A House to Let by Charles Dickens (book recommendations based on other books .txt) 📕

“Father!  I’m sure I saw him,” said Ailsie, half crying.  “I don’t want to make Norah angry; but I was not asleep, for all she says I was.  I had been asleep,—and I awakened up quite wide awake though I was so frightened.  I kept my eyes nearly shut, and I saw the man quite plain.  A great brown man with a beard.  He said his prayers.  And then he looked at Edwin.  And then Norah took him by the arm and led him away, after they had whispered a bit together.”

“Now, my little woman must be reasonable,” said Mr. Openshaw, who was always patient with Ailsie.  “There was no man in the house last night at all.  No man comes into the house as you know, if you think; much less goes up into the nursery.  But sometimes we dream something has happened, and the dream is so like reality, that you are not the first person, little woman, who has stood out that the thing has really happened.”

“But, indeed it was not a dream!” said Ailsie, beginning to cry.

Just then Mr. and Mrs. Chadwick came down, looking grave and discomposed.  All during breakfast time they were silent and uncomfortable.  As soon as the breakfast things were taken away, and the children had been carried up-stairs, Mr. Chadwick began in an evidently preconcerted manner to inquire if his nephew was certain that all his servants were honest; for, that Mrs. Chadwick had that morning missed a very valuable brooch, which she had worn the day before.  She remembered taking it off when she came home from Buckingham Palace.  Mr. Openshaw’s face contracted into hard lines: grew like what it was before he had known his wife and her child.  He rang the bell even before his uncle had done speaking.  It was answered by the housemaid.

“Mary, was any one here last night while we were away?”

“A man, sir, came to speak to Norah.”

“To speak to Norah!  Who was he?  How long did he stay?”

“I’m sure I can’t tell, sir.  He came—perhaps about nine.  I went up to tell Norah in the nursery, and she came down to speak to him.  She let him out, sir.  She will know who he was, and how long he stayed.”

She waited a moment to be asked any more questions, but she was not, so she went away.

A minute afterwards Openshaw made as though he were going out of the room; but his wife laid her hand on his arm:

“Do not speak to her before the children,” she said, in her low, quiet voice.  “I will go up and question her.”

“No!  I must speak to her.  You must know,” said he, turning to his uncle and aunt, “my missus has an old servant, as faithful as ever woman was, I do believe, as far as love goes,—but, at the same time, who does not always speak truth, as even the missus must allow.  Now, my notion is, that this Norah of ours has been come over by some good-for-nothin chap (for she’s at the time o’ life when they say women pray for husbands—‘any, good Lord, any,’) and has let him into our house, and the chap has made off with your brooch, and m’appen many another thing beside.  It’s only saying that Norah is soft-hearted, and does not stick at a white lie—that’s all, missus.”

It was curious to notice how his tone, his eyes, his whole face changed as he spoke to his wife; but he was the resolute man through all.  She knew better than to oppose him; so she went up-stairs, and told Norah her master wanted to speak to her, and that she would take care of the children in the meanwhile.

Norah rose to go without a word.  Her thoughts were these:

“If they tear me to pieces they shall never know through me.  He may come,—and then just Lord have mercy upon us all: for some of us are dead folk to a certainty.  But he shall do it; not me.”

You may fancy, now, her look of determination as she faced her master alone in the dining-room; Mr. and Mrs. Chadwick having left the affair in their nephew’s hands, seeing that he took it up with such vehemence.

“Norah!  Who was that man that came to my house last night?”

“Man, sir!”  As if infinitely; surprised but it was only to gain time.

“Yes; the man whom Mary let in; whom she went up-stairs to the nursery to tell you about; whom you came down to speak to; the same chap, I make no doubt, whom you took into the nursery to have your talk out with; whom Ailsie saw, and afterwards dreamed about; thinking, poor wench! she saw him say his prayers, when nothing, I’ll be bound, was farther from his thoughts; who took Mrs. Chadwick’s brooch, value ten pounds.  Now, Norah!  Don’t go off!  I am as sure as that my name’s Thomas Openshaw, that you knew nothing of this robbery.  But I do think you’ve been imposed on, and that’s the truth.  Some good-for-nothing chap has been making up to you, and you’ve been just like all other women, and have turned a soft place in your heart to him; and he came last night a-lovyering, and you had him up in the nursery, and he made use of his opportunities, and made off with a few things on his way down!  Come, now, Norah: it’s no blame to you, only you must not be such a fool again.  Tell us,” he continued, “what name he gave you, Norah?  I’ll be bound it was not the right one; but it will be a clue for the police.”

