Bessie burst into tears. It seemed as though her life were breaking within her. Never since their early married days had he spoken to her like this. And she was in such piteous need of comfort; of some strong hand to help her out of the black pit in which she lay. The wild impulse crossed her to sit up and tell him—to throw it all on Timothy, to show him the cupboard and the box. Should she tell him; brave it all now that he was like this? Between them they might find a way—make it good.
Then the thought of the man in the public-house, of the half-crowns, a host of confused and guilty memories, swept upon her. How could she ever get herself out of it? Her heart beat so that it seemed a live creature strangling and silencing her. She was still fighting with her tears and her terror when she heard Isaac say:
'I know yer'll try, and I'll help yer. I'll be a better husband to yer,I swear I will. Give us a kiss, old woman.'
She turned her face, sobbing, and he kissed her cheek.
Then she heard him say in another tone:
'An I got a bit o' news down at the club as will liven yer up. Parkinson was there; just come over from Frampton to see his mother; an he says John will be here to-morrer or next day. 'Be seed him yesterday—pulled down dreadful—quite the old man, 'ee says. An John told him as he was comin 'ome directly to live comfortable.'
Bessie drew her shawl over her head.
'To-morrer, did yer say?' she asked in a whisper.
'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.
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, nassty 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 hoard 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 hoard even to Isaac.
Since then he had passed 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 superstitious 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 assigned 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'sBessie?'
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 braät '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 nobody 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 lassts, 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'ssuverins— 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.
'Yoarereg'lar used up,' he said, taking hold of the old fellow kindly by the arm. 'Shall I walk yer up the hill?'
John withdrew himself.
'Suverins!' he repeated, in a low hoarse voice. 'She ain't got 'em, I tell yer—she ain't got 'em!'
The last words rose to a sort of cry, and without another word to Watson the old man started at a feeble run, his head hanging.
Watson followed him, afraid lest he should drop in the road. Instead, John seemed to gather strength. He made straight for the hill, taking no heed whatever of two or three startled acquaintances who stopped and shouted to him. When the ground began to rise, he stumbled again and again, but by a marvel did not fall, and his pace hardly slackened. Watson had difficulty in keeping up with him.
But when the policeman reached his own cottage on the side of the road, he stopped, panting, and contented himself with looking after the mounting figure. As soon as it turned the corner of the Costrells' lane, he went into his own house, said a word to his wife, and sat himself down at his own back door to await events—to ponder, also, a few conversations he had held that morning, with Mrs. Moulsey at 'the shop,' with Dawson, with Hall the butcher. Poor old John—poor old fellow!
When Bolderfield reached the paling in front of the Costrells' cottage, he paused a moment, holding for support to the half-open gate and struggling for breath. 'I must keep my 'edd, I must,' he was saying to himself piteously;' don yer be a fool, John Borroful, don yer be a fool!'
As he stood there, a child's face pushed the window-blind of the cottage aside, and the lame boy's large eyes looked Bolderfield up and down. Immediately after, the door opened, and all four children stood huddling behind each other on the threshold. They all looked shyly at the newcomer. They knew him, but in six months they had grown strange to him.
'Arthur, where's your mother?' said John, at last able to walk firmly up to the door.
'Don know.'
'When did yer see her lasst?'
'She wor 'ere gettin us our tea,' said another child; 'but she didn't eat nothin.'
John impatiently pushed the children before him back into the kitchen.
'You 'old your tongues,' he said, 'an stay 'ere.'
And he made for the door in the kitchen wall. But Arthur caught hold of his coat-tails and clung to them.
'Yer oughtn't to go up there—mother don't let any one go there.'
John wrenched himself violently away.
'Oh, don't she! yo take your 'ands away, yer little varmint, or I'll brain yer.'
He raised his stick, threatening. The child, terrified, fell back, andJohn, opening the door, rushed up the stairs.
He was so terribly excited that his fumbling fingers could hardly find the ribbon round his neck. At last he drew it over his head, and made stupendous efforts to steady his hand sufficiently to put the key in the lock.
The children below heard a sharp cry directly the cupboard door was opened; then the frantic dragging of a box on to the stairs, the creak of hinges—a groan long and lingering—and then silence.
They clung together in terror, and the little girls began to cry. At last Arthur took courage and opened the door.
The old man was sitting on the top stair, supported sideways by the wall, his head hanging forward, and his hands dropping over his knees, in a dead faint.
At the sight all four children ran helter-skelter into the lane, shouting 'Mammy! Mammy!' in an anguish of fright. Their clamour was caught by the fierce north wind, which had begun to sweep the hill, and was borne along till it reached the ears of a woman who was sitting sewing in a cottage some fifty yards further up the lane. She stepped to her door, opened it and listened.
'It's at Bessie's,' she said; 'whativer's wrong wi' the childer?'
By this time Arthur had begun to run towards her. Darkness was falling rapidly, but she could distinguish his small figure against the snow, and his halting gait.
'What is it, Arthur?—what is it, lammie?'
'O Cousin Mary Anne! Cousin Mary Anne! It's Uncle John, an 'ee's dead!'
She ran like the wind at the words, catching at the child's hand in the dark, and dragging him along with her.
'Where is he, Arthur?—don't take on, honey!'
The child hurried on with her, sobbing, and she was soon on the stairs beside the unconscious John.
Mary Anne looked with amazement at the cupboard and the open box. Then she laid the old man on the floor, her gentle face working with the effort to remember what the doctor had once told her of the best way of dealing with persons in a faint. She got water, and she sent Arthur to a neighbour for brandy.
'Where's your mother, child?' she asked, as she dispatched him.
'Don know,' repeated the boy, stupidly.
'Oh, for goodness' sake, she's never at Dawson's again!' groaned Mary Anne to herself; 'she wor there last night, an the night afore that. An her mother's brother lyin like this in 'er house!'
He was so long in coming round that her ignorance began to fear the worst. But just as she was telling the eldest girl to put on her hat and jacket and run for the doctor, poor John revived.
He struggled to a sitting posture, looked wildly at her and at the box. As his eye caught the two sovereigns still lying at the bottom, he gave a cry of rage, and got upon his feet with a mighty effort.
