THE CUTTING OF THE KNOT
For the final failure of his plot Dagworthy was in no wise prepared. He
had anticipated prolonged scenes, passionate pleadings, appeals to his
better nature, and to his shame; but that his threat should prove
ineffectual was not among his fears. Illustrating a well-known tendency
of human nature, his reckless egoism based its confidence on the
presumed existence of heroic self-devotion in his victim. Starting from
a knowledge of the close affection between Emily and her father, the
logic of desire had abundant arguments to prove that the girl must and
could act in but one way. Dagworthy's was not an original mind; the
self-immolation of daughters (not of sons) on their parents' behalf is
among vulgar conceptions of the befitting, and it is more than probable
that the mill-owner was half-consciously supported by precedents drawn
from his readings in popular fiction. His imagination, as is commonly
the case, was only strong in the direction of his wishes; neglecting
Emily's avowed attachment to an accepted lover--whose shadowiness made
him difficult to realise even as an obstacle--he dwelt persistently on
the thought of Hood's position, and found it impossible to imagine a
refusal on Emily's part to avert from her father the direst of
calamities. That other motive, the strength of which in Emily was
independent of her plighted troth, was not within the range of his
conceptions; that a woman should face martyrdom rather than marry
without love was a contingency alien to his experience and to the
philosophy wherewith nature had endowed him. In spite of the attributes
of nobleness which so impressed him in the object of his love, Dagworthy
could give no credit to the utterance of such a feeling. Whilst Emily
spoke, he was for the moment overcome by a vision of vague glories;
reflecting on her words, he interpreted them as merely emphasising her
determination to wed one only. Their effect was to give new food to his
jealousy.
That solace of men's unconscious pessimism, the faith, pathetically
clung to, that in frustration of desire is the soul's health, is but too
apt to prove itself fallacious just where its efficiency would show most
glorious. Is there not lurking somewhere in your mind, not withstanding
the protests of your realistic intelligence, more than half a hope that
Richard Dagworthy will emerge radiant from the gulf into which his
passions have plunged him? For the credit of human nature! But what if
human nature oft establishes its credit by the failures over which we
shake our heads? Of many ways to the resting-place of souls, the way of
affliction is but one; cling, if it please you, to the assurance that
this is the treading of the elect, instinct will justify itself in many
to whom the denial of a supreme need has been the closing of the upward
path. Midway in his life, when slow development waited but occasion to
establish the possibilities of a passionate character, Dagworthy
underwent the trial destined to determine the future course of his life.
One hesitates to impute it to him as a fault that he was not of the
elect. A mere uneducated Englishman, hitherto balancing always between
the calls from above and from below, with one miserable delusion and its
consequent bitterness ever active in his memory, he could make no
distinction between the objects which with vehemence he desired and the
spiritual advantage which he felt the attainment would bring to him; and
for the simple reason that in his case no such distinction existed. Even
as the childhood of civilisation knows virtue only in the form of a
concrete deity, so to Dagworthy the higher life of which he was capable
took shape as a mortal woman, and to possess her was to fulfil his
being. With the certainty that she was beyond his reach came failure of
the vital forces which promised so much. A pity for it flatters us poor
mortals to discern instances of the soul's independence of the body. I
would it had been otherwise with Dagworthy; I have but to relate the
facts. It was no dark angel that had whispered to him through the hours
of his waiting for Emily's surrender. High aims, pure ambitions, were
stronger in him than they ever had been; stronger than they ever would
be again. It was when Emily left him with those proud words of defiance
that the veritable demon took stand at his ear. The leaping, fruitful
sap of his being turned itself to gall. He sat with a brow of blackness;
cruel projects worked in his brain.
