Aunt Judith seemed to enjoy it all. Jock had never known her so merry. He ate twice as much as she did, and she plainly expected that he should. When the little meal came to an end, all the eatables had vanished—which was just as well, since it meant less weight in the basket to be carried.
Then scraps of paper were carefully twisted up and hidden away or buried in the ground. "It's horrid to leave untidiness and mess in nature," Aunt Judith said energetically, while this went on. "Mind you never do, Jock; 'never' leave bits of paper or string lying about. It's so—vulgar!" she added indignantly.
And when everything had been put away, they set off again, very much refreshed, to find the old woman in her cottage.
"I think that's been most awfully jolly," Jock said joyously. "Do you like picnicking, Aunt Judith?"
"Immensely," she answered. "I love it, Jock. And I like to have you with me. We will do it again before long."
XVII. SO SLIPPERY
THEY found the old woman indoors; in fact she never could be anywhere else, since she had nearly lost her walking powers, and was only just able to creep about the room. A married daughter, living not far off, used to come in and see to her wants once or twice a day. But most of the time, she had to manage for herself as best she could. The basketful of good things, brought by Aunt Judith, was very welcome; and then Aunt Judith had to sit by her ever so long, listening to the tale of all her troubles.
Time went faster than anybody knew, while the old woman talked and her visitor listened.
Jock had been sent into the little garden, to amuse himself. He picked a big bunch of blue-bells from a bank near, and watched the bees, and listened to the birds, and could have gone on so for hours.
When at length Aunt Judith came out, a change had come over the sky. There was a grey mistiness everywhere, and clouds were gathering. Aunt Judith looked up and around.
"Oh, I don't think it means rain at present," she said. "So we will keep to our plan, Jock—if you feel inclined for so much walking. I suppose it will be about a mile and a half longer than the way we came; and it means going through a lovely little valley. They would call it a 'Combe' in Devonshire, and we always do call it so, Grannie and I. It is said to be really a very old and disused quarry—all grown over and full of trees. What do you feel like?"
Jock declared himself perfectly rested, and ready for any length of walk. He was eager to try the new route. One heavy basket, still unpacked, had been left with the old woman; and the other was almost empty. So they could go unburdened.
At a steady pace they set off, and after about a mile re-entered the wood, but in a different part. And by the time that they emerged from the wood, the weather had changed still more. The sky was growing black, and the whole scene looked dark. Aunt Judith began rather to regret having chosen the longer way. Now, however, it was too late to turn back.
So they trudged on, beguiling their walk by stories. Jock loved telling stories of his home-life and his school-fellows, and Aunt Judith seemed to enjoy hearing them. But the beauty of the day was gone.
"Well, if rain does come, it can't be helped," Aunt Judith said cheerfully. "You and I are not sugar or salt, so we shall not melt. I wish we had an umbrella—but who could dream that it would be wanted? Perhaps we may get in dry, after all."
She had hardly spoken the words when some heavy slow drops fell, each making a big round mark on the ground, and then, all at once, came a furious downpour. It was quite a deluge. And Aunt Judith had on only a thin jumper with a thin serge skirt, for she always dressed lightly in summer.
"We must find shelter," she said. "Run, Jock—run."
They raced together as fast as wind and laughter would allow, towards a shed—a very tumble-down affair—in a field close by. It gave protection from the rain, and hardly had they arrived before a sharp pelt of hail rattled on all around.
"Good thing we got here in time." Aunt Judith shook her skirt, like a dog coming out of a pond, and felt Jock over to see if he were very wet. "Well, it can't be helped," she said once more. "We must wait till the storm is over."
They had to wait a good while. Though the hail lessened, the rain kept on.
"I wonder what o'clock it is." She took out her watch, and then put it to her ear. "Stopped! Now I wonder why."
"Mr. Moore's watch wouldn't go neither."
"Something in the weather, perhaps. How tiresome. It must have stopped while we were having our tea; and I have not the faintest idea how long it is since then. I've never given it a thought."
Jock laughed. He found all this very good fun.
"We must get on as fast as we can—directly we can start. I shouldn't much care to go through the Combe in the dark—it means a pretty stiff path to the bottom. Beyond the Combe will not matter, for we get then to a level high road. I wish the rain would stop."
Apparently the rain was in no hurry. They waited and waited, till Aunt Judith's patience was nearly at an end. The growing darkness might be only due to clouds and rain, but it "might" mean—lateness.
Another sharp burst of hail came, quite a bombardment of sharp little pellets rattling on the crazy roof of their shelter. And this time when it stopped, the rain also lessened. All at once the clouds broke, and patches of blue sky became visible. Then, suddenly, the sun shone out, brightly, radiantly, lighting up the gloom with warm gladness.
At all events, he had not set yet, but the setting was very near, for he was low down, close to the horizon. Judith knew now that she and Jock could not possibly get home till after dark. The most she could hope for was that they might reach and pass the little Combe, while still able to see their way.
Off they set, going at a fine pace, for there was no time to be lost. Jock enjoyed himself immensely. Coming darkness meant only the more fun. They hurried on with increasing speed, as Aunt Judith found the distance greater than she had expected. It was years since she had taken this walk, and the friend who then went with her declared it to be at least twice as long as the other way. Aunt Judith had positively argued that it was nothing of the sort, but only a mile and a half farther, and she generally held fast to her own opinions. Now, however, as they pressed on and on, she began seriously to wonder whether she had not been in the wrong and her friend in the right. The walk seemed endless, and the sun had long set, yet still the Combe lay ahead.
"At last!" Aunt Judith said with relief, when a hill loomed in front of them.
"Have we got to go over the top of that hill?"
"Not over it. The Combe is on one side, some way up, and this path leads us straight through, and comes out at the farther end, close to a good road. Then we turn to the left, and just keep straight on."
