ANOTHER MYSTERY.
THOROUGHLY worn out by all he had gone through, it was late next
morning before Vivian awoke. As his eye fell on his empty bed he
wondered drowsily what had happened, and why he had slept with Ronald,
and why Ronald was up and about while he had not even been called.
Then, with a flash, his homecoming last night and his confession to
his father came into his mind, and with it the thought of his little
cousin’s illness, and all the sorrow and trouble and disgrace which he
had brought not only on himself but on his friends.
He was wide awake now, and he turned over on his pillow with a groan,
for he knew that in a short time he would have to meet his father once
more, perhaps even go back to London with him, and the whole sad story
would need to be told over again, and it would be much harder to tell
it to-day than it had been last night, when he was excited and his
feelings strung up by the thought of Isobel’s danger.
‘Isobel will probably be dead by now,’ he thought dully. ‘Well, she
would never know how wicked and false her playfellow had been; but it
would be all the harder to have to face Uncle Walter and Aunt Dora and
tell the miserable truth to them in the midst of their terrible trouble.
Then he began to wonder what punishment he would get; perhaps he would
be sent to some very strict school where only bad boys were sent—he had
heard of such places—and perhaps little Dorothy, and even Ronald, would
not be allowed to see him or to talk about the brother who had brought
such disgrace on them all.
Bitter tears filled his eyes at the thought; and yet, mingling with the
bitterness and deep sense of shame, there was a feeling of relief that
now, at all events, the truth was known, and he need not go about with
the awful fear of discovery hanging over him.
A footstep sounded on the stair. Was it his father? His face flushed at
the thought of seeing him again. But no, it was too light a step for
his, and it was Ronald who pushed the door open and looked cautiously
into the room.
His face brightened when he saw that his brother was awake. ‘Look here,
old fellow,’ he said, crossing over to where Vivian lay, and shaking a
yellow envelope in his face, ‘this came in half-an-hour ago, and father
said I might bring it up to you when you were awake. It’s good news
this time,’ and his voice shook a little. ‘It’s to say that Isobel is
better, so you see God has answered our prayers after all.’
With trembling hands Vivian took the piece of flimsy paper, and read
the words which it contained: ‘Isobel distinctly better. Doctors
hopeful.’ Then he lay back on his pillow and gazed out of the window
without speaking, but with such a curious gladness on his face that
Ronald, standing by, dared not break the silence.
To Vivian that message of good news seemed a sign and seal of
forgiveness. After all, God had not forsaken him in spite of his sin.
‘And when he was yet a long way off, his father saw him, and had
compassion on him.’ The old story seemed very real to the little boy
then. It had been told by holy lips, many hundreds of years ago, to a
crowd of eager listeners in Galilee; but with a great rush of gladness
he felt that it was as true to-day as it was then. He was the prodigal
son. He had wandered into a far country—a country of sin and shame and
falsehood—and yet, the moment he had turned his face in the direction
of the Father’s home, the moment he had shown his repentance by his
confession, the Father had heard him, and had had compassion on him,
and had answered the unspoken prayer which he had not even dared to
offer. And if God had been so ready to help him in his sore need and
anxiety, would He not also help him in the ordeal which lay before him,
when every one who up till now had loved him and thought much of him
would learn what manner of boy he really was.
‘They were your prayers, Ronnie,’ he said at last; ‘but perhaps God saw
that I was really sorry, and perhaps that did as well.’
‘Yes, and saw that you had made up your mind to own up,’ said Ronald;
‘and you know that mother always says that the real test of being
sorry is the owning up and the trying to put things right as far as we
can.’
‘There will be an awful lot to put right,’ said Vivian sadly, a sudden
fit of depression coming over him. ‘Even if Isobel gets well, there is
all Aunt Dora’s silver gone, and Joe Flinders put in prison.’
‘But Joe Flinders needn’t stay in prison when they know that it wasn’t
he who took the pistol,’ said Ronald; and then he wished he had not
spoken when he noticed the distressed look that came to his brother’s
face at the mention of the pistol, and remembered all that must happen
before Joe could be set at liberty.