'Where's Bessie, I tell yer? Where's the huzzy gone? I'll have the law on 'er! I'll make 'er give it up—by the Lord, I will!'
'John, what is it?—John, my dear!' cried Mary Anne, supporting him, and terrified lest he should pitch headlong down the stairs.
'Yo 'elp me down,' he said, violently. 'We'll find 'er—we'll wring it out ov 'er—the mean thievin vagabond! Changin suverins, 'as she? we'll soon know about that—yo 'elp me down, I tell yer.'
And with her assistance he hobbled down the stairs, hardly able to stand. Mary Anne's eyes were starting out of her head with fear and agitation, and the children were staring at the old man as he came tottering into the kitchen, when a sound at the outer door made them all turn.
The door opened, and Bessie appeared on the threshold.
At sight of her John seemed to lose his senses. He rushed at her, threatening, imploring, reviling—while Mary Anne could only cling to his arms and coat, lest he should attempt some bodily mischief.
Bessie closed the door, leant against it, and folded her arms. She was white and haggard, but perfectly cool. In this moment of excitement it struck neither John nor Mary Anne—nor, indeed, herself—that her manner, with its brutality, and its poorly feigned surprise, was the most revealing element in the situation.
'What's all this about yer money?' she said, staring John in the face. 'What do I know about yer money? 'Ow dare yer say such things? I 'aven't anythin to do with it, an never 'ad.'
He raved at her, in reply, about the position in which he had found the box—on the top of its fellow instead of underneath, where he had placed it—about the broken lock, the sovereigns she had been changing, and the things Watson had said of her—winding up with a peremptory demand for his money.
'Yo gi me my money back,' he said, holding out a shaking hand. 'Yer can't 'ave spent it all—tain't possible—an yer ain't chucked it out o' winder. Yer've got it somewhere 'idden, an I'll get it out o' you if I die for 't!'
Bessie surveyed him steadily. She had not even flinched at the mention of the sovereigns.
'What yer 'aven't got, yer can't give,' she said. 'I don know nothin about it, an I've tole yer. There's plenty o' bad people in the world— beside me. Somebody came in o' nights, I suppose, an picked the lock— there's many as 'ud think nothin of it. And it 'ud be easy done—we all sleeps 'ard.'
'Bessie!' cried Mary Anne, outraged by something in her tone, 'aren't yer sorry for 'im?'
She pointed to the haggard and trembling man.
Bessie turned to her reluctantly.
'Aye, I'm sorry,' she said, sullenly. 'But he shouldn't fly out at yer without 'earin a word. 'Ow should I know anythin about his money? 'Be locked it up hisself, an tuk the keys.'
'An them suverins,' roared John, rattling his stick on the floor; 'where did yer get them suverins?'
'I got 'em from old Sophy Clarke—leastways, from Sophy Clarke's lawyer.And it ain't no business o' yourn.'
At this John fell into a frenzy, shouting at her in inarticulate passion, calling her liar and thief.
She fronted it with perfect composure. Her fine eyes blazed, but otherwise her face might have been a waxen mask. With her, in this scene, was all the tragic dignity; with him, the weakness and vulgarity.
At last the little widow caught her by the arm, and drew her from the door.
'Let me take 'im to my place,' she pleaded: 'it's no good talkin while 'ee's like 'ee is—not a bit o' good. John—John dear! you come along wi me. Shall I get Saunders to come and speak to yer?'
A gleam of sudden hope shot into the old man's face. He had not thought of Saunders; but Saunders had a head; he might unravel this accursed thing.
'Aye!' he said, lurching forward, 'let's find Saunders—coom along— let's find Saunders.'
Mary Anne guided him through the door, Bessie standing aside. As the widow passed, she touched Bessie piteously.
'O Bessie, yerdidn'tdo it—say yer didn't!'
Bessie looked at her, dry-eyed and contemptuous. Something in the speaker's emotion seemed to madden her.
'Don't yer be a fool, Mary Anne—that's all!' she said scornfully, andMary Anne fled from her.
When the door had closed upon them, Bessie came up to the fire, her teeth chattering. She sank down in front of it, spreading out her hands to the warmth. The children silently crowded up to her; first she pushed them away, then she caught at the child nearest to her, pressed its fair head against her, then again roughly put it aside. She was accustomed to chatter with them, scold them, and slap them; but to-night they were uneasily dumb. They looked at her with round eyes; and at last their looks annoyed her. She told them to go to bed, and they slunk away, gaping at the open box on the stairs, and huddling together overhead, all on one bed, in the bitter cold, to whisper to each other. Isaac was a stern parent; Bessie a capricious one; and the children, though they could be riotous enough by themselves, were nervous and easily cowed at home.
Bessie, left alone, sat silently over the fire, her thin lips tight-set. She would deny everything—everything. Let them find out what they could. Who could prove what was in John's box when he left it? Who could prove she hadn't got those half-crowns in change somewhere?
The reflexion of the day had only filled her with a passionate and fierce regret.Whyhad she not followed her first impulse, and thrown it all on Timothy?—told the story to Isaac, while she was still bleeding from his son's violence? It had been her only chance, and out of pure stupidness she had lost it. To have grasped it might at least have made him takeherpart, if it had forced him to give up Timothy. And who would have listened to Timothy's tales?
She sickened at the thought of her own folly, beating her knee with her clenched fist. For to tell the tale now would only be to make her doubly vile in Isaac's eyes. He would not believe her—no one would believe her. What motive could she plead for her twenty-four hours of silence, she knowing that John was coming back immediately? Isaac would only hate her for throwing it on Timothy.
Then again the memory of the half-crowns, and the village talk—andWatson—would close upon her, putting her in a cold sweat.
When would Isaac come? Who would tell him? As she looked forward to the effect upon him, all her muscles stiffened. If he drove her to it, aye, shewouldtell him—she didn't care a hap'orth, she vowed. If he must have it, let him. But as the name of Isaac, the thought of Isaac, hovered in her brain, she must needs brush away wild tears. That morning, for the first time for months, he had been so kind to her and the children, so chatty and cheerful.
Distant steps along the lane! She sprang to her feet, ran into the back kitchen, tied on her apron, hastily filled an earthenware bowl with water from the pump, and carrying it back to the front kitchen began to wash up the tea-things, making a busy household clatter as she slid them into the bowl.
A confused sound of feet approached the house, and there was a knock.
'Come in,' said Bessie.
Three figures appeared, the huge form of Saunders the smith in front,John and Mary Anne Waller behind.
Saunders took off his cap politely. The sight of his bald head, his double chin, his mouth with its queer twitch, which made him seem as though perpetually about to laugh, if he had not perpetually thought better of it, filled Bessie with angry excitement. She barely nodded to him, in reply to his greeting.
'May we come in, Mrs. Costrell?' Saunders inquired, in his most deliberate voice.
'If yer want to,' said Bessie, shortly, taking out a cup and drying it.
Saunders drew in the other two and shut the door.
'Sit down, John. Sit down, Mrs. Waller.'
John did as he was told. Dishevelled and hopeless misery spoke in his stained face, his straggling hair, his shirt burst open at the neck and showing his wrinkled throat. But he fixed his eyes passionately on Saunders, thirsting for every word.
'Well, Mrs. Costrell,' said Saunders, settling himself comfortably, 'you'll be free to confess, won't yer, this is an oogly business—a very oogly business? Now, will yer let us ask yer a question or two?'
'I dessay,' said Bessie, polishing her cup.
'Well, then—to begin reg'lar, Mrs. Costrell—yo agree, don't yer, asMuster Bolderfield put his money in your upstairs cupboard?'
'I agree as he put his box there,' said Bessie sharply.
John broke into inarticulate and abusive clamour.
Bessie turned upon him.
''Ow did any of us know what yer'd got in your box? Did yer ever show it to me, or Mary Anne there, or any livin soul in Clinton? Did yer?'
She waited, hawk-like, for the answer. 'Did yer, John?' repeated Saunders, judicially. John groaned, rocking himself to and fro. 'Noa. I niver did—I niver did,' he said. 'Nobbut to Eliza—an she's gone— she's gone!' 'Keep your 'ead, John,' said Saunders, putting out a calming hand. 'Let's get to the bottom o' this, quiet anreg'lar. An yer didn't tell any one 'ow much yer 'ad?' 'Nobbut Eliza—nobbut Eliza!' said the old man again.
'Yer didn't tellme, I know,' said Saunders, blandly.
John seemed to shrink together under the smith's glance. If only he had not been a jealous fool, and had left it with Saunders!
Saunders, however, refrained for the present from drawing this self-evident moral. He sat twirling his cap between his knees, and his shrewd eye travelled round the kitchen, coming back finally to Bessie, who was washing and drying diligently. As he watched her cool movements Saunders felt the presence of an enemy worthy of his steel, and his emulation rose.
'I understan, Mrs. Costrell,' he said, speaking with great civility, 'as the cupboard where John put his money is a cupboardhonthe stairs? Not in hany room, buthonthe stairs? Yer'll kindly correck me if I say anythin wrong.'
Bessie nodded.
'Aye—top o' the stairs—right-'and side,' groaned John.
'An John locked it hisself, an tuk the key?' Saunders proceeded.
John plucked at his neck again, and, dumbly, held out the key.
'An there worn't nothin wrong wi the lock when yo opened it, John?'
'Nothin, Muster Saunders—I'll take my davy.'
Saunders ruminated. 'Theer's a cupboard there,' he said suddenly, raising his hand and pointing to the cupboard beside the fireplace. 'Is't anythin like the cupboard on th' stairs, John?'
'Aye, 'tis!' said John, startled and staring. 'Aye, 'tis, MusterSaunders!'
Saunders rose.
'Per'aps,' he said slowly, 'Mrs. Costrell will do us the favour ov lettin us hexamine that 'ere cupboard?'
He walked across to it. Bessie's hand dropped; she turned sharply, supporting herself against the table, and watched him, her chest heaving.
'There's no key 'ere,' said Saunders, stooping to look at the lock. 'Try yours, John.'
John rushed forward, but Bessie put herself in the way.
'What are yer meddlin with my 'ouse for?' she said fiercely. 'Just mek yourselves scarce, all the lot o' yer! I don't know nothin about his money, an I'll not have yerinsultinme in my own place! Get out o' my kitchen, ifyoplease!'
Saunders buttoned his coat.
'Sartinly, Mrs. Costrell, sartinly,' he said, with emphasis. 'Come along, John. Yer must get Watson and put it in 'is hands. 'Ee's the law is Watson. Maybe, as Mrs. Costrell ull listen to 'im.'
Mary Anne ran to Bessie in despair.
'O Bessie, Bessie, my dear—don't let 'em get Watson; let 'em look into't theirselves—it'll be better for yer, my dear, itwill.'
Bessie looked from one to the other, panting. Then she turned back to the table.
'Idon care what they do,' she said, with sullen passion. 'I'm not stannin in any one's way, I tell yer. The more they finds out the better I'm pleased.'
The look of incipient laughter on Saunders's countenance became more pronounced—that is to say, the left-hand corner of his mouth twitched a little higher.
But it was rare for him to complete the act, and he was not in the least minded to do so now. He beckoned to John, and John, trembling, took off his keys and gave them to him, pointing to that which belonged to the treasure cupboard.
Saunders slipped it into the lock before him. It moved with ease, backwards and forwards.
'H'm! that's strange,' he said, taking out the key and turning it over thoughtfully in his hand. 'Yer didn't think as there wereanotherkey in this 'ouse that would open your cupboard, did yer, Bolderfield?'
The old man sank weeping on a chair. He was too broken, too exhausted, to revile Bessie any more.
'Yo tell her, Muster Saunders,' he said, 'to gie it me back! I'll not ast for all on it, but some on it, Muster Saunders—some on it. Shecan'ta spent it. She must a got it somewhere. Yo speak to her, Muster Saunders. It's a crule thing to rob an old man like me—an her own mother's brother. Yo speak to 'er—an yo, too, Mary Anne.'
He looked piteously from one to the other. But his misery only seemed to goad Bessie to fresh fury. She turned upon him, arms akimbo.
