Vivian's Lesson

by Elizabeth W. Grierson

‘But we will not stop to moralise to-night,’ he went on, stooping down and lifting Pierre gently in his arms, ‘for I know that you are tired, if you don’t, and the best place for tired boys is bed. You will see how much brighter you will feel in the morning.’

He did not say any more, but when the little boy was safely in bed, and he took up his Bible to read a few verses aloud, as he had always done since Pierre was well enough to listen, he hesitated, and turned over the leaves slowly. At last he began to read softly, in the dim light, the beautiful old story of the son who went into the far country, and of the father who was waiting so tenderly to welcome him, when as yet he was a long way off, but when his face was once more turned towards home.

When it was finished he rose, and, crossing the room, he stooped down to give Pierre his customary good-night kiss; but the little face was buried in the pillow, and he could feel that the boy was shaking from head to foot in his endeavours to keep back the sobs.

‘This will never do,’ he thought to himself; ‘this will throw him back for days. It is better to have it out, even at the risk of a lecture from Dr Jules.’

So, seating himself on the bed, he put his arm very tenderly round the little huddled-up figure, and drew it towards him.

‘My child,’ he said softly, ‘can you not trust me? Would it not be better to tell me everything, instead of hiding it up in your own heart? Besides, though I do not know everything about you, I think I know a good deal. Nay, I have not been prying,’ he went on, as he felt the little boy start at his words; ‘but you know I have been accustomed to meet all sorts of people in my work, and to hear all sorts of stories, very sad ones most of them, and one learns to read between the lines. For instance, I know that you are an English boy and a gentleman’s son—your voice and manners tell me that; and am almost certain that your name is not Pierre. I am almost certain, too, that you have got into some trouble—done something wrong, perhaps—and you are just like the son in the story, you are thinking of home, and your father there, or perhaps your mother; only it seems so difficult to go back that you have almost lost heart.’

‘It’s mother. Father knows,’ gasped Pierre between his sobs. ‘But I’ve been thinking all this time, since I could remember, that perhaps it would be better if I were always Pierre. I could go away and work, when I am better. The Vicomte might give me something to do, and you know I learned to work with Madame Genviève. For they must have lost me since Christmas time, and perhaps mother thinks that I am dead, and it would be better for them all, Ronald and Dorothy too, if they thought so always. For I’ve been a thief and a liar; and, although Isobel didn’t die, I’m sure mother’s heart must be broken. Besides, Ronald is going to school next year, and all the other boys would get to know what sort of brother he has.’

‘Poor little chap!’ said Mr Maxwell—who had been able to pick out Vivian’s story pretty accurately from his confused sentences—lifting him into a more comfortable position, and stroking his bandaged head; ‘so you think that lives are ruined at eleven years old, and that mothers feel like that? Why, I hope that you have many years to live yet—many years in which to undo the past; and as for your mother, my boy, I think she is far more likely to be breaking her heart because she does not know where you are or what has happened to you. But tell me all about it, from the very beginning, and then I will try to help you to do what is right. You need not be afraid that it will make any difference to me; my lads at Bethnal Green always came to me in their troubles.’

So Pierre told all the long story which had seemed so perplexing and confused during the months that he had lived with Madame Genviève, but which had pieced itself together in his mind and become clear and distinct since the operation.