“I’m afraid you and Jackie have been quarrelling,” she said, stroking Mary’s hair gently; “but if I were you I should take this opportunity of making it up. Give him the squirrel and be friends, and then you’ll be happy again.”
How Mary wished she could! She made no answer, only sobbed more bitterly, and felt that she was the most miserable child in the world.
For now she had no longer any hope. Evidently nothing would happen to discover the gypsies and save the chickens. The days went on with cruel quickness, and Monday would be here in no time—a black Monday indeed.
Sunday morning came, and she sat with those thoughts in her mind by Mrs Vallance’s side, and looked round at all the well-known objects in church with a half feeling that one of them might help her. They were such old friends. From the painted window opposite the twelve apostles in their gorgeous coloured robes had gazed seriously down at her every Sunday for the last five years. Much study of them during sermon time, though she always tried to attend, had made her quite familiar with their faces, and to-day she fancied that Peter would be the one she would choose to ask for advice and assistance. Turning from these her eye fell on another acquaintance of her earliest childhood—the life-size stone figure of a man. He lay in a niche in the chancel, peacefully at rest on his side, with closed eyes and one hand under his cheek. He had a short peaked beard and wore an enormous ruff; his face looked very grave and quiet—so quiet that it always filled Mary with a sort of awe. He had lain there for more than three hundred years, undisturbed by pain, or trouble, or joy. Would he be sorry for her, she wondered, if he knew how unhappy she was? But no—he would not mind—his calm face would not alter; “nothing matters any more,” it seemed to say. There was no comfort for her there. With a sigh she turned a little to the right where the Chelwoods sat—the Squire and Mrs Chelwood in front, and Fraulein with the children behind. Restless Jackie, to whom it was torture to sit still so long, was not ready as usual to catch her eye, for he was following with breathless interest, which Patrick shared, the progress of a large black spider towards Fraulein’s ungloved hand. Fraulein was very frightened of spiders, and there was every reason to hope that, when it touched her hand, she would give a great jump and shriek out “Himmel!”
Mary’s glance wandered further, but suddenly it stopped short, for at last it was met and answered by another pair of eyes, dark and eager, with such longing earnestness in their gaze, that she felt as though she could not look away again. For a minute, which seemed a long, long time, she stared fixedly at them, and then began to wonder who it was that took so much interest in her. It was a tall woman of about thirty, who sat among the servants from the White House; a stranger, with nothing remarkable about her except the extreme plainness of her dress, and a certain hungry expression in her eyes. “I wonder who she is,” thought Mary, “and why she stares at me like that.”
She turned her head away again, and five minutes afterwards the service was over and the congregation clattering out of the church. As she stood in the porch waiting for the Chelwood children the strange woman came quickly up to her, and, bending down, said hurriedly:
“Might I ask, missie, what your name is?”
“My name’s Mary Vallance,” said Mary.
The woman shrank back, and the eager light died out of her eyes.
“Thank you, missie. I ask pardon,” she murmured, and passing on went quickly down the churchyard to the gate.