Part 4

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."

Jock pulled himself smartly to a sitting-posture—his breath coming brokenly still in half-sobs—and he looked up to meet a pair of the very kindest and brightest of blue eyes gazing down at him. He had a puzzled feeling that surely he had seen those eyes before, somewhere. The owner of the eyes seated himself on the piled-up rocks which surrounded the pretty fountain basin.

"What's the matter, old chap?" he asked in a frank, easy voice, almost as if he were a boy himself.

Jock caught his breath sharply.

"She—she—says—I've told a lie. And I haven't. I didn't. I don't. I never do."

The other was gravely studying Jock's reddened and tear-stained face. "No," he said, "I shouldn't think you were that sort of boy. I don't think you would tell a lie—knowingly. And I'm a pretty good judge, too."

Jock was a little comforted. "But she says I have," he repeated, deep resentment in the tone.

"Then I suppose she thinks so. Perhaps there is a mistake somewhere—and if so, the truth is bound to come out, sooner or later. I wouldn't mind too much. Tell me all about it. And if I can help—"

Jock looked doubtful.

"Too much of a stranger, am I? We don't know one another yet. But I should take you for an honest boy. Would you take me for an honest man?"

The two pairs of eyes, grey and blue, met in a long and questioning gaze. Neither went down before the other. Jock's face gradually lost some of its gloom, and a small dimple appeared in his cheek. How Jock's mother loved that dimple, and how Jock hated to be told of it, because somebody had once said in his hearing that it was—"pretty, but quite girlish."

"Suppose you tell me your name."

"I'm Jock Munro—and my Dad is a soldier."

"Why—so am I. And my name is Royle. I think you have seen my father."

Jock nodded. "Then—you're Mousie's Captain," he said promptly, and those blue eyes twinkled with fun.

"Really! I wasn't aware of her ownership. But Mousie and I are very good friends. Now, Jock, go ahead. What has it all been about?—And what have you been doing? There must be some cause for all this hullabaloo."

Jock considered gravely. "It was yesterday," he said at length. "And I can't tell you everything. I mustn't. I—went beyond bounds. And I—hadn't leave. And—I didn't ought to."

"No, certainly you ought not. A soldier's son—going out of bounds!"

Jock grew scarlet to the roots of his curly hair. "I—couldn't help it. I—had to."

"How was that? Were you dragged there by main force?"

"No. I'd promised. Somebody made me promise."

"Made you!"—in a curious tone.

"She—I mean, somebody—told me I was to."

"But no one could 'make' you promise against your will. Someone might try—might tease and plague and insist. That is not 'making.' You could always have said 'No.' Could you not?"

Jock hung his head. "I wonder whether, perhaps, you rather wanted to give that promise."

This brought a little nod.

"Ah, now we are getting to the root of the matter. You were asked to promise something which might mean wrong-doing—"

"But I didn't know that," interjected Jock.

"No? Had you found out that it certainly did not mean anything of the sort?"

"No," murmured Jock. "And I said—I said I would be sure not to ask no questions nor anything—and I'd just do exactly whatever she—I mean, somebody—wanted; and I'd go just wherever she—somebody—liked. And then—then I'd promised."

"And what next?"

"We went right out of bounds—ever so far." Jock's face kindled at the recollection. "I hadn't ever been there, you know. And we climbed a tree, and got along a big branch, right over the water. And then she—I mean, somebody—made me promise I wouldn't tell, 'cause it would get her punished."

"'Made' you again."

"I mean, she wanted it ever so. And of course I couldn't anyhow, could I?—it would have been telling tales. And then, when I said to Aunt Judith I couldn't help going out of bounds, she said it was a lie. She said I had told two lies. And—I hadn't! I—hadn't!"

The Captain's firm brown hand came kindly on Jock's shoulder.

"So many things you 'couldn't' do," he said slowly. "You couldn't help giving your first promise, and you couldn't break it; and you couldn't help going out of bounds, because you had promised. And you couldn't help giving a second promise, and you couldn't tell for fear of getting somebody else into trouble. One or two of those 'couldn'ts' were real, but not all of them."

"She needn't have said I'd gone and told lies. I hadn't."

"Not wilfully. But think a moment. When you told Aunt Judith that you 'couldn't help' going out of bounds—was that quite true?"

Jock looked up—indignant.

"Wait. Think a moment. Could you not have helped giving the first promise? You bound yourself—of your own free will. If you were bound, whose fault was it? Were you not to blame for what came after? Could you 'quite' truthfully say that you 'could not help it'?"

And Jock suddenly saw with clear eyes. There was no mistaking his distress. "And Dad said—Dad said—I'd never—never—" he whispered.

