The eight girls who had gone out on their midnight picnic were much
startled one day by an unpleasant discovery. Betty had never come for
her basket. Susan Drummond, who had a good deal of curiosity, and
always poked her nose into unexpected corners, had been walking with a
Miss Allison in that part of the grounds where the laurel-bush stood.
She had caught a peep of the white handle of the basket, and had
instantly turned her companion's attention to something else. Miss
Allison had not observed Susan's start of dismay; but Susan had taken
the first opportunity of getting rid of her, and had run off in search
of one of the girls who had shared in the picnic. She came across Annie
Forest, who was walking, as usual, by herself, with her head slightly
bent, and her curling hair in sad confusion. Susan whispered the
direful intelligence that old Betty had forsaken them, and that the
basket, with its ginger-beer bottles and its stained table-cloth, might
be discovered at any moment.
Annie's pale face flushed slightly at Susan's words.
"Why should we try to conceal the thing?" she said, speaking with sudden
energy, and a look of hope and animation coming back to her face.
"Susy, let's go, all of us, and tell the miserable truth to Mrs Willis;
it will be much the best way. We did not do the other thing, and when
we have confessed about this our hearts will be at rest."
"No, we did not do the other thing," said Susan, a queer grey colour
coming over her face; "but confess about this, Annie Forest!--I think
you are mad. You dare not tell."
"All right," said Annie, "I won't, unless you all agree to it," and then
she continued her walk, leaving Susan standing on the gravelled path
with her hands clasped together, and a look of most genuine alarm and
dismay on her usually phlegmatic face.
Susan quickly found Phyllis and Nora, and it was only too easy to arouse
the fears of these timid little people. Their poor little faces became
almost pallid, and they were not a little startled at the fact of Annie
Forest, their own arch-conspirator, wishing to betray their secret.
"Oh," said Susan Drummond, "she's not out and out shabby; she says she
won't tell unless we all wish it. But what is to become of the basket?"
"Come, come, young ladies; no whispering, if you please," said Miss
Good, who came up at this moment. "Susan, you are looking pale and
cold, walk up and down that path half-a-dozen times, and then go into
the house. Phyllis and Nora, you can come with me as far as the lodge.
I want to take a message from Mrs Willis to Mary Martin about the fowl
for to-morrow's dinner."
Phyllis and Nora, with dismayed faces, waited solemnly away with the
English teacher, and Susan was left to her solitary meditations.
Things had come to such a pass that her slow wits were brought into
play, and she neither felt sleepy, nor did she indulge in her usual
habit of eating lollipops.
That basket might be discovered any day, and then--then disgrace was
imminent. Susan could not make out what had become of old Betty; never
before had she so utterly failed them.
Betty lived in a little cottage about half a mile from Lavender House.
She was a sturdy, apple-cheeked, little old woman, and had for many a
day added to her income--indeed, almost supported herself--by means of
the girls at Lavender House. The large cherry trees in her little
garden bore their rich crop of fruit year after year for Mrs Willis's
girls, and every day at an early hour Betty would tramp into Sefton and
return with a temptingly-laden basket of the most approved cakes and
tarts. There was a certain paling at one end of the grounds to which
Betty used to come. Here on the grass she would sit contentedly with
the contents of her basket arranged in the most tempting order before
her, and to this seductive spot she knew well that those little Misses
who loved goodies, cakes, and tartlets would be sure to find their way.
Betty charged high for her wares; but, as she was always obliging in the
matter of credit the thoughtless girls cared very little that they paid
double the shop prices for Betty's cakes. The best girls in the school,
certainly, never went to Betty; but Annie Forest, Susan Drummond, and
several others had regular accounts with her, and few days passed that
their young faces would not peep over the paling and their voices ask--
"What have you got to tempt me with to-day, Betty?"
It was, however, in the matter of stolen picnics, of grand feasts in the
old attic, etc, etc, that Betty was truly great. No one so clever as
she in concealing a basket of delicious eatables, no one knew better
what school-girls liked. She undoubtedly charged her own prices, but
what she gave was of the best, and Betty was truly in her element when
she had an order from the young ladies of Lavender House for a grand
secret feast.
"You shall have it, my pretties--you shall have it," she would say,
wrinkling up her bright blue eyes, and smiling broadly. "You leave it
to Betty, my little loves; you leave it to Betty."
On the occasion of the picnic to the fairies' field Betty had, indeed,
surpassed herself in the delicious eatables she had provided; all had
gone smoothly, the basket had been placed in a secure hiding-place under
the thick laurel. It was to be fetched away by Betty herself at an
early hour on the following morning.
