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_ Mr. and Mrs. Openshaw came from Manchester to London and took the
House To Let. He had been, what is called in Lancashire, a Salesman
for a large manufacturing firm, who were extending their business,
and opening a warehouse in London; where Mr. Openshaw was now to
superintend the business. He rather enjoyed the change of
residence; having a kind of curiosity about London, which he had
never yet been able to gratify in his brief visits to the
metropolis. At the same time he had an odd, shrewd, contempt for
the inhabitants; whom he had always pictured to himself as fine,
lazy people; caring nothing but for fashion and aristocracy, and
lounging away their days in Bond Street, and such places; ruining
good English, and ready in their turn to despise him as a
provincial. The hours that the men of business kept in the city
scandalised him too; accustomed as he was to the early dinners of
Manchester folk, and the consequently far longer evenings. Still,
he was pleased to go to London; though he would not for the world
have confessed it, even to himself, and always spoke of the step to
his friends as one demanded of him by the interests of his
employers, and sweetened to him by a considerable increase of
salary. His salary indeed was so liberal that he might have been
justified in taking a much larger House than this one, had he not
thought himself bound to set an example to Londoners of how little a
Manchester man of business cared for show. Inside, however, he
furnished the House with an unusual degree of comfort, and, in the
winter time, he insisted on keeping up as large fires as the grates
would allow, in every room where the temperature was in the least
chilly. Moreover, his northern sense of hospitality was such, that,
if he were at home, he could hardly suffer a visitor to leave the
house without forcing meat and drink upon him. Every servant in the
house was well warmed, well fed, and kindly treated; for their
master scorned all petty saving in aught that conduced to comfort;
while he amused himself by following out all his accustomed habits
and individual ways in defiance of what any of his new neighbours
might think.
His wife was a pretty, gentle woman, of suitable age and character.
He was forty-two, she thirty-five. He was loud and decided; she
soft and yielding. They had two children or rather, I should say,
she had two; for the elder, a girl of eleven, was Mrs. Openshaw's
child by Frank Wilson her first husband. The younger was a little
boy, Edwin, who could just prattle, and to whom his father delighted
to speak in the broadest and most unintelligible Lancashire dialect,
in order to keep up what he called the true Saxon accent.
Mrs. Openshaw's Christian-name was Alice, and her first husband had
been her own cousin. She was the orphan niece of a sea-captain in
Liverpool: a quiet, grave little creature, of great personal
attraction when she was fifteen or sixteen, with regular features
and a blooming complexion. But she was very shy, and believed
herself to be very stupid and awkward; and was frequently scolded by
her aunt, her own uncle's second wife. So when her cousin, Frank
Wilson, came home from a long absence at sea, and first was kind and
protective to her; secondly, attentive and thirdly, desperately in
love with her, she hardly knew how to be grateful enough to him. It
is true she would have preferred his remaining in the first or
second stages of behaviour; for his violent love puzzled and
frightened her. Her uncle neither helped nor hindered the love
affair though it was going on under his own eyes. Frank's step-
mother had such a variable temper, that there was no knowing whether
what she liked one day she would like the next, or not. At length
she went to such extremes of crossness, that Alice was only too glad
to shut her eyes and rush blindly at the chance of escape from
domestic tyranny offered her by a marriage with her cousin; and,
liking him better than any one in the world except her uncle (who
was at this time at sea) she went off one morning and was married to
him; her only bridesmaid being the housemaid at her aunt's. The
consequence was, that Frank and his wife went into lodgings, and
Mrs. Wilson refused to see them, and turned away Norah, the warm-
hearted housemaid; whom they accordingly took into their service.
When Captain Wilson returned from his voyage, he was very cordial
with the young couple, and spent many an evening at their lodgings;
smoking his pipe, and sipping his grog; but he told them that, for
quietness' sake, he could not ask them to his own house; for his
wife was bitter against them. They were not very unhappy about
this.
The seed of future unhappiness lay rather in Frank's vehement,
passionate disposition; which led him to resent his wife's shyness
and want of demonstration as failures in conjugal duty. He was
already tormenting himself, and her too, in a slighter degree, by
apprehensions and imaginations of what might befall her during his
approaching absence at sea. At last he went to his father and urged
him to insist upon Alice's being once more received under his roof;
the more especially as there was now a prospect of her confinement
while her husband was away on his voyage. Captain Wilson was, as he
himself expressed it, "breaking up," and unwilling to undergo the
excitement of a scene; yet he felt that what his son said was true.
So he went to his wife. And before Frank went to sea, he had the
comfort of seeing his wife installed in her old little garret in his
father's house. To have placed her in the one best spare room was a
step beyond Mrs. Wilson's powers of submission or generosity. The
worst part about it, however, was that the faithful Norah had to be
dismissed. Her place as housemaid had been filled up; and, even had
it not, she had forfeited Mrs. Wilson's good opinion for ever. She
comforted her young master and mistress by pleasant prophecies of
the time when they would have a household of their own; of which, in
whatever service she might be in the meantime, she should be sure to
form part. Almost the last action Frank Wilson did, before setting
sail, was going with Alice to see Norah once more at her mother's
house. And then he went away.
Alice's father-in-law grew more and more feeble as winter advanced.
She was of great use to her step-mother in nursing and amusing him;
and, although there was anxiety enough in the household, there was
perhaps more of peace than there had been for years; for Mrs. Wilson
had not a bad heart, and was softened by the visible approach of
death to one whom she loved, and touched by the lonely condition of
the young creature, expecting her first confinement in her husband's
absence. To this relenting mood Norah owed the permission to come
and nurse Alice when her baby was born, and to remain to attend on
Captain Wilson.
Before one letter had been received from Frank (who had sailed for
the East Indies and China), his father died. Alice was always glad
to remember that he had held her baby in his arms, and kissed and
blessed it before his death. After that, and the consequent
examination into the state of his affairs, it was found that he had
left far less property than people had been led by his style of
living to imagine; and, what money there was, was all settled upon
his wife, and at her disposal after her death. This did not signify
much to Alice, as Frank was now first mate of his ship, and, in
another voyage or two, would be captain. Meanwhile he had left her
some hundreds (all his savings) in the bank.
It became time for Alice to hear from her husband. One letter from
the Cape she had already received. The next was to announce his
arrival in India. As week after week passed over, and no
intelligence of the ship's arrival reached the office of the owners,
and the Captain's wife was in the same state of ignorant suspense as
Alice herself, her fears grew most oppressive. At length the day
came when, in reply to her inquiry at the Shipping Office, they told
her that the owners had given up Hope of ever hearing more of the
Betsy-Jane, and had sent in their claim upon the underwriters. Now
that he was gone for ever, she first felt a yearning, longing love
for the kind cousin, the dear friend, the sympathising protector,
whom she should never see again,--first felt a passionate desire to
show him his child, whom she had hitherto rather craved to have all
to herself--her own sole possession. Her grief was, however,
noiseless, and quiet--rather to the scandal of Mrs. Wilson; who
bewailed her step-son as if he and she had always lived together in
perfect harmony, and who evidently thought it her duty to burst into
fresh tears at every strange face she saw; dwelling on his poor
young widow's desolate state, and the helplessness of the fatherless
child, with an unction, as if she liked the excitement of the
sorrowful story.
