A short time elapsed. Summer weather began to show itself in Prior’s Ash, and all things, so far as any one saw or suspected, were going on smoothly. Not a breath of wind had yet stirred up the dangerous current; not the faintest cloud had yet come in the fair sky, to indicate that a storm might be gathering. One rumour however had gone forth, and Prior’s Ash mourned sincerely and trusted it was not true—the state of health of Thomas Godolphin. He attacked with an incurable complaint, as his mother had been? Prior’s Ash believed it not.

He had returned from his visit to town with all his own suspicions confirmed. But the medical men had seemed to think that the fatal result might not overtake him, yet; probably not for years. They enjoined tranquillity upon him, both of mind and body, and recommended him to leave the cares of business, so far as was practicable, to other people. Thomas smiled when he recited this piece of advice to George. “I had better retire upon my fortune,” he laughed. “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 night than by day.