Story 1—Chapter 3.
The Adventure.
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 Fraülein Schnipp the German governess.
“I say,” he said, “we’ve forgotten Fraülein’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 Fraülein 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. Fraülein 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, Fraülein 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 Fraülein 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, Fraülein, 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 Fraülein 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 Fraülein 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; Fraülein 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 Fraülein 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 Fraülein 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.
Fraülein 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 Fraülein and laughed at her broken English, was thankful now to feel the comfort of her kind protecting arm.