VIVIAN CONQUERS.
WHEN Ronald returned from the nursery, some ten minutes later, he
was surprised to find that the room was in darkness, and that Vivian
had not begun to undress, for as a rule he was so quick in all his
movements that he had expected to find him already in bed.
As he lit the candles on the dressing-table the misery in his little
brother’s face startled him, it was so white and drawn and hopeless.
‘You look awfully cold, Vivi,’ he began. ‘Come along into the nursery
and have some cocoa. Lucy gave me a cup to drink; awfully jolly and
sweet it was, and I feel heaps better. I got awfully shivery and queer
downstairs.’
‘No, thanks, I don’t want any, not to-night,’ said Vivian shortly,
pulling out a drawer with so much vehemence that Ronald took it as
a hint that he wanted to be quiet, and began to undress without any
further remark.
The boys generally read a short portion of the Bible to their mother
before they came upstairs, and when she happened to be away from home—a
very rare occurrence indeed—they read it to themselves in their own
room; but to-night Ronald felt that somehow he dare not ask his brother
to join him. He hardly knew how to treat him in this new, silent mood
that had come over him, and he longed for his mother, who always
understood people, and knew what to say to them.
And still, ever since he could remember, they had never gone to bed
without the nightly lesson, and he did not like to do so on this night
above all others, when the shadow of death had come nearer them than
ever it had done in their lives before. Nervously he took up the two
little Bibles which lay on a small table near the fireplace, under a
beautiful print of Holman Hunt’s ‘Light of the World.’
‘Aren’t you going to read, Vivi,’ he said timidly, holding out one of
them to his brother; but Vivian only shook his head and began pulling
off his shoes.
Ronald sighed, but he felt that further words were useless. He knew
that Vivian never liked to be argued with, especially when it was he,
Ronald, who argued, so in silence he read his verses to himself, and
knelt down to say his prayers. When he rose from his knees he found his
brother in bed, with his face buried in the pillows.
He stood for a moment, perplexed how to act, and then he blew out the
candle and went and sat down in the dark on the edge of Vivian’s bed.
‘Vivi, old chap,’ he said softly, ‘can’t you tell me what’s wrong? I
feel sure that there is something worse than even Isobel’s illness. You
haven’t said good-night to me, and you haven’t said your prayers.’
The only answer was a restless movement, and another sharp, strangled
sob, and then, just as Ronald was making up his mind to go back to bed,
feeling it was no use to ask any more questions, Vivian burst out, ‘I
can’t say my prayers, Ronald; I daren’t. I have been so wicked. Oh, if
you only knew!’
‘But God knows,’ said Ronald. ‘He knows how wicked we all are, and yet
that doesn’t hinder Him listening to us. He will forgive us and give
us strength to be better afterwards. I wish mother were here; she can
explain things so much better than I can.’
‘Yes—but—if one has done something, and he doesn’t want to tell, God
won’t hear him till he does,’ said Vivian desperately. ‘Do you remember
that text that mother told us about, which says that if we have
wickedness—iniquity or something is the word—in our heart, God won’t
hear us? Oh Ronald, I’m like Achan the son of Carmi, who hid the golden
wedge in his tent. I’ve hidden a golden wedge, and now God is cursing
everybody for my sake. First Joe, then Isobel, and perhaps He’ll take
mother and Dorothy and father and you.’
Ronald was really frightened. He remembered how Vivian had fainted in
the morning, and he began to fear that all the excitement and trouble
had turned his brain. He had heard of people getting brain-fever, and
losing their reason when they had had some terrible shock or a great
deal of worry. If his father had only been in the house! But he had
heard the front door close a few minutes before, and he knew that he
had gone out to see the sick girl of whom he had spoken. He thought of
going for Lucy, and had turned towards the door to do so when it struck
him that if there was any truth in what Vivian said, if he really had
done something wrong, then it was not a thing to speak to a servant
about, so he turned back to his brothers bedside instead.
