IN WHICH BECKY WRITES A SECOND LETTER TO HER FRIEND IN THE COUNTRY, AND GIVES A WOMAN’S REASON FOR NOT LIKING RICHARD MANX.
Myown Darling,—It is nearly two o’clock in the morning. Everything is quiet in the house, and I can write in my little cupboard of a bedroom, the door of which leads into the kitchen, without fear of being disturbed.
Where did I leave off in my letter? Oh, about our old lady lodger, Mrs. Bailey, and her poor old sister.
She was the only lodger in the house when I first came, and I made myself so agreeable to the old lady that in a few days she would not be satisfied unless I waited upon her entirely. I heard her say to Mrs. Preedy,as I was in the passage outside the door—quite by accident, of course; I had my broom in my hand, you may be sure—I heard her say—
“Why didn’t you send Becky up? I like Becky—I like Becky!”
I have no doubt, if she had had a parrot in the room, that it would have learned to say—
“I like Becky!—I like Becky!”
But I took no notice until Mrs. Preedy said to me—
“Becky, Mrs. Bailey’s taken quite a fancy to you.”
“I’m glad to hear it, mum,” I replied.
You should hear me say “mum.” I have made quite a study of the word.
From that time I have waited upon Mrs. Bailey pretty regularly. Mrs. Preedy has not failed to impress upon me, if anything happens to the old lady, if she is “took ill” (she has an idea that the old lady will “go off sudden”) while I am in her room, that I am to run down for her “immediate.”
“I should like to do what is proper by the old lady,” said Mrs. Preedy.
But my idea is that she wants to be the first to see what treasure is concealed in the old lady’s mattrass.
One day I ventured to speak to the old lady about the murder in No. 119, and I elicited from her that two detectives had paid her a visit, to ascertain whether she had heard anything from the next house on the night the dreadful deed was committed.
“They didn’t get anything out of me, Becky,” said the old lady; “I didn’t hear anything, Becky—eh? I told them as much as I heard—nothing—eh, Becky?”
There was something odd in the old lady’s manner, and I felt convinced she knew more than she said. The old lady is spasmodic, and speaks very slowly, gasping at each word, with a long pause between.
“Of course,” I said, with a knowing look, “you didn’t hear anything, so you couldn’t tell them anything! I should have done just the same.”
“Would you, Becky? Would you—eh?”
“Certainly,” I replied. “I wouldn’t run the chance of being taken from my comfortable bed to appear in a police court, and catch my death of cold, and have everybody staring and pointing at me.”
“You’re a clever girl, Becky,” said Mrs. Bailey, “a clever girl—eh? And I’m a clever old woman—eh? Very good—very good! Catch my death of cold, indeed! So I should—eh?” Then suddenly, “Becky, can you keep a secret—eh?”
“That you told me!” I said. “Nothing could tear it from me.”
“I did hear something, Becky.”
“Did you?” I asked, with a smile which was intended to invite complete confidence.
“Yes, Becky.”
“What was it?”
“Two voices—as if there was a quarrel going on—a quarrel, Becky, eh?”
“Ah!” said I, “it is a good job you kept it to yourself. The detectives, and the magistrates,and the lawyers would have put you to no end of trouble. Were they men’s voices?”
“Yes, men’s voices.”
“It was put in the papers,” I said, “that there was a scream. Mrs. Preedy, downstairs, heard that, but she could not say whether it was from a man or a woman.”
“I heard it, too, Becky. It was a man—I could swear to it. Why, if you lie on this bed, with your head to the wall, and it’s quiet as it was then, you can hear almost everything that goes on in the next house. Try it, Becky.”
I lay down beside her, and although no sound at that time came to my ears, it was easy to believe that she was not labouring under a delusion.
“Could you hear what the men said to each other?” I asked.
“Not when they spoke low,” she replied, “only when they raised their voices, and I wasn’t awake all the time. Somebody was playing on the piano, now and then—playingsoftly—and between whiles there was talk going on. One said, ‘You won’t, won’t you?’ And the other said, ‘No—not if I die for it!’ Then there was the sound of a blow—O, Becky! it made me tremble all over. And then came the scream that Mrs. Preedy heard. And almost directly afterwards, the piano played that loud that I believe you could have heard it in the next street. The music went on for a long time, and then everything was quiet. That was all.”
“Did neither of the men speak after that?” I asked.
“No, or if they did, it was so low that it didn’t reach me.”
My dear, to hear this woman, who is very, very old, and quite close to death’s door, relate the dreadful story, with scarcely a trace of feeling in her voice, and with certainly no compassion, would have shocked you—as it did me; but I suppressed my emotion.
There is something of still greater importance to be told before I bring the storyof my adventure to the present day. I am on the track of a mystery which appears to me to be in some strange way connected with the crime. Heaven only knows where it will lead me, but I shall follow it up without flinching, whatever the consequences may be.
A week after I entered Mrs. Preedy’s service she said to me;
“Becky, we’ve got another lodger.”
“Goodness be praised,” I cried. “The sight of so many empty rooms in the house is dreadful. And such a loss to you!”
“You may well say that Becky,” said Mrs. Preedy, with a woeful sigh; “it’s hard to say what things will come to if they go on much longer like this.”
“I hope it’s more thanonelodger,” I observed; “I hope it’s a family.”
“No, Becky,” she replied, “it’s only one—a man; he’s taken the attic at three shillings a week, and between you and me and the post, I shall reckon myself lucky if I get it. I can’t say I like the looks of him, but I can’t afford to be too nice.”
When I saw the man, who gives himself out as Richard Manx, I liked the looks of him as little as my mistress. He is dark-complexioned, and has long black hair; there is a singular and most unnatural look in his eyes—they are cat’s eyes, and shift from side to side stealthily—not to be trusted, not for a moment to be trusted! He has black whiskers and a black moustache; and he has large, flat feet. The moment I saw him he inspired me with an instinctive repugnance towards him; I regarded him with an aversion which I did not trouble myself to examine and justify. I believe in first impressions.
