Chapter XX: Such Good News

SUMMER holidays were in full swing, more than half over in fact. But it was too early yet to begin to think of their ending. Mousie and Jock were one day lounging comfortably on a small bench, close to the pond in Mrs. Baynes' garden, to which Jock had found his way on the very first morning after his arrival.

It had been surrounded then by white-robed grass and rocks, but now the rocks were clothed in an abundance of leaves and flowers, and the water glistened merrily in gay sunshine. Dim signs of future autumn might be detected in certain spots near, a yellow leaf or a reddish cluster, whispering softly of what lay ahead. But these tokens could at present be ignored.

The children had been racing about since breakfast till both were tired, and this was a delightful place for a rest.

Birds overhead twittered and talked, one to another, in their own pretty language, and bees were hard at work darting in and out of their favourite blossoms. Close to Mousie's elbow a fine large humble-bee, clothed in rich velvet, kept bouncing from one flower to another in search of what she needed, and Mousie leant over to watch these proceedings.

"You dear old fatty!" she murmured. "I do love humble-bees—don't you, Jock? Ever so much more than the littler sorts of bees. Tom says I oughtn't, 'cause it's the littler sorts that give us honey. But all the same I do. I just love the old dears."

Jock did not hear. He was thinking about his mother. Not sadly, for he was a happy boy ready to make the best of things, yet still with a great longing to see her again. It seemed such an immense time since she went away. And he had not the faintest idea of what was coming to him that very hour—coming fast and near. If he had guessed!—But he could not know.

Mousie, too, had been plunged in thought, till the plump humble-bee drew her attention. She had gone back in memory to the day when Miss Baynes broke her arm, and when she herself had at last spoken out bravely about her own wrong-doing.

And though she had lost the longed-for prize, she was glad—glad—to have confessed the truth. She knew now that it was far better to have lost a watch than to have gone on deceiving, with always that weight on her mind. Also, Jock and she by this time were real friends, much more real than before. Mousie, it is true, still commonly took the lead, and sometimes drew Jock into mischief, but she had not again tried deliberately to make him do what was forbidden and to hide it afterwards.

Judith Baynes was much better, though her arm was still of little use, for it had been severely twisted and strained as well as broken. She had borne with courage many weeks of great suffering, and she and Jock were on the happiest terms. He often wondered how it was that he had disliked her.

Mousie broke silence. "I say—what are you thinking about?"

"What are 'you'?" retorted Jock.

"I'm thinking what a dear boy you are."

"Fudge."

"It's true. You're the very dearest boy I ever knew." Mousie wore her middle-aged manner.

"Rot."

"It's no good you saying 'Rot.' You can't help being nice. And you can't help me loving you. You're just the very darlingest boy that ever was made. And I know, 'cause I've seen lots and lots of boys. And not one of them wasn't like you." Mousie's black eyes shone with a devouring affection. "You dear, sweet pet. And Mum says you're so pretty."

"I say—do shut up and don't talk such rubbish. Girls are pretty. Men aren't."

"P'raps when you're a man, you'll get ugly. You can't help being pretty now. And I do like pretty things."

"I'm not a 'thing.'"

"Well, you know what I mean. Jock, you do like me, don't you? And we're real friends—really and truly?"

"That's all right—of course."

"And you won't ever like anybody better than me?"

"Oh, bosh! I say—there's a woodpecker."

Mousie sprang into active life. "Where?—Where? Do tell me."

"On that tree—look. Creeping up the trunk."

Mousie fled in the direction indicated, and Jock—about to follow—stopped short. Miss Baynes was coming over the grass with a letter in her hand. And this was India Mail day.

"Only one for me," she said cheerfully.

Jock looked dismayed, for no week had yet gone by without a letter for himself, and this meant no small disappointment. Judith sat down by his side.

"No, not one for you this time. Your father and mother were both too busy to write, so I have come to tell you the news."

"Is Mummie quite well?"

"No, she has been ill, and not well for some weeks before that. And—there are changes of plan, Jock."

She paused for a moment, and Jock waited with a puzzled look.

"Your father's regiment has been ordered to another station, a good way off, not a very healthy place, I am sorry to say. And the doctor forbids your mother to go with him. So your father must not think of taking her there, and he has decided that the best thing for her to do is to come home, at all events for a year. Perhaps she may even stay till he has his next leave, and can come too. And by this time she is on her way, really on her way. Isn't that delightful? Her passage was taken before she wrote."

Jock sat as if dazed. He could hardly believe his own ears, the news was so utterly unexpected. When he tried to speak, the words somehow would not come, and he could only give a choked laugh. Aunt Judith put her arms round him.

"It is almost 'too' good news, is it not? But it is real, Jock. Won't we give her a welcome?"

Jock tried hard to say something, as Aunt Judith seemed waiting for an answer. "It's—it's—it's—" was all he could get out. Aunt Judith gave him a kiss.

"Now you are going to be all right; and we have got to make ready for her. No end of things to be done."

"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.