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Title: The Garotters

Author: William D. Howells

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Contents:

Over the Way
The Manchester Marriage
Going into Society
Three Evenings in the House
Trottle's Report
Let at Last



OVER THE WAY


I had been living at Tunbridge Wells and nowhere else,
going on
for ten years,
when my medical man--very clever in his profession,
and the prettiest player I ever saw in my life of a hand at Long Whist,
which was a noble and a princely game before Short was heard of-- said
to me,
one day,
as he sat feeling my pulse on the actual sofa which my poor dear sister Jane worked before her spine came on,
and laid her on a board
for fifteen months at a stretch--the most upright woman that ever lived--said
to me,
"What we want,
ma'am,
is a fillip."



"Good gracious,
goodness gracious,
Doctor Towers!"

says I,
quite startled at the man,
for he was so christened himself:

"don't talk as if you were alluding
to people's names;
but say what you mean."



"I mean,
my dear ma'am,
that we want a little change of air and scene."



"Bless the man!"

said I;
"does he mean we or me!"

"I mean you,
ma'am."



"Then Lard forgive you,
Doctor Towers,"
I said;
"why don't you get into a habit of expressing yourself in a straightforward manner,
like a loyal subject of our gracious Queen Victoria,
and a member of the Church of England?"

Towers laughed,
as he generally does when he has fidgetted me into any of my impatient ways--one of my states,
as I call them--and then he began,
-
"Tone,
ma'am,
Tone,
is all you require!"

He appealed
to Trottle,
who just then came in
with the coal-scuttle,
looking,
in his nice black suit,
like an amiable man putting on coals from motives of benevolence.

Trottle
(whom I always call my right hand)
has been in my service two-and-thirty years.

He entered my service,
far away from England.

He is the best of creatures,
and the most respectable of men;
but,
opinionated.

"What you want,
ma'am,"
says Trottle,
making up the fire in his quiet and skilful way,
"is Tone."



"Lard forgive you both!"

says I,
bursting out a-laughing;
"I see you are in a conspiracy against me,
so I suppose you must do what you like
with me,
and take me
to London
for a change."



For some weeks Towers had hinted at London,
and consequently I was prepared
for him.

When we had got
to this point,
we got on so expeditiously,
that Trottle was packed off
to London next day but one,
to find some sort of place
for me
to lay my troublesome old head in.

Trottle came back
to me at the Wells after two days'
absence,
with accounts of a charming place that could be taken
for six months certain,
with liberty
to renew on the same terms
for another six,
and which really did afford every accommodation that I wanted.

"Could you really find no fault at all in the rooms,
Trottle?"

I asked him.

"Not a single one,
ma'am.

They are exactly suitable
to you.

There is not a fault in them.

There is but one fault outside of them."



"And what's that?"

"They are opposite a House
to Let."



"O!"

I said,
considering of it.

"But is that such a very great objection?"

"I think it my duty
to mention it,
ma'am.

It is a dull object
to look at.

Otherwise,
I was so greatly pleased
with the lodging that I should have closed
with the terms at once,
as I had your authority
to do."



Trottle thinking so highly of the place,
in my interest,
I wished not
to disappoint him.

Consequently I said:

"The empty House may let,
perhaps."



"O,
dear no,
ma'am,"
said Trottle,
shaking his head
with decision;
"it won't let.

It never does let,
ma'am."



"Mercy me! Why not?"

"Nobody knows,
ma'am.

All I have
to mention is,
ma'am,
that the House won't let!"

"How long has this unfortunate House been
to let,
in the name of Fortune?"

said I.

"Ever so long,"
said Trottle.

"Years."



"Is it in ruins?"

"It's a good deal out of repair,
ma'am,
but it's not in ruins."



The long and the short of this business was,
that next day I had a pair of post-horses put
to my chariot--for,
I never travel by railway:

not that I have anything
to say against railways,
except that they came in when I was too old
to take
to them;
and that they made ducks and drakes of a few turnpike-bonds I had--and so I went up myself,
with Trottle in the rumble,
to look at the inside of this same lodging,
and at the outside of this same House.

As I say,
I went and saw
for myself.

The lodging was perfect.

