Resting his hot cheek on his hand, he looked on with surprise at his brother’s steady appetite, 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 appetite, 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 hoarsely, “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.”