IV. Vivian.

"Mr. Meredith is here to see you, sir," his valet, Patrick, informed him.

"Mr. Meredith?" Cyril stood still as Patrick slid the coat from his shoulders. "I've only just come from Percy's."

"The younger Mr. Meredith, I meant, sir." Patrick folded Cyril's coat over his arm.

"Oh-- why didn't you simply say Vivian Meredith and have done with it? Really, you might save me a lot of trouble if you could be precise from the outset."

"Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir." Patrick lowered his eyes a modicum, enough to imply respect without admitting to wrongdoing, a particularly maddening habit the man had, though Cyril didn't complain, as he secretly liked a valet with spirit.

"If Vivian's here, where is he?" Cyril asked, adding, "Patrick, if you would please straighten my--" He broke off as Patrick, sensing what was needed, laid hands on the snowy fabric of his neckcloth, setting smooth what had gone askew. "Thank you, Patrick."

"Yes, sir. And Vivian Meredith was shown into the sitting room, I do believe."

"Thank you, Patrick. That will be all, Patrick."

With a bow, the valet disappeared, and Cyril was left pondering, not for the first time, how Patrick managed to courteously bow in a fashion that nevertheless managed to display an almost undetectable measure of insubordination-- or was it insubordination? Was it not something quite different, something more like pride? He shook his head slightly. He despaired of ever understanding that man.

Vivian he had a greater hope of fathoming. Smoothing his hair back unthinkingly with the palm of one hand, Cyril abandoned thoughts of Patrick and turned his steps towards the sitting room where the boy was ostensibly waiting for him. He wondered, as he walked, why Vivian had come to call on him so unexpectedly. It was unlike Viv. Why had he not simply waited until Cyril had come to pay his father Percy a call, which was often? Cyril had only just left Viv's own house. He had been expecting to encounter Vivian there, as the boy was home on holiday. Yet Vivian had not been there, and even Percy had not known where he was. Had Vivian been waiting for him here the whole time? The situation struck Cyril as curious. He did not trouble himself by inventing possible explanations, however. He supposed, as he stepped inside the sitting room, that the matter would soon be illuminated.

Vivian did not look up as he came in. Indeed, the boy did not seem to notice he had entered the room. Viv was seated by the window, looking out. The gray light of the dreary if rainless day washed out rather than lit the boy's face, fading his paleness to colorlessness. Cyril stood still and silent, taking this opportunity to view Vivian while the boy believed himself unobserved, his guard down. He's miserable, was Cyril's first thought, followed by, He wants to tell me something. And he'll make me promise to keep it a secret, just like every other member of that wretched family I've somehow managed to get myself tangled up with. Ah, don't the damned Merediths realize how I loathe keeping secrets? Can't they find anyone else to talk to? He smiled to himself as he thought this, hoping that Viv's confession, whatever it was, would not be too dire.

Cyril cleared his throat, and Vivian turned. The sight of Cyril did not seem to cheer him, but he made an effort to smile. "Hello, Uncle." The boy resembled his twin sister Vera in no small measure. He had the same black hair, the same black eyes. He favored black clothes, too, and sometimes put Cyril in mind of a young mortician, albeit an elegant one-- for Vivian was nothing if not elegant, with a slenderness and pallor any poet would have envied.

"Hello, Vivian," said Cyril carefully, moving across the room towards him. "It's good to see you. I've just come from your father's house."

"Oh, have you?" It was distressing to hear him force lightness into his tone, as well as a ludicrous conceit on Vivian's part. If he were trying to seem normal, false gaiety was not the proper course for him. No one had ever accused Vivian of being merry-- not that he tended towards being ill-tempered, but he was on the whole a serious young man. Too serious, Cyril might have said, if he were asked. There was no need for the lad to take everything to heart and keep it there to brood over.

"We were wondering where you were, actually."

"Yes, well-- here I am," said Vivian unnecessarily.