No wonder Susan was perplexed as she paced about and pretended to warm
herself. It was a June evening, but the weather was still a little
cold. Susan remembered now that. Betty had not come to her favourite
station at the stile for several days. Was it possible that the old
woman was ill? As this idea occurred to her, Susan became more alarmed.
She knew that there was very little chance of the basket remaining long
in concealment. Rover might any day remember his pleasant picnic with
affection, and drag the white basket from under the laurel-bush.
Michael the gardener would be certain to see it when next he cleaned up
the back avenue. Oh, it was more than dangerous to leave it there, and
yet Susan knew of no better hiding-place. A sudden idea came to her:
she pulled out her pretty little watch, and saw that she need not return
to the house for another half-hour. "Suppose she ran as fast as
possible to Betty's little cottage, and begged of the old woman to come
by the first light in the morning and fetch away the basket?"
The moment Susan conceived this idea she resolved to put it into
execution. She looked around her hastily; no teacher was in sight, Miss
Good was away at the lodge, Miss Danesbury was playing with the little
children. Mademoiselle, she knew, had gone indoors with a bad headache.
She left the broad walk where she had been desired to stay, and,
plunging into the shrubbery, soon reached Betty's paling. In a moment
she had climbed the bars, had jumped lightly into the field, and was
running as fast as possible in the direction of Betty's cottage. She
reached the high road, and started and trembled violently as a carriage
with some ladies and gentlemen passed her. She thought she recognised
the faces of the two little Misses Bruce, but did not dare to look at
them, and hurried panting along the road, and hoping she might be
mistaken.
In less than a quarter of an hour she had reached Betty's little
cottage, and was standing trying to recover her breath by the shut door.
The place had a deserted look, and several overripe cherries had fallen
from the trees and were lying neglected on the ground. Susan knocked
impatiently. There was no discernible answer. She had no time to wait,
she lifted the latch, which yielded to her pressure, and went in.
Poor old Betty, crippled, and in severe pain with rheumatism, was lying
on her little bed.
"Eh, dear--and is that you, my pretty Missy?" she asked, as Susan, hot
and tired, came up to her side.
"Oh, Betty, are you ill?" asked Miss Drummond. "I came to tell you you
have forgotten the basket."
"No, my dear, no--not forgot. By no means that, lovey; but I has been
took with the rheumatism this past week, and can't move hand nor foot.
I was wondering how you'd do without your cakes and tartlets, dear, and
to think of them cherries lying there good for nothing on the ground is
enough to break one's 'eart."
"So it is," said Susan, giving an appreciative glance toward the open
door. "They are beautiful cherries, and full of juice, I am sure. I'll
take a few, Betty, as I am going out, and pay you for them another day.
But what I have come about now is the basket. You must get the basket
away, however ill you are. If the basket is discovered we are all lost,
and then good-bye to your gains."
"Well, Missy, dear, if I could crawl on my hands and knees I'd go and
fetch it, rather than you should be worried; but I can't set fool to the
ground at all. The doctor says as 'tis somethink like rheumatic fever
as I has."
"Oh, dear, oh, dear," said Susan, not wasting any of her precious
moments in pitying the poor suffering old woman. "What _is_ to be done?
I tell you, Betty, if that basket is found we are all lost."
"But the laurel is very thick, lovey; it ain't likely to be found--it
ain't, indeed."
"I tell you it _is_ likely to be found, you tiresome old woman, and you
really must go for it or send for it. You really must."
Old Betty began to ponder.
"There's Moses," she said, after a pause of anxious thought; "he's a
'cute little chap, and he might go. He lives in the fourth cottage
along the lane. Moses is his name--Moses Moore. I'd give him a pint of
cherries for the job. If you wouldn't mind sending Moses to me, Miss
Susan, why, I'll do my best; only it seems a pity to let anybody into
your secrets, young ladies, but old Betty herself."
"It is a pity," said Susan; "but, under the circumstances, it can't be
helped. What cottage did you say this Moses lived in?"
"The fourth from here, down the lane, lovey--Moses is the lad's name;
he's a freckled boy, with a cast in one eye. You send him up to me,
dearie, but don't mention the cherries, or he'll be after stealing them.
He's a sad rogue, is Moses; but I think I can tempt him with the
cherries."
Susan did not wait to bid poor old Betty "good-bye," but ran out of the
cottage, shutting the door after her, and snatching up two or three ripe
cherries to eat on her way. She was so far fortunate as to find the
redoubtable Moses at home, and to convey him bodily to old Betty's
presence. The queer boy grinned horribly, and looked as wicked as boy
could look; but on the subject of cherries he was undoubtedly
susceptible, and after a good deal of haggling and insisting that the
pint should be a quart, he expressed his willingness to start off at
four o'clock on the following morning, and bring away the basket from
under the laurel-tree.