‘It’s never too late to tell things, Vivi,’ he said soothingly. ‘Father
has gone out just now, else you could have told him; so if I were you
I should just tell God instead, and then go to sleep. Perhaps things
may look different in the morning. Would you like me to call Lucy?’ he
added doubtfully. ‘If you feel really ill I could go for her.’
‘No, no, not Lucy!’ cried Vivian in alarm. ‘Just leave me alone,
Ronald; you can’t help me.’
And Ronald, who by this time was shivering with cold, crept into his
own little bed at the other side of the room, feeling sorely perplexed.
He lay and strained his ears for any sign of his father’s return,
intending when he heard his step to creep downstairs and tell him what
a funny state Vivian was in; but he must have fallen asleep, for when
he was awakened by hearing Vivian moving on the other side of the
room, he fancied that it was morning.
‘Whatever are you doing, Vivian?’ he asked, all his fears about his
brother returning. ‘It is not time to get up yet; it is quite dark, and
I don’t hear any one stirring in the house.’
‘Yes, there is,’ said Vivian, and there was a determined ring in his
voice which reassured Ronald. Anyhow it was quite clear that his
brother knew what he was doing. ‘Father has just come in, and I’m going
down to tell him all that I have done. Perhaps none of you will speak
to me again when you know, and perhaps I’ll be sent to prison; but I
can’t stand this any longer, and perhaps God will spare Isobel.’
There was a glimmer of light from the passage as he opened the door,
and the next moment he was gone, leaving Ronald sitting up in his bed
in astonishment. Either Vivian was going to be ill—and the thought
crossed his mind that what had been so fatal to Isobel might have hurt
Vivian more than any one had supposed—or there was some great ugly
mystery which had yet to be explained; and as he remembered one or two
little things which had troubled him at Eversley, but which he had
forgotten—the muddy indoor shoes, the wet coat, and Vivian’s evening
excursion out into the rain, and his fright when he heard of Monarch’s
death—he felt sick with apprehension as to what new trouble might be
coming to mar the happiness of their pleasant family-life.
‘Eh, what?’ said Dr Armitage, looking in perplexity at the little
white-robed, white-faced figure which stood just inside his study door.
He had returned from his late visit to Widow Dallas’s granddaughter,
and had been gathering up his papers and putting out the lamps, when
the sound of Vivian’s voice arrested him, and, turning round, he saw
the startling apparition.
‘My dear, are you ill? You should have sent Ronald down,’ he said in
alarm, and crossing the room, he would have taken the little boy on his
knee, but Vivian pushed his arm away and shrank back against the wall.
‘You won’t touch me when you know, father,’ he began, and his voice did
not seem as if it belonged to him at all, ‘for I’m a thief, and a liar,
and a murderer, or at least as good as one, for it is all my fault that
Isobel is dying; and I thought—I thought—if I told all about it, God
might make her better.’
Here he stopped to moisten his lips, for they were so dry he could not
go on.
‘My dear, you do not know what you are saying!’ said his father
starting forward, greatly alarmed, fearing, like Ronald, that the
excitement of the past day had affected the little fellow’s brain.
‘No, no, father,’ cried Vivian passionately, putting out both his
hands to keep him back, ‘I’m quite sensible, and you must listen, for
it’s all true. I stole the pistol, and I told lies, and they think it
was Joe, and I talked to the burglar, and he got me to give cakes to
Monarch. That is the only bit I didn’t _mean_ to do, for I believed
the man’s story, and I never thought that the cakes would poison the
dog. And I hid the pistol in a hole in the branch of the old oak-tree.
Isobel was showing the hole to me when we fell off.’
‘Come here, Vivian, and tell me all about it, just as it happened from
the beginning. Nay, my boy, do not shrink from me; surely you know
father better than that. If this story is true, I shall be deeply
grieved and deeply disappointed; but you are doing all you can to set
things right, and I will stand by you. I promise you that.’
