PIG-BETTY
"PIG-BETTY" BY MRS. MOLESWORTH]
PART I.
I am going to tell you a story that mother told us. _We_ thinkmother's stories far the most interesting and nicest of any we hear orread. And we are trying to write them all down, so that our children,if ever any of us have any, may know them too. We mean to call them"Grandmother's Stories." One reason why they are nice is, that nearlyall of them are real, what is called "founded on fact." By the time_our_ children come to hear them, mother says her stories will allhave grown dreadfully old-fashioned, but we tell her that will makethem all the nicer. They will have a scent of long-ago-ness aboutthem, something like the faint lavendery whiff that comes out ofmother's old doll-box, where she keeps a few of the toys and dolls'clothes she has never had the heart to part with.
The little story, or "sketch"--mother says it isn't worth calling a"story"--I am going to write down now, is already a long-ago one. Forit isn't really one of mother's own stories; it was told her by _her_mother, so if ever our book comes to exist, this one will have to havea chapter to itself and be called "_Great_-grandmother's Story," won'tit? I remember quite well what made mother tell it us. It was when wewere staying in the country one year, and Francie had been frightened,coming through the village, by meeting a poor idiot boy who ran afterus and laughed at us in a queer silly way. I believe he meant toplease us, but Francie's fright made her angry, and she wanted nurseto speak to him sharply and tell him to get away, but nurse wouldn't.
"One should always be gentle to those so afflicted," she said.
When we got home we told mother about it, and Francie asked her tospeak to nurse, adding, "It's very disagreeable to see people likethat about. _I_ think they should always be shut up, don't you,mother?"
"Not always," mother replied. "Of course, when they are at alldangerous, likely to hurt themselves or any one else, it is necessaryto shut them up. And if they can be taught anything, as some can be,it is the truest kindness to send them to an asylum, where it iswonderful what patience and skill can sometimes make of them. But Iknow about that boy in the village. He is perfectly harmless, evengentle and affectionate. He has been at a school for such as he, andhas learnt to knit--that is the only thing they could succeed inteaching him. It was no use leaving him there longer, and he pined forhome most sadly. So as his relations are pretty well off, it wasthought best to send him back, and he is now quite content. I wish Ihad told you about him. When you meet him again you must be sure tospeak kindly--they say he never forgets if any one does so."
Of course we all said "yes"]
"Poor boy," said Ted and I; but Francie did not look quite convinced.
"I think he should be shut up," she repeated, in rather a low voice.Francie used to be a very obstinate little girl. "And _I_ shan't speakto him kindly or any way."
Mother did not answer, though she heard. I know she did. But in aminute or two she said:
"Would you like to hear a story about an idiot, that your grandmothertold me? It happened when she was a little girl."
Of course we all said "yes," with eagerness.
And this was the story.
"'Pig-Betty' isn't a very pretty name for a story, or for a person, isit? But Pig-Betty was a real person, though I daresay none of you havethe least idea what the word 'pig' added to her own name meant," saidmother. No, none of us had. We thought, perhaps, it was because this"Betty" was very lazy, or greedy or even dirty, but mother shook herhead at all those guesses. And then she went on to explain. "Pig," insome parts of Scotland, she told us, means a piece of coarse crockery.It is used mostly for jugs, though in a general way it means any sortof crockery. "And long ago," mother went on--I think I'll give upputting 'mother said,' or 'mother went on,' and just tell it straightoff, as she did.
Long ago then, when _my_ mother was a little girl, she and herbrothers and sisters used to spend some months of every year in arather out-of-the-way part of Scotland. There was no railway and no"coach," that came within at all easy reach. The nearest town was tenor twelve miles away, and even the village was two or three. And agood many things, ordinary, common things, were supplied by pedlars,who walked long distances, often carrying their wares upon theirbacks. These pedlars came to be generally called by what they had tosell, as a sort of nickname. You may think it was a very hard life,but there were a good many nice things about it. They were always sureof a welcome, for it was a pleasant excitement in the quiet life ofthe cottages and farm-houses, and even of the big houses about, whenone of these travelling merchants appeared; and they never needed tofeel any anxiety about their board and lodging. They could alwayscount upon a meal or two and on a night's shelter. Very often theyslept in the barn of the farm-house--or even sometimes in a cleancorner of the cows' "byre." They were not very particular.
"They were always sure of a welcome"]
Among these good people there were both men and women, and poorPig-Betty was one of the latter.
My mother and the other children used always to ask as one of theirfirst questions when they arrived at Greystanes--that was the name oftheir uncle's country house--on their yearly visit, if Pig-Betty hadbeen there lately, or if she was expected to come soon. One or otherwas pretty sure to be the case.
