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

He and his wife left the room.  Mr. Chadwick quietly waited till he was out of hearing, and then aid to his wife; “For all Tom’s heroics, I’m just quietly going for a detective, wench.  Thou need’st know nought about it.”

He went to the police-station, and made a statement of the case.  He was gratified by the impression which the evidence against Norah seemed to make.  The men all agreed in his opinion, and steps were to be immediately taken to find out where she was.  Most probably, as they suggested, she had gone at once to the man, who, to all appearance, was her lover.  When Mr. Chadwick asked how they would find her out? they smiled, shook their heads, and spoke of mysterious but infallible ways and means.  He returned to his nephew’s house with a very comfortable opinion of his own sagacity.  He was met by his wife with a penitent face:

“O master, I’ve found my brooch!  It was just sticking by its pin in the flounce of my brown silk, that I wore yesterday.  I took it off in a hurry, and it must have caught in it; and I hung up my gown in the closet.  Just now, when I was going to fold it up, there was the brooch! I’m very vexed, but I never dreamt but what it was lost!”

Her husband muttering something very like “Confound thee and thy brooch too!  I wish I’d never given it thee,” snatched up his hat, and rushed back to the station; hoping to be in time to stop the police from searching for Norah.  But a detective was already gone off on the errand.

Where was Norah?  Half mad with the strain of the fearful secret, she had hardly slept through the night for thinking what must be done.  Upon this terrible state of mind had come Ailsie’s questions, showing that she had seen the Man, as the unconscious child called her father.  Lastly came the suspicion of her honesty.  She was little less than crazy as she ran up-stairs and dashed on her bonnet and shawl; leaving all else, even her purse, behind her.  In that house she would not stay.  That was all she knew or was clear about.  She would not even see the children again, for fear it should weaken her.  She feared above everything Mr. Frank’s return to claim his wife.  She could not tell what remedy there was for a sorrow so tremendous, for her to stay to witness.  The desire of escaping from the coming event was a stronger motive for her departure than her soreness about the suspicions directed against her; although this last had been the final goad to the course she took.  She walked away almost at headlong speed; sobbing as she went, as she had not dared to do during the past night for fear of exciting wonder in those who might hear her.  Then she stopped.  An idea came into her mind that she would leave London altogether, and betake herself to her native town of Liverpool.  She felt in her pocket for her purse, as she drew near the Euston Square station with this intention.  She had left it at home.  Her poor head aching, her eyes swollen with crying, she had to stand still, and think, as well as she could, where next she should bend her steps.  Suddenly the thought flashed into her mind that she would go and find out poor Mr. Frank.  She had been hardly kind to him the night before, though her heart had bled for him ever since.  She remembered his telling her as she inquired for his address, almost as she had pushed him out of the door, of some hotel in a street not far distant from Euston Square.  Thither she went: with what intention she hardly knew, but to assuage her conscience by telling him how much she pitied him.  In her present state she felt herself unfit to counsel, or restrain, or assist, or do ought else but sympathise and weep.  The people of the inn said such a person had been there; had arrived only the day before; had gone out soon after his arrival, leaving his luggage in their care; but had never come back.  Norah asked for leave to sit down, and await the gentleman’s return.  The landlady—pretty secure in the deposit of luggage against any probable injury—showed her into a room, and quietly locked the door on the outside.  Norah was utterly worn out, and fell asleep—a shivering, starting, uneasy slumber, which lasted for hours.

The detective, meanwhile, had come up with her some time before she entered the hotel, into which he followed her.  Asking the landlady to detain her for an hour or so, without giving any reason beyond showing his authority (which made the landlady applaud herself a good deal for having locked her in), he went back to the police-station to report his proceedings.  He could have taken her directly; but his object was, if possible, to trace out the man who was supposed to have committed the robbery.  Then he heard of the discovery of the brooch; and consequently did not care to return.

Norah slept till even the summer evening began to close in.  Then up.  Some one was at the door.  It would be Mr. Frank; and she dizzily pushed back her ruffled grey hair, which had fallen over her eyes, and stood looking to see him.  Instead, there came in Mr. Openshaw and a policeman.

“This is Norah Kennedy,” said Mr. Openshaw.

“O, sir,” said Norah, “I did not touch the brooch; indeed I did not.  O, sir, I cannot live to be thought so badly of;” and very sick and faint, she suddenly sank down on the ground.  To her surprise, Mr. Openshaw raised her up very tenderly.  Even the policeman helped to lay her on the sofa; and, at Mr. Openshaw’s desire, he went for some wine and sandwiches; for the poor gaunt woman lay there almost as if dead with weariness and exhaustion.