Not only had he lost her, but his loss was another's gain. The pricking
of jealousy, for a while suspended, again became maddening. He had heard
her say that she would die rather than be his wife; judge, then, what
must be her love of the man she bud chosen. His desire now was to do her
injury, and his fiercest torment was the thought that he dared not
fulfil the menace with which he had hoped to overwhelm her. If he
prosecuted Hood, all the circumstances of the case would inevitably come
out; Emily had friends in Dunfield, and if her father's guilt were once
disclosed, there would be no reason for her concealment of what had
happened; facts like these put forward in mitigation of punishment would
supply the town with a fearful subject of comment--nay, was he safe from
the clutch of the law? Of these things he had not troubled to think, so
assured was he that the mere threat would suffice. From his present
point of view it was easy enough to see that the plot had been a
wretched piece of bungling; in failing of its end it became the project
of a simpleton. Had the girl herself been cool enough to see this? Did
she defy him in knowledge of the weakness of his position? Probably not;
in that case she would have spoken differently she had granted, and
clearly with sincerity, his power to do what he threatened. And then the
fact remained that he could injure Hood irremediably by means short of
criminal proceedings. Emily--his reasoning was accurate enough--had not
been careful to distinguish between modes of injury, where each meant
ruin.
What he dared to do, he would. He was acquainted with the wretched story
of struggle which had ended in Hood's taking refuge, as a clerk with a
mean salary, from the extremities of destitution. To dismiss the man
after private accusation would be to render his prospects worse than
ever, for it was easy to whisper here and there the grounds of
dismissal. Emily's mouth would be closed by the necessity of keeping
secret her father's dishonesty. But this revenge fell short of his
appetite for cruelty; it would strike the girl herself only indirectly.
And it was possible that her future husband might have it in his power
to give her parents aid. Yet he persuaded himself that the case was
otherwise; Emily's secrecy had impressed him with the belief that the
match she contemplated was anything but a brilliant one. Could he devise
no graver hurt? Through the Sunday afternoon and the night which
followed, he pondered ceaselessly on means of evil, delighted to flesh
his fangs even in imagination. Many a vile plan dwelt with him which he
knew he durst not put into practice. Monday morning came and found him
no further than the crime which had first suggested itself. Fevered with
eagerness to accomplish that at least, he left home earlier than usual.
It might be that the day would bring fresh counsel.
To Emily the hours following upon her visit to the house on the Heath
had brought unnatural quietness. Physical suffering troubled her, but
the energies of her mind were for the time expended; the aching of her
brow involved thought in sluggishness. She did not shun her parents, and
even talked with them in a listless way; solitude would have been
irksome to her just now. For once she felt glad of her mother's way of
spending Sunday; to sit inactive was all that she desired. It was
understood that her head distressed her.
In the afternoon, and again in the evening, the single bell of the
chapel clanged for worshippers. Mrs. Hood was not in the habit of
attending service more than once in the day; she sat on her uneasy
chair, at times appearing to read, more often gazing out of the windows.
The road had more traffic than on week-days, for it was the recreation
of a certain class of Dunfieldians to drive out in parties to the Heath,
either hiring a vehicle or using their own trade-carts. It would have
been a consolation to observe that in the latter case the quadruped
employed benefited by its owner's regard for his own interests; possibly
an acute spectator might have discerned gradations of inhumanity. To the
casual eye there showed but a succession of over-laden animals urged to
the utmost speed; the national predilection exhibiting itself crudely in
this locality. Towards nightfall the pleasure-seekers returned, driving
with the heightened energy attributable to Bacchic inspiration, singing,
shouting, exchanging racy banter with pedestrians. So the hours dragged
wearily on, wheezed out, one after one, by the clock on the stairs. Hood
was at no time fertile in topics of conversation; to-day he maintained
almost unbroken silence. Tea was prepared, partaken of, removed; supper,
three hours later. The day closed with rain and a rising wind.
Emily heard it about the house as she lay through hours of
sleeplessness. At first a light slumber had come to her; it was broken
by the clock striking eleven. Probably she was roused at the first
stroke, for, failing to count, the number seemed to her so interminable
that she started up and made to herself fretful complaint. Pain was
weakening her self-control; she found herself crying in a weary,
desolate way, and could not stop her tears for a long time. The gusts of
wind went by her windows and bore their voices away on to the common,
wailing and sobbing in the far distance; rain spattered the windows at
times. When her tears ceased, Emily hid her face in the pillow and
moaned; often she uttered Wilfrid's name. To-day she should by agreement
have written to him, but to do so had been impossible. He would be
uneasy at her silence. Oh, bow could she ever write to him again? What
might happen to-morrow? At the thought, she held her breath and lay in
silence.
