"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.