A COMPACT
On the last day of the year, a Sunday, Dagworthy sat by his fireside,
alone; luncheon had been removed, and decanters stood within his reach.
But the glass of wine which he had poured out, on turning to the fire
half an hour ago, was still untasted, the cigar, of which he had cut the
end, was still between his fingers, unlighted. For the last three months
our friend had not lacked matter for thought; to do him justice, he had
exercised his mind upon it pretty constantly. To-day he had received
news which gave a fresh impulse to his rumination.
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 _you_ come?' was Dagworthy's not very polite Inquiry. 'It
wasn't so important as all that. Walked all the way?'
'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 like a ghost, and worse.'
Dagworthy gazed at the fire and said nothing.
'One can't be sorry that it's over,' Jessie went on, 'only it's so
dreadful, her father and mother dead almost at the same time. I'm sure
it would have killed me.'
'What is she going to do?' Dagworthy asked, slowly, almost as if
speaking to himself.
'Oh, I daresay it 'll be all right as soon as she gets over it, you
know. She's a lucky girl, in one way.'
'Lucky?' He raised his head to regard her. 'How?'
'Oh well, that isn't a thing to talk about. And then I don't know
anything for certain. It's only what people say you know.'
'_What_ do people say?' he asked, impatiently, though without much sign
of active interest. It was rather as if her manner annoyed him, than the
subject of which she spoke.
'I don't see that it can interest you.'
'No, I don't see that it can. Still, you may as well explain.'
Jessie sipped her wine.
'It's only that they say she's engaged.'
'To whom?'
'A gentleman in London--somebody in the family where she was teaching.'
'How do you know that?' he asked, with the same blending of indifference
and annoyed persistency.
'Why, it's only a guess, after all. One day Barbara and I went to see
her, and just as we got to the door, out comes a gentleman we'd never
seen before. Of course, we wondered who he was. The next day mother and
I were in the station, buying a newspaper, and there was the same
gentleman, just going to start by the London train. Mother remembered
she'd seen him walking with Mrs. Baxendale in St. Luke's, and then we
found he'd been staying with the Baxendales all through Emily's
illness.'
'How did you find it out? You don't know the Baxendales.'
'No, but Mrs. Gadd does, and she told us.'
'What's his name?'
'Mr. Athel--a queer name, isn't it?'
Dagworthy was silent.
'Now you're cross with me,' Jessie exclaimed. 'You'll tell me, like you
did once before, that I'm no good but to pry into other people's
business.'
'You may pry as much as you like,' was the murmured reply.
'Just because you don't care what I do?'
'Drink your wine and try to be quiet just for a little.'
'Why?'
He made no answer, until Jessie asked--
'Why does it seem to interest you so much?'
'What?--all that stuff you've been telling me? I was thinking of
something quite different.'
'Oh!' exclaimed the girl, blankly.
There was a longer silence. Jessie let her eyes stray about the room,
stealing a glance at Dagworthy occasionally. Presently he rose, poked
the fire with violence, and drank his own wine, which had been waiting
so long.
'I must have out the carriage to send you back,' he said, going to the
window to look at the foul weather.
'The carriage, indeed!' protested the girl, with a secret joy. 'You'll
do no such thing.'
'I suppose I shall do as I choose,' he remarked, quietly. Then he came
and rang the bell.
'You're not really going to--?'
A servant answered, and the carriage was ordered.
'Well, certainly that's one way of getting rid of me,' Jessie observed.
'You can stay as long as you please.'
'But the carriage will be round.'
'Can't I keep it waiting half through the night if I choose? I've done
so before now. I suppose I'm master in my own house.'
It was strictly true, that, of the carriage. Once the coachman had been
five minutes late on an evening when Dagworthy happened to be
ill-tempered. He bade the man wait at the door, and the waiting lasted
through several hours.
The room was growing dusk.
'Aren't you very lonely here?' Jessie asked, an indescribable change in
her voice.
'Yes, I suppose I am. You won't make it any better by telling me so.'
'I feel sorry.'
'I dare say you do.'
'Of course you don't believe me. All the same, I _do_ feel sorry.'
'That won't help.'
'No?--I suppose it won't.'
The words were breathed out on a sigh. Dagworthy made no answer.
'I'm not much better off,' she continued, in a low-spirited voice.
'Nonsense!' he ejaculated, roughly, half turning his back on her.
Jessie fumbled a moment at her dress; then, succeeding in getting her
handkerchief out, began to press it against her eyes furtively.
Strangely, there was real moisture to be removed.
'What's the matter with you?' Dagworthy asked with surprise.
She no longer attempted concealment, but began to cry quietly.
'What the deuce has come to you, Jessie?'
