IN WHICH BECKY GIVES WAY TO HER FEELINGS, AND RENEWS AN OLD
ACQUAINTANCE.
Great Porter Square had really been in a state of excitement the
whole of the day, almost equalling that which raged on the day of the
discovery of the murder. The strange revelation made in the columns of
the _Evening Moon_--whose account of the identification of the body of
the murdered man was presented in a form so attractive that edition
after edition was sold with amazing rapidity--invested the murder with
features romantic enough to engross general attention. There was love in
it, there was a beautiful and fascinating woman in it, there was a baby
in it, there were a hundred thousand pounds in it. The newsboys drove
a rare trade; it brought so much grist to their mill that, as they
jingled the copper and silver in their pockets, they sighed for another
murder as good to-morrow.
The public-houses, also, throve wonderfully; their bars were crowded,
and the publicans rubbed their hands in glee. People from all parts of
London came to Great Porter Square to look at the deserted house. They
stared at the bricks, they stared at the street door, they stared at the
window. With a feeling of enjoyable awe, they peeped over and through
the iron railings which surrounded the basement. The downlook was not
inviting. The ironwork was covered with rust; the paint was peeling off
the doors and shutters; watchful spiders, ever ready for fresh murder,
lurked in the corners of their webs. There was nothing to be frightened
at in these natural signs of neglect and decay; but when a man cried
out, "There! there!" and pointed downwards, the people rushed from the
pavement into the road. They soon returned, and craned their heads and
necks to gaze upon the melancholy walls. Occasionally a man or a woman
ascended the three stone steps which led to the street door, and touched
the woodwork with open hand, as if the contact brought them closer to
the tragedy which had been enacted within.
As night approached, the number of persons who made a point of passing
through the Square decreased; but up till ten o'clock there were always
about a dozen sightmongers lingering in the roadway before No. 119, and,
among these dozen, generally one who appeared to be acquainted with
the construction and disposition of the rooms, and who described the
particulars of the murder with gloating satisfaction. The police did not
interfere with them, the entertainment being one which a free people was
privileged to enjoy.
During the whole of the evening Becky had not found time to read her
letter or the newspaper. "They'll burn a hole in my pocket, I am sure,"
she thought, "if I keep them there much longer." But when the clock
struck ten a period was put to her state of suspense.
"I've been in the 'ouse all day, Becky," said Mrs. Preedy; "and what
with the state of my feelings and the excitement in the Square, I'm
quite worn out. I shall run round to Mrs. Beale's for arf-an-hour; take
care of the place while I'm gone."
Becky nodded, and the moment she heard the street-door close, she sat
down at the table, and pulled from her pocket the letter and the copies
of the _Evening Moon_. She read the letter first, kissing it as she drew
it from the envelope. It ran as follows:--
"MY DARLING GIRL,--Your letter has surprised and startled me, and I
do not know whether to be alarmed or pleased at the strange news it
contains. That you have placed yourself in a perilous position for
my sake would make it all the harder for me to bear should anything
happen to you. You would do anything, I know, rather than cause me
sorrow or add to my anxieties, and I am satisfied that the strange
fancy you have carried into execution sprang from a heart full of
love. I have reason to know how firm you can be in any task you
undertake, and I am not hopeful that I shall succeed in turning you
from your purpose. If, until I return to London, you still continue
in service, I implore you to be careful, to run no risk, and never
to forget that the whole happiness of my life is in your hands.
For if the mission upon which I am at present engaged should fail
(although filial love and duty will not allow me to relinquish it
until I see no possibility of bringing it to a successful issue),
the opportunity of our living happily together in another part of
the world will always be open to us. But first to perform a son's
duty, then to offer you a husband's love and care. All that a
man _can_ do shall be done to hasten the day on which I shall be
privileged to call you wife.
"You have placed such trust and confidence in me, you have so firmly
relied upon my truth and honour, that I often reproach myself for
having kept from you some of the most important incidents in my
life. But I was pledged to secresy. I had given my solemn word
never to speak of certain matters without the sanction of my father.
