by Ellen Wood
“Do so,” cried George, impulsively. “That is” — for a disagreeable consciousness came upon him, as he spoke, that Thomas’s “fortune,” if looked into, might be found more easy to talk of than to realize— “you can virtually retire, by remaining quietly at Ashlydyat. Don’t come down to the Bank. I can manage quite well without you.”
Thomas shook his head. “So long as I am at all capable, George, I shall not give up. I believe it is my duty not to do so. If what the doctors say is correct — that I may live on in my present state, or nearly in my present state, for years — you may be an older and a wiser man by the time you are left alone. When you shall have gained grey hair, George, and a stoop in the shoulders, Prior’s Ash will be thinking you a stronger and a better man than I have ever been.”
George made no reply. He knew which had been the better man, himself or his brother.
Everything, I say, seemed to go on in its old routine. Thomas Godolphin came to business; not every day, but frequently. George gave his dinner-parties, and rode as much as ever with Charlotte Pain. What Charlotte had done with her husband, was her affair. He no longer disturbed the night stillness of the Dark Plain, or of Lady Godolphin’s Folly; and not a suspicion of his unwelcome revival from the dead had transpired beyond George Godolphin. Charlotte casually said one day to George that Rodolf was in London. Perhaps he was.
Yes, gay as ever, in the day, was George Godolphin. If he had care, he kept it to himself, and no one saw or suspected it. George was persuadable as a child; seeing little farther than his own nose; and Mr. Verrall had contrived to lull the suspicions awakened by the words of Rodolf Pain. Mr. Verrall had not remained long at Lady Godolphin’s Folly: he was soon away again, and Charlotte had it to herself, queen regnant. George had not forgotten to pay his evening visits there. There or elsewhere, he was out most evenings. And when he came in, he would go into the Bank, and remain alone in the manager’s room, often for hours.
One evening — it was the greatest wonder in the world — he had not gone out. At eight o’clock he had gone into the Bank and shut himself in. An hour afterwards Maria knocked, and he admitted her.
George was at a large table; it was covered with account-books. Hard at work he appeared to be, making entries with his pen, by the light of his shaded lamp. “How busy you are, George!” she cried.
“Ay,” said he, pleasantly. “Let no one call me idle again.”
“But why need you do it, George? You used not to work at night.”
“More work falls to my score, now Thomas does not take his full share of it,” observed George.
“Does it? I fancied neither you nor Thomas had much actual work to do. I thought you left it to the clerks. Isaac laughed at me one day, a long time ago, when I said something about your keeping the bank accounts. He asked me what I thought clerks were paid for.”
“Never mind Isaac. What have you come in for? To tell me you are dull? — as you did last night.”
“No. But I do get to feel very dull in an evening. You are scarcely ever with me now, George.”
“Business must be attended to,” responded George. “You should get some visitors in.”
“They would not be you,” was Maria’s answer, simply spoken. “I came to tell you now that papa is here. Have you time to come and see him?”
George knitted his brow. The prospect of entertaining the Reverend Mr. Hastings did not appear to have charms for him. Not that he allowed Maria to see the frown. She continued:
“Papa has been talking about the Chisholm property. The money is paid over, and he has brought it here for safety.”
“Brought it to-night?” echoed George.
“Yes. He said it might be an unprofessional mode of doing business, but he supposed you would receive it,” she added, laughing.
“How much is it?” cried George — all too eagerly, had Maria not been unsuspicious.
“Nine — let me see — yes, I think he said nine thousand pounds.”
George Godolphin closed the books before him, more than one of which was open, locked them up, put out the lamp, and accompanied his wife to the dining-room.
“Will you let me lodge some money here to-night?” asked Mr. Hastings, as he shook hands.
“As much as you like,” replied George, gaily. “We can accommodate an unlimited amount.”
The Rector took out a large pocket-book, and counted down some bank-notes upon the table. “Brierly, the agent, brought it to me an hour ago,” he observed, “and I had rather your Bank had charge of it than my house. Nine thousand and forty-five pounds, Mr. George.”
George counted the notes after Mr. Hastings. “I wonder Brierly did not give a cheque for it,” he observed. “Did he bring the money over from Binham?”
“He came over in his gig. He said it had been paid to him in money, and he brought it just as it was. I’ll trouble you for a receipt, George.”
George carried the money away and came back with the receipt. “It must be placed to your account, I suppose, sir?” he observed.
“Of course,” answered Mr. Hastings. “You can’t place it to the credit of the little Chisholms. It is the first time I was ever left trustee,” he remarked, “and I hope it will be the last.”
“Why so?” asked George.
“Why so? Because I like neither the trouble nor the responsibility. As soon as my co-trustee returns, the money is to be placed out on approved security: until then, you must take charge of it. It is a small sum after all, compared with what was expected.”
“Very small,” assented George. “Is it all that the property has realized?”
“Every shilling — except the expenses. And lawyers, and agents, and auctioneers, take care that they shall never be slight,” added Mr. Hastings, his lip curling with the cynical expression that was sometimes seen on it.
“It’s their trade, sir.”