Soon they reached the edge of the Combe, and in front lay a deep hollow, with steep sides, clothed in masses of trees, big ones fringing the outer verge, and smaller ones crowded together below. It looked very dark, and the path which they had to go down was not only steep and narrow, but the heavy rain had made it sticky and slippery. Aunt Judith had not reckoned on anything of this kind. She was not so good at climbing as at walking, for the simple reason that the country round her home gave few opportunities for practice.
"Take care, Jock; be careful. Don't slip, whatever you do. It would be a very unpleasant roll to the bottom."
Jock laughed and agreed. He still thought it all amazing fun. But a little note of anxiety had crept into Aunt Judith's voice.
As they slowly and cautiously made their way down, the remaining twilight was almost cut off by high rocks and overhanging trees. However charming a place in sunlight, it certainly did look rather dismal now. Jock wished that they could have come earlier.
"Take care!" again exclaimed Aunt Judith, as she slid sharply a foot or more downward, clutching at bushes.
Jock followed, not at all alarmed, and still ready for a laugh. The next few steps were steeper still, and she paused, not seeing how to manage them.
SHE WENT ROLLING, ROLLING, FALLING, FALLING,
DOWN THE WHOLE DESCENT
"I don't like this," she said. "I believe the grass would be easier. Wait a moment—while I try it."
Jock obeyed. He was just behind and above her. She struggled carefully to the side of the narrow path, and stepped off on the strip of grass which bordered it.
And in one instant, before Jock could dream of what would happen, her feet seemed to slide away from her on the wet, smooth, slippery surface, and she went rolling, rolling, falling, falling, down the whole descent, till stopped at the bottom. One quick "Oh!" at the first moment was the only sound she made.
XVIII. WHAT WAS HE TO DO?
JOCK too cried "Oh!"—a very startled "Oh!" He was sorely frightened. "Aunt Judith," he called. "Aunt Judith, are you hurt? Please tell me."
No answer came. In the dim light, Jock could just make out a motionless form on the ground. The whole place was quite still, not a sound to be heard, except one or two little "chirps" from a sleepy bird.
Jock felt dreadfully alone and afraid. But he was a plucky little fellow; and he knew at once that there was only one thing to be done, and that was to get down as soon as possible.
So, though he was shaking all over, he went down, step by step, holding firmly to small bushes at the side, sometimes slipping and sliding, yet each time recovering himself. And at last, he arrived at the spot where Aunt Judith lay—her face quite white, her eyes closed, one arm flung out, and the other doubled beneath her.
Jock came close, trembling. He was very much upset, and no wonder. It was enough to frighten a little fellow only eight years old. To see poor Aunt Judith lying there, still and silent, was awful. Perhaps she was dead. This thought gripped him. What if the fall had killed her? And, oh, what was he to do?
He knew what he wanted to do. He wanted, most desperately, to rush away, right off, wildly on and on till he could find somebody—just somebody to take care of him and of poor Aunt Judith. He wanted, desperately, to get out of this dark little valley, with its tall silent trees standing up in a solemn fringe round the upper edges, and the rugged path down which he had clambered, right away from the dismal loneliness and silence, away from the terrified thumping of his own heart.
If he rushed on along the path, through the Combe, and out on the farther side, he would come to a high road, where it would not be nearly so dark, and then he might run fast—oh, ever so fast!—till he came to somebody, or to the next village. Plenty of people there.
That was what he craved, more than words can say. He simply could not stay here—he could not. He had to find somebody; it must, must, be done. Under this overwhelming impulse, Jock started off and ran as hard as his shaking knees would carry him along the path—but only for a little way. He went more slowly—and then he stopped.
It was the thought of leaving Aunt Judith all alone which stayed those eager feet. If she was not killed—if she was only hurt—how could he leave her thus by herself in the dismal little Combe, with no one to help her, no one to say a word? Could he do it? Would Dad like him to do it?
Slowly he turned and came back, and stood as before gazing on the white face.
"Aunt Judith," he said imploringly. "Oh, Aunt Judith, do speak—please, please, do speak."
"Is that Jock?" a faint voice asked, and he saw that her eyes were open. "Jock, what has happened?"
"You tumbled down—all the way down. Do please get up."
Aunt Judith's right hand made a slow groping movement in his direction. "Here, dear, come close. Are you frightened? Poor little boy. I can't think how I could do—such a silly thing."
Jock crept closer, and the touch of her hand did him good, though it was a very cold touch. Her fingers were like ice. But it took away the feeling of being all alone, so far from everybody.
"Don't mind, dear," she said at the sound of a sob. "I shall be better soon. We must—wait. Don't be frightened—if I-I feel rather like—it's only—faintness—"
Her voice trailed weakly off, and she again lay with closed eyes. But at least she was not killed. And Jock had more than once seen his mother faint away and come to again, so he was less alarmed than he might have been. If only the place were not quite so dark and forsaken!
He remembered how Jane used to bring the bottle of smelling-salts to his mother. But he had no smelling-salts here. There was nothing to be done but to wait, and waiting is often harder than doing.
Crouching down close to Aunt Judith, he tried hard to be brave. He did wonder what was to happen, and how she was ever to get home. If she could not walk, would he have to spend the whole night with her here? Jock's heart went down into his shoes at the thought. It was so terribly still; no sound broke the silence, except a faint rustle of leaves as the breeze crept past.
Then came another sound, a distant soft murmur of church bells, drifting thither from a village not far off. Had the wind set the other way, Jock could not have heard that gentle murmur. And the village bell-ringers, going through their weekly practice, never dreamt of the comfort which they were sending to a forlorn little boy in the Combe.
