He clasped his hands closely over his scarlet face and listened for the vicar’s answer.
“I don’t think you chose a very safe place to hide your money,” he said. “Gypsies and pedlars and tramps are constantly passing over Rumborough Common. Someone probably saw you bury it there.”
“I am more inclined to think that it was stolen by someone in the parish,” said Miss Barnicroft. “They were French napoleons,” she added.
“Then you see they would be of no use to anyone living here, for they could not change them. They were more likely to be dug up by some of the gypsy people who so often camp about there, and are now far enough from Easney.”
It was truly dreadful to Ambrose to hear his father talk in that calm soothing tone, and to imagine how he would feel if he knew that his own son Ambrose had taken Miss Barnicroft’s money, and that the hateful little crock of gold was at that very moment lying quite near him in David’s garden. His heart beat so fast that the sound of it seemed to fill the room. Would Miss Barnicroft never go away? He longed and yet dreaded to hear her say good-bye; for after that only one course was before him—confession.
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.”