So passed away the first days of Alice's widowhood. Bye-and-bye
things subsided into their natural and tranquil course. But, as if
this young creature was always to be in some heavy trouble, her ewe-
lamb began to be ailing, pining and sickly. The child's mysterious
illness turned out to be some affection of the spine likely to
affect health; but not to shorten life--at least so the doctors
said. But the long dreary suffering of one whom a mother loves as
Alice loved her only child, is hard to look forward to. Only Norah
guessed what Alice suffered; no one but God knew.
And so it fell out, that when Mrs. Wilson, the elder, came to her
one day in violent distress, occasioned by a very material
diminution in the value the property that her husband had left her,-
-a diminution which made her income barely enough to support
herself, much less Alice--the latter could hardly understand how
anything which did not touch health or life could cause such grief;
and she received the intelligence with irritating composure. But
when, that afternoon, the little sick child was brought in, and the
grandmother--who after all loved it well--began a fresh moan over
her losses to its unconscious ears--saying how she had planned to
consult this or that doctor, and to give it this or that comfort or
luxury in after yearn but that now all chance of this had passed
away--Alice's heart was touched, and she drew near to Mrs. Wilson
with unwonted caresses, and, in a spirit not unlike to that of,
Ruth, entreated, that come what would, they might remain together.
After much discussion in succeeding days, it was arranged that Mrs.
Wilson should take a house in Manchester, furnishing it partly with
what furniture she had, and providing the rest with Alice's
remaining two hundred pounds. Mrs. Wilson was herself a Manchester
woman, and naturally longed to return to her native town. Some
connections of her own at that time required lodgings, for which
they were willing to pay pretty handsomely. Alice undertook the
active superintendence and superior work of the household. Norah,
willing faithful Norah, offered to cook, scour, do anything in
short, so that, she might but remain with them.
The plan succeeded. For some years their first lodgers remained
with them, and all went smoothly,--with the one sad exception of the
little girl's increasing deformity. How that mother loved that
child, is not for words to tell!
Then came a break of misfortune. Their lodgers left, and no one
succeeded to them. After some months they had to remove to a
smaller house; and Alice's tender conscience was torn by the idea
that she ought not to be a burden to her mother-in-law, but ought to
go out and seek her own maintenance. And leave her child! The
thought came like the sweeping boom of a funeral bell over her
heart.
Bye-and-bye, Mr. Openshaw came to lodge with them. He had started
in life as the errand-boy and sweeper-out of a warehouse; had
struggled up through all the grades of employment in the place,
fighting his way through the hard striving Manchester life with
strong pushing energy of character. Every spare moment of time had
been sternly given up to self-teaching. He was a capital
accountant, a good French and German scholar, a keen, far-seeing
tradesman; understanding markets, and the bearing of events, both
near and distant, on trade: and yet, with such vivid attention to
present details, that I do not think he ever saw a group of flowers
in the fields without thinking whether their colours would, or would
not, form harmonious contrasts in the coming spring muslins and
prints. He went to debating societies, and threw himself with all
his heart and soul into politics; esteeming, it must be owned, every
man a fool or a knave who differed from him, and overthrowing his
opponents rather by the loud strength of his language than the calm
strength if his logic. There was something of the Yankee in all
this. Indeed his theory ran parallel to the famous Yankee motto--
"England flogs creation, and Manchester flogs England." Such a man,
as may be fancied, had had no time for falling in love, or any such
nonsense. At the age when most young men go through their courting
and matrimony, he had not the means of keeping a wife, and was far
too practical to think of having one. And now that he was in easy
circumstances, a rising man, he considered women almost as
incumbrances to the world, with whom a man had better have as little
to do as possible. His first impression of Alice was indistinct,
and he did not care enough about her to make it distinct. "A pretty
yea-nay kind of woman," would have been his description of her, if
he had been pushed into a corner. He was rather afraid, in the
beginning, that her quiet ways arose from a listlessness and
laziness of character which would have been exceedingly discordant
to his active energetic nature. But, when he found out the
punctuality with which his wishes were attended to, and her work was
done; when he was called in the morning at the very stroke of the
clock, his shaving-water scalding hot, his fire bright, his coffee
made exactly as his peculiar fancy dictated, (for he was a man who
had his theory about everything, based upon what he knew of science,
and often perfectly original)--then he began to think: not that
Alice had any peculiar merit; but that he had got into remarkably
good lodgings: his restlessness wore away, and he began to consider
himself as almost settled for life in them.
Mr. Openshaw had been too busy, all his life, to be introspective.
He did not know that he had any tenderness in his nature; and if he
had become conscious of its abstract existence, he would have
considered it as a manifestation of disease in some part of his
nature. But he was decoyed into pity unawares; and pity led on to
tenderness. That little helpless child--always carried about by one
of the three busy women of the house, or else patiently threading
coloured beads in the chair from which, by no effort of its own,
could it ever move; the great grave blue eyes, full of serious, not
uncheerful, expression, giving to the small delicate face a look
beyond its years; the soft plaintive voice dropping out but few
words, so unlike the continual prattle of a child--caught Mr.
Openshaw's attention in spite of himself. One day--he half scorned
himself for doing so--he cut short his dinner-hour to go in search
of some toy which should take the place of those eternal beads. I
forget what he bought; but, when he gave the present (which he took
care to do in a short abrupt manner, and when no one was by to see
him) he was almost thrilled by the flash of delight that came over
that child's face, and could not help all through that afternoon
going over and over again the picture left on his memory, by the
bright effect of unexpected joy on the little girl's face. When he
returned home, he found his slippers placed by his sitting-room
fire; and even more careful attention paid to his fancies than was
habitual in those model lodgings. When Alice had taken the last of
his tea-things away--she had been silent as usual till then--she
stood for an instant with the door in her hand. Mr. Openshaw looked
as if he were deep in his book, though in fact he did not see a
line; but was heartily wishing the woman would be gone, and not make
any palaver of gratitude. But she only said:
"I am very much obliged to you, sir. Thank you very much," and was
gone, even before he could send her away with a "There, my good
woman, that's enough!"