Somehow, those sweet sounds took Jock back in a moment to his home, and he was with his mother again. He heard once more her soft voice, whispering to him about that "Best Friend" Who would always, always, be with him, ready to help.
Jock gazed wonderingly around. Was that "Best Friend" really there, down in the Combe with him and Aunt Judith in their trouble? The very thought of that wonderful Presence brought comfort. He tried to say a little prayer, and all he could manage was—
"Please—O please—"
But it meant everything.
"Jock, have I fainted again? This won't do. We must think—If I could get up—"
"Mayn't I help you?"
"No—wait—I can't bear a touch. My arm—" She made a slight effort to change her position, but stopped instantly. "I—can't—" Then, faintly—"You must not stay here. Could you find your way—and ask—help—?" The voice died away.
Then, suddenly, a shout came from above. "Hallo. Anything wrong down there?"
Jock knew the voice and a wild rush of joy and relief thrilled through him. "Oh, please come," he cried. "Please do! Aunt Judith has had a tumble."
"All right. I'm coming."
Captain Royle made nothing of the steep path. He descended at a swinging pace, as easily as if it had been a level road. In a trice he was bending over the prostrate figure, while Jock poured out the tale of their misfortunes. Aunt Judith, coming to again, let him tell it his own way, but added—"And Jock has stayed with me all the time. He would not leave me."
Captain Royle turned his torch on Jock, and gave him the brightest smile the boy had ever seen. "Shake hands, Jock," he said. "You behaved like a man, and I'm proud of you."
Jock's delight can be imagined.
Very tenderly the Captain lifted Aunt Judith, so as to set free the arm on which she lay.
She bore it without a sound. But when he with the utmost gentleness felt the arm itself, she again went promptly off into unconsciousness.
"H'm—a bad business," he said.
"Is she dreadfully hurt?" asked Jock.
"Broken arm. It's a mercy I came this way."
"Can she walk home?"
"Doesn't look like it. I must carry her out of the Combe. Once on the road, we shall find someone who can go ahead, and send a cab or taxi to meet us. But first I must tie the arm in an easier position." The Captain was pulling off his neckcloth as he spoke.
XIX. MOUSIE'S CONSCIENCE
FOR Mousie it had not been a happy afternoon. Her conscience was wide awake and troublesome. It had been saying many things during past weeks, which she did not wish to hear.
Mousie, like everybody else, had that quiet little inward voice, which has been implanted in each one of us, to remind us of things that ought to be done, and to call us to order when we are doing things that we ought not to do. But she had so often refused to listen, that her conscience had been slipping farther and farther into back corners of her mind. Lately, however, it had roused up again, and had given her an uncomfortable time. After weeks of feeling quite happy, and of being quite sure of the prize on which her heart was set, and quite certain that it really did not matter at all about Jock's disgrace—all at once uneasiness had set in. And now a whole rush of fears and misgivings had her in their grip. Do what she would, she could not shake herself free.
She meant still to say nothing. She meant still to win the prize. She meant still to possess a silver watch. But the joy had gone out of it all. And she wanted—oh, how she wanted!—to feel that she had not wronged Jock, had not deceived everybody, had not done as she did do all those weeks and weeks ago.
So long since! But that made no difference. The deed lay in the past and could not be undone. She had led Jock astray, had made him disobedient, had got him to give wrong promises, had refused to clear him at her own cost. She had acted untruly and meanly, and she knew it.
Especially at night these recollections troubled her. For the little voice within kept asking—"What is the use of saying your prayers over and over again, if you will keep on in what is wrong? What is the use, if you are determined not to tell?"
And thus far she was still determined. She would try to put away the thought, and would say her prayers very hard, but it would not do. Mousie knew that it would not do. No amount of hard praying could make up for going on still in wrong-doing.
But it would soon be done, she told herself. A very little while, and the prizes would be given. All the children would go to the Great House for tea and games in the garden, and Mr. and Mrs. Moore and Mrs. and Miss Baynes would be there also. Tom was pretty sure to get a prize, for he managed never to have a black mark. But others were not so hopeful.
Again and again Mousie pictured the scene. She would see kind old Mr. Royle smiling on them all, and taking her hand, and saying—"Well, my little girl, and what is it that you want most of all?" And she could hear her own voice replying—"Oh, please—if it isn't too expensive—I do want a real little silver watch of my own." And she knew that he would say—"Too expensive! Bosh. Of course you shall have it."
And when all that was over, and the silver watch was in her possession, she would begin to be quite perfectly good, and would never do anything wrong again. Perhaps some day, long afterwards, she would explain; and Jock and everybody would forgive her.
But long afterwards and far ahead would not do. It was now—now—that she knew she ought to speak, not by-and-by. "But I can't—I can't—I won't—" Mousie cried in her heart. "I do want that little watch so awfully much. I simply—can't."
This afternoon she was especially down-hearted, for Jock was away, and Tom and Hugh had disappeared, and she had no playmate.
At tea-time they were all together, and she heard that the walkers had not yet returned. Heavy rain had come on, but by-and-by it stopped. And Mousie crept away to station herself in the lane behind the churchyard, where she knew that Miss Baynes and Jock must pass on their way back, whether they returned by the same way that they went or followed the longer road. She would see them and would have a word with Jock.
It was a long wait. She had settled herself in a sheltered nook, close to the wall of the churchyard, and one quarter of an hour after another slipped by, and still they did not come. Patiently she sat there, long past sundown; and grey shadows began, and twilight deepened into darkness. She knew she ought to go indoors, for it must be near if not past her bed-time. Yet she stayed.
Stars were peeping out fast, one after another. Nobody came this way. But Miss Baynes and Jock would have to come, unless they made a needless round through another part of the village—which they would not think of doing, at the end of such a long walk.
