Part 6

He knew what he wanted to do. He wanted, most desperately, to rush away, right off, wildly on and on till he could find somebody—just somebody to take care of him and of poor Aunt Judith. He wanted, desperately, to get out of this dark little valley, with its tall silent trees standing up in a solemn fringe round the upper edges, and the rugged path down which he had clambered, right away from the dismal loneliness and silence, away from the terrified thumping of his own heart.

If he rushed on along the path, through the Combe, and out on the farther side, he would come to a high road, where it would not be nearly so dark, and then he might run fast—oh, ever so fast!—till he came to somebody, or to the next village. Plenty of people there.

That was what he craved, more than words can say. He simply could not stay here—he could not. He had to find somebody; it must, must, be done. Under this overwhelming impulse, Jock started off and ran as hard as his shaking knees would carry him along the path—but only for a little way. He went more slowly—and then he stopped.

It was the thought of leaving Aunt Judith all alone which stayed those eager feet. If she was not killed—if she was only hurt—how could he leave her thus by herself in the dismal little Combe, with no one to help her, no one to say a word? Could he do it? Would Dad like him to do it?

Slowly he turned and came back, and stood as before gazing on the white face.

"Aunt Judith," he said imploringly. "Oh, Aunt Judith, do speak—please, please, do speak."

"Is that Jock?" a faint voice asked, and he saw that her eyes were open. "Jock, what has happened?"

"You tumbled down—all the way down. Do please get up."

Aunt Judith's right hand made a slow groping movement in his direction. "Here, dear, come close. Are you frightened? Poor little boy. I can't think how I could do—such a silly thing."

Jock crept closer, and the touch of her hand did him good, though it was a very cold touch. Her fingers were like ice. But it took away the feeling of being all alone, so far from everybody.

"Don't mind, dear," she said at the sound of a sob. "I shall be better soon. We must—wait. Don't be frightened—if I-I feel rather like—it's only—faintness—"

Her voice trailed weakly off, and she again lay with closed eyes. But at least she was not killed. And Jock had more than once seen his mother faint away and come to again, so he was less alarmed than he might have been. If only the place were not quite so dark and forsaken!

He remembered how Jane used to bring the bottle of smelling-salts to his mother. But he had no smelling-salts here. There was nothing to be done but to wait, and waiting is often harder than doing.

Crouching down close to Aunt Judith, he tried hard to be brave. He did wonder what was to happen, and how she was ever to get home. If she could not walk, would he have to spend the whole night with her here? Jock's heart went down into his shoes at the thought. It was so terribly still; no sound broke the silence, except a faint rustle of leaves as the breeze crept past.

Then came another sound, a distant soft murmur of church bells, drifting thither from a village not far off. Had the wind set the other way, Jock could not have heard that gentle murmur. And the village bell-ringers, going through their weekly practice, never dreamt of the comfort which they were sending to a forlorn little boy in the Combe.

Somehow, those sweet sounds took Jock back in a moment to his home, and he was with his mother again. He heard once more her soft voice, whispering to him about that "Best Friend" Who would always, always, be with him, ready to help.

Jock gazed wonderingly around. Was that "Best Friend" really there, down in the Combe with him and Aunt Judith in their trouble? The very thought of that wonderful Presence brought comfort. He tried to say a little prayer, and all he could manage was—

"Please—O please—"

But it meant everything.

"Jock, have I fainted again? This won't do. We must think—If I could get up—"

"Mayn't I help you?"

"No—wait—I can't bear a touch. My arm—" She made a slight effort to change her position, but stopped instantly. "I—can't—" Then, faintly—"You must not stay here. Could you find your way—and ask—help—?" The voice died away.

Then, suddenly, a shout came from above. "Hallo. Anything wrong down there?"

Jock knew the voice and a wild rush of joy and relief thrilled through him. "Oh, please come," he cried. "Please do! Aunt Judith has had a tumble."

"All right. I'm coming."

Captain Royle made nothing of the steep path. He descended at a swinging pace, as easily as if it had been a level road. In a trice he was bending over the prostrate figure, while Jock poured out the tale of their misfortunes. Aunt Judith, coming to again, let him tell it his own way, but added—"And Jock has stayed with me all the time. He would not leave me."

Captain Royle turned his torch on Jock, and gave him the brightest smile the boy had ever seen. "Shake hands, Jock," he said. "You behaved like a man, and I'm proud of you."

Jock's delight can be imagined.

Very tenderly the Captain lifted Aunt Judith, so as to set free the arm on which she lay.

She bore it without a sound. But when he with the utmost gentleness felt the arm itself, she again went promptly off into unconsciousness.

"H'm—a bad business," he said.

"Is she dreadfully hurt?" asked Jock.