That,
I was sure it would be;
because Trottle is the best judge of comfort I know.

The empty house was an eyesore;
and that I was sure it would be too,
for the same reason.

However,
setting the one thing against the other,
the good against the bad,
the lodging very soon got the victory over the House.

My lawyer,
Mr. Squares,
of Crown Office Row;
Temple,
drew up an agreement;
which his young man jabbered over so dreadfully when he read it
to me,
that I didn't understand one word of it except my own name;
and hardly that,
and I signed it,
and the other party signed it,
and,
in three weeks'
time,
I moved my old bones,
bag and baggage,
up
to London.

For the first month or so,
I arranged
to leave Trottle at the Wells.

I made this arrangement,
not only because there was a good deal
to take care of in the way of my school-children and pensioners,
and also of a new stove in the hall
to air the house in my absence,
which appeared
to me calculated
to blow up and burst;
but,
likewise because I suspect Trottle
(though the steadiest of men,
and a widower between sixty and seventy)
to be what I call rather a Philanderer.

I mean,
that when any friend comes down
to see me and brings a maid,
Trottle is always remarkably ready
to show that maid the Wells of an evening;
and that I have more than once noticed the shadow of his arm,
outside the room door nearly opposite my chair,
encircling that maid's waist on the landing,
like a table-cloth brush.

Therefore,
I thought it just as well,
before any London Philandering took place,
that I should have a little time
to look round me,
and
to see what girls were in and about the place.

So,
nobody stayed
with me in my new lodging at first after Trottle had established me there safe and sound,
but Peggy Flobbins,
my maid;
a most affectionate and attached woman,
who never was an object of Philandering since I have known her,
and is not likely
to begin
to become so after nine-and-twenty years next March.

It was the fifth of November when I first breakfasted in my new rooMs. The Guys were going about in the brown fog,
like magnified monsters of insects in table-beer,
and there was a Guy resting on the door-steps of the House
to Let.

I put on my glasses,
partly
to see how the boys were pleased
with what I sent them out by Peggy,
and partly
to make sure that she didn't approach too near the ridiculous object,
which of course was full of sky-rockets,
and might go off into bangs at any moment.

In this way it happened that the first time I ever looked at the House
to Let,
after I became its opposite neighbour,
I had my glasses on.

And this might not have happened once in fifty times,
for my sight is uncommonly good
for my time of life;
and I wear glasses as little as I can,
for fear of spoiling it.

I knew already that it was a ten-roomed house,
very dirty,
and much dilapidated;
that the area-rails were rusty and peeling away,
and that two or three of them were wanting,
or half-wanting;
that there were broken panes of glass in the windows,
and blotches of mud on other panes,
which the boys had thrown at them;
that there was quite a collection of stones in the area,
also proceeding from those Young Mischiefs;
that there were games chalked on the pavement before the house,
and likenesses of ghosts chalked on the street-door;
that the windows were all darkened by rotting old blinds,
or shutters,
or both;
that the bills
"To Let,"
had curled up,
as if the damp air of the place had given them cramps;
or had dropped down into corners,
as if they were no more.

I had seen all this on my first visit,
and I had remarked
to Trottle,
that the lower part of the black board about terms was split away;
that the rest had become illegible,
and that the very stone of the door-steps was broken across.

Notwithstanding,
I sat at my breakfast table on that Please
to Remember the fifth of November morning,
staring at the House through my glasses,
as if I had never looked at it before.

All at once--in the first-floor window on my right--down in a low corner,
at a hole in a blind or a shutter--I found that I was looking at a secret Eye.

The reflection of my fire may have touched it and made it shine;
but,
I saw it shine and vanish.

The eye might have seen me,
or it might not have seen me,
sitting there in the glow of my fire--you can take which probability you prefer,
without offence--but something struck through my frame,
as if the sparkle of this eye had been electric,
and had flashed straight at me.

It had such an effect upon me,
that I could not remain by myself,
and I rang
for Flobbins,
and invented some little jobs
for her,
to keep her in the room.

After my breakfast was cleared away,
I sat in the same place
with my glasses on,
moving my head,
now so,
and now so,
trying whether,
with the shining of my fire and the flaws in the window-glass,
I could reproduce any sparkle seeming
to be up there,
that was like the sparkle of an eye.