XIV. HOW TO TAKE THINGS

"JOCK, suppose you were an officer in the Army—" Jock looked up eagerly, for he meant to be, one day—"and suppose you were found fault with for something you could not help. You might get a real big rowing from your superior officer, when all the while you had not meant to do anything wrong. How would you take it? Would you fly into a rage?—Or would you say—'It wasn't me, sir, it was Smith?'—Or would you rush away and have a good cry?"

Jock laughed.

"Of course you would do nothing of the sort. You would just stand straight and still, and listen quietly, and then you would salute your officer and would bear the rowing without a word."

"'Would' I?"

"Undoubtedly. That is Army discipline. Don't you think that in this case, it is wiser for you just to take the consequences of what you have done—even though you did not mean to do wrongly?"

Jock nodded assent.

"That's right. Now—would you like to come and see my father? He expects you one day."

Jock sighed, for it sounded tempting. "I just oughtn't to be out at all," he murmured. "Aunt Judith said I was to stop in my room all day."

"Why didn't you?"

"I wanted to post my letter."

Which the Captain knew he had not posted, but he put no more questions. "I think you had better hurry back now, as fast as you can, and tell Aunt Judith why you came out. And then—take your punishment like a man."

"Will it be like that officer that got rowed?" Jock asked earnestly.

"It will. So—shake hands, and be off like lightning."

The warm grip of that strong hand put heart into the boy. He smiled and raced away, never slackening till close to Grannie's kitchen-garden. And there, unexpectedly, he banged straight into Mousie, seated alone and disconsolately on the ground.

Instantly Jock's mood changed, and dire resentment took possession of him. For at the bottom of all this trouble was Mousie. He stopped short—dead—and faced her, and Mousie gave him a pitiful little smile, and put her hand on his arm. Jock promptly shook it off.

"'Dear' Jock," the small maiden said wistfully.

"Oh, get out," retorted Jock. "You've had your way, and I've got to pay for it—that's all."

"Was Miss Baynes most awfully angry?"

Jock faced her with firmly shut lips.

"Was it all because of yesterday? I didn't mean to get you punished—truly I didn't."

"You've done it—anyhow."

"Jock—you didn't tell about me?"

"Shouldn't think you need ask that!"

"But you won't—you won't—will you?"

"There—get out. I've said I won't."

"Jock—you aren't angry with me?"

"Oh, get out," repeated Jock, with a move onward.

"I do love you so."

"Looks like it," uttered the aggrieved Jock.

"But I do—truly. And I won't ever do it again. And I'd tell—I would, Jock—if it wasn't just for that prize. Do you mind so very much, just this one time? I promise faithfully I'll never let you get blamed again—not for anything."

"I don't think 'your' promises are worth much."

"Oh, but they are. If only you'll forgive me this one time, and won't let out what I did—specially if you won't tell Captain Royle. 'Cause I know he wouldn't like me never any more."

"Oh, get along," was Jock's response, and he rushed away, refusing to see Mousie's face of entreaty.

This little scene had rubbed him all the wrong way, calling up his grievances and making more distasteful than before the idea of going to tell Aunt Judith. On first leaving Captain Royle, it had looked so easy, and now it was not easy at all. He remembered the things she had said to him, and he did not want to see her.

He went slowly through the back-garden, and reached the house. The passage within was empty, and nothing would be more easy than just to run up to his room, and perhaps then she would not need to know that he had left it at all. But—he remembered that he had to be a man, and he heard Aunt Judith's little cough in the morning-room. He opened the door.

"Jock—" she said.

"I've been out," he said in a hurry "And I know I oughtn't to. I wanted to post a letter to Mummy. And I didn't. And—I'm sorry."

"You ought to be. Go to your room at once."

Jock obeyed, and stood at his window, gazing out. Then he became aware that his arm was very stiff and painful. He had had so much to think about as to have paid it small attention thus far. So he pulled off his jacket, and unfastened the bandage which had slipped from its right place. Jock was regarding the bruised and discoloured patch with rueful eyes, when Aunt Judith came in.

"What have you done to yourself?" she asked.

"I—had a tumble."

"You must have the arm bathed. Give me that handkerchief."

Jock held it out, then snatched it back. He knew that in one corner were Mousie's initials, large and clear. It went hurriedly into his pocket.

"Give me that handkerchief, Jock."

"I—can't," Jock said desperately. "Please, Aunt Judith—I mustn't. It isn't mine."

Miss Baynes gave him one of her steady looks, and to his surprise she did not repeat the order. She went for some warm water and bathed the arm, tying it up afresh.

"That will soon be better, but you must take care not to knock it. Now mind, Jock—there must be no more of such doings—breaking rules, and refusing to answer questions, and worst of all, being untruthful. I am not going to say anything to your mother by this mail, because I do not want to give her pain without real need. But if anything of the kind happens again, she will have to know." Jock felt very glad that he had not posted his letter. "I thought you were a boy who could be trusted, and I am disappointed."