For some time longer he took no apparent notice of the child. He
even hardened his heart into disregarding her sudden flush of
colour, and little timid smile of recognition, when he saw her by
chance. But, after all, this could not last for ever; and, having a
second time given way to tenderness, there was no relapse. The
insidious enemy having thus entered his heart, in the guise of
compassion to the child, soon assumed the more dangerous form of
interest in the mother. He was aware of this change of feeling,
despised himself for it, struggled with it nay, internally yielded
to it and cherished it, long before he suffered the slightest
expression of it, by word, action, or look, to escape him. He
watched Alice's docile obedient ways to her stepmother; the love
which she had inspired in the rough Norah (roughened by the wear and
tear of sorrow and years); but above all, he saw the wild, deep,
passionate affection existing between her and her child. They spoke
little to any one else, or when any one else was by; but, when alone
together, they talked, and murmured, and cooed, and chattered so
continually, that Mr. Openshaw first wondered what they could find
to say to each other, and next became irritated because they were
always so grave and silent with him. All this time, he was
perpetually devising small new pleasures for the child. His
thoughts ran, in a pertinacious way, upon the desolate life before
her; and often he came back from his day's work loaded with the very
thing Alice had been longing for, but had not been able to procure.
One time it was a little chair for drawing the little sufferer along
the streets, and many an evening that ensuing summer Mr. Openshaw
drew her along himself, regardless of the remarks of his
acquaintances. One day in autumn he put down his newspaper, as
Alice came in with the breakfast, and said, in as indifferent a
voice as he could assume:
"Mrs. Frank, is there any reason why we two should not put up our
horses together?"
Alice stood still in perplexed wonder. What did he mean? He had
resumed the reading of his newspaper, as if he did not expect any
answer; so she found silence her safest course, and went on quietly
arranging his breakfast without another word passing between them.
Just as he was leaving the house, to go to the warehouse as usual,
he turned back and put his head into the bright, neat, tidy kitchen,
where all the women breakfasted in the morning:
"You'll think of what I said, Mrs. Frank" (this was her name with
the lodgers), "and let me have your opinion upon it to-night."
Alice was thankful that her mother and Norah were too busy talking
together to attend much to this speech. She determined not to think
about it at all through the day; and, of course, the effort not to
think made her think all the more. At night she sent up Norah with
his tea. But Mr. Openshaw almost knocked Norah down as she was
going out at the door, by pushing past her and calling out "Mrs.
Frank!" in an impatient voice, at the top of the stairs.
Alice went up, rather than seem to have affixed too much meaning to
his words.
"Well, Mrs. Frank," he said, "what answer? Don't make it too long;
for I have lots of office-work to get through to-night."
"I hardly know what you meant, sir," said truthful Alice.
"Well! I should have thought you might have guessed. You're not
new at this sort of work, and I am. However, I'll make it plain
this time. Will you have me to be thy wedded husband, and serve me,
and love me, and honour me, and all that sort of thing? Because if
you will, I will do as much by you, and be a father to your child--
and that's more than is put in the prayer-book. Now, I'm a man of
my word; and what I say, I feel; and what I promise, I'll do. Now,
for your answer!"
Alice was silent. He began to make the tea, as if her reply was a
matter of perfect indifference to him; but, as soon as that was
done, he became impatient.
"Well?" said he.
"How long, sir, may I have to think over it?"
"Three minutes!" (looking at his watch). "You've had two already--
that makes five. Be a sensible woman, say Yes, and sit down to tea
with me, and we'll talk it over together; for, after tea, I shall be
busy; say No" (he hesitated a moment to try and keep his voice in
the same tone), "and I shan't say another word about it, but pay up
a year's rent for my rooms to-morrow, and be off. Time's up! Yes
or no?"
"If you please, sir,--you have been so good to little Ailsie--"
"There, sit down comfortably by me on the sofa, and let us have our
tea together. I am glad to find you are as good and sensible as I
took for."
And this was Alice Wilson's second wooing.
Mr. Openshaw's will was too strong, and his circumstances too good,
for him not to carry all before him. He settled Mrs. Wilson in a
comfortable house of her own, and made her quite independent of
lodgers. The little that Alice said with regard to future plans was
in Norah's behalf.
"No," said Mr. Openshaw. "Norah shall take care of the old lady as
long as she lives; and, after that, she shall either come and live
with us, or, if she likes it better, she shall have a provision for
life--for your sake, missus. No one who has been good to you or the
child shall go unrewarded. But even the little one will be better
for some fresh stuff about her. Get her a bright, sensible girl as
a nurse: one who won't go rubbing her with calf's-foot jelly as
Norah does; wasting good stuff outside that ought to go in, but will
follow doctors' directions; which, as you must see pretty clearly by
this time, Norah won't; because they give the poor little wench
pain. Now, I'm not above being nesh for other folks myself. I can
stand a good blow, and never change colour; but, set me in the
operating-room in the infirmary, and I turn as sick as a girl. Yet,
if need were, I would hold the little wench on my knees while she
screeched with pain, if it were to do her poor back good. Nay, nay,
wench! keep your white looks for the time when it comes--I don't say
it ever will. But this I know, Norah will spare the child and cheat
the doctor if she can. Now, I say, give the bairn a year or two's
chance, and then, when the pack of doctors have done their best--
and, maybe, the old lady has gone--we'll have Norah back, or do
better for her."
The pack of doctors could do no good to little Ailsie. She was
beyond their power. But her father (for so he insisted on being
called, and also on Alice's no longer retaining the appellation of
Mama, but becoming henceforward Mother), by his healthy cheerfulness
of manner, his clear decision of purpose, his odd turns and quirks
of humour, added to his real strong love for the helpless little
girl, infused a new element of brightness and confidence into her
life; and, though her back remained the same, her general health was
strengthened, and Alice--never going beyond a smile herself--had the
pleasure of seeing her child taught to laugh.
As for Alice's own life, it was happier than it had ever been. Mr.
Openshaw required no demonstration, no expressions of affection from
her. Indeed, these would rather have disgusted him. Alice could
love deeply, but could not talk about it. The perpetual requirement
of loving words, looks, and caresses, and misconstruing their
absence into absence of love, had been the great trial of her former
married life. Now, all went on clear and straight, under the
guidance of her husband's strong sense, warm heart, and powerful
will. Year by year their worldly prosperity increased. At Mrs.
Wilson's death, Norah came back to them, as nurse to the newly-born
little Edwin; into which post she was not installed without a pretty
strong oration on the part of the proud and happy father; who
declared that if he found out that Norah ever tried to screen the
boy by a falsehood, or to make him nesh either in body or mind, she
should go that very day. Norah and Mr. Openshaw were not on the
most thoroughly cordial terms; neither of them fully recognising or
appreciating the other's best qualities.
This was the previous history of the Lancashire family who had now
removed to London, and had come to occupy the House.
