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VIVIAN’S LESSON
VIVIAN’S LESSON
They made such a pretty picture that there was quite a burst of applause.
V. L. Page 33.VIVIAN’S LESSON
By
ELIZABETH W. GRIERSON
Author of ‘Children’s Tales from Scottish Ballads,’ ‘The Children’s Book of Edinburgh,’ &c.
WITH TEN ILLUSTRATIONS
by
Hilda Cowham
LONDON AND EDINBURGH
W. & R. CHAMBERS, LIMITED
Philadelphia: J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
1907
Edinburgh:
Printed by W. & R. Chambers, Limited.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGEI.
WHAT BEGAN IT
1II.
AN INVITATION
11III.
GOING TO LONDON
19IV.
THE CHRISTMAS TREE
29V.
A FALSE STEP
40VI.
A GAME OF HIDE-AND-SEEK
54VII.
ANOTHER INVITATION
70VIII.
THE BROKEN WINDOWS
80IX.
THE MAN IN THE SUMMER-HOUSE
92X.
BURGLARS
103XI.
THE DOCTOR’S VISIT
121XII.
THE DARK SHADOW
135XIII.
A DREARY HOMECOMING
156XIV.
VIVIAN CONQUERS
166XV.
ANOTHER MYSTERY
179XVI.
A VAIN SEARCH
193XVII.
MADAME GENVIÈVE
203XVIII.
RUNNING AWAY
214XIX.
THE JOURNEY
223XX.
MONSIEUR THE VICOMTE DE CHOISIGNY
236XXI.
THE OPINION OF DR JULES
245XXII.
MR MAXWELL FINDS OUT THE TRUTH
254XXIII.
A HAPPY MEETING
265XXIV.
A FRESH BEGINNING
277XXV.
WESTWARD HO!
285LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGEThey made such a pretty picture that there was quite a burst of applause
Frontispiece.
They were a merry party as they walked across the snowy meadow to church
17The children set to work and transformed the hall into a perfect bower
29‘But what is that bundle of rags for?’ went on Vivian, putting up his hand to pull them down
59Isobel lay down with a story-book on the schoolroom sofa, and soon fell into a heavy sleep
64There, to his horror, looking through the gap, was a rough-looking man, with a stubbly beard, and a dirty white muffler twisted loosely round his neck
92At last a tiny red speck appeared under the yellow lamp, and began to move slowly up the road
162‘Thou lazy dreamer!’ she said, pulling him to his feet by the collar of his blue cotton blouse
205He sank gratefully into the soft bed of straw which the kind countryman made up for him, and had fallen into a feverish sleep
231‘Mother, oh mother!’ he cried. . . . ‘Can you forgive me?’
266‘No, that is just it,’ said his mother. ‘You did not like to tell, and so you were tempted at breakfast this morning to talk as if you knew nothing about it. That was not exactly telling a lie, Vivian; but do you not think that it was acting one? I think that is your besetting sin, my boy. You know that we all have a sin that we must specially fight against, and I want you to try and fight against yours. You have not the moral courage to confess when you have done something wrong, but you try to shuffle and explain things away, so as to hide what you have done. You have plenty of courage in other ways, quite as much, if not more, than Ronald. You have the kind of courage that would make you fight, or face danger; but there is a higher kind of courage than that, and I want you to try and gain it. I mean the courage that will tell the truth, even when the truth is not pleasant, and when you may get laughed at for telling it, and which will own up to a fault rather than try to hide it.
‘Well, then, that’s my very own private hiding-place. I found it out by myself, and no one else knows of it. I was up here one day last summer, and was walking along this branch and holding on to that one—you can do that in summer, when the branches are not slippery—and all at once my fingers went into a hole. The wood felt quite rotten, and I broke it away, and made it bigger, and I found that the whole branch was hollow, so I began to use it to put things in—story-books and things. Then, on half-holidays when I wanted to be alone, I used to climb up here, and sit and read, and nobody knew where I was.’
‘Plague upon the boy,’ she muttered, ‘and upon those who brought him! Three francs a week doth not go far on his food, for he eats like an ox, and as for trouble—hein!’ And she shrugged her shoulders again in the expressive way only practised by a Frenchwoman or an Italian, then she proceeded to search the wretched little outhouses which adjoined her cottage for the delinquent.
