Chapter XIX: Mousie's Conscience

FOR Mousie it had not been a happy afternoon. Her conscience was wide awake and troublesome. It had been saying many things during past weeks, which she did not wish to hear.

Mousie, like everybody else, had that quiet little inward voice, which has been implanted in each one of us, to remind us of things that ought to be done, and to call us to order when we are doing things that we ought not to do. But she had so often refused to listen, that her conscience had been slipping farther and farther into back corners of her mind. Lately, however, it had roused up again, and had given her an uncomfortable time. After weeks of feeling quite happy, and of being quite sure of the prize on which her heart was set, and quite certain that it really did not matter at all about Jock's disgrace—all at once uneasiness had set in. And now a whole rush of fears and misgivings had her in their grip. Do what she would, she could not shake herself free.

She meant still to say nothing. She meant still to win the prize. She meant still to possess a silver watch. But the joy had gone out of it all. And she wanted—oh, how she wanted!—to feel that she had not wronged Jock, had not deceived everybody, had not done as she did do all those weeks and weeks ago.

So long since! But that made no difference. The deed lay in the past and could not be undone. She had led Jock astray, had made him disobedient, had got him to give wrong promises, had refused to clear him at her own cost. She had acted untruly and meanly, and she knew it.

Especially at night these recollections troubled her. For the little voice within kept asking—"What is the use of saying your prayers over and over again, if you will keep on in what is wrong? What is the use, if you are determined not to tell?"

And thus far she was still determined. She would try to put away the thought, and would say her prayers very hard, but it would not do. Mousie knew that it would not do. No amount of hard praying could make up for going on still in wrong-doing.

But it would soon be done, she told herself. A very little while, and the prizes would be given. All the children would go to the Great House for tea and games in the garden, and Mr. and Mrs. Moore and Mrs. and Miss Baynes would be there also. Tom was pretty sure to get a prize, for he managed never to have a black mark. But others were not so hopeful.

Again and again Mousie pictured the scene. She would see kind old Mr. Royle smiling on them all, and taking her hand, and saying—"Well, my little girl, and what is it that you want most of all?" And she could hear her own voice replying—"Oh, please—if it isn't too expensive—I do want a real little silver watch of my own." And she knew that he would say—"Too expensive! Bosh. Of course you shall have it."

And when all that was over, and the silver watch was in her possession, she would begin to be quite perfectly good, and would never do anything wrong again. Perhaps some day, long afterwards, she would explain; and Jock and everybody would forgive her.

But long afterwards and far ahead would not do. It was now—now—that she knew she ought to speak, not by-and-by. "But I can't—I can't—I won't—" Mousie cried in her heart. "I do want that little watch so awfully much. I simply—can't."

This afternoon she was especially down-hearted, for Jock was away, and Tom and Hugh had disappeared, and she had no playmate.

At tea-time they were all together, and she heard that the walkers had not yet returned. Heavy rain had come on, but by-and-by it stopped. And Mousie crept away to station herself in the lane behind the churchyard, where she knew that Miss Baynes and Jock must pass on their way back, whether they returned by the same way that they went or followed the longer road. She would see them and would have a word with Jock.

It was a long wait. She had settled herself in a sheltered nook, close to the wall of the churchyard, and one quarter of an hour after another slipped by, and still they did not come. Patiently she sat there, long past sundown; and grey shadows began, and twilight deepened into darkness. She knew she ought to go indoors, for it must be near if not past her bed-time. Yet she stayed.

Stars were peeping out fast, one after another. Nobody came this way. But Miss Baynes and Jock would have to come, unless they made a needless round through another part of the village—which they would not think of doing, at the end of such a long walk.

Tom appeared unexpectedly. She knew it was Tom, though only able to make out a dim figure. He jumped the wall, landing within two yards of her.

"Tom—they haven't got back."

"Hallo—what are you after?"

"I'm waiting to see Jock. They haven't come back yet."

"No—nobody knows why, so Dad and Gardener have gone to meet them—both ways. You'd better go in."

"Oh, I can't. I do want to see Jock first—please, Tom."

"Well, I don't suppose it matters. The whole place is in a stew. I don't suppose anything is wrong, really. We'll wait."

They did wait, but in vain, and Tom soon went off, losing patience. Mousie remained in her sheltered corner. She was making up her mind that something dreadful had happened. Perhaps Jock had been killed, and she would never, never be able to tell him how sorry she was. What if he had gone again on that big bough, and had fallen into the water, and if Miss Baynes, trying to help him, had gone in too, and both had been drowned? And all her life long Mousie would know how unkindly she had treated him, and she would never be able to set things right. What good would a silver watch be to her then?

