But Clement made no move to hand over. Instead, “How is he?” he asked.
“Oh, pretty bad.”
“Will he get over it?”
“Farmer thinks so. But there’s no hope for the eye, and he doubts about the other eye. He’s not to use it for six weeks at least.”
“He’s in bed?”
“Lord, yes, and will be in bed for heaven knows how long—if he ever gets up from it. Why, man, he’s had the deuce of a shake. The wonder is that he’s alive, and it’s long odds that he’ll never be the same man again.”
“That’s bad,” Clement said. “And how is——” He was going to inquire after Miss Griffin, but Arthur broke in on him.
“Ask the rest another time,” he said. “I can’t stay now. I’m taking out things that are wanted in a hurry and the curricle is waiting. This is the first day I’ve been in town, for there’s no one there to do anything except my cousin and the old Peahen. So hand over, old chap, and I’ll take the stuff out. It will do the old man more good than all the doctor’s medicine.”
Clement hesitated. If he had not been carrying the money, he might have made an excuse. He might at any rate have delayed the act. But the money was the Squire’s, he could give no reason for taking it to the bank, and he had not that hardness of fibre, that indifference to the feelings of others which was needed if he was to say boldly that it was he who had recovered the money and he who was going to hand it over. Still he did hesitate, something telling him that the demand was unreasonable. Then Arthur’s coolness, his assumption that what he proposed was the natural course did its work. Clement handed over the bag.
“Right,” Arthur said, weighing it in his hand. “You counted it, I suppose? Four hundred and thirty, or thereabouts?”