So strong was my feeling that I said to Mrs. Preedy I hoped I should not have to wait upon him.
“He does not require waiting upon,” said Mrs. Preedy, “he has taken the garret, without attendance. He says that he will not even trouble us to make his bed or sweep out his room.”
“So much the better,” thought I, and I did my best not to meet him. I must do him thejustice to say that he appeared as anxious to avoid me as I was to avoid him; and for a fortnight we did not exchange a word.
And now, my dear, prepare for an inconsistency, and call me a bundle of contradictions.
I have made up my mind no longer to avoid Richard Manx; I have made up my mind to worm myself, if I can, in his confidence; I have made up my mind not to lose sight of him, unless, indeed, he suddenly disappears from the house and the neighbourhood, and so puts it out of my power to watch his movements.
“Why?” I hear you ask. “Have you discovered that your first impressions are wrong, and, having done an injustice to an unfortunate man, are you anxious to atone for it?” Not a bit of it! I am more than ever confirmed in my prejudices with regard to Richard Manx. I shall watch his movements, and no longer avoid him—not for his sake—for yours, for mine! An enigma, you say. Very well. Wait!
I am tired; my fingers are cramped, and my head aches a little; I must get two or three hours’ rest, or I shall be fit for nothing to-morrow.
Good night, dear love. Heaven shield you and guard you, and help you.
Yours, in good and bad fortune, with steadfast love,
Becky.
IN WHICH BECKY, CONTINUING HER LETTER, RELATES HER IMPRESSIONS OF MRS. PREEDY’S YOUNG MAN LODGER.
Myown dear Fred,—Once more I am in my little cupboard of a bedroom, writing to you. Again it is past twelve o’clock, and Mrs. Preedy is asleep.
I will now tell you why I have altered my mind with regard to Richard Manx, and why I have determined to watch his movements. The seal to this resolution was fixed the night before last.
Mrs. Preedy was sitting up, as usual, drinking her regular allowance of gin and water. I was in my bedroom, supposed to be asleep, but really very wide awake. Peeping through a chink in my bedroom door, I saw Mrs. Preedy thus engaged, and engaged also inreading an account of the police-court proceedings in which you were so cruelly implicated. There was nothing interesting in this picture of Mrs. Preedy, and I crept into bed again. I was dozing off, when I was roused by the sound of Mrs. Preedy leaving the kitchen, and going up-stairs to the street-door, which she opened. I ventured out into the passage, and listened. She was talking to a policeman. Presently she came down-stairs and mixed a glass of gin and water, which she took up to him. Then after a little further chat, she came down again, and resumed her melancholy occupation. After that, I fell asleep.
Changes have taken place in me, my dear. Once I was nervous; now I am bold. Once I could not sleep without a light in my room; now I can sleep in the dark. Once I was a sound sleeper, and was not easily awakened; now the slightest sound arouses me. The dropping of a pin would be almost sufficient to cause me to start up in bed.
On the occasion I refer to, it was somethingmore than the dropping of a pin that aroused me. It was the sound of voices in the kitchen—Mrs. Preedy’s voice and the voice of a man. What man? I peeped through the chink. It was Richard Manx, our new lodger.
He was standing on the threshold of the kitchen door; from where I knelt I could not obtain a good view of his face, but I saw Mrs. Preedy’s, and it seemed to me as if she had received a fright.
Richard Manx, in reply to an observation made by Mrs. Preedy, said her clock on the mantelpiece was wrong, and that he had heard twelve o’clock strike a quarter of an hour ago. Mrs. Preedy asked him if he had come to pay his rent. No, he said, he had not come to pay his rent. Then Mrs. Preedy very naturally inquired what hehadcome for, and Richard Manx, in a voice resembling that of a raven with a bad cold, said,
“I have—a—heard it once more again!”
My dear, the moment he uttered these strange words, Mrs. Preedy rushed at him, pulled him into the kitchen, and then flew tomy bedroom door. I was in bed before she got there, and when she opened it and called my name, I was, of course, fast asleep. She made sure of this by coming into my little cupboard, and passing her hand over my face. My heart beat quickly, but she herself was too agitated to notice it. When she left my room, I thought it prudent to remain in bed for awhile, so as to avoid the risk of discovery. My mind was in a whirl. Richard Manx had hearditonce more again! What had he heard?
I rose quietly, and listened. Richard Manx was speaking of a sound in the empty house next door, No. 119. He had heard it twice—a week ago, and again on this night. He said that he was in the habit of smoking in bed, and asked if Mrs. Preedy was insured. He was interrupted by the breaking of a storm, which appeared to frighten them both very much. I will not attempt to repeat, word for word, all that passed between them. Its substance is now what I am going to relate.
Eight nights ago, Richard Manx, sitting in his attic, was startled (so he says) by the sound of a tapping or scratching in the house next door, in which the murder was committed. Being, according to his own declaration, of a nervous nature, he left his attic, and crept downstairs. In the passage below he met Mrs. Preedy, and related to her what he had heard. She endeavoured to persuade him that his fancy had been playing him tricks.
“How is it possible,” she asked him, “that you could have heard any sound in the next house when there’s nobody there?”
A convincing question, my dear, which carries its own convincing answer.
Richard Manx wavers, and promises her not to speak to the neighbours of his distressing impression. He says he will wait “till it comes again.” It comes again on this night the events of which I am describing, and in great fear (which may or may not be real) he creeps downstairs to Mrs. Preedy to inform her of it. He says the noise may notbe made by a mortal; it may be made by a spirit. So much the worse. A man or a woman one can meet and hold, and ask questions of, but a spirit!——the very idea is enough to make one’s hair stand on end.
It did not make my hair stand on end, nor did Richard Manx’s suggestion frighten me in the least. It excited me almost to fever heat, but there was no fear in my excitement. Expectation, hope, painful curiosity—these were the feelings which animated me.
