“Six thousand one hundred pounds. Ay, it’s right so far. Right so far. And the gold”—he paused and seemed to be at a nonplus—“I’m afraid ’twould take too long to count it. Well, let it be. Get some paper and write a receipt as I tell you.”
“There is no need, sir,” Clement ventured.
“There’s every need, young man. I’m doing business. Ha’ you got the pen, girl? Then write as I tell you. ‘I, George Griffin of Garth, in the County of Aldshire, acknowledge that I have this 16th day of December 1825 received from Messrs. Ovington of Aldersbury, six thousand one hundred pounds in Bank of England notes, and’—ha’ you got that? Ha’ you got that?—‘two bags stated by them to contain five thousand pounds in gold.’ Ha’ you got that down? Then show me the place, and——”
But as she put the pen in his hand he let it drop. He sat back in his chair. “Ay, he showed me the place before,” he muttered, his chin on his breast. “It was he gave me the pen, then, girl. And how be I to know? How be I to know?”
It came home to them—to them both. In his voice, his act, his attitude was the pathos of blindness, its helplessness, its dependence, its reliance on others—on the eyes, the hand, the honesty of others. The girl leant over him. “Father,” she said, tears in her voice, “I wouldn’t deceive you! You know I wouldn’t. I would never deceive you!”
“Ha’ you never deceived me? Wi’ that young man?” sternly.
“But——”
“Ay, you have! You have deceived me—with him.”
She could not defend herself, and, suppressing her sobs, “I will call Calamy,” she said. “He can read. He shall count the notes.”
But he put out his hand and grasped her skirts. “No,” he said. “What’ll I be the better? Give me the pen. If you deceive me in this, wench—what matter if the notes be short or not, or what comes of it?”