Story 1—Chapter 2.
Wensdale.
The village of Wensdale was snugly shut in from the rest of the world in a narrow valley. It had a little river flowing through it, and a little grey church standing on a hill, and a rose-covered vicarage, a blacksmith’s forge, and a post-office. Further up the valley, where the woods began, you could see the chimneys of the White House where Squire Chelwood lived, and about three miles further on still was Dorminster, a good-sized market-town. But in Wensdale itself there was only a handful of thatched cottages scattered about here and there round the vicarage. Life was so regular and quiet there that you might almost tell the time without looking at the clock. When you heard cling, clang, from the blacksmith’s forge, and quack, quack, from the army of ducks waddling down to the river, it was five o’clock. Ding, dong from the church-tower, and the tall figure of Mr Vallance climbing the hill to read prayers—eight o’clock. So on throughout the day until evening came, and you knew that soon after the cows had gone lowing through the village, and the ducks had taken their way to bed in a long uneven line, that perfect silence would follow, deep and undisturbed.
In this quiet refuge Maggie’s baby grew up for seven years, under the name of Mary Vallance. She was now nine years old. As she grew the qualities which had shown themselves as a baby, and made Perrin call her as “orty as a duchess,” grew also, though they were kept in check by wise and loving influences. To command seemed more natural to her than to obey, and far more pleasant, and this often caused trouble to herself and others. True, nothing could be more thorough than her repentance after a fit of naughtiness, for she was a very affectionate child; but then she was quite ready on the next occasion to repeat the offence—as ready as Mrs Vallance was to forgive it. Mary was vain, too, as well as wilful; but this was not astonishing, for from a very little child she had heard the most open remarks about her beauty. Wensdale was a small place, but there were not wanting unwise people in it, who imagined that their nods and winks and whispers of admiration were unnoticed by the child. A great mistake. No one could be quicker than Mary to see them, to give her little neck a prouder turn, and to toss back her glittering hair self-consciously. So she knew by the time she was nine years old that she had beautiful hair and lovely eyes, and a skin like milk—that she walked gracefully, and that her feet and hands were smaller and prettier than Agatha Chelwood’s. All this strengthened a way she had of ordering her companions about imperiously, as though she had a right to command. “No common child,” she often heard people say, and by degrees she came to think that she was very uncommon indeed—much prettier and cleverer than any of the other children. “You’ve no call to be so tossy in your ways, Miss Mary,” said Rice, the outspoken old nurse at the White House; “handsome is as handsome does.” But Mary treated such a remark with scorn.
If the little clog, standing on the mantel-piece in her bed-room, could have spoken, what strange and humbling things it would have told her! For to belong to poor people would have seemed dreadful to Mary’s proud spirit. As it could not, however, she remained in ignorance of her real condition, and even in her dreams no remembrance of her real mother, or of the gypsies and her playfellows Bennie and Mossy, ever came to visit her.
Things at Wensdale had not altered much since Mary had been left there as a child of two years old. The roses still flourished in the vicarage garden under Mr Vallance’s loving care, and he still thought them much finer than Chelwood’s. At the White House there were now three children in the nursery and four in the school-room, of whom the eldest was a girl of ten named Agatha. These were Mary’s constant companions; she joined them in some of their lessons and in all their pleasures and plans of amusement. Not a picnic or a treat of any kind took place without her, and though quarrels were not unknown, Mary would have been very much missed on these occasions. It was she who invented the games and gave names to the various playgrounds in the woods; she could climb well, and run swiftly, and had such a daring spirit of adventure that she feared nothing. In fact, her presence made everything so much more interesting, that, by common consent, she was allowed to take the lead, and no expedition was considered complete without her. Perhaps her contrast to the good, quiet, brown Agatha, who was so nearly her own age, made her all the more valued. Agatha was always ready to follow, to give up, to yield. She never tore her frocks, always knew her lessons, was always punctual; but she never invented anything, and had to be told exactly what to say in any game requiring imagination. So it came to pass naturally that Mary was at the head of everything, and she became so used to taking the command that she sometimes did so when it was neither convenient nor becoming. There were indeed moments when even Jackie, her most faithful supporter among the Chelwood children, rebelled against her authority, and found it poor fun for Mary always to have her own way and arrange everything.