Mousie's tears rained at the thought.

"Oh, Jock—Oh, Jock darling," she whispered pitifully, and her little bony hands were wrung together, and the little peaked face was very sad in the starlight.

Suddenly a welcome sound of wheels brought Mousie with a leap to her feet. The old village fly drove slowly up, stopping at the churchyard gate; and Mr. Moore came down from the box, for he had met them and had been given a lift. Then an excited child flung herself forward, thrusting into the open window a pale little face.

"Oh, Jock—is Jock here?" she cried. "Oh—is it Miss Baynes? Please, please, I want to tell you something. It was all my fault that day—not Jock's. I made him go, and I ought to have told, and he oughtn't to have been punished."

"Mousie, come away." Mr. Moore was drawing her back, while Mousie clung frantically to the window.

But Miss Baynes' voice said clearly—

"No—let her speak. I would rather hear."

"Another time," Mr. Moore urged.

But she repeated—"Let her speak, please."

"It was all—all—me," cried Mousie. "I made him promise not to tell, and I wouldn't let him. And 'I' ought to have the black mark—not Jock. It was every bit me."

"That will do," Mr. Moore said firmly. "You must go home, Miss Baynes. This is bad for you."

"But I am glad Phœbe has spoken," Miss Baynes said. And in her heart she was glad also that she had talked so kindly to Jock that day, and had told him that she could fully trust him.

Jock had no chance of saying a word, though he too was very glad; for this meant the clearing away of the last remains of the cloud which had hung over him.

The fly drove on, and Mr. Moore led Mousie quietly home into his study. There he shut the door, sat down, and drew the child to his side.

Mousie hid her face on his shoulder, half wondering why she had spoken out, yet pleased to have done so. A word or two from her father brought out the whole tale; and Mousie, once started, shirked nothing. She made no excuses for herself, but seemed anxious only to clear Jock. She did not even hide the fact that she had persuaded Artie to keep her secret.

"Mousie—you!—the elder sister—to lead your little brother into deceit!"

"It was horribly disgusting of me, wasn't it, Dad?" By this time Mousie had begun to look up in his face, almost cheerfully, for hers was a cork-like nature, never very long depressed. "But, Dad dear, if only you did know—that day I just felt as if I 'had' to do things. I truly couldn't help it—truly I couldn't. You don't know what it's like, 'cause you're grown-up and so you're always good."

"Don't I know, Mousie? I've been a boy."

That was comforting. Mousie's face relaxed into a queer little smile.

"It's a bit nice, you know, to be naughty sometimes. D'you know that too, Dad? And I did want that dear little watch so fearfully!"

"If you had gained it, do you think it would ever have given you pleasure?"

Mousie's reply came promptly. "Oh, yes, lots. 'Cause I did want it so very very much. Only—p'raps—later on I might have wished I'd told out everything—like I've done now. Oh, dear—I'm so glad Jock isn't hurt. It's only Miss Baynes."

"Poor Miss Baynes is very badly hurt, I am afraid, and she is in great pain. It was most kind of her to let you speak."

"Was that wrong of me too? I didn't think I'd dare, if I was to put it off. And now I've got to have the black mark, I s'pose." Mousie sighed profoundly. "And I shan't ever have that dear little watch. I did want it to have a real chastened silver cover." Then she smiled. "But Jock was good. He wouldn't break none of his promises."

"Jock was an exceedingly silly little boy to make any such promises. And you were a still sillier little girl to get him to do so. Mousie, I think you might find something else to be sorry about, instead of a watch and a chased silver cover. All these months you have allowed another to be blamed and punished for what was chiefly your fault. Jock was wrong, but you were much more wrong. And all you seem to care about is the loss of a paltry prize."

Mousie opened her eyes widely. "Is it paltry?" she asked. "I wonder what 'paltry' means." Then she crept closer and threw her arms round her father.

"Certainly it is—paltry, poor, contemptible—in comparison with things that are so very much more important. I am disappointed in you, Mousie. I hoped better things of my little girl."

"Oh, Dad! Oh, Dad!" and Mousie clung to him vehemently. "But I'm sorry—I'm really and truly most awfully sorry, Dad darling. And I 'will' try," she whispered, quite subdued.