“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 sturdy 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 passing 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 snatch 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!