Penelope and the Others Part 12

"I don't know what you're both talking about," he said. "Ambrose, you are the elder, try to explain what you mean, and how you and David come to know anything about Miss Barnicroft's money."

That was not so easy, but at last, by dint of some help from David and many questions from his father, Ambrose halted lamely through the history. He had a feeling that the vicar's face was getting graver and graver as he went on, but he did not dare to look up, and it was David who asked anxiously when he had finished:

"Are we thieves, father? Will she put us in prison?"

"Did you remember, Ambrose," said Mr Hawthorne, "when you asked your brother to go with you to Rumborough Camp, that you and he are strictly forbidden to go so far alone?"

"Yes, father," whispered Ambrose, "but we did so want things for the museum."

"And when you had taken all this trouble to get them, why did you not put the coins into the museum?"

"Because," put in David, "we were afraid the others would ask where we got them. But we didn't know they belonged to Miss Barnicroft, so _are_ we thieves, father?"

That seemed to David the one important point to be settled. If they were not thieves they would not be sent to prison.

"As far as Miss Barnicroft is concerned, you are not thieves," replied Mr Hawthorne.

David gave a sigh of relief.

"But--" he continued gravely, "you and Ambrose have stolen something from me of much more value than Miss Barnicroft's money. Do you know what that is?"

The boys were silent.

"Listen, and I will try to explain what I mean," said the vicar; "and I speak more particularly to you, Ambrose, because you are older than David, and he did wrong through your persuasion. When you dug the coins up you did not know that you were taking what belonged to someone else, but you did know very well that you were disobedient in going there at all. That is what was wrong, and by doing that you have destroyed my trust in you. Now, trust in anyone is a most precious thing, more precious a great deal than Miss Barnicroft's money, and much harder to give back when it is once lost. The money you will return to-morrow; but how are you going to restore my trust? That is not to be done in a moment. Sometimes, after we once lose a person's trust, we can never give it back at all, and that is very sad, because nothing else in the world makes up for it."

"Sha'n't you ever trust us any more?" asked David bluntly, with his eyes full of tears.

"I hope so," said his father, "but that must depend on yourselves. You will have to show me that you are worthy of trust."

Crest-fallen and sorrowful, the boys crept out of the study when the interview was over.

"I do believe," said Ambrose, "I would rather have been sent to prison, or have had some very bad punishment."

"It'll be rather bad, though, to-morrow to have to take it back to Miss Barnicroft, won't it?" said David. "Do you suppose father will go in with us?"

That very evening, in the twilight, the crock with its glittering pieces was unearthed for the second time, but with far less labour than at first.

"I'm glad it's out of my garden anyway," said David as they went back to the house with it.

"I'm not glad of anything," replied Ambrose despairingly; and indeed he felt that he should never care about pleasure or be happy again until his father had said that he could trust him.

Snuff, the terrier, knew quite well the next morning when the boys started with their father that there was something wrong. No smiles, no shouts, no laughter, no throwing of sticks for him to fetch--only two sad and sober little boys marching along by the vicar's side. The dog tried at first, by dancing round them with short barks and jumps, to excite the dull party into gaiety, but soon finding no response forsook them altogether, and abandoned himself heart and soul to a frantic rabbit hunt. Rumborough Common looked coldly desolate as ever, and as they pa.s.sed the Camp and saw the very hole where the crock had been buried an idea struck David.

"Mightn't we put it where we got it, and tell her it's there?" he asked.

But the vicar would not hear of this.

"You must give it back into Miss Barnicroft's own hands," he answered, "and tell her how you came to dig it up. Perhaps Ambrose had better go in alone, and we will wait here in the lane for him."

Arrived at Miss Barnicroft's gate, Ambrose hung back and cast an imploring glance at his father. He had wished for a "bad punishment;"

but it was too dreadful to face all the unknown terrors of Miss Barnicroft's house alone.

"Come, Ambrose," said Mr Hawthorne encouragingly, "you must take courage. It is never easy to confess our faults, but there is nothing really to fear. It will soon be over."

