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Norah drew herself up.”You may ask that question, and taunt me with my being single, and with my credulity, as you will, Master Openshaw. You’ll get no answer from me. As for the brooch, and the story of theft and burglary, if any friend ever came to see me (which I defy you to prove, and deny), he’d be just as much above doing such a thing as you yourself, Mr. Openshaw–and more so too; for I am not at all sure as every thing you have is rightly come by, or would be yours long, if every man had his own.” She meant, of course, his wife, but he understood her to refer to his property in goods and chattels.

“Now, my good woman,” said he, “I’ll just tell you truly, I never trusted you out and out, but my wife liked you, and I thought you had many a good point about you. If you once begin to sauce me, I’ll have the police to you, and get out the truth in a court of justice, if you’ll not tell it me quietly and civilly here. Now the best thing you can do is quietly to tell me who the fellow is. Look here! a man comes to my house; asks for you; you take him up stairs; a valuable brooch is missing next day; we know that you, and Mary, and cook, are honest; but you refuse to tell us who the man is. Indeed, you’ve told one lie already about him, saying no one was here last night. Now I just put it to you, what do you think a policeman would say to this, or a magistrate? A magistrate would soon make you tell the truth, my good woman.”

“There’s never the creature born that should get it out of me,” said Norah–“not unless I choose to tell.”

“I’ve a great mind to see,” said Mr. Openshaw, growing angry at the defiance. Then, checking himself, he thought before he spoke again:

“Norah, for your missus’s sake I don’t want to go to extremities. Be a sensible woman if you can. It’s no great disgrace, after all, to have been taken in I ask you once more–as a friend–who was this man that you let into my house last night?”

No answer. He repeated the question in an impatient tone. Still no answer. Norah’s lips were set in determination not to speak.

“Then there is but one thing to be done. I shall send for a policeman.”

“You will not,” said Norah, starting forward.”You shall not, sir. No policeman shall touch me. I know nothing of the brooch, but I know this: ever since I was four-and-twenty, I have thought more of your wife than of myself; ever since I saw her, a poor motherless girl, put upon in her uncle’s house, I have thought more of serving her than of serving myself. I have cared for her and her child as nobody ever cared for me. I don’t cast blame on you, sir, but I say it’s ill giving up one’s life to any one; for, at the end, they will turn round upon you and forsake you. Why does not my missus come herself to suspect me? Maybe she’s gone for the police? But I don’t stay here either for police, or magistrate, or master. You’re an unlucky lot. I believe there’s a curse on you. I’ll leave you this very day. Yes, I’ll leave that poor Ailsie too. I will! No good will ever come to you.”

Mr. Openshaw was utterly astonished at this speech, most of which was completely unintelligible to him, as may easily be supposed. Before he could make up his mind what to say or what to do, Norah had left the room. I do not think he had ever really intended to send for the police to this old servant of his wife’s, for he had never for a moment doubted her perfect honesty; but he had intended to compel her to tell him who the man was, and in this he was baffled. He was, consequently, much irritated. He returne
d to his uncle and aunt in a state of great annoyance and perplexity, and told them he could get nothing out of the woman; that some man had been in the house the night before, but that she refused to tell who he was. At this moment his wife came in, greatly agitated, and asked what had happened to Norah, for that she had put on her things in passionate haste, and left the house.