Perhaps the man saw the wistful look in his eyes, for after he had called to the landlord of the inn, and with his help had lifted down the great round tub-like barrel, with its living burden, and had carried it carefully into a small outhouse, where, apparently it was to remain during the night, and had seen his old gray horse safely tied up in one of the stalls in the stable, he turned to the little boy, who was still lingering near the archway.
VIVIAN’S LESSON.
CHAPTER I.
WHAT BEGAN IT.
‘COME on, Vivian. It is high time we were going home; you know we promised mother that we would come off the ice at half-past four.’
‘Well, so we will; but it is only five-and-twenty past now, so we have plenty of time for one turn more. Come on, old stupid; you are always frightened of being late;’ and the younger of the speakers, a brown-eyed, mischievous-looking lad of about eleven, swung off with his three companions, leaving his brother standing watching them, a troubled look on his face.
He hated to make a fuss, and he did not want to leave the ice a moment sooner than he could help; but a promise is a promise, and he had given his word that they would be ready to leave the pond at the half-hour. It was later than they were generally allowed to stay; but it was Saturday afternoon, and there were signs of a thaw, so, as the ice might not last till Monday, their father had agreed to an extra half-hour on condition that they left the ice punctually and hurried home.
Vivian had given his word readily enough, and had meant to keep it; but now, as he flew round and round the pond, crying ‘Just one turn more,’ he seemed to have forgotten all about his promise.
Ronald sat down and took off his skates, then stepped on the path, and stood buckling them together.
‘Come on, Vivi,’ he entreated. ‘It is the half-hour now, and you know how anxious mother will be.’
‘All right,’ said Vivian a little sulkily, ‘I suppose I must; but it is an awful nuisance, when we may not have such lovely ice all winter again.’
‘I should think so,’ struck in Fergus Strangeways. ‘I am thankful that father doesn’t make us come in so soon. Why, the moon will be up in no time, and we will stay on quite late. Captain Laing and he are coming down before dinner, and Captain Laing promised to show us how to cut the “Figure Eight.”’
‘How jolly!’ said Ronald a little wistfully, while Vivian bent his head over his straps and pretended not to hear.
‘Couldn’t you stay, really?’ asked Charlie Strangeways, Fergus’s elder brother; ‘you could come in and have tea with us. I dare say Dr Armitage would know where you were; it is going to be lovely moonlight, and it isn’t as if we were to be alone all the time. I don’t suppose that he would have minded if he had known that the dad and Captain Laing were coming.’
‘Oh, do let us stay, Ronald! I’m sure father wouldn’t mind. You know he did say that he would have taken us out by moonlight himself if he had not been so busy,’ pleaded Vivian.
‘No, Charlie,’ said Ronald firmly. ‘It is very good of you to ask us, and it would have been splendid fun; but father didn’t know about your father and Captain Laing, and he would wonder where we were. Besides, we promised.—So hurry up, Vivian.’
‘What a stick you are, Ronald!’ said Fergus; ‘you can’t change a bit, even when circumstances change. Just because Dr Armitage said that you couldn’t be out alone here after dark, you spoil all the fun by going off, although it is very different now that father and Captain Laing are coming.’
‘Don’t be stupid, Fergus,’ put in Charlie good-naturedly. ‘If they promised, they must go. Besides, it is a long way over to Holmend; it is easy for us with our house close by.’
Charlie was fifteen, and a public school boy, so his word carried weight with it, and his brother was silent, while Vivian took up his skates more cheerfully.
‘We’ll see you in the beginning of the week,’ went on Charlie; ‘we are going to practise shooting on Tuesday if the frost doesn’t hold, we have got such jolly little pistols from Uncle Don; they carry quite a long way, and one can kill a bird with them. You must come over and bring yours; the Doctor is going to give you a pair for Christmas, isn’t he?’
