“He’s ill, poor lad, and askin’ for you. Won’t lay quiet. My man fetched doctor to un last night, and he told us—doctor did—to give un anything wot he fancied, ’im bein’ in such a bad way. So I come along ’cos I knew you’d come, little Miss Carlyle—you with the soft heart as kissed the baby. And sure, too, it’s the Cup he’s talkin’ about, end on. An’ it bein’ Midsummer Day—” The speaker stopped for breath and mopped a heated brow.
“But who is ‘he’?” inquired Betty, staring.
She had got used to the first surprise—that of suddenly seeing behind her in the school wood the figure of Anna Grimes of the caravan, dishevelled and dusty, certainly, but with the delight of recognition in her eyes. How she had got there Betty hadn’t had time to consider as yet, owing to the torrent of talk which flowed from her visitor’s lips.
“I come meself, little Miss Carlyle; me man was against it. But the poor lad being in such a bad way, I couldn’t cross him, being soft-hearted myself. Comed up to our van, he did, early yesterday morning, arsking for water. Fell asleep while he were drinking of it, he did, poor natural, and I threw a coat over him and let him lay there. Well, as my man says, the beasts and the poor naturals is sort of specials, in a manner of speaking, if you takes my meaning, and we munna go agin them. So, w’en ’e wakes up all shivery and ’ot at noon, an’ arsks whether it be Midsummer yet, and if so why he be so cold, and whether t’ Cup be safe, and all about the sweet young lady wot was afraid to lose it—well, at first we thinks of ’im as light-’eaded.” Mrs. Grimes stopped for breath.
“Talking about that there Cup ’e were, though,” she went on; “and so we listens. ‘Miss Betty’s ’er nyme,’ says ’e, quite sensible, too. ‘I’se ’eard the other young ladies call ’er,’ says ’e. ‘My young lydy she is,’ ses ’e again, ‘wot patched up my cheek. An’ I guv her my word,’ he goes on, ‘to do summut for ’er in return. Aye, an’ I done it,’ ses he. All sensible so far, as my Andrew says; but then the poor natural starts a-crying out with pains in his boneses, and arsking if it be Midsummer Day yet, ’cos ’e’s got to guv the young lydy the Cup wot ’e’s kep’ safe for ’er till then. ’E ’eard ’er say over the garding wall as she was afraid she’d lose it, ses ’e. Well, an’ ’e got worser at night; and my man goes to fetch doctor. An’ doctor comes and ses ’tis rheumatiz fever caught with laying out o’ nights——”
“I don’t understand one word, I don’t think,” broke in Betty, almost trembling. “At least I believe I’m beginning to. Only—” She gave a hurried look around.
“An’ no need for you to, Miss Carlyle, dear. You just come along o’ me. Doctor says ’twill worsen him to keep calling, and it’s calling out fer you that he’s after. Wants to give her the Cup, so ’e says——”
“But how? And I ought to ask leave——!”
“Sure, ’tis the doctor’s leave as you’s got. There’s no time to lose, Miss Carlyle, dear. An’ you can come along this way. ’Tis the way found by himself, poor natural; but he described of it to me proper clever. ‘You goes along,’ ses ’e, ‘to that there medder bordering the road. An’ close by there,’ ses ’e, ‘you’ll see a wide ditch-like way, with nettles growing thick so as no one notices. Dry it be in summer, and deep it be; and you goes along careful; and there be room to walk nigh upstanding all way through medder till you comes to the wood what belongs to St. Benedick’s school and sees the flowers. Aye, they’re grand to watch, a-laying secret in the ditch,’ ses he, ‘but the young ladies is grander; but go careful there fer fear they sees you, and crouch and crawl.’ Well, I promises him to take that there way, it being a full mile quicker an’ nearer. So, see here, Miss, step along now; for you’re safe with me, as you knows, and the lad’s right-down bad wi’ calling for you.”
Hardly knowing what she did, Betty followed Anna Grimes’s lead. Parting the great tangled mass of grasses and bracken at the side of the wood, the woman displayed the opening of a wide disused ditch. She crouched down and started off, while Betty followed on behind.