Chapter XXII: Jock's Delight

"IT rained a lot this morning, Grannie."

"Yes. And it is cold for the time of year."

"I wish it wouldn't be cold. I wish it was nice and warm for Mummie."

Jock sat on the rug before the drawing-room fire. Though early autumn still, the weather had taken a sharp turn, becoming almost wintry—"bad for Mrs. Munro, coming from India," people said; and this rather troubled Jock. She was expected to arrive very soon.

Mousie that afternoon had been especially perverse, refusing to hear a word when he wanted to talk about the one subject. And at last he had left her, taking refuge with his Grannie.

"Do you think the ship is getting very very near now—almost quite close, Grannie?"

"I hope so, dear. Any day we may have a telegram."

"And then Aunt Judith will go off to meet her—and they'll come home. I do wish I could go too."

"But your mother said not. She would rather find you here. And it only means a few more hours."

"I would 'like' to go," sighed Jock.

"Suppose you hold this skein of wool for me. I want to wind it, and that would be a real help."

Jock was quite an adept at holding a skein. He twisted round so as to face Mrs. Baynes, and the firelight fell on her soft grey hair and gentle eyes. Jock watched with interest the lessening of the wool on his wrists, and the growth of the ball in Grannie's hands. From time to time he glanced up at a painting over the fireplace of a pretty child in white, nursing a kitten. He loved that picture, and often before he had asked as he asked now—"Was Mummie just like that?"

"Just exactly. She was the sweetest little pet ever seen, always so dear and loving. Yes—naughty sometimes, but so quick to be sorry."

"Mummie once told me she wasn't clever. Wasn't she? I thought she was awfully clever. And she said—she said—she was only clever at loving."

"That is true. I suppose one would not call her clever—if it means being sharp at lessons. Aunt Judith could always beat her there. But she certainly was 'clever at loving.' It just describes her. Even as a tiny child, she seemed to have such a fount of love and tenderness in her little heart—such sympathy for others. And it is the same now. You and I know—don't we?"

Jock nodded. "But Mousie doesn't know. She says she won't like Mummie."

"Why?"

"She says I shall always want to be with Mummie, and never with her."

"That is unkind of Mousie. She ought to be pleased for your sake. Of course you will be a good deal with Mummie, but it will not mean giving up Mousie."

"I told her, Grannie, and she won't listen."

"Never mind. It will come right in time. Are your arms tired?"

Grannie was unfastening another skein, but she stopped suddenly and sat still, listening. Sounds as of something arriving at the front door could be heard. The drawing-room windows did not look that way.

"A motor—" Grannie said very low. And the instant thought came that it might be her nephew, living several miles away. Had he heard ill news and come to tell her? The weather for three days had been very stormy, and she had lain awake at night, listening to the gale and thinking of Jock's mother out on the stormy sea.

"It's stopping here, Grannie." Jock jumped up.

He was so full of the thought of what this might mean that he did not notice a small peaky face just outside the nearer window, and nearly hidden by clustering creepers—peering in with troubled black eyes. He did not know that, when he left her, Mousie had followed him slowly at a distance, and had ensconced herself in the wet bushes, using the corner of the window as a peep-hole, and thus keeping watch over Jock. The bright firelight inside the room made everything there clear to anyone outside in twilight.

"Shall I go and see who it is?"

"One moment—wait—" said Grandma with an anxious face.

The front door was heard to open, and then followed a slight stir. The butler said something, after which another voice spoke—the sweetest voice in the world for those two listeners.

Grannie stood up, her face alight with joy, as the door was thrown open.

"Jock—do you hear—?"

But Jock was gone. He simply hurled himself the full length of the drawing-room into the arms of a slight figure, just coming in. One stifled cry broke from him, and then—silence. Nobody said a word while that clinging clasp lasted. Only, Grannie drew near, and put her arms round them both.

It really was Mummie herself, arriving thus without notice. She had not sent a telegram because she knew that would mean Aunt Judith going all the way to meet her. Kind friends on board had seen to her luggage, and had looked well after herself, which they could easily do, since they happened to be travelling by the same train. All this had to be explained, when the first silence was broken.

"Jock, my darling—how you have grown! And how well and bonny you look!"

Jock at first could only hold her in a tight clutch, as if fearing to lose her afresh. He was so radiantly glad that he could not speak. But when once he did start talking, it was a good while before he could stop.