“Norah!” said Mr. Openshaw, in his kindest voice, “the brooch is found.  It was hanging to Mrs. Chadwick’s gown.  I beg your pardon.  Most truly I beg your pardon, for having troubled you about it.  My wife is almost broken-hearted.  Eat, Norah,—or, stay, first drink this glass of wine,” said he, lifting her head, pouring a little down her throat.

As she drank, she remembered where she was, and who she was waiting for.  She suddenly pushed Mr. Openshaw away, saying, “O, sir, you must go.  You must not stop a minute.  If he comes back he will kill you.”

“Alas, Norah!  I do not know who ‘he’ is.  But some one is gone away who will never come back: someone who knew you, and whom I am afraid you cared for.”

“I don’t understand you, sir,” said Norah, her master’s kind and sorrowful manner bewildering her yet more than his words.  The policeman had left the room at Mr. Openshaw’s desire, and they two were alone.

“You know what I mean, when I say some one is gone who will never come back.  I mean that he is dead!”

“Who?” said Norah, trembling all over.

“A poor man has been found in the Thames this morning, drowned.”

“Did he drown himself?” asked Norah, solemnly.

“God only knows,” replied Mr. Openshaw, in the same tone.  “Your name and address at our house, were found in his pocket: that, and his purse, were the only things, that were found upon him.  I am sorry to say it, my poor Norah; but you are required to go and identify him.”

“To what?” asked Norah.

“To say who it is.  It is always done, in order that some reason may be discovered for the suicide—if suicide it was.  I make no doubt he was the man who came to see you at our house last night.  It is very sad, I know.”  He made pauses between each little clause, in order to try and bring back her senses; which he feared were wandering—so wild and sad was her look.

“Master Openshaw,” said she, at last, “I’ve a dreadful secret to tell you—only you must never breathe it to any one, and you and I must hide it away for ever.  I thought to have done it all by myself, but I see I cannot.  Yon poor man—yes! the dead, drowned creature is, I fear, Mr. Frank, my mistress’s first husband!”

Mr. Openshaw sate down, as if shot.  He did not speak; but, after a while, he signed to Norah to go on.

“He came to me the other night—when—God be thanked—you were all away at Richmond.  He asked me if his wife was dead or alive.  I was a brute, and thought more of our all coming home than of his sore trial: spoke out sharp, and said she was married again, and very content and happy: I all but turned him away: and now he lies dead and cold!”

“God forgive me!” said Mr. Openshaw.

“God forgive us all!” said Norah.  “Yon poor man needs forgiveness perhaps less than any one among us.  He had been among the savages—shipwrecked—I know not what—and he had written letters which had never reached my poor missus.”

“He saw his child!”

“He saw her—yes!  I took him up, to give his thoughts another start; for I believed he was going mad on my hands.  I came to seek him here, as I more than half promised.  My mind misgave me when I heard he had never come in.  O, sir I it must be him!”

Mr. Openshaw rang the bell.  Norah was almost too much stunned to wonder at what he did.  He asked for writing materials, wrote a letter, and then said to Norah:

“I am writing to Alice, to say I shall be unavoidably absent for a few days; that I have found you; that you are well, and send her your love, and will come home to-morrow.  You must go with me to the Police Court; you must identify the body: I will pay high to keep name; and details out of the papers.

“But where are you going, sir?”

He did not answer her directly.  Then he said:

“Norah!  I must go with you, and look on the face of the man whom I have so injured,—unwittingly, it is true; but it seems to me as if I had killed him.  I will lay his head in the grave, as if he were my only brother: and how he must have hated me!  I cannot go home to my wife till all that I can do for him is done.  Then I go with a dreadful secret on my mind.  I shall never speak of it again, after these days are over.  I know you will not, either.”  He shook hands with her: and they never named the subject again, the one to the other.

Norah went home to Alice the next day.  Not a word was said on the cause of her abrupt departure a day or two before.  Alice had been charged by her husband in his letter not to allude to the supposed theft of the brooch; so she, implicitly obedient to those whom she loved both by nature and habit, was entirely silent on the subject, only treated Norah with the most tender respect, as if to make up for unjust suspicion.

Nor did Alice inquire into the reason why Mr. Openshaw had been absent during his uncle and aunt’s visit, after he had once said that it was unavoidable.  He came back, grave and quiet; and, from that time forth, was curiously changed.  More thoughtful, and perhaps less active; quite as decided in conduct, but with new and different rules for the guidance of that conduct.  Towards Alice he could hardly be more kind than he had always been; but he now seemed to look upon her