A House to Let (6 page)

"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.