Part 3

Jock suddenly felt that he did want the "fun," and that he wanted to go very much—quite desperately. And if he gave this promise, then of course he must keep it. He always kept his promises. So that would settle the matter entirely. He wouldn't need to bother any more about what they were doing, or where they were going. He would only have to follow Mousie's lead.

All this flashed quickly through Jock's mind. A gentle voice, far down, did try to murmur something. It tried to say that perhaps things were not altogether right, and perhaps he had better wait and ask to know more first. But Jock did not want to hear that little voice, so he smothered it in a hurry. He did so want the "fun."

"All right—I promise," he said.

"You'll come just where I like, and you'll do just what I tell you, and you won't ask me any questions."

"I promise," Jock said in a hurry, afraid that he might hear again that gentle voice.

"Come along then. I've got Artie—all ready."

Artie, being so small a boy, was not allowed to be taken anywhere and everywhere even "within bounds" by the older children, without leave.

"Have you asked?" Jock began, and Mousie shot at him a needle-like glance of reminder. He had bound himself to put no questions, and he stopped helplessly.

Phœbe led the way to a large field behind the house, and there they found Artie, complacently waiting.

"I told him we'd come. This way."

She flung herself lightly over a stile; she seemed all arms and legs. Jock was active enough, but he could not rival Mousie. She seemed to have no weight. Together they hauled Artie over by main force, for he had no spring in him. Then they went through another meadow, and two smaller fields, to a rough common. By this time, as Jock knew, they were well outside "bounds."

"But, I say, Mousie," he objected; and she treated him to another needle-like glance. He dropped into silence. What else was he to say? It was difficult. He had given his word. What could he do?

It was perfectly clear to Jock himself what he "wanted" to do. He wanted with all his heart to see what Phœbe had promised to show him—to have the "fun."

And he went on. They followed a path through a copse, reaching a gate which opened into a wood. Jock had not yet been through this wood. He was to go "some day," when primroses would be in bloom, but it was not open to the public, and even the Moore children were not supposed to enter it without permission. Jock tried hard to think that Mousie must of course have got leave to come.

On and on they rambled, too fast for Artie, who had begun to flag. But Mousie, bent on carrying out her plan, did not seem to notice him.

After pressing onward for a time, they reached an opening among the trees, a wide space, grass-grown, closely fringed with bushes and firs. On the farther side lay a large pond, and it, too, had trees around, drooping over as if to look at their own reflections in the still water below.

"There! That's what I wanted to show Jock," announced Mousie in a tone of triumph. "Isn't it just—just—'loverly'?"

It really was "loverly," to use the funny word which Mousie often brought out, when excited. The sun shone, lending sparkles to the grass, and gay tints to the leafless boughs, and radiance to the water. A great, solid oak-trunk had large sloping branches, one of which hung far out over the pond. Suddenly Mousie raced to this tree, scrambled up its rugged trunk, and took her position on the overhanging bough. Then she began to wriggle along it, her slim black legs dangling on either side.

Mousie screamed with a half-fearsome delight at finding herself no longer over dry land. "It's—it's—bee-autiful," she cried. "I can see right down below—things moving. Oh, I say. Fishes."

"Oh, I say," echoed Jock. "Mousie, I'm coming too. I must come too."

"And me too—me too, Fee," cried Artie.

X. WAS IT WORTH WHILE?

"NO, no, not Artie. Not for anything," shrieked Mousie. "Stay where you are, Artie. You're too small—ever so much too small. I don't believe Jock can do it either."

Jock not do what a girl could do! She could not have said anything more certain to bring him after her. "Of course I can," he shouted.

"Well, mind you take care. Stay where you are, Artie boy."

Artie obeyed, glad to rest his fat little legs, and Jock scrambled with some difficulty up the rough and sloping trunk. A few seconds more and he too sat astride the big low-curving bough. Then, following Mousie's lead, he wriggled along it, till they both were over the water, the bough swaying to and fro.

"Oh-h-h—" Jock breathed in a tone, half of rapture, half of uneasiness. "Oh—I say—Mousie—I say—"

"Hold tight. Isn't it fun? Let's make it swing more."

"Mousie—don't." Jock clutched the bough.

"Well—I won't. Dad said it was ever so deep just here. Yes, he brought us—one day. And he said—" Mousie's voice trailed into silence.