Tom appeared unexpectedly. She knew it was Tom, though only able to make out a dim figure. He jumped the wall, landing within two yards of her.
"Tom—they haven't got back."
"Hallo—what are you after?"
"I'm waiting to see Jock. They haven't come back yet."
"No—nobody knows why, so Dad and Gardener have gone to meet them—both ways. You'd better go in."
"Oh, I can't. I do want to see Jock first—please, Tom."
"Well, I don't suppose it matters. The whole place is in a stew. I don't suppose anything is wrong, really. We'll wait."
They did wait, but in vain, and Tom soon went off, losing patience. Mousie remained in her sheltered corner. She was making up her mind that something dreadful had happened. Perhaps Jock had been killed, and she would never, never be able to tell him how sorry she was. What if he had gone again on that big bough, and had fallen into the water, and if Miss Baynes, trying to help him, had gone in too, and both had been drowned? And all her life long Mousie would know how unkindly she had treated him, and she would never be able to set things right. What good would a silver watch be to her then?
Mousie's tears rained at the thought.
"Oh, Jock—Oh, Jock darling," she whispered pitifully, and her little bony hands were wrung together, and the little peaked face was very sad in the starlight.
Suddenly a welcome sound of wheels brought Mousie with a leap to her feet. The old village fly drove slowly up, stopping at the churchyard gate; and Mr. Moore came down from the box, for he had met them and had been given a lift. Then an excited child flung herself forward, thrusting into the open window a pale little face.
"Oh, Jock—is Jock here?" she cried. "Oh—is it Miss Baynes? Please, please, I want to tell you something. It was all my fault that day—not Jock's. I made him go, and I ought to have told, and he oughtn't to have been punished."
"Mousie, come away." Mr. Moore was drawing her back, while Mousie clung frantically to the window.
But Miss Baynes' voice said clearly—
"No—let her speak. I would rather hear."
"Another time," Mr. Moore urged.
But she repeated—"Let her speak, please."
"It was all—all—me," cried Mousie. "I made him promise not to tell, and I wouldn't let him. And 'I' ought to have the black mark—not Jock. It was every bit me."
"That will do," Mr. Moore said firmly. "You must go home, Miss Baynes. This is bad for you."
"But I am glad Phœbe has spoken," Miss Baynes said. And in her heart she was glad also that she had talked so kindly to Jock that day, and had told him that she could fully trust him.
Jock had no chance of saying a word, though he too was very glad; for this meant the clearing away of the last remains of the cloud which had hung over him.
The fly drove on, and Mr. Moore led Mousie quietly home into his study. There he shut the door, sat down, and drew the child to his side.
Mousie hid her face on his shoulder, half wondering why she had spoken out, yet pleased to have done so. A word or two from her father brought out the whole tale; and Mousie, once started, shirked nothing. She made no excuses for herself, but seemed anxious only to clear Jock. She did not even hide the fact that she had persuaded Artie to keep her secret.
"Mousie—you!—the elder sister—to lead your little brother into deceit!"
"It was horribly disgusting of me, wasn't it, Dad?" By this time Mousie had begun to look up in his face, almost cheerfully, for hers was a cork-like nature, never very long depressed. "But, Dad dear, if only you did know—that day I just felt as if I 'had' to do things. I truly couldn't help it—truly I couldn't. You don't know what it's like, 'cause you're grown-up and so you're always good."
"Don't I know, Mousie? I've been a boy."
That was comforting. Mousie's face relaxed into a queer little smile.
"It's a bit nice, you know, to be naughty sometimes. D'you know that too, Dad? And I did want that dear little watch so fearfully!"
"If you had gained it, do you think it would ever have given you pleasure?"
Mousie's reply came promptly. "Oh, yes, lots. 'Cause I did want it so very very much. Only—p'raps—later on I might have wished I'd told out everything—like I've done now. Oh, dear—I'm so glad Jock isn't hurt. It's only Miss Baynes."
"Poor Miss Baynes is very badly hurt, I am afraid, and she is in great pain. It was most kind of her to let you speak."
"Was that wrong of me too? I didn't think I'd dare, if I was to put it off. And now I've got to have the black mark, I s'pose." Mousie sighed profoundly. "And I shan't ever have that dear little watch. I did want it to have a real chastened silver cover." Then she smiled. "But Jock was good. He wouldn't break none of his promises."
"Jock was an exceedingly silly little boy to make any such promises. And you were a still sillier little girl to get him to do so. Mousie, I think you might find something else to be sorry about, instead of a watch and a chased silver cover. All these months you have allowed another to be blamed and punished for what was chiefly your fault. Jock was wrong, but you were much more wrong. And all you seem to care about is the loss of a paltry prize."
Mousie opened her eyes widely. "Is it paltry?" she asked. "I wonder what 'paltry' means." Then she crept closer and threw her arms round her father.
"Certainly it is—paltry, poor, contemptible—in comparison with things that are so very much more important. I am disappointed in you, Mousie. I hoped better things of my little girl."
"Oh, Dad! Oh, Dad!" and Mousie clung to him vehemently. "But I'm sorry—I'm really and truly most awfully sorry, Dad darling. And I 'will' try," she whispered, quite subdued.
XX. SUCH GOOD NEWS
SUMMER holidays were in full swing, more than half over in fact. But it was too early yet to begin to think of their ending. Mousie and Jock were one day lounging comfortably on a small bench, close to the pond in Mrs. Baynes' garden, to which Jock had found his way on the very first morning after his arrival.
It had been surrounded then by white-robed grass and rocks, but now the rocks were clothed in an abundance of leaves and flowers, and the water glistened merrily in gay sunshine. Dim signs of future autumn might be detected in certain spots near, a yellow leaf or a reddish cluster, whispering softly of what lay ahead. But these tokens could at present be ignored.