But no;
I could make nothing like it.

I could make ripples and crooked lines in the front of the House
to Let,
and I could even twist one window up and loop it into another;
but,
I could make no eye,
nor anything like an eye.

So I convinced myself that I really had seen an eye.

Well,
to be sure I could not get rid of the impression of this eye,
and it troubled me and troubled me,
until it was almost a torment.

I don't think I was previously inclined
to concern my head much about the opposite House;
but,
after this eye,
my head was full of the house;
and I thought of little else than the house,
and I watched the house,
and I talked about the house,
and I dreamed of the house.

In all this,
I fully believe now,
there was a good Providence.

But,
you will judge
for yourself about that,
bye-and- bye.

My landlord was a butler,
who had married a cook,
and set up housekeeping.

They had not kept house longer than a couple of years,
and they knew no more about the House
to Let than I did.

Neither could I find out anything concerning it among the trades- people or otherwise;
further than what Trottle had told me at first.

It had been empty,
some said six years,
some said eight,
some said ten.

It never did let,
they all agreed,
and it never would let.

I soon felt convinced that I should work myself into one of my states about the House;
and I soon did.

I lived
for a whole month in a flurry,
that was always getting worse.

Towers's prescriptions,
which I had brought
to London
with me,
were of no more use than nothing.

In the cold winter sunlight,
in the thick winter fog,
in the black winter rain,
in the white winter snow,
the House was equally on my mind.

I have heard,
as everybody else has,
of a spirit's haunting a house;
but I have had my own personal experience of a house's haunting a spirit;
for that House haunted mine.

In all that month's time,
I never saw anyone go into the House nor come out of the House.

I supposed that such a thing must take place sometimes,
in the dead of the night,
or the glimmer of the morning;
but,
I never saw it done.

I got no relief from having my curtains drawn when it came on dark,
and shutting out the House.

The Eye then began
to shine in my fire.

I am a single old woman.

I should say at once,
without being at all afraid of the name,
I am an old maid;
only that I am older than the phrase would express.

The time was when I had my love-trouble,
but,
it is long and long ago.

He was killed at sea
(Dear Heaven rest his blessed head!)
when I was twenty-five.

I have all my life,
since ever I can remember,
been deeply fond of children.

I have always felt such a love
for them,
that I have had my sorrowful and sinful times when I have fancied something must have gone wrong in my life- -something must have been turned aside from its original intention I mean--or I should have been the proud and happy mother of many children,
and a fond old grandmother this day.

I have soon known better in the cheerfulness and contentment that God has blessed me
with and given me abundant reason for;
and yet I have had
to dry my eyes even then,
when I have thought of my dear,
brave,
hopeful,
handsome,
bright-eyed Charley,
and the trust meant
to cheer me with.

Charley was my youngest brother,
and he went
to India.

He married there,
and sent his gentle little wife home
to me
to be confined,
and she was
to go back
to him,
and the baby was
to be left
with me,
and I was
to bring it up.

It never belonged
to this life.

It took its silent place among the other incidents in my story that might have been,
but never were.

I had hardly time
to whisper
to her
"Dead my own!"

or she
to answer,
"Ashes
to ashes,
dust
to dust! O lay it on my breast and comfort Charley!"

when she had gone
to seek her baby at Our Saviour's feet.

I went
to Charley,
and I told him there was nothing left but me,
poor me;
and I lived
with Charley,
out there,
several years.

He was a man of fifty,
when he fell asleep in my arMs. His face had changed
to be almost old and a little stern;
but,
it softened,
and softened when I laid it down that I might cry and pray beside it;
and,
when I looked at it
for the last time,
it was my dear,
untroubled,
handsome,
youthful Charley of long ago.

- I was going on
to tell that the loneliness of the House
to Let brought back all these recollections,
and that they had quite pierced my heart one evening,
when Flobbins,
opening the door,
and looking very much as if she wanted
to laugh but thought better of it,
said:

"Mr. Jabez Jarber,
ma'am!"

Upon which Mr. Jarber ambled in,
in his usual absurd way,
saying:

"Sophonisba!"

Which I am obliged
to confess is my name.

A pretty one and proper one enough when it was given
to me:

but,
a good many years out of date now,
and always sounding particularly high-flown and comical from his lips.

So I said,
sharply:

"Though it is Sophonisba,
Jarber,
you are not obliged
to mention it,
that _I_ see."



In reply
to this observation,
the ridiculous man put the tips of my five right-hand fingers
to his lips,
and said again,
with an aggravating accent on the third syllable:

"SophonISba!"

I don't burn lamps,
because I can't abide the smell of oil,
and wax candles belonged
to my day.

I hope the convenient situation of one of my tall old candlesticks on the table at my elbow will be my excuse
for saying,
that if he did that again,
I would chop his toes
with it.

(I am sorry
to add that when I told him so,
I knew his toes
to be tender.)
But,
really,
at my time of life and at Jarber's,
it is too much of a good thing.

There is an orchestra still standing in the open air at the Wells,
before which,
in the presence of a throng of fine company,
I have walked a minuet
with Jarber.

But,
there is a house still standing,
in which I have worn a pinafore,
and had a tooth drawn by fastening a thread
to the tooth and the door-handle,
and toddling away from the door.

And how should I look now,
at my years,
in a pinafore,
or having a door
for my dentist?

Besides,
Jarber always was more or less an absurd man.

He was sweetly dressed,
and beautifully perfumed,
and many girls of my day would have given their ears
for him;
though I am bound
to add that he never cared a fig
for them,
or their advances either,
and that he was very constant
to me.

For,
he not only proposed
to me before my love-happiness ended in sorrow,
but afterwards too:

not once,
nor yet twice:

nor will we say how many times.

However many they were,
or however few they were,
the last time he paid me that compliment was immediately after he had presented me
with a digestive dinner- pill stuck on the point of a pin.

And I said on that occasion,
laughing heartily,
"Now,
Jarber,
if you don't know that two people whose united ages would make about a hundred and fifty,
have got
to be old,
I do;
and I beg
to swallow this nonsense in the form of this pill"
(which I took on the spot),
"and I request to,
hear no more of it."



After that,
he conducted himself pretty well.

He was always a little squeezed man,
was Jarber,
in little sprigged waistcoats;
and he had always little legs and a little smile,
and a little voice,
and little round-about ways.

As long as I can remember him he was always going little errands
for people,
and carrying little gossip.

At this present time when he called me
"Sophonisba!"

he had a little old-fashioned lodging in that new neighbourhood of mine.

I had not seen him
for two or three years,
but I had heard that he still went out
with a little perspective-glass and stood on door-steps in Saint James's Street,
to see the nobility go
to Court;
and went in his little cloak and goloshes outside Willis's rooms
to see them go
to Almack's;
and caught the frightfullest colds,
and got himself trodden upon by coachmen and linkmen,
until he went home
to his landlady a mass of bruises,
and had
to be nursed
for a month.

Jarber took off his little fur-collared cloak,
and sat down opposite me,
with his little cane and hat in his hand.

"Let us have no more Sophonisbaing,
if YOU please,
Jarber,"
I said.

"Call me Sarah.

How do you do?

I hope you are pretty well."



"Thank you.

And you?"

said Jarber.

"I am as well as an old woman can expect
to be."



Jarber was beginning:

"Say,
not old,
Sophon-
"
but I looked at the candlestick,
and he left off;
pretending not
to have said anything.

"I am infirm,
of course,"
I said,
"and so are you.

Let us both be thankful it's no worse."



"Is it possible that you look worried?"

said Jarber.

"It is very possible.

I have no doubt it is the fact."



"And what has worried my Soph-,
soft-hearted friend,"
said Jarber.

"Something not easy,
I suppose,
to comprehend.

I am worried
to death by a House
to Let,
over the way."



Jarber went
with his little tip-toe step
to the window-curtains,
peeped out,
and looked round at me.

"Yes,"
said I,
in answer:

"that house."



After peeping out again,
Jarber came back
to his chair
with a tender air,
and asked:

"How does it worry you,
S-arah?"

"It is a mystery
to me,"
said I.

