A HAPPY MEETING.
THE whole of the next day Vivian lay under the lime-tree, hardly
speaking at all, a look of happy expectancy on his face. All his
dread of meeting his parents seemed to have vanished, and in spite of
Mr Maxwell’s assurances that Mrs Armitage could not possibly arrive
that night, even if she were at home and able to start the moment she
received the telegram, he pleaded to be allowed to remain up an hour
later than usual, and only consented to go to bed when his eyes were
growing so heavy that he could hardly keep them open.
Perhaps this was the reason why he was not disturbed by the bustle
of an arrival early next morning, although the window of his bedroom
looked straight down into the courtyard; and why he did not wake when
his bedroom door was gently opened, and some one entered the room and
sat down in the great arm-chair at the head of his bed.
It was quite half-an-hour afterwards when he opened his eyes, and fixed
them in a half-wondering way on the sweet face that was bent down over
his.
[Illustration: ‘Mother, oh mother!’ he cried.... ‘Can you forgive me?’
V. L. PAGE 266]
‘Mother, oh mother!’ he cried, throwing up a pair of thin arms and
clasping them round his mother’s neck as if he would never let her go
again. ‘Can you forgive me? I am so sorry—so terribly sorry.’
‘Yes, indeed, I can,’ said Mrs Armitage in a broken voice, pressing her
lips to the little face which she had given up all hopes of ever seeing
again. ‘God has been very good to us, Vivi, in giving you back; and we
will begin all over again, dearie, and forget all that has passed.’
For a moment there was silence, mother and son clinging to each other
in a happiness that was too deep for words.
Then Vivian spoke again.
‘And Aunt Dora and Uncle Walter,’ he asked rather anxiously, ‘will they
ever speak to me again? And how is Isobel? And what about Joe Flinders?’
‘Isobel is almost well again,’ answered Mrs Armitage cheerfully,
determined that after the first natural emotion there should be
nothing but gladness in the meeting, and that the little prodigal who
had suffered so much and repented so deeply should feel that there was
nothing but rejoicing at his return. ‘She is still lying on her chair,
but she is to be allowed to walk about next month when they go to the
seaside.’
‘On her chair! Has she been lying on a chair all this time?’ asked
Vivian in surprise, his radiant face growing grave with the sense of
this new calamity.
‘Ah, it will take you quite a long time to pick up the threads of
family life again,’ laughed his mother; ‘but do not look so distressed.
Isobel is quite happy, and is really almost well; and as for Uncle
Walter and Aunt Dora—well, look here—here is a telegram which they have
sent all this way to you, just to let you know how glad they are that
we have found you again.’
Tears came into Vivian’s eyes as his mother held up the flimsy paper
and he read the kind words which it contained for himself.
‘Every one is too good to me, mother,’ he said, his lips quivering;
‘I don’t deserve it. It is just like the Bible story—the ring, and
the best dress; and yet all the time Mr Maxwell was reading it to me
the other night I felt that it could not turn out the same for me, and
I was afraid to tell him my proper name. He has been so good to me,
mother; he made me feel that I must tell him, even though I was afraid,
for he began talking about you, and saying that you might be breaking
your heart because you had lost me. Somehow I had never thought about
that before; I had only thought of the trouble and the disgrace I had
been to you all. And yet it is true what he said. You are just as kind
and jolly as ever, just as if I hadn’t done anything.’
His mother kissed him softly.
‘And remember, dearie,’ she whispered, ‘if it is true of mother and
father, it is far more true of God, and of the dear Lord who first told
the story as an example of what love and forgiveness really are. But we
must not have any more serious talk just now. Why, you have never asked
for father, or Ronald, or little Dorothy!’
‘Oh yes, how are they?’ asked Vivian eagerly, looking half-ashamed of
his omission. ‘And Joe Flinders,’ he repeated anxiously, ‘how is he?’
‘Joe is very well indeed,’ replied his mother, seeing that it would
ease his mind to have this sore subject spoken of. ‘But he is not with
Uncle Walter now; he has got a place as groom-gardener at a country
rectory in Dorsetshire, and his mother has gone with him to keep the
lodge and look after the hens. Joe is quite elated, I can tell you; his
wages are almost double what he had at Eversley, and we hear such good
reports of him! As for Dorothy, she is blooming; she sent a hundred
kisses to you, and would have sent her own special dolly Rose-Marie if
I had had room for her in my bag. As for father and Ronald, they must
speak for themselves, for I hear them coming upstairs.’
‘Father and Ronald! Have they come all this way to see me?’ asked
Vivian, his eyes wide open with astonishment.
His mother had no time to answer before the door was thrown open, and
the smiling faces of his father and brother were beaming down at him.
Ronald’s smile was rather misty, to be sure, in spite of the warning
Dr Armitage had given him about not breaking down or exciting Vivian,
and his ‘Hallo, old chap!’ sounded rather choked; but what did it
matter to Vivian, who pulled the dear curly head down on the pillow
beside him, feeling that he could face the world again now that he had
all his dear ones with him, and they had forgiven him freely!
They all talked for a little time, and then his mother cleared the
room, and insisted that he should lie still and rest quietly for an
hour after all the excitement which he had passed through, while she
sat beside him in happy silence, holding his hand in hers.