The children had been racing about since breakfast till both were tired, and this was a delightful place for a rest.
Birds overhead twittered and talked, one to another, in their own pretty language, and bees were hard at work darting in and out of their favourite blossoms. Close to Mousie's elbow a fine large humble-bee, clothed in rich velvet, kept bouncing from one flower to another in search of what she needed, and Mousie leant over to watch these proceedings.
"You dear old fatty!" she murmured. "I do love humble-bees—don't you, Jock? Ever so much more than the littler sorts of bees. Tom says I oughtn't, 'cause it's the littler sorts that give us honey. But all the same I do. I just love the old dears."
Jock did not hear. He was thinking about his mother. Not sadly, for he was a happy boy ready to make the best of things, yet still with a great longing to see her again. It seemed such an immense time since she went away. And he had not the faintest idea of what was coming to him that very hour—coming fast and near. If he had guessed!—But he could not know.
Mousie, too, had been plunged in thought, till the plump humble-bee drew her attention. She had gone back in memory to the day when Miss Baynes broke her arm, and when she herself had at last spoken out bravely about her own wrong-doing.
And though she had lost the longed-for prize, she was glad—glad—to have confessed the truth. She knew now that it was far better to have lost a watch than to have gone on deceiving, with always that weight on her mind. Also, Jock and she by this time were real friends, much more real than before. Mousie, it is true, still commonly took the lead, and sometimes drew Jock into mischief, but she had not again tried deliberately to make him do what was forbidden and to hide it afterwards.
Judith Baynes was much better, though her arm was still of little use, for it had been severely twisted and strained as well as broken. She had borne with courage many weeks of great suffering, and she and Jock were on the happiest terms. He often wondered how it was that he had disliked her.
Mousie broke silence. "I say—what are you thinking about?"
"What are 'you'?" retorted Jock.
"I'm thinking what a dear boy you are."
"Fudge."
"It's true. You're the very dearest boy I ever knew." Mousie wore her middle-aged manner.
"Rot."
"It's no good you saying 'Rot.' You can't help being nice. And you can't help me loving you. You're just the very darlingest boy that ever was made. And I know, 'cause I've seen lots and lots of boys. And not one of them wasn't like you." Mousie's black eyes shone with a devouring affection. "You dear, sweet pet. And Mum says you're so pretty."
"I say—do shut up and don't talk such rubbish. Girls are pretty. Men aren't."
"P'raps when you're a man, you'll get ugly. You can't help being pretty now. And I do like pretty things."
"I'm not a 'thing.'"
"Well, you know what I mean. Jock, you do like me, don't you? And we're real friends—really and truly?"
"That's all right—of course."
"And you won't ever like anybody better than me?"
"Oh, bosh! I say—there's a woodpecker."
Mousie sprang into active life. "Where?—Where? Do tell me."
"On that tree—look. Creeping up the trunk."
Mousie fled in the direction indicated, and Jock—about to follow—stopped short. Miss Baynes was coming over the grass with a letter in her hand. And this was India Mail day.
"Only one for me," she said cheerfully.
Jock looked dismayed, for no week had yet gone by without a letter for himself, and this meant no small disappointment. Judith sat down by his side.
"No, not one for you this time. Your father and mother were both too busy to write, so I have come to tell you the news."
"Is Mummie quite well?"
"No, she has been ill, and not well for some weeks before that. And—there are changes of plan, Jock."
She paused for a moment, and Jock waited with a puzzled look.
"Your father's regiment has been ordered to another station, a good way off, not a very healthy place, I am sorry to say. And the doctor forbids your mother to go with him. So your father must not think of taking her there, and he has decided that the best thing for her to do is to come home, at all events for a year. Perhaps she may even stay till he has his next leave, and can come too. And by this time she is on her way, really on her way. Isn't that delightful? Her passage was taken before she wrote."
Jock sat as if dazed. He could hardly believe his own ears, the news was so utterly unexpected. When he tried to speak, the words somehow would not come, and he could only give a choked laugh. Aunt Judith put her arms round him.
"It is almost 'too' good news, is it not? But it is real, Jock. Won't we give her a welcome?"
Jock tried hard to say something, as Aunt Judith seemed waiting for an answer. "It's—it's—it's—" was all he could get out. Aunt Judith gave him a kiss.
"Now you are going to be all right; and we have got to make ready for her. No end of things to be done."
"Will she—come here?"
"Of course she will. This is her home and yours too, and she will stay as long as she likes. I don't know how soon she may arrive, exactly, but it cannot be long. When she wrote, she was leaving in a few days. She shall have the big spare-room next to yours. You will like that."
Jock nodded emphatically.
Judith was watching him. "I think you had better have a run in the garden," she said. "Suppose you find Mousie."
Jock gladly obeyed. He jumped up and fled, but not the way Mousie had gone.
Judith Baynes went to her mother. "Curious, sensitive little fellow he is," she said. "I thought he would simply shout for joy."
Grannie knew better. She understood the nature of Jock's devotion to his mother, and she knew that the joy had been too deep for shouting.
XXI. MOUSIE'S MOODS
JOCK'S one need at the moment was to be alone—quite alone that he might think over the wonderful news. Only to imagine that mother herself would soon be with him, her dear arms around him, her sweet face at his side—it seemed beyond belief. So often he had thought of this, as a thing to happen at some distant day, and now it was near, almost close. He fled to a tiny copse at the farther end of the kitchen-garden, thus far not wanting even Mousie. Presently he would have to tell her, but not yet.
Nobody was within sight, and Jock flung himself flat on the grass, with his face down on his arms. A big lump had risen in his throat, just because he felt so wildly happy.