Thus much you know, and you know, also, that I am now in search
of that father for whose mysterious disappearance I am unable to
account. When I find him he will release me from a vow I made to him
under the most painful and distressing circumstances; then I can
offer you the name which is my own, and which I renounced; then I
can unfold to you the sad and painful story of my life; then I can
hold up my head with honour once more, and take my place among
men--the place I lost.
"You say that you have something to communicate to me which bears
upon the murder in Great Porter Square. It is, of course, of the
greatest importance to me that I should be cleared of the suspicion
which must still attach to me; the police have sharp eyes, and
although I gave a false name--as true however, as the charge brought
against me--it is quite possible that some person who was in the
Police Court might recognise me, and cause me fresh trouble.
Therefore I shall scarcely ever feel myself safe in the London
streets until the murderer is discovered and punished. But above
even this in importance I place the strange disappearance of my
father. To find him is my first and paramount desire.
"The picture you have drawn of Mrs. Bailey, the bedridden old
lodger, and her deaf and nearly blind old sister, with the languid
linnet, and the moping bullfinch, is most amusing. I shall not be at
all surprised if, in your next letter, you inform me that the old
lady's mattress is stuffed with bank notes.
"How highly I value your true womanly attempts to cheer and comfort
me! To read your letters is almost to hear you speak, you write so
feelingly and earnestly. My fullest love is yours, and yours only.
What a loving grateful heart, what willing hands can do, to make you
happy when the clouds have cleared, shall be done by me. Rely upon
me; have faith in me; and believe me to be,
"Your faithful lover,
"FRED."
Becky read the letter slowly, with smiles and tears; then kissed it
repeatedly, and placed it in the bosom of her dress.
Before turning her attention to the newspaper she had bought in the
afternoon, she ran upstairs to Mrs. Bailey. The old woman was awake,
staring at her birds. She asked Becky to rub her side with the liniment,
and the girl--to whose heart Fred's affectionate letter had imparted
fresh happiness--did so in a blithe and cheerful manner.
"You're better than a doctor, Becky," said the old woman, "a thousand
times better. I was as young and merry as you once--I was indeed.
Pretty--too--eh, Becky?"
"That's to be seen," said Becky, rubbing away. "You have the remains
now."
"Have I, Becky, have I--eh?"
"Indeed you have--you're a good-looking old lady."
A gleam of vanity and delight lit up the old creature's eyes for a
moment.
"Am I, Becky--eh? You're a good girl--listen; I shall leave you
something in my will. I'm going to make one--by and bye, but I don't
want any lawyers. You shall do it for me. I can trust you, eh, Becky?"
"Indeed you can," replied Becky, tucking the old woman in; "you feel
more comfortable now, don't you?"
"Yes, your soft hands rub the pain away. But it comes again, Becky, it
comes again."
"So will I, to rub it away again. I must go down now, I have so much to
do." She patted the old woman's shoulder, and reached the door, when she
stopped and asked, in a careless tone,
"Have you heard any more mice to-night scratching at the wall in the
next house, Mrs. Bailey."
"Not a sound, Becky. It's been as quiet as a churchyard."
As she left the room, Becky heard the old woman mumbling to herself,
with the vanity of a child,
"I was pretty once, and I've got the remains now. I'm a good-looking
old lady--a good-looking old lady--a good-looking old lady! Becky's a
clever girl--I won't forget her."
As Becky descended to the kitchen, she heard a newsboy calling out a new
edition of the _Evening Moon_. Becky went to the street door and asked
the boy if there was anything fresh in the paper about the murder.
"A lot," replied the boy; "I've only two copies left, and I thought I
could sell 'em in the Square."
Becky bought the two copies, and the boy, whose only motive for coming
into the Square was to look at No. 119, refreshed himself by running up
and down the steps, and then, retreating to the garden railings, almost
stared his eyes out in the endeavour to see the ghost that haunted the
deserted house.