"Did he say you—wasn't to come?"

"Yes—'course he did." Mousie's tone was defiant. "And I wanted to come—most frightfully. So we're here. And I'm glad. I'm most awfully glad. It's such fun."

"You didn't ask if we might?"

"No, I didn't ask—nothing nor nobody. I knew they'd all say No. And I didn't want to have a No. I wanted to bring you, and I just—went and did it. So there!"

Jock was thinking soberly. "I say—hadn't we better go back?"

"What for? We've done it now. I don't mind—do you? It's just—lovely here." Something in the tone showed that Mousie was not quite happy. Stolen waters may be sweet, but they are apt to turn sour, and Phœbe, perhaps, had begun to taste the sourness.

Jock said no more, but he started to wriggle backward towards the edge of the pond, and he found this feat not so easy as the wriggling forward had been, especially when Phœbe began to follow him.

"Hold tight," she cried again. "Don't let go, whatever you do."

But her movements set the bough swinging again, and just as Jock reached the edge of the water, he overbalanced, and went down on the ground with a sharp thud, his right arm striking a projecting root.

Phœbe reached the same spot with all speed, slid down the tree, and ran to his side.

Jock was pulling himself up, with a rather white and bewildered look. "It—doesn't matter," he said.

"You aren't hurt, are you? What 'did' make you fall? Jock—you're not going to cry?"

Jock shook his head. "My arm hurts," he said.

"Pull off your coat, and let's see." The womanly side of Mousie came to the fore, and she knelt beside him, helping to bare his arm. An "Oh" of pity followed, at the sight of blood oozing from a red patch. "Oh, I'm so sorry. You poor, dear pet."

"It doesn't matter," repeated Jock manfully, though he winced at her touch.

"I'm sure it hurts frightfully." Mousie kissed the top of his head, and he endured this, since no one was at hand to see. "Never mind. I'll do it up, and it'll soon get all right. Here's my hanky—it's almost quite clean, and—I'll just dip it in the water. There—that's right." Deftly enough for so small a maiden, she folded the wet handkerchief round his arm, and tied the corners together.

"It doesn't hurt so much now, does it? I s'pose we'd better go home." Mousie gazed blankly round. "Why—where's Artie?"

Jock, too, stared about. No Artie was to be seen.

"Artie—Artie—" called Mousie in high shrill tones. "Ar-tie. We're going home. Come along, Artie!"

Jock joined in with the summons. But they called in vain. No answer came. The wood was very still. Artie had completely vanished.

XI. "WHERE, AND OH WHERE?"

THE two children stared hard, each at the other, blank dismay in both their faces.

"He can't have got far," Jock sensibly observed. "I shouldn't wonder if he thought he'd go home. And we'll find him there, all right."

"Oh no, no, we shan't. I know we shan't."

"Why not?"

"He couldn't. He doesn't know the way. He's lost, quite lost. And p'raps we'll never find him again," sobbed Mousie. "And it's all my fault—every bit my fault."

Jock thoughtfully offered his own pocket-handkerchief, which—like the one which encircled his arm—was "almost quite clean." She accepted the loan, but wept on. "I wouldn't cry if I was you," Jock suggested. "It's no good. He's got to be found."

"But we don't know where he is."

"He hasn't gone far. Why—he couldn't, in such a scrap of time. Where does this path go?"

"Oh, on and on in the wood. And it's a most awfully big wood—there's miles and miles. Dad said so. He said—anybody might get lost in it."

"Well, come along. I'm sure Artie hasn't run miles." Jock felt himself all at once the man in charge, able to take the lead. "Come."

Hand in hand they followed the path, skirting the pond, and then plunged deep among tall forest trees. As they went, they again and again raised the call of—"Artie!—Artie!"—but with no result. It seemed to them both that they had walked an immense distance, when Jock at length called a halt!

"I say—he's never come all this way. He couldn't. Let's go back, and see if he's at the pond, waiting for us."

Despondingly Mousie agreed, and they trudged back, to find themselves close to the pond much sooner than they expected. But no Artie appeared. The two stood, a forlorn little couple, wondering what on earth was to be done. What "could" have become of Artie?