They had been there about a year, when Mr. Openshaw suddenly
informed his wife that he had determined to heal long-standing
feuds, and had asked his uncle and aunt Chadwick to come and pay
them a visit and see London. Mrs. Openshaw had never seen this
uncle and aunt of her husband's. Years before she had married him,
there had been a quarrel. All she knew was, that Mr. Chadwick was a
small manufacturer in a country town in South Lancashire. She was
extremely pleased that the breach was to be healed, and began making
preparations to render their visit pleasant.
They arrived at last. Going to see London was such an event to
them, that Mrs. Chadwick had made all new linen fresh for the
occasion-from night-caps downwards; and, as for gowns, ribbons, and
collars, she might have been going into the wilds of Canada where
never a shop is, so large was her stock. A fortnight before the day
of her departure for London, she had formally called to take leave
of all her acquaintance; saying she should need all the intermediate
time for packing up. It was like a second wedding in her
imagination; and, to complete the resemblance which an entirely new
wardrobe made between the two events, her husband brought her back
from Manchester, on the last market-day before they set off, a
gorgeous pearl and amethyst brooch, saying, "Lunnon should see that
Lancashire folks knew a handsome thing when they saw it."
For some time after Mr. and Mrs. Chadwick arrived at the Openshaws',
there was no opportunity for wearing this brooch; but at length they
obtained an order to see Buckingham Palace, and the spirit of
loyalty demanded that Mrs. Chadwick should wear her best clothes in
visiting the abode of her sovereign. On her return, she hastily
changed her dress; for Mr. Openshaw had planned that they should go
to Richmond, drink tea and return by moonlight. Accordingly, about
five o'clock, Mr. and Mrs. Openshaw and Mr. and Mrs. Chadwick set
off.
The housemaid and cook sate below, Norah hardly knew where. She was
always engrossed in the nursery, in tending her two children, and in
sitting by the restless, excitable Ailsie till she fell asleep.
Bye-and-bye, the housemaid Bessy tapped gently at the door. Norah
went to her, and they spoke in whispers.
"Nurse! there's some one down-stairs wants you."
"Wants me! Who is it?"
"A gentleman--"
"A gentleman? Nonsense!"
"Well! a man, then, and he asks for you, and he rung at the front
door bell, and has walked into the dining-room."
"You should never have let him," exclaimed Norah, "master and missus
out--"
"I did not want him to come in; but when he heard you lived here, he
walked past me, and sat down on the first chair, and said, 'Tell her
to come and speak to me.' There is no gas lighted in the room, and
supper is all set out."
"He'll be off with the spoons!" exclaimed Norah, putting the
housemaid's fear into words, and preparing to leave the room, first,
however, giving a look to Ailsie, sleeping soundly and calmly.
Down-stairs she went, uneasy fears stirring in her bosom. Before
she entered the dining-room she provided herself with a candle, and,
with it in her hand, she went in, looking round her in the darkness
for her visitor.
He was standing up, holding by the table. Norah and he looked at
each other; gradual recognition coming into their eyes.
"Norah?" at length he asked.
"Who are you?" asked Norah, with the sharp tones of alarm and
incredulity. "I don't know you:" trying, by futile words of
disbelief, to do away with the terrible fact before her.
"Am I so changed?" he said, pathetically. "I daresay I am. But,
Norah, tell me!" he breathed hard, "where is my wife? Is she--is
she alive?"
He came nearer to Norah, and would have taken her hand; but she
backed away from him; looking at him all the time with staring eyes,
as if he were some horrible object. Yet he was a handsome, bronzed,
good-looking fellow, with beard and moustache, giving him a foreign-
looking aspect; but his eyes! there was no mistaking those eager,
beautiful eyes--the very same that Norah had watched not half-an-
hour ago, till sleep stole softly over them.
"Tell me, Norah--I can bear it--I have feared it so often. Is she
dead ?" Norah still kept silence. "She is dead!" He hung on
Norah's words and looks, as if for confirmation or contradiction.
"What shall I do?" groaned Norah. "O, sir! why did you come? how
did you find me out? where have you been? We thought you dead, we
did, indeed!" She poured out words and questions to gain time, as
if time would help her.
"Norah! answer me this question, straight, by yes or no--Is my wife
dead?"
"No, she is not!" said Norah, slowly and heavily.
"O what a relief! Did she receive my letters? But perhaps you
don't know. Why did you leave her? Where is she? O Norah, tell me
all quickly!"
"Mr. Frank!" said Norah at last, almost driven to bay by her terror
lest her mistress should return at any moment, and find him there--
unable to consider what was best to be done or said-rushing at
something decisive, because she could not endure her present state:
"Mr. Frank! we never heard a line from you, and the shipowners said
you had gone down, you and every one else. We thought you were
dead, if ever man was, and poor Miss Alice and her little sick,
helpless child! O, sir, you must guess it," cried the poor creature
at last, bursting out into a passionate fit of crying, "for indeed I
cannot tell it. But it was no one's fault. God help us all this
night!"
Norah had sate down. She trembled too much to stand. He took her
hands in his. He squeezed them hard, as if by physical pressure,
the truth could be wrung out.
"Norah!" This time his tone was calm, stagnant as despair. "She
has married again!"
Norah shook her head sadly. The grasp slowly relaxed. The man had
fainted.
There was brandy in the room. Norah forced some drops into Mr.
Frank's mouth, chafed his hands, and--when mere animal life
returned, before the mind poured in its flood of memories and
thoughts--she lifted him up, and rested his head against her knees.
Then she put a few crumbs of bread taken from the supper-table,
soaked in brandy into his mouth. Suddenly he sprang to his feet.
"Where is she? Tell me this instant." He looked so wild, so mad,
so desperate, that Norah felt herself to be in bodily danger; but
her time of dread had gone by. She had been afraid to tell him the
truth, and then she had been a coward. Now, her wits were sharpened
by the sense of his desperate state. He must leave the house. She
would pity him afterwards; but now she must rather command and
upbraid; for he must leave the house before her mistress came home.
That one necessity stood clear before her.
"She is not here; that is enough for you to know. Nor can I say
exactly where she is" (which was true to the letter if not to the
spirit). "Go away, and tell me where to find you to-morrow, and I
will tell you all. My master and mistress may come back at any
minute, and then what would become of me with a strange man in the
house?"
Such an argument was too petty to touch his excited mind.
"I don't care for your master and mistress. If your master is a
man, he must feel for me poor shipwrecked sailor that I am--kept for
years a prisoner amongst savages, always, always, always thinking of
my wife and my home--dreaming of her by night, talking to her,
though she could not hear, by day. I loved her more than all heaven
and earth put together. Tell me where she is, this instant, you
wretched woman, who salved over her wickedness to her, as you do to
me."
The clock struck ten. Desperate positions require desperate
measures.
