Chapter XXI: Mousie's Moods

JOCK'S one need at the moment was to be alone—quite alone that he might think over the wonderful news. Only to imagine that mother herself would soon be with him, her dear arms around him, her sweet face at his side—it seemed beyond belief. So often he had thought of this, as a thing to happen at some distant day, and now it was near, almost close. He fled to a tiny copse at the farther end of the kitchen-garden, thus far not wanting even Mousie. Presently he would have to tell her, but not yet.

Nobody was within sight, and Jock flung himself flat on the grass, with his face down on his arms. A big lump had risen in his throat, just because he felt so wildly happy.

This wouldn't do. What would Dad say, if he knew that his boy was crying, to think of his mother's return? No, not crying, Jock protested, as he sat up and laughed, not proper crying! It was only that everything seemed changed; everything in one moment had become so splendidly different, and his whole world was flooded with sunshine.

He rolled over on his back, and lay gazing up through slender branches and interlacing twigs at the blue sky beyond, and he kept repeating to himself—"Mummie is coming! Mummie is coming!" That said all.

But before long, though how long he had not the least notion, he found that he really must tell somebody. He could not any longer keep such glorious news to himself. He wanted someone else to be glad with him, someone to whom he could say how happy he was. He would find Mousie; and how pleased she would be! Almost as much as Jock himself. Not quite, of course, for that would be impossible.

In another instant he was tearing through the kitchen-garden and the shrubbery into Mrs. Baynes' small orchard, shouting at the pitch of his voice as he went, for now he had come to the stage when he simply had to shout. Keeping silence was out of the question.

On the low-curving bough of an old apple-tree Mousie was swinging lazily to and fro. She had grown into the habit of running freely, when so disposed, into the Baynes' grounds, and nobody seemed to object.

"Oh, Jock, come here," she cried, and he swung himself up by her side.

Then he said breathlessly—"What do you think is going to happen? Guess."

"What sort of thing? Something nice?"

"Tremenjously nice. As nice as—as nice as any sort of thing that's ever been. Guess."

Mousie pondered. "A pic-nic?"

"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.