This wouldn't do. What would Dad say, if he knew that his boy was crying, to think of his mother's return? No, not crying, Jock protested, as he sat up and laughed, not proper crying! It was only that everything seemed changed; everything in one moment had become so splendidly different, and his whole world was flooded with sunshine.
He rolled over on his back, and lay gazing up through slender branches and interlacing twigs at the blue sky beyond, and he kept repeating to himself—"Mummie is coming! Mummie is coming!" That said all.
But before long, though how long he had not the least notion, he found that he really must tell somebody. He could not any longer keep such glorious news to himself. He wanted someone else to be glad with him, someone to whom he could say how happy he was. He would find Mousie; and how pleased she would be! Almost as much as Jock himself. Not quite, of course, for that would be impossible.
In another instant he was tearing through the kitchen-garden and the shrubbery into Mrs. Baynes' small orchard, shouting at the pitch of his voice as he went, for now he had come to the stage when he simply had to shout. Keeping silence was out of the question.
On the low-curving bough of an old apple-tree Mousie was swinging lazily to and fro. She had grown into the habit of running freely, when so disposed, into the Baynes' grounds, and nobody seemed to object.
"Oh, Jock, come here," she cried, and he swung himself up by her side.
Then he said breathlessly—"What do you think is going to happen? Guess."
"What sort of thing? Something nice?"
"Tremenjously nice. As nice as—as nice as any sort of thing that's ever been. Guess."
Mousie pondered. "A pic-nic?"
"Pic-nic!" Jock's voice spoke disdain.
"I don't know what can be nicer. Somebody going to give you a watch?"
"Lots and lots and heaps better."
"You may as well tell me straight off."
"Mummie is coming home."
"What?" The word was snapped out like a pistol-shot.
"She's coming home—coming here. Dad is ordered off somewhere, and she mustn't go, so she's got to be at home for a whole year—p'raps more. 'Course she couldn't stop out there all alone. And she's coming! She's 'coming'!" Jock's face glowed, and Mousie's grew sombre.
"When?" curtly.
"Aunt Judith doesn't know—exactly. But it won't be long. It won't be long."
Mousie's black eyes, wide and solemn, were fixed steadily on Jock. "And—you're glad?"
"I should just think I was! Glad! I'm the very gladdest—gladdest—I've ever been in all my whole life." Jock spoke with vehemence. "Wouldn't you be glad if it was your mother? Aren't you glad now?"
"I'm not glad—not one scrap. I'm sorry. I—I—just hate it." Jock stared. "I do. I wish she wasn't coming. I wish she'd stop out there always. I don't want her here."
"Mousie! I say!"
"I don't. I'd rather have her stop away."
"Well, I think you're jolly unkind. I think you ought to be ever so pleased."
"I'm not, though. Not one tiny speck. I know what it'll be. You'll be chock full of her all the time. You'll think of nothing else but—'she'—every single minute. You won't care for being with me—not one ha'porth. I know you won't." A dry little sob broke out.
"You silly. Of course I shall care."
"You won't, though. I know better. You'll want to be with her every minute. And you won't want me."
Jock considered the question. Undoubtedly, when his mother arrived after their long parting, he would wish to be as much as possible with her. But Mousie's notions were absurd.
"Lots of people will want her. Grannie and Aunt Judith and everybody. I shan't have her all to myself—no such luck!"
"You'll want it anyhow. You won't 'want' anybody else. I know."
"You're a silly, Mousie. 'Course I shall have heaps of time for you too."
Mousie swung the bough to and fro. "You won't. And if you had, you wouldn't care. That's what I mind. When you've got her, you won't want me. And when you haven't got her—you'll be thinking about her—every single minute."
Jock was at a loss how to deal with this mood. He had not before come so sharply across the jealous side of Mousie.
"It would be ever so much jollier if you'd be glad too," he said. "It isn't—nice of you to take it like this. But when Mummie comes you'll see her, and then you'll be glad. Everybody likes my Mummie."
"I shan't. I don't mean to."
This was going too far. Jock felt that drastic treatment had become necessary. He slipped to the ground. "Oh, very well," he said loftily. "If you won't like my mother, I just won't like you neither. And it'll be all your fault."
Jock walked slowly away. He expected to be called back in a hurry, but no summons came. Once he turned and looked. Mousie still sat on the bough, swinging, swinging, and he knew from the determined set of her shoulders that she was not sorry. So he went on, leaving her to herself, and feeling rather sore. Mousie had failed him just when he wanted someone to share his gladness, and he was disappointed in his friend.
But Mousie was not sorry, not one scrap sorry, she declared to herself, as she clenched her hand and glared down on the ground. She wasn't sorry, and she wouldn't be sorry, and she didn't mean to be sorry, not for nothing nor nobody. And she didn't like Jock's mother, and she wasn't going to like Jock's mother—not ever nor ever. So there! Mousie jumped to the ground and walked off, singing at the top of her voice.
For two days this defiant mood lasted. Mousie kept away from Jock, and Jock, very much hurt, kept away from Mousie. Both felt sorely troubled. Mousie was extremely unhappy; and Jock would have been unhappy too, only, with such a joy ahead, this was not possible. But he hated not having Mousie to turn to.
At the end of forty-eight hours, Mousie could stand the state of things no longer. She was punishing herself more severely than she was punishing Jock. All at once she changed. Instead of avoiding him, she ran after him, not less but more than usual. Wherever he went, there went Mousie. She put on her sweetest smiles for him, she flew for whatever he wanted, she did all she could to please him—with one exception. The moment he spoke of his mother, her small face grew rigid, the big black eyes became hard, and she would stand like a stock, gazing at nothing.
"You 'are' a silly," he declared again and again when this happened.
But Mousie would not respond. He might call her what he chose.