'Oh! an of course it must bemeas robs yer! It couldn't be nobody else, could it? There isn't tramps an thieves, an rogues—'undreds of 'em—going about o' nights? Nary one, I believe yer! There isn't another thief in Clinton Magna, nobbut Bessie Costrell, is ther? But yer'll not blackguard me for nothin, I can tell yer. Now will yer jest oblige me by takin yourselves off? I shall 'ave to clean up after yer'—she pointed scornfully to the marks of their muddy boots on the floor—'an it's gettin late.'
'One moment, Mrs. Costrell,' said Saunders, gently rubbing his hands. 'With your leave, John and I ull just inspeck the cupboardhupstairs before leavin—an then we'll clear out double-quick. But we'll 'ave one try if we can't 'it on somethin as ull show 'ow the thief got in—with your leave, ofcoorse.'
Bessie hesitated; then she threw some spoons she held into the water beside her with a violent gesture.
'Go where yer wants,' she said, and returned to her washing.
Saunders began to climb the narrow stairs, with John behind him. But the smith's small eyes had a puzzled look.
'There'ssomethinrum,' he said to himself. 'Owdidshe spend it all? 'As she been carryin on with someone be'ind Isaac's back, or is Isaac in it too? It's one or t'other.'
Meanwhile Bessie, left behind, was consumed by a passionate effort of memory.Whathad she done with the key, the night before, after she had locked the cupboard? Her brain was blurred. The blow—the fall— seemed to have confused even the remembrance of the scene with Timothy. How was it, for instance, that she had put the box back in the wrong place? She put her hand to her head, trying in an anguish to recollect the exact details.
The little widow sat meanwhile a few yards away, her thin hands clasped on her lap in her usual attitude of humble entreaty; her soft grey eyes, brimmed with tears, were fixed on Bessie. Bessie did not know that she was there—that she existed.
The door had closed after the two men. Bessie could hear vague movements, but nothing more. Presently she could bear it no longer. She went to the door and opened it.
She was just in time. By the light of the bit of candle that John held, she saw Saunders sitting on the stair, the shadow of his huge frame thrown back on the white wall; she saw him stoop suddenly, as a bird pounces; she heard an exclamation—then a sound of metal.
Her involuntary cry startled the men above.
'All right, Mrs. Costrell,' said Saunders, briskly—'all right. We'll be down directly.'
She came back into the kitchen, a mist before her eyes, and fell heavily on a chair by the fire. Mary Anne approached her, only to be pushed back. The widow stood listening, in an agony.
It took Saunders a minute or two to complete his case. Then he slowly descended the stairs, carrying the box, his great weight making the house shake. He entered the kitchen first, John behind him. But at the same moment that they appeared, the outer door opened, and Isaac Costrell, preceded by a gust of snow, stood on the threshold.
'Why, John!' he cried, in amazement—'anSaunders!'
He looked at them, then at Mary Anne, then at his wife.
There was an instant's dead silence.
Then the tottering John came forward.
'An I'm glad yer come, Isaac, that I am—thankful! Now yer can tell me what yer wife's done with my money. D'yer mind that box? It wor you an I carried it across that night as Watson come out on us. An yo'll bear me witness as we locked it up, an yo saw me tie the two keys roun my neck— yodid, Isaac. An now, Isaac'—the hoarse voice began to tremble—'now there's two—suverins—left, and one 'arf-crown—out o' seventy-one pound fower an sixpence—seventy-one pound, Isaac! Yo'll get it out on 'er, Isaac, yer will, won't yer?'
He looked up, imploring.
Isaac, after the first violent start, stood absolutely motionless, Saunders observing him. As one of the main props of Church Establishment in the village, Saunders had no great opinion of Isaac Costrell, who stood for the dissidence of dissent. The two men had never been friends, and Saunders in this affair had perhaps exercised the quasi-judicial functions the village had long by common consent allowed him, with more readiness than usual.
As soon as John ceased speaking, Isaac walked up to Saunders.
'Let me see that box,' he said peremptorily, 'put it down.'
Saunders, who had rested the box on the back of a chair, placed it gently on the table, assisted by Isaac. A few feet away stood Bessie, saying nothing, her hand holding the duster on her hip, her eyes following her husband.
He looked carefully at the two sovereigns lying on the bit of old cloth which covered the bottom of the box, and the one half-crown that Timothy had forgotten; he took up the bit of cloth and shook it, he felt along the edge of the box, he examined the wrenched lock. Then he stood for an instant, his hand on the box, his eyes staring straight before him in a kind of dream.
Saunders grew impatient. He pushed John aside, and came to the table, leaning his hands upon it, so as to command Isaac's face.
'Now, look 'ere, Isaac,' he said, in a different voice from any that he had yet employed, 'let's come to business. These 'ere are the facks o' this case, an 'ow we're a-goin to get over 'em, I don see. John leaves his money in your cupboard. Yo an he lock it up, an John goes away with 'is keys 'ung roun 'is neck. Yo agree to that? Well and good. But there'sanotherkey in your 'ouse, Isaac, as opens John's cupboard. Ah—'
He waved his hand in deprecation of Isaac's movement.
'I dessay yo didn't know nowt about it—that's noather 'ere nor there. Yo try John's key in that there door'—he pointed to the cupboard by the fire—'an yo'll find it fitsex—act. Then, thinks I, where's the key as belongs to that 'ere cupboard? An John an I goes upstairs to look about us, an in noa time at aw, I sees a 'ole in the skirtin. I whips in my finger—lor bless yer! I knew it wor there the moment I sets eyes on the hole.'
He held up the key triumphantly. By this time, no Old Bailey lawyer making a hanging speech could have had more command of his task.
''Ere then we 'ave'—he checked the items off on his fingers—'box locked up—key in the 'ouse as fits it, unbeknown to John—money tuk out—key 'idden away. But that's not all—not by long chalks—there's another side to the affair _hal_togefher.'
Saunders drew himself up, thrust his hands deep into his pockets, and cleared his throat.
