He did not answer, and Mr. Vivyan looked out keenly at him, from behind the book he was reading. But still Arthur had nothing to say, and the troubled look came deeper on his face. He came nearer to his mother’s chair, and presently when he found himself there he laid his head on her lap.
“What is it, my darling?” she asked, laying her hand on his brown hair. Then the tears came into his eyes, and it was not directly that he was able to say, “Mother, I know it was very wrong of me; but I heard what you and papa were saying this morning when you were in the boudoir.”
“It was very wrong indeed,” said Mr. Vivyan; “I did not think you would have done such a thing, Arthur.”
“Oh, Arthur, Arthur!” said his mother very gently and sadly, “why did you, why did you not remember?”
He was crying now, and he did not need to be told that he had done very wrong.
“Well, then, you know all about it, I suppose?” said Arthur’s father.
“No, I don’t, papa. I only heard that something dreadful was going to happen; and you told mother to tell some one, and she said she couldn’t; and then you said you would, and I don’t remember the rest.”
Mr. Vivyan smiled rather sadly, and Arthur felt his mother’s arm more closely clasped around him.
“Was it about me?” asked Arthur presently.
Mr. Vivyan looked up at his wife, and then he said, “Arthur, my boy, when I was in India before, why did your mother stay in England?”