The present mood proved obstinate. Generally she would come out of a "tantrum" fairly soon, and would be herself again. Not now, however. Day after day things remained the same; and Jock was driven to find in others the sympathy which Mousie refused.
Grown-up people around saw little of this. They were very busy making ready for the arrival of Mrs. Munro, and they were used to Mousie's varying moods. And for a while, Jock said nothing.
XXII. JOCK'S DELIGHT
"IT rained a lot this morning, Grannie."
"Yes. And it is cold for the time of year."
"I wish it wouldn't be cold. I wish it was nice and warm for Mummie."
Jock sat on the rug before the drawing-room fire. Though early autumn still, the weather had taken a sharp turn, becoming almost wintry—"bad for Mrs. Munro, coming from India," people said; and this rather troubled Jock. She was expected to arrive very soon.
Mousie that afternoon had been especially perverse, refusing to hear a word when he wanted to talk about the one subject. And at last he had left her, taking refuge with his Grannie.
"Do you think the ship is getting very very near now—almost quite close, Grannie?"
"I hope so, dear. Any day we may have a telegram."
"And then Aunt Judith will go off to meet her—and they'll come home. I do wish I could go too."
"But your mother said not. She would rather find you here. And it only means a few more hours."
"I would 'like' to go," sighed Jock.
"Suppose you hold this skein of wool for me. I want to wind it, and that would be a real help."
Jock was quite an adept at holding a skein. He twisted round so as to face Mrs. Baynes, and the firelight fell on her soft grey hair and gentle eyes. Jock watched with interest the lessening of the wool on his wrists, and the growth of the ball in Grannie's hands. From time to time he glanced up at a painting over the fireplace of a pretty child in white, nursing a kitten. He loved that picture, and often before he had asked as he asked now—"Was Mummie just like that?"
"Just exactly. She was the sweetest little pet ever seen, always so dear and loving. Yes—naughty sometimes, but so quick to be sorry."
"Mummie once told me she wasn't clever. Wasn't she? I thought she was awfully clever. And she said—she said—she was only clever at loving."
"That is true. I suppose one would not call her clever—if it means being sharp at lessons. Aunt Judith could always beat her there. But she certainly was 'clever at loving.' It just describes her. Even as a tiny child, she seemed to have such a fount of love and tenderness in her little heart—such sympathy for others. And it is the same now. You and I know—don't we?"
Jock nodded. "But Mousie doesn't know. She says she won't like Mummie."
"Why?"
"She says I shall always want to be with Mummie, and never with her."
"That is unkind of Mousie. She ought to be pleased for your sake. Of course you will be a good deal with Mummie, but it will not mean giving up Mousie."
"I told her, Grannie, and she won't listen."
"Never mind. It will come right in time. Are your arms tired?"
Grannie was unfastening another skein, but she stopped suddenly and sat still, listening. Sounds as of something arriving at the front door could be heard. The drawing-room windows did not look that way.
"A motor—" Grannie said very low. And the instant thought came that it might be her nephew, living several miles away. Had he heard ill news and come to tell her? The weather for three days had been very stormy, and she had lain awake at night, listening to the gale and thinking of Jock's mother out on the stormy sea.
"It's stopping here, Grannie." Jock jumped up.
He was so full of the thought of what this might mean that he did not notice a small peaky face just outside the nearer window, and nearly hidden by clustering creepers—peering in with troubled black eyes. He did not know that, when he left her, Mousie had followed him slowly at a distance, and had ensconced herself in the wet bushes, using the corner of the window as a peep-hole, and thus keeping watch over Jock. The bright firelight inside the room made everything there clear to anyone outside in twilight.
"Shall I go and see who it is?"
"One moment—wait—" said Grandma with an anxious face.
The front door was heard to open, and then followed a slight stir. The butler said something, after which another voice spoke—the sweetest voice in the world for those two listeners.
Grannie stood up, her face alight with joy, as the door was thrown open.
"Jock—do you hear—?"
But Jock was gone. He simply hurled himself the full length of the drawing-room into the arms of a slight figure, just coming in. One stifled cry broke from him, and then—silence. Nobody said a word while that clinging clasp lasted. Only, Grannie drew near, and put her arms round them both.
It really was Mummie herself, arriving thus without notice. She had not sent a telegram because she knew that would mean Aunt Judith going all the way to meet her. Kind friends on board had seen to her luggage, and had looked well after herself, which they could easily do, since they happened to be travelling by the same train. All this had to be explained, when the first silence was broken.
"Jock, my darling—how you have grown! And how well and bonny you look!"
Jock at first could only hold her in a tight clutch, as if fearing to lose her afresh. He was so radiantly glad that he could not speak. But when once he did start talking, it was a good while before he could stop.
XXIII. FRIENDS
AND the small figure, crouching outside the window, saw and understood. After gazing with greedy and troubled eyes at the lovely meeting, Mousie crept away with drooping head, alone and forgotten. She couldn't go home yet; she couldn't face them all, and hear the talk about Jock. She went as far as a little side-path, arched over with small trees, and there flung herself down in despair.
Jock was happy, and she was miserable. Jock had all he wanted, and she had nothing. Jock would never care to be with her again, and she would never be happy without him. He had his Mummie, and that meant everything.
So she lay and cried, till her poor little face was blistered and sore, and her eyes and nose were red, and her world was a dismal wilderness. She had not the least idea how time was passing, or whether she would be missed. That did not matter. Nothing mattered—except that she had lost Jock, and that it was the most dreadful thing that could happen.
Somebody was coming. She heard steps drawing near, and she hugged the ground more closely, lying on a strip of grass at one side, hoping to escape notice.
