Dagworthy had never, since the years of early manhood, cared much for any of the various kinds of society open to him in Dunfield, and his failure to show himself at the houses of his acquaintance for weeks together occasioned no comment; but during these past three months he had held so persistently aloof that people had at length begun to ask for an explanation—at all events, when the end of the political turmoil gave them leisure to think of minor matters once more. The triumphant return of Mr. Baxendale had naturally led to festive occasions; at one dinner at the Baxendales’ house Dagworthy was present, but, as it seemed, in the body only. People who, in the provincial way, made old jokes last a very long time, remarked to each other with a smile that Dagworthy appeared to be in a mood which promised an item of interest in the police reports before long. One person there was who had special reason for observing him closely that evening, and even for inducing him to converse on certain subjects; this was Mrs. Baxendale. A day or two previously she had heard a singular story from a friend of hers, which occupied her thought not a little. It interested her to discover how Dagworthy would speak of the Hood family, if led to that topic. He did not seem to care to dwell upon it, and the lady, after her experiment, imagined that it had not been made altogether in vain.
With that exception Dagworthy had kept to his mill and his house. It was seldom that he had a visitor, and those persons who did call could hardly feel that they were desired to come again. Mrs. Jenkins, of the Done tongue, ruled in the household, and had but brief interviews with her master; provided that his meals were served at the proper time, Dagworthy cared to inquire into nothing that went on—outside his kennels—and even those he visited in a sullen way. His child he scarcely saw; Mrs. Jenkins discovered that to bring the ‘bairn’ into its father’s presence was a sure occasion of wrath, so the son and heir took lessons in his native tongue from the housekeeper and her dependents, and profited by their instruction. Dagworthy never inquired about the boy’s health. Once when Mrs. Jenkins, alarmed by certain symptoms of infantine disorder, ventured to enter the dining-room and broach the subject, her master’s reply was: ‘Send for the doctor then, can’t you?’ He had formerly made a sort of plaything of the child when in the mood for it; now he was not merely indifferent—the sight of the boy angered him. His return home was a signal for the closing of all doors between his room and the remote nursery. Once, when he heard crying he had summoned Mrs. Jenkins. ‘If you can’t stop that noise,’ he said, ‘or keep it out of my hearing, I’ll send the child to be taken care of in Hebsworth, or somewhere else further off, and then I’ll shut up the house and send you all about your business. So just mind what I say.’
Of late it had become known that he was about to take a partner into his business, a member of the Legge family—a name we remember. Dunfieldians discussed the news, and revived their pleasure in speculating on the sum total of Dagworthy’s fortune. But it was as one talks of possible mines of treasure in the moon; practical interest in the question could scarcely be said to exist, for the chance of Dagworthy’s remarriage seemed remoter than ever. The man was beginning to be one of those figures about whom gathers the peculiar air of mystery which ultimately leads to the creation of myths. Let him live on in this way for another twenty years, and stories would be told of him to children in the nursery. The case of assault and battery, a thing of the far past, would probably develop into a fable of manslaughter, of murder; his wife’s death was already regarded very much in that light, and would class him with Bluebeard; his house on the Heath would assume a forbidding aspect, and dread whispers would be exchanged of what went on there under the shadow of night. Was it not already beginning to be remarked by his neighbours that you met him wandering about lonely places at unholy hours, and that he shunned you, like one with a guilty conscience? Let him advance in years, his face lose its broad colour, his hair grow scant and grey, his figure, per chance, stoop a little, his eyes acquire the malignity of miserly old age—and there you have the hero of a Dunfield legend. Even thus do such grow.
But he is sitting by his fireside this New Year’s Eve, still a young man, still fresh-coloured, only looking tired and lonely, and, in fact, meditating an attempt to recover his interest in life. He had admitted a partner to his business chiefly that he might be free to quit Yorkshire for a time, and at present he was settling affairs to that end. This afternoon he expected a visit from Mr. Cartwright, who had been serving him in several ways of late, and who had promised to come and talk business for an hour. The day was anything but cheerful; at times a stray flake of snow hissed upon the fire; already, at three o’clock, shadows were invading the room.
He heard a knock at the front door, and, supposing it to be Cartwright, roused himself. As he was stirring the fire a servant announced—instead of the father, the daughter. Jessie Cartwright appeared.
‘Something amiss with your father?’ Dagworthy asked, shaking hands with her carelessly.
‘Yes; I’m sorry to say he has such a very bad sore-throat that he couldn’t possibly come. Oh, what an afternoon it is, to be sure!’
‘Why did
‘Of course. I’m afraid the wet ‘ll drip off my cloak on to the floor.’
‘Take it off, then, and put it here by the fire to dry.’
He helped her to divest herself, and hung the cloak on to the back of a chair.
‘You may as well sit down. Shall I give you a glass of wine?’
‘Oh, indeed, no! No, thank you!’
‘I think you’d better have one,’ he said, without heeding her. ‘I suppose you’ve got your feet wet? I can’t very well ask you to take your shoes off.’
‘Oh, they’re not wet anything to speak of,’ said Jessie, settling herself in a chair, as if her visit were the most ordinary event. She watched him pour the wine, putting on the face of a child who is going to be treated to something reserved for grown-up persons.
‘What do they mean by sending you all this distance in such weather?’ Dagworthy said, as he seated himself and extended his legs, resting an elbow on the table.
‘They didn’t send me. I offered to come, and mother wouldn’t hear of it.’
‘Well—?’
‘Oh, I just slipped out of the room, and was off before anyone could get after me. I suppose I shall catch it rarely when I get back. But we wanted to know why you haven’t been to see us—not even on Christmas Day. Now that, you know, was too bad of you, Mr. Dagworthy. I said you must be ill. Have you been?’
‘Ill? No.’
‘Oh!’ the girl exclaimed, upon a sudden thought. ‘That reminds me. I really believe Mrs. Hood is dead; at all events all the blinds were down as I came past.’
‘Yes,’ was the reply, ‘she is dead. She died early this morning.’
‘Well, I never! Isn’t poor Emily having a shocking Christmas! I declare, when I saw her last week, she looked