Then she helped him to dress, and his father came and carried him out
to his usual place under the lime-tree, where he spent a long happy
morning, talking to his mother and Ronald, listening to all that they
had to tell him of the events of the last six months, and pouring out
his own story about the little cottage away in the _Montagnes Noirs_,
and old Madame Genviève, and the gentle Nanette (of whom he had been
really fond), and the kind peasant who had acted the Good Samaritan to
him, and who had so unwittingly led him to safe shelter by suggesting
that he should travel hidden in the Vicomte’s motor-car.
‘Father must find him out and give him something, mother,’ he said;
‘for if it had not been for him I would never have come here. Indeed, I
think I would have turned ill by the roadside, for I can just remember
how my legs ached and how funny my head felt. As for Madame Genviève, I
don’t want ever to see her again,’ and he gave a little shudder as he
remembered the dark days he had spent with her.
‘No, you need never see her again, my boy,’ said his mother, ‘and I
think the best thing you can do is to put all thoughts of her out of
your head.’
She did not add that although Vivian would not see the unkind old woman
again, unless he had to go into the witness-box and witness against
her, other people would make a point of finding her out, and making
her explain how it was that Vivian came to live with her; for, after
discussing the matter, the Vicomte and Mr Maxwell and Dr Armitage had
all agreed that there was little doubt that she was in league with
her son who had brought Vivian to the cottage, and who in his turn
was doubtless in league with the gang of burglars who had broken into
Eversley with such disastrous results.
The three gentlemen had gone to Dinard to meet the detective whom the
Vicomte had telegraphed for; but Vivian was not told this, as it was
thought better not to excite him more than could be helped; and when
at last they returned in time for afternoon-tea (which the Vicomte
had ordered out of courtesy to Mrs Armitage), bringing a stout,
rosy-cheeked little man with them, who spoke French and English equally
well, and who looked exactly like a farmer, it was quite a long time
before the little boy grasped the fact that the stranger who listened
so attentively, and seemed so interested in all his adventures, was
really one of the cleverest detectives in Europe.
‘Bravo!’ he said at last, when, almost unknown to Vivian, the whole
story had been drawn forth once more. ‘You are a very plucky fellow,
Master Vivian, for I fancy that few grown men would have dared to
tackle Jim Strivers as you did. Why, he is one of the best-known
burglars in England, and a most dangerous man. It was a desperate
step, even for him, to smuggle you into a carriage, and to tap you on
the head to keep you still. I wonder they did not discover you at the
Custom-House. One of them carried you like a baby, I dare say. However,
he will find he has gone just one step too far this time. We will get
rid of him for ten or fifteen years.’
‘Do you know his name?’ asked Vivian in surprise.
‘Yes, I do, now that you have described him to me,’ said the man,
laughing. ‘I have a very large acquaintanceship with people of that
kind, young sir; if I showed you my visiting-list you would be
astonished. I wonder none of us thought of Jim before; but we didn’t
know that he was in London just then, and his giving us the slip, and
getting across to Paris like that, threw us off the scent.—However,
I’ll be off to Paris as soon as is convenient to you, monsieur,’ and he
bowed to the Vicomte. ‘There is no time to be lost if we want to catch
the whole gang. For, now that the young gentleman has escaped, the old
woman may give the alarm, though we will hope that she is in too great
fear of her son to let him know a moment sooner than she could help.—I
don’t expect she could write. Could she?’ he went on, turning sharply
to Vivian.
‘I don’t know; I never saw her try,’ said Vivian doubtfully.
‘I do not expect she could,’ said the detective; ‘the stupider she is,
the safer for the gang. I shouldn’t be a bit astonished if they took
part of the swag there, as well as the young gentleman. With such a
hue-and-cry as there was over the robbery, it would not be very safe
for them to try to sell it.’
‘What do you mean by the swag?’ asked Ronald.
‘Why, the silver, to be sure, young sir, and the other things that they
took. Experienced men like them always know that it is safer to let the
noise die down before they try to sell the swag, even if it is melted
silver in a lump. Now, I shouldn’t be at all astonished if there were
some very pretty nuggets of metal hidden about that old dame’s house.
What might tell tales in Paris or London may be quite safe in the heart
of Brittany, you know.’
‘I’ll tell you where it is,’ cried Vivian, starting up suddenly. ‘It is
hidden in the little outhouse where Nanette stays.’
He looked so flushed and excited that Mr Maxwell glanced hastily at
Dr Armitage, thinking that all the events of the day had brought on a
return of the fever.
‘No, it is all right; he knows what he is saying,’ said the doctor,
laying a restraining hand on Vivian’s shoulder.—‘Lie down again, my
boy, and tell us quietly what makes you think that the silver is there.’
‘Because one day, just when I first began to get about, I was in
Nanette’s stall, and I thought I heard a rat. You know how I hate
rats,’ and he shivered at the remembrance. ‘Well, I was poking about
in the thatch with a stick to see if I could see its hole, when Madame
Genviève came in, and, oh, she was so angry! She looked frightened too,
and she shook me until I was so giddy I could hardly see, and she said
that if ever she found me poking there again she would beat me with her
little stick.’
‘Ah, she did, did she?’ said the little rosy-faced man grimly, while
Mrs Armitage took Vivian’s thin white hand in hers and held it fast.
‘Well, we shall see what we shall see. I fancy Madame Genviève will
need to put up with a variety of people who want to poke about in her
thatched roof.—But by your leave, Monsieur the Vicomte, I shall say
adieu, or rather _au revoir_. The train for Paris leaves Dinard at six
o’clock sharp, and I think I hear the man bringing round the motor.’
And with a cheery nod and smile the little man departed, eager to be
on the track of the men for whom he and his colleagues had searched so
diligently for the last six months.