She rose in time for breakfast, but at the last moment could not bring
herself to go down to the meal. To face her father was impossible. Her
mother came to the door, and Emily answered her that she would lie for
an hour or two longer, being still unwell. During the half-hour that
followed she sat listening intently to every sound in the house. Hood,
having breakfasted, came upstairs and entered his room; when, a few
minutes later, he came out, his steps made a pause at her threshold. Her
heart beat in sickening fear; she could not have found voice to reply to
him had he spoken. But he did not do so, and went downstairs. She heard
him open the front door, and sprang to the window to catch a glimpse of
him. At the gate he turned and looked up to her window; his face was
sorrowful. Emily held back that he might not see her; when it was too
late she could not understand this movement, and longed to wave him a
good-bye. She threw up the sash; her father did not turn again.
We follow him. Not very long after his arrival at the mill, Dagworthy
himself appeared. Hood's evil conscience led him to regard with
apprehension every unusual event. Dagworthy's unwonted earliness was
still troubling his mind, when a messenger summoned him to the private
room. There was nothing extraordinary in this, but Hood, as he crossed
the passage, shook with fear; before knocking and pushing open the door,
he dashed drops from his forehead with his hand. Dagworthy was alone,
sitting at the desk.
'Shut the door,' he said, without turning his eyes from a letter he was
reading.
The clerk obeyed, and stood for a full minute before anything more was
addressed to him. He knew that the worst had come.
Dagworthy faced half round.
'One day early last week,' he began, averting his eyes after a single
glance, 'I was looking over one of these ledgers'--he pointed to the
shelf--'and left an envelope to mark a place. I forgot about it, and
now that I look, the envelope has gone. It contained a bank-note. Of
course you came across it in the course of your work.'
It was rather an assertion than a question. Whilst he was speaking, the
courage of despair had taken hold upon his hearer. Like the terrible
flash of memory which is said to strike the brain of a drowning man,
there smote on Hood's mind a vision of the home he had just quitted, of
all it had been and all it might still be to him. This was his life, and
he must save it, by whatever means. He knew nothing but that necessity;
all else of consciousness was vague swimming horror.
'No, sir,' was his reply, given with perfect firmness, 'I found no
envelope.'
Dagworthy's coarse lips formed a smile, hard and cruel. He faced his
clerk.
'Oh, you didn't?'
'In which ledger did you leave it, sir?' Hood asked, the dryness of his
throat rendering speech more difficult as he proceeded. Still, his eye
was fixed steadily on Dagworthy's face; it was life at stake. 'I have
not had them all.'
'I don't remember which it was,' replied the other, 'and it doesn't much
matter, since I happen to know the note. I dare say you remember buying
a new hat in Hebsworth last Friday?'
The love of inflicting pain for its own sake, an element of human nature
only overgrown by civilisation, was showing itself strongly in
Dagworthy. He was prolonging this scene. On his way to the mill he had
felt that the task would be rather disagreeable; but we cannot nurture
baseness with impunity, and, face to face with a man under torture, he
enjoyed the spectacle as he scarcely would have done a little while ago.
Perhaps the feeling that his first blow at Emily was actually struck
gave him satisfaction, which he dwelt upon.
Hood made no reply to the question. He would not admit to himself that
this was the end, but he had no voice.
'You hear me?' Dagworthy reminded him.
'Yes. I bought a hat.'
'And you paid for it with the note I have lost. I happen to know it.'
There was silence.
'Well, you understand that under ordinary circumstances you would be at
once given in charge.' Dagworthy spoke almost cheerfully. 'If I don't do
that it's out of consideration for your age and your family. But as you
are not to be trusted, of course I can't continue to employ you.'
A wild hope sprang in Hood's eyes, and the rush of gratitude at his
heart compelled him to speak.
'Oh, Mr. Dagworthy, you arc generous! You have always treated me with
kindness; and this is how I repay you. It was base; I deserve no mercy.
