‘No, no, father,’ cried Vivian passionately, putting out both his hands to keep him back, ‘I’m quite sensible, and you must listen, for it’s all true. I stole the pistol, and I told lies, and they think it was Joe, and I talked to the burglar, and he got me to give cakes to Monarch. That is the only bit I didn’t mean to do, for I believed the man’s story, and I never thought that the cakes would poison the dog. And I hid the pistol in a hole in the branch of the old oak-tree. Isobel was showing the hole to me when we fell off.’
‘Come here, Vivian, and tell me all about it, just as it happened from the beginning. Nay, my boy, do not shrink from me; surely you know father better than that. If this story is true, I shall be deeply grieved and deeply disappointed; but you are doing all you can to set things right, and I will stand by you. I promise you that.’
For a moment Vivian swayed backwards and forwards, and his father caught hold of him, fearing another faint attack, then with a hoarse cry the little boy threw himself into his arms and broke into a perfect passion of tears. After the strain and dread of the last few days the note of kindness in his father’s voice was almost more than he could bear.
‘Oh father,’ he gasped, ‘you won’t send me to prison, will you? You won’t send me out of the house, not even when you hear the whole story?’
‘Certainly not, my boy,’ and the arm that was round him tightened its hold. ‘Fathers are not like that. I may be angry—very likely I shall be—if you have done anything to deserve it; but remember nothing would make me turn against you. Now, as soon as you are calm enough you will tell me everything.’
Both the boys had been well trained in self-control since their babyhood; but it was nearly five minutes before Vivian could steady his voice sufficiently to speak, and it was in sadly broken words that he told his tale. He did not spare himself. The burden of concealment had lain too heavily on his conscience for that, and now that he had broken the ice, it was a relief to tell out the whole sad story.
Dr Armitage listened in silence, only asking a question now and then to make some point clear, his grief and dismay increasing every moment. He had been prepared for some confession of childish wrong-doing, and had set down Vivian’s agitation as a necessary result of all the day’s excitement, and had thought that the same reason had led him to exaggerate his fault; but the tale he heard was far different from that. For a moment he forgot the sharp temptation which the finding of the pistol must have been to a boy of Vivian’s temperament, and was almost stunned to find that his own son, who had been brought up with so much care, could have practised and carried out such a tangled scheme of lies and deceit.
When the story was fully told there was silence for a minute.
‘Oh Vivian, Vivian! what will mother say?’ said Dr Armitage at last; and at his question, and the grieved tone in which it was spoken, the little boy shivered.
‘I don’t think she will ever love me again,’ he sobbed, ‘and I don’t deserve that she should.’