Ambrose pushed open the gate, and with the crock under his arm crept a few steps towards the cottage door. Then he turned, his face white with fear.

"You won't go away till I come out," he said. David had been standing by his father's side, feeling very much relieved that he was not to go in and see Miss Barnicroft. He had still a lingering doubt in his mind that she might wish to send him and his brother to prison. But when Ambrose gave that frightened look back, something made him feel that he must go in too; he left his father without a word, went up to Ambrose, and took hold of his hand.

"I'll go in with you," he said.

How often they had longed to see the inside of this mysterious dwelling, and yet now that the moment had come, how gladly would they have found themselves safely at home in the Vicarage! Pennie and Ambrose had vied with each other in providing strange and weird articles of furniture and ornaments for it; but the reality was almost startlingly different.

When, after several knocks, the boys were told to "come in," they entered a room which was just like that in any other cottage, except that it was barer. There was, indeed, scarcely any furniture at all, no curtain to the window, no pictures on the blank whitewashed walls, and only a very tiny square of carpet on the floor. A common deal table stood in the middle of this, and two deal boxes or packing-cases seemed to serve for seats; on the wide hearth, a fire of sticks was crackling under a kettle which hung over it by a chain, and two dogs which had been asleep, got up and growled at the strangers. There was nothing the least strange in the room, unless it was Miss Barnicroft herself, who, with her head tied up in a white cotton handkerchief, sat on one of the boxes, writing busily in a book. She gazed at her two visitors without knowing them at first, but soon a light came into her eyes.

"Ah, the vicar's little boys, I think?" she said graciously. "Pray sit down."

She waved her hand with the majesty of a queen towards the other box, and the boys, not daring to dispute her least sign, bestowed themselves upon it, as close together as possible, with the fatal little crock squeezed between them. There they sat for a minute in silence staring at Miss Barnicroft, who, with her head bent gently forward and a look of polite inquiry, waited to hear their errand.

It was so dreadful to see her sitting there, and to know how her face would change presently, that Ambrose had a wild impulse to run out of the room and leave the crock to tell its own tale. He gave a glance at David, and saw by the way he had placed his hands on his knees, and fixed his eyes immovably on Miss Barnicroft, that he had no intention of either moving or speaking. Ambrose was the elder; it was for him to take the lead. There were times when Ambrose would cheerfully have given up all the rights and privileges belonging to that position, and this was one of them, but he knew that he must make an effort. Father was waiting outside. They could not sit there in silence any longer.

He must speak.

Seizing the crock, he suddenly rushed up to Miss Barnicroft, held it out, and said huskily:

"We've come to bring back this!"

David now slid off the box and placed himself gravely at his brother's side. Miss Barnicroft looked from the boys to the crock with a satirical light in her eyes.

"And may I ask where you found it?" she said with icy distinctness which seemed to cut the air like a knife.

"In Rumborough Camp," murmured Ambrose.

"I knew the thief was in your father's parish," said Miss Barnicroft, "and I'm not surprised to find that it's a boy; but I certainly didn't suspect the vicar's own son."

"We didn't know the money was yours," broke in David, "and father says we are not thieves."

"At any rate," returned Miss Barnicroft, fixing him sharply with her cold light eyes, "you knew it wasn't yours. _I_ was always taught that to take what was not mine was stealing."

"We thought it was Roman," said David, still undaunted, "and they're all dead." Then, seeing no reason for staying longer, he added quickly, "Good-bye! father's waiting for us."

"Oh, really!" said Miss Barnicroft, rising with a short laugh. "Well, you can give him my compliments, and say that I haven't altered my opinion of boys, and that I advise him to teach you your catechism, particularly your duty towards your neighbour."

As the boys made hurriedly for the doorway, she suddenly called to them in quite a different voice,--"Stay a minute. Won't you have some ambrosia before you go?"

Ambrose had no idea what ambrosia could be, but he at once concluded that it was something poisonous.

"No, thank you," he said, pulling David's sleeve to make him refuse too.

"It's honey and goat's milk," said Miss Barnicroft persuasively; "very delicious. You'd better taste it."