They had several reasons for their interest in the old woman. One wasthat they were very fond of blowing soap-bubbles, which they seldomgot leave to do in town, and they always bought a new supply of whiteclay pipes the first time Pig-Betty appeared; another was that she hadwhat children thought very wonderful treasures hidden among the coarsepots and dishes and jugs that she carried in a shapeless bundle on herbent old back. And sometimes, if she were in a very good humour, shewould present one of the little people with a green parrot rejoicingin a whistle in its tail, or with a goggle-eyed dog, reminding one ofthe creatures in Hans Andersen's tale of "The Three Soldiers." And thethird reason was perhaps the strongest, though the strangest of all.
OLD BETTY'S TREASURES]
PART II.
The third reason why the children were so interested in the old pedlarwoman was, I said, the strongest, though the strangest of all. She wasan idiot! They were almost too young to understand what being an idiotreally meant, but they could see for themselves that she was quiteunlike other people, and her strangeness gave her a queer charm andattraction for them--almost what is called "fascination." When she wasat Greystanes, where she always stayed two or three days, they werenever at a loss for amusement, for they did little else than run hereand there to peep at her and tell over to each other the odd way shetrotted about, nodding and shaking her head and talking on to herselfas if she were holding long conversations. It did not do to let hersee they were watching her, for it would have made her angry. Indeed,several times the children had been warned not to do so, and theirnurse had been told to keep them out of the old woman's way; but, aseverybody knows, children are contradictory creatures, and in thecountry, nurse could not keep as close a look out on them as in town.Then it was well known that Pig-Betty was very gentle, even when shewas angry--and she did have fits of temper sometimes--she had neverbeen known to hurt anyone.
'Well, Betty, my woman, and how are ye?']
And, of course, she was not quite without sense. She was able tomanage her little trade well enough and to see that she was paidcorrectly for the "pigs" she sold. She was able, too, to tell thedifference between Sunday and other days, for on Sunday she wouldnever "travel," and would often, if she were near a village, creepinto the "kirk" and sit in a corner quite quietly. Perhaps "idiot" ishardly the right word to use about her, for there were a few old folkwho said they had been told that she had not always been quite sostrange and "wanting," but that a great trouble or sorrow that hadhappened in her family had made her so. The truth was that no one knewher real story. She had wandered into our part of the country from along way off, thirty or forty years ago, and as people had been kindto her, there she had stayed. No one knew how old she was. UncleJames, himself an elderly man, s
aid she had not changed the least allthe years he had known her.
Uncle James was one of the people she had a great affection for. Shewould stand still whenever he passed her with a kindly, "Well, Betty,my woman, and how are ye?" bobbing a kind of queer curtsey till he wasout of sight, and murmuring blessings on the "laird." He never forgother when she was at Greystanes, always giving orders that the poorbody should be made comfortable and have all she wanted.
One of his little kindnesses to her was the cause of a good deal ofexcitement to the children when they were with Uncle James. At thattime gentlepeople dined much earlier than they do now, especially inthe country. At Greystanes four o'clock was the regular dinner hour.The children used always to be nicely dressed and sent down "todessert." And when Pig-Betty was there, Uncle James never failed topour out a glass of wine and say, "Now, who will take this to the oldwoman?"
"The procession of five"]
Pig-Betty knew it was coming, for she always managed to be in thekitchen at that time, and however busy the servants were, they neverthought of turning her out. There was a good deal of superstitious awefelt about her, in spite of her gentleness; and the children wouldlook at each other, half-wishing, half-fearing to be the cup-bearer.
"I will," Johnny would say; and as soon as he spoke all the othersfollowed.
"No, let me," Hughie would cry, and then Maisie and Lily joined inwith their "I will," or "Do let me, Uncle James."
"First come, first served," Uncle would reply, as he handed thewell-filled glass to Johnny or Maisie, or whichever had been thefirst. Then the procession of five would set off, walking slowly, soas not to spill the wine, down the long stone passages leading to thekitchen and offices of the old house. And what usually happened wasthis.
As they got to the kitchen door, Johnny--supposing it was he who wascarrying the wine--would go more and more slowly.
"I don't mind, after all, letting _you_ give it, Maisie," or "Hughie,"he would say.
"No, thank you, Johnny," they would meekly reply. And Lily, who wasthe most outspoken, would confess,
"I always _think_ I'd like to give it her, but I do get _so_frightened when I see her close to me, that I really daren't," whichwas in truth the feeling of all four!
So it was pretty sure to end by number five coming to the front.Number five was little Annette, the youngest. She was a sweet,curly-haired maiden, too sunny and merry herself to know what fearmeant.
"_I_'ll dive it poor old Pig-Betty," she always cried, and so she did.Inside the kitchen the glass was handed to her, and she trotted up tothe old woman in her corner with it, undismayed by the near sight ofthe queer wizened old face, like a red and yellow withered apple, andthe bright piercing eyes, to be seen at the end, as it were, of a sortof overhanging archway of shawls and handkerchiefs and queer frilledheadpiece under all, which Betty managed in some mysterious way tohalf bury herself in.