'Per'aps yer don know—I'm sartin sure yer don know—leastways I'm hinclined that way—as Mrs. Costrell'—he made a polite inclination towards Bessie—''ave been makin free with money—fower—five—night a week at the "Spotted Deer"—fower—five—night a week. She'd used to treat every young feller, an plenty old uns too, as turned up; an there was a many as only went to Dawson's becos they knew as she'd treat 'em. Now she didn't go on tick at Dawson's; she'dpay—an she allus payed in 'arf-crowns. An those arf-crowns were curous 'arf-crowns; an it came into Dawson's [transcriber's note: "Dawon's" in original] 'ead as he'd colleck them 'arf-crowns. 'Ee wanted to see summat, 'ee said—an I dessay 'ee did. An people began to taak. Last night theer wor a bit of a roompus, it seems, while Mrs. Costrell was a-payin another o' them things, an summat as was said come to my ears—an come to Watson's. An me and Watson 'ave been makin inquiries—an Mr. Dawson wor obligin enough to make me a small loan, 'ee wor. Now I've got just one question to ask o' John Borroful.'
He put his hand into his waistcoat-pocket, and drew out a silver coin.
'Is that yourn, John?'
John fell upon it with a cry.
'Aye, Saunders, it's mine. Look ye 'ere, Isaac, it's a king's 'ead. It's Willum—not Victory. I saved that un up when I wor a lad at Mason's, an look yer, there's my mark in the corner—every arf-crown I ever 'ad I marked like that.'
He held it under Isaac's staring eyes, pointing to the little scratched cross in the corner.
''Ere's another, John—two on 'em,' said Saunders, pulling out a second and a third.
John, in a passion of hope, identified them both.
'Then,' said Saunders, slapping the table solemnly, 'theer's nobbut one more thing to say—an sorry I am to say it. Them coins, Isaac'—he pointed a slow finger at Bessie, whose white, fierce face moved involuntarily—'them 'arf-crowns wor paid across the bar lasst night, or the night afore, at Dawson's, byyor wife, as is now stannin there, an she'll deny it if she can!'
For an instant the whole group preserved their positions—the breath suspended on their lips.
Then Isaac strode up to his wife, and gripped her by the arms.
'Did yer do it?' he asked her.
He held her, looking into her eyes, Slowly she sank away from him; she would have fallen, but for a chair that stood beside her.
'Oh, yer brute!' she said, turning her head to Saunders an instant, and speaking under her breath, with a kind of sob. 'Yerbrute!'
Isaac walked to the door, and threw it open.
'Per'aps yer'll go,' he said, grimly.And the three went, without a word.
So the husband and wife were left together in the cottage room. The door had no sooner closed on Saunders and his companions than Isaac was seized with that strange sense of walking amid things unreal upon a wavering earth which is apt to beset the man who has any portion of the dreamer's temperament, under any sudden rush of circumstance. He drew his hand across his brow, bewildered. The fire leapt and chattered in the grate; the newly-washed tea-things on the table shone under the lamp; the cat lay curled, as usual, on the chair where he sat after supper to read hisChristian World; yet all things were not the same. What had changed?
Then across poor John's rifled box he saw his wife sitting rigid on the chair where he had left her.
He came and sat down at the corner of the table, close to her, his chin on his hand.
''Ow did yer spend it?' he said, startled, as the words came out, by his own voice, so grinding and ugly was the note of it.
Her miserable eyes travelled over his face, seeking as it were, for some promise, however faint, of future help and succour, however distant.
Apparently she saw none, for her own look flamed to fresh defiance.
'I didn't spend it. Saunders wor lyin.'
''Ow did yer get them half-crowns?'
'I got 'em at Bedford. Mr. Grimstone give 'em me.'
Isaac looked at her hard, his shame burning into his heart. This was how she had got her money for the gin. Of course, she had lied to him the night before, in her account of her fall, and of that mark on her forehead, which still showed, a red disfigurement, under the hair she had drawn across it. The sight of it, of her, began to excite in him a quick loathing. He was at bottom a man of violent passions, and in the presence of evil-doing so flagrant, so cruel—of a household ruin so complete—his religion failed him.
'When was it as yer opened that box fust?' he asked her again, scorning her denials.
She burst into a rage of tears, lifting her apron to her eyes, and flinging names at him that he scarcely heard.
There was a little cold tea in a cup close to him that Bessie had forgotten. He stretched out his hand, and took a mouthful, moistening his dry lips and throat.
'Yer'll go to prison for this,' he said, jerking it out as he put the cup down.
He saw her shiver. Her nerve was failing her. The convulsive sobs continued, but she ceased to abuse him. He wondered when he should be able to get it out of her. He himself could no more have wept than iron and fire weep.
'Are yer goin to tell me when yer took that money, and 'ow yer spent it?'Cos, if yer don't, I shall go to Watson.'
Even in her abasement it struck her as shameful, unnatural, that he, her husband, should say this. Her remorse returned upon her heart, like a tide driven back. She answered him not a word.
He put his silver watch on the table.
'I'll give yer two minutes,' he said.
There was silence in the cottage except for the choking, hysterical sounds she could not master. Then he took up his hat again, and went out into the snow, which was by now falling fast.
She remained helpless and sobbing, unconscious of the passage of time, one hand playing incessantly with a child's comforter that lay beside her on the table, the other wiping away the crowding tears. But her mind worked feverishly all the time, and gradually she fought herself free of this weeping, which clutched her against her will.
Isaac was away for an hour. When he came back he closed the door carefully, and, walking to the table, threw down his hat upon it. His face under its ruddy brown had suffered some radical disintegrating change.
'They've traced yer,' he said, hoarsely;' they've got it up to twenty-six pound, an more. Most on it 'ere in Clinton—some on it, Muster Miles o' Frampton ull swear to. Watson ull go over to Frampton, for the warrant—to-morrer.'
The news shook her from head to foot. She stared at him wildly— speechless.
'But that's not 'arf,' he went on—'not near 'arf. Do yer 'ear? What did yer do with the rest? I'll not answer for keepin my 'ands off yer if yer won't tell.'
In his trance of rage and agony, he was incapable of pity. He had small need to threaten her with blows—every word stabbed.
