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."