“Ay. What a cutting up of property it is, this forced selling of an estate, through death!” he exclaimed. “Many a time has poor Chisholm said to me, in his last illness: ‘There’ll be hard upon twenty thousand to divide amongst them, when it’s all sold.’ And there is not ten!”
“I suppose everything was sold?” said George.
“Everything. House, land, ricks as they stood, farming stock, cattle, and furniture: everything, even to the plate and the books. The will so expressed it. I suppose Chisholm thought it best.”
“Where are the children, papa?” asked Maria.
“The two girls are at school, the little boy is with his grandmother. I saw the girls last week when I was at Binham.”
“The boy is to be a clergyman, is he not, papa?”
The Rector answered the question in a tone of rebuke. “When he shall be of an age to choose, should he evince liking and fitness for the Church, then he is to be allowed to enter it. Not otherwise, Maria.”
“How is the property left?” asked George.
“It is to be invested, and the interest devoted to the education and maintenance of the three, the boy being allowed a larger share of the interest than the girls. When the youngest, the boy, shall be of age, the principal is to be divided equally between them. Such are the terms of the will.”
“What is it to be invested in?”
“The funds, I suppose. It is left to the discretion of myself and Mr. Harknar. I shall let him decide: he is more of a man of business than I am.”
So they talked on. When Mr. Hastings, a short while before, had found himself left guardian and co-trustee to the children of a friend just deceased, his first impulse had been to decline the trust. Eventually he had accepted it. The other gentleman named, Mr. Harknar, had gone on business to one of the Ionian Islands, but he was now shortly expected home.
An hour the Rector sat with them, talking of the orphaned Chisholms, and of other matters. When he took his departure, George went again into the Bank, and sat down to work at his books by the light of the shaded lamp. He was certainly more attentive to business by nigh
t than by day.
CHAPTER XI. THOSE BONDS AGAIN!
Once more — it was the afternoon of the day following that evening visit of All Souls’ Rector to the Bank — Isaac Hastings entered the manager’s room to announce a visitor to Mr. George Godolphin. Lord Averil.
George looked up: a startled expression crossing his face. It was instantly suppressed: but, not for his very life could he have helped its appearance in the first moment.
“When did he come to Prior’s Ash?”
“I don’t know,” replied Isaac. “I told him I was not sure but you were engaged, sir. I had thought Mr. Arkwright was with you. Lord Averil asked me to come and see: he particularly wishes to see you, he says.”
“I am engaged,” replied George, catching at the excuse as a drowning man catching at a straw. “That is” — taking out his watch— “I have not time now to see him. Tell Lord Averil I am particularly engaged.”
“Very well, sir.”
Isaac went out with the message, and Lord Averil departed, merely saying that he would call again. The reappearance of Charlotte Pain’s husband could not have brought more dire dismay to that lady, than did this reappearance of Lord Averil’s at Prior’s Ash, bring to George Godolphin.
Did he think Lord Averil would never favour Prior’s Ash with his presence again? It is hard to say what foolish thing he thought. Lord Averil had been in town for the last month. Once during that time, he had written to have those deposited deeds sent up to him, about which he had spoken to Mr. George Godolphin. George had answered the letter with some well-framed excuse. But now here was Lord Averil again at Prior’s Ash — and at the Bank! Doubtless once more in quest of his deeds.
George Godolphin put his hand to his weary brow. His ever-constant belief was, that he should get straight in time. In time. To his sanguine temperament, time would prove the panacea for all his ills. If he could only avert present difficulties, time would do the rest. That terrible difficulties were upon him, none knew better than he: but the worst difficulty of all would be this of Lord Averil’s, should exposure come. Short as George was of ready cash — it may seem a paradox to say it of a banker, but so it was — he would have scraped together every shilling from every available corner and parted with it, to have ensured the absence of Lord Averil from Prior’s Ash for an indefinite period.
He pressed his hand upon his weary brow, his brain within working tumultuously. If he must see Lord Averil — and there could be no escape — what should be his plea for the non-production of those deeds? It must be a plausible one. His thoughts were interrupted by a rap at the door.
“Come in,” cried George, in a sadly hopeless tone. Was it Lord Averil again?
It was only a note. A three-cornered miniature thing fastened with a silver wafer. No business communication that. George knew the writing well.
“Dear Mr. George,
“Will you ride with me to-day at half-past three instead of four? I will tell you my reason then. Lord A. is back again.
“Yours,
“C. P.”
George tore the note into fragments and flung them into the paper- basket. It was ten minutes past three. Glad of any excuse to be out of business and its cares, he hastened things away in his room, and left it. There were moments when George was tempted heartily to wish himself out of it for good, safe in some unapproachable island, too remote from civilization to be visited by the world. But he did not see his way clear to get there.
Look at him as he rides through the town, Charlotte by his side, and the two grooms behind them! Look at his fine bay horse, his gentlemanly figure! — look at his laughing blue eyes, his wavy golden hair, at the gay smiles on his lips as he turns to Charlotte! Can you fancy care an inmate of that man’s breast? Prior’s Ash did not. They were only content to admire and to envy their handsome and most attractive banker, George Godolphin.
