Part 5

Jock was silent. Aunt Judith seemed to be thinking. "Put your basket down for a few minutes. We have another two miles to walk before we get our tea. Are you tired?"

Jock indignantly repudiated the idea, but he was glad to fling himself flat with extended arms, and the aching in them speedily stopped. Silence followed, broken by Aunt Judith.

"Jock, you have borne your punishment well," she said, and he sat up. She went on in her quiet tone—"I have been watching you, and I have seen it. I think you have tried to be patient. And I have noticed something else—that you have spoken the truth. And if you say you will do a thing, you do try to do it. You have not disobeyed again—wilfully. Of course you have forgotten things sometimes, but that is different. I have been noticing carefully—all the while."

Jock's eyes were fixed on hers. He wondered what might be coming next.

"And I do feel now that you are to be trusted. I cannot help believing that there must have been some mistake that day—at least that things were more difficult for you than I knew. I want you to understand now that I do trust you, and do believe what you say—that I can depend on your word, even if things might seem to go against you."

The boy only said "Yes—" but his face glowed.

Aunt Judith bent over and gave him one of her quick kisses, not like those of Mummie or Grannie, but yet really kind.

"And now," she said briskly, "we have to get on. Are your arms rested?"

Jock was ready for anything, and supremely happy. He had seldom felt more happy. Dad would be so glad—if he knew what had gone before. But of course he did not know.

With two more short rests, they followed the path till, leading straight through the wood, it entered on open country beyond, on roads and fields with hedges and scattered trees.

But before they reached that boundary, Aunt Judith left the path, and led Jock to a sheltered spot, still among trees, where they found a tiny spring. Water came bubbling softly out of the ground, and ran away in a baby stream, and here they were to have their pic-nic tea. By this time they needed it.

Aunt Judith unpacked the basket, giving its contents to Jock, and he had the pleasure of arranging them on the grass. First he spread a newspaper to serve as a table-cloth, and neat square pieces of white paper to do for plates—being lighter to carry than real plates—and a teapot. Next, a packet of tea appeared, and another of sugar, and a bottle of milk. Also came bread-and-butter, and sandwiches and cakes and even jam-tarts. Jock surveyed them with great satisfaction. He was not a greedy boy, but tea in a wood was a rare event, and he was extremely hungry. He could not help wishing that Mousie might have shared his enjoyment.

Then the spirit-lamp had to be lighted, and the kettle filled with water from the spring.

Persuading the water to boil proved no easy matter. Every breath of moving air set the flame flickering, and kept the water cool. Aunt Judith at length crouched close on one side, and she made Jock on the other side hold up a newspaper for shelter. And at last, a rush of steam proclaimed success. The tea was made, and a second kettleful was put on to boil, and the two sat down to their feast.

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.

"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."