‘My dear, are you ill? You should have sent Ronald down,’ he said in alarm, and crossing the room, he would have taken the little boy on his knee, but Vivian pushed his arm away and shrank back against the wall.
‘You won’t touch me when you know, father,’ he began, and his voice did not seem as if it belonged to him at all, ‘for I’m a thief, and a liar, and a murderer, or at least as good as one, for it is all my fault that Isobel is dying; and I thought—I thought—if I told all about it, God might make her better.’
Here he stopped to moisten his lips, for they were so dry he could not go on.
‘My dear, you do not know what you are saying!’ said his father starting forward, greatly alarmed, fearing, like Ronald, that the excitement of the past day had affected the little fellow’s brain.
‘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.’