Poor Vivian turned hot all over. If there was one thing in the world he was frightened of, it was being laughed at. As a rule, the boys were at liberty to choose their Christmas presents; and when, a fortnight before, Fergus had told him of his uncle’s intended present, he had instantly agreed to ask his father for the same, and great had been his disappointment and dismay when his request met with a grave refusal.
‘A pistol for your Christmas present! Not if I know it, my boy. What! Fergus and Vere and Charlie going to have them? Well, if I mistake not, they will be in my hands shortly. No, no; if their father likes to risk their lives, that is no reason why I should risk yours. Now, don’t look so glum; I know what I am talking about. If you had seen the case I saw over at Whitforth the other day: a lad older than either Ronald or you had got hold of one of these pistols, and it went off in his little brother’s face. I don’t want to harrow your feelings, but,’ and the Doctor’s voice dropped, and he spoke sadly, ‘that poor little chap will never be able to see again. No; I’ll give you anything you like, in reason, for your Christmas present, but a pistol is out of the question.’
At the time the explanation had been sufficient, but now Vivian’s eager little spirit felt very rebellious.
Fergus Strangeways was just a year older than he was, and surely he was as capable of being careful as Fergus. How Fergus and Vere would laugh at him if they knew the whole story! He flashed a warning look at Ronald, but Ronald did not seem to understand.
‘We may come out to watch,’ he said in his quiet voice; ‘but father won’t let us have pistols yet. He says we are too young. He has promised to give us proper guns when we are sixteen. He will not let us shoot before that.’
The pitying looks on his companions’ faces were quite lost on Ronald, who was only thinking of his promise to be home in good time; but they stung Vivian even more than the words that followed.
‘What a nuisance it must be to be so well looked after! You’ll grow into regular muffs if you don’t look out.’
‘I would give you a licking for that, just to judge if the symptoms are beginning, but I haven’t time to-night,’ said Ronald, with a laugh, conscious that none of the boys could stand up against him; and he walked off whistling through the woods, followed by Vivian, who was fuming with rage and injured pride.
‘What made you go and give me away like that?’ he asked presently. ‘You know there is a talk of our going to Aunt Dora’s next week. I know, anyhow, because mother had a letter, and if only you had held your tongue I would have said that very likely we would be away from home, and they need never have known anything about father not letting us have these pistols. Now Fergus will go all over the place laughing at us for a couple of babies;’ and he kicked at the fallen leaves viciously in his vexation.
‘As if I minded what Fergus Strangeways says!’ retorted Ronald scornfully; ‘why, he’s the veriest little ass going. He may get a pistol, but I bet you a sixpence that he daren’t let it off, in spite of all his bluster. Besides, I knew nothing about any invitation to Aunt Dora’s; and if I had, I wouldn’t have been such a sneak as to pretend that that was the reason that we couldn’t go to shoot with them. Of course it is a nuisance. I would have liked a pistol as well as you; but father would not have hindered us having one if he had not had good reasons, and now that he has promised us that lovely camera I’m sure we can’t grumble.’
‘That’s all very well for you,’ growled Vivian; ‘you always were a bit of a muff, with your music, and your photographs, and your collections. “The paragon” the other boys call you behind your back, for they say that you haven’t enough spirit in you to do anything wrong.’
‘They had better say it to my face then, and I’ll give them what for, and you too for listening to such rot,’ said Ronald hotly; and then he laughed at his own vehemence. ‘Don’t let us quarrel on Christmas Eve,’ he went on pleasantly; ‘I’ll race you across the meadow.’
They set off at a run, and by the time they had reached the garden gate, hot and breathless, they had almost forgotten the cause of their anger.
‘There is mother at the window, and Dorothy,’ cried Vivian, waving his cap. ‘Doesn’t a lit-up room look jolly and comfortable when one is outside? After all, I am rather glad that we didn’t stay any longer at the lake, for I am awfully hungry, and I expect there is a scrumptious tea in the schoolroom.’
As they went into the hall of the long, low red house, a little figure in white ran out to meet them.
‘Hurry, quick!’ she lisped, ‘we’s going to have tea wif muvver, an’ then we’s going to dec’rate. Black has brought in such a lot of green stuff, heaps an’ heaps, all p’ickles. Dorothy knows, ’cause she hurted her fingers.’