Norah drew herself up.  “You may ask that question, and taunt me with my being single, and with my credulity, as you will, Master Openshaw.  You’ll get no answer from me.  As for the brooch, and the story of theft and burglary; if any friend ever came to see me (which I defy you to prove, and deny), he’d be just as much above doing such a thing as you yourself, Mr. Openshaw, and more so, too; for I’m not at all sure as everything you have is rightly come by, or would be yours long, if every man had his own.”  She meant, of course, his wife; but he understood her to refer to his property in goods and chattels.

“Now, my good woman,” said he, “I’ll just tell you truly, I never trusted you out and out; but my wife liked you, and I thought you had many a good point about you.  If you once begin to sauce me, I’ll have the police to you, and get out the truth in a court of justice, if you’ll not tell it me quietly and civilly here.  Now the best thing you can do is quietly to tell me who the fellow is.  Look here! a man comes to my house; asks for you; you take him up-stairs, a valuable brooch is missing next day; we know that you, and Mary, and cook, are honest; but you refuse to tell us who the man is.  Indeed you’ve told one lie already about him, saying no one was here last night.  Now I just put it to you, what do you think a policeman would say to this, or a magistrate?  A magistrate would soon make you tell the truth, my good woman.”

“There’s never the creature born that should get it out of me,” said Norah.  “Not unless I choose to tell.”

“I’ve a great mind to see,” said Mr. Openshaw, growing angry at the defiance.  Then, checking himself, he thought before he spoke again:

“Norah, for your missus’s sake I don’t want to go to extremities.  Be a sensible woman, if you can.  It’s no great disgrace, after all, to have been taken in.  I ask you once more—as a friend—who was this man whom you let into my house last night?”

No answer.  He repeated the question in an impatient tone.  Still no answer.  Norah’s lips were set in determination not to speak.

“Then there is but one thing to be done.  I shall send for a policeman.”

“You will not,” said Norah, starting forwards.  “You shall not, sir!  No policeman shall touch me.  I know nothing of the brooch, but I know this: ever since I was four-and-twenty I have thought more of your wife than of myself: ever since I saw her, a poor motherless girl put upon in her uncle’s house, I have thought more of serving her than of serving myself!  I have cared for her and her child, as nobody ever cared for me.  I don’t cast blame on you, sir, but I say it’s ill giving up one’s life to any one; for, at the end, they will turn round upon you, and forsake you.  Why does not my missus come herself to suspect me?  Maybe she is gone for the police?  But I don’t stay here, either for police, or magistrate, or master.  You’re an unlucky lot.  I believe there’s a curse on you.  I’ll leave you this very day.  Yes!  I leave that poor Ailsie, too.  I will! No good will ever come to you!”

Mr. Openshaw was utterly astonished at this speech; most of which was completely unintelligible to him, as may easily be supposed.  Before he could make up his mind what to say, or what to do, Norah had left the room.  I do not think he had ever really intended to send for the police to this old servant of his wife’s; for he had never for a moment doubted her perfect honesty.  But he had intended to compel her to tell him who the man was, and in this he was baffled.  He was, consequently, much irritated.  He returned to his uncle and aunt in a state of great annoyance and perplexity, and told them he could get nothing out of the woman; that some man had been in the house the night before; but that she refused to tell who he was.  At this moment his wife came in, greatly agitated, and asked what had happened to Norah; for that she had put on her things in passionate haste, and had left the house.

“This looks suspicious,” said Mr. Chadwick.  “It is not the way in which an honest person would have acted.”

Mr. Openshaw kept silence.  He was sorely perplexed.  But Mrs. Openshaw turned round on Mr. Chadwick with a sudden fierceness no one ever saw in her before.

“You don’t know Norah, uncle!  She is gone because she is deeply hurt at being suspected.  O, I wish I had seen her—that I had spoken to her myself.  She would have told me anything.”  Alice wrung her hands.

“I must confess,” continued Mr. Chadwick to his nephew, in a lower voice, “I can’t make you out.  You used to be a word and a blow, and oftenest the blow first; and now, when there is every cause for suspicion, you just do nought.  Your missus is a very good woman, I grant; but she may have been put upon as well as other folk, I suppose.  If you don’t send for the police, I shall.”

“Very well,” replied Mr. Openshaw, surlily.  “I can’t clear Norah.  She won’t clear herself, as I believe she might if she would.  Only I wash my hands of it; for I am sure the woman herself is honest, and she’s lived a long time with my wife, and I don’t like her to come to shame.”

“But she will then be forced to clear herself.  That, at any rate, will be a good thing.”

“Very well, very well!  I am heart-sick of the whole business.  Come, Alice, come up to the babies they’ll be in a sore way.  I tell you, uncle!” he said, turning round once more to Mr. Chadwick, suddenly and sharply, after his eye had fallen on Alice’s wan, tearful, anxious face; “I’ll have none sending for the police after all.