"Broken arm. It's a mercy I came this way."

"Can she walk home?"

"Doesn't look like it. I must carry her out of the Combe. Once on the road, we shall find someone who can go ahead, and send a cab or taxi to meet us. But first I must tie the arm in an easier position." The Captain was pulling off his neckcloth as he spoke.

XIX. MOUSIE'S CONSCIENCE

FOR Mousie it had not been a happy afternoon. Her conscience was wide awake and troublesome. It had been saying many things during past weeks, which she did not wish to hear.

Mousie, like everybody else, had that quiet little inward voice, which has been implanted in each one of us, to remind us of things that ought to be done, and to call us to order when we are doing things that we ought not to do. But she had so often refused to listen, that her conscience had been slipping farther and farther into back corners of her mind. Lately, however, it had roused up again, and had given her an uncomfortable time. After weeks of feeling quite happy, and of being quite sure of the prize on which her heart was set, and quite certain that it really did not matter at all about Jock's disgrace—all at once uneasiness had set in. And now a whole rush of fears and misgivings had her in their grip. Do what she would, she could not shake herself free.

She meant still to say nothing. She meant still to win the prize. She meant still to possess a silver watch. But the joy had gone out of it all. And she wanted—oh, how she wanted!—to feel that she had not wronged Jock, had not deceived everybody, had not done as she did do all those weeks and weeks ago.

So long since! But that made no difference. The deed lay in the past and could not be undone. She had led Jock astray, had made him disobedient, had got him to give wrong promises, had refused to clear him at her own cost. She had acted untruly and meanly, and she knew it.

Especially at night these recollections troubled her. For the little voice within kept asking—"What is the use of saying your prayers over and over again, if you will keep on in what is wrong? What is the use, if you are determined not to tell?"

And thus far she was still determined. She would try to put away the thought, and would say her prayers very hard, but it would not do. Mousie knew that it would not do. No amount of hard praying could make up for going on still in wrong-doing.

But it would soon be done, she told herself. A very little while, and the prizes would be given. All the children would go to the Great House for tea and games in the garden, and Mr. and Mrs. Moore and Mrs. and Miss Baynes would be there also. Tom was pretty sure to get a prize, for he managed never to have a black mark. But others were not so hopeful.

Again and again Mousie pictured the scene. She would see kind old Mr. Royle smiling on them all, and taking her hand, and saying—"Well, my little girl, and what is it that you want most of all?" And she could hear her own voice replying—"Oh, please—if it isn't too expensive—I do want a real little silver watch of my own." And she knew that he would say—"Too expensive! Bosh. Of course you shall have it."

And when all that was over, and the silver watch was in her possession, she would begin to be quite perfectly good, and would never do anything wrong again. Perhaps some day, long afterwards, she would explain; and Jock and everybody would forgive her.

But long afterwards and far ahead would not do. It was now—now—that she knew she ought to speak, not by-and-by. "But I can't—I can't—I won't—" Mousie cried in her heart. "I do want that little watch so awfully much. I simply—can't."

This afternoon she was especially down-hearted, for Jock was away, and Tom and Hugh had disappeared, and she had no playmate.

At tea-time they were all together, and she heard that the walkers had not yet returned. Heavy rain had come on, but by-and-by it stopped. And Mousie crept away to station herself in the lane behind the churchyard, where she knew that Miss Baynes and Jock must pass on their way back, whether they returned by the same way that they went or followed the longer road. She would see them and would have a word with Jock.

It was a long wait. She had settled herself in a sheltered nook, close to the wall of the churchyard, and one quarter of an hour after another slipped by, and still they did not come. Patiently she sat there, long past sundown; and grey shadows began, and twilight deepened into darkness. She knew she ought to go indoors, for it must be near if not past her bed-time. Yet she stayed.

Stars were peeping out fast, one after another. Nobody came this way. But Miss Baynes and Jock would have to come, unless they made a needless round through another part of the village—which they would not think of doing, at the end of such a long walk.

Tom appeared unexpectedly. She knew it was Tom, though only able to make out a dim figure. He jumped the wall, landing within two yards of her.

"Tom—they haven't got back."

"Hallo—what are you after?"

"I'm waiting to see Jock. They haven't come back yet."

"No—nobody knows why, so Dad and Gardener have gone to meet them—both ways. You'd better go in."

"Oh, I can't. I do want to see Jock first—please, Tom."

"Well, I don't suppose it matters. The whole place is in a stew. I don't suppose anything is wrong, really. We'll wait."

