It was a long and dreary night in that small chamber.  Adam would sometimes get up and tread backwards and forwards along the short space from wall to wall; then he would sit down and hide his face, and no sound would be heard but the ticking of the watch on the table, or the falling of a cinder from the fire which the schoolmaster carefully tended.  Sometimes he would burst out into vehement speech, “If I could ha’ done anything to save her—­if my bearing anything would ha’ done any good...but t’ have to sit still, and know it, and do nothing...it’s hard for a man to bear...and to think o’ what might ha’ been now, if it hadn’t been for him....O God, it’s the very day we should ha’ been married.”

“Aye, my lad,” said Bartle tenderly, “it’s heavy—­it’s heavy.  But you must remember this:  when you thought of marrying her, you’d a notion she’d got another sort of a nature inside her.  You didn’t think she could have got hardened in that little while to do what she’s done.”

“I know—­I know that,” said Adam.  “I thought she was loving and tender-hearted, and wouldn’t tell a lie, or act deceitful.  How could I think any other way?  And if he’d never come near her, and I’d married her, and been loving to her, and took care of her, she might never ha’ done anything bad.  What would it ha’ signified—­my having a bit o’ trouble with her?  It ‘ud ha’ been nothing to this.”

“There’s no knowing, my lad—­there’s no knowing what might have come.  The smart’s bad for you to bear now:  you must have time—­you must have time.  But I’ve that opinion of you, that you’ll rise above it all and be a man again, and there may good come out of this that we don’t see.”

“Good come out of it!” said Adam passionately.  “That doesn’t alter th’ evil:  Her ruin can’t be undone.  I hate that talk o’ people, as if there was a way o’ making amends for everything.  They’d more need be brought to see as the wrong they do can never be altered.  When a man’s spoiled his fellow-creatur’s life, he’s no right to comfort himself with thinking good may come out of it.  Somebody else’s good doesn’t alter her shame and misery.”

“Well, lad, well,” said Bartle, in a gentle tone, strangely in contrast with his usual peremptoriness and impatience of contradiction, “it’s likely enough I talk foolishness.  I’m an old fellow, and it’s a good many years since I was in trouble myself.  It’s easy finding reasons why other folks should be patient.”

“Mr. Massey,” said Adam penitently, “I’m very hot and hasty.  I owe you something different; but you mustn’t take it ill of me.”

“Not I, lad—­not I.”

So the night wore on in agitation till the chill dawn and the growing light brought the tremulous quiet that comes on the brink of despair.  There would soon be no more suspense.

“Let us go to the prison now, Mr. Massey,” said Adam, when he saw the hand of his watch at six.  “If there’s any news come, we shall hear about it.”