It so happened that "Mousie's Captain" was at home for a week's leave, and it also happened that he wanted a few words with Judith Baynes. This narrow path was the shortest cut by which he could reach the house. So, quick and light of step and softly whistling, he approached the spot where Mousie lay.
In the very dim light, he nearly stumbled over a slim thing sticking out from the grass border. Then he saw a queer little heap, and the thing which stuck out, he found to be a black-stockinged leg.
"Hallo. What's this? 'Mousie'—" he said in astonishment.
Mousie crouched resolutely lower, but her resistance broke as one lift placed her on her feet.
"Stand up, little one. You mustn't lie here. What is the matter?"
"I can't—can't—go home."
"Want to see Jock first—eh?"
"No—no—"
Mousie made herself as limp as a soaked rag, and she hung upon his grasp as if all the starch had been washed out of her. The Captain picked her up bodily, carried her to an old wooden summer-house not far off, where he placed her on the seat, and sat down by her side.
"Now—tell me what is wrong."
Mousie, very sore in spirit, was nevertheless conscious of a curious restful feeling, an odd certainty that one person at least understood. She had felt so horribly alone and outside of everything, that she had not known how to bear it.
"Come—tell me," he said again. "What is the trouble, child?"
"Jock—Jock—" came in a wail.
"Has Jock been unkind?"
"No—no. Only—'she'—she's come. And Jock—doesn't want—me—"
At once Captain Royle grasped the state of affairs.
"I see. Jock is busy with his mother—and just at this moment perhaps he doesn't want other people. Isn't it natural? You must be sensible, little Mousie. Don't make miseries out of nothing." But he put his hand on hers with a comforting clasp. "You are fond of Jock?"
"'Yes'—" sobbed Mousie.
"And he is very happy with his mother. You love him and he is your friend—and yet—you don't feel glad to see him happy! Why, you ought to be dancing with joy for his sake. I wonder what sort of love yours is."
"I want him—I want him—all to myself."
"I see—" the Captain said slowly again. "But we can't have our friends all to ourselves. We have to share our good things with other people. Think how horribly selfish we should grow, if we didn't."
"He won't want me—ever again."
"Of course he will want you. Jock is a fine little chap, not one to forsake his friends. If you and he are real friends, you must trust him."
A protesting shake of her shoulders came in reply.
The Captain changed his tone.
"Mousie, you have cried enough now, and you must stop. All this is absurd. You are a nice little girl, but you have one big fault—you want always to be first, always to have the most love, the most attention. And it won't do. Think—if you were in Jock's place, would you like to be treated so? You know you would not. And if you go on like this, you may end by driving Jock away altogether. But you are not going to be such a little goose. Now dry your eyes. You are coming with me, to see what Jock is doing."
Meanwhile Jock, indoors, was talking "nineteen to the dozen," pouring out all his news, all his interests, all about Mousie and the fun that he and she had together, far more than he could ever tell in his letters. And Mrs. Munro was saying how much she wanted to know his little friend, and how she meant to love Mousie. She had never seen her, for Mr. and Mrs. Moore had come to live in the place after her last visit to Mrs. Baynes.
Presently Mr. Moore himself came in, much surprised to learn from the butler that Mrs. Munro had already arrived. After a few words with her, he glanced round and said—"Is Mousie not here?"
No, Mousie was not there. Jock had seen her last in the early afternoon—"ever so long ago," he said. He had supposed that she was at home.
But she had not been at home since early dinner, and the family had taken for granted that she was with Jock. Mr. Moore seemed rather worried. "I must have a look round," he said. "She cannot be far off."
Jock jumped up. "Mayn't I come too?" he asked. He wondered if perhaps Mousie was fretting. "May I, Mummie?"
"Yes, do, dear. And bring her here."
Mr. Moore and Jock had not to search far. They were scarcely out of sight of the front door when they met Captain Royle coming along the drive, with a small dishevelled figure dragging by his side.
"Why—there she is," cried Jock.
And a sound of relief escaped his companion, for nobody ever quite knew what Mousie might be after next.
"I say—where 'have' you been? Come—come along. Mummie wants you. May she come?" Jock asked of Mr. Moore.
Mousie hung back in vain. A kindly shove from the Captain and a vigorous pull from Jock settled matters. Reluctant and disconsolate and in spite of herself, Mousie was hauled into the fire-lit drawing-room.
"I've brought her, Mum," shouted Jock, and his mother came forward.
Mousie stood motionless, staring downward, and drawing the tip of a muddy shoe along a line in the carpet. Then somebody said over her head—"So this is Jock's friend!" and the sweetness of the voice made Mousie long to glance up, only, pride forbade it.
"By no means a sensible Mouse to-day," Captain Royle remarked.
Mrs. Munro seemed to understand. She led the child to the fire, sat down, and took her into a motherly clasp.
Mousie still held herself with a stiff resistance, but this could not last. A soft kiss came on her forehead, and then she did venture on one glance—to see a face so wonderfully like Jock's that she simply had to give in. With one big final sob, Mousie flung both her thin arms round Mrs. Munro.
"Poor little girlie!" she heard in a murmur. "It is going to be all right now, Mousie dear. If you are my Jock's friend, you have to belong to me too—don't you see? And we shall all be happy together."
Mousie was conquered. That tender lovingness had driven the chill and loneliness out of her heart, and the bitter jealous feelings which had made her wretched were fading away like a wreath of smoke. In less than half-an-hour she was her own gay self again, chattering as fast as Jock, and ready to chime in with any amount of nonsense.
"And Jock—Jock—" she whispered eagerly out in the hall, when about to go home—"Jock, I do like her. I like her most awfully much. I thought I wouldn't, but I do."
"'Course you do. She's the very best Mummie in the whole world," declared Jock. "'Course you couldn't help liking her."