PART III.
Well, one day, as I was saying, the children, who had not seen old Betty for several weeks, were on their way to the village—two miles off—when near the corner of a lane, they heard a great noise. Loud voices and jeering laughter, and a kind of strange shrill shrieking, which made them stare at each other in wonder and almost fear. Nurse was not with them, they were to meet her further down the road, as she had gone on first with a message to a woman who was ill.
"What can it be?" said Maisie.
They hurried on to see, and the mystery was soon explained. There in the midst of a little group of boys, and two or three girls also, I am afraid, stood the poor old idiot. She was convulsed with rage, screaming, shrieking, almost foaming with fury, while first one then another darted forward and gave a pull to her skirts or jacket from behind, and as quickly as she turned, a fresh tormentor would catch at her from the other side, all shouting together at the top of their voices, "Wha is't this time, my Leddy Betty? Thaur, ye have him noo."
They were not hurting her, but it was the insult she felt so keenly, for she was used to respectful treatment. The Simpson boys, the new comers, were in the front of the fray, of course.
For a moment the five Greystanes children stood speechless with horror. Then Johnny darted to the idiot's side, he did it with the best intentions, but Betty, confused and blinded, did not distinguish him from the others, and dealt him a blow which sent him staggering back, as she howled out to him, "Ye ill-faured loon, tak' that."
"Run, Johnny, run," shrieked Maisie, which Hughie and Lill, who were twins and always kept together, had already done, not out of cowardice but in search of help. But little Annette rushed forward.
"Bad boys that you are," she shouted with her little shrill baby voice that seemed to have suddenly grown commanding, "off with you. You shall not torment my guid auld Betty." For though the children's mother was most careful that their speech should be "English," strong excitement would bring out their native tongue. And as the child uttered the last words she flung her arms round the poor woman, who, weak and feeble as soon as her fury began to lessen, tottered to the ground, where they clung together—the sorrow-crushed aged creature and the cherub-faced child—sobbing in each other's arms. For Pig-Betty had known her little friend in an instant.
"My bonny wee leddy," she murmured, "auld Betty's ain wee leddy," and with her trembling fingers she untied the knotted corners of her bundle of "pigs," and searching for the best of her treasures, the best and biggest of her "whustling polls," she stuffed it into Annette's hands.
Strange to say the ruffianly group had already dispersed and were not again seen!
It was soon after that that the children went back again for the winter to their London home. Next year saw them once more in the north, and as nurse unpacked their trunks she came upon the green parrot, which Annette would never part from.
"I wonder if Pig-Betty's still alive," she said.
Oh yes—so far as was known at Greystanes, she was rambling about as usual, but she had not been there for some weeks. Fortunately for the children, however, it was near the time for her visit, as you shall hear.
A few days after their arrival they were all out together, when they happened to pass by a cottage, whose owner was famed for a very choice breed of dogs he kept.
"Let's peep over the wall into Sandy's yard, and see if he has any new puppies," said Johnny, and they all did so. No, there were no puppies to be seen, only an older dog which the boys remembered by the name of "Jock," and they called out to him.
But Jock took no heed. He was moving about the little enclosure in a queer, restless way, his head hanging down, his tail between his legs.
"Poor Jock," said Hughie, "how dull he looks! What a shame of Sandy to have gone out and left him alone!" For evidently there was no one at home in the cottage. Truth to tell, Sandy was off for the dog-doctor.
"Let's let him out," said Johnny, "and cheer him up a bit. He'll know us once he's out."
They did not hear a quick but shuffling step up the lane, nor a panting, quavering voice, "Bairns, bairns, dinna ye——"
It was Pig-Betty, just arrived that morning, and left by Sandy in charge of his cottage and the suspiciously suffering Jock—a charge she was quite able for.
"Let no one gang near him," Sandy had said; "and, my woman, just ye sit at the gate there till I'm back. I'll no be lang."
But, alas, the children had come round by the fields behind the cottage.
It was too late—the yard gate was opened, and Jock, after sniffing and turning about came slowly out.
"Poor old Jockie," said Annette, always fearless, stooping to stroke him.
He turned upon her with a dreadful growl, he was not yet quite mad, but the poison was in him. And in another instant the deadly fangs would have been in the baby's tender flesh, but for the well-aimed blow which flung the dog back, though only for a moment. It was Betty, dashing at him with her bundle of "pigs," the only weapon at hand—the poor pigs smashing and crashing; but they only diverted Jock's attack. When Sandy and the dog-doctor came rushing up, she was on the ground, and Jock had already bitten her in two or three places. But all she said was, "My wee leddy, haud him aff my wee leddy."
And they were able to secure him, so that no one else was bitten.
No, Betty did not die of hydrophobia. She lived for a few months, not longer, her old nerves and feeble frame had got their death blow. But she was tenderly cared for in a peaceful corner of the hospital at the neighbouring town. Uncle James and the children's parents took care that she should want for nothing, and as her bodily strength failed her mind seemed to clear. When little Annette was taken to say good-bye to the brave old woman, poor Pig-Betty was able to whisper a word or two of loving hope that she and her "wee leddy" might meet again—in the Better Land.