The temptation--' he grew incoherent; 'I have been driven hard by want
of money. I know that is no excuse. I had no intention at first of
taking the money; I came here to give it you; I should have done so
without a thought of dishonesty, but you happened to be away. In going
to Hebsworth I lost my hat, and I had not enough money of my own to buy
another; I had to change the note--that was the temptation--I will
return it.--But for this work here, I might by now have been in the
workhouse. Try, sir, to forgive my baseness; I cannot forgive myself.'
Dagworthy turned his face away.
'Well,' he said, with a wave of the hand, 'all that's too late.'
'Sir,' Hood pursued, spurred by foresight of penury perhaps as much as
by dread of having to explain his dismissal at home, for penury had been
his relentless foe through life Sir, is it in vain to ask you to give me
another chance? I am not a dishonest man; never before has such a
temptation come to me, and surely never would again. Will you--I entreat
you to think what it means--at my age--my wife--I ought to be content
with thanking you for having spared me--how few would have done that!
Let me continue to serve you--a lower salary--if it be ever so
little--till I have regained your confidence--'
Dagworthy was drumming with his fingers on the desk. Not for an instant
did he falter in his purpose, but it gave him pleasure to be thus prayed
to. The employer of labour is not as a rule troubled with a lively
imagination; a pity, for it would surely gratify him to feel in its
fulness at times his power of life and death. Native defect and force of
habit render it a matter of course that a small population should eat or
starve at his pleasure; possibly his resolution in seasons of strike is
now and then attributable to awakening of insight and pleasure in
prolonging his role of hunger-god. Dagworthy appreciated his victim's
despair all the more that it made present to him the wretchedness that
would fall on Emily. Think not that the man was unashamed. With
difficulty he could bring himself to meet Hood's look. But self-contempt
may well consist with perseverance in gratification of ignoble
instincts.
When Hood ceased, there came this reply.
'I shall not grant what you ask, simply because it is against my
principles. I let you off, for it would do me no good to punish you, and
certainly, as regards yourself, the lesson will be enough. But I can't
keep you in my employ, so we'll talk no more about it. You were going to
take your holiday from the end of this week, I think? Very well, let it
be supposed that you begin to-day instead, and in a day or two write me
a note giving up your place.'
This was not yielding on Dagworthy's part; it merely occurred to him as
a way of protecting himself if there should be future need.
Hood was standing with bent head; he seemed unable either to speak or to
depart.
'You may go,' Dagworthy said.
'Sir,--I may refer to you?' asked the wretched man, roused by the
bidding.
'No, I think not,' was the calm reply. 'Unless, of course, you are
willing that I should state the plain facts of the case?'
Hood staggered from the room....
When Emily came down in the course of the morning, her appearance was
such that her mother uttered an exclamation of alarm.
'Why, child, you are like a ghost! Why didn't you stay in bed? I was
just coming up to you, hoping you'd been asleep. I must go for Dr. Evans
at once.'
Emily resisted.
'But I certainly shall, say what you like. No headache would make you
look like that. And you're as feverish as you can be. Go up to bed
again; you hardly look, though, as if you could climb the stairs. I'll
put on my things and go round.'
It was only by affecting anger that Emily could overcome her mother's
purpose. She did indeed feel ill, but to submit to treatment was
impossible whilst this day lasted. Far worse than her bodily fever was
the mental anguish which would not allow her to remain in one place for
more than a few minutes at a time, and did not suffer the pretence of
occupation. How would it come about? Was her father at this moment in
the hands of the police? How would the first news come to Banbrigg, and
when? The sound of every vehicle on the road was an approaching terror;
she was constantly at the window to watch the people who came near. It
had seemed to her that she realised what this trial would be, yet her
anticipations had fallen far below the experience of these fearful
hours. At instants, she all but repented what she had done, and asked
herself if there was not even now a chance of somehow saving her father.
The face which he had raised to the window as he left home smote her
heart. Not a word of kindness had she spoken to him since Friday night.