They rode by the Bank. It was not often — indeed it was very rarely — that they passed it in their rides. There were plenty of other ways, without choosing that one. George never would have chosen it: perhaps he had the grace to think that his frequent rides with Mrs. Charlotte Pain need not be paraded so conspicuously before the windows of his wife. Charlotte, however, had a will of her own, and sometimes she chose to exercise it.
As good luck had it, or ill luck, or no luck at all, Maria happened to be at the drawing-room window to-day. Some ladies were paying her a visit, and Meta — who was sometimes indulged, as an only child is indulged — made one in the drawing-room. She caught sight of her papa, forthwith climbed upon a chair to see him better, and leaned from the open window, clapping her hands. “Papa! papa!”
Maria sprang to hold her in. She was a child who had little sense of danger. Had George held out his arms then, and said, “Jump out to me, Meta,” she would have taken the leap fearlessly. Maria caught her round the waist, and the visitors came forward to see.
Charlotte threw up a triumphant glance. One of those curiously triumphant glances that she was rather fond of giving Mrs. George Godolphin. Maria bowed gravely. An idea — a faint idea, glancing at no ill — had been growing over her lately that her husband passed more time with Charlotte Pain than was absolutely necessary. George smiled at his wife, lifted his hat to the ladies at her side, and waved a kiss to Meta.
The red blood had mantled to his cheek. At what? At Charlotte’s triumphantly saucy look — which he had not failed to catch — or at his wife’s grave one? Or at the sight of a gentleman who stood on the pavement, saluting them as they passed? It was the Viscount Averil. George saluted again, and rode on with a smooth brow and a face bright as day.
Considerably later; just before five, in fact, when the Bank closed, Lord Averil presented himself at it again. Had Mr. George Godolphin returned? If so, could he see him?
Mr. George had not come in. Mr. Hurde came forward and inquired if it was anything that he could do for his lordship.
Lord Averil had known Mr. Hurde a long while. He had seen him in his place there as long as he had banked with Godolphin, Crosse, and Godolphin. He supposed he was a confidential clerk: and, in point of fact, Mr. Hurde was so to a great extent.
“You hold some bonds of mine,” said Lord Averil. “Bonds of some stock which Sir George Godolphin purchased for me. Did you know anything of it?”
“I remember the transaction quite well, my lord,” replied Mr. Hurde.
“I want the bonds delivered up to me. Can I have them?”
“Certainly. Your lordship can have them whenever you please. They are in your case, in the strong-room.”
“I should have liked them to-day, if possible,” replied Lord Averil.
“There will be no difficulty at all, my lord. Mr. George Godolphin can deliver them to you as soon as he comes in.”
“Will he be in soon, think you?”
“He is sure not to be very long, my lord. I have to see him before I leave.”
“Then I think I’ll wait,” said Lord Averil.
He was shown into the Bank parlour, and left there. At five the clerks quitted the Bank: it was usual for them to do so. Mr. Hurde waited. In about a quarter of an hour George entered.
A few minutes given to the business for which Mr. Hurde had remained, and then he spoke. “Lord Averil is waiting to see you, sir.”
“Lord Averil?” cried George, in a hasty tone. “Waiting now?”
“He is in the parlour, sir. He asked if he could have his bonds given up to him. I said I thought he could, and he replied that he would wait.”
“Then you had no business to say anything of the sort,” burst forth George, in so vehement a tone as to astonish the sober cashier. “It may not be convenient to lay one’s hands upon the bonds at a minute’s notice, Hurde,” he more quietly added, as if he would soothe down or atone for his anger.
“They are in Lord Averil’s box in the strong-room, sir,” said the old clerk, supposing his master must have temporarily forgotten where the said bonds were placed. “Mr. Godolphi
n was speaking to me about those bonds the other day.”
“What about them?” inquired George, striving to put the question easily.
“It was nothing particular, sir. He was only mentioning their increased value: how they had gone up in the market.”
George said no more. He turned from the office and halted before the door of the parlour. Halted to collect his brains. One hand was on the handle of the door, the other on his brow. Lord Averil rose, and shook hands cordially.
“I have come to bother you again about my bonds, Mr. George. I don’t care to keep that stock, and the present is a most favourable opportunity to sell.”
“They’ll go higher yet,” observed George.
“Will they? They tell me differently in London. The opinion there is, that they will begin to fall.”
“All rubbish,” said George. “A canard got up on the Stock Exchange.”
“Well, I have made up my mind to sell,” observed Lord Averil. “I wrote to you from London to send me the shares up; but you did not seem to be in a hurry to do it. So I have come down for them.”
George laughed. “Come down for nothing but the shares? But you will make some stay here?”
“No. I go up again to-morrow. I am not sure whether I shall return here for the summer or not. Some friends of mine are going over to Canada for three or four months. Perhaps I may accompany them.”
George devoutly wished his lordship could be off, there and then; and that the sojourn might last years instead of months. “I wish I had the time to go there!” cried he, aloud: “I’d start to-morrow.”
“Will it be troubling you to give me the bonds, Mr. George?”
George sat a few moments, his head bent as if in thought. “The bonds?” he slowly said. “Your bonds? They were sent — yes, certainly, your bonds were sent to our agents in London.”
