Chapter XXIII: Friends

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."