There was another chair facing the one Vivian had opted to seat himself in, and Cyril lowered himself into it. He could see that whatever the matter was, he would have to draw it out of the boy. He put his hands in his lap, leaning forward in his chair slightly, solicitous. "Are you feeling well, Viv?"

Vivian turned his mournful gaze upon Cyril. "Why-- why do you ask?"

"I must tell you, you don't look well at all. In fact, you look as though you're going to be sick."

"Oh. I do?"

Cyril tried very hard not to smile, to look grave and concerned, and he believed he succeeded. He had skill in masking his emotions, unlike the boy who sat facing him. It amazed him that Vivian did not realize how transparent his emotions were. He might as well have kept them embroidered on his clothes in gold thread. Gently, Cyril said, "Yes. What's the matter? Some particular concern has brought you here, that's clear enough."

"Yes, well--" Vivian lowered his eyes. "Yes, I fear it has." He let out a sigh, then raised his gaze to meet Cyril's again, his pale face suddenly flushed scarlet, the only color it ever wore, red roses on white. "Uncle Cyril, I fear I've done something horrible."

"Horrible?" Cyril's eyebrows rose slightly higher. "That's a strong word, Vivian. It can't be so bad as all that, can it? Unless you've murdered someone, and even then, I'm of the opinion that there are people in this world who deserve to suffer death, as quickly and as violently as possible."

This brought a real smile to play across Viv's lips, but only fleetingly. "No, I haven't murdered anyone."

"Excellent. But you will come to me first if you ever murder someone, won't you? I'm sure I'd be the right person to advise you in that case."

Viv sighed, although Cyril caught a glimpse of that fleeting smile again. "I'm not going to murder anyone, Uncle Cyril."

Cyril wanted to put the boy at his ease. Vivian's profound unhappiness was not something he enjoyed watching. Yet neither did he want Viv to think he was making light of his problem. It was a difficult balance to strike, and balance was not something he had ever known how to strike well, so he replied unguardedly, able only to be sincere, no matter the consequences, "Don't be too sure. You never can tell what might happen. I will wager that before you die, you'll meet someone you want to kill. I know I have."

"Maybe so," said Viv, frowning at the prospect. "I hope not."

"We'll see. But as you haven't murdered anyone yet, there's no sense in discussing it. Tell me, what is this terrible thing you claim to have done?"

Viv shifted in his seat, uncomfortably. "First, I want you to promise--"

"Not to tell your father?" Cyril guessed, interrupting him.

"Not to hate me," Vivian corrected. "But yes, that too. Father can't know-- please."

"Hate you? Viv, I would never--" Cyril broke off as an idea occurred to him. Oh no. Please, he thought, don't let him tell me what I think he's going to tell me and then not allow me to tell his father. That would be too much, too torturous for me to bear. Please. Cyril didn't know who he was pleading with, as he was so completely lapsed in the faith of his youth it was doubtful to him that anyone was listening, but he felt the need to plead nonetheless. "I could never hate you."

"And you won't tell?"

"Yes, yes, I won't tell," he said quickly, masking his irritation, still wondering why he was forced to weather such cruelty, he who was most unsuited to the keeping of secrets, but still unable to refuse the keeping of any secret, because he couldn't bear not to be told a secret once it was offered to him. "I promise."

"All right," said Viv, looking down at his hands, which he had laid in his lap. He took a breath. Cyril waited, as patient as it was possible for him to be. Vivian began: "At school . . . ," but he trailed away before anything of import was revealed.

"Perhaps," Cyril suggested, and the suggestion was in no small way a selfish one, as he did not want to sit through a series of halting sentences broken off one after another, "it would be easier if you told me quickly. You might suffer less." He smiled reassuringly.

