Vivian's Lesson

by Elizabeth W. Grierson

‘Nor I!’ ‘Nor I!’ ‘Nor I!’ echoed Isobel and Vivian and Claude.

‘It reminds me of the tea-party we had the night you came to us at Christmas, Ronald,’ said Ralph, ‘before all the fuss began. We had orange-cake that night, and I don’t believe I have tasted it since. Do you remember, we had the silver cake-knife upstairs to cut the icing and to make the table look nice—mother’s best silver cake-knife, which the thieves took, and which she has never got back?’

It was an unfortunate remark, for it brought back much that every one was trying to forget. Somehow, Ralph had a habit of making such remarks.

There was a moment’s pause, and then all the elders began to talk at once, hoping that Vivian had not heard Ralph’s words, for they had determined that no shadow of reproach should mar his home-coming.

But he had heard it, and his face turned crimson. ‘I thought all the silver had been found, Aunt Dora,’ he began timidly, looking across the table to where his aunt was seated.

‘So it has, dearie,’ she answered brightly, ‘all but one or two things which are of no moment. The most important is a great silver epergne which my great-uncle Joseph gave me when I was married, and which I felt I must keep out on the sideboard, as he is always popping in to lunch in the most unexpected fashion, and his feelings would have been deeply hurt if he had missed it. He thought it a most wonderful work of art, while I sometimes felt as if I would like to give it to a bazaar or something, just to get it out of the way. So now it is gone without hurting anyone’s feelings, and I do not mourn it. Besides,’ she went on, ‘that party was not nearly as nice as this one—was it, Isobel? We had not Uncle Jack, nor Aunt Dora, nor little Dorothy; and we did not even know Mr Maxwell’s name then.’

‘Me don’t know him now,’ said little Dorothy, who always said straight out what she thought, and who had been studying the strange gentleman all tea-time, with great wondering eyes, from her place of honour at Vivian’s right hand.

‘Don’t you, young lady,’ said Mr Maxwell, pushing back his chair, among general laughter, and coming round to where she sat. ‘Ah, then I cannot take you round the garden pickaback; I only do that to people whom I know.’

‘Oh, but me will know you now,’ cried Dorothy, who dearly loved this mode of travelling, stretching out her arms to the kind, worn face which always exercised a peculiar fascination over children; and, in the roars of laughter which greeted this sudden change of opinion, the threatened cloud was forgotten, and Vivian’s face grew bright once more.

So once again the old story proved true all through, and the little prodigal coming back to his own country found, instead of the stern welcome which he had expected, only laughing and feasting and rejoicing. And here, in his new home, we may say good-bye to him for he has learned his bitter lesson, and learned it well. And no truer resolve was ever made, or more faithfully kept, than the one he made that night when he was alone with his mother in the little bedroom which opened out of Ronald’s, and which was to belong to him, that from henceforth he would strive with all his might against his besetting sin, and that when he was overcome by it—as all of us are, many times, by our own special temptations—he would not try to hide it, but would own up at once fully and freely, and then begin again with fresh energy to fight his battle with all his might.