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.