Vivian nodded, swallowing, then taking another breath as though to fortify himself, as though more breath filling his lungs would make what he had to say easier said. "At school, this term, I fear I've been behaving badly. I-- that is, some of the other boys and I-- have been-- touching each other inappropriately. In an unnatural fashion, I mean." He went on, desperately, "You know what I mean, don't you?" As though going onto further detail would be too painful for him. "And I know-- Uncle Cyril, I know I shouldn't, but I can't seem to help it." His brow creased with the hopelessness of his expression, his eyes sad, looking altogether more than a little lost.

Again, Cyril suppressed a smile, sensing a smile would be unwise at this juncture. Cyril remembered himself at Viv's age. He remembered the madness of kissing, the sliding of hands over smooth young bodies, the willingness of mouths opening to him, so many mouths willing and open then which age and so-called maturity had later closed. It had been a time of great opportunity, and Cyril had taken full advantage of it. He would never, in those days, have dreamed of going to his uncle or to his father to confess his sins with such guilt and confusion in his eyes. He had felt no guilt, no confusion. But this is Vivian, and not Cyril, and this was exactly what Cyril had expected Vivian to tell him, Vivian transparent to him as usual.

Cyril's first impulse was to return Viv's confidence with one of his own, to say, Don't fret, Viv. Why, I myself . . . . To say, It's all right, even your father and I . . . . But he could not say those things, could not tell Viv that he himself had touched other boys in the same unnatural fashion, that he had even touched Viv's own father in that unnatural way, and on a regular basis. He wanted to ask him how it could be unnatural when they had taken to it so naturally. He wanted to speak to the boy candidly; perhaps it would help him. Cyril had long believed that honesty was a balm, even if it was a balm that seemed to hurt at first, more than it helped. Cyril, unfortunately, could not speak candidly. No, he'd made a promise to Percy. A confounded promise. He had promised not to reveal to Percy's children the full extent of his relationship with their father. By association, he was not allowed to tell Percy's children about his own proclivities, lest his association with their father lead them to draw the correct conclusions. What, then, could he say?

"Ah, Vivian." Dear Vivian. "I hardly think that counts as something horrible," said Cyril. "It's only--" What could he say that wouldn't implicate him? "It's only harmless pleasure. And it's more common than you think, especially among boys away at school, such as yourself. Especially among boys of a certain age. Such as yourself."

Vivian sighed, as ever stubborn when determined to punish himself. "I don't think it is harmless pleasure, though. I'm harmed by it."

Cyril's tone shifted to one of concern. "Is someone forcing you to do something you don't want to?"

"Oh, no, no, nothing like that," said Vivian quickly, frowning. "It's just-- it upsets me. It makes me feel so uncomfortable and miserable-- I mean, afterwards, it does." His words were heavy with the entire burden of his heart. "Is there-- is there something wrong with me, do you think?"

"No, I don't think there's anything wrong with you," said Cyril, without need for a moment's consideration. "Vivian, I--" What was he supposed to say when he couldn't say anything about himself? This confession of Vivian's was tame compared with what he could have confessed at Vivian's age . . . . He thought back. That had been a long time ago, hadn't it? He was an adult now, nearly an old man. His lover's children were almost grown, growing older by the moment. Soon they would have lovers of their own-- well, Vera wouldn't, presumably. Cyril thought back, and he smiled sadly. Of course, if he could have, he would have returned to that earlier time. Who that had grown old would not want to be young again, at least in a way, at least for a short time? There were certain things-- he would have liked to have again. But now was fine too, and now would have to do.

Now Vivian was young, and Cyril didn't want him to feel as though he was worthy of hatred, as though there was something wrong with him. There would be many other people who would think that; Vivian didn't need to think it of himself. "Of course," said Cyril slowly, "I've known other men who enjoyed such-- activities, and I didn't think there was anything wrong with them." Vivian, he thought, was fortunate to have been raised in this family, although as families went, it was admittedly more than a little odd.

"Did you?" Vivian looked at him intently with those sober black eyes. So serious! "In school as well?"

"Yes, in school."

This seemed to reassure Vivian, at least somewhat. Emboldened, he began to speak again. "Uncle Cyril, I--" He broke off.