Jackie was nine years old, and felt in himself a large capacity for taking the lead: after all, why should Mary always drive when they went out in the donkey-cart, or settle the place for the fire to be made when they had a picnic, and choose the games, and even order about Fraülein Schnipp the governess? Certainly her plans and arrangements always turned out well, but still it became tiresome sometimes. Jackie grew restive. He had a quarrel with Mary, who flew down the garden in a rage, her hair streaming behind her like the tail of an angry comet. But it did not last: Jackie had a forgiving spirit, and was too fond of her to be angry long. He was always the first to make up a dispute, so that Mary was not at all surprised to see him soon afterwards waiting outside the vicarage door in a high state of excitement. He was going to drive with father in the dog-cart to Dorminster—might Mary come too? Consent given, Mary lost no time in throwing on a hat and jacket, while Squire Chelwood’s tall horse fretted and caught impatiently at his bit: then she was lifted up to Jackie on the back seat, and they were soon rolling quickly on their way. It was good of Jackie to have asked for her to go, Mary thought, after she had been so cross. She could not have done it in his place, and she determined to give him a very handsome present on his birthday, which was coming soon.
There were few things the children liked better than going into Dorminster with the squire. Beside the pleasant rapid drive, perched up on the high dog-cart, there was so much to see, particularly if it happened to be market-day; and, above all, Mr Greenop lived there. Mr Greenop was a bird-fancier, and kept an interesting shop in the market-place, full of live birds and stuffed animals in glass cases. There was always a pleasant uncertainty as to what might be found at Greenop’s, for he sometimes launched out in an unexpected manner. He often had lop-eared rabbits to sell, and Jackie had once seen a monkey there: as for pigeons, there was not a variety you could mention which Greenop could not at once produce.
He was a nice little man, very like a bird himself, with pointed features and kind, bright eyes; when he wore a dash of red in his neck-cloth the resemblance to a robin was striking. The children applied to him when any of their pets were ill, and had the utmost confidence in his opinion and treatment. The most difficult cases were successfully managed by him; he had even saved the life of Agatha’s jack-daw when it had swallowed a thimble. Mr Greenop was an object, therefore, of gratitude and admiration, and no visit to Dorminster was complete without going to his shop.
So when Jackie asked in an off-hand manner, “Shall you be going near Greenop’s, father?” the squire knew that his answer was waited for with anxiety, and said at once:
“Yes, I’m going to the gunmaker’s next door.”
That was all right. Jackie screwed up his shoulders in an ecstasy.
“Father’s always an immense long time at the gunmaker’s,” he said; “we shall have time to look at all Greenop’s things. I hope he’s got some new ones.”
“And I want to buy some hemp-seed,” said Mary.
Mr Greenop welcomed the children with his usual brisk cheerfulness, and had, as Jackie had hoped, a good many new things to show them; the nicest of all was a bullfinch which piped the tune of “Bonnie Dundee” “at command,” as his owner expressed it. The children were delighted with it, and immediately asked the price, which was their custom with every article of Mr Greenop’s stock, and being told, proceeded to examine further. They came upon a charming squirrel with the bushiest tail possible, and while they were admiring it Mr Greenop was called to attend on a customer.
“Jackie,” said Mary suddenly, “if you might choose, what would you have out of all the shop?”
Jackie looked thoughtful. His birthday was approaching, and though he would not have hinted at such a thing, it did pass through his mind that Mary’s question might have something to do with that occasion. He studied the matter therefore with the attention it deserved, for he had to consider both his own inclinations and the limits of Mary’s purse. At last he said deliberately:
“The squirrel. What would you choose?”
“The piping bullfinch,” said Mary, without an instant’s hesitation.
“Why,” exclaimed Jackie, “that’s almost the most expensive thing in the shop!”
“I don’t see that that matters at all,” answered Mary. “You asked me what I liked best, and I like that best—much.”
More customers and acquaintances had now crowded in, and the little shop was quite full.
“I believe we’ve seen everything,” said Jackie; “let’s get up in the dog-cart and wait there for father. Oh,” he continued with a sigh, when they were seated again, “how jolly it must be to be Greenop! Wouldn’t you like to be him?”
“No,” said Mary decidedly, “I shouldn’t like it at all; I couldn’t bear it.”
“Why?” asked Jackie.
“Oh, because he’s quite a common man, and tucks up his shirt sleeves, and keeps a shop.”
“Well, that’s just the nice part of it,” said Jackie eagerly—“so interesting, always to be among the animals and things. And then his shop’s in the very best part of Dorminster, where he can see everything pass, and all his friends drop in and tell him the news. I don’t expect he’s ever dull.”
“I daresay not,” said Mary, with a shrug of contempt; “but I shouldn’t like to be a common vulgar man like that.”
Jackie got quite hot.
“I don’t believe Greenop’s vulgar at all,” he said. “Look how he stuffed those pheasants for father. I heard father say, ‘Greenop’s an uncommonly clever fellow!’ Father likes to talk to him, so he can’t be vulgar.”
Mary did not want another quarrel; she tried to soften her speech down.
“But you see I couldn’t be Mr. Greenop,” she said, “I could only be Mrs. Greenop, and sit in that dull little hole at the back of the shop and darn all day.”
“Oh, well,” Jackie acknowledged, “that might not be so pleasant; but,” he added, “you might be his daughter, and help to feed the birds, and serve in the shop.”
