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.

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, 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.