But her turn had come to strike back. She raised her head; she measured her news against his; and she did it with a kind of exultation.
'Then Iwilltell yer—an I 'ope it ull do yer good.Itook thirty-one pound o' Bolderfield's money then—but it warn't me took the rest. Some one else tuk it, an I stood by an saw 'im. When I tried to stop 'im—look 'ere.'
She raised her hand, nodding, and pointing to the wound on her brow.
Isaac leant heavily on the table. A horrible suspicion swept through him. Had she wronged him in a yet blacker way? He bent over her, breathing fast—ready to strike.
'Who was it?'
She laughed. 'Well, it worTimothythen—yur precious—beautiful son—Timothy!'
He fell back.
'Yo're lyin,' he cried; 'yer want to throw it off on some one. How cud Timothy 'ave 'ad anythin to do with John's money? Timothy's not been near the place this three months.'
'Not till lasst night,' she said, mocking him; 'I'll grant yer—not till lasst night. But itdo'appen, as lasst night Timothy took forty-one pound o' John Borroful's money out o' that box, an got off—clean. I'm sorry if yer don't like it—but I can't 'elp that; yo listen 'ere.'
And lifting a quivering finger she told her tale at last, all the beginning of it confused and almost unintelligible, but the scene with Timothy vivid, swift, convincing—a direct impression from the ugly immediate fact.
He listened, his face lying on his arms. It was true, all true. She might have taken more and Timothy less; no doubt she was making it out as bad as she could for Timothy. But it lay between them—his wife and his son—it lay between them.
'An I 'eard yer comin,' she ended; 'an I thought I'd tell yer—an I wor frightened about the 'arf-crowns—people 'ad been talkin so at Dawson's—an I didn't see no way out—an—an—'
She ceased, her hand plucking again at the comforter, her throat working.
He, too, thought of the loving words he had said to her, and the memory of them only made his misery the more fierce.
'An there ain't no way out,' he said violently, raising his head. 'Yer'll be took before the magistrates next week, an the assizes ull be in February, an yer'll get six months—if yer don't get more.'
She got up from her chair as though physically goaded by the words.
'I'll not go to gaol,' she said, under her breath. 'I'll not—'
A sound of scorn broke from Isaac.
'You should ha thought o' that,' he said. 'Yo should ha thought o' that. An what you've been sayin about Timothy don't make it a 'aporth the better—not foryou! Yo led'iminto it too—if it 'adn't been for yo, 'ee'd never ha'seenthe cursed stuff. Yo've dragged 'im down worse nor 'ee were—an yerself—an the childer—an me. An the drink, an the lyin!—it turns a man's stomach to think on it. An I've been livin with yer—these twelve years. I wish to the Lord I'd never seen yer—as the children 'ud never been born! They'll be known all their life now— as 'avin 'ad sich a woman for their mother!'
A demon of passion possessed him more and more. He looked at her with murderous eyes, his hand on the table working.
For his world, too, lay in ruins about him. Through many hard-working and virtuous years he had counted among the righteous men of the village—the men whom the Almighty must needs reckon to the good whenever the score of Clinton Magna had to be made up. And this pre-eminence had come to be part of the habitual furniture of life and thought. To be suddenly stripped of it—to be, not only disgraced by his wife, to be thrust down himself among the low and sinful herd—this thought made another man of him; made him wicked, as it were, perforce. For who that heard the story would ever believe that he was not the partner of her crime? Had he not eaten and drunk of it; were not he and his children now clothed by it?
Bessie did not answer him nor look at him. At any other moment she would have been afraid of him; now she feared nothing but the image in her own mind—herself led along the village street, enclosed in that hateful building, cut off from all pleasure, all free moving and willing—alone and despised—her children taken from her.
Suddenly she walked into the back kitchen and opened the door leading to the garden.
Outside everything lay swathed in white, and a snowstorm was drifting over the deep cup of land which held the village. A dull, melancholy moonlight seemed to be somewhere behind the snow curtain, for the muffled shapes of the houses below and the long sweep of the hill were visible through the dark, and the objects in the little garden itself were almost distinct. There, in the centre, rose the round stone edging of the well, the copious well, sunk deep into the chalk, for which Bessie's neighbours envied her, whence her good nature let them draw freely at any time of drought. On either side of it the gnarled stems of old fruit-trees and the bare sticks of winter kail made black scratches and blots upon the white.
Bessie looked out, leaning against the doorway, and heedless of the wind that drove upon her. Down below there was a light in Watson's cottage, and a few lights from the main street beyond pierced the darkness. The 'Spotted Deer' must be at that moment full of people, all talking of her and Isaac. Her eye came hastily back to the snow-shrouded well and dwelt upon it.
'Shut that door!' Isaac commanded from inside. She obeyed, and came back into the kitchen. There she moved restlessly about a minute or two, followed by his frowning look—the look, not of a husband but of an enemy. Then a sudden animal yearning for rest and warmth seized her. She opened the door by the hearth abruptly and went up, longing simply to lie down and cover herself from the cold.
But, after all, she turned aside to the children, and sat there for some time at the foot of the little boys' bed. The children, especially Arthur, had been restless for long, kept awake and trembling by the strange sounds outside their door and the loud voices downstairs; but, with the deep silence that had suddenly fallen on the house after Isaac had gone away to seek his interview with Watson, sleep had come to them, and even Arthur, on whose thin cheeks the smears left by crying were still visible, was quite unconscious of his mother. She looked at them from time to time, by the light of a bit of a candle she had placed on a box beside her; but she did not kiss them, and her eyes had no tears. From time to time she looked quickly round her, as though startled by a sound, a breathing.
Presently, shivering with cold, she went into her own room. There, mechanically, she took off her outer dress, as though to go to bed; but when she had done so her hands fell by her side; she stood motionless till, suddenly wrapping an old shawl round her, she took up her candle and went downstairs again.
As she pushed open the door at the foot of the stairs, she saw Isaac, where she had left him, sitting on his chair, bent forward, his hands dropping between his knees, his gaze fixed on a bit of dying fire in the grate.
'Isaac!'
