A Pair of Clogs by Amy Walton (korean novels in english .txt) 📖

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?

"I shouldn't be a bit surprised," was Rice's remark, "if Miss Mary's sickening for something."

The days flew past. Saturday now, and Mary came down to breakfast in a state of dull despair.

"Mary, dear," said Mrs Vallance, smiling as she entered the room, "I have just made a plan for you that you will like. Your father is going to drive in to Dorminster, and you are to go with him and buy Jackie's present."

She waited for the look of delight which she felt sure of seeing, for she knew what Mary had set her heart on for Jackie--the squirrel out of Greenop's shop.

Poor Mary! Her thoughts flew to the empty post-office upstairs. Not a penny in it. No squirrel for Jackie, no drive to Dorminster for her. As she remembered what a jolly little squirrel it was, what bright eyes it had, what soft red-brown fur, and how Jackie would have liked it, her heart swelled. Now, she must go to his birthday party empty-handed, and it would have been the best present there.

With eyes full of tears and a scarlet flush on her cheeks she muttered very low:

"I've changed my mind. I don't want to buy the squirrel."

"You don't want the squirrel!" repeated Mrs Vallance in great surprise.

"N-no," stammered Mary, and she put her head suddenly down on the table and cried.

Mrs Vallance was much perplexed and very sorry for Mary's distress, for she knew how she had looked forward to giving the squirrel to Jackie. It was not like her to change her mind about such an important matter for any slight cause.

"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.

What an odd woman! When the children were all walking together towards the vicarage they passed her, and Mary asked who she was.

"That?" said Agatha. "Oh, that's our new school-room maid."

"She only came yesterday," added Jennie. "She comes from Yorkshire. And what do you think? When Patrick first heard she was coming he said he was sure he shouldn't like her; and when Rice asked him why, he said, `Because I hate Yorkshire pudding so.'"

"Well," said Patrick, "it's the only thing I know about Yorkshire."

"But you oughtn't to judge people by puddings," said Agatha reprovingly.

"Anyhow," returned Patrick, "she doesn't _look_ nice--there's such a great big frown on her forehead. I expect she's cross."

"No, she's not cross," said Jackie, "she's sorry; mother told us all about it. She lost her child a long while ago. That's what makes her look grave. Mother says we ought to be very kind to her."

"Jennie and I shall have most to do with her," remarked the matter-of-fact Agatha, "because she's going to brush our hair instead of Rice."

They had now reached the vicarage gate, and Jackie lingered after the rest to have a few last words with Mary.

"You'll come early to-morrow afternoon, won't you?" he said, "because I want to show you my presents before the others come. I know what two of 'em are going to be. Jolly! Something _you'll_ like as well."

Jackie cut a high caper of delight as he spoke, in spite of its being Sunday and Fraulein quite near. His pleasure in anything was always doubled if Mary could share it. That was so nice of Jackie. It made it all the more distressing at that moment to remember that she could give him no present to-morrow, besides the mortification of appearing mean and stingy to the other children. She began to think that it would be almost better to give up going to his birthday party. But what excuse could she make? Then another idea came to her. Was there anything among her own possessions