"Yes?" Cyril was not a patient man, but he could be patient when the occasion warranted.

"Uncle Cyril, I--" Vivian lowered his eyes, keeping them fixed on his hands in his lap, and spoke like a young wife confessing to a priest. "I enjoy it."

It took all Cyril's willpower, every last ounce of his reserves, not to burst into laughter. He couldn't. He couldn't laugh at this serious boy now without wounding him. He couldn't even smile. He kept his voice measured. "Of course. Of course you do, Vivian. That is-- to be expected."

"I know, that sounds foolish, doesn't it? I didn't mean it like that. It's just that I-- prefer it."

Cyril nodded. "Yes, that does happen sometimes."

"Have you known men like-- like that, as well?"

"I have, yes." Cyril was careful not to sound knowing, to keep his eyebrows lowered, his expression neutral.

Vivian hid his face in his hands, his shoulders slumping suddenly, voice breaking as though he were about to cry. "God, this is too awful to talk about. I'm sorry."

"Vivian." He pronounced the boy's name firmly, causing him to look up, and Cyril saw that the boy's eyes were indeed bright with tears. He knew he had to interject some levity, lest Viv upset himself further. He had seen Vivian do this before, vexing himself into a veritable fit. "What are you fretting about now? You've already told me, and here I am, not in the least distraught or upset with you. So-- unless you've something worse to confess, you'll have to give it up, because I fear you've failed to shock your old uncle. He's seen too much of the world."

"Oh. I-- I suppose you're right." Vivian smiled faintly, brushing his hands through his dark hair, tucking it back behind his ears. "I've told you already, haven't I?"

Cyril was glad to see Vivian's smile and returned it. "Yes, you have. And I do not censure you in the least. Of course-- you must be careful. It can be dangerous, you know that. "

Vivian nodded. "Yes, I know it can be dangerous." He sighed, his tone slightly disgruntled, and Cyril, who knew he hated to be lectured at, and that lecturing him was a sure way to bring him back out of his gloom, smirked to himself. "I'm not incautious."

"I didn't mean to suggest that you were. I don't doubt that you are. But that is, you realize, the responsible sort of thing I am obligated to say as your uncle." Yes, it would be nice to be young again, but it is pleasant enough in a way to know that people are going about being young still, doing all the things young people are fond of doing-- which he is not old enough yet to have grown unfond of doing, but when young people do those things they seem so much more important and troubling and vital and strange. It would be nice to feel like that again, for a little while.

Then again . . . . maybe it wouldn't. Maybe there was a reason people were young once, then grew older. Cyril would hesitate to say what that reason might be, disbelieving as he did in divine order, but it seemed right somehow, all the same.

Vivian rolled his eyes, and it was nice and natural to hear irony in his voice. "Yes, you're so very responsible. How did you ever get to be so terribly responsible?"

"When you're older," said Cyril, lying prettily, "You'll understand these things." Or one could pretend to understand them. Which was near enough to understanding, as near as one could get.

Vivian sighed again. "You could have at least scolded me a bit." The boy would sulk about something, even when he had nothing to sulk about.

Cyril shook his head. "Oh no. I never scold anyone for crimes of passion, only for crimes of reason."

Vivian laughed. "Crimes of passion? You make me sound terribly wicked."

"Aren't you?"

The boy shook his head. "No-- no, not at all."

"How disappointing. Well, there's time yet, there's time."

Vivian's spirits were markedly brighter, Cyril was glad to see. His head thrown back a little as he laughed again, his eyes nearly shining. Cyril hoped he would be all right, that he would cease tormenting himself at once, that nothing unpleasant would ever happen to him. They were vain hopes, in part, but where was the harm in hoping? If his hopes were only partially realized, he would count himself a lucky man. "Thank you," Vivian said quietly.

"You're quite welcome, Vivian," Cyril returned, feeling full of secrets now but somehow none the worse for it. He made a good uncle, really, he reflected. The world was lucky to have him.