"If you will leave the house now, I will come to you to-morrow and
tell you all. What is more, you shall see your child now. She lies
sleeping up-stairs. O, sir, you have a child, you do not know that
as yet--a little weakly girl--with just a heart and soul beyond her
years. We have reared her up with such care: We watched her, for
we thought for many a year she might die any day, and we tended her,
and no hard thing has come near her, and no rough word has ever been
said to her. And now you, come and will take her life into your
hand, and will crush it. Strangers to her have been kind to her;
but her own father--Mr. Frank, I am her nurse, and I love her, and I
tend her, and I would do anything for her that I could. Her
mother's heart beats as hers beats; and, if she suffers a pain, her
mother trembles all over. If she is happy, it is her mother that
smiles and is glad. If she is growing stronger, her mother is
healthy: if she dwindles, her mother languishes. If she dies--
well, I don't know: it is not every one can lie down and die when
they wish it. Come up-stairs, Mr. Frank, and see your child.
Seeing her will do good to your poor heart. Then go away, in God's
name, just this one night-to-morrow, if need be, you can do
anything--kill us all if you will, or show yourself--a great grand
man, whom God will bless for ever and ever. Come, Mr. Frank, the
look of a sleeping child is sure to give peace."
She led him up-stairs; at first almost helping his steps, till they
came near the nursery door. She had almost forgotten the existence
of little Edwin. It struck upon her with affright as the shaded
light fell upon the other cot; but she skilfully threw that corner
of the room into darkness, and let the light fall on the sleeping
Ailsie. The child had thrown down the coverings, and her deformity,
as she lay with her back to them, was plainly visible through her
slight night-gown. Her little face, deprived of the lustre of her
eyes, looked wan and pinched, and had a pathetic expression in it,
even as she slept. The poor father looked and looked with hungry,
wistful eyes, into which the big tears came swelling up slowly, and
dropped heavily down, as he stood trembling and shaking all over.
Norah was angry with herself for growing impatient of the length of
time that long lingering gaze lasted. She thought that she waited
for full half-an-hour before Frank stirred. And then--instead of
going away--he sank down on his knees by the bedside, and buried his
face in the clothes. Little Ailsie stirred uneasily. Norah pulled
him up in terror. She could afford no more time even for prayer in
her extremity of fear; for surely the next moment would bring her
mistress home. She took him forcibly by the arm; but, as he was
going, his eye lighted on the other bed: he stopped. Intelligence
came back into his face. His hands clenched.
"His child?" he asked.
"Her child," replied Norah. "God watches over him," said she
instinctively; for Frank's looks excited her fears, and she needed
to remind herself of the Protector of the helpless.
"God has not watched over me," he said, in despair; his thoughts
apparently recoiling on his own desolate, deserted state. But Norah
had no time for pity. To-morrow she would be as compassionate as
her heart prompted. At length she guided him downstairs and shut
the outer door and bolted it--as if by bolts to keep out facts.
Then she went back into the dining-room and effaced all traces of
his presence as far as she could. She went upstairs to the nursery
and sate there, her head on her hand, thinking what was to come of
all this misery. It seemed to her very long before they did return;
yet it was hardly eleven o'clock. She so heard the loud, hearty
Lancashire voices on the stairs; and, for the first time, she
understood the contrast of the desolation of the poor man who had so
lately gone forth in lonely despair.
It almost put her out of patience to see Mrs. Openshaw come in,
calmly smiling, handsomely dressed, happy, easy, to inquire after
her children.
"Did Ailsie go to sleep comfortably?" she whispered to Norah.
"Yes."
Her mother bent over her, looking at her slumbers with the soft eyes
of love. How little she dreamed who had looked on her last! Then
she went to Edwin, with perhaps less wistful anxiety in her
countenance, but more of pride. She took off her things, to go down
to supper. Norah saw her no more that night.
Beside the door into the passage, the sleeping-nursery opened out of
Mr. and Mrs. Openshaw's room, in order that they might have the
children more immediately under their own eyes. Early the next
summer morning Mrs. Openshaw was awakened by Ailsie's startled call
of "Mother! mother!" She sprang up, put on her dressing-gown, and
went to her child. Ailsie was only half awake, and in a not
uncommon state of terror.
"Who was he, mother? Tell me!"
"Who, my darling? No one is here. You have been dreaming love.
Waken up quite. See, it is broad daylight."
"Yes," said Ailsie, looking round her; then clinging to her mother,
said, "but a man was here in the night, mother."
"Nonsense, little goose. No man has ever come near you!"
"Yes, he did. He stood there. Just by Norah. A man with hair and
a beard. And he knelt down and said his prayers. Norah knows he
was here, mother" (half angrily, as Mrs. Openshaw shook her head in
smiling incredulity).
"Well! we will ask Norah when she comes," said Mrs. Openshaw,
soothingly. "But we won't talk any more about him now. It is not
five o'clock; it is too early for you to get up. Shall I fetch you
a book and read to you?"
"Don't leave me, mother," said the child, clinging to her. So Mrs.
Openshaw sate on the bedside talking to Ailsie, and telling her of
what they had done at Richmond the evening before, until the little
girl's eyes slowly closed and she once more fell asleep.
"What was the matter?" asked Mr. Openshaw, as his wife returned to
bed. "Ailsie wakened up in a fright, with some story of a man
having been in the room to say his prayers,--a dream, I suppose."
And no more was said at the time.
Mrs. Openshaw had almost forgotten the whole affair when she got up
about seven o'clock. But, bye-and-bye, she heard a sharp
altercation going on in the nursery. Norah speaking angrily to
Ailsie, a most unusual thing. Both Mr. and Mrs. Openshaw listened
in astonishment.
"Hold your tongue, Ailsie I let me hear none of your dreams; never
let me hear you tell that story again!" Ailsie began to cry.
Mr. Openshaw opened the door of communication before his wife could
say a word.
"Norah, come here!"
The nurse stood at the door, defiant. She perceived she had been
heard, but she was desperate.
"Don't let me hear you speak in that manner to Ailsie again," he
said sternly, and shut the door.
Norah was infinitely relieved; for she had dreaded some questioning;
and a little blame for sharp speaking was what she could well bear,
if cross-examination was let alone.
Down-stairs they went, Mr. Openshaw carrying Ailsie; the sturdy
Edwin coming step by step, right foot foremost, always holding his
mother's hand. Each child was placed in a chair by the breakfast-
table, and then Mr. and Mrs. Openshaw stood together at the window,
awaiting their visitors' appearance and making plans for the day.
There was a pause. Suddenly Mr. Openshaw turned to Ailsie, and
said:
"What a little goosy somebody is with her dreams, waking up poor,
tired mother in the middle of the night with a story of a man being
in the room."
"Father! I'm sure I saw him," said Ailsie, half crying. "I don't
want to make Norah angry; but I was not asleep, for all she says I
was. I had been asleep,--and I awakened up quite wide awake though
I was so frightened. I kept my eyes nearly shut, and I saw the man
quite plain. A great brown man with a beard. He said his prayers.
