His wife’s death came as an unhoped-for relief; he felt like a man beginning the world anew. He had no leaning to melancholy, and a prolongation of his domestic troubles would not have made him less hearty in his outward bearing, but the progress of time had developed elements in his nature which were scarcely compatible with a continuance of the life he had been leading. He had begun to put to himself ominous questions; such, for instance, as—What necessity was he under to maintain the appearance of a cheerful domesticity? If things got just a trifle more unbearable, why should he not make for himself somewhere else a new home? He was, it is true, startled at his own audacity, and only some strangely powerful concurrence of motives—such as he was yet to know—could in reality have made him reckless. For the other features of his character, those which tended to stability, were still strong enough to oppose passions which had not found the occasion for their full development. He was not exactly avaricious, but pursuit of money was in him an hereditary instinct. By mere force of habit he stuck zealously to his business, and, without thinking much about his wealth, disliked unusual expenditure. His wife had taunted him with meanness, with low money-grubbing; the effect had been to make him all the more tenacious of habits which might have given way before other kinds of reproof. So he had gone on living the ordinary life, to all appearances well contented, in reality troubled from time to time by a reawakening of those desires which he had understood only to have them frustrated. He groped in a dim way after things which, by chance perceived, seemed to have a certain bearing on his life. The discovery in himself of an interest in architecture was an instance; but for his visit to the Continent he might never have been led to think of the subject. Then there was his fondness for the moors and mountains, the lochs and islands, of the north. On the whole, he preferred to travel in Scotland by himself; the scenery appealed to a poetry that was in him, if only he could have brought it into consciousness. Already he had planned for the present August a tour among the Hebrides, and had made it out with his maps and guidebooks, not without careful consideration of expense. Why did he linger beyond the day on which he had decided to set forth?
For several days it had been noticed at the mill that he lacked something of his wonted attention in matters of business. Certainly his occupation about eleven o’clock one morning had little apparent bearing on the concerns of his office; he was standing at the window of his private room, which was on the first floor of the mill, with a large field-glass at his eyes. The glass was focussed upon the Cartwrights’ garden, in which sat Jessie with Emily Hood. They were but a short distance away, and Dagworthy could observe them closely; he had done so, intermittently, for almost an hour, and this was the second morning that he had thus amused himself. Yet, to judge from his face, when he turned away, amusement was hardly his state of mind; his features had a hard-set earnestness, an expression almost savage. And then he walked about the little room, regarding objects absently.
Four days later he was again with his glass at the window; it wanted a few minutes of ten o’clock. Emily Hood had just reached the garden; he saw her enter and begin to pace about the walks, waiting for Jessie’s arrival. Dagworthy of a sudden put the glass aside, took his hat, and hastened away from the mill. He walked along the edge of the cattle-market, till he came into the road by which Jessie must approach the garden; he saw her coming, and went on at a brisk pace towards her. The girl was not hurrying, though she would be late; these lessons were beginning to tax her rather too seriously; Emily was so exacting. Already she had made a change in the arrangements, whereby she saved herself the walk to Banbrigg; in the garden, too, it was much easier to find excuses for trifling away time than when she was face to face with Emily at a table. So she came along the road at a very moderate pace, and, on seeing who it was that neared her, put on her pleasantest smile, doubly glad of the meeting; it was always something to try her devices on Richard Dagworthy, and at present the chat would make a delay for which she could urge reasonable excuse.
‘The very person I wanted to meet!’ Dagworthy exclaimed. ‘You’ve saved me a run all the way up to your house. What are you doing this way? Going to school?’
He pointed to the books she carried.
‘Something like it,’ replied Jessie, with a wry movement of her lips. ‘Why did you want to meet me, though?’
‘Because I want you to do something for me—that is, if you will. But, really, where were you going? Perhaps you can’t spare time?’
‘I was going to the garden,’ she said, pointing in that direction. ‘I have lessons there with Emily Hood. Beastly shame that I should have to do lessons, isn’t it? I feel too old for that; I’ve got other things to think about.’
She put her head on one side, and rustled the pages of a French grammar, at last throwing a glance at Richard from the corners of her eyes.
‘But do you expect Miss Hood to come soon?’ Dagworthy asked, playing his part very well, in spite of a nervousness which possessed him.
‘No doubt she’s in the garden already. I’ve given her a key, so that if she gets there first—But what do you want me to do?’
‘Why, I was going to ask you to walk to the station and meet the ten thirty-five train from Hebsworth. Your father will get in by it, I expect, and I want him to come and see me at once at the mill.’
‘All right,’ Jessie exclaimed with eagerness, ‘I’ll go. Just let me run and tell Emily—’
Dagworthy was consulting his watch.
‘You’ve only bare time to get to the station, walking as quickly as you can? Which is your garden? Let me go and tell her you are not coming.’
‘Will you? The second door round the corner there, You’ll have to apologize properly—I hope you know how to.’
This was Jessie’s maidenly playfulness; she held out her hand, with many graces, to take leave.
‘If he doesn’t come,’ said Dagworthy, ‘will you just walk over to the mill to let me know?’
‘I don’t know that I shall; I don’t think it would be proper.’
‘Ho, ho! I like that! But you’ll have to be off, or you’ll never get there in time.’
She ran away, rejoicing in her escape from the lesson, Of course she looked back several times; the first glance showed her Dagworthy still gazing after her, at the second she saw that he was walking towards the garden.
He pushed open the wooden door, and passed between the hedges; the next door stood open, and he already saw Emily; she had seated herself under one of the pear trees, and was reading. As soon as his eyes discovered her he paused; his hands clasped themselves nervously behind him. Then he proceeded more slowly. As soon as he stepped within the garden, Emily heard his approach, and turned her head with a smile, expectant of Jessie, At the sight of Dagworthy the smile vanished instantly, she became noticeably pale, and at length rose with a startled motion.
Dagworthy drew near to her; when close enough to hold out his hand, he could no longer keep his eyes upon her face; they fell, and his visage showed an embarrassment which, even in her confusion—her all but dread—Emily noticed as a strange thing. She was struggling to command herself, to overcome by reason the fear which always attacked her in this man’s presence. She felt it as a relief to be spared the steady gaze which, on former meetings, he had never removed from her.