IN WHICH BECKY GIVES WAY TO HER FEELINGS, AND RENEWS AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE.
Great Porter Squarehad 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 theEvening 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, asthey 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 ora 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,” saidMrs. 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 theEvening 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 reasonto 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 mancando 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 solemnword 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 shallscarcely 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.”
“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 reasonto 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 mancando 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 solemnword 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 shallscarcely 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 mywill. 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 remainsnow. 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 theEvening 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 Beckytook 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, asfar as her knowledge of him went in their brief personal intercourse, he was not in the remotest way connected with the crime. Say that thiswasso—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 theEvening 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 theEvening 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, “MyFrederick 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 notneed 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, “MyFrederick 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 forhisdisappearance.”
These coincidences were so remarkable that they increased in strength tenfold as Beckygazed 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’svoice 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!”
“JUSTICE” SENDS A LETTER TO THE EDITOR OF THE “EVENING MOON.”
Closerand closer did the little match girl cling to Becky, as she was carried through the dark passage and down the narrow stairs to the kitchen. Then, and then only, did Becky clearly perceive how thin and wan her humble little friend had grown. Fanny’s dark eyes loomed out of their sunken sockets like dusky moons, her cheeks had fallen in, her lips were colourless; her clothes consisted of but two garments, a frock and a petticoat, in rags. Becky’s eyes overflowed as she contemplated the piteous picture, and Fanny’s eyes also became filled with tears—not in pity for herself, but in sympathy with Becky.
“O, Blanche, Blanche,” she murmured,“I begun to be afeard I should never see you agin.”
Becky touched Fanny’s clothes and cheek pityingly, and said,
“Has it been like this long, Fanny?”
Fanny replied in a grave tone, “Since ever you went away, Blanche. My luck turned then.”
“It has turned again, my dear,” said Becky, with great compassion, “and turned the right way. Make a wish.”
“A thick slice of bread and butter!” said Fanny, eagerly.
“O, Fanny, are you hungry?”
“I ain’t ’ad nothink to eat to-day excep’ a damaged apple I picked up in Coving Garden.”
Before she finished the sentence Becky placed before her a thick slice of bread and butter, and was busy cutting another. Fanny soon dispatched them, and did not say “No” to a third slice.
“Do you feel better, Fanny?” asked Becky.
“Ever so much,” replied Fanny, looking wistfully around. The kitchen was warm, and the little beggar girl was thinking of the cold night outside.
Becky noticed the look and knew what it meant.
“No, Fanny,” she thought, “you shall not go out in the cold to-night. It is my belief you were sent to help me; it may be a lucky meeting for both of us.”
“Fanny,” she said aloud, “where’s your mother?”
“She’s got three months,” said Fanny, “and the magistrate sed he’d ’ave give ’er six if he could.”
“Where are you going to sleep to-night?”
“Blanche,” said Fanny, with a quiver in her voice, “is there such a thing as a coal-cellar ’ere?”
“Why, Fanny?”
“I’d like to sleep in it, if you don’t mind.”
“Idomind, Fanny. Yon can’t sleep in the coal-cellar.”
Fanny sighed mournfully, and partly rose. “I can’t stop ’ere, then, Blanche?”
“You shall if you like, Fanny, and you shall sleep with me.”
“O, Blanche!” cried Fanny, clasping her face with her dirty little hands. The tears forced themselves between the thin, bony fingers.
“Why, that looks as if you were sorry, Fanny!”
“I’m cryin’ for joy, Blanche. I should ’ave taken my ’ook to-night if it ’adn’t been for you. When I fell down in a faint outside your door, I thought I was goin’ to die.”
“You shall not die, Fanny,” said Becky; “you shall live, and grow into a fine young woman. Listen to me, and don’t forget a word I say to you. You are sharp and clever, and I want you now to be sharper and cleverer than ever you have been in your life before.” Fanny nodded, and fixed her eyes upon Becky’s face. “I am a servant in this house; my mistress’s name is Mrs. Preedy; she is outgossiping, and I expect her back every minute. If she comes in while I am talking, I shall bundle you into bed, and you’ll fall fast asleep. You understand?”
“Yes.”
“I am not a real servant, but nobody is to know that but you and me. Put your hand in mine, Fanny, and promise to be my friend, as I promise to be yours. That’s an honest squeeze, Fanny, and I know what it means. It means that I can trust you thoroughly, and that you will do and say everything exactly as I wish.”
“That’s just what itdoesmean, Blanche.”
“My name is not Blanche.”
“No?”
“No. It’s Becky.”
“I’m fly.”
“And never was anything else. The reason why I am a servant here is because I have something very particular to do—and that also is a secret between me and you. When it is done, I shall be a lady, and perhaps I will take you as my little maid.”
“O, Becky! Becky!” exclaimed Fanny, overjoyed at the prospect.
“I knew you were sharp and quick,” said Becky. “You are a little cousin of mine, if Mrs. Preedy asks you, and you have no mother or father. Give me those matches. I throw them into the fire, one after another. What a blaze they make! Your mother died last week, and you, knowing I was in service here, came to ask me to help you. You never sold matches, Fanny.”
“Never! I’ll take my oath of it!”
“That is all I shall say to-night, Fanny. I am tired, and I want to think. Go into that room—it is my bedroom; here is a light. You will see a nest of drawers in the room; open the top one, and take out a clean nightdress; it will be too long and too large for you, but that doesn’t matter, does it? Give yourself a good wash, then pop into bed, and go to sleep. To-morrow morning, before you are up, I shall buy you some clothes. Poor little Fanny! Poor little Fanny!” The child had fallen on her knees, and had bowed herface on Becky’s lap. Her body was shaken with sobs. “Now then, go, or Mrs. Preedy may come back before you are a-bed.”