Mousie's small face had grown white and peaked, and her eyes had black shades under them. She dropped down on the grass, murmuring hopelessly—"I'm so tired. I can't walk any more. And Artie is quite—quite—lost. And we'll never see him again. And by-and-by it'll be dark—and I'm so hungry—and Artie will starve. And we'll starve too. And we'll be like the Babes in the Wood. You won't mind, will you, Jock darling?"

"Jock darling" felt that he would mind it very much indeed. He was not at all disposed for such a dismal ending to their half-holiday.

"Nonsense, Mousie," he said. "Don't be such a silly. We've got to go home, and tell them, and then they'll come and find Artie."

"I can't. Oh, I couldn't—possibly. I never could do that. They'd be so angry."

"Well—and if they are—what then? If we can't find him, you've just got to tell, you know. And we've got to make haste."

Mousie shook a despairing head. She was crouching in a little heap on the ground, a picture of hopelessness, her small hands propping up her little pointed chin, as she gazed blankly around.

"I couldn't possibly tell," she wailed. "And you can't possibly go home and tell about me, Jock, because that would be so mean—wouldn't it? And you promised, too. I don't see how we can be like the Babes in the Wood—'cause there's no blackberries. D'you think the birds would really and truly come and cover us up? It would take such a lot of leaves."

Jock was about to say again—"Don't be such a goose—" when his eyes were caught by a tiny streak of scarlet, which certainly did not belong to grass or trees. It came through some thin underwood. And with a startled "I say!" Jock rushed thither. Mousie followed.

Behind a clump of bushes, reposing peacefully in a small hollow, they found a plump and round-faced little boy, sound asleep, nestling close to a big tree-root, which one fat arm embraced.

"Artie!" cried the enraptured Phœbe, and she went down by his side, hugging and kissing with her usual vehemence. "Oh, you darling—how could you? And never to hear all our shouting. Jock, isn't he funny? Wake up, wake up, Artie boy! Oh, you dear, silly old thing!"

Mousie went into fits of laughter as the sleeper slowly opened his eyes and sat up, drowsy and bewildered still. He looked vaguely round, and yawned.

"What did make you come here?" Mousie demanded.

Artie smiled his blandest. "I dunno. 'Cause I'd got a leg-ache."

"You'd no business to do it. You gave us such a fright—didn't he, Jock? And you mustn't have any more leg-ache. We've got to hurry home now, as fast as ever we can. And—mind, Artie—you needn't say anything to anybody about us coming here. Not unless you're asked outright."

"Needn't I?"

"Not unless you want to get Sis punished. You don't want that, do you?"

Artie smiled still more broadly.

"'Course I don't."

"Well, then, you can just say we've had lots of fun, playing about. That's quite perfectly true, and you needn't say any more. If we get back in time for tea, we shan't be asked, most likely. Everybody will only just think we've been in the fields."

Mousie, of course, knew she was doing wrongly. She knew she had no business to lead her little brother into deceit. But she resolutely turned her mind from this side of the question, as she pulled him up and they set off at a brisk pace homeward. Jock on one side and Mousie on the other side helped Artie's slower movements. Once Mousie, who kept silence most of the way, looked anxiously at Jock, and said—

"You won't tell?"

"No," came promptly.

"If you do, I shall get a black conduct-mark. And it will be my very first this year. And I've tried so awfully hard not to have one. I do want so awfully much to get Mr. Royle's prize in June. And I shouldn't have a chance—not one wee-est little scrap of a chance. I don't want the second-best prize. I want the best. Do—do—promise faithfully you won't tell. Please, dear, darling Jock."

"I've said I won't." Jock spoke gruffly, for he saw difficulties ahead. "All the same, you might have told me what you meant to do, not got me to go like this. It wasn't fair."

"Why, you wanted it every bit as much as me—you know you did."

"Yes, I daresay—after you'd made me want. I didn't before. And you never said one word about not getting leave—nor going out of bounds—not one word."

"You might have guessed," retorted Mousie, nose in air. "If I'd got leave, of course I wouldn't have had to make you promise. And—that wouldn't have been any fun—either."

Jock walked sturdily on in silence, and Mousie studied his looks with troubled eyes.

"I don't think you'd got any right—" he said at length.

"But you'll forgive me, Jock darling—won't you? And you'll belong to me—just the same—won't you?"

