A House to Let (4 page)

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 manifestation 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 beads 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 plaintive 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 abrupt 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 slippers
placed by his sitting-room fire; and even more careful attention paid to
his fancies than was habitual 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 heartily wishing the woman would be gone, and not make any
palaver of gratitude. 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 insidious enemy having thus
entered his heart, in the guise of compassion 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 docile 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 chattered 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 pertinacious 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
procure. 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 perplexed 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 determined 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 affixed 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 truthful 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 wedded 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 indifference 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
screeched 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 appellation of Mama, but becoming
henceforward Mother), by his healthy cheerfulness of manner, his clear
decision of purpose, his odd turns and quirks 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 oration 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
thoroughly cordial terms; neither of them fully 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-standing feuds, 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 breach 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 linen fresh for the occasion-from
night-caps downwards; 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 entirely 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 amethyst 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 loyalty
demanded that Mrs. Chadwick should wear her best clothes in visiting the
abode 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 sate below, Norah hardly knew where. She was
always engrossed 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 bosom. 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 futile 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?"