Oh, what inconceivable cruelty had possessed her, that she let him go
this morning without even having touched his hand! Could her mind endure
this? Was she not now and then near to delirium? Once she went to the
window, and, to her horror, could see nothing; a blue and red mist
hovered before her eyes. It left her, but other symptoms of physical
distress grew from hour to hour, and she dreaded lest strength to endure
might wholly forsake her before night came. She tried to picture her
father returning as usual; human pity might have spoken even in
Dagworthy's heart; or if not so, then he might have been induced to
forbear by a hope of winning her gratitude. Very agony made her feel
almost capable of rewarding such mercy. For Wilfrid seemed now very far
away, and her love had fallen to the background; it was not the supreme
motive of her being as hitherto. Would she suffer thus for Wilfrid? The
question forced itself upon her, and for reply she shuddered; such bonds
seemed artificial compared with those which linked her to her father,
the love which was coeval with her life. All feeling is so relative to
circumstances, and what makes so stable as the cement of habit?
In the early hours of the afternoon a lull of utter weariness relieved
her; she lay upon the couch and all but slept; it was something between
sleep and loss of consciousness following on excessive pain. She awoke
to find the doctor bending over her; Mrs. Hood had become so alarmed
that she had despatched a neighbour secretly on the errand. Emily was
passive, and by her way of speaking half disguised the worst features of
her state. Nevertheless, the order was given that she should go to bed.
She promised to obey.
'As soon as father comes,' she said, when alone again with her mother.
'It cannot be long till his time.'
She would not yield beyond this. But the hour of return came, and her
father delayed. Then was every minute an eternity. No longer able to
keep her reclining position, she stood again by the window, and her eyes
lost their vision from straining upon one spot, that at which Hood would
first appear. She leaned her head upon the window-sill, and let her ears
take their turn of watching; the first touch of a hand at the gate would
reach her. But there came none.
Can hours thus be lived through? Ah, which of us to whom time has not
been a torment of hell? Is there no nether Circle, where dread
anticipation eternally prolongs itself, eternally varied with hope in
vain for ever?
Mrs. Hood had abandoned her useless protests; she came and sat by the
girl.
'I've no doubt he's gone to the Walkers',' she kept saying, naming
acquaintances with whom Hood occasionally spent an evening. Then, 'And
why need you wait for him, my dear? Can't he go up and see you as soon
as he gets in?'
'Mother,' Emily said at last, 'will you go to the Walkers' and ask? It
is not really very far. Will you go?'
But, my child, it will take me at least an hour to walk there and back!
I should only miss him on the way. Are you afraid of something?
'Yes, I am. I believe something has happened to him.'
'Those are your fancies. You are very poorly; it is cruel to me to
refuse to go to bed.'
'Will you go, mother?--If you do not, I must; ill or not, I must go.'
She started to her feet. Her mother gazed at her in fear,--believing it
the beginning of delirium.
'Emily, my dear child,' she pleaded, laying her hand on the girl's arm,
'won't you come upstairs,--to please me, dear?'
'Mother, if you will go, I promise to lie here quietly till you return.'
'But it is impossible to leave you alone in the house. Look, now, it is
nine o'clock; in half an hour, an hour at most, your father will be
back. Why, you know how often he stays late when he gets talking.'
Emily was silent for a few minutes. Then she said--
'Will you ask Mrs. Hopkins to send her servant?'
'But think--the trouble it will be giving.'
'Will you do it? I wish it. Will you go and ask her I will give the girl
money.'
'If you are so determined, of course I will ask her. But I'm sure--'
At length she left the room, to go out of the house by the back-door and
call at the neighbours'. Scarcely was she away, when Emily darted
upstairs, and in an instant was down again, with her hat and a cloak;
another moment, and she was out in the road. She did not forget the
terror her mother would suffer, on finding her gone; but endurance had
reached its limit. It was growing dark. After one look in the direction
of Dunfield, she took the opposite way, and ran towards the Heath, ran
till her breath failed and she had to drop into a quick walk. Once more
she was going to the Upper Heath, and to the house which was the source
of all her misery. When she reached the quarry it was quite dark at her
approach she saw the shape of a man move away into the shadow of the
quarried rock, and an unreasoning fear spurred her past the spot. Five
minutes more and she was at Dagworthy's gate. She rang the door-bell.