"I—dunno. I'll—see."

The corners of Mousie's mouth went down in dismal curves, but Jock would discuss the question no further.

By dint of racing the small boy out of breath and off his legs, they arrived in good time. The bell which summoned them to tea had not begun to sound when Mousie and Artie reached their back-garden, and Jock quitted them there, tearing at his best pace for home.

Aunt Judith had been away all the afternoon, and no one had missed him. No particular questions were asked as to what he had done, but Jock could not feel happy. He had never been used to hide things from his mother, and it did not seem right now. He was at a loss what to do.

XII. JOCK IN TROUBLE

NEXT morning Jock went as usual to the Moores' for his lessons, and came back as usual to early dinner. It was an unwontedly silent meal. Mrs. Baynes looked sad, and more than once Jock met Aunt Judith's eyes fixed steadily upon him, as if she were trying to make out his thoughts.

When the meal was over, he expected to have an hour in which to amuse himself. He was about to rush off, that he might join the other children, but Aunt Judith stopped him.

"Wait, Jock. I want a few words with you. Come with me."

She took him away from Grannie into the morning-room where she sat down, and made him stand just in front. Then she said slowly—"Jock—have you something to say to me?"

Jock looked at her in surprise. The next moment he began to understand.

"Have you anything to say—about yesterday afternoon?"

Jock's lips went tightly together.

"I think you have. Tell me—where did you go, and who was with you?"

A pause followed. Jock gazed steadily at her; and in his mind, he kept repeating—"I mustn't say anything. I mustn't say anything—" as if he were conning a lesson.

"Were you within bounds all the afternoon?"

"No," came at once. It was so natural to the boy to speak out.

"Where did you go? Jock, I insist on knowing. What made you disobey?"

"I—couldn't help it."

"Nonsense."

"I couldn't help it, Aunt Judith. I—had to go."

"Jock, you are telling me a lie."

Jock turned crimson. That made him angry as hardly anything else could have done. He was in the main a sweet-tempered boy, but he could lose his temper.

"I'm not. I'm not telling a lie," he cried vehemently. "I never do."

"I don't know what you may have done in the past. You are certainly now telling me a deliberate untruth. 'Had to go!' 'Couldn't help it!' A boy of your age. Of course you could help it."

Jock shook an indignant head. Words failed him.

"You gave me your promise that you would never go beyond bounds, and you said I might depend on your word."

"I didn't. I didn't," cried the boy.

"You did not—what?"

"I didn't promise for always. I thought you meant—just that first day. I didn't 'mean' to go beyond bounds—but—it wasn't a promise for always."

"That is another untruth," Aunt Judith said.

Jock was shaking with passionate resentment. "It isn't—it isn't," he cried. "I don't ever tell stories. Dad and Mummie know I don't. Dad always said—"

"That will do. I don't wish to hear any more. I happen to know that you went over the Common on the way to the wood. How much farther I cannot tell. And somebody was with you—no doubt one of the Moore children. I have no concern with what they do, but I do insist on obedience from you. Have you anything more now to tell me?"

Jock's lips were glued together, and his eyes had grown dark with passion.

Aunt Judith waited for a full minute. Then, she said—"I am very much disappointed in you. I took you for a truthful boy, and now you are telling me one falsehood after another. You will not go to Mr. Moore to-day. I shall explain that I am keeping you in. Go upstairs, and stay there—either till you choose to confess frankly all you have been doing, or else till night. I expect to hear where you went, and who was with you. If this were not the first time that I have found you out in direct disobedience, as well as in untruth, I would punish you more severely. As it is, you must spend the rest of the day in your room, unless you resolve to speak out. After that—I must consider."

Jock went without a word, his heart beating heavily. Never before in his life had his word been doubted. It had always been enough for him to say—"Yes, I did," or "No, I didn't,"—and he was at once believed. And now—now—to be accused of having told more than one bare-faced untruth, and of having deliberately broken his promise—he did not know how to bear it.

Sullenly, he sat down by the window in his pretty little room, feeling heart-sick and wretched. Not to be trusted! Not to be believed! Brought up as he had been to look on a promise as sacred, as never to be broken, this was the hardest thing that could have come to him, and perhaps not less hard because, deep down in his heart, Jock knew that he had brought it upon himself by his folly in letting Mousie lead him blindfold into mischief.

