A Pair of Clogs - Amy Walton (fiction book recommendations TXT) 📗

garden in a rage, her hair streaming behind her like the tail of an angry comet. But it did not last: Jackie had a forgiving spirit, and was too fond of her to be angry long. He was always the first to make up a dispute, so that Mary was not at all surprised to see him soon afterwards waiting outside the vicarage door in a high state of excitement. He was going to drive with father in the dog-cart to Dorminster--might Mary come too? Consent given, Mary lost no time in throwing on a hat and jacket, while Squire Chelwood's tall horse fretted and caught impatiently at his bit: then she was lifted up to Jackie on the back seat, and they were soon rolling quickly on their way. It was good of Jackie to have asked for her to go, Mary thought, after she had been so cross. She could not have done it in his place, and she determined to give him a very handsome present on his birthday, which was coming soon.

There were few things the children liked better than going into Dorminster with the squire. Beside the pleasant rapid drive, perched up on the high dog-cart, there was so much to see, particularly if it happened to be market-day; and, above all, Mr Greenop lived there. Mr Greenop was a bird-fancier, and kept an interesting shop in the market-place, full of live birds and stuffed animals in glass cases. There was always a pleasant uncertainty as to what might be found at Greenop's, for he sometimes launched out in an unexpected manner. He often had lop-eared rabbits to sell, and Jackie had once seen a monkey there: as for pigeons, there was not a variety you could mention which Greenop could not at once produce.

He was a nice little man, very like a bird himself, with pointed features and kind, bright eyes; when he wore a dash of red in his neck-cloth the resemblance to a robin was striking. The children applied to him when any of their pets were ill, and had the utmost confidence in his opinion and treatment. The most difficult cases were successfully managed by him; he had even saved the life of Agatha's jack-daw when it had swallowed a thimble. Mr Greenop was an object, therefore, of gratitude and admiration, and no visit to Dorminster was complete without going to his shop.

So when Jackie asked in an off-hand manner, "Shall you be going near Greenop's, father?" the squire knew that his answer was waited for with anxiety, and said at once:

"Yes, I'm going to the gunmaker's next door."

That was all right. Jackie screwed up his shoulders in an ecstasy.

"Father's always an immense long time at the gunmaker's," he said; "we shall have time to look at all Greenop's things. I hope he's got some new ones."

"And I want to buy some hemp-seed," said Mary.

Mr Greenop welcomed the children with his usual brisk cheerfulness, and had, as Jackie had hoped, a good many new things to show them; the nicest of all was a bullfinch which piped the tune of "Bonnie Dundee" "at command," as his owner expressed it. The children were delighted with it, and immediately asked the price, which was their custom with every article of Mr Greenop's stock, and being told, proceeded to examine further. They came upon a charming squirrel with the bushiest tail possible, and while they were admiring it Mr Greenop was called to attend on a customer.

"Jackie," said Mary suddenly, "if you might choose, what would you have out of all the shop?"

Jackie looked thoughtful. His birthday was approaching, and though he would not have hinted at such a thing, it did pass through his mind that Mary's question might have something to do with that occasion. He studied the matter therefore with the attention it deserved, for he had to consider both his own inclinations and the limits of Mary's purse. At last he said deliberately:

"The squirrel. What would _you_ choose?"

"The piping bullfinch," said Mary, without an instant's hesitation.

"Why," exclaimed Jackie, "that's almost the most expensive thing in the shop!"

"I don't see that that matters at all," answered Mary. "You asked me what I liked best, and I like that best--much."

More customers and acquaintances had now crowded in, and the little shop was quite full.

"I believe we've seen everything," said Jackie; "let's get up in the dog-cart and wait there for father. Oh," he continued with a sigh, when they were seated again, "_how_ jolly it must be to be Greenop! Wouldn't you like to be him?"

"No," said Mary decidedly, "I shouldn't like it at all; I couldn't bear it."

"Why?" asked Jackie.

"Oh, because he's quite a common man, and tucks up his shirt sleeves, and keeps a shop."

"Well, that's just the nice part of it," said Jackie eagerly--"so interesting, always to be among the animals and things. And then his shop's in the very best part of Dorminster, where he can see everything pass, and all his friends drop in and tell him the news. I don't expect he's ever dull."

"I daresay not," said Mary, with a shrug of contempt; "but I shouldn't like to be a common vulgar man like that."

Jackie got quite hot.

"I don't believe Greenop's vulgar at all," he said. "Look how he stuffed those pheasants for father. I heard father say, `Greenop's an uncommonly clever fellow!' Father likes to talk to him, so he can't be vulgar."

Mary did not want another quarrel; she tried to soften her speech down.