What if Richard Manx were, for some reason of his own, inventing this story of strange noises in an empty house, the boards of which are stained with the blood of a murdered man? The idea did not dawn upon me; it flashed upon me in a certain expression which dwelt upon Richard Manx’s face while Mrs. Preedy’s back, for a moment, was turned to him.
When they were sitting opposite each other at the kitchen table, the man was timid, confiding, humble; but when Mrs. Preedy turned towards the dresser for the sugar basin, therestole into his face the expression I have referred to. What did it denote? Cunning, ferocity, triumph, duplicity. It was but for a moment; upon Mrs. Preedy confronting him again, he relapsed into humbleness and timidity.
What was the meaning of this sudden change? That the man was playing a part? Clearly. Then behind his systematic acting was hidden a motive. What motive?
He had accepted Mrs. Preedy’s invitation to a glass of gin and water, and had asked for sugar. It was while she was getting the sugar that he had allowed the mask to slip from his false face.
“If it gets known,” she said, “I’m a ruined woman!”
“Ah,” said Richard Manx, “I comprehend what you mean by ruined. A house with a shadow—a spirit ghost in it, would be—a—horrible! Listen you. This house is likewise.” Mrs. Preedy shuddered. “Well,” he continued, “I will say—a—nothing.” He placed his hand on his heart and leered at her. “Onmy honour. But be you positive—what I have heard is not—a—fancy. It is veritable.”
He said a great deal more to the same effect, and I never saw a woman more completely prostrated.
Richard Manx speaks imperfect English, and I cannot make up my mind whether he is a Frenchman, or a German, or an Italian, or an Impostor. I am not only suspicious of the man, I am suspicious of his broken English.
What I wanted now to ascertain was whether any person had heard the tapping or the scratching in No. 119, and the person I fixed upon to settle this point was Mrs. Bailey, our old lady lodger on the first floor. If anything was going on in the next house it could scarcely have escaped her ears.
Yesterday morning while I was tidying up her room, I broached the subject.
“I wonder,” I said, “whether the next house will ever be let.”
“Iwouldn’t take it,” said Mrs. Bailey, “if they offered it to me for nothing a-year—eh?”
“It wouldn’t be a pleasant place to live in certainly,” I remarked. “I should be afraid of ghosts.”
“Do you believe in them, eh, Becky?”
“I’ve never seen one,” I replied, “but I can’t help believing in them—a little. There’s one comfort—they don’t trouble people who haven’t wronged them. Sowe’reall right.”
“Yes, Becky, yes—they wouldn’t come through brick walls to scare a poor old woman, eh?”
“No,” I said, “and I’ve never read of a ghost speaking or making a noise of any kind. Have you?”
“Not that I can remember,” replied the old lady.
“Mrs. Bailey,” I said, “since the night of the murder you have not heard anything going on next door?”
“Not a sound, Becky. It’s been as still as a mouse.”
“As a mouse,” I repeated; “ah, but mice scratch at walls sometimes.”
“So they do; but there can’t be any mice next door, or I should have heard them. Nothing for them to eat, Becky—eh? Mice can’t eat ghosts—eh?”
“No, indeed,” I said. “I hope you are sleeping well, Mrs. Bailey.”
“No, I am not, Becky. As night comes on I get a pain in my side, and it keeps me awake for hours.”
“What a shame!” I exclaimed. “I’ll come and rub it for you, if you like, when my work’s done. Were you awake last night, Mrs. Bailey?”
“I didn’t close my eyes till past two this morning; too bad, eh, Becky?”
“Indeed it is. I hope you were not disturbed.”
“Only my side, Becky; nothing else.”
This conversation convinced me that Richard Manx had not heard any such sound as he stated. What was his purpose in endeavouring to deceive Mrs. Preedy?
The same day I was sent out to the greengrocer’s, and the woman said to me that shesupposed I was not going to stop much longer in my place.
“Why not?” I asked.
“There isn’t one girl in a thousand,” said the woman, “as had live willingly in a haunted house. Why, Becky, it’s the talk of the neighbourhood!”
“All I can say is,” I replied, “that I have heard nothing of it, and I don’t think Mrs. Preedy has, either.”
“Ah,” remarked the woman, “they say you must go abroad if you want to hear any news about yourself.”
My dear, the woman in the greengrocer’s shop spoke the truth. Before the day was out, it was the talk of the neighbourhood, that both houses, Nos. 118 and 119 Great Porter Square, were haunted. When I went out last evening to write my first letter to you, I was told of it by half-a-dozen people, and the policeman himself (they are all friends of mine) made inquiries as to the time and shapes in which the ghostly visitants presented themselves. And to-day I have observedmore than a dozen strangers stop before our house and point up to it, shaking their heads mysteriously.
Mrs. Preedy opened the subject to me this evening.
“Becky,” she said, “there is no end to the wickedness of people.”
“That there isn’t, mum,” I replied, sympathetically.
“Why, Becky,” she exclaimed, “haveyouheard what they are saying about the house?”
“O, yes,” I said, “everybody says its haunted.”
“Doyoubelieve it, Becky?”
“Not me, mum!” (Observe my grammar, my dear.) “Not me! Who should know better than those that live in a house whether it’s haunted or not?”
“That’s it, Becky,” cried Mrs. Preedy, excitedly; “that’s it. Who should know better than us? And I’m sureI’venever seen anything nor heard anything. Nor you either, Becky.”
“Nor me, neither,” I replied. “But theworst of it is, mum, mud sticks. Give a dog a bad name, and you may as well hang him at once.”
Now, who spread this rumour about our house being haunted? Somebody, for sure, who has a motive in giving the place a bad reputation. There is never smoke without a fire. Shall I tell you who is the cause of all this? Richard Manx.
What leads me to this conclusion? you ask. Instinct, my dear. It is an important quality in animals; why not in human beings? What possible motivecanRichard Manx have in spreading such a report? you ask next. A just Heaven only knows, my dear. But I will find out his motive, as I am a living and loving woman.
