Penelope and the Others Part 11

But she remained some time longer, for she was not at all satisfied to have the matter treated so quietly. She tried to impress upon Mr Hawthorne that it was his duty to make a thorough inquiry amongst his people, for she felt certain, she said with an air of conviction which made Ambrose tremble, that her money was somewhere in Easney.

"I should advise you in future, Miss Barnicroft," said the vicar when she at last took her departure, "to bring me anything you wish taken care of--it would be safer here than burying it. And there's the bank, you know, in Nearminster. I should be glad to take any money there for you at any time."

"You are very kind," she answered with an airy toss of the feathers and ribbons on her head, "but no banks for me. Banks fail."

She flitted out of the room, followed by Mr Hawthorne, and Ambrose was alone. Now, in a minute, he would have to tell his father. There was the hall-door shutting; there was his step coming back. How should he begin?

"Well, my boy," said the vicar, "how's the head? Not much better, I'm afraid. You look quite flushed. You'd better go to your mother now; she's just come in."

He sat down and lifted his pen to go on with a letter. Ambrose got up from the rug and stood irresolute by the door. He tried to say "Father," but no voice came, and Mr Hawthorne did not look round or ask what he wanted. It made it so much worse that he did not notice or suspect anything.

"I can't do it now," said Ambrose to himself, "I must tell David first."

Lessons were only just over in the school-room, and he found David putting away his books, while Pennie and Nancy, still with their hats and cloaks on, were talking very fast about all they had seen and done in Nearminster. How happy they looked! They had nothing dreadful on their minds. It made Ambrose all the more anxious to have someone to bear his secret with him, and he went softly up to David and said in a low voice:

"I want to speak to you."

"All right!" said David rather unwillingly, for he wanted to hear more about Nearminster and Kettles.

"Not here," whispered Ambrose. "Upstairs--in the museum. It's very important."

David turned and looked at his brother. Ambrose's cheeks were scarlet, his eyes had a scared expression, and his hair was sticking up in spikes as if he had been running his hands through it.

At these certain signs of excitement David at once concluded that something had happened. He hastily thrust away his last books, and the two boys left the school-room.

"Is it a ghost?" he asked as they ran up the flight of stairs leading to the museum.

"Much worse," returned Ambrose. "It's something real. It's awful."

The museum looked bare and cold, and rather dusty, as if it had been neglected lately; its deal shelves with their large white labels and wide empty s.p.a.ces seemed to gape hungrily--a cheerless place altogether, with nothing comfortable or encouraging about it.

The boys sat down facing each other on two boxes, and Ambrose at once began his story. Alarming as the news was, he had a faint hope while he was telling it that David might not think it so bad as he did. David always took things calmly, and his matter-of-fact way of looking at them was often a support to Ambrose, whose imagination made him full of fears. So now when he had finished he looked wistfully at his brother and said, in a tone full of awe:

"Should you think we really are _thieves_?"

David's blue eyes got very large and round, but before answering this question he put another: "What can they do to thieves?"

"Put them in prison, and make them work hard for ever so long," replied Ambrose. "They used to hang them," he added gloomily.

"I don't believe father would let them put us in prison," said David.

"He couldn't help it," said Ambrose. "n.o.body's father can. Don't you remember when Giles Brown stole a silver mug, his father walked ten miles to ask them to let him off, and they wouldn't?"

"Well, but,"--said David, feeling that there was a difference between the two cases--"he stole a thing out of a house, and we didn't; and his father was a hedger and ditcher, and our father is vicar of Easney."

"That wouldn't matter," said Ambrose. "It would depend on Miss Barnicroft. She wouldn't let us off. She said she couldn't bear boys.

She'd be glad to have us punished."

He rested his chin on his hand and stared forlornly on the ground.

"It's telling father I mind most," he added presently, "much more than going to prison."

But here David disagreed. He thought it would be dreadful to go to prison.

"I suppose," he said, "we should be shut up in different cells, and only have bread and water. I think the sooner we tell father the better, because he'll think of some way to help us."

"I shall never be able to begin," said Ambrose despairingly.

"Well, you ought to," said David, "because you're older than me, and because you thought of the whole thing, and because I wanted to tell long ago, and because I did say when we found it that it was only an old honey-pot."

Far from being a comfort, every word David spoke seemed to add to the sharpness of Ambrose's misery, their very truth made them bitter.

"It's no good saying all that now," he cried impatiently. "Oh, I wish I was in bed and had told father!"

After a little consultation it was agreed that this must be done that very evening, directly after the school-room tea, when Mr Hawthorne was generally to be found alone in his study. If he should happen to be engaged, it must be put off till the next day.

"I hope he wont be," said David, as the boys went down-stairs together, "because it will be getting dark, and even if the lamp is lighted it will be much easier than telling it in the daylight."

But Ambrose, in his own heart, could not help a faint hope that their father might be too busy to speak to them that night. Anything to put off the confession. He dreaded it far more than David, partly because he was naturally more timid, and partly because he felt himself chiefly to blame in the whole affair, for David would certainly never have thought of the adventure unless his elder brother had suggested it.

During tea-time, therefore, he found it impossible either to join in the conversation or to eat anything with this dreaded interview still before him.

Resting his hot cheek on his hand, he looked on with surprise at his brother's steady appet.i.te, for David, perhaps feeling that this was the last comfortable meal he might enjoy for some time, munched away with his usual zeal, not forgetting to ask for the "burnt side" when his slice of cake was cut. It was hard to realise that all this might be changed on the morrow for a lonely cell, bread and water, and the deepest disgrace! Ambrose's headache was considered sufficient reason for his silence and want of appet.i.te, and his sisters, finding that they could not even extract any news about Miss Barnicroft's visit from him, left him undisturbed to his moody misery.

Late that afternoon the vicar came in from a long ride to a distant part of his parish, threw himself into his easy-chair, and took up the newspaper for a little rest before dinner. At this hour he was generally secure from interruption, his day's work was over, the children were safe in the school-room, there was a comfortable half-hour before he need think of going upstairs. He was just rejoicing in the prospect of this repose when a little knock came at his door. It was a very little knock, one of many which Ambrose and David had already made so timidly that they could not be heard at all. With a patient sigh Mr Hawthorne laid his paper across his knees and said, "Come in."

The door opened very slowly and the boys entered, David somewhat in front, holding Ambrose by the hand. Their father saw at once that they had something of importance on their minds, for while Ambrose kept his eyes fixed on the ground, David's were open to their widest extent with a sort of guilty stare. Neither spoke a word, but marched up to Mr Hawthorne and stood in perfect silence at his elbow.

"Well?" said the vicar inquiringly.

Ambrose gave a twitch to David's sleeve, for he had promised to speak first.

"We've come to say--" began David and then stopped, his eyes getting bigger and rounder, but not moving from his father's face.

"Go on," said Mr Hawthorne.

But David seemed unable to say anything more. He turned to his brother and whispered hoa.r.s.ely, "You go on now."

Ambrose had gathered a little courage now that the confession had really begun, and he murmured without looking up:

"We know where Miss Barnicroft's money is."

The vicar started. He had in truth forgotten all about Miss Barnicroft and her money, for he had thought it merely one of her own crazy inventions. That Ambrose and David should have anything to do with it seemed impossible, and yet the guilty solemn looks of the two little boys showed that they were in the most serious earnest.

"Miss Barnicroft's money!" he repeated.

"It's in my garden," continued David, taking his turn to speak, "buried."

Completely bewildered Mr Hawthorne looked from one face to the other.