"But you see I couldn't be _Mr_. Greenop," she said, "I could only be _Mrs_. Greenop, and sit in that dull little hole at the back of the shop and darn all day."

"Oh, well," Jackie acknowledged, "that might not be so pleasant; but," he added, "you might be his daughter, and help to feed the birds, and serve in the shop."

Mary tossed her head.

"What's the good of talking like that?" she said; "I'm _not_ his daughter, and I'm sure I don't want to be."

"But you're always fond of pretending things," persisted Jackie. "Supposing you _could_ change, whose daughter would you like to be?"

"Well," said Mary, after a little reflection, "if I could change I should like to be a countess, or a princess, or a Lady somebody. Lady Mary Vallance sounds rather nice, I think."

Just then the squire came out of the shop, and they soon started rapidly homewards.

"Mary," said Jackie, squeezing himself close up to her, when they were well on the way, and lowering his voice mysteriously, "I've got a secret to tell you."

Jackie's secrets were never very important, and Mary was not prepared to be interested in this one.

"Have you?" she said absently; "look at all those crows in that field."

"Oh, if you don't want to hear it--" said Jackie, drawing back with a hurt expression; "it's something to do with you, too."

"Well, what is it?" said Mary; "I'm listening."

"I haven't told Agatha, or Jennie, or Patrick," continued he in an injured voice.

"Why, it wouldn't be a secret if you had," said Mary. "Go on; I really want to hear it."

"It was yesterday," began Jackie, lowering his voice again; "I was sitting in the school-room window-seat reading, and Rice came in with a message for Fraulein. And then she stayed talking about lots of things, and then they began to talk about you." Jackie paused.

"That's not much of a secret," said Mary. "Is that all?"

"Of course not. It's only the beginning. They said a lot which I didn't hear, and then Rice told Fraulein a long story in a very low voice, and Fraulein held up her hands and called out `Himmel!' But the part I really did hear was the last bit."

"Well," said Mary, "what was it? I don't think anything of what you've told me yet."

"`These awful words fell upon my ears,'" said Jackie gloomily, quoting from a favourite ghost story: "`As brown as a berry, and her name's no more Mary Vallance than mine is!'"

"But I'm not as brown as a berry," said Mary. "You must have heard wrong. They couldn't have been talking about me at all."

"I know they were," said Jackie with decision, "for when Fraulein saw me she nodded at Rice and put her finger on her lip, and Rice said something about `buried in his book.' You see," added Jackie, "I didn't really _listen_, but I heard--because I couldn't help it."

Wensdale was now in sight, and five minutes afterwards the dog-cart stopped at the vicarage gate.

"Don't tell anyone else," whispered Mary hurriedly as she clambered down. "I'm going to ask mother about it."

She ran into the house feeling rather excited, but almost sure that Jackie was mistaken. He often made muddles. What was her astonishment, therefore, after pouring out the story breathlessly, when Mrs Vallance, instead of laughing at the idea, only looked very grave and kept silence.

"Of course I am Mary Vallance, ain't I, mother?" she repeated.

"You are our dear little adopted daughter," said Mrs Vallance; "but that is not really your name."

"What is it then?" asked Mary.

"I do not know. Some day I will tell you how you first came here, but not until you are older."

How mysterious it all was! Mary gazed thoughtfully out into the quiet road, at the ducks splashing about in the river; but she was not thinking of them, her head seemed to whirl. Presently she said:

"Do you know my real mother and father?"

"No," answered Mrs Vallance.

"Perhaps," continued Mary, after a pause, "they live in a big house like the Chelwoods, and have a garden and a park like theirs."

"Perhaps they have," said Mrs Vallance, "and perhaps they live in a little cottage like the blacksmith and his wife, and have no garden at all."

"Oh, I shouldn't like that at all," said Mary quickly; then she suddenly threw her arms round Mrs Vallance's neck and kissed her.

"Whoever they are," she said, "I love you and father best, and always shall."

She asked a great many more questions, but Mrs Vallance seemed determined to answer nothing but "yes" and "no." It was very disappointing to know so much and yet so little, and it seemed impossible to wait patiently till she was older to hear more. At last Mrs Vallance forbade the subject:

"I don't want you to talk of this any more now, Mary," she said. "When the proper time comes, you shall hear all I have to tell; what I want you to remember is this: _Whoever_ you are, and whatever sort of people you belong to, you cannot alter it; but you may have a great deal to do with _what_ you are. We can all make our characters noble by goodness, however poor our stations are; but if we are proud and vain, and despise others, nothing can save us from becoming vulgar and low, even if we belong to very high rank indeed. That is all you have to think of."

Excellent advice; but though Mary heard all the