You are not acquainted with Richard Manx, you may say. Nor am I. But is it certain that it is his true name? You are not the only person in the world who has concealed his true name. You concealed yours for an innocent reason. Richard Manx may conceal his for a guilty one. Then think of me, knownsimply as Becky. Why, my dearest, the world is a perfect medley! Shall I tell you something else about him? My dear, he paints. I hear you, in your unsophisticated innocence, exclaim, “O, he is an artist!” He is, in one sense. His canvass is the human skin. He paints his face.
What will you ask now? Of course, your question will be, “How on earth do you know that he paints his face?” My dear, here I am your superior. Trust a woman to know a natural from an artificial colour. These few last questions trouble your soul. “Doesshepaint, then?” you mutter. “No, my dear,” I answer, “my complexionis my own!”
Twice have I seen Richard Manx to-day, and I have not avoided him. I looked at him. He looked at me.
“You are Becky,” he said; and if ever a foreigner spoke like an Englishman, Richard Manx did when he said, “You are Becky.”
“Yes, if you please, sir,” I replied, coyly.
“You are a—what you call maid-of-all work here,” he said.
Maid-of-all-work! What do real, genuine foreigners know of English maids-of-all-work? The very use of the term was, in my judgment, an argument against him.
“Yes,” I replied.
“And a very pretty maid-of-all-work,” he said, with a smile.
“There’s missus calling!” I cried, and I ran downstairs.
In that short interview I had convinced myself that he painted, and I had made up my mind that he wore a wig. Think of that, my dear! Our innocent, timid, humble young man lodger, with a false head of hair! I blush.
The meaning of all this is, that Richard Manx is no chance lodger. He came here designedly. He has not paid his rent. It is part of his design. He would be more likely to attract attention as a man with plenty of money than as a man with none. There are so many poor people in the world, and they are comparatively so unimportant? He has spread a rumour that the house he lodgesin and the next house are haunted. It is part of his design. To bring the houses into disrepute will cause people to avoid them, will lessen the chance of their being occupied. The better opportunity for him to carry out, without being observed, any scheme he may have in his false and wicked mind.
I have but one thing more to relate, and that will bring the history of your adventurous little woman up to the present moment of writing. It is an important incident, and has a direct bearing upon all that has gone before. At nine o’clock to-night the street door was opened and closed. My mistress and I were in the kitchen.
“It is Mr. Manx,” said Mrs. Preedy.
“I didn’t know he had a latch key,” I observed.
“I gave him one to-day,” said Mrs. Preedy. “He is looking for a situation, poor young man, and asked me for a latch key, as he might have to keep out late at night, and didn’t like to disturb me.”
“Very considerate of him,” I said. “Whatkind of situation is he after? Is he anything at all?”
“He is a professor of languages, Becky, and a musician besides.”
“What kind of musician?” I asked, scornfully. “A trombone player?”
“I can’t say, Becky.”
“Does he play the cornet, or the fiddle,” I continued, with a certain recklessness which overcame me for a few moments, “or the harp, or the flute, or the piano?” And as I said “or the piano?” a dish I was wiping slipped clean out of my hands, and was broken to pieces.
“What a careless girl you are, Becky!” cried my mistress. “That makes the third you have broken since you’ve been here.”
“Never mind,” I said, “I have had a legacy left me.”
She stared at me, and cried “A legacy!” And, upon my word, my dear, until she repeated the words, I scarcely knew what it was Ihadsaid. However, I was committed to it now, and was bound to proceed.
“Yes; a legacy. That is what I really went about last night.”
The information so staggered her that her voice became quite deferential.
“Is it much, Becky?”
“A clear three hundred pounds,” I replied, “and perhaps a little more. I shall know for a certainty in a week or two.”
“You’ll be giving me notice presently, I daresay, Becky, now you’ve come into money.”
“Not unless you want to get rid of me,” I replied.
“Becky,” said Mrs. Preedy, graciously, “I am very satisfied with you. You can remain with me as long as you like, and when we part I hope we shall part friends.”
“I hope so too, mum; and I hope you’ll think none the worse of me because I’ve been so fortunate. I should like to hear ofyourhaving such a slice of luck.”
“Thank you, Becky,” said my mistress, meekly, “butIwasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth.”
“Ah,” said I, wisely, “it isn’t always the most deserving as gets the best rewarded.”
Do you know, my dear, so strong is the force of example and association, that I sometimes catch myself speaking exactly as if I had been born in that station of life which I am at present occupying in Mrs. Preedy’s service.
Here a bell rang. “That’s Mrs. Bailey’s bell,” I said; “shall I go up to her, or will you?”
“You go, Becky,” said Mrs. Preedy; “she likes you best.”
Up I went, and found Mrs. Bailey writhing in bed; she was evidently in pain.
“My side, Becky, my side!” moaned the old creature. “You promised to rub it for me?”
“Wait a minute,” I said, “I’ll go and fetch some liniment.”
I ran downstairs, and took from my little bedroom a bottle of liniment which I had bought at the chemist’s in expectation of such an emergency as this. Then I rubbed the old lady’s side, and soon afforded her relief.
“What a soft hand you’ve got!” she said, “It’s almost like a lady’s hand.”
I sighed. “I haven’t been a common servant all my life,” I said. “But never mind me. Do you feel easier?”
“I am another woman, dear,” she replied. “O dear, O dear!”
And the old creature began to cry, and moan, and shake. I pitied her most truly at that moment.
“What are you crying for?” I asked.
“O dear, O dear!” she repeated. “I had a daughter once, who might have looked after me in my old days. My Lizzie! my Lizzie!” She continued to weep in the most distressing manner, calling upon her Lizzie in touching tones. I asked tenderly if her daughter was dead, and her reply was—
“God only knows!”