"Dad always said—" broke in Jock.

"Yes, your father did say so, and I am very sorry to find him mistaken." Jock swallowed something with difficulty. "I suppose you expect not to be punished, now you have told me. But—"

"No," Jock said resolutely.

Aunt Judith stood looking at him again.

"I might lock you in your room," she said slowly. "But this time I will not. You will spend the rest of the day there, and you will not come down this evening. To-morrow you will go to lessons as usual, but you will spend your play-hours in the garden, and not with the Moore children. I think, however, that your real punishment will be that for the present I cannot fully trust you."

Jock crimsoned, but she went on—

"I cannot be always sure that you are speaking the truth. I cannot feel certain that you will obey me when my back is turned. That is a sad state of things, and it makes me unhappy to have to say all this." Aunt Judith really did look unhappy. "But you have brought it on yourself. And it will rest now entirely with yourself to show me how soon you may be trusted."

She went out of the room, and Jock huddled in a corner of the window-seat feeling pretty well at an end of his courage. It was too horrid to be told that he could not be trusted. He felt as if he quite hated Aunt Judith and Mousie, and it did not comfort him even to think how Captain Royle had said that he must bear his punishment like a man. Jock was certain that no man could take this punishment nicely. No, not even an officer in His Majesty's Army.

Darkness was falling when the door-handle rattled gently, and Grannie slipped in, her soft silk gown swishing after a manner of its own.

"My poor little Jock!" was all she said.

And in a moment Jock was in her arms, clinging hard, with his face against her shoulder, yet still determined not to cry.

"Dear little Jock! My own little Jock," she whispered. "How did it come about, my pet?"

Jock's whole frame was heaving with the struggle to keep down his sobs, and he said nothing, only nestled more closely into that comforting clasp, and she fondled him lovingly.

"You won't do it again, will you? No, I know—I am sure you never meant to say what wasn't true; only there was some mistake, perhaps. But you won't again. And you will take care to keep within bounds, like a darling. And you won't worry poor Aunt Judith. Oh no, don't say that—" as Jock gulped out something about—"didn't care if she was worried." Mrs. Baynes stroked his hair. "You are such a kind little boy, I know you don't wish to worry anybody. And I am certain you won't disobey again. And then things will come right, and we shall all forget about to-day. And you will say your prayers presently, and ask to be forgiven—won't you? It wasn't all quite perfectly right, was it, my pet?"

Jock said "No—" But added—"'She' wasn't right neither. I think Aunt Judith ought to say 'her' prayers. She didn't ought to say I'd told a lie."

"It was very hard to bear, if you knew you had not—yes, of course, I see that. But things were just a little difficult, and you wouldn't explain—'couldn't'—was that it? And so she really did feel sure. But I do hope she may have made a mistake, and so things were not exactly as she thought. We all make mistakes sometimes, you know—you and I do, too. You must not go to bed feeling angry and bitter about her."

"P'raps I'd better stay up, Grannie," Jock quite seriously suggested.

"I don't think that would be a good plan. You would be so very tired. And it would be just as bad to sit up, feeling bitter and unforgiving, as to go to bed. The Bible tells us we are not to 'let the sun go down on our wrath'—even when it is a right kind of wrath. And the sun will soon be going down."

"I don't like Aunt Judith."

"But you have to like her, because she is Mummie's sister and my child. And because she wants so much to do what is best for our dear little Jock. Yes, she really does, Jock darling. So won't you try?" coaxed Grannie.

And how could Jock murmur anything but—"Yes"?

XV. APRIL SUNSHINE

IN the first week of April had come a spell of real summer weather, long before its time, of glorious sunshine and warmth. And the children in the schoolroom, waiting for Mr. Moore, did feel it rather hard to have to settle down again to lessons for the afternoon. Through the open window a chorus of birds' songs claimed attention. Yet, for a wonder, Mousie had brought out her slate and was frowning over rows of figures. For lessons lately had not gone too well, and she was growing anxious about the Conduct-prize.

Last summer and the summer before—in fact, ever since the Moores had come to live in Lethmere West—old Mr. Royle had offered to the children two or three prizes. The second and third were, as Mousie expressed it, "nothing particular," but the first was very particular, for any child who won it was allowed to choose what it should be. Mousie had clear notions as to what "she" would choose if this year she were the fortunate winner. She had set her heart on having a watch, a real little silver watch of her very own.

Mr. Moore, expected every moment, was rather late in making his appearance. Tom had opened a book, and Jock was stretching his limbs, and Hugh was idling close to the window. But Mousie, as already said, had her mind on "the prize."