'You--you--speak very unkindly to me,' she sobbed.
'Speak unkindly? I didn't know it. What did I say?'
'You won't believe when I say I'm sorry you feel lonely.'
'Why, confound it, I'll believe as much as you like, if it comes to
that. Put that handkerchief away, and drink another glass of wine.'
She stood up, and went to lean on the mantelpiece, hiding her face. When
he was near her again, she continued her complaints in a low voice.
'It's so miserable at home. They want me to be a teacher, and how can I?
I never pretended to be clever, and if I'd all the lessons under the
sun, I should never be able to teach French--and--arithmetic--and those
things. But I wish I could; then I should get away from home, and see
new people. There's nobody I care to see in Dunfield--nobody but one--'
She stopped on a sob.
'Who's that?' Dagworthy asked, looking at her with a singular
expression, from head to foot.
She made no answer, but sobbed again.
'What Christmas presents have you had?' was his next question,
irrelevant enough apparently.
'Oh, none--none to speak of--a few little things. What do I care for
presents? You can't live on presents.'
'Can't live on them? Are things bad at home?'
'I didn't mean that. But of course they're bad; they're always bad
nowadays. However, Barbara's going to be married in a week; she'll be
one out of the way. And of course I haven't a dress fit to be seen in
for the wedding.'
'Why then, get a dress. How much will it cost?' He went to a
writing-table, unlocked a drawer, and took out a cheque-book. 'Now
then,' he said, half jestingly, half in earnest, 'what is it to be?
Anything you like to say--I'll write it.'
'As if I wanted money!'
'I can give you that. I don't see what else I can do. It isn't to be
despised.'
'No, you can do nothing else,' she said, pressing each cheek with her
handkerchief before putting it away. 'Will you help me on with my cloak,
Mr. Dagworthy?'
He took it from the chair, and held it for her. Jessie, as if by
accident, approached her face to his hand, and, before he saw her
purpose, kissed his hard fingers. Then she turned away, hiding her face.
Dagworthy dropped the garment, and stood looking at her. He had a half
contemptuous smile on his lips. At this moment it was announced that the
carriage was coming round. Jessie caught at her cloak, and threw it over
her shoulders. Then, with sunk head, she offered to shake hands.
'No use, Jessie,' Dagworthy remarked quietly, without answering her
gesture.
'Of course, I know it's no use,' she said in a hurried voice of shame.
'I know it as well as you can tell me. I wish I'd never come.'
'But you don't act badly,' he continued.
'What do you mean?' she exclaimed, indignation helping her to raise her
eyes for a moment. 'I'm not acting.'
'You don't mean anything by it--that's all.'
'No, perhaps not. Good-bye.'
'Good-bye. I'm going away before very long. I dare say I shan't see you
again before then.'
'Where are you going to?'
'Abroad.'
'I suppose you'll bring back a foreign wife,' she said with sad
scornfulness.
'No, I'm not likely to do that. I shouldn't wonder if I'm away for some
time, though--perhaps a couple of years.'
'Years!' she exclaimed in astonishment.
He laughed.
'That startles you. I shan't be back in time for your wedding, you see.'
She sobbed again, averting her face.
'I shan't ever be married. I'm one of those wretched things nobody ever
cares for.'
'You'll have to show you deserve it. Why, you couldn't give your word
and keep it for two years.'
Through this extraordinary scene Dagworthy was utterly unlike himself.
It was as if a man suffering physical agony should suddenly begin to
jest and utter wild mirth; there was the same unreality in his
behaviour. Throughout it all the lines of his face never lost their
impress of gloom. Misery had its clutch upon him, and he was driven by
an inexplicable spirit of self-mockery to burlesque the subject of his
unhappiness. He had no sense of responsibility, and certain instincts
were strongly excited, making a kind of moral intoxication.
Jessie answered his question with wide eyes.
'I couldn't?--Ah!'
She spoke under her breath, and with sincerity which was not a little
amusing.
'It's New Year's Eve, isn't it?' Dagworthy pursued, throwing out his
words at random. 'Be here this day two years--or not, as you like. I'm
going to wander about, but I shall be here on that day--that is, if I'm
alive. You won't though. Good-bye.'
He turned away from her, and went to the 'window. Jessie moved a little
nearer.
'Do you mean that?' she asked.
'Mean it?' he repeated, 'why, yes, as much as I mean anything. Be off;
you're keeping that poor devil in the snow.'
'Mr. Dagworthy, I shall be here, and you daren't pretend to forget, or
to say you weren't in earnest.'
He laughed and waved his hand.
'Be off to your carriage!'
Jessie moved to the door reluctantly; but he did not turn again, and she
departed.