And then she related to me, often stopping to sob and moan in grief, a sad, sad story of a girl who had left her home, and had almost broken her parents’ hearts. I cannot stop now to tell you the story as this lonelywoman told it to me, for my fingers are beginning to pain me with the strain of this long letter, and I have still something more to say which more nearly concerns ourselves.
Bear in mind that from the time Richard Manx had entered the house, no other persons had entered or left it. Had the street door been opened I should for a certainty have remarked it.
Mrs. Bailey had told the whole of the sad story of her daughter’s shame and desertion, and was lying in tears on her bed. I was sitting by her side, animated by genuine sympathy for the lonely old lady. Suddenly an expression of alarm appeared on her face, which gradually turned quite white.
“Becky!” she cried.
I leant over her, my heart beating quick, for she had startled me. I feared that her last hour had arrived. I was mistaken. It was fear of another kind which had aroused her from the contemplation of her special sorrow.
“Don’t you hear?” she asked, presently.
“What?” I exclaimed, following her looks and words in an agony of expectation.
“The next house,” she whispered, “where the man was murdered! The empty house! Something is moving there!”
I threw myself quickly on the bed, and lay by the old lady’s side.
“There, Becky! Do you hear it now?”
“Hush,” I whispered. “Don’t speak or stir! Let us be sure.”
It was not possible that both of us could be dreaming the same dream at the same moment. Therewasa sound as of some person moving in No. 119.
“Answer me in a whisper,” I said, with my mouth close to Mrs. Bailey’s ear. “The room in which the murder was committed is on a level with this?”
“Yes,” she replied, in a whisper, as I had directed.
“Do you think the sounds are in that room?”
“I am sure of it, Becky.”
I lay still for about the space of a another minute. Then I rose from the bed.
“What are you going to do, Becky?” asked Mrs. Bailey; “Don’t leave me!”
“I must,” I said, firmly. “For about five minutes. I will come back. I promise you faithfully I will come back. Are you afraid to be left alone?”
“Somebody—orsomething—might come into the room while you are away,” said the old lady, shuddering. “If youmustgo, lock me in, and take the key with you. But don’t be longer than five minutes, if you have a spark of pity for a poor, deserted old woman!”
I acted upon her suggestion. I locked her in and went—— Where? Upstairs or down? Up, to Richard Manx’s room.
I reached his door and listened. No sound came to my ears—no sound of a waking or sleeping inmate of the room. I retreated down half-a-dozen stairs with a heavy tread. No one appeared at the attic door to inquire the meaning of the noise. I ascended the stairs again, and, with a woman’s touch,placed my hand on the handle of the door. It yielded. I looked into the room. No person was there. I ventured boldly in. The room was empty!
Assuring myself of this, I left the room as quickly as I had entered it. I did not pause at Mrs. Bailey’s room on the first floor. I went down to the street door, and quietly put up the door chain.Now, no person could possibly enter or leave the house without my knowledge.
Then I went down to Mrs. Preedy in the kitchen, and said that Mrs. Bailey was unwell, and wished me to stop with her for a little while.
“Stop, and welcome, Becky,” said Mrs. Preedy, with the sweetest smile.
What a power is money! My fanciful legacy of a paltry three hundred pounds had placed this woman and me on an equality, and she was the first to acknowledge it.
I ascended to Mrs. Bailey’s room, and unlocked her door. I had really not been absent for more than five minutes, but shesaid it seemed like thirty. I remained with her for over an hour, during which time the muffled sounds in the next house continued. I convinced myself that they could not be heard in any other room by going out, now and again, for a few moments, and listening in other rooms on the first and second floors. At length the sound ceased, and after waiting a quarter of an hour longer without it being renewed, I bade Mrs. Bailey good night, telling her, in a cheerful voice, that she was mistaken in supposing there were no mice in the empty house next door.
“Are you sure it is mice, Becky?” she asked, anxiously.
“Am I sure?” I repeated, laughing. “Why, you nervous old creature, what else can it be? Let us make a bargain to say nothing about it except to each other, or we shall have everybody laughing at us. And what would be worse, the detectives might appear again.”
The bargain was made, and I kissed the old lady, and left her.
I went straight upstairs, cautiously, as before. Richard Manx was in his room!
I went down to the street door. The chain was up! A convincing proof that it was this very Richard Manx, our young man lodger—the man who paints and wears a wig, and who is flat-footed—whose movements I had heard through the wall which divides Mrs. Bailey’s room from the room in which the murder was committed.
I am too tired to write a minute longer. This is the longest letter I have ever written. Good night, dear love. God bless and guard you!
Your ever devoted,Becky.
THE “EVENING MOON” RE-OPENS THE SUBJECT OF THE GREAT PORTER SQUARE MURDER, AND RELATES A ROMANTIC STORY CONCERNING THE MURDERED MAN AND HIS WIDOW.
A few hours before Becky wrote this last letter to the man she loved, theEvening Moonpresented its readers with a Supplement entirely devoted to particulars relating to the murder in No. 119, Great Porter Square. The Supplement was distinguished by a number of sensational headings which the street news-vendors industriously circulated with the full force of their lungs:—
THE MURDER IN GREAT PORTER SQUARE.
A ROMANCE IN REAL LIFE.
A HUNDRED THOUSAND POUNDS.
WEALTH, BEAUTY, AND LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT.
After a lapse of several weeks, we re-openthe subject of the murder in Great Porter Square. Although the murderer is still at large, the affair has advanced another and most important stage, and one element of mystery in connection with it is satisfactorily cleared up. We are about to disclose the name of the murdered man, and at the same time to lay before our readers certain interesting information relating to him which without doubt will be eagerly read. For this information we are again indebted to the Special Reporter, whose graphic account of the trial and of his subsequent adventures in relation to Antony Cowlrick, the person accused of the murder, has been circulated far and wide.