"Of course every house IS a mystery,
more or less;
but,
something that I don't care
to mention"
(for truly the Eye was so slight a thing
to mention that I was more than half ashamed of it),
"has made that House so mysterious
to me,
and has so fixed it in my mind,
that I have had no peace
for a month.

I foresee that I shall have no peace,
either,
until Trottle comes
to me,
next Monday."



I might have mentioned before,
that there is a lone-standing jealousy between Trottle and Jarber;
and that there is never any love lost between those two.

"TROTTLE,"
petulantly repeated Jarber,
with a little flourish of his cane;
"how is TROTTLE
to restore the lost peace of Sarah?"

"He will exert himself
to find out something about the House.

I have fallen into that state about it,
that I really must discover by some means or other,
good or bad,
fair or foul,
how and why it is that that House remains
to Let."



"And why Trottle?

Why not,"
putting his little hat
to his heart;
"why not,
Jarber?

"To tell you the truth,
I have never thought of Jarber in the matter.

And now I do think of Jarber,
through your having the kindness
to suggest him--for which I am really and truly obliged
to you--I don't think he could do it."



"Sarah!"

"I think it would be too much
for you,
Jarber."



"Sarah!"

"There would be coming and going,
and fetching and carrying,
Jarber,
and you might catch cold."



"Sarah! What can be done by Trottle,
can be done by me.

I am on terms of acquaintance
with every person of responsibility in this parish.

I am intimate at the Circulating Library.

I converse daily
with the Assessed Taxes.

I lodge
with the Water Rate.

I know the Medical Man.

I lounge habitually at the House Agent's.

I dine
with the Churchwardens.

I move
to the Guardians.

Trottle! A person in the sphere of a domestic,
and totally unknown
to society!"

"Don't be warm,
Jarber.

In mentioning Trottle,
I have naturally relied on my Right-Hand,
who would take any trouble
to gratify even a whim of his old mistress's.

But,
if you can find out anything
to help
to unravel the mystery of this House
to Let,
I shall be fully as much obliged
to you as if there was never a Trottle in the land."



Jarber rose and put on his little cloak.

A couple of fierce brass lions held it tight round his little throat;
but a couple of the mildest Hares might have done that,
I am sure.

"Sarah,"
he said,
"I go.

Expect me on Monday evening,
the Sixth,
when perhaps you will give me a cup of tea;--may I ask
for no Green?

Adieu!"

This was on a Thursday,
the second of December.

When I reflected that Trottle would come back on Monday,
too,
I had My misgivings as
to the difficulty of keeping the two powers from open warfare,
and indeed I was more uneasy than I quite like
to confess.

However,
the empty House swallowed up that thought next morning,
as it swallowed up most other thoughts now,
and the House quite preyed upon me all that day,
and all the Saturday.

It was a very wet Sunday:

raining and blowing from morning
to night.

When the bells rang
for afternoon church,
they seemed
to ring in the commotion of the puddles as well as in the wind,
and they sounded very loud and dismal indeed,
and the street looked very dismal indeed,
and the House looked dismallest of all.

I was reading my prayers near the light,
and my fire was growing in the darkening window-glass,
when,
looking up,
as I prayed
for the fatherless children and widows and all who were desolate and oppressed,--I saw the Eye again.

It passed in a moment,
as it had done before;
but,
this time,
I was inwardly more convinced that I had seen it.

Well
to be sure,
I HAD a night that night! Whenever I closed my own eyes,
it was
to see eyes.

Next morning,
at an unreasonably,
and I should have said
(but
for that railroad)
an impossibly early hour,
comes Trottle.

As soon as he had told me all about the Wells,
I told him all about the House.

He listened
with as great interest and attention as I could possibly wish,
until I came
to Jabez Jarber,
when he cooled in an instant,
and became opinionated.

"Now,
Trottle,"
I said,
pretending not
to notice,
"when Mr. Jarber comes back this evening,
we must all lay our heads together."



"I should hardly think that would be wanted,
ma'am;
Mr. Jarber's head is surely equal
to anything."



Being determined not
to notice,
I said again,
that we must all lay our heads together.

"Whatever you order,
ma'am,
shall be obeyed.