‘Dorothy was well warned, so it was her own fault,’ said a clear voice behind her, and Mrs Armitage appeared in the hall. Tall, slim, and graceful, with a wealth of rippling hair and a sweet pale face, it was no wonder that to the boys mother was the centre of their world.
‘Quickly, boys, run upstairs, get off those dirty boots, and get ready for tea. Father has been called out, and may not be home till quite late, so I will have it with you in the schoolroom, and afterwards we will try to get the hall decorated before he comes back. You know how he loves to see the greenery.’
After tea, Ellen the housemaid was pressed into the service, so the decorations went on merrily; and as Vivian stood on a ladder fastening up the wreaths of bright holly which his mother’s quick fingers wove so rapidly, while little Dorothy ran about, proud in the belief that she was helping every one, he thought quite pityingly of the Strangeways, who had no mother or little sister, although they might possess pistols and skate in the moonlight while he had to come home.
CHAPTER II.
AN INVITATION.
CHRISTMAS Day dawned clear and bright. All prospects of a thaw seemed to be gone, for the frost had been very keen during the night, and every little twig on the trees glittered in the sunshine as if it were set with diamonds.
‘What a day for skating!’ said Ronald at breakfast-time, after good-mornings and good wishes had been passed round. ‘It almost makes one wish that Christmas had not fallen on a Sunday this year.’
‘Oh Ronnie!’ said little Dorothy aghast. ‘You touldn’t go skating to-day. Tink of the pudding, and we’s going to have ’sert. I saw muvver putting it out—oranges, an’ nuts, an’ ’nannas.’
‘Yes; but, Pussy, Christmas dinner is like the frost, it doesn’t last for ever,’ said Ronald, lifting his little sister into her place between his mother’s chair and his own, while everyone laughed at her remark.
‘Never mind,’ said Mrs Armitage, ‘even if it had been a week-day—what with church, and dinner, and presents—there would not have been much time for skating; besides,’ glancing out of the window as she spoke, ‘I do not think that it will last like this all day. I fancy we will have a fresh fall of snow ere night. Here comes father, so you may begin, boys.’
Dr Armitage was a pleasant-looking man, of about middle age, with a kind, open face, and keen gray eyes. The likeness between him and his eldest son would have told a stranger at once what relationship there was between them.
‘Well, boys,’ he said cheerfully, turning over a pile of letters as he spoke, ‘has mother told you the news yet?’
‘What news?’ they asked eagerly, while their mother shook her head in mock displeasure.
‘Oh Jack, you cannot keep a secret!’ she said, laughing. ‘I did not mean to tell them till after church. It will keep running in their heads all through the service. However, there is no help for it now.—How would you like to go to London, boys? To Aunt Dora’s, for a whole week by yourselves?’
‘To Aunt Dora’s, mother? Has she asked us? Oh yes, I remember, Vivian said’—— Ronald broke off abruptly.
Vivian’s remark of the previous afternoon about an invitation to Aunt Dora’s had flashed into his mind, and he was just going to ask him how he had heard the news when a frightened, warning look on his brother’s face checked him.
‘Oh, how jolly!’ he went on, in some embarrassment, after a moment’s hesitation; ‘we have never been away ourselves before. Will you let us go, mother?’
His mother did not seem to notice his confusion, nor the puzzled look which he wore as he relapsed into silence, and sat watching his brother, who was talking rapidly, his eager little face flushed and his eyes sparkling.
‘Yes, I think so,’ she replied, ‘if you promise to be very good boys. You are old enough now to be trusted away from home alone, so father and Dorothy and I must make up our minds to a quiet house for a week, for I wrote to Aunt Dora yesterday to say that you will be at Victoria at four o’clock on Monday afternoon.’
Breakfast was finished amidst much excited discussion as to what should be taken in the way of garments and portmanteau. A listener would have thought that the boys were going to America at least; but to lads of eleven and thirteen a first visit to London alone is a treat indeed.
As they were running upstairs to get ready for church, Mrs Armitage laid her hand on Vivian’s shoulder and drew him into her room.
