'Mos like. Now you go to sleep; I'll put out the lamp.'

But all night long Bessie lay wide awake in torment, her soul hardening within her, little by little.

SCENE IV

Just before dark on the following day, a man descended from a down train at the Clinton Magna station. The porters knew him and greeted him; so did one or two labourers outside, as he set off to walk to the village which was about a mile distant.

'Well, John, so yer coom back,' said one of them, an old man, grasping the newcomer by the hand. 'An I can't say as yer looks is any credit to Frampton--no, that aa can't.'

John, indeed, wore a sallow and pinched air, and walked lamely, with a stick.

'Noa,' he said, peevishly; 'it's a beastly place is Frampton; a damp, na.s.sty hole as iver I saw--gives yer the rheumaticks to look at it. I've 'ad a doose of a time, I 'ave, I can tell yer--iver sense I went. But I'll pull up now.'

'Aye, this air'll do yer,' said the other. 'Where are yer stoppin?

Costrells'?'

John nodded.

'They don't know nothin about my comin, but I dessay they'll find me somethin to sleep on. I'll 'ave my own place soon, and some one to look arter it.'

He drew himself up involuntarily, with the dignity that waits on property.

A laugh, rather jeering than cordial, ran through the group of labourers.

'Aye, yer'll be livin at your ease,' said the man who had spoken first.

'When will yo give us a drink, yer lardship?'

The others grinned.

'Where's your money, John?' said a younger man suddenly, staring hard at the returned wanderer.

John started.

'Don't you talk your nonsense!' he said, fretfully; 'an I must be gettin on, afore dark.'

He went his way, but as he turned a corner of the road, he saw them still standing where he had left them. They seemed to be watching his progress, which astonished him.

A light of windy sunset lay spread over the white valley, and the freshening gusts drove the powdery snow before them, and sent little stabs of pain through John's shrinking body. Yet how glad he was to find himself again between those familiar hedges, to see the church-tower in front of him, the long hill to his right! His heart swelled at once with longing and satisfaction. During his Frampton job, and in the infirmary, he had suffered much, physically and mentally. He had missed Eliza and the tendance of years more than he had ever imagined he could; and he had found himself too old for new faces and a new society. When he fell ill he had been sorely tempted to send for some of his money, and get himself nursed and cared for at the respectable lodging where he had put up. But no; in the end he set his teeth and went into the infirmary. He had planned not to touch his h.o.a.rd till he had done with the Frampton job, and returned to Clinton for good.

His peasant obstinacy could not endure to be beaten; nor, indeed, could he bring himself to part with his keys, to trust the opening of the h.o.a.rd even to Isaac.

Since then he had pa.s.sed through many weary weeks, sometimes of acute pain, sometimes of sinking weakness, during which he had been haunted by many secret torments, springing mainly from the fear of death. He had almost been driven to make his will. But in the end superst.i.tious reluctance prevailed. He had not made the will; and to dwell on the fact gave him the sensation of having escaped a bond, if not a danger. He did not want to leave his money behind him; he wanted to spend it, as he had told Eliza and Mary Anne and Bessie scores of times. To have a.s.signed it to any one else, even after his death, would have made it less his own.

Ah, well! those bad weeks were done, and here he was, at home again.

Suddenly, as he tramped on, he caught sight against the hill of Bessie's cottage, the blue smoke from it blown across the rime-laden trees behind it. He drew in his breath with a deep, tremulous delight. That buoyant self-congratulation indeed which had stood between him and the pain of Eliza's death was gone. Rather there was in him a profound yearning for rest, for long dreaming by the fire or in the sun, with his pipe to smoke, and Jim's Louisa to look after him, and nothing to do but to draw a half-crown from his box when he wanted it. No more hard work in rain and cold; and no cringing, either, to the young and prosperous for the mere fault of age. The snowy valley with its circling woods opened to him like a mother's breast; the sight of it filled him with a hundred simple hopes and consolations; he hurried to bury himself in it, and be at peace.

He was within a hundred yards of the first house in the village, when he saw a tall figure in uniform approaching, and recognised Watson.

At sight of him the policeman stopped short, and John was conscious of a moment's vague impression of something strange in Watson's looks.

However, Watson shook hands with great friendliness.

'Well, I'm glad to see yer, John, I'm sure. An now, I s'pose, you're back for good?'

'Aye. I'm not goin away no more. I've done my share--I wants a bit o'

rest.'

'Of coorse yer do. You've been ill, 'aven't yer? You look like it. An yer puttin up at Costrells'?'

'Yes, till I can turn round a bit. 'Ave yer seen anythin ov 'em? 'Ow's Bessie?'

Watson faced back towards the village.

'I'll walk with yer a bit--I'm in no 'urry. Oh, she's all right. You 'eard of her bit o' money?'

John opened his eyes.

'Noa, I don know as I did.'

'It wor an aunt o' hers, soa I understan--quite a good bit o' money.'

'Did yer iver hear the name?' said John, eagerly.

'Some one livin at Bedford, I did 'ear say.'

John laughed, not without good-humoured relief. It would have touched his vanity had his niece been discovered to be richer than himself.

'Oh, that's old Sophy Clarke,' he said. 'Her 'usband bought the lease o'

two little 'ouses in Church Street, and they braat 'er in six shillins a week for years, an she allus said she'd leave it to Bessie if she wor took afore the lease wor up. But the lease ull be up end o' next year I know, for I saw the old lady myself last Michaelmas twelvemonth, an she told me all about it, though I worn't to tell n.o.body meself. An I didn't know Sophy wor gone. Ah, well! it's not much, but it's 'andy--it's 'andy.'

'Six shillins a week!' said Watson, raising his eyebrows. 'It's a nice bit o' money while it la.s.sts, but I'd ha thought Mrs. Costrell 'ad come into a deal more nor that.'

'Oh, but she's sich a one to spend, is Bessie,' said John, anxiously.

'It's surprisin 'ow the money runs. It's sixpence 'ere, an sixpence there, allus dribblin, an dribblin, out ov 'er. I've allus tole 'er as she'll end 'er days on the parish.'

'Sixpences!' said Watson, with a laugh. 'It's not sixpences as Mrs.

Costrell's 'ad the spendin of this last month or two--it's _suverins_-- an plenty ov 'em. You may be sure you've got the wrong tale about the money, John; it wor a deal more nor you say.'

John stood stock-still at the word 'sovereigns,' his jaw dropping.

'_Suverins!_' he said, trembling; 'suverins? Bessie ain't got no suverins. Isaac arns sixteen shillin a week.'

The colour was ebbing fast from his cheek and lips. Watson threw him a quick professional glance, then rapidly consulted with himself. No; he decided to hold his tongue.

'Yo _are_ reg'lar used up,' he said, taking hold of the old fellow kindly by the arm. 'Shall I walk yer up the hill?'