Chapter XI: Adjusted

"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.

"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!