And then he looked at Edwin. And then Norah took him by the arm and
led him away, after they had whispered a bit together."
"Now, my little woman must be reasonable," said Mr. Openshaw, who
was always patient with Ailsie. "There was no man in the house last
night at all. No man comes into the house as you know, if you
think; much less goes up into the nursery. But sometimes we dream
something has happened, and the dream is so like reality, that you
are not the first person, little woman, who has stood out that the
thing has really happened."
"But, indeed it was not a dream!" said Ailsie, beginning to cry.
Just then Mr. and Mrs. Chadwick came down, looking grave and
discomposed. All during breakfast time they were silent and
uncomfortable. As soon as the breakfast things were taken away, and
the children had been carried up-stairs, Mr. Chadwick began in an
evidently preconcerted manner to inquire if his nephew was certain
that all his servants were honest; for, that Mrs. Chadwick had that
morning missed a very valuable brooch, which she had worn the day
before. She remembered taking it off when she came home from
Buckingham Palace. Mr. Openshaw's face contracted into hard lines:
grew like what it was before he had known his wife and her child.
He rang the bell even before his uncle had done speaking. It was
answered by the housemaid.
"Mary, was any one here last night while we were away?"
"A man, sir, came to speak to Norah."
"To speak to Norah! Who was he? How long did he stay?"
"I'm sure I can't tell, sir. He came--perhaps about nine. I went
up to tell Norah in the nursery, and she came down to speak to him.
She let him out, sir. She will know who he was, and how long he
stayed."
She waited a moment to be asked any more questions, but she was not,
so she went away.
A minute afterwards Openshaw made as though he were going out of the
room; but his wife laid her hand on his arm:
"Do not speak to her before the children," she said, in her low,
quiet voice. "I will go up and question her."
"No! I must speak to her. You must know," said he, turning to his
uncle and aunt, "my missus has an old servant, as faithful as ever
woman was, I do believe, as far as love goes,--but, at the same
time, who does not always speak truth, as even the missus must
allow. Now, my notion is, that this Norah of ours has been come
over by some good-for-nothin chap (for she's at the time o' life
when they say women pray for husbands--'any, good Lord, any,') and
has let him into our house, and the chap has made off with your
brooch, and m'appen many another thing beside. It's only saying
that Norah is soft-hearted, and does not stick at a white lie--
that's all, missus."
It was curious to notice how his tone, his eyes, his whole face
changed as he spoke to his wife; but he was the resolute man through
all. She knew better than to oppose him; so she went up-stairs, and
told Norah her master wanted to speak to her, and that she would
take care of the children in the meanwhile.
Norah rose to go without a word. Her thoughts were these:
"If they tear me to pieces they shall never know through me. He may
come,--and then just Lord have mercy upon us all: for some of us
are dead folk to a certainty. But he shall do it; not me."
You may fancy, now, her look of determination as she faced her
master alone in the dining-room; Mr. and Mrs. Chadwick having left
the affair in their nephew's hands, seeing that he took it up with
such vehemence.
"Norah! Who was that man that came to my house last night?"
"Man, sir!" As if infinitely; surprised but it was only to gain
time.
"Yes; the man whom Mary let in; whom she went up-stairs to the
nursery to tell you about; whom you came down to speak to; the same
chap, I make no doubt, whom you took into the nursery to have your
talk out with; whom Ailsie saw, and afterwards dreamed about;
thinking, poor wench! she saw him say his prayers, when nothing,
I'll be bound, was farther from his thoughts; who took Mrs.
Chadwick's brooch, value ten pounds. Now, Norah! Don't go off! I
am as sure as that my name's Thomas Openshaw, that you knew nothing
of this robbery. But I do think you've been imposed on, and that's
the truth. Some good-for-nothing chap has been making up to you,
and you've been just like all other women, and have turned a soft
place in your heart to him; and he came last night a-lovyering, and
you had him up in the nursery, and he made use of his opportunities,
and made off with a few things on his way down! Come, now, Norah:
it's no blame to you, only you must not be such a fool again. Tell
us," he continued, "what name he gave you, Norah? I'll be bound it
was not the right one; but it will be a clue for the police."
Norah drew herself up. "You may ask that question, and taunt me
with my being single, and with my credulity, as you will, Master
Openshaw. You'll get no answer from me. As for the brooch, and the
story of theft and burglary; if any friend ever came to see me
(which I defy you to prove, and deny), he'd be just as much above
doing such a thing as you yourself, Mr. Openshaw, and more so, too;
for I'm not at all sure as everything you have is rightly come by,
or would be yours long, if every man had his own." She meant, of
course, his wife; but he understood her to refer to his property in
goods and chattels.
"Now, my good woman," said he, "I'll just tell you truly, I never
trusted you out and out; but my wife liked you, and I thought you
had many a good point about you. If you once begin to sauce me,
I'll have the police to you, and get out the truth in a court of
justice, if you'll not tell it me quietly and civilly here. Now the
best thing you can do is quietly to tell me who the fellow is. Look
here! a man comes to my house; asks for you; you take him up-stairs,
a valuable brooch is missing next day; we know that you, and Mary,
and cook, are honest; but you refuse to tell us who the man is.
Indeed you've told one lie already about him, saying no one was here
last night. Now I just put it to you, what do you think a policeman
would say to this, or a magistrate? A magistrate would soon make
you tell the truth, my good woman."
"There's never the creature born that should get it out of me," said
Norah. "Not unless I choose to tell."
"I've a great mind to see," said Mr. Openshaw, growing angry at the
defiance. Then, checking himself, he thought before he spoke again:
"Norah, for your missus's sake I don't want to go to extremities.
Be a sensible woman, if you can. It's no great disgrace, after all,
to have been taken in. I ask you once more--as a friend--who was
this man whom you let into my house last night?"
No answer. He repeated the question in an impatient tone. Still no
answer. Norah's lips were set in determination not to speak.
"Then there is but one thing to be done. I shall send for a
policeman."
"You will not," said Norah, starting forwards. "You shall not, sir!
No policeman shall touch me. I know nothing of the brooch, but I
know this: ever since I was four-and-twenty I have thought more of
your wife than of myself: ever since I saw her, a poor motherless
girl put upon in her uncle's house, I have thought more of serving
her than of serving myself! I have cared for her and her child, as
nobody ever cared for me. I don't cast blame on you, sir, but I say
it's ill giving up one's life to any one; for, at the end, they will
turn round upon you, and forsake you. Why does not my missus come
herself to suspect me? Maybe she is gone for the police? But I
don't stay here, either for police, or magistrate, or master.
You're an unlucky lot. I believe there's a curse on you. I'll
leave you this very day. Yes! I leave that poor Ailsie, too. I
will! No good will ever come to you!"
