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 that 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 forward. ‘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’ll 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 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. Oh, 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 no 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 said 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 dreaded 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 d
rew 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 our 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, when 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 scarcely 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 aught else but sympathize 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 started 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, and 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: some one 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. You poor man -- yes! the dead, drowned creature is, I fear, Mr Frank, my mistress’s first husband!’
Mr Openshaw sat 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 your all coming home than of his sore trial: I 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 never came in. O, sir! 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 names 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 wa
s a head-stone, with F. W. and a date upon it. 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.
(1858)
MARTHA PRESTON
Within the last few years I have been twice at the Lakes. There is a road leading to Grasmere, on the least known side of Loughrigg, which presents a singular number of striking and dissimilar views. First of all, on departing from the highway to Langdale, you climb a little hill; and there below you, in a sort of grassy basin on the side of Loughrigg, lies Wordsworth’s favourite Loughrigg tarn; the “Speculum Dianæ,” as he loves to call it; oval, deep, and clear as her mirror should be. Then you pass between two Westmoreland farm-houses, which shut in the road as it were, and make a little home-like scene, with their gables, and stacks of chimneys, and wooden galleries, and numerous out-buildings, festooned with ivy and climbing roses; which latter straggle through the loose stone wall, and scent the air, already so fragrant with the odours of the wayside herbs. Pass these homesteads, and you seem to have left all human habitation behind, - the very fences disappear, as if the moorland and bog were not worth enclosing, until you come to a little glen - a ravine, - a “ghyll,” where linger yet one or two of the ancient trees of Loughrigg forest; and, as if they had suggested the idea of planting, in the lower and more open and genial part of this “ghyll,” there are many of the more hardy trees of a much later date, say fifty years old; but they have spread out their branches, and grow unchecked and unpruned, till they form quite a wood, of perhaps half a mile long, on the bleak mountain side, through which the soft grassy road passes on the way to Red Bank: where first you saw Grasmere, lying calm and still, fathoms below you, and reflecting the blue heavens, and purple mountain tops in its glassy surface. But come back with me to the shady wood on Loughrigg side: We passed a stone cottage there in the more open part, where your attention was called off from more immediate objects, by the sunny peep into the valley between Loughrigg and Highclose. You were so absorbed by this glimpse into the bright fertile little dale on the left, with its “meadow green and mountain gray,” that you did not notice the gray, old cottage, just up above the road, in the wood on the right, and yet it was very picturesque; truly “a nest in a green hold,” with yet enough of sun to gild the diamond-paned windows, all through the long afternoon of a summer’s day: and high enough to command a view through that opening in the trees for many a mile. It was large and roomy, though too irregular and low; and if we had peeped over the stone wail, we should have seen a trim little garden, with pleasant flower-borders under the low windows.
Delphi Complete Works of Elizabeth Gaskell Page 480