He looked up with the unwillingness of one who hates the sound he hears, and saw her standing on the lowest step. Her black hair had fallen upon her shoulders, her quick breath shook the shawl she held about her, and the light in her hand showed the anguished brightness of the eyes.
'Isaac, are yer comin up?'
The question maddened him. He turned to look at her more fixedly.
'Comin up? noa, I'm not comin up—so now yer know. Take yerself off, an be quick.'
She trembled.
'Are yer goin to sleep down 'ere, Isaac?'
'Aye, or wherever I likes: it's no concern o' yourn. I'm no 'usband o' yourn from this day forth. Take yourself off, I say!—I'll 'ave no thief formywife!'
But instead of going she stepped down into the kitchen. His words had broken her down; she was crying again.
'Isaac, I'd ha' put it back,' she said, imploring. 'I wor goin in to Bedford to see Mr. Grimstone—'ee'd ha' managed it for me. I'd a worked extra—I could ha' done it—if it 'adn't been for Timothy. If you'll 'elp—an you'd oughter, for yeraremy 'usband, whativer yer may say— we could pay John back—some day. Yo can go to 'im, an to Watson, an say as we'll pay it back—yocould, Isaac. I can take ter the plattin again, an I can go an work for Mrs. Drew—she asked me again lasst week. Mary Anne ull see to the childer. You go to John, Isaac, to-morrer—an— an—to Watson. All they wants is the money back. Yer couldn't—yer couldn't—see me took to prison, Isaac.'
She gasped for breath, wiping the mist from her eye with the edge of her shawl.
But all that she said only maddened the man's harsh and pessimist nature the more. The futility of her proposals, of her daring to think, after his fiat and the law's had gone forth, that there was any way out of what she had done, for her or for him, drove him to frenzy. And his wretched son was far away; so he must vent the frenzy on her. The melancholia, which religion had more or less restrained and comforted during a troubled lifetime, became on this tragic night a wild-beast impulse that must have its prey.
He rose suddenly and came towards her, his eyes glaring, and a burst of invective on his white lips. Then he made a rush for a heavy stick that leant against the wall.
She fled from him, reached her bedroom in safety, and bolted the door. She heard him give a groan on the stairs, throw away the stick, and descend again.
Then for nearly two hours there was absolute stillness once more in this miserable house. Bessie had sunk, half-fainting, on a chair by the bed, and lay there, her head lying against the pillow.
But in a very short time the blessed numbness was gone, and consciousness became once more a torture, the medium of terrors not to be borne. Isaac hated her—she would be taken from her children—she felt Watson's grip upon her arm—she saw the jeering faces at the village doors.
At times a wave of sheer bewilderment swept across her. How had it come about that she was sitting there like this? Only two days before she had been everybody's friend. Life had been perpetually gay and exciting. She had had qualms indeed, moments of a quick anguish, before the scene in the 'Spotted Deer.' But there had been always some thought to protect her from herself. John was not coming back for a long, long time. She would replace the money—of course she would! And she would not take any more—or only a very little. Meanwhile the hours floated by, dressed in a colour and variety they had never yet possessed for her—charged with all the delights of wealth, as such a human being under such conditions is able to conceive them.
Her nature, indeed, had never gauged its own capacities for pleasure till within the last few months. Excitement, amusement, society—she had grown to them; they had evoked in her a richer and fuller life, expanded and quickened all the currents of her blood. As she sat shivering in the darkness and solitude, she thought with a sick longing of the hours in the public-house—the lights, the talk, the warmth within and without. The drink-thirst was upon her at this moment. It had driven her down to the village that afternoon at the moment of John's arrival. But she had no money. She had not dared to unlock the cupboard again, and she could only wander up and down the bit of dark road beyond the 'Spotted Deer,' suffering and craving.
Well, it was all done—all done!
She had come up without her candle, and the only light in the room was a cold glimmer from the snow outside. But she must find a light, for she must write a letter. By much groping she found some matches, and then lit one after another while she searched in her untidy drawers for an ink-bottle and a pen she knew must be there.
She found them, and with infinite difficulty—holding match after match in her left hand—she scrawled a few blotted lines on a torn piece of paper. She was a poor scholar, and the toil was great. When it was done, she propped the paper up against the looking-glass.
Then she felt for her dress, and deliberately put it on again, in the dark, though her hands were so numb with cold that she could scarcely hook the fastenings. Her teeth chattered as she threw her old shawl round her.
Stooping down she took off her boots, and pushing the bolt of her own door back as noiselessly as possible, she crept down the stairs. As she neared the lower door, the sound of two or three loud breathings caught her ear.
Her heart contracted with an awful sense of loneliness. Her husband slept—her children slept—while she—
Then the wave of a strange, a just passion mounted within her. She stepped into the kitchen, and walking up to her husband's chair, she stood still a moment looking at him. The lamp was dying away, but she could still see him plainly. She held herself steadily erect; a frown was on her brow, a flame in her eyes.
'Well, good-bye, Isaac,' she said, in a low but firm voice.
Then she walked to the back door and opened it, taking no heed of noise; the latch fell heavily, the hinges creaked.
'Isaac!' she cried, her tones loud and ringing,—Iaac!'
There was a sudden sound in the kitchen. She slipped through the door, and ran along the snow-covered garden.
Isaac, roused by her call from the deep trance of exhaustion which only a few minutes before had fallen upon his misery, stood up, felt the blast rushing in through the open door at the back, and ran blindly.
The door had swung to again. He clutched it open; in the dim weird light, he saw a dark figure stoop over the well; he heard something flung aside, which fell upon the snow with a thud; then the figure sprang upon the coping of the well.
He ran with all his speed, his face beaten by the wind and sleet. But he was too late. A sharp cry pierced the night. As he reached the well, and hung over it, he heard, or thought he heard, a groan, a beating of the water—then no more.
Isaac's shouts for help attracted the notice of a neighbour who was sitting up with her daughter and a new-born child. She roused her son-in-law and his boy, and through them a score of others, deep night though it was.