But even if he had not assured Mousie that he would not tell tales—could he have done otherwise? Could he have saved himself from blame by bringing disgrace on a girl? Dad would never have wished that. So in any case things must have gone wrong, because Aunt Judith would have asked questions which he could not answer. So argued Jock to himself, and he would not listen to a soft voice which asked—"But why did you go at all?"

And Grannie would believe what Aunt Judith told her. This was a real trouble, for the boy dearly loved his gentle Grannie. And they would write and tell Mummie—would tell her that her boy had broken his word.

The thought overwhelmed him. He did not know how to face it. Suddenly he recollected that to-morrow was the day for letters to be posted to India, and that they were always sent off the evening before. Aunt Judith would be writing that very afternoon. Jock himself had a letter in hand to his mother.

He would finish it now, this minute, and would post it himself. Before his mother went, she had given to him a supply of envelopes ready stamped and addressed, so there was no difficulty.

In a tearing hurry he got out his partly-written sheet, and sat down at the small writing-table. His pen scratched vehemently over the last page.

"Mummie dear, Ive got to tell you something. Aunt Judith is so horrid. She says Ive told a lie and I havent, I never do and Im so miseble I dont know how to bear it. I do do wish youd come home, darling Mummie, I do want you so awfully much, please, please, do come back to your own

"JOCK."

Then he folded the sheet in haste and put it into one of the addressed envelopes, which he stuck fast. He seized his cap, and his hand was on the door-handle—when he stopped. He had been ordered to stay in this room all day.

But he couldn't—he couldn't—and he wouldn't. The letter had to go. If not, Mummie might believe Aunt Judith, and that would be too dreadful. And since Aunt Judith refused to believe what he said—what did things matter? He might just as well not try to be good. The letter anyhow had to go.

So he slipped out, shut the door behind him, and fled down the back-stairs, meeting no one by the way. Then out into the back-garden, and thence through a field, not to the village Post-office, where he could not fail to be noticed, but away to a small red Post-box, put up for the convenience of the Great House people, close to a gate leading into the grounds.

Pelting along at full speed, Jock was almost there, when, like a flash, another thought came.

He seemed all at once to be at home, and to hear Jane's voice saying, as so often she had said—"Now, Master Jock, do think of your mother, and don't you go and worry her. She's so easy tired, you know."

Would this letter of his "worry" her? Jock could not doubt that it would. She was so soon grieved and troubled by anything that made other people unhappy, more especially her own boy. And if it would—how could he send it off? And yet, if he did not send it, how could he endure to have Aunt Judith writing such things as she would say?

Jock went more and more slowly, till he reached the little red box. He stood still then, and stared hard at it.

Should he—or should he not—drop in the envelope? He took it out of his pocket, gazed at it, held it to the slit, almost let go—and again he heard Jane's warning words—"Don't you worry her!" And a little voice in his own heart joined in—"Don't—oh, don't."

"Oh, Mummie!" Jock gasped under his breath.

He thrust the letter into his pocket and burst through the gate, careless where he might be going, only with a wild longing to rush away from everything and everybody. He was out of bounds again, but he entirely lost sight of this fact, as he fled along a narrow path, on and on, till he reached an open space, surrounded by bushes, and having at its centre a fountain, from which a thin stream of water spouted gently upwards.

There Jock stood still, breathing hard. He was quite alone. Nobody would see or hear. So he flung himself flat on the grass and burst into a flood of tears. He had reached the depth of despair, and could see no light anywhere.

XIII. MOUSIE'S CAPTAIN

JOCK had no idea that he was not alone. He had been too full of his own thoughts to notice someone standing near the little post-box, almost behind him. And when he thrust the letter into his pocket and fled frantically into the Great House grounds, he did not dream that somebody followed after, arriving at the spot not three seconds later. Jock went fast, but his pursuer kept pace with him.

Then, as Jock lay sobbing helplessly on the ground, this same Somebody stood looking at him, and murmuring—"Poor little beggar."

A good cry once in a while does some people good—does even a boy good, if he feels sure that nobody sees. So Somebody waited patiently. But at length a kind hand came on Jock's shoulder, and a kind voice said—"Come, my boy—what is wrong? Perhaps we can put it right."