Mary tossed her head.
“What’s the good of talking like that?” she said; “I’m not his daughter, and I’m sure I don’t want to be.”
“But you’re always fond of pretending things,” persisted Jackie. “Supposing you could change, whose daughter would you like to be?”
“Well,” said Mary, after a little reflection, “if I could change I should like to be a countess, or a princess, or a Lady somebody. Lady Mary Vallance sounds rather nice, I think.”
Just then the squire came out of the shop, and they soon started rapidly homewards.
“Mary,” said Jackie, squeezing himself close up to her, when they were well on the way, and lowering his voice mysteriously, “I’ve got a secret to tell you.”
Jackie’s secrets were never very important, and Mary was not prepared to be interested in this one.
“Have you?” she said absently; “look at all those crows in that field.”
“Oh, if you don’t want to hear it—” said Jackie, drawing back with a hurt expression; “it’s something to do with you, too.”
“Well, what is it?” said Mary; “I’m listening.”
“I haven’t told Agatha, or Jennie, or Patrick,” continued he in an injured voice.
“Why, it wouldn’t be a secret if you had,” said Mary. “Go on; I really want to hear it.”
“It was yesterday,” began Jackie, lowering his voice again; “I was sitting in the school-room window-seat reading, and Rice came in with a message for Fraülein. And then she stayed talking about lots of things, and then they began to talk about you.” Jackie paused.
“That’s not much of a secret,” said Mary. “Is that all?”
“Of course not. It’s only the beginning. They said a lot which I didn’t hear, and then Rice told Fraülein a long story in a very low voice, and Fraülein held up her hands and called out ‘Himmel!’ But the part I really did hear was the last bit.”
“Well,” said Mary, “what was it? I don’t think anything of what you’ve told me yet.”
“‘These awful words fell upon my ears,’” said Jackie gloomily, quoting from a favourite ghost story: “‘As brown as a berry, and her name’s no more Mary Vallance than mine is!’”
“But I’m not as brown as a berry,” said Mary. “You must have heard wrong. They couldn’t have been talking about me at all.”
“I know they were,” said Jackie with decision, “for when Fraülein saw me she nodded at Rice and put her finger on her lip, and Rice said something about ‘buried in his book.’ You see,” added Jackie, “I didn’t really listen, but I heard—because I couldn’t help it.”
Wensdale was now in sight, and five minutes afterwards the dog-cart stopped at the vicarage gate.
“Don’t tell anyone else,” whispered Mary hurriedly as she clambered down. “I’m going to ask mother about it.”
She ran into the house feeling rather excited, but almost sure that Jackie was mistaken. He often made muddles. What was her astonishment, therefore, after pouring out the story breathlessly, when Mrs Vallance, instead of laughing at the idea, only looked very grave and kept silence.
“Of course I am Mary Vallance, ain’t I, mother?” she repeated.
“You are our dear little adopted daughter,” said Mrs Vallance; “but that is not really your name.”
“What is it then?” asked Mary.
“I do not know. Some day I will tell you how you first came here, but not until you are older.”
How mysterious it all was! Mary gazed thoughtfully out into the quiet road, at the ducks splashing about in the river; but she was not thinking of them, her head seemed to whirl. Presently she said:
“Do you know my real mother and father?”
“No,” answered Mrs Vallance.
“Perhaps,” continued Mary, after a pause, “they live in a big house like the Chelwoods, and have a garden and a park like theirs.”
“Perhaps they have,” said Mrs Vallance, “and perhaps they live in a little cottage like the blacksmith and his wife, and have no garden at all.”
“Oh, I shouldn’t like that at all,” said Mary quickly; then she suddenly threw her arms round Mrs Vallance’s neck and kissed her.
“Whoever they are,” she said, “I love you and father best, and always shall.”
She asked a great many more questions, but Mrs Vallance seemed determined to answer nothing but “yes” and “no.” It was very disappointing to know so much and yet so little, and it seemed impossible to wait patiently till she was older to hear more. At last Mrs Vallance forbade the subject:
“I don’t want you to talk of this any more now, Mary,” she said. “When the proper time comes, you shall hear all I have to tell; what I want you to remember is this: Whoever you are, and whatever sort of people you belong to, you cannot alter it; but you may have a great deal to do with what you are. We can all make our characters noble by goodness, however poor our stations are; but if we are proud and vain, and despise others, nothing can save us from becoming vulgar and low, even if we belong to very high rank indeed. That is all you have to think of.”