Until now, the murder in Great Porter Square has been distinguished by two unsatisfactory features. The first and most important is that the murderer was undiscovered. Unhappily no light has been thrown upon this part of the affair. The second, and most interesting feature, was that the man who was murdered was unknown. We do notremember a parallel case. But the murdered man is now identified, and his widow is lamenting his cruel and untimely death. Before our readers reach the end of our article, which, for the purpose of better description, we throw into narrative form, they will indeed admit that truth is stranger than fiction.
There lived in the West of London, near to one of our most fashionable parks, a gentleman of the name of Holdfast. He was a widower, having lost his wife a year before the commencement of our narrative. He had but one child, a son named Frederick, who was at Oxford, with a liberal allowance. The son is described as a young gentleman with engaging manners, and of a lively disposition; it was whispered also, that he was given to dissipation, and had made his father’s purse suffer to a woeful extent. There is nothing extraordinary in this. What are rich fathers good for in this world if they send their sons to college and keep their pockets buttoned? Money lendersmustlive, and they take especialgood care to thrive and grow fat. Young gentlemenmustsee life, and they take especial good care to drink deep of the intoxicating cup, and to sow a plentiful crop of wild oats. It is an old story, and our readers will have no difficulty in supplying certain accessories in the shape of pretty women, late suppers, horse racing, gambling, kite flying, post obits, and the thousand and one other commonplace but important elements in the younger days of manhood in the life of an only son.
The death of Mr. Holdfast’s wife was a severe blow to him; his son was left to him, truly; but what comfort to the bereaved father could a son have been who was endowed with vicious tastes, and whose career of dissipation was capped by a depraved association with degraded women—especially with one with whom he formed a close connection, which would have broken his father’s heart, had that father himself not been of a self-sustaining, proud, and high-minded disposition. The news of his son’s disgraceful connection,although it did not break the father’s heart, was the means of effecting a breach between the father and son which was destined never to be healed. Before, however, this severance took place, an important change occurred in Mr. Holdfast’s household. Mr. Holdfast married again, a very lovely woman, whose name, before she became Mrs. Holdfast, was Lydia Wilson.
The lady was young, and an orphan. Her relatives were far away in the country, and she was alone in London. Her entire wealth amounted to about five hundred pounds in United States bonds. It was while she was on a visit to the City, with the intention of converting these bonds into English money, that she and Mr. Holdfast first met. The Royal Exchange does not suggest itself as the most likely place in the world in which a gentleman of Mr. Holdfast’s age and character would fall in love at first sight. It happened, however. He saw the young lady looking about her, perplexed and bewildered by the bustling throng of clerks, brokers, and speculators;it was the busiest time of the day, and it could not escape Mr. Holdfast’s notice, his attention having been first arrested by the loveliness of her face and figure, that she was utterly unused to the busy scene in which she found herself. The young lady made an attempt to cross the road between the Mansion House and the Royal Exchange; she became confused amid the bewildering tangle of vehicles, and was in danger of being run over, when Mr. Holdfast hastened to her rescue. The road safely crossed, she looked into Mr. Holdfast’s face and thanked him. So there, in the midst of the world’s busiest mart, the story of a romance was commenced which might serve novelists with a tempting theme. For the particulars of the story we are now relating we are indebted to the lady herself, still young and beautiful, but plunged into the deepest grief by the murder of her husband. It is difficult for us to appropriately describe her modesty and innocent confidence in the interview between her and our Reporter. It is not that she is beautiful, andone of England’s fairest daughters, but it is that truth dwells in her face and eyes. Her voice is peculiarly soft and sweet, and to doubt her when she speaks is an impossibility.
Nothing was more natural than that Mr. Holdfast, having thus far assisted the young lady, should inquire if he could be of any further use to her. Miss Lydia Wilson really was in quest of a broker, to whom she had been recommended to negotiate the sale of her bonds, but in her confusion and terror she had forgotten both name and address. Ascertaining the nature of her mission, Mr. Holdfast offered to introduce her to a respectable firm; she accepted his offer, and they walked together to the broker’s office. On the way they conversed, and Mr. Holdfast learnt, among other particulars, that the young lady was an orphan, and that these bonds represented all that she had in the world to depend upon. In the broker’s office the young lady produced her securities and gave them to the principal of the firm. He sent out at once to ascertain the exact price of the market; theclerk departed, with the bonds in his possession, and was absent longer than he was expected to be. At length he returned, and requested a private interview with his employer. The interview took place, and the broker presently returned, and inquired of Miss Wilson how she became possessed of the bonds.
The lady replied haughtily that she was not in a broker’s office to be catechised by a stranger about her private affairs; and upon that Mr. Holdfast also spoke warmly in the lady’s behalf. The broker rejoined that Miss Lydia Wilson was as much a stranger to him as he was to her. Again, Mr. Holdfast, seeing that the lovely woman who had been thrown upon his protection was agitated by the broker’s manner, interposed.
“You forget,” he said, “that it was I who introduced this lady to your firm. Is not my introduction a sufficient guarantee?”
“Amply sufficient,” said the broker. “But business is business; such securities as these cannot easily be disposed of.”
“Why?” inquired Mr. Holdfast.
“Because,” said the broker, “they are forgeries.”
“Then I am ruined!” cried the young lady.
“No,” said Mr. Holdfast. “If the bondsareforgeries, you shall not be the loser—that is, if you will confer upon me the honour of accepting me as your banker.”
The young lady could not continue so delicate a conversation in the presence of a man who seemed to doubt her. She rose to leave the broker’s office, and when she and Mr. Holdfast were again in the open air, he said:
“Allow me to know more of you. I shall undoubtedly be able to assist you. You cannot conceal from me that the unexpected discovery of this forgery is likely to deeply embarrass you. Do not consider me impertinent when I hazard the guess that you had an immediate use for some part of the money you expected to receive from the sale of these securities.”
“You guess rightly,” said the young lady;“I wished to discharge a few trifling debts.” Her lips trembled, and her eyes were filled with tears.
“And—asking you to pardon my presumption—your purse is not too heavily weighted.”
