CHAPTER XVIII

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