Victorian Short Stories, Vol. 2 | Page 4

by the loud strength of his language than the calm strength of his
logic. There was something of the Yankee in all this. Indeed, his theory
ran parallel to the famous Yankee motto--'England flogs creation, and
Manchester flogs England.' Such a man, as may be fancied, had had no
time for falling in love, or any such nonsense. At the age when most
young men go through their courting and matrimony, he had not the
means of keeping a wife, and was far too practical to think of having
one. And now that he was in easy circumstances, a rising man, he
considered women almost as encumbrances to the world, with whom a
man had better have as little to do as possible. His first impression of
Alice was indistinct, and he did not care enough about her to make it
distinct. 'A pretty, yea-nay kind of woman', would have been his
description of her, if he had been pushed into a corner. He was rather
afraid, in the beginning, that her quiet ways arose from a listlessness
and laziness of character, which would have been exceedingly
discordant to his active, energetic nature. But, when he found out the
punctuality with which his wishes were attended to, and her work was
done; when he was called in the morning at the very 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
particular 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 days, 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 him. 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 he 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
go, 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