“I have just,” said the young lady, producing her purse, and opening it, “three shillings and sixpence to live upon.”
Now, although this was a serious declaration, the young lady, when she made it, spoke almost merrily. Her lips no longer trembled, her eyes were bright again. These sudden changes of humour, from sorrow to gaiety, from pensiveness to light-heartedness, are not her least charming attributes. Small wonder that Mr. Holdfast was captivated by them and by her beauty!
“What a child you are!” he exclaimed. “Three shillings and sixpence is not sufficient to keep you for half a day.”
“Is it not?” asked the young lady, with delightful simplicity. “What a pity it is that we cannot live like fairies.”
“My dear young lady,” remarked Mr. Holdfast, taking her hand in his, “you sadly need a protector. Have you really any objection to letting me hear the story of these bonds?”
She related it to him without hesitation. It was simple enough. Some years ago, being already motherless, her father died, and left her in the care of his sister, a married woman with a family. The orphan girl had a guardian who, singular to say, she never saw. He lived in London, she in the country. The guardian, she understood from her father’s last words, held in trust for her a sum of money, represented by bonds, which she would receive when she became twenty-one years of age. In the meantime she was to live with her aunt, who was to be paid from the money due from time to time for interest on the bonds. The payment for her board and lodging was forwarded regularly by the young lady’s guardian, and she looked forward impatiently to the time when she would become her own mistress. She was unhappyin the house of her aunt, who treated her more like a dependent than a relative and a lady.
“I think,” said Mrs. Holdfast to our Reporter, “that she was disappointed the money had not been left to her instead of me, and that she would have been glad if I had died, so that she might obtain possession of it as next of kin. It would not have benefited her, the bonds being of no value, for it was hardly likely she would have met with such a friend as Mr. Holdfast proved to me—the best, the most generous of men! And I have lost him! I have lost him!”
Bursts of grief such as this were frequent during the interview, which we are throwing into the form of a narrative, with no more licence, we hope, than we are entitled to use.
The story went on to its natural end. The young lady’s position in the house to which her father confided her became almost unendurable, but she was compelled to suffer in silence. A small allowance for pocket money was sent to her by her guardian, and the bestpart of this she saved to defray the expenses to London and to enable her to live for a while; for she was resolved to leave her aunt on the very day she reached the age of twenty-one.
“Do I look older?” she asked of our Reporter.
He replied, with truth and gallantry, that he would have scarcely taken her for that.
“You flatter me,” she said, with a sad smile; “I feel as if I were fifty. This dreadful blow has made an old woman of me!”
To conclude the story she related to Mr. Holdfast, the day before she was twenty-one she received a packet from her guardian in London, and a letter saying that he was going abroad, to America she believed, perhaps never to return, and that he completed the trust imposed upon him by her father by sending her her little fortune. It was contained in the packet, and consisted of the United States bonds which had that day been declared to be forgeries. The departure of her guardian did not cause her to waver inher determination to leave her aunt’s home the moment she was entitled to do so. Her life had been completely wretched and unhappy, and her only desire was to place a long distance between herself and her cruel relative, so that the woman could not harass her. The day arrived, and with a light heart, with her fortune in her pocket, Lydia Wilson, without even wishing her aunt good-bye or giving the slightest clue as to the direction of her flight, left her home, and took a railway ticket to London. “Not all the way to London first,” said the young lady; “I broke the journey half-way, so that if my aunt followed me, she would have the greater difficulty in discovering me.” The young lady arrived in London, and took a modest lodging in what she believed to be a respectable part of the City. When she met Mr. Holdfast, she had been in London five weeks, and the little money she had saved was gone, with the exception of three shillings and sixpence. Then she fell back upon the bonds, and considered herself as rich as a princess.
“But even this money,” said Mr. Holdfast to her, “would not last for ever.”
“O, yes, it would,” insisted the young lady; “I would have made it last for ever!”
What was to be done with so impracticable and charming a creature, with a young lady, utterly alone and without resources, and whose tastes, as she herself admits, were always of an expensive kind?
Mr. Holdfast saw the danger which beset her, and determined to shield her from harm. To have warned her of the pitfalls and traps with which such a city as London is dotted would have been next to useless. To such an innocent mind as hers, the warning itself would have seemed like a trap to snare the woman it was intended to save.
“Have you any objection,” said Mr. Holdfast, when the young lady’s story was finished, “to my endeavouring to find the guardian who has wronged you? America is now a near land, and I could enlist the services of men who would not fail to track the scoundrel.”
But to this proposition the young lady would not consent. The bonds might have been given to her guardian by her dead father. In that case, the honour of a beloved parent might be called into question. Anything in preference to that; poverty, privation, perhaps an early death! Mr. Holdfast was touched to his inmost soul by the pathos of this situation.
“I will keep the bonds,” he said, “and shall insist upon your accepting the offer of my friendship.”
“Promise me, then,” said the young lady, conquered by his earnestness and undoubted honesty of intention, “that you will take no steps to compromise the honoured name of my dear father. Promise me that you will not show the bonds to strangers.”
“No eye but mine shall see them,” said Mr. Holdfast, opening his safe and depositing the prized securities in a secret drawer. “And now,” he continued, “you bank with me, and you draw from me fifty pounds, represented by eight five-pound notes and ten sovereignsin gold. Here they are. Count them. No? Very well. Count them when you get home, and take great care of them. You little know the roguery of human nature. There’s not a day that you cannot read in the London papers accounts of ladies having their pockets picked and their purses stolen. Let me see your purse. Why, it is a fairy purse! You cannot get half of this money into it. My dear young lady, wecannotlive like the fairies. Human creatures are bound to be, to some small extent, practical. Take my purse—it is utterly unfit for your delicate hands, but it will answer its present purpose. See. I pack the money safely in it; take it home and put it in a place of safety.”
“How can I repay you?” asked the young lady, impressed no less by this gentleman’s generosity than by his wonderful kindness of manner.