Excellent advice; but though Mary heard all the words, they did not sink into her mind any more than the water on the ducks’ backs in the river outside; they rolled off it at once, and only the wonderful, wonderful fact remained, that she was not Mary Vallance. Who was she, then? And, above all, what could Rice have meant by “brown as a berry?” Who was brown as a berry? Certainly not Mary herself; she was quite used to hearing that she was “as white as snow” and “as fair as a lily”—it was Agatha Chelwood who had a brown skin. Altogether it was very mysterious and deeply interesting; soon she began to make up long stories about herself, in which it was always discovered at last that she belonged to very rich people with grand titles. This was what people had meant when they whispered that she was “no common child.” Mary’s foolish head was in a whirl of excitement, and filled from morning to night with visions of grandeur. If the little clog could only have spoken! Mute, yet full of expression it stood there, while Mary dreamed in her little white bed of palaces and princesses.
“I was not made,” it would have said, “for foot of princess or lady, or to tread on soft carpets and take dainty steps; I am a hardworking shoe made by rough hands, though the heart they belonged to was kind and gentle; I have nothing to do with luxury and idleness.”
But no one understood this silent language. The clog was admired, and wondered at, and called “a quaint little shoe,” and its history remained unknown.
Mary longed now to tell Jackie her mighty secret, which began to weigh too heavily to keep to herself; but when he did come to the vicarage again, he was not nearly so much impressed by it as she had hoped. This was partly, perhaps, because his mind was full of a certain project which he wished her to join, and she had scarcely bound him by a solemn promise not to breathe a word to the other children of what she had told him, than he began eagerly:
“We’re going to spend the day at Maskells to-morrow—the whole day. Will Mrs Vallance let you go too?”
“Come and ask her,” said Mary; and Jackie, rather breathless, for he had run the whole way from the White House, proceeded with his request:
“The donkey-cart’s going,” he said, “and the three little ones, and Rice, and Fraülein, and all of us, and we’re going quite early because it’s so hot, and we shall stop to tea, and make a fire, of course, and mother hopes you’ll let Mary go.”
“Well, I can’t say no,” said Mrs Vallance, smiling at Jackie’s heated face; “but I’m not very fond of Maskells, there are so many dangerous places in it.”
“Oh, you mean the forbidden rooms,” said Jackie; “we don’t go into those now. There are three of them, where the floor’s given way, you know, with great holes in them. Maskells is such a jolly place,” he added pleadingly; “we don’t like any other half so well.”
“You say Fraülein is going?” said Mrs Vallance.
“Yes, and Rice, too; but they won’t be in the way, because Fraulein’s going to sketch, and Rice will have to be with the little ones.”
“I hope they will be in the way,” replied Mrs Vallance, “and prevent you heedless children climbing about in unsafe places and breaking your limbs.”
“Then Mary may go? And we start punctually at nine, so she mustn’t be late.”
Consent once given, Jackie took his departure, and his stout knickerbockered legs were soon out of sight.
Mary was delighted, for Maskells was the most charming place possible to spend a day in, and the prospect of going there made her forget for a time the one subject which had lately filled her mind—herself.
Maskells was a deserted house standing near the high-road between the White House and Dorminster; it had once been a place of some consequence, and still had pleasant meadows round it, sloping down to a river at the back; but the garden and orchard were tangled and neglected—much more interesting, the children thought, than if they had been properly cared for.
The house had two projecting wings, and quaint latticed windows; outside, it had the appearance of being in tolerable repair, but there was in truth scarcely a whole room in it, floors and ceilings had given way, and great rifts and gaps yawned in them. The rotten old staircases were all the more dangerous because they still looked firm enough to bear a light weight, and though Jackie had once crawled up to the top of one, out on to the roof, the attempt was never repeated. He had remained there for half an hour clinging on to the side of a tall chimney, unable to move, until a farmer had fetched a ladder and got him down. Since then staircases and upper rooms had been forbidden, and the children had to content themselves with playing on the ground floor and in the outhouses. There was a mystery hanging about the old place which added to its attractions, for they had heard that it had fallen into this decay and been uninhabited so long because it was “in Chancery.” A mysterious expression, which might mean anything, and was more than enough to clothe it with all the terrors which belong to the unknown.
When dusk came on, and the owls and bats flapped their wings in shadowy corners, it was desirable to cling closely together and feel afraid in company—a tremor was excusable in the boldest. Patrick, indeed, always declared he had once seen a ghost in Maskells. Pressed for details, he had been unable to give any clear account of it, and was a good deal laughed at, especially by Mary; but it was dimly felt by all that there might be truth in it—anything was possible for a place “in Chancery.”
Mary liked to imagine things about Maskells; it would do for the Tower of London with dungeons in it, or for Lochleven with Mary Queen of Scots escaping by night, or for a besieged castle, and hundreds of other fancies. She invented games founded on those scenes which were popular at first, but as she always took the leading parts herself, the other children soon tired of them.
“Don’t let’s pretend anything else,” Jennie would say, who had a practical mind; “let’s have a game of hide-and-seek.”
And certainly no place could have been better fitted than Maskells for the purpose.