Part 6

"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.