A House to Let Read Online Free PDF Page A

stroke of the clock, his shaving-water scalding hot, his fire
bright, his coffee made exactly as his peculiar fancy dictated, (for he
was a man who had his theory about everything, based upon what he knew of
science, and often perfectly original)—then he began to think: not that
Alice had any peculiar merit; but that he had got into remarkably 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 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