Vivian's Lesson

by Elizabeth W. Grierson

‘Why, Vivi, boy, what came over you?’ he asked, sitting down on the bed and putting his arm round his brother. ‘They tell me that you turned quite funny when you heard about Monarch, and Aunt Dora says that she can’t understand what put it into your head that you had hurt him. You only gave him some scraps of bread, didn’t you?’

There was something in Ronald’s voice as he asked this question which seemed to irritate his brother—a vague trace of anxiety, as if he would like to hear from Vivian’s own lips that this was all that he had had to do with the dog—for Vivian pushed away his arm roughly.

‘Of course it was all I gave him,’ he answered pettishly, ‘and I never thought they would do him any harm. I was confused and funny when I said that to Aunt Dora. Do go away, Ronald, my head aches so, and auntie said I was to be quiet.’

Ronald was silent for a moment, but there was a worried look on his face. There had been one or two things in his brother’s conduct that had puzzled him during the last few days, and he could not help remembering how he had noticed, the evening before, that Vivian’s house-shoes looked muddy, as if he had been outside with them, but clearly he was not in the mood for further questioning, so when he spoke again he wisely chose another subject.

‘Do you know, I think that Isobel is awfully ill, worse than we think,’ he said. ‘I haven’t seen Aunt Dora at all; but I asked Anne, and she told me that Isobel woke auntie up quite early this morning by beginning to scream, and when auntie went into her room she didn’t know her in the least. They got the doctor at once, and he gave her some stuff that made her quieter, but she has never been properly awake, and he is coming back at ten o’clock. I’m wondering,’ he went on slowly, ‘if we shouldn’t tell Aunt Dora about that fall she had on Wednesday? I’ve heard of people hurting their heads when they fell like that.’

In a moment all Vivian’s fears of discovery were reawakened, and all his dreams of confession had vanished. If Isobel’s fall were spoken of, the oak-tree behind the summer-house might come to be examined, and the hole and its hidden contents would be almost sure to be discovered.

‘Oh Ronald, don’t be a fool!’ he said sharply, sitting up in bed in his excitement; ‘that can’t have anything to do with Isobel’s illness. She has been as well as possible since then, and it is no use bothering Aunt Dora about it now. You’re nothing but an old woman, always going and imagining things.’

Ronald’s face flushed at the taunt. Always conscientious, and almost morbidly afraid of telling an untruth, he was apt to be called ‘womanish’ and ‘silly’ by the Strangeways, who could not understand a boy who preferred to be laughed at or punished rather than get out of a scrape by shuffling or making an excuse. Their teasing had little effect on him; but when the taunt came from his own sharp little brother’s lips, whom he admired with an unselfish admiration which few elder boys would have accorded to a younger one, it hurt him deeply, but he stuck to his point.

‘I don’t care,’ he said. ‘I may either be an old woman or not; but I once heard father say that injuries to people’s heads don’t always show at first, that’s why doctors often don’t know what is the matter with people. So I think that Aunt Dora ought to know, and I’m going to tell her.’

‘Aunt Dora ought to know what?’ asked a voice, and Mrs Osbourne entered the room. ‘I hoped to find this boy asleep,’ she said, laying her hand on Vivian’s hot cheek, and here he is chattering away as fast as he can. What are you discussing, and what is it that you think I ought to know?’