His wife was a pretty, gentle woman, of suitable age and character. He was forty-two, she thirty-five. He was loud and decided9; 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 prattle10, and to whom his father delighted to speak in the broadest and most unintelligible11 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 orphan12 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 complexion13. 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; secondly14, attentive15 and thirdly, desperately16 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, liking18 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 lodgings19, 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 sipping20 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 vehement21, passionate22 disposition23; which led him to resent his wife’s shyness and want of demonstration25 as failures in conjugal26 duty. He was already tormenting27 himself, and her too, in a slighter degree, by apprehensions28 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 prospect29 of her confinement30 while her husband was away on his voyage. Captain Wilson was, as he himself expressed it, “breaking up,” and unwilling31 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 submission32 or generosity33. 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 forfeited34 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 softened35 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 Cape17 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 suspense36 as Alice herself, her fears grew most oppressive. At length the day came when, in reply to her inquiry37 at the Shipping38 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 yearning39, longing41 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 craved42 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; dwelling43 on his poor young widow’s desolate44 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 subsided45 into their natural and tranquil46 course. But, as if this young creature was always to be in some heavy trouble, her ewe-lamb began to be ailing47, pining and sickly. The child’s mysterious illness turned out to be some affection of the spine48 likely to affect health; but not to shorten life — at least so the doctors said. But the long dreary49 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 distress50, occasioned by a very material diminution51 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 yearn40 but that now all chance of this had passed away — Alice’s heart was touched, and she drew near to Mrs. Wilson with unwonted caresses52, and, in a spirit not unlike to that of, Ruth, entreated53, 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, scour54, do anything in short, so that, she might but remain with them.
The plan succeeded. For some years their first lodgers55 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 sweeping57 boom of a funeral bell over her heart.
Bye-and-bye, Mr. Openshaw came to lodge56 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 harmonious59 contrasts in the coming spring muslins and prints. He went to debating societies, and threw himself with all his heart and soul into politics; esteeming60, it must be owned, every man a fool or a knave61 who differed from him, and overthrowing62 his opponents rather by the loud strength of his language than the calm strength if his logic63. 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-nay64 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 discordant65 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 peculiar66 fancy dictated67, (for he was a man who had his theory about everything, based upon what he knew of science, and often perfectly68 original)— then he began to think: not that Alice had any peculiar merit; but that he had got into remarkably69 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 manifestation70 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 beads71 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 plaintive72 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 abrupt73 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 slippers74 placed by his sitting-room75 fire; and even more careful attention paid to his fancies than was habitual76 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 heartily77 wishing the woman would be gone, and not make any palaver78 of gratitude79. 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 insidious80 enemy having thus entered his heart, in the guise81 of compassion82 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 docile83 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 chattered84 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 pertinacious85 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 procure86. 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 perplexed87 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 determined88 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 affixed89 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 truthful90 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 wedded91 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 indifference92 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 screeched93 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 appellation94 of Mama, but becoming henceforward Mother), by his healthy cheerfulness of manner, his clear decision of purpose, his odd turns and quirks95 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 oration96 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 thoroughly97 cordial terms; neither of them fully98 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-standing58 feuds99, 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 breach100 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 linen101 fresh for the occasion-from night-caps downwards102; 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 entirely103 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 amethyst104 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 loyalty105 demanded that Mrs. Chadwick should wear her best clothes in visiting the abode106 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 sate107 below, Norah hardly knew where. She was always engrossed108 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 bosom109. 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 futile110 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 confirmation111 or contradiction.
“What shall I do?” groaned112 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 wrung113 out.
“Norah!” This time his tone was calm, stagnant114 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, chafed115 his hands, and — when mere116 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 crumbs117 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 dread118 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 upbraid119; 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 savages120, 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 dwindles121, her mother languishes122. 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 helping123 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 skilfully124 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 lustre125 of her eyes, looked wan24 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 swelling126 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 extremity127 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 clenched128.
“His child?” he asked.
“Her child,” replied Norah. “God watches over him,” said she instinctively129; 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 apparently130 recoiling131 on his own desolate, deserted132 state. But Norah had no time for pity. To-morrow she would be as compassionate133 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 effaced134 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 misery135. It seemed to her very long before they did return; yet it was hardly eleven o’clock. She so heard the loud, hearty136 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 forth137 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 bent138 over her, looking at her slumbers139 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 countenance141, 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 awakened142 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 uncommon143 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, soothingly144. “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 altercation145 going on in the nursery. Norah speaking angrily to Ailsie, a most unusual thing. Both Mr. and Mrs. Openshaw listened in astonishment146.
“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, defiant147. 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 infinitely148 relieved; for she had dreaded149 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 resolute150 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 vehemence151.
“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 taunt152 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 chattels153.
