BECKY'S REPLY TO HER LOVER'S STATEMENT.
MY DEAREST,--It is now very near morning, within an hour of the time I
am expected to rise. I have been up all night, and having read the story
of your life from beginning to end, have re-read some portions again and
again, so that they shall be fixed permanently in my mind. How I love
and pity you! To say, as you desire me to say, that my faith is not
shaken, is but a poor expression of my feelings towards you. My faith is
strengthened, my love is strengthened, my hope is strengthened. Sitting
in my little cupboard of a bedroom, with Fanny sleeping peacefully in my
bed--yes, my dear, my poor little friend is with me again; I found her,
the night before last, fainting for food at the street door of
No. 119--sitting here, in the presence of that poor human waif, with my
candle nearly burnt out, and the dim light of morning just beginning to
dawn, it seems to me as if a star is shining upon me, instilling into my
heart a wonderful faith and courage.
I am not tired, but that may be because of my excitement and exaltation.
I intend to be careful and prudent. When the housework is done, I shall
take some rest. I might have a little now, but that I can turn my
thoughts to nothing until I write to you what is in my mind. My faith
is not shaken; I repeat it; and I add, let not your faith be shaken.
Whatever occurs, do not for a moment doubt me, do not for a moment lose
faith in me. You say that I must have been guided by a higher than a
human impulse when I took the strange step of transforming myself into a
servant-of-all-work, and seeking service with Mrs. Preedy, in the house
next to that in which your dear father was murdered. Do you remember my
telling you in my first letter that an inspiration had fallen upon me
when I conceived the idea? And if at that time, before it was known who
it was who had been so mysteriously murdered, I believed my idea to be
an inspiration, how much more reason have I to believe it now that the
awful crime is brought so close to us and is woven into your life? You
declare that you will bring your father's murderer to justice, and
you ask me to help you. What answer can I make you? This. That all
that a woman's power, all that a woman's devotion, all that a woman's
self-sacrifice, can do to the end to which you have pledged yourself,
shall be done by me. I can do much, more than you can imagine possible,
if certain thoughts, created by what you have written, touch even the
border-land of truth. They do, I believe, and they will lead me to the
fulfilment of what we both with all our hearts desire.
But you must be guided by me. For once in the way, let a woman take
the command, and let her prove herself capable. Not that you could not
accomplish what is necessary for our happiness, and in the cause of
truth and justice, a great deal better than I. But your hands are not
free; you cannot move without the risk of being watched, and persecuted,
and hampered--while I am free to act, without the slightest chance of
being suspected. I am comparatively unknown, and can work without fear;
besides, I am a woman, and can do what you would scorn to do. No man can
be a match for such a creature as Lydia Holdfast--let us call her by
that name. It must be a case of Greek meeting Greek, and in me this
woman will find more than her match. So for the present do not move
openly; do not run the risk of being discovered. Do nothing that will
put our enemies on their guard; above all, do not write to the newspaper
which published Lydia Holdfast's infamous story; a friend has already
stepped forward in vindication of your character, and that should be a
comfort to you, as it is to me. You are right in saying that it will
be best it should be believed that you are dead; therefore, do nothing
rashly, but leave all to me.
See, now--I am writing with so much confidence and assurance that
anyone who did not know me would suppose I had a very wise head on my
shoulders. Well, it may not be very wise, but it is clever and cunning,
and that is just what is wanted--cunning to meet cunning. What is it
Shakespeare says about wearing your heart upon your sleeve? Not for
me; I will keep my heart hidden, where only you can find it, and will
wear in its place something that will make me smile, or pout, or
cry--whichever will best serve my turn.
You see, my dear, I am on the spot, and in a position which gives me
such immense advantages. Your father has been cruelly murdered--the
discovery of the murderer will lead to all the rest. There is in this
house a man who is in some way interested in the mystery, who is living
under an assumed name, who paints and wears a wig, and who endeavours to
pass himself off as a foreigner. I must find out who this Richard Manx
really is, and what is his motive in taking a room at the very top of
the house, and in presenting himself here under a disguise. It is to him
I have traced the report that our house and the next are haunted. He has
a purpose in spreading the report. Perhaps it is because he does not
wish the house to be let until he has found what he is searching for in
the room in which your poor father was killed. He might take it himself
you say. But would not this be to attract to himself an amount of
attention which would not be agreeable to him? As to his being as poor
as he professes to be, I do not believe a word of it. He has taken up
his quarters here in such a manner as to cause him to be but little
noticed, and it has been done with deliberate intention.
I could say a hundred other things, my mind is so crowded, but I have no
time. I shall not send this letter through the post. Asleep in my bed is
a trusty little friend, who will faithfully carry out what I give her
to do. She will come to you, and you can say whatever you please to
her--give her what message you like--and do not attempt to employ her
in any other way than in bringing to me whatever you wish me to receive.
I myself have a very delicate piece of work for her to do.
I long to see you, to embrace you, to comfort you; but for a little
while we must remain apart. I cannot come to you, nor can you come to
me. We have too much at stake to run the slightest risk. I propose to
write to you every night, and to send Fanny to you every morning with
my letters. You can give her your letters to me. Do not send any
more strange men to the house. Richard Manx might see them, and his
suspicions might be aroused. Perhaps the hardest duty before us is the
duty of patience, but unless we submit we shall fail in our purpose. So
let us be brave and patient, working not for the present, but for the
future. My love, my heart, are yours for ever, and I thank God that I
have such a man as you to love. If I write in a more serious vein than I
am accustomed to do, it is because I recognise the seriousness of the
task upon which we are engaged; it is not that I am altered; I could not
write lightly if I tried, and in your eyes I would not be false.
I cannot say good-night. It is morning. Well, to us sunrise is better
than sunset. Keep a stout heart, and do not despond--for your own sake
and mine. Farewell, dear love, for a few hours.
_END OF VOLUME II._
Transcriber's note
Words in italics have been surrounded by _underscores_ and small
capitals have been changed to all capitals.
Punctuation errors have been corrected silently. Also the
following corrections have been made, on page
49 "a a" changed to "a" (You're a good girl)
56 "appproaching" changed to "approaching" (She was approaching the
tragedy.)
82 "riv r" changed to "river" (by a dark river, lighted up by
lightning)
104 "works" changed to "words" (the exact words spoken by)
125 "marriagable" changed to "marriageable" (marriageable young
ladies)
134 "gentlemen" changed to "gentleman" (Sydney is a gentleman.)
139 "Their" changed to "There" (There lives not on earth)
197 "that" changed to "than" (less than a thousand a year)
218 "comfirmation" changed to "confirmation" (enlisted in
confirmation of the news.).
Otherwise the original has been preserved, including inconsistent
spelling and hyphenation, and possible errors in accentuation.