Still,
it cannot be doubted,
I should think,
that Mr. Jarber's head is equal,
if not superior,
to any pressure that can be brought
to bear upon it."



This was provoking;
and his way,
when he came in and out all through the day,
of pretending not
to see the House
to Let,
was more provoking still.

However,
being quite resolved not
to notice,
I gave no sign whatever that I did notice.

But,
when evening came,
and he showed in Jarber,
and,
when Jarber wouldn't be helped off
with his cloak,
and poked his cane into cane chair-backs and china ornaments and his own eye,
in trying
to unclasp his brazen lions of himself
(which he couldn't do,
after all),
I could have shaken them both.

As it was,
I only shook the tea-pot,
and made the tea.

Jarber had brought from under his cloak,
a roll of paper,
with which he had triumphantly pointed over the way,
like the Ghost of Hamlet's Father appearing
to the late Mr. Kemble,
and which he had laid on the table.

"A discovery?"

said I,
pointing
to it,
when he was seated,
and had got his tea-cup.--"Don't go,
Trottle."



"The first of a series of discoveries,"
answered Jarber.

"Account of a former tenant,
compiled from the Water Rate,
and Medical Man."



"Don't go,
Trottle,"
I repeated.

For,
I saw him making imperceptibly
to the door.

"Begging your pardon,
ma'am,
I might be in Mr. Jarber's way?"

Jarber looked that he decidedly thought he might be.

I relieved myself
with a good angry croak,
and said--always determined not
to notice:

"Have the goodness
to sit down,
if you please,
Trottle.

I wish you
to hear this."



Trottle bowed in the stiffest manner,
and took the remotest chair he could find.

Even that,
he moved close
to the draught from the keyhole of the door.

"Firstly,"
Jarber began,
after sipping his tea,
"would my Sophon-
"
"Begin again,
Jarber,"
said I.

"Would you be much surprised,
if this House
to Let should turn out
to be the property of a relation of your own?"

"I should indeed be very much surprised."



"Then it belongs
to your first cousin
(I learn,
by the way,
that he is ill at this time)
George Forley."



"Then that is a bad beginning.

I cannot deny that George Forley stands in the relation of first cousin
to me;
but I hold no communication
with him.

George Forley has been a hard,
bitter,
stony father
to a child now dead.

George Forley was most implacable and unrelenting
to one of his two daughters who made a poor marriage.

George Forley brought all the weight of his band
to bear as heavily against that crushed thing,
as he brought it
to bear lightly,
favouringly,
and advantageously upon her sister,
who made a rich marriage.

I hope that,
with the measure George Forley meted,
it may not be measured out
to him again.

I will give George Forley no worse wish."



I was strong upon the subject,
and I could not keep the tears out of my eyes;
for,
that young girl's was a cruel story,
and I had dropped many a tear over it before.

"The house being George Forley's,"
said I,
"is almost enough
to account
for there being a Fate upon it,
if Fate there is.

Is there anything about George Forley in those sheets of paper?"

"Not a word."



"I am glad
to hear it.

Please
to read on.

Trottle,
why don't you come nearer?

Why do you sit mortifying yourself in those arctic regions?

Come nearer."



"Thank you,
ma'am;
I am quite near enough
to Mr. Jarber."



Jarber rounded his chair,
to get his back full
to my opinionated friend and servant,
and,
beginning
to read,
tossed the words at him over his
(Jabez Jarber's)
own ear and shoulder.

He read what follows:

THE MANCHESTER MARRIAGE 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.

GOING INTO SOCIETY At one period of its reverses,
the House fell into the occupation of a Showman.

He was found registered as its occupier,
on the parish books of the time when he rented the House,
and there was therefore no need of any clue
to his name.

But,
he himself was less easy
to be found;
for,
he had led a wandering life,
and settled people had lost sight of him,
and people who plumed themselves on being respectable were shy of admitting that they had ever known anything of him.

At last,
among the marsh lands near the river's level,
that lie about Deptford and the neighbouring market-gardens,
a Grizzled Personage in velveteen,
with a face so cut up by varieties of weather that he looked as if he had been tattooed,
was found smoking a pipe at the door of a wooden house on wheels.