“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 magistrate154? 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 extremities155. 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 forsake156 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 utterly157 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 annoyance158 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 agitated159, 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 nought160. 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 penitent161 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 vexed162, 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 bonnet163 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 motive164 for her departure than her soreness about the suspicions directed against her; although this last had been the final goad165 to the course she took. She walked away almost at headlong speed; sobbing166 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 swollen167 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. Thither168 she went: with what intention she hardly knew, but to assuage169 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 landlady170 — 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 slumber140, 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 proceedings171. 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 ruffled172 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 exhaustion173.
“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 brute174, 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 misgave175 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 stunned176 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 allude177 to the supposed theft of the brooch; so she, implicitly178 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 curiously179 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 reverence180, 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 cemetery181 a little way out of town, and she was carried to a certain mound182 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 obstinacy183 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 obtuse184 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 peremptory185 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 martyr186, and Jarber began to read with his back turned on the enemy more decidedly than ever.
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
warehouse
|
|
| n.仓库；vt.存入仓库 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
metropolis
|
|
| n.首府；大城市 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
provincial
|
|
| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
spoke
|
|
| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
justified
|
|
| a.正当的，有理的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
chilly
|
|
| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
kindly
|
|
| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
defiance
|
|
| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
decided
|
|
| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
prattle
|
|
| n.闲谈；v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话；发出连续而无意义的声音 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
unintelligible
|
|
| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
orphan
|
|
| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
complexion
|
|
| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
secondly
|
|
| adv.第二，其次 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
attentive
|
|
| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
desperately
|
|
| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
cape
|
|
| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
liking
|
|
| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
lodgings
|
|
| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
sipping
|
|
| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
vehement
|
|
| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
passionate
|
|
| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
disposition
|
|
| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
wan
|
|
| (wide area network)广域网 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
demonstration
|
|
| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
conjugal
|
|
| adj.婚姻的，婚姻性的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
tormenting
|
|
| 使痛苦的，使苦恼的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
apprehensions
|
|
| 疑惧 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
prospect
|
|
| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
confinement
|
|
| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
unwilling
|
|
| adj.不情愿的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
submission
|
|
| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
generosity
|
|
| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
forfeited
|
|
| （因违反协议、犯规、受罚等）丧失，失去( forfeit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
softened
|
|
| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
suspense
|
|
| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
inquiry
|
|
| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
shipping
|
|
| n.船运（发货，运输，乘船） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
yearning
|
|
| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
yearn
|
|
| v.想念；怀念；渴望 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
longing
|
|
| n.（for）渴望 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
craved
|
|
| 渴望，热望( crave的过去式 )； 恳求，请求 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
dwelling
|
|
| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
desolate
|
|
| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
subsided
|
|
| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
tranquil
|
|
| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
ailing
|
|
| v.生病 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
spine
|
|
| n.脊柱，脊椎；(动植物的)刺；书脊 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
dreary
|
|
| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
distress
|
|
| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
diminution
|
|
| n.减少；变小 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
caresses
|
|
| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
entreated
|
|
| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
scour
|
|
| v.搜索；擦，洗，腹泻，冲刷 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
lodgers
|
|
| n.房客，租住者( lodger的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
lodge
|
|
| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
sweeping
|
|
| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
standing
|
|
| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
harmonious
|
|
| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
esteeming
|
|
| v.尊敬( esteem的现在分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
|
61
knave
|
|
| n.流氓；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
overthrowing
|
|
| v.打倒，推翻( overthrow的现在分词 )；使终止 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
logic
|
|
| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
nay
|
|
| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
discordant
|
|
| adj.不调和的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
peculiar
|
|
| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
67
dictated
|
|
| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
68
perfectly
|
|
| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
69
remarkably
|
|
| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
70
manifestation
|
|
| n.表现形式；表明；现象 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
71
beads
|
|
| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
72
plaintive
|
|
| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
73
abrupt
|
|
| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
74
slippers
|
|
| n. 拖鞋 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
75
sitting-room
|
|
| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
76
habitual
|
|
| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
77
heartily
|
|
| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
78
palaver
|
|
| adj.壮丽堂皇的；n.废话，空话 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
79
gratitude
|
|
| adj.感激，感谢 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
80
insidious
|
|
| adj.阴险的，隐匿的，暗中为害的，（疾病）不知不觉之间加剧 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
81
guise
|
|
| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
82
compassion
|
|
| n.同情，怜悯 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
83
docile
|
|
| adj.驯服的，易控制的，容易教的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
84
chattered
|
|
| （人）喋喋不休( chatter的过去式 )； 唠叨； （牙齿）打战； （机器）震颤 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
85
pertinacious
|
|
| adj.顽固的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
86
procure
|
|
| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
87
perplexed
|
|
| adj.不知所措的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
88
determined
|
|
| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
89
affixed
|
|
| adj.[医]附着的，附着的v.附加( affix的过去式和过去分词 )；粘贴；加以；盖（印章） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
90
truthful
|
|
| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
91
wedded
|
|
| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
92
indifference
|
|
| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
93
screeched
|
|
| v.发出尖叫声( screech的过去式和过去分词 )；发出粗而刺耳的声音；高叫 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
94
appellation
|
|
| n.名称，称呼 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
95
quirks
|
|
| n.奇事，巧合( quirk的名词复数 )；怪癖 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
96
oration
|
|
| n.演说，致辞，叙述法 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
97
thoroughly
|
|
| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
98
fully
|
|
| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
99
feuds
|
|
| n.长期不和，世仇( feud的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
100
breach
|
|
| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
101
linen
|
|
| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
102
downwards
|
|
| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
103
entirely
|
|
| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
104
amethyst
|
|
| n.紫水晶 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
105
loyalty
|
|
| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
106
abode
|
|
| n.住处，住所 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
107
sate
|
|
| v.使充分满足 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
108
engrossed
|
|
| adj.全神贯注的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
109
bosom
|
|
| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
110
futile
|
|
| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
111
confirmation
|
|
| n.证实，确认，批准 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
112
groaned
|
|
| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
113
wrung
|
|
| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
114
stagnant
|
|
| adj.不流动的，停滞的，不景气的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
115
chafed
|
|
| v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的过去式 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
116
mere
|
|
| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
117
crumbs
|
|
| int. (表示惊讶)哎呀 n. 碎屑 名词crumb的复数形式 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
118
dread
|
|
| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
119
upbraid
|
|
| v.斥责，责骂，责备 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
120
savages
|
|
| 未开化的人，野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
121
dwindles
|
|
| v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
122
languishes
|
|
| 长期受苦( languish的第三人称单数 )； 受折磨； 变得（越来越）衰弱； 因渴望而变得憔悴或闷闷不乐 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
123
helping
|
|
| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
124
skilfully
|
|
| adv. (美skillfully)熟练地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
125
lustre
|
|
| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
126
swelling
|
|
| n.肿胀 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
127
extremity
|
|
| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
128
clenched
|
|
| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
129
instinctively
|
|
| adv.本能地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
130
apparently
|
|
| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
131
recoiling
|
|
| v.畏缩( recoil的现在分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
132
deserted
|
|
| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
133
compassionate
|
|
| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
134
effaced
|
|
| v.擦掉( efface的过去式和过去分词 )；抹去；超越；使黯然失色 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
135
misery
|
|
| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
136
hearty
|
|
| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
137
forth
|
|
| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
138
bent
|
|
| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
139
slumbers
|
|
| 睡眠，安眠( slumber的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
140
slumber
|
|
| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
141
countenance
|
|
| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
142
awakened
|
|
| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
143
uncommon
|
|
| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
144
soothingly
|
|
| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
145
altercation
|
|
| n.争吵，争论 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
146
astonishment
|
|
| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
147
defiant
|
|
| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
148
infinitely
|
|
| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
149
dreaded
|
|
| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
150
resolute
|
|
| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
151
vehemence
|
|
| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
152
taunt
|
|
| n.辱骂，嘲弄；v.嘲弄 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
153
chattels
|
|
| n.动产，奴隶( chattel的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
154
magistrate
|
|
| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
155
extremities
|
|
| n.端点( extremity的名词复数 )；尽头；手和足；极窘迫的境地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
156
forsake
|
|
| vt.遗弃，抛弃；舍弃，放弃 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
157
utterly
|
|
| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
158
annoyance
|
|
| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
159
agitated
|
|
| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
160
nought
|
|
| n.／adj.无，零 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
161
penitent
|
|
| adj.后悔的；n.后悔者；忏悔者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
162
vexed
|
|
| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
163
bonnet
|
|
| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
164
motive
|
|
| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
165
goad
|
|
| n.刺棒，刺痛物；激励；vt.激励，刺激 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
166
sobbing
|
|
| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
167
swollen
|
|
| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
168
thither
|
|
| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
169
assuage
|
|
| v.缓和，减轻，镇定 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
170
landlady
|
|
| n.女房东，女地主 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
171
proceedings
|
|
| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
172
ruffled
|
|
| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
173
exhaustion
|
|
| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
174
brute
|
|
| n.野兽，兽性 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
175
misgave
|
|
| v.使（某人的情绪、精神等）疑虑，担忧，害怕( misgive的过去式 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
176
stunned
|
|
| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
177
allude
|
|
| v.提及，暗指 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
178
implicitly
|
|
| adv. 含蓄地, 暗中地, 毫不保留地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
179
curiously
|
|
| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
180
reverence
|
|
| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
181
cemetery
|
|
| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
182
mound
|
|
| n.土墩，堤，小山；v.筑堤，用土堆防卫 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
183
obstinacy
|
|
| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
184
obtuse
|
|
| adj.钝的；愚钝的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
185
peremptory
|
|
| adj.紧急的，专横的，断然的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
186
martyr
|
|
| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |