Part 7

"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.

It really was Mummie herself, arriving thus without notice. She had not sent a telegram because she knew that would mean Aunt Judith going all the way to meet her. Kind friends on board had seen to her luggage, and had looked well after herself, which they could easily do, since they happened to be travelling by the same train. All this had to be explained, when the first silence was broken.

"Jock, my darling—how you have grown! And how well and bonny you look!"

Jock at first could only hold her in a tight clutch, as if fearing to lose her afresh. He was so radiantly glad that he could not speak. But when once he did start talking, it was a good while before he could stop.

XXIII. FRIENDS

AND the small figure, crouching outside the window, saw and understood. After gazing with greedy and troubled eyes at the lovely meeting, Mousie crept away with drooping head, alone and forgotten. She couldn't go home yet; she couldn't face them all, and hear the talk about Jock. She went as far as a little side-path, arched over with small trees, and there flung herself down in despair.

Jock was happy, and she was miserable. Jock had all he wanted, and she had nothing. Jock would never care to be with her again, and she would never be happy without him. He had his Mummie, and that meant everything.

So she lay and cried, till her poor little face was blistered and sore, and her eyes and nose were red, and her world was a dismal wilderness. She had not the least idea how time was passing, or whether she would be missed. That did not matter. Nothing mattered—except that she had lost Jock, and that it was the most dreadful thing that could happen.

Somebody was coming. She heard steps drawing near, and she hugged the ground more closely, lying on a strip of grass at one side, hoping to escape notice.

It so happened that "Mousie's Captain" was at home for a week's leave, and it also happened that he wanted a few words with Judith Baynes. This narrow path was the shortest cut by which he could reach the house. So, quick and light of step and softly whistling, he approached the spot where Mousie lay.

In the very dim light, he nearly stumbled over a slim thing sticking out from the grass border. Then he saw a queer little heap, and the thing which stuck out, he found to be a black-stockinged leg.

"Hallo. What's this? 'Mousie'—" he said in astonishment.

Mousie crouched resolutely lower, but her resistance broke as one lift placed her on her feet.

"Stand up, little one. You mustn't lie here. What is the matter?"

"I can't—can't—go home."

"Want to see Jock first—eh?"

"No—no—"

Mousie made herself as limp as a soaked rag, and she hung upon his grasp as if all the starch had been washed out of her. The Captain picked her up bodily, carried her to an old wooden summer-house not far off, where he placed her on the seat, and sat down by her side.

"Now—tell me what is wrong."

Mousie, very sore in spirit, was nevertheless conscious of a curious restful feeling, an odd certainty that one person at least understood. She had felt so horribly alone and outside of everything, that she had not known how to bear it.

"Come—tell me," he said again. "What is the trouble, child?"

"Jock—Jock—" came in a wail.

"Has Jock been unkind?"

"No—no. Only—'she'—she's come. And Jock—doesn't want—me—"

At once Captain Royle grasped the state of affairs.

"I see. Jock is busy with his mother—and just at this moment perhaps he doesn't want other people. Isn't it natural? You must be sensible, little Mousie. Don't make miseries out of nothing." But he put his hand on hers with a comforting clasp. "You are fond of Jock?"

"'Yes'—" sobbed Mousie.

"And he is very happy with his mother. You love him and he is your friend—and yet—you don't feel glad to see him happy! Why, you ought to be dancing with joy for his sake. I wonder what sort of love yours is."

"I want him—I want him—all to myself."

"I see—" the Captain said slowly again. "But we can't have our friends all to ourselves. We have to share our good things with other people. Think how horribly selfish we should grow, if we didn't."

"He won't want me—ever again."

"Of course he will want you. Jock is a fine little chap, not one to forsake his friends. If you and he are real friends, you must trust him."

A protesting shake of her shoulders came in reply.

The Captain changed his tone.

"Mousie, you have cried enough now, and you must stop. All this is absurd. You are a nice little girl, but you have one big fault—you want always to be first, always to have the most love, the most attention. And it won't do. Think—if you were in Jock's place, would you like to be treated so? You know you would not. And if you go on like this, you may end by driving Jock away altogether. But you are not going to be such a little goose. Now dry your eyes. You are coming with me, to see what Jock is doing."

Meanwhile Jock, indoors, was talking "nineteen to the dozen," pouring out all his news, all his interests, all about Mousie and the fun that he and she had together, far more than he could ever tell in his letters. And Mrs. Munro was saying how much she wanted to know his little friend, and how she meant to love Mousie. She had never seen her, for Mr. and Mrs. Moore had come to live in the place after her last visit to Mrs. Baynes.

Presently Mr. Moore himself came in, much surprised to learn from the butler that Mrs. Munro had already arrived. After a few words with her, he glanced round and said—"Is Mousie not here?"

No, Mousie was not there. Jock had seen her last in the early afternoon—"ever so long ago," he said. He had supposed that she was at home.

But she had not been at home since early dinner, and the family had taken for granted that she was with Jock. Mr. Moore seemed rather worried. "I must have a look round," he said. "She cannot be far off."

Jock jumped up. "Mayn't I come too?" he asked. He wondered if perhaps Mousie was fretting. "May I, Mummie?"

"Yes, do, dear. And bring her here."

Mr. Moore and Jock had not to search far. They were scarcely out of sight of the front door when they met Captain Royle coming along the drive, with a small dishevelled figure dragging by his side.

"Why—there she is," cried Jock.

And a sound of relief escaped his companion, for nobody ever quite knew what Mousie might be after next.

"I say—where 'have' you been? Come—come along. Mummie wants you. May she come?" Jock asked of Mr. Moore.

Mousie hung back in vain. A kindly shove from the Captain and a vigorous pull from Jock settled matters. Reluctant and disconsolate and in spite of herself, Mousie was hauled into the fire-lit drawing-room.

"I've brought her, Mum," shouted Jock, and his mother came forward.

Mousie stood motionless, staring downward, and drawing the tip of a muddy shoe along a line in the carpet. Then somebody said over her head—"So this is Jock's friend!" and the sweetness of the voice made Mousie long to glance up, only, pride forbade it.

"By no means a sensible Mouse to-day," Captain Royle remarked.

Mrs. Munro seemed to understand. She led the child to the fire, sat down, and took her into a motherly clasp.

Mousie still held herself with a stiff resistance, but this could not last. A soft kiss came on her forehead, and then she did venture on one glance—to see a face so wonderfully like Jock's that she simply had to give in. With one big final sob, Mousie flung both her thin arms round Mrs. Munro.

"Poor little girlie!" she heard in a murmur. "It is going to be all right now, Mousie dear. If you are my Jock's friend, you have to belong to me too—don't you see? And we shall all be happy together."

Mousie was conquered. That tender lovingness had driven the chill and loneliness out of her heart, and the bitter jealous feelings which had made her wretched were fading away like a wreath of smoke. In less than half-an-hour she was her own gay self again, chattering as fast as Jock, and ready to chime in with any amount of nonsense.

"And Jock—Jock—" she whispered eagerly out in the hall, when about to go home—"Jock, I do like her. I like her most awfully much. I thought I wouldn't, but I do."

"'Course you do. She's the very best Mummie in the whole world," declared Jock. "'Course you couldn't help liking her."