‘Never mind, old chap,’ he said tenderly, putting his arm round
Vivian’s shoulder; ‘just set your teeth, and go through with it. Father
will help you, and I will stand by you for all that I am worth.’
The conversation was interrupted by Lucy’s entrance with a
breakfast-tray.
‘There’s good news this morning, isn’t there, Master Vivian?’ she said
cheerfully, noticing the little boy’s pale cheeks and heavy eyes, which
she set down to the excitement of yesterday and the anxiety about his
cousin. ‘You must try to eat a good breakfast, for it seems that you
have to go back to London with the master.’
Vivian started at the words, and turned his face away from the kindly
girl who was arranging his pillows comfortably behind him, and fussing
over him as though he were ill.
So there was to be no pause, no respite. He was to go up to London this
very day, and even before he had set out the ordeal had begun, for he
saw from Lucy’s wondering tone that every one would at once begin to
ask the reason for this sudden return to town, and the truth was bound
to come out. To have Lucy, and cook, and old Black (who had known him
ever since he was a baby) all know him now as a thief and a liar would
be intolerable.
But Ronald, true to his promise of a minute before of ‘standing by him
for all he was worth,’ answered for him.
‘Yes, Vivian has to go back with father because he was not at church
on Sunday, and he saw a man in the garden who may have been one of the
thieves. And the police want to hear more about him.’
The words were strictly true, and yet they explained everything so
naturally that Vivian wondered how he had ever thought Ronald stupid.
‘Dear, dear,’ said Lucy, looking admiringly at Vivian, ‘so you really
saw him, Master Vivian! No wonder you look white and shaken. He might
have murdered you, he might, when there was no one about. London must
be a dreadful place. I am glad I don’t live there. Have another cup
of tea? No? Even if I put two lumps of sugar in it? Well, to be sure,
it has taken away your appetite, and little wonder. And you must be
ready for the twelve o’clock train too! It is almost time that you were
getting up. See, here comes little Miss Dorothy. She shall sit on your
bed till I take down the tray and get you some hot water, and then she
must come into the nursery while you dress.’
Vivian was not destined, however, to meet his father before he started,
or to go to London with the twelve o’clock train. If he had done so
things might have fallen out very differently from what they did.
Many a time in the dreary days that followed did Dr Armitage wish with
a groan that the miller’s pony had not taken it into its head to run
away just on that particular morning. As it was, the pony took fright
at an innocent old woman who was walking down the road with a bundle
of sticks on her back, and it threw its rider, the miller’s only son,
who had his leg broken and his head cut, besides being bruised all
over, so that the doctor, who was sent for in hot haste by the boy’s
frantic parents, found it absolutely impossible to go to London by the
train he had intended travelling by. Indeed, he did not even go home to
lunch, but had some bread and cheese in the miller’s kitchen; and then,
having set the boy’s leg, and seen him come back to consciousness, he
sent a message home by a passing labourer to bid Vivian meet him at
the station at three o’clock, and went on to make one or two important
visits which needed to be made.
Indeed, in the end, he nearly missed the train, for it had come into
the station before he appeared; and Ronald, who had driven down with
Vivian to keep up his courage and give him a cheery set-off, was at his
wits’ end whether to take his brother’s ticket or not.
‘All right; jump in, Vivi,’ said his father, as he took his handbag
from his eldest son.—‘You were a thoughtful boy, Ronald, to bring me
this. I forgot all about sleeping things when I sent the message, and
we won’t get back to-night now.—Tickets? Oh, I will pay at the other
end.—Good-bye, Ronald, you will have a dull evening, I am afraid, my
boy.—All right, Timms.’ And then the train moved out of the station,
and Ronald made his way slowly back to the carriage, feeling very sorry
for his little white-faced brother, and wishing that he could have gone
along with him.
Poor Vivian wished the same wish a great many times as the express
flew quickly along towards London. He had dreaded being alone with
his father, and yet to have been alone with him now would have been a
relief, for there were two other gentlemen in the carriage, both of
whom knew Dr Armitage, and were eager for any fresh news he could give
them respecting the robbery.
