Victorian Short Stories, Vol. 2 | Page 3

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 yearning, longing love for the kind cousin, the dear friend, the
sympathizing protector, whom she should never see again;--first felt a
passionate desire to show him his child, whom she had hitherto rather
craved 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 stepson 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; dwelling on his poor young
widow's desolate 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. By and by things
subsided into their natural and tranquil course. But, as if the young
creature was always to be in some heavy trouble, her ewe-lamb began
to be ailing, pining, and sickly. The child's mysterious illness turned out
to be some affection of the spine, likely to affect health but not to
shorten life--at least, so the doctors said. But the long, dreary 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 distress, occasioned by a very material diminution in the
value of 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 years, but that now all
chance of this had passed away--Alice's heart was touched, and she
drew near to Mrs Wilson with unwonted caresses, and, in a spirit not
unlike to that of Ruth, entreated 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 connexions of her own, too, 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, scour, do anything in
short, so that she might but remain with them.
The plan succeeded. For some years their first lodgers remained with
them, and all went smoothly--with that one sad exception of the little
girl's increasing deformity. How that mother loved that child, it is not
for words to tell!
Then came a break of misfortune. Their lodgers left, and no one
succeeded to them. After some months, it became necessary 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 to go out
and seek her own maintenance. And leave her child! The thought came
like the sweeping boom of a funeral-bell over her heart.
By and by, Mr Openshaw came to lodge 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 it, 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 colour would, or

would not, form harmonious contrasts in the coming spring muslins
and prints. He went to debating societies, and threw himself with all his
heart and soul into politics; esteeming, it must be owned, every man a
fool or a knave who differed from him, and overthrowing his opponents
rather