Mr. Openshaw was utterly astonished at this speech; most of which
was completely unintelligible to him, as may easily be supposed.
Before he could make up his mind what to say, or what to do, Norah
had left the room. I do not think he had ever really intended to
send for the police to this old servant of his wife's; for he had
never for a moment doubted her perfect honesty. But he had intended
to compel her to tell him who the man was, and in this he was
baffled. He was, consequently, much irritated. He returned to his
uncle and aunt in a state of great annoyance and perplexity, and
told them he could get nothing out of the woman; that some man had
been in the house the night before; but that she refused to tell who
he was. At this moment his wife came in, greatly agitated, and
asked what had happened to Norah; for that she had put on her things
in passionate haste, and had left the house.
"This looks suspicious," said Mr. Chadwick. "It is not the way in
which an honest person would have acted."
Mr. Openshaw kept silence. He was sorely perplexed. But Mrs.
Openshaw turned round on Mr. Chadwick with a sudden fierceness no
one ever saw in her before.
"You don't know Norah, uncle! She is gone because she is deeply
hurt at being suspected. O, I wish I had seen her--that I had
spoken to her myself. She would have told me anything." Alice
wrung her hands.
"I must confess," continued Mr. Chadwick to his nephew, in a lower
voice, "I can't make you out. You used to be a word and a blow, and
oftenest the blow first; and now, when there is every cause for
suspicion, you just do nought. Your missus is a very good woman, I
grant; but she may have been put upon as well as other folk, I
suppose. If you don't send for the police, I shall."
"Very well," replied Mr. Openshaw, surlily. "I can't clear Norah.
She won't clear herself, as I believe she might if she would. Only
I wash my hands of it; for I am sure the woman herself is honest,
and she's lived a long time with my wife, and I don't like her to
come to shame."
"But she will then be forced to clear herself. That, at any rate,
will be a good thing."
"Very well, very well! I am heart-sick of the whole business.
Come, Alice, come up to the babies they'll be in a sore way. I tell
you, uncle!" he said, turning round once more to Mr. Chadwick,
suddenly and sharply, after his eye had fallen on Alice's wan,
tearful, anxious face; "I'll have none sending for the police after
all. I'll buy my aunt twice as handsome a brooch this very day; but
I'll not have Norah suspected, and my missus plagued. There's for
you."
He and his wife left the room. Mr. Chadwick quietly waited till he
was out of hearing, and then aid to his wife; "For all Tom's
heroics, I'm just quietly going for a detective, wench. Thou
need'st know nought about it."
He went to the police-station, and made a statement of the case. He
was gratified by the impression which the evidence against Norah
seemed to make. The men all agreed in his opinion, and steps were
to be immediately taken to find out where she was. Most probably,
as they suggested, she had gone at once to the man, who, to all
appearance, was her lover. When Mr. Chadwick asked how they would
find her out? they smiled, shook their heads, and spoke of
mysterious but infallible ways and means. He returned to his
nephew's house with a very comfortable opinion of his own sagacity.
He was met by his wife with a penitent face:
"O master, I've found my brooch! It was just sticking by its pin in
the flounce of my brown silk, that I wore yesterday. I took it off
in a hurry, and it must have caught in it; and I hung up my gown in
the closet. Just now, when I was going to fold it up, there was the
brooch! I'm very vexed, but I never dreamt but what it was lost!"
Her husband muttering something very like "Confound thee and thy
brooch too! I wish I'd never given it thee," snatched up his hat,
and rushed back to the station; hoping to be in time to stop the
police from searching for Norah. But a detective was already gone
off on the errand.
Where was Norah? Half mad with the strain of the fearful secret,
she had hardly slept through the night for thinking what must be
done. Upon this terrible state of mind had come Ailsie's questions,
showing that she had seen the Man, as the unconscious child called
her father. Lastly came the suspicion of her honesty. She was
little less than crazy as she ran up-stairs and dashed on her bonnet
and shawl; leaving all else, even her purse, behind her. In that
house she would not stay. That was all she knew or was clear about.
She would not even see the children again, for fear it should weaken
her. She feared above everything Mr. Frank's return to claim his
wife. She could not tell what remedy there was for a sorrow so
tremendous, for her to stay to witness. The desire of escaping from
the coming event was a stronger motive for her departure than her
soreness about the suspicions directed against her; although this
last had been the final goad to the course she took. She walked
away almost at headlong speed; sobbing as she went, as she had not
dared to do during the past night for fear of exciting wonder in
those who might hear her. Then she stopped. An idea came into her
mind that she would leave London altogether, and betake herself to
her native town of Liverpool. She felt in her pocket for her purse,
as she drew near the Euston Square station with this intention. She
had left it at home. Her poor head aching, her eyes swollen with
crying, she had to stand still, and think, as well as she could,
where next she should bend her steps. Suddenly the thought flashed
into her mind that she would go and find out poor Mr. Frank. She
had been hardly kind to him the night before, though her heart had
bled for him ever since. She remembered his telling her as she
inquired for his address, almost as she had pushed him out of the
door, of some hotel in a street not far distant from Euston Square.
Thither she went: with what intention she hardly knew, but to
assuage her conscience by telling him how much she pitied him. In
her present state she felt herself unfit to counsel, or restrain, or
assist, or do ought else but sympathise and weep. The people of the
inn said such a person had been there; had arrived only the day
before; had gone out soon after his arrival, leaving his luggage in
their care; but had never come back. Norah asked for leave to sit
down, and await the gentleman's return. The landlady--pretty secure
in the deposit of luggage against any probable injury--showed her
into a room, and quietly locked the door on the outside. Norah was
utterly worn out, and fell asleep--a shivering, starting, uneasy
slumber, which lasted for hours.
The detective, meanwhile, had come up with her some time before she
entered the hotel, into which he followed her. Asking the landlady
to detain her for an hour or so, without giving any reason beyond
showing his authority (which made the landlady applaud herself a
good deal for having locked her in), he went back to the police-
station to report his proceedings. He could have taken her
directly; but his object was, if possible, to trace out the man who
was supposed to have committed the robbery. Then he heard of the
discovery of the brooch; and consequently did not care to return.
Norah slept till even the summer evening began to close in. Then
up. Some one was at the door. It would be Mr. Frank; and she
dizzily pushed back her ruffled grey hair, which had fallen over her
eyes, and stood looking to see him. Instead, there came in Mr.
Openshaw and a policeman.
"This is Norah Kennedy," said Mr. Openshaw.
"O, sir," said Norah, "I did not touch the brooch; indeed I did not.
O, sir, I cannot live to be thought so badly of;" and very sick and
faint, she suddenly sank down on the ground. To her surprise, Mr.
