A Pair of Clogs, Amy Walton [the little red hen read aloud .TXT] 📗

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 Fraulein 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 Fraulein 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; Fraulein 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 Fraulein 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 Fraulein 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.

Fraulein 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 Fraulein and laughed at her broken English, was thankful now to feel the comfort of her kind protecting arm.


STORY ONE, CHAPTER 4.

A GYPSY CHILD?

The sun was streaming through Mary's small window when she woke up somewhat later than usual the next morning. For a minute she lay with half-closed eyes, feeling very snug and comfortable, quietly gazing at all the well-known objects in the room--at the picture of the little girl reading, which hung opposite her bed, at the book-shelf with all the brightly-covered books she was so fond of, at her canary hopping restlessly in his cage, at the cuckoo clock, and finally at the little clog in the middle of the mantel-piece. But when she came to this her eyes opened wide, she sat up, rubbed them, and looked at it again; for all in a minute, just as we remember a dream, there came back to her the dreadful events of yesterday. The gypsies, the dimly-seen room, the flickering fire, Seraminta's dark face as she described the little shoe. "Ours you'll be for ever." Could it possibly be true that she, Mary Vallance, was the child of such people? What a dreadful thing! She did not feel so frightened this morning, and, her natural spirit partly returning after her night's rest, she was more inclined to believe that Seraminta had spoken falsely. "If I told father all about it," she said to herself, "I don't believe she'd dare to take me away." And yet, when she thought it over, how could the woman have known about the shoe? And besides, Rice's remark flashed across her, "brown as a berry," certainly that would apply to Seraminta, she was a darker brown than anyone Mary had ever seen. It was true, then, she really was a gypsy child, and if so, they had a right to claim her if they wished. How could she escape it? Her only chance lay in keeping perfect silence as they had told her, and also in taking them the money she had promised this evening. How much had she? Mary wondered. Her money-box, a small red post-office, stood on the mantel-piece; she jumped out of bed and counted the contents; more than usual, because she had been saving it up for Jackie's present. Now it must all go to those wicked people, and Jackie could have no present--Jackie, who was always so good to her, and who had not grudged the savings of a whole year in pennies to buy her a couple of white bantams. How unkind, how mean he would think it! Mary gazed mournfully at the money-box. It was a great trial to her, for she had a generous nature and was very fond of Jackie. Might she not leave just a little in the box? But no--she dared not. Perhaps even now there were dark eyes peering in at the window, and at night, who could tell from what unexpected quarter Perrin might appear to take her away? She must give them every penny of it. With a sigh she put all the money back, dressed