The servant told her that Mr. Dagworthy was at home; she declined to
give her name, but said she must see him at once. Speedily she was led
into a room, where her enemy sat alone.
He looked at her wonderingly, then with a deep flush--for now he surely
had gained his end,--he advanced towards her without speaking.
'Where is my father?' she asked; the voice which disabused him did not
seem Emily's.
'Isn't he at home?'
'He has not come home. What have you done?'
'Not come home?'
'Then he is free? He is safe--my father? You have spared him?'
Dagworthy inwardly cursed himself for shortsightedness. Were he but able
to answer 'Yes,' would she not yield him anything? Why had he not made
trial of this policy? Or was it now too late? But Hoed had not returned
home. The man had gone forth from him in despair. As he gazed at the
girl, a suspicion, all but a fear, touched him. Why should Hood remain
away from his house?
She was repeating her questions imploringly.
'He is free, as far as I am concerned, Emily.'
'You have forgiven him? Oh, you have had that mercy upon us?'
'Sit down, and let us talk about it,' said Dagworthy.
She did not seem to notice that he had taken her hand; but the next
moment he was holding her in his arm, and with a cry she broke away.
'There are others in the house,' she exclaimed, her wild, fearful eyes
seeking other exit than that which he stopped. 'I must call for their
help. Can you not see that I am suffering--ill? Are you pitiless? But
no--no--for you have spared him!'
Dagworthy mastered himself, though it cost him something, and spoke with
an effort at gentleness.
'What thanks have you to give me, Emily?'
'My life's gratitude--but that will be your least reward.'
'Ay, but how is the gratitude going to be shown?'
Her keen sense found a fear in his manner of speaking.
'You have not said a word to him,' she asked, seeming to forget his
question.
Of what ultimate use was it to lie? And she would not suffer him within
reach of her.
'I couldn't very well help doing that,' he replied, unable to resolve
how it were best to speak, and uttering the first words that came,
carelessly.
'Then he knows you have discovered--'
Her voice failed. Such explanation of her father's absence was a new
terror.
'Yes, he knows,' Dagworthy answered, cruelty resuming its fascination.
'I couldn't keep him at the mill, you know, though I let him off his
punishment.'
'You dismissed him?'
'I did. It's not too late to have him back, and something better.'
'Let me go!' she said hoarsely.
He moved from the door; sight of such misery vanquished even him.
When she reached home, her mother was standing with two or three
neighbours in front of the house at the sight of Emily there were
exclamations of relief and welcome.
'My child, where can you have been?' Mrs. Hood cried, following the girl
who passed the garden-gate without pausing.
'Is father come?' was the reply.
'No, not yet. But where have you been? Why, you were coming from the
Heath, Emily, in the night air, and you so ill!'
'I have been to ask Mr. Dagworthy,' Emily said in a tired voice. 'He
knows nothing of him.'
Her strength bore her into the parlour, then she sank upon the couch and
closed her eyes. Mrs. Hood summoned the help of her friends.
Unresisting, with eyes still closed, silent, she was carried upstairs
and laid in her bed. Her mother sat by her. Midnight came, and Hood did
not return. Already Mrs. Hood had begun to suspect something mysterious
in Emily's anxiety; her own fears now became active. She went to the
front door and stood there with impatience, by turns angry and alarmed.
Her husband had never been so late. She returned to the bedroom.
'Emily, are you awake, dear?'
The girl's eyes opened, but she did not speak.
'Do you know any reason why your father should stay away?'
A slight shake of the head was the reply.
The deepest stillness of night was upon the house. As Mrs. Hood seated
herself with murmured bewailing of such wretchedness, there sounded a
heavy crash out on the staircase; it was followed by a peculiar ringing
reverberation. Emily rose with a shriek.
'My love--hush! hush!' said her mother. 'It's only the clock-weight
fallen. How that does shake my nerves! It did it only last week, and
gave me such a start.'