Watson was among the first of those who gathered round the well. He and others lowered Isaac with ropes into its icy depths, and drew him up again, while the snow beat upon them all—the straining men—two dripping shapes emerging from the earth. A murmur of horror greeted the first sight of that marred face on Isaac's arm, as the lanterns fell upon it. For there was a gash above the eye, caused by a projection in the hard chalk side of the well, which of itself spoke death.
Isaac carried her in, and laid her down before the still glowing hearth. A shudder ran through him as he knelt, bending over her. The new wound had effaced all the traces of Timothy's blow. How long was it since she had stood there before him pointing to it?
The features were already rigid. No one felt the smallest hope. Yet with that futile tenderness all can show to the dead, everything was tried. Mary Anne Waller came—white and speechless—and her deft gentle hands did whatever the village doctor told her. And there were many other women, too, who did their best. Some of them, had Bessie dared to live, would have helped with all their might to fill her cup of punishment to the brim. Now that she had thrown herself on death as her only friend, they were dissolved in pity.
Everything failed. Bessie had meant to die, and she had not missed her aim. There came a moment when the doctor, laying his ear for the last time to her cold breast, raised himself to bid the useless effort cease.
'Send them all away,' he said to the little widow, 'and you stay.'
Watson helped to clear the room, then he and Isaac carried the dead woman upstairs. An old man followed them, a bent and broken being, who dragged himself up the steps with his stick. Watson, out of compassion, came back to help him.
'John—yer'd better go home, an to yer bed—yer can't do no good.'
'I'll wait for Mary Anne,' said John, in a shaking whisper—'I'll wait for Mary Anne.'
And he stood at the doorway leaning on his stick; his weak and reddened eyes fixed on his cousin, his mouth open feebly.
But Mary Anne, weeping, beckoned to another woman who had come up with the little procession, and they began their last offices.
'Let us go,' said the doctor, kindly, his hand on Isaac's shoulder, 'till they have done.'
At that moment Watson, throwing a last professional glance round the room, perceived the piece of torn paper propped against the glass. Ah! there was the letter. There was always a letter.
He walked forward, glanced at it and handed it to Isaac. Isaac drew his hand across his brow in bewilderment, then seemed to recognise the handwriting and thrust it into his pocket without a word.
Watson touched his arm.
'Don't you destroy it,' he said in warning; 'it'll be asked for at the inquest.'
The men descended. Watson and the doctor departed.
John and Isaac were left alone in the kitchen. Isaac hung over the fire, which had been piled up in the hope of restoring warmth to the drowned woman. Suddenly he took out the letter and, bending his head to the blaze, began to read it.
'Isaac, yer a cruel husband to me, an there's no way fer me but the way I'm goin. I didn't mean no 'arm, not at first, but there, wot's the good o' talkin. I can't bear the way as you speaks to me an looks at me, an I'll never go to prison—no, never. It's orful—fer the children ull 'ave no mother, an I don't know however Arthur ull manage. But yer woodent show me no mercy, an I can't think of anythin different. I did love yer an the childer, but the drink got holt o' me. Yer mus see as Arthur is rapped up, an Edie's eyes ull 'ave to be seen to now an agen. I'm sorry, but there's nothin else. I wud like yer to kiss me onst, when they bring me in, and jes say, Bessie, I forgive yer. It won't do yer no 'arm, an p'raps I may 'ear it without your knowin. So good-bye, Isaac, from yur lovin wife, Bessie….'
As he read it, the man's fixed pallor and iron calm gave way. He leant against the mantelpiece, shaken at last with the sobs of a human and a helpless remorse.
John, from his seat on the settle a few yards away, looked at Isaac miserably. His lips opened now and then as though to speak, then closed again. His brain could form no distinct image. He was encompassed by a general sense of desolation, springing from the loss of his money, which was pierced every now and then by a strange sense of guilt. It seemed to have something to do with Bessie, this last, though what he could not have told.
So they sat, till Mary Anne's voice called 'Isaac' from the top of the stairs.
Isaac stood up, drew one deep breath, controlled himself, and went, John following.
Mary Anne held the bedroom door open for them, and the two men entered, treading softly.
The women stood on either hand crying. They had clothed the dead in white and crossed her hands upon her breast. A linen covering had been pressed, nun-like, round the head and chin. The wound was hidden, and the face lay framed in an oval of pure white, which gave it a strange severity.
Isaac bent over her. Was thisBessie—Bessie, the human, faulty, chattering creature—whom he, her natural master, had been free to scold or caress at will? At bottom he had always been conscious in regard to her of a silent but immeasurable superiority, whether as mere man to mere woman, or as the Christian to the sinner.
Now—he dared scarcely touch her. As she lay in this new-found dignity, the proud peace of her look intimidated, accused him—would always accuse him till he too rested as she rested now, clad for the end. Yet she had bade him kiss her—and he obeyed her—groaning within himself, incapable altogether, out of sheer abasement, of saying those words she had asked of him. Then he sat down beside her, motionless. John tried once or twice to speak to him, but Isaac shook his head impatiently. At last the mere presence of Bolderfield in the room seemed to anger him. He threw the old man such dark and restless looks that Mary Anne perceived them, and, with instinctive understanding, persuaded John to go.
She, however, must needs go with him, and she went. The other woman stayed. Every now and then she looked furtively at Isaac.
'If some one don't look arter 'im,' she said to herself, ''ee'll go as his father and his brothers went afore him. 'Ee's got the look on it awready. Wheniver it's light I'll go fetch Muster Drew.'
With the first rays of the morning Bolderfield got up from the bed in Mary Anne's cottage, where she had placed him a couple of hours before, imploring him to lie still and rest himself. He slipped on his coat, the only garment he had taken off, and taking his stick he crept down to the cottage door. Mary Anne, who had gone out to fetch some bread, had left it ajar. He opened it and stood on the threshold looking out.
The storm of the night was over, and already a milder breeze was beginning to melt the newly-fallen snow. The sun was striking cheerfully from the hill behind him upon the glistening surfaces of the distant fields; the old labourer felt a hint of spring in the air. It brought with it a hundred vague associations, and filled him with a boundless despair. What would become of him now—penniless and old and feeble? The horror of Bessie's death no longer stood between him and his own pain, and would soon even cease to protect her from his hatred.