So the little boy had to sit in silent misery and hear every detail
of the robbery, of which the newspapers were full, talked over from
every point of view. His father tried to spare him, and to direct the
conversation to other topics; but it was not easily done, for both the
gentlemen were old and fussy, and they had to argue over every point,
and discuss every mysterious circumstance until Dr Armitage was at his
wits’ end how to answer their questions and yet hide from them how much
he knew, and poor Vivian was in such a state of nervousness that he
could have screamed aloud.
The journey came to an end at last, however, as all things do, whether
they be pleasant or unpleasant, and the train steamed into Victoria
Station, where the electric lamps were already blazing.
‘Now for a cab, my boy!’ said Dr Armitage, turning and laying his hand
on Vivian’s shoulder kindly, after he had helped the two garrulous
old gentlemen to get all their belongings out of the carriage, and
had shaken hands with them, and said good-bye. ‘All those questions
were rather hard on you, weren’t they? It is what you must expect, I
fear, for a time. But never mind, you have fought the first bit of
your fight, and you must just make up your mind to be brave and to go
through with it.’
The kind words brought the tears to Vivian’s eyes. ‘It is mother,’ he
said huskily. ‘I don’t feel as if I could meet her.’
‘Nonsense,’ said his father cheerily, for he saw that the little fellow
had had enough to bear, and needed some encouragement if he were not to
break down altogether, ‘mother is never hard on any one who has owned
up and said that they are sorry; and I am sure that Aunt Dora and Uncle
Walter will not be too hard on you either, although, of course, you
must expect to find them both angry and disappointed with you at first.
But we mustn’t stand talking here.—Hi, cabman!’
The cabman noticed the doctor’s signal, and turned his horse’s head;
but just at that moment there was a cry, and a rush of people to
another part of the station.
A man had slipped while coupling a moving engine to a train, and the
two first carriages had gone over his legs. Some one came running along
calling for a doctor, and Dr Armitage immediately offered his services.
‘Wait here till I come, my boy,’ he said. ‘See, the man will let you
get into his cab, and will wait for me at the end of the station.—I
may be some time, cabby,’ he added, looking up at the red-faced man on
the box. ‘If the poor fellow is badly hurt I may have some bandaging to
do before they can remove him to the hospital; but I’ll be back again
as quickly as I can.’
‘All right, sir,’ said the man, touching his hat. ‘I will wait for you
under the great clock yonder.’
The doctor hurried away without wasting more time. As he expected,
the accident was a serious one. The poor man’s legs were both badly
crushed, and it was some time before he could check the hæmorrhage
sufficiently to make it safe for him to be removed to the hospital.
When at last the sufferer had been made as comfortable as possible, and
the doctor had helped to place him in a station ambulance, and had seen
it start swiftly for its destination, he hurried back to find his cab.
There it was, waiting, as its driver had promised, just opposite the
great clock, the man apparently half-asleep on the box.
The doctor glanced up at the clock as he passed it.
‘Sorry to keep you, cabby; but I couldn’t help it,’ he said pleasantly
to the man, who must have been sleeping with one eye open, for he
straightened himself and gathered up the reins as soon as he saw his
fare appear. ‘And we have a long drive before us too. We wish to go
to Hampstead, to a house called “Eversley,” just on the Heath. I will
direct you to it when we get there.’
The man touched his hat with a smile which somehow lit up the whole of
his rough, weather-beaten face. ‘My horse will soon take you over the
ground. She’s a rare good little beast, and knows how to go. I hope the
young gentleman isn’t very cold. I thought once of saying to him that
he should go to the waiting-room over there, and then I thought as ’ow
you might be here at any minute.’
‘Oh, he’ll be all right,’ said the doctor, opening the door.—‘Are you
asleep, old fellow?’ he asked briskly. ‘I have been as quick as I
could; but it has taken me fully a quarter of an hour.’
There was no answer, and he sprang into the cab with an exclamation of
alarm. Had Vivian really gone to sleep, or, worn out with the strain
and excitement, had he suddenly been taken ill? Impatiently he groped
all round in the darkness. There was the travelling-rug, and there was
the hand-bag on the floor—he tripped over it, and for one horrible
moment thought it was his son. Then he struck a match and looked round.
The truth which had been dawning on him for the last few seconds, and
which he had refused to believe, was now quite plain, quite certain.
The cab was empty. Vivian had disappeared.