Grasping her mother's hand, the girl lay back, death-pale. The silence
was deeper than before, for not even the clock ticked....
Dagworthy could not sleep. At sunrise he had wearied himself so with
vain efforts to lie still, that he resolved to take a turn across the
Heath, and then rest if he felt able to. He rose and went into the still
morning air.
The Heath was beautiful, seen thus in the purple flush of the dawn. He
had called forth a dog to accompany him, and the animal careered in
great circles over the dewy sward, barking at the birds it started up,
leaping high from the ground, mad with the joy of life. He ran a race
with it to the wall which bounded the top of the quarry. The exercise
did him good, driving from his mind shadows which had clung about it in
the night. Beaching the wall he rested his arms upon it, and looked over
Dunfield to the glory of the rising sun. The smoke of the mill-chimneys,
thickening as fires were coaled for the day's work, caught delicate
reflection from the sky; the lofty spire of the church seemed built of
some beautiful rose-hued stone. The grassy country round about wore a
fresher green than it was wont to show; the very river, so foul in
reality with the refuse of manufactures, gleamed like a pure current.
Dagworthy's eyes fixed themselves on the horizon, and grew wide with the
sense of things half understood.
The dog had left him and was gone round into the quarry. A bark came
from below. At a second bark Dagworthy looked down. The dog was snuffing
at a man who lay between a big piece of quarried stone and a little
grass-bordered pool. Asleep--was he? Yet it was not the attitude in
which men sleep. The dog barked a third time.
He left his position, and followed the circuit which would bring him
down to where the man lay. Whilst still a few yards off, he checked
himself. If the man slept, his body was strangely distorted; one arm
seemed to be beneath him, the other was extended stiffly; the face
looked at the sky. A few steps, and Dagworthy, gazing upon the face,
knew it.
A cold shudder thrilled him, and he drew back. His foot struck against
something; it was a bottle. He picked it up, and read a word in large
print on the white label.
The temptation to look full into the face again was irresistible, though
horror shook him as he approached. The features were hideous, the eyes
starting from their sockets, the lips drawn back over the teeth. He
turned and walked away rapidly, followed by the dog, which roused the
quarry echoes with its barking.
'My God! I never thought of that.'
The words uttered themselves as he speeded on. Only at the garden-gate
he stayed, and then seemed to reflect upon what he should do. The
temptation was to return into the house and leave others to spread the
news; there would be workmen in the quarry in less than an hour. Yet he
did not do this, but hurried past his own door to the house of a doctor
not a hundred yards away. Him he called forth....
About midday a covered burden was brought in a cart to Banbrigg; the
cart stopped before the Hoods' house, and two men, lifting the burden,
carried it through the gate and to the door. Mrs. Hood had already
opened to them, and stood with her face half-hidden. The burden was
taken into the parlour, and placed upon the couch. The outline was that
of a man's form.
In the kitchen were two women, neighbours; as soon as the men had
departed, and the front door was closed, they stole forward, one
sobbing, the other pale with fear. They entered the sitting-room, and
Mrs. Hood went in with them. She was strangely self-controlled. All
three stood looking at the wrapped form, which was that of a man.
'I shan't dare to look at him!' Mrs. Hood whispered. 'The doctor told me
I wasn't to. Oh, my husband!'
With the sublime love of woman, conquering all dread, she dropped to her
knees and laid her head on the pillow of the couch by the side of that
head so closely shrouded.
'Thank God, Emily can't see this!' she groaned.
'Hadn't I better go up to her?' one of the women asked. Both of them
stood at a distance.
'Yes, perhaps you had. But you'll be wanted at home. Stay with me a
minute, then I'll lock this door and go up myself.'
At the sound of a hand on the door all turned with a movement of
surprise and affright. There entered Emily, hurriedly dressed, her hair
loose upon her shoulders. She looked round the room, with
half-conscious, pitiful gaze, then upon her mother, then at the form on
the couch. She pointed to it.
'He has come?'
Her voice was unearthly. The sound gave her mother strength to run to
her, and throw her arms about her, sobbing, terror-stricken.
She suffered herself to be led upstairs, and did not speak.