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.