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.