They did wait, but in vain, and Tom soon went off, losing patience. Mousie remained in her sheltered corner. She was making up her mind that something dreadful had happened. Perhaps Jock had been killed, and she would never, never be able to tell him how sorry she was. What if he had gone again on that big bough, and had fallen into the water, and if Miss Baynes, trying to help him, had gone in too, and both had been drowned? And all her life long Mousie would know how unkindly she had treated him, and she would never be able to set things right. What good would a silver watch be to her then?

Mousie's tears rained at the thought.

"Oh, Jock—Oh, Jock darling," she whispered pitifully, and her little bony hands were wrung together, and the little peaked face was very sad in the starlight.

Suddenly a welcome sound of wheels brought Mousie with a leap to her feet. The old village fly drove slowly up, stopping at the churchyard gate; and Mr. Moore came down from the box, for he had met them and had been given a lift. Then an excited child flung herself forward, thrusting into the open window a pale little face.

"Oh, Jock—is Jock here?" she cried. "Oh—is it Miss Baynes? Please, please, I want to tell you something. It was all my fault that day—not Jock's. I made him go, and I ought to have told, and he oughtn't to have been punished."

"Mousie, come away." Mr. Moore was drawing her back, while Mousie clung frantically to the window.

But Miss Baynes' voice said clearly—

"No—let her speak. I would rather hear."

"Another time," Mr. Moore urged.

But she repeated—"Let her speak, please."

"It was all—all—me," cried Mousie. "I made him promise not to tell, and I wouldn't let him. And 'I' ought to have the black mark—not Jock. It was every bit me."

"That will do," Mr. Moore said firmly. "You must go home, Miss Baynes. This is bad for you."

"But I am glad Phœbe has spoken," Miss Baynes said. And in her heart she was glad also that she had talked so kindly to Jock that day, and had told him that she could fully trust him.

Jock had no chance of saying a word, though he too was very glad; for this meant the clearing away of the last remains of the cloud which had hung over him.

The fly drove on, and Mr. Moore led Mousie quietly home into his study. There he shut the door, sat down, and drew the child to his side.

Mousie hid her face on his shoulder, half wondering why she had spoken out, yet pleased to have done so. A word or two from her father brought out the whole tale; and Mousie, once started, shirked nothing. She made no excuses for herself, but seemed anxious only to clear Jock. She did not even hide the fact that she had persuaded Artie to keep her secret.

"Mousie—you!—the elder sister—to lead your little brother into deceit!"

"It was horribly disgusting of me, wasn't it, Dad?" By this time Mousie had begun to look up in his face, almost cheerfully, for hers was a cork-like nature, never very long depressed. "But, Dad dear, if only you did know—that day I just felt as if I 'had' to do things. I truly couldn't help it—truly I couldn't. You don't know what it's like, 'cause you're grown-up and so you're always good."

"Don't I know, Mousie? I've been a boy."

That was comforting. Mousie's face relaxed into a queer little smile.

"It's a bit nice, you know, to be naughty sometimes. D'you know that too, Dad? And I did want that dear little watch so fearfully!"

"If you had gained it, do you think it would ever have given you pleasure?"

Mousie's reply came promptly. "Oh, yes, lots. 'Cause I did want it so very very much. Only—p'raps—later on I might have wished I'd told out everything—like I've done now. Oh, dear—I'm so glad Jock isn't hurt. It's only Miss Baynes."

"Poor Miss Baynes is very badly hurt, I am afraid, and she is in great pain. It was most kind of her to let you speak."

"Was that wrong of me too? I didn't think I'd dare, if I was to put it off. And now I've got to have the black mark, I s'pose." Mousie sighed profoundly. "And I shan't ever have that dear little watch. I did want it to have a real chastened silver cover." Then she smiled. "But Jock was good. He wouldn't break none of his promises."

"Jock was an exceedingly silly little boy to make any such promises. And you were a still sillier little girl to get him to do so. Mousie, I think you might find something else to be sorry about, instead of a watch and a chased silver cover. All these months you have allowed another to be blamed and punished for what was chiefly your fault. Jock was wrong, but you were much more wrong. And all you seem to care about is the loss of a paltry prize."

Mousie opened her eyes widely. "Is it paltry?" she asked. "I wonder what 'paltry' means." Then she crept closer and threw her arms round her father.

"Certainly it is—paltry, poor, contemptible—in comparison with things that are so very much more important. I am disappointed in you, Mousie. I hoped better things of my little girl."

"Oh, Dad! Oh, Dad!" and Mousie clung to him vehemently. "But I'm sorry—I'm really and truly most awfully sorry, Dad darling. And I 'will' try," she whispered, quite subdued.

XX. SUCH GOOD NEWS

SUMMER holidays were in full swing, more than half over in fact. But it was too early yet to begin to think of their ending. Mousie and Jock were one day lounging comfortably on a small bench, close to the pond in Mrs. Baynes' garden, to which Jock had found his way on the very first morning after his arrival.