Once more in the kitchen, Becky sat down, and with a methodical air,
opened last evening's paper, and read the "Romance in Real Life" which
had caused so much excitement. The writer of the narrative would have
been gratified had he witnessed the interest Becky took in his clever
manipulation of his facts. The most thrilling romance could not have
fascinated her as much as this story of to-day, formed as it was out of
what may be designated ordinary newspaper material. Not once did she
pause, but proceeded steadily on, column after column, every detail
being indelibly fixed upon her mind. Only when she came to the
concluding words did she raise her head, and become once more conscious
of her surroundings.
She drew a long breath, and looked before her into the air, as though
endeavouring to obtain from invisible space some connecting links
between the new ideas formed by this romance in real life. The dominant
thought in her mind as she read the narrative was whether she would be
able to obtain from it any clue to connect Richard Manx with the murder.
Her desire lay in this direction, without reference to its justice or
injustice, and she would have felt better satisfied had such a clue
been supplied. But she was compelled to confess that, as far as her
knowledge of him went in their brief personal intercourse, he was not in
the remotest way connected with the crime. Say that this _was_ so--say
that he was as little implicated in it as she herself, what, then, was
his motive in making his way secretly into the room in which the murder
had been committed? Of the fact that he had done so, without having been
an eye-witness of it, Becky was morally convinced. What was his motive
for this proceeding?
But Richard Manx did not entirely monopolise her thoughts. With the
threads of the story, as presented in the Supplement of the _Evening
Moon_, she wove possibilities which occasioned her great distress, for
in these possibilities she saw terrible trouble in the future. If there
was a grain of truth in them, she could not see how this trouble was to
be avoided.
Of the name of the murdered man, Mr. Holdfast, she was utterly ignorant.
She had never heard of him, nor of Lydia Holdfast, his second wife,
who, living now, and mourning for the dead, had supplied the facts of
the case to the Special Reporter of the _Evening Moon_.
"Had I been in her place," thought Becky, "I should, for very shame's
sake, if not out of consideration for the dead, have been less free with
my tongue. I would have run every risk rather than have allowed myself
to be the talking-stock of the whole country. Lydia Holdfast must be a
poor, weak creature. Can I do nothing, nothing?"
Becky's lips quivered, and had she not been sustained by a high purpose,
she might have sought relief in tears.
"Let me set down my thoughts in plain words," she said aloud. "I shall
then be able to judge more clearly."
She produced pen, ink, and paper, and wrote the names:
"Mr. Holdfast.
"Lydia Holdfast.
"Frederick Holdfast."
She gazed at the names and said,
"My lover's name is Frederick."
It was as though the paper upon which she was writing represented a
human being, and spoke the words she wrote.
She underlined the name "_Frederick_," saying, as she did so, "For
reasons which I shall one day learn, he has concealed his surname."
The next words she wrote were: "Frederick Holdfast was educated in
Oxford."
To which she replied, "_My_ Frederick was educated in Oxford."
Then she wrote: "Between Frederick Holdfast and his father there was a
difference so serious that they quarrelled, and Frederick Holdfast left
his father's house."
"My Frederick told me," said Becky aloud, "that he and his father were
separated because of a family difference. He could tell me no more, he
said, because of a vow he had made to his father. He has repeated this
in the letter I received from him this evening."
Becky took the letter from her dress, kissed it, and replaced it in her
bosom. "I do not need this," she said, "to assure me of his worth and
truth."
She proceeded with her task and wrote: "Frederick Holdfast went to
America. His father also went to America."
And answered it with, "_My_ Frederick went to America, and his father
followed him."
Upon the paper then she wrote: "Mr. Holdfast and his son Frederick both
returned to England."
"As my Frederick and his father did," she said.
And now Becky's fingers trembled. She was approaching the tragedy. She
traced the words, however, "From the day of his return to England until
yesterday nothing was heard of Mr. Holdfast; and there is no accounting
for his disappearance."
"Frederick's father also has disappeared," she said, "and there is no
accounting for _his_ disappearance."