The wooden house was laid up in ordinary
for the winter,
near the mouth of a muddy creek;
and everything near it,
the foggy river,
the misty marshes,
and the steaming market-gardens,
smoked in company
with the grizzled man.

In the midst of this smoking party,
the funnel-chimney of the wooden house on wheels was not remiss,
but took its pipe
with the rest in a companionable manner.

On being asked if it were he who had once rented the House
to Let,
Grizzled Velveteen looked surprised,
and said yes.

Then his name was Magsman?

That was it,
Toby Magsman--which lawfully christened Robert;
but called in the line,
from a infant,
Toby.

There was nothing agin Toby Magsman,
he believed?

If there was suspicion of such--mention it! There was no suspicion of such,
he might rest assured.

But,
some inquiries were making about that House,
and would he object
to say why he left it?

Not at all;
why should he?

He left it,
along of a Dwarf.

Along of a Dwarf?

Mr. Magsman repeated,
deliberately and emphatically,
Along of a Dwarf.

Might it be compatible
with Mr. Magsman's inclination and convenience
to enter,
as a favour,
into a few particulars?

Mr. Magsman entered into the following particulars.

It was a long time ago,
to begin with;--afore lotteries and a deal more was done away with.

Mr. Magsman was looking about
for a good pitch,
and he see that house,
and he says
to himself,
"I'll have you,
if you're
to be had.

If money'll get you,
I'll have you."



The neighbours cut up rough,
and made complaints;
but Mr. Magsman don't know what they WOULD have had.

It was a lovely thing.

First of all,
there was the canvass,
representin the picter of the Giant,
in Spanish trunks and a ruff,
who was himself half the heighth of the house,
and was run up
with a line and pulley
to a pole on the roof,
so that his Ed was coeval
with the parapet.

Then,
there was the canvass,
representin the picter of the Albina lady,
showing her white air
to the Army and Navy in correct uniform.

Then,
there was the canvass,
representin the picter of the Wild Indian a scalpin a member of some foreign nation.

Then,
there was the canvass,
representin the picter of a child of a British Planter,
seized by two Boa Constrictors--not that WE never had no child,
nor no Constrictors neither.

Similarly,
there was the canvass,
representin the picter of the Wild Ass of the Prairies--not that WE never had no wild asses,
nor wouldn't have had
'em at a gift.

Last,
there was the canvass,
representin the picter of the Dwarf,
and like him too
(considerin),
with George the Fourth in such a state of astonishment at him as His Majesty couldn't
with his utmost politeness and stoutness express.

The front of the House was so covered
with canvasses,
that there wasn't a spark of daylight ever visible on that side.

"MAGSMAN'S AMUSEMENTS,"
fifteen foot long by two foot high,
ran over the front door and parlour winders.

The passage was a Arbour of green baize and gardenstuff.

A barrel-organ performed there unceasing.

And as
to respectability,--if threepence ain't respectable,
what is?

But,
the Dwarf is the principal article at present,
and he was worth the money.

He was wrote up as MAJOR TPSCHOFFKI,
OF THE IMPERIAL BULGRADERIAN BRIGADE.

Nobody couldn't pronounce the name,
and it never was intended anybody should.

The public always turned it,
as a regular rule,
into Chopski.

In the line he was called Chops;
partly on that account,
and partly because his real name,
if he ever had any real name
(which was very dubious),
was Stakes.

He was a un-common small man,
he really was.

Certainly not so small as he was made out
to be,
but where IS your Dwarf as is?

He was a most uncommon small man,
with a most uncommon large Ed;
and what he had inside that Ed,
nobody ever knowed but himself:

even supposin himself
to have ever took stock of it,
which it would have been a stiff job
for even him
to do.

The kindest little man as never growed! Spirited,
but not proud.

When he travelled
with the Spotted Baby--though he knowed himself
to be a nat'ral Dwarf,
and knowed the Baby's spots
to be put upon him artificial,
he nursed that Baby like a mother.

You never heerd him give a ill-name
to a Giant.

He DID allow himself
to break out into strong language respectin the Fat Lady from Norfolk;
but that was an affair of the
'art;
and when a man's
'art has been trifled
with by a lady,
and the p