"YES; I see!" Kennedy stood gravely facing his friend and agent, as
with a sorrowful air Norman stumbled through his tale.
They were at Ivy Cottage. "I have something of importance to say to
you," Norman had stated on first meeting the owner of Apthorne; and
Kennedy's reply was—"Pray keep it, my dear fellow, till I come round
after tea to see you and your sister."
When he arrived, Dulcie was not visible. He had fully counted on her
presence, and he augured badly for himself from the fact. She indeed,
had offered, for her brother's sake, to be present and to share in his
confession. But she was very thankful when he refused to let her do so.
"Your sister not in?"
"Yes. She will see you presently. I've got to tell you something first."
"Better have it out at once, then." Kennedy expected to hear some
particulars of slack management, and he prepared to listen, at first,
with wavering attention, which soon became concentrated. He made no
interruption, no comment; and his lips were firmly set.
"Yes, I see!" when Norman came to a pause. "I understand."
He walked up and down the little room.
"It wasn't easy work for you to tell me this." He looked at the bowed
head. "It must have been hard."
"I couldn't do otherwise. A friend, I may as well tell you his
name—Dewsbury—offered to advance the money. But you have a right to
know all. Not to explain would mean going on under false pretences; and
I'll have nothing more of that sort. Dulcie would never have consented
either. In fact, it was she who persuaded me. I'd made up my mind to
run away; and but for her, you would never have seen me again."
"That would have been a fatal step!"
"Yes I see now it would have been!"
"But the temptation must have been great, having so much money in your
hands. I blame myself."
"The money ought to have been safe!"
"You had had no previous training. It was all new to you."
"That's no excuse. I've done very wrongly."
Kennedy took two more turns.
"Yes; wrong it was! It might have wrecked your life's happiness—yours
and hers!"
"Dulcie has been an angel of goodness to me."
"She 'is' an angel." He said the words with fervour.
"But of course I must go. That is inevitable. You will find Dewsbury
infinitely more efficient—letting alone this!"
"That's a matter for consideration. I should like to see your sister
before coming to any decision."
"She's there," with a gesture towards the room on the other side of the
passage. "I said I would call her."
"No. Stop! I'll go. You can wait here."
Norman obeyed, and kept his seat with spiritless patience. At last
he woke to the lapse of time, and glanced at the clock, in wonder at
Kennedy's prolonged absence. Some instinct kept him from venturing to
intrude.
When the door opened to admit Kennedy and Dulcie, his first glimpse of
the two brought fresh wonder. Only once, during ten years past, had he
seen in her that glow of girlish beauty and joy; while Kennedy was an
embodiment of smiles.
[Illustration: "I have decided to keep you on in your post."]
"Dulcie and I have been discussing the situation," observed the latter,
and Norman vaguely noticed the use of her Christian name. "We think
that you must have another chance. I have decided to keep you on your
post."
"It's not right. I ought to retrieve my character first."
"You shall retrieve it here."
"I think not. You cannot feel any confidence in me."
"Dulcie does. She says I may. Things will be different in the future.
Frankly, it's not for your sake that I ask this. But there are other
considerations, and I wish you to stay. Besides, I'm not going back to
Australia."
"No, you would not feel enough confidence—"
"That's not it. Dulcie has settled matters. I went because she would
not have me; and if she would not now, I should go again. But she will!
Thank God, I've got at last what all these years I have hungered after
hopelessly—never dreaming that she might be mine."
Norman muttered a word of congratulation, as he glanced from one bright
face to the other.
"Yes, Dulcie has promised to be my wife, my own dear wife. But she
declares positively that if you leave Apthorne, she must go with you
for a time. And that is out of the question, for I can't possibly live
any longer without her. So there is nothing for it, but for you to stay
here as my agent. You see, I am risking it for my own sake. You will
not refuse?"
Under the circumstances, Norman could not refuse. He might feel, he did
feel, that he deserved no such leniency. But the request, put thus, had
to be granted.
He remained at Apthorne, and during the next twelve months, he had to
live a life of wholesome self-denial. The least that he could do, in
gratitude was to save every possible penny towards the repayment of his
debt, and to use every means in his power for the improvement of his
own defective business capabilities.
It was doubtless well for him that Dewsbury's illness deferred any
further successful search for the hidden treasure. He had been a spoilt
boy, a too much petted and shielded brother. Now he had what was good
for him, a year of standing alone, of having to refuse himself many a
thing that he wanted. At the year's end, he was the better for it, he
had gained "backbone" and was stronger.
Then something unexpected happened.
Dewsbury had begun to speak again to Norman about the possible
"treasure." He went to the place himself, walking feebly, and discussed
with his successor what steps should be taken. He planned telling
Kennedy.
Two days later, a terrific storm broke over the place, and the old
chimney was struck. It came down, a heap of ruin, and amid the ruin,
carefully examined by Norman and one or two trustworthy assistants, was
found a mildewed leathern packet, containing some eight hundred pounds
in gold and notes, and the name of "Thring" within.
Dewsbury made a present of half this sum to Norman, in token of his
gratitude for, as he expressed it, "a life saved." Norman, though not
without demur, accepted the gift, and was once more out of debt—a free
man!