It had been surrounded then by white-robed grass and rocks, but now the rocks were clothed in an abundance of leaves and flowers, and the water glistened merrily in gay sunshine. Dim signs of future autumn might be detected in certain spots near, a yellow leaf or a reddish cluster, whispering softly of what lay ahead. But these tokens could at present be ignored.

The children had been racing about since breakfast till both were tired, and this was a delightful place for a rest.

Birds overhead twittered and talked, one to another, in their own pretty language, and bees were hard at work darting in and out of their favourite blossoms. Close to Mousie's elbow a fine large humble-bee, clothed in rich velvet, kept bouncing from one flower to another in search of what she needed, and Mousie leant over to watch these proceedings.

"You dear old fatty!" she murmured. "I do love humble-bees—don't you, Jock? Ever so much more than the littler sorts of bees. Tom says I oughtn't, 'cause it's the littler sorts that give us honey. But all the same I do. I just love the old dears."

Jock did not hear. He was thinking about his mother. Not sadly, for he was a happy boy ready to make the best of things, yet still with a great longing to see her again. It seemed such an immense time since she went away. And he had not the faintest idea of what was coming to him that very hour—coming fast and near. If he had guessed!—But he could not know.

Mousie, too, had been plunged in thought, till the plump humble-bee drew her attention. She had gone back in memory to the day when Miss Baynes broke her arm, and when she herself had at last spoken out bravely about her own wrong-doing.

And though she had lost the longed-for prize, she was glad—glad—to have confessed the truth. She knew now that it was far better to have lost a watch than to have gone on deceiving, with always that weight on her mind. Also, Jock and she by this time were real friends, much more real than before. Mousie, it is true, still commonly took the lead, and sometimes drew Jock into mischief, but she had not again tried deliberately to make him do what was forbidden and to hide it afterwards.

Judith Baynes was much better, though her arm was still of little use, for it had been severely twisted and strained as well as broken. She had borne with courage many weeks of great suffering, and she and Jock were on the happiest terms. He often wondered how it was that he had disliked her.

Mousie broke silence. "I say—what are you thinking about?"

"What are 'you'?" retorted Jock.

"I'm thinking what a dear boy you are."

"Fudge."

"It's true. You're the very dearest boy I ever knew." Mousie wore her middle-aged manner.

"Rot."

"It's no good you saying 'Rot.' You can't help being nice. And you can't help me loving you. You're just the very darlingest boy that ever was made. And I know, 'cause I've seen lots and lots of boys. And not one of them wasn't like you." Mousie's black eyes shone with a devouring affection. "You dear, sweet pet. And Mum says you're so pretty."

"I say—do shut up and don't talk such rubbish. Girls are pretty. Men aren't."

"P'raps when you're a man, you'll get ugly. You can't help being pretty now. And I do like pretty things."

"I'm not a 'thing.'"

"Well, you know what I mean. Jock, you do like me, don't you? And we're real friends—really and truly?"

"That's all right—of course."

"And you won't ever like anybody better than me?"

"Oh, bosh! I say—there's a woodpecker."

Mousie sprang into active life. "Where?—Where? Do tell me."

"On that tree—look. Creeping up the trunk."

Mousie fled in the direction indicated, and Jock—about to follow—stopped short. Miss Baynes was coming over the grass with a letter in her hand. And this was India Mail day.

"Only one for me," she said cheerfully.

Jock looked dismayed, for no week had yet gone by without a letter for himself, and this meant no small disappointment. Judith sat down by his side.

"No, not one for you this time. Your father and mother were both too busy to write, so I have come to tell you the news."

"Is Mummie quite well?"

"No, she has been ill, and not well for some weeks before that. And—there are changes of plan, Jock."

She paused for a moment, and Jock waited with a puzzled look.

"Your father's regiment has been ordered to another station, a good way off, not a very healthy place, I am sorry to say. And the doctor forbids your mother to go with him. So your father must not think of taking her there, and he has decided that the best thing for her to do is to come home, at all events for a year. Perhaps she may even stay till he has his next leave, and can come too. And by this time she is on her way, really on her way. Isn't that delightful? Her passage was taken before she wrote."

Jock sat as if dazed. He could hardly believe his own ears, the news was so utterly unexpected. When he tried to speak, the words somehow would not come, and he could only give a choked laugh. Aunt Judith put her arms round him.

"It is almost 'too' good news, is it not? But it is real, Jock. Won't we give her a welcome?"

Jock tried hard to say something, as Aunt Judith seemed waiting for an answer. "It's—it's—it's—" was all he could get out. Aunt Judith gave him a kiss.

"Now you are going to be all right; and we have got to make ready for her. No end of things to be done."