Openshaw raised her up very tenderly. Even the policeman helped to
lay her on the sofa; and, at Mr. Openshaw's desire, he went for some
wine and sandwiches; for the poor gaunt woman lay there almost as if
dead with weariness and exhaustion.
"Norah!" said Mr. Openshaw, in his kindest voice, "the brooch is
found. It was hanging to Mrs. Chadwick's gown. I beg your pardon.
Most truly I beg your pardon, for having troubled you about it. My
wife is almost broken-hearted. Eat, Norah,--or, stay, first drink
this glass of wine," said he, lifting her head, pouring a little
down her throat.
As she drank, she remembered where she was, and who she was waiting
for. She suddenly pushed Mr. Openshaw away, saying, "O, sir, you
must go. You must not stop a minute. If he comes back he will kill
you."
"Alas, Norah! I do not know who 'he' is. But some one is gone away
who will never come back: someone who knew you, and whom I am
afraid you cared for."
"I don't understand you, sir," said Norah, her master's kind and
sorrowful manner bewildering her yet more than his words. The
policeman had left the room at Mr. Openshaw's desire, and they two
were alone.
"You know what I mean, when I say some one is gone who will never
come back. I mean that he is dead!"
"Who?" said Norah, trembling all over.
"A poor man has been found in the Thames this morning, drowned."
"Did he drown himself?" asked Norah, solemnly.
"God only knows," replied Mr. Openshaw, in the same tone. "Your
name and address at our house, were found in his pocket: that, and
his purse, were the only things, that were found upon him. I am
sorry to say it, my poor Norah; but you are required to go and
identify him."
"To what?" asked Norah.
"To say who it is. It is always done, in order that some reason may
be discovered for the suicide--if suicide it was. I make no doubt
he was the man who came to see you at our house last night. It is
very sad, I know." He made pauses between each little clause, in
order to try and bring back her senses; which he feared were
wandering--so wild and sad was her look.
"Master Openshaw," said she, at last, "I've a dreadful secret to
tell you--only you must never breathe it to any one, and you and I
must hide it away for ever. I thought to have done it all by
myself, but I see I cannot. Yon poor man--yes! the dead, drowned
creature is, I fear, Mr. Frank, my mistress's first husband!"
Mr. Openshaw sate down, as if shot. He did not speak; but, after a
while, he signed to Norah to go on.
"He came to me the other night--when--God be thanked--you were all
away at Richmond. He asked me if his wife was dead or alive. I was
a brute, and thought more of our all coming home than of his sore
trial: spoke out sharp, and said she was married again, and very
content and happy: I all but turned him away: and now he lies dead
and cold!"
"God forgive me!" said Mr. Openshaw.
"God forgive us all!" said Norah. "Yon poor man needs forgiveness
perhaps less than any one among us. He had been among the savages--
shipwrecked--I know not what--and he had written letters which had
never reached my poor missus."
"He saw his child!"
"He saw her--yes! I took him up, to give his thoughts another
start; for I believed he was going mad on my hands. I came to seek
him here, as I more than half promised. My mind misgave me when I
heard he had never come in. O, sir I it must be him!"
Mr. Openshaw rang the bell. Norah was almost too much stunned to
wonder at what he did. He asked for writing materials, wrote a
letter, and then said to Norah:
"I am writing to Alice, to say I shall be unavoidably absent for a
few days; that I have found you; that you are well, and send her
your love, and will come home to-morrow. You must go with me to the
Police Court; you must identify the body: I will pay high to keep
name; and details out of the papers.
"But where are you going, sir?"
He did not answer her directly. Then he said:
"Norah! I must go with you, and look on the face of the man whom I
have so injured,--unwittingly, it is true; but it seems to me as if
I had killed him. I will lay his head in the grave, as if he were
my only brother: and how he must have hated me! I cannot go home
to my wife till all that I can do for him is done. Then I go with a
dreadful secret on my mind. I shall never speak of it again, after
these days are over. I know you will not, either." He shook hands
with her: and they never named the subject again, the one to the
other.
Norah went home to Alice the next day. Not a word was said on the
cause of her abrupt departure a day or two before. Alice had been
charged by her husband in his letter not to allude to the supposed
theft of the brooch; so she, implicitly obedient to those whom she
loved both by nature and habit, was entirely silent on the subject,
only treated Norah with the most tender respect, as if to make up
for unjust suspicion.
Nor did Alice inquire into the reason why Mr. Openshaw had been
absent during his uncle and aunt's visit, after he had once said
that it was unavoidable. He came back, grave and quiet; and, from
that time forth, was curiously changed. More thoughtful, and
perhaps less active; quite as decided in conduct, but with new and
different rules for the guidance of that conduct. Towards Alice he
could hardly be more kind than he had always been; but he now seemed
to look upon her as some one sacred and to be treated with
reverence, as well as tenderness. He throve in business, and made a
large fortune, one half of which was settled upon her.
Long years after these events,--a few months after her mother died,
Ailsie and her "father" (as she always called Mr. Openshaw) drove to
a cemetery a little way out of town, and she was carried to a
certain mound by her maid, who was then sent back to the carriage.
There was a head-stone, with F. W. and a date. That was all.
Sitting by the grave, Mr. Openshaw told her the story; and for the
sad fate of that poor father whom she had never seen, he shed the
only tears she ever saw fall from his eyes.
* * *
"A most interesting story, all through," I said, as Jarber folded up
the first of his series of discoveries in triumph. "A story that
goes straight to the heart--especially at the end. But"--I stopped,
and looked at Trottle.
Trottle entered his protest directly in the shape of a cough.
"Well!" I said, beginning to lose my patience. "Don't you see that
I want you to speak, and that I don't want you to cough?"
"Quite so, ma'am," said Trottle, in a state of respectful obstinacy
which would have upset the temper of a saint. "Relative, I presume,
to this story, ma'am?"
"Yes, Yes!" said Jarber. "By all means let us hear what this good
man has to say."
"Well, sir," answered Trottle, "I want to know why the House over
the way doesn't let, and I don't exactly see how your story answers
the question. That's all I have to say, sir."
I should have liked to contradict my opinionated servant, at that
moment. But, excellent as the story was in itself, I felt that he
had hit on the weak point, so far as Jarber's particular purpose in
reading it was concerned.
"And that is what you have to say, is it?" repeated Jarber. "I
enter this room announcing that I have a series of discoveries, and
you jump instantly to the conclusion that the first of the series
exhausts my resources. Have I your permission, dear lady, to
enlighten this obtuse person, if possible, by reading Number Two?"
"My work is behindhand, ma'am," said Trottle, moving to the door,
the moment I gave Jarber leave to go on.
"Stop where you are," I said, in my most peremptory manner, "and
give Mr. Jarber his fair opportunity of answering your objection now
you have made it.
Trottle sat down with the look of a martyr, and Jarber began to read
with his back turned on the enemy more decidedly than ever. _
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