that they were
annoyed, and that they could not agree what should be done. At last the
woman stooped down to her.
"Where do you come from, my pretty?" she said in a wheedling tone.
Mary did not answer, but still kept her face hidden.
"Come alonger me, darling," continued the woman. She took Mary's arm,
and half-dragged, half-led her into the room above. The child's hat had
fallen off, and the light streamed down upon her bright yellow hair and
her frightened brown eyes, as she raised them timidly to the dark faces
round her. The woman started and gave a quick significant glance at her
husband.
"You live at the parson's house in Wensdale, don't yer, dearie?" she
said coaxingly.
"Yes," said Mary. She wondered how the woman knew.
"But you're not the parson's child," continued the woman. "Give me your
hand." She bent, muttering over it: "No, no, not the parson's child--
you belong to dark people, for all so white and fair you are."
Was the woman a witch? Mary gazed at her with eyes wide with fear, and
the man and boy stood by with a cunning grin on their faces.
"Seven years ago," the woman went on in a sing-song tone, "you was lost.
Seven years ago you was found. Seven years you've lived with
strangers, and now you've come to yer own people."
What did she mean? These dirty, dark, evil-looking tramps her own
people! Mary took courage and drew herself haughtily upright.
"You're not my people," she said boldly. "I live at the vicarage, with
Mr and Mrs Vallance. I must go back to the others--it's getting
late."
"Not so fast, my little queen," said the woman, still holding her hand
and gazing at the palm. "What's this 'ere little token I ketch sight
on? Why, it's a little shoe! A little leather shoe with a row o' brass
nails an' a brass toe. Now, by that 'ere token I know you belongs to
us. Yonder's yer father, and yonder's yer brother; nobody and nothin'
can't take you from us now."
Mary burst into tears. It was too dreadful to find that this woman knew
all about her; was it possible that she belonged to her in any way?
"I can't stay with you," she sobbed, "I must go back. They wouldn't let
you keep me if they knew."
"They couldn't help it," said the woman with a scornful laugh, "not all
the parsons and squires as ever was couldn't."
Poor Mary! All her spirit had gone from her now, she stood helplessly
crying in the middle of the room.
"Wouldn't yer like to come back to pore Seraminta, yer own mother, what
brought yer up and took care on yer?" the woman said in coaxing tones,
"an to father Perrin, and dear brother Bennie."
"No--no--no," sobbed Mary, "I must go home."
"Well, now," said the woman, with a side wink to the two men, "suppose
we _was_ to go agen our nateral feelin's and let you go back, what would
you promise to do in return?"
"Anything--I'll do anything," said Mary, checking her tears and looking
up with a gleam of hope.
"Then, look you here," said Seraminta, changing her soft tone to a
threatening one, and frowning darkly. "First you've got to promise not
to tell a soul of yer havin' bin in this room an' how you got 'ere.
Next, to keep a quiet tongue about what you heard us say; and last, to
bring all the money you've got and put it under the flat stone where the
four roads meet, to-morrow at six o'clock in the evening. An' if yer do
all these things we'll let you bide at the parson's. But if you breathe
a word about what you've seen an' heard, whether it's in the dark or the
light, whether it's sleeping or waking, whether it's to man, woman, or
child, that very minute you'll be claimed for ours, and ours you'll be
for ever."
The room was getting dark by this time, and the fire burning low gave a
sudden flicker now and then, and died down again; by this uncertain
light the dark figures standing round, and the lowering frown on
Seraminta's crafty face, looked doubly awful.
Mary was frightened almost out of her wits, for she believed every word
the woman had said, and thought her quite capable of carrying out her
threat. The one thing was to escape. If she could only do that, she
would gladly keep silence about these dreadful people and their possible
relation to her.
"I promise," she said eagerly. "I never, never will. Not to anybody."
The gypsies drew together near the fire and talked in low tones, using
the language which Mary could not understand: after a minute the woman
came back to her.
"Give me yer handkercher," she said, and when Mary drew it tremblingly
out of her pocket she tied it over the child's eyes and took hold of her
hand.
"Come along," she said, and Mary followed meekly.
Although she could see nothing, she knew that they went down the stone
steps and along the way she had come, and presently they were outside
the house, for she felt the wind in her face and the long grass under
her feet. Suddenly the woman stopped.
"Now," she said, "remember; if you speak it will be the worse for you
and for your friends, an' you'll be sorry for it all your life long.
An' it's Seraminta as tells you so."
"I won't," said Mary, "if you'll only let me go."
"It goes agen me," said Seraminta, pretending to hesitate, "it naterally
goes agen me. But I dessay you'll be better off at the parson's than
yer could be with yer pore mother. Don't forgit the money. Now count
fifty, an' then take off the handkercher."
Mary began obediently; she had never been so submissive in her life.
When she was half-way through the number she fancied she heard a rustle,
and as she said the last one she pulled off the handkerchief and looked
round. To her great relief she was quite alone, in the thickest part of
the orchard; the woman had vanished, and it seemed for a moment as
though it might have been some ugly dream. But no, it was too true. It
had all really happened. "Ours you'll be for ever" echoed in
Seraminta's harsh tones close to her ear. She shuddered, and began with
feverish eagerness to push her way out through the thick growing boughs.