For a moment Vivian swayed backwards and forwards, and his father
caught hold of him, fearing another faint attack, then with a hoarse
cry the little boy threw himself into his arms and broke into a perfect
passion of tears. After the strain and dread of the last few days the
note of kindness in his father’s voice was almost more than he could
bear.
‘Oh father,’ he gasped, ‘you won’t send me to prison, will you? You
won’t send me out of the house, not even when you hear the whole story?’
‘Certainly not, my boy,’ and the arm that was round him tightened its
hold. ‘Fathers are not like that. I may be angry—very likely I shall
be—if you have done anything to deserve it; but remember nothing would
make me turn against you. Now, as soon as you are calm enough you will
tell me everything.’
Both the boys had been well trained in self-control since their
babyhood; but it was nearly five minutes before Vivian could steady his
voice sufficiently to speak, and it was in sadly broken words that he
told his tale. He did not spare himself. The burden of concealment had
lain too heavily on his conscience for that, and now that he had broken
the ice, it was a relief to tell out the whole sad story.
Dr Armitage listened in silence, only asking a question now and then to
make some point clear, his grief and dismay increasing every moment.
He had been prepared for some confession of childish wrong-doing,
and had set down Vivian’s agitation as a necessary result of all the
day’s excitement, and had thought that the same reason had led him to
exaggerate his fault; but the tale he heard was far different from
that. For a moment he forgot the sharp temptation which the finding
of the pistol must have been to a boy of Vivian’s temperament, and
was almost stunned to find that his own son, who had been brought up
with so much care, could have practised and carried out such a tangled
scheme of lies and deceit.
When the story was fully told there was silence for a minute.
‘Oh Vivian, Vivian! what will mother say?’ said Dr Armitage at last;
and at his question, and the grieved tone in which it was spoken, the
little boy shivered.
‘I don’t think she will ever love me again,’ he sobbed, ‘and I don’t
deserve that she should.’
‘Oh yes, she will, old man,’ said the doctor, trying to speak gently in
spite of his bitter disappointment. ‘You have owned up your fault, and
that is the first step towards making amends; only remember you must
face the consequences whatever they are. Uncle Walter and Aunt Dora
must be told, and Joe must be set at liberty and his name cleared at
once; and you must tell the police exactly what happened on Sunday, and
describe the man who gave you the cakes for Monarch. It won’t be easy
for you, I’m afraid.’
But Vivian was too broken-down and exhausted to take much thought for
the morrow. ‘If only Isobel would get better!’ he sobbed. ‘Surely God
will see that I’m sorry, and give her back?’
‘That must be as God wills,’ said his father gravely; ‘and now you must
go to bed, and try to sleep, and to-morrow we will talk about it again
and decide what is to be done. I think perhaps that you had better
go back with me to London, for the policemen must be told about the
man in the summer-house at once, and they will want you to give them
his description; but whether Aunt Dora is told at present or not will
depend on the news that we get in the morning.’
Then, seeing how worn out Vivian was, he lifted him in his arms as if
he were a baby, and gave him a fatherly kiss. ‘Don’t despair, old man,’
he said. ‘Remember every one can build fresh beginnings on the ruins
made by their old faults;’ and then he carried him up to bed, as he
used to do in the far-off days before Dorothy was born. He pushed the
door of the bedroom gently open so as not to disturb Ronald; but Ronald
was awake, and eager to know what had happened, and why Vivian had been
so long downstairs.
‘Shall I tell him?’ asked Dr Armitage. He felt that this at least
should be left to Vivian to decide. The answer was soon given.
‘Oh Ronnie, Ronnie!’ cried Vivian, going back to his baby name for
his brother, ‘let me come into your bed;’ and, clinging to the elder
brother, whom he had so often laughed at but whom he loved with all
his heart, he sobbed out his confession for the second time, and then
fell asleep with his head on Ronald’s shoulder, comforted by his simple
words of encouragement:
‘Never mind, you’ve been brave and confessed; and I’m sure God will
make it all right about Isobel.’