These coincidences were so remarkable that they increased in strength
tenfold as Becky gazed upon the words she had written. And now she
calmly said,
"If they are true, my Frederick is Frederick Holdfast. If they are true,
Frederick Holdfast is a villain." Her face flushed, her bosom rose and
fell. "A lie!" she cried. "My lover is the soul of honour and manliness!
He is either not Frederick Holdfast, or the story told in the newspaper
is a wicked, shameful fabrication. What kind of woman, then, is this
Lydia Holdfast, who sheds tears one moment and laughs the next?--who
one moment wrings her hands at the murder of her husband, and the next
declares that if she had been born a man she might have been a dreadful
rake? But Frederick Holdfast is dead; the American newspapers published
the circumstances of his death and the identification of his body.
Thousands of persons read that account, and believed in its truth, as
thousands of persons read and are reading this romance of real life, and
believe in its truth." Contempt and defiance were expressed in Becky's
voice as she touched the copy of the newspaper which had so profoundly
agitated her. "Yet both may be false, and if they are false----"
She paused for a few moments, and then continued: "Lydia Holdfast is
Frederick Holdfast's enemy. She believes him to be dead; there is no
doubt of that. But if he is alive, and in England, he is in peril--in
deadlier peril than my Frederick was, when, as Antony Cowlrick, he was
charged with the murder of an unknown man, and that man--as now is
proved--his own father. What did I call Lydia Holdfast just now? a poor
weak creature! Not she! An artful, designing, cruel woman, whose safety,
perhaps, lies in my Frederick's death. If, without the suspicions which
torture me, so near to the truth do they seem, it was necessary to
discover the murderer of the poor gentleman who met his death in the
next house, how much more imperative is it now that the mystery should
be unravelled! Assist me, Eternal God, to bring the truth to light, and
to punish the guilty!"
She fell upon her knees, and with tears streaming down her face, prayed
for help from above to clear the man she loved from the shameful charges
brought against him by his father's wife. Her prayers comforted her, and
she rose in a calmer state of mind. "I must look upon this creature,"
she thought, "upon this woman in name, who has invented the disgraceful
story. To match her cunning a woman's cunning is needed. Lydia Holdfast,
I declare myself your enemy!"
A noise in the street attracted Becky's attention, and diverted her
thoughts. She hurried from her kitchen, and opened the street door.
Twenty or thirty persons were crowding round one, who was lying
insensible upon the pavement. They cried, "Give her air!" and pressed
more closely upon the helpless form.
"A glass of water!" "Poor child!" "Go and fetch a little brandy!" "Fetch
a policeman!" "She's shamming!" "Starving, more likely!" "Starving?
she's got three boxes of matches in her hands!" "Well, you brute, she
can't eat matches!"
These and other cries greeted Becky as she opened the door, and looked
out into the Square.
"What's the matter?" she asked, striving to push her way into the crowd,
which did not willingly yield to her.
It was a poor child, her clothes in rags, who had fainted on the
flagstones before the house.
"She's coming to!" exclaimed a woman.
The child opened her eyes.
"What are you doing here?" asked a man, roughly.
"I came to see the ghost!" replied the child, in a weak, pleading little
voice.
The people laughed; they did not see the pathetic side of the picture.
But the child's voice, faint as it was, reached Becky's heart. It was a
voice familiar to her. She pushed through the crowd vigorously, and bent
over the child.
"Blanche!" screamed the child, bursting into hysterical sobs. "O,
Blanche! Blanche!"
It was Fanny, the little match girl.
"Hush, Fanny!" whispered Becky. "Hush my dear!"
She raised the poor child in her arms, and a shudder of pain and
compassion escaped her as she felt how light the little body was.
Fanny's face was covered with tears, and through her tears she laughed,
and clung to Becky.
"I know her," said Becky to the people, "I will take care of her."
And kissing the thin, dirty face of the laughing, sobbing, clinging
child, Becky carried her into the house, and closed the street-door upon
the crowd.
"Well, I'm blowed!" exclaimed the man who had distinguished himself by
his rough words. "If this 'ere ain't the rummiest Square in London!"