Oh to be with the others again! After searching for some time she
found a gate which led into the open fields. She could now see where
she was. Oh joy! There in the distance was the well-known group of
beech-trees and the blaze of a fire, round which were small figures
dimly moving. Mary could have shouted for delight and relief; she set
off running as hard as she could, never pausing till she arrived
breathless in the midst of them. They all crowded round her, exclaiming
and asking questions.
"Here she is! Where _have_ you been? Fraulein and Rice are still
looking for you. Did you lose yourself? Did you tumble down? Have you
been into the forbidden rooms?"
Fortunately for Mary it was impossible to answer all these questions, so
she did not attempt to answer any of them.
"Anyhow you didn't find me," she managed to say as she threw herself on
the ground near the fire.
"Oh, but isn't Fraulein in a state of mind?" said Jackie. "She says
she's `out of herself' with anxiety, and she's been crying. Here she
comes."
Poor Fraulein now appeared with Rice. She was so greatly agitated, and
yet so relieved to find that Mary had come back, that she could not
express herself in English. For some moments she poured forth a torrent
of German and French, half laughing and half crying, but Rice looked
very cross, and said severely at once:
"You've given us all a deal of trouble and anxiety, Miss Mary, with them
foolish pranks."
Mary felt as though she must cry; it was hard to be scolded when she had
just come through such a terrible trial. Her eyes filled with tears,
and Jackie saw them; as usual, he was her comforter in distress, and
drawing near, with a blackened potato and a roasted apple in his hand,
he seated himself close to her in a friendly manner.
"I cooked 'em for you myself," he said, as he made his offering;
"they're awfully good ones."
This attention consoled Mary a little, and she managed to bear up, but a
dulness had fallen over the whole party; Fraulein was still tearful, and
Rice cross, so that none of the children were sorry when the wagonette
arrived to take them back to Wensdale. To Mary it was the greatest
possible relief; she never never wished to see Maskells again. When she
found herself tightly squeezed in between Fraulein and Jackie, with
friendly faces all round her, she began to feel safer, and very soon the
last glimpse of the tall chimneys was lost to sight in a turn of the
road. What a comfort it was to be with them all again! At another time
she would have complained that Jackie was taking up too much room, and
digging his elbow into her, but all that was altered. He could not
possibly be too close, her only dread was to be left alone. She was so
unusually meek, and looked so white, that presently Patrick, who was
sitting opposite and staring at her with large round eyes, remarked:
"I expect Mary saw the ghost, only she won't say so."
This interesting subject once started, lasted for some time, and Mary
was tortured with all manner of minute questions. She managed to answer
them all somehow, but with so much less spirit than usual that it was
plain to see something was wrong. Jackie made up his mind to ask her
afterwards, and meanwhile Fraulein interfered.
"You shall not tease any more with your questions," she said. "Mary is
fatigue."
But the questions had reminded Mary of something which till now she had
forgotten--Squire Chelwood's danger. She ought to warn Jackie; but if
she did, the gypsies would come and take her away, perhaps that very
night. She could not risk that. And yet, Jackie's father! It would be
too dreadful. "Ours you'll be for ever" seemed to sound in her ear: she
shuddered; no, she could not do it. Suddenly a thought struck her, and
she pulled Jackie gently by the sleeve.
"Jackie," she said softly, very softly, so that Seraminta might not
hear, "where does Hamlet sleep at night?"
Hamlet was a Danish boar-hound belonging to the squire.
"Hamlet," said Jackie. "Why, he sleeps just outside father's bed-room
door, and sometimes in the night he walks up and down the corridor, and
his tail goes flop up against the door. Once father thought it was
thieves."
"I suppose Hamlet's very strong?" said Mary earnestly.
"I should just rather think he was," said Jackie. "He wouldn't make
much of a robber. He'd just rear up on his hind-legs and take him by
the throat--so." He launched himself forward as he spoke, and seized
Patrick by the neck.
"And that would kill the robber?" asked Mary.
"Dead as a nail," replied Jackie with decision.
"Don't you wish robbers _would_ come some night," suggested Jennie.
"What would you do if they did?" said Agatha.
"I know what she'd do," put in Patrick quickly; "she'd hide her head
under the bed-clothes and keep on screaming for Rice."
"If I had a pistol I should shoot them," said Jackie, "only mine won't
go off."
"And perhaps," said Agatha, "_they'd_ have pistols that _would_ go off."
"Oh! I say," exclaimed Jackie suddenly, "if here isn't Mary actually
crying away like anything. What's the matter with her?"
It was quite true. Overwrought and frightened, these dreadful pictures
of robbers and pistols had a reality for her which was too much to bear.
Mary the courageous, the high-spirited, who scorned tears and laughed
at weakness, was now crying and sobbing helplessly, like the greatest
coward of them all.
Fraulein put her arm round her compassionately. "She is quaite too
tired," she said; "it is an attack of nerfs. Nefer mind, dear shild.
When you will sleep to-night you shall feel quaite better to-morrow."
She drew her closely to her side; and Mary, who generally despised
Fraulein and laughed at her broken English, was thankful now to feel the
comfort of her kind protecting arm.