She always murmured blessings on the child as she drank the wine, andno doubt this little ceremony was the beginning of her devotion to thebaby of the family.
This devotion was made still greater by what happened one day.
There were unkind and thoughtless people at Greystanes as well aseverywhere else. And one summer there came some "new folk" to live inone of the cottages inhabited by Uncle James's farm-labourers. Thisdid not often happen, as he seldom changed his people. These strangerswere from some distance, and had never happened to come across thepoor half-witted old woman, and there were two or three rough boys inthe family who were spoilt and wild, and who thought themselves farabove the country people, as they had lived for some time in a smalltown. And so one day--Oh, dear! I am getting this chapter of mother'sstory too long. I must begin a new one.
PART III.
Well, one day, as I was saying, the children, who had not seen oldBetty for several weeks, were on their way to the village--two milesoff--when near the corner of a lane, they heard a great noise. Loudvoices and jeering laughter, and a kind of strange shrill shrieking,which made them stare at each other in wonder and almost fear. Nursewas not with them, they were to meet her further down the road, as shehad 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 inthe midst of a little group of boys, and two or three girls also, I amafraid, stood the poor old idiot. She was convulsed with rage,screaming, shrieking, almost foaming with fury, while first one thenanother darted forward and gave a pull to her skirts or jacket frombehind, and as quickly as she turned, a fresh tormentor would catch ather from the other side, all shouting together at the top of theirvoices, "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 newcomers, were in the front of the fray, of course.
For a moment the five Greystanes children stood speechless withhorror. Then Johnny darted to the idiot's side, he did it with thebest intentions, but Betty, confused and blinded, did not distinguishhim from the others, and dealt him a blow which sent him staggeringback, as she howled out to him, "Ye ill-faured loon, tak' that."
Betty's Tormentors]
"Run, Johnny, run," shrieked Maisie, which Hughie and Lill, who weretwins and always kept together, had already done, not out of cowardicebut in search of help. But little Annette rushed forward.
"Bad boys that you are," she shouted with her little shrill baby voicethat seemed to have suddenly grown commanding, "off with you. Youshall not torment my guid auld Betty." For though the children'smother was most careful that their speech should be "English," strongexcitement would bring out their native tongue. And as the childuttered 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 theground, where they clung together--the sorrow-crushed aged creatureand the cherub-faced child--sobbing in each other's arms. ForPig-Betty had known her little friend in an instant.
"My bonny wee leddy she murmured"]
"My bonny wee leddy," she murmured, "auld Betty's ain wee leddy," andwith her trembling fingers she untied the knotted corners of herbundle of "pigs," and searching for the best of her treasures, thebest and biggest of her "whustling polls," she stuffed it intoAnnette's hands.
Strange to say the ruffianly group had already dispersed and were notagain seen!
It was soon after that that the children went back again for thewinter to their London home. Next year saw them once more in thenorth, and as nurse unpacked their trunks she came upon the greenparrot, 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 asusual, but she had not been there for some weeks. Fortunately for thechildren, however, it was near the time for her visit, as you shallhear.
A few days after their arrival they were all out together, when theyhappened to pass by a cottage, whose owner was famed for a very choicebreed of dogs he kept.
"Let's peep over the wall into Sandy's yard, and see if he has any newpuppies," said Johnny, and they all did so. No, there were no puppiesto 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 aqueer, restless way, his head hanging down, his tail between his legs.
"Poor Jock," said Hughie, "how dull he looks! What a shame of Sandy tohave gone out and left him alone!" For evidently there was no one athome 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 knowus once he's out."
They did not hear a quick but shuffling step up the lane, nor apanting, quavering voice, "Bairns, bairns, dinna ye----"
It was Pig-Betty, just arrived that morning, and left by Sandy incharge of his cottage and the suspiciously suffering
Jock--a chargeshe was quite able for.
Let's peep over the wall! and they all did so.]
"Let no one gang near him," Sandy had said; "and, my woman, just yesit at the gate there till I'm back. I'll no be lang."
But, alas, the children had come round by the fields behind thecottage.
It was too late--the yard gate was opened, and Jock, after sniffingand turning about came slowly out.
"Poor old Jockie," said Annette, always fearless, stooping to strokehim.
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 fangswould have been in the baby's tender flesh, but for the well-aimedblow 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--thepoor 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 shesaid 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, notlonger, her old nerves and feeble frame had got their death blow. Butshe was tenderly cared for in a peaceful corner of the hospital at theneighbouring town. Uncle James and the children's parents took carethat she should want for nothing, and as her bodily strength failedher mind seemed to clear. When little Annette was taken to saygood-bye to the brave old woman, poor Pig-Betty was able to whisper aword or two of loving hope that she and her "wee leddy" might meetagain--in the Better Land.
The Man with the Pan-Pipes, and Other Stories Page 2