‘What did Ronald mean at breakfast by saying that you had told him about Aunt Dora’s invitation, Vivian?’ she asked. ‘How did either of you come to hear of it?’
The little boy rubbed the point of his toe uneasily on the carpet.
‘Ronald is always thinking that I say things,’ he answered evasively, ‘and getting a fellow into a scrape. If he would only mind his own business.’
‘Nay, Vivian, that is unjust; you know Ronald would be the last person in the world to get you into a scrape; and in this case there is no scrape to get into, unless you choose to make one. If by any chance you found out anything about the invitation, as it seems you must have done, it probably was a mistake.’
‘Yes, mother, that was just it, it was a mistake,’ said Vivian, interrupting her eagerly. ‘There was a letter of Aunt Dora’s lying on your desk, and I saw a bit of it when you sent me to get those receipts.’
‘But you must have taken time to read it, did you not?’ said his mother gravely; ‘that could not be a mistake. I thought perhaps you had heard father talking to me about it; we sometimes hear things that are not intended for us to hear, but then the honourable thing to do is to say frankly that you did hear it. To read a letter that is not intended for you is quite a different matter. I did not think a son of mine would have done that.’
The tears came into Vivian’s eyes. He loved his mother passionately, and any appeal from her touched his proud little heart.
‘It really was a mistake at first, mother. When I was looking about for those receipts, I saw the letter lying spread out, and I could not help seeing one sentence. “I hope you will let the boys,” it began, and I did so much want to know what it was that Aunt Dora wanted you to let us do, so I took up the piece of paper and looked over on the other side. I was sorry in a moment, but I did not like to tell.’
‘No, that is just it,’ said his mother. ‘You did not like to tell, and so you were tempted at breakfast this morning to talk as if you knew nothing about it. That was not exactly telling a lie, Vivian; but do you not think that it was acting one? I think that is your besetting sin, my boy. You know that we all have a sin that we must specially fight against, and I want you to try and fight against yours. You have not the moral courage to confess when you have done something wrong, but you try to shuffle and explain things away, so as to hide what you have done. You have plenty of courage in other ways, quite as much, if not more, than Ronald. You have the kind of courage that would make you fight, or face danger; but there is a higher kind of courage than that, and I want you to try and gain it. I mean the courage that will tell the truth, even when the truth is not pleasant, and when you may get laughed at for telling it, and which will own up to a fault rather than try to hide it.
They were a merry party as they walked across the snowy meadow to church.
V. L. Page 17.‘You are so quick and impulsive, you often do things without thinking, not because you do not mean to do what is right, but because you do not take time to see that it is wrong; and that leads to the worse sin of covering up the matter and telling half-lies to shield yourself. Now, as this is Christmas Day, we won’t say anything more about it; only, dearie, try and remember who came this day to help us—to save us from our sins. That is what His name means.’
‘Yes, mother,’ said Vivian, beginning to fidget with all a healthy boy’s dislike to a ‘sermon,’ and his mother let him go with a sigh.
‘Will I ever be able to train him to be a brave and honourable man,’ she thought to herself, ‘with his quick, ambitious nature, his love of being first, coupled with his moral cowardice and fear of being laughed at?’
They were a merry party as they walked across the snowy meadow to church. Little Dorothy, who looked like a white woolly ball in her fur coat and cap, clinging to her father with one hand and to Ronald with the other, as they gave her slides along the slippery footpath, while Vivian hovered round, now sliding himself, now threatening to snowball the others, all trace of the late conversation seeming to have vanished from his mind. But the good thoughts came back again in the old church, where there was an atmosphere of sober gladness, its gray stone pillars being wreathed with glistening holly, and brightly coloured banners hanging over the pulpit and choir-stalls.
The rector took for his text the very verse that his mother had spoken about; and as the old man talked simply to the congregation of the battle that each one of us has to wage against the sin in ourselves before we can hope to fight successfully against the sin that is in the world, and how the Bethlehem Babe came to help and save us, Vivian, sitting in his dark corner of the old-fashioned pew, gave his mother’s hand a little squeeze, and, crushing his face against her cloak, made more good resolutions for the future than ever he had done before in the whole course of his happy, careless, light-hearted life.
