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.