“By saying we are friends,” he replied, “and by promising to come to see me soon again.”
“Of course, I must do that,” she said,gaily, “to see that my banker does not run away.”
The next thing he asked for was her address, but she was not inclined, at first, to give it to him; he appreciated the reason for her disinclination, and said that he had no intention of calling upon her, and that he wanted the address to use only in the event of its being necessary to write to her.
“I can trust you,” she said, and complied with his wish.
To his surprise and gratification the young lady, of her own accord, paid him a visit on the following day. She entered his office with a smiling face, causing, no doubt, quite a flutter in the hearts of Mr. Holdfast’s clerks and bookkeepers. It is not often so fair a vision is seen in a London’s merchant’s place of business.
From the young lady’s appearance Mr. Holdfast was led to believe that she had news of a joyful nature to communicate, and he was therefore very much astonished when she said, in the pleasantest manner:
“I have lost your purse.”
“With the money in it?” he inquired, his tone expressing his astonishment.
“Yes, I am sorry to say,” she replied, laughing at his consternation, “with the money in it. I did not like to come back yesterday, for fear you would scold me.”
“You lost it yesterday, then?”
“Yes, within an hour of my leaving your office.”
“How on earth did it happen?”
“In the simplest manner possible. You were quite right, Mr. Holdfast, in saying that I did not know the roguery of human nature. I was standing at a cake shop, looking in at the window—I am so fond of cakes!—and two little girls and a woman were standing by my side. The children were talking—they would like this cake, they would like that—and such a many round O’s fell from their lips that I could not help being amused. Poor little things! They looked very hungry, and I quite pitied them. Some one tapped my left shoulder, and I turned round to see who itwas—when, would you believe it?—your purse, which was in my right hand, was snatched from me like lightning. And the extraordinary part of the affair is, that I saw no one behind me, nor any person except the woman and two children within yards of me!”
She related the particulars of the robbery as though it had not happened to her and did not affect her, but some stranger who had plenty of money, and would not feel the loss.
“What did you do?” asked Mr. Holdfast.
“I laughed. I couldn’t help it—it was so clever! Of course I looked about me, but that did not bring back your purse. Then I took the poor children into the cake shop, and treated them to cakes, and had some myself, and gave them what money remained of my three shillings and sixpence, and sent them home quite happy.”
“And left yourself without a penny?” said Mr. Holdfast, almost overcome with delight, as he afterwards told her, at her childish innocence, simplicity and kindness.
“Yes,” she replied, overjoyed that he did not scold her, “I left myself without a penny.”
“You will have to buy me another purse,” he said.
The young lady exhibited her own little fairy porte-monnaie, and turned it out—there was not a sixpence in it. “You must give me some money to do it with,” she said.
“You are not fit to be trusted with money,” he said; “I really am puzzled what to do with you.”
Upon this she burst into tears; her helpless position, and his goodness and tenderness, overcame her.
“If you cry like that,” he said softly, “I shall never forgive myself.”
Her depression vanished; her sunny look returned; and they conversed together thereafter as though they had known each other for years—as though he had been her father’s friend, and had nursed her on his knee when she was a child. Needless to say, he made matters right with this simple, innocent, confidingyoung lady, and that from that time there existed between them a bond which was destined to ripen into the closest and most binding tie which man and woman can contract. At first she looked upon him as her second father, but insensibly there dawned upon her soul a love as sweet and strong as if he had been a twenty years younger man than he was. When he asked her to be his wife, telling her that he most truly loved her, that he would devote himself to her and make her the happiest woman in the world, she raised a thousand objections.
“One objection would be sufficient,” he said, sadly, “if you cannot forget it. My age.”
She declared, indeed, that that was not an obstacle—that she looked up to him as she could to no other man—that he was the noblest being who had ever crossed her path of life, and that she could never, never forget him. Mr. Holdfast urged her then to explain to him in plain terms the precise nature of her objections.
“I can make you happy,” he said.
“You could make any woman happy,” she replied.
“And I should be the happiest man—you would make me so.”
“I would try,” she replied, softly.
“Then tell me why you raise cruel obstacles in the way of our happiness. I will marry you by force if you are not candid with me.”
“You know nothing of my family,” she said; “my parents are dead, and the few relatives I have I would not allow to darken the threshold of your door.”
“Nor shall they. You shall be the mistress and the master of my house, and I will be your slave.”
“For shame to talk in that way to a foolish girl like me—to a girl who is almost nameless, and who has not a shilling to her fortune!”
“Have I not more than enough? Do you wish to make me believe that you do not understand my character?”
“No; I do understand it, and if you were poor like me, or I were rich like you—But even then there would be an obstacle hard to surmount. Your son is but a few years older than myself—he might be my brother. I should be ashamed to look him in the face. He would say I married you for your money. Before the wedding day, were he to say a word to me, were he to give one look, to touch my pride, I would run away, and you would never, never find me. Ah! let us say good-bye—let us shake hands and part! It is best so. Then I shall never have anything to reproach myself with. Then I should not be made to suffer from the remarks of envious people that I tricked you into a marriage with a penniless, friendless girl!”
“As God is my judge,” he cried, “you shall be my wife, and no other man’s! I will not let you escape me! And to make matters sure, we will give neither my son—who would bring my name to shame—nor envious people the power to say a word to hurt your feelings. We will be married privately, by the registrar. Leave all to me. I look upon you as my wife from this day. Place your hand in mine, andsay you will marry me, or I will never more believe in woman’s truth.”
His impetuosity carried the day—he spoke with the fire of a young man of twenty-five. She placed her hand in his, and said,
“I am yours.”
Three weeks afterwards, Lydia Wilson became Mr. Holdfast’s wife, and his son Frederick was in ignorance that he had married again. The date of the marriage was exactly two years to the day before the fatal night upon which Mr. Holdfast was found murdered in No. 119 Great Porter Square.