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 scrap 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 passionately. “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 scrap 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 cock 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?