It was even so. Thomas Hill saw it. They sat down together and went into the books: the banker showing him amounts and involvements that he had never suspected before. The ruin seemed to be close at hand; there seemed to be no possible way out of it. Common ruin Thomas Hill might have got over in time; but this ruin, the ruin that threatened his master, would have turned his hair white in a night had time not already turned it.
And crimes were more heavily punished in those days than they are in these.
At a quarter to six o'clock, Peter Castlemaine was in his dining-room, dressed for dinner. He often had friends to dine with him on market-days, and was expecting some that night: a small social party of half a dozen, himself included. He stood with his back to the fire, his brow smoothed, his aspect that of complete ease; he could hear his butler coming up the stairs to show in the first guest. All the dwelling-rooms were on this first floor, the ground-floor being entirely appropriated to business.
"Mr. Castlemaine."
The two brothers met in the middle of the room and shook hands. Mr. Castlemaine was the elder by two years, but he did not look so, and there was a very great likeness between them. Fine, upright, handsome men, both; with clear, fresh faces, well-cut features, and keen, flashing, dark eyes. Very pleasant men to talk to; but silent men as to their own affairs. Mr. Castlemaine had just come in from his residence, Greylands' Rest: it was in contradistinction to him that the banker was invariably called Mr. Peter Castlemaine.
"All well at home, James?"
"Quite so, thank you."
"You were not in at market, to-day."
"No: I had nothing particular to call me in. Are you expecting a large party this evening?"
"Only six of us. Here comes another."