Fanny jumped to her feet, and kissing Becky’s hands, took the candle, and went into Becky’s bedroom.
Becky’s attention, diverted for a while by this adventure, returned to the subject which now almost solely occupied her mind. She had not yet looked at the copies of the lastEvening Moonshe had bought of the newsboy in the Square an hour ago. She opened one of the papers, and saw, in large type, the heading, “Frederick Holdfast,” and beneath it the following letter, addressed to the editor of theEvening Moon:—
“Sir,—I have read the thrilling Romance in Real Life which your Special Reporter, in a style which does not speak highly for his culture or good taste, has so temptingly dished up for your numerous readers. It not onlyreadslike a romance, but, with reference to one of the characters it introducesto a too curious public, itisa romance. The character I refer to is Frederick Holdfast, the son of the ill-fated gentleman who was murdered in Great Porter Square. That he is dead there appears to be no reason to doubt; and, therefore, all the more reason why I, who knew him well and was his friend, should step forward without hesitation to protest against the charges brought against him in your columns. I declare most earnestly that they are false.“Here, at once, I find myself in a difficulty. When I say that the colours in which Frederick Holdfast is painted are false colours, that the character given to him is a false character, and that the charges brought against him are false charges, it appears as if I myself were bringing an accusation against Mrs. Lydia Holdfast, a lady with whom I have not the pleasure of being acquainted. I prefer not to do this. I prefer to bring the accusation against your Reporter, who must have allowed his zeal and enthusiasm to play tricks with his judgment when he sat down todescribe, in his captivating manner, certain statements made to him by a lady in distress. He was writing a romance—there was a villain in it (a necessity); necessary, therefore, that this villain should be painted in the blackest colours, to rival other villains in the Penny Awfuls which obtain so strong a hold over young people among our poorer classes. The parallel is not a fair one. The villains in the Penny Awfuls are imaginary creatures; they live only in the brains of the cheap novelist; to vilify them, to defame them, can hurt the feelings, can do injury, to no living being. But the villain your Reporter has depicted in his Romance of Real Life is a man who lived, who was honoured, and who had at least one firm and true friend in the person of him who is now tracing these lines. To defame and vilify the dead is an act of the grossest injustice, and of this injustice your Reporter is guilty.“I was at Oxford with Frederick Holdfast, and shared in his pleasures and his studies. We were cronies. We had few secrets fromeach other, and our close intimacy enabled me not only to gain an insight into Frederick’s character, but to form a just estimate of it. And I solemnly declare that my dead friend was as guiltless of the charges brought against him by Mrs. Holdfast and your Reporter in his Oxford career as I believe him to be incapable of the baseness imputed to him in his father’s house in London. Of the latter I can speak only from presumption. Of the former I can speak with certainty, but my conviction in the one case is as strong as it is in the other.“It is a monstrous falsehood to describe Frederick Holdfast’s ‘career of dissipation’ as being ‘capped by degraded association with degraded women.’ His estimate of woman was high and lofty; he was almost quixotic in the opinion he entertained of her purity, and even when he felt himself compelled to condemn, there was invariably apparent in his condemnation a touch of beautiful pity it was an experience to meet with in this shrug-shoulder age, in which cynicism and light words upon noble themes have become the fashion. Thathe was free from faults I do not assert, but his errors had in them nothing of that low kind of vice which your Reporter has so glibly attached to his name.“I have already said I have not the pleasure of an acquaintance with Mrs. Lydia Holdfast; neither was I acquainted with her murdered husband, my dead friend’s father. But I have heard Frederick speak of his father, and always with respect and love. I can go further than this. I have read letters which Mr. Holdfast in London wrote to his son in Oxford, and I cannot recall a sentence or a word which would imply that any difference existed between father and son. These facts go far to prove the accusation I bring against your Reporter of libelling the dead. He, in his turn, may find justification for the picture he has drawn in the statements made to him by Mrs. Lydia Holdfast. With this I have nothing to do; I leave them to settle the matter between them. My duty is to vindicate the honour of my friend, who cannot speak for himself. I ask you to insert thisletter, without abbreviation, in your columns, and I ask those papers at a distance which have quoted from your Romance in Real Life, to copy the letter, to prevent injustice to a dead man’s memory. I enclose my card, as a guarantee of good faith; but I do not wish my name to be published. At the same time, should public occasion demand it, I shall be ready to come forward and personally substantiate the substance of this communication.“I am, Sir, yours obediently,“Justice.”
“Sir,—I have read the thrilling Romance in Real Life which your Special Reporter, in a style which does not speak highly for his culture or good taste, has so temptingly dished up for your numerous readers. It not onlyreadslike a romance, but, with reference to one of the characters it introducesto a too curious public, itisa romance. The character I refer to is Frederick Holdfast, the son of the ill-fated gentleman who was murdered in Great Porter Square. That he is dead there appears to be no reason to doubt; and, therefore, all the more reason why I, who knew him well and was his friend, should step forward without hesitation to protest against the charges brought against him in your columns. I declare most earnestly that they are false.
“Here, at once, I find myself in a difficulty. When I say that the colours in which Frederick Holdfast is painted are false colours, that the character given to him is a false character, and that the charges brought against him are false charges, it appears as if I myself were bringing an accusation against Mrs. Lydia Holdfast, a lady with whom I have not the pleasure of being acquainted. I prefer not to do this. I prefer to bring the accusation against your Reporter, who must have allowed his zeal and enthusiasm to play tricks with his judgment when he sat down todescribe, in his captivating manner, certain statements made to him by a lady in distress. He was writing a romance—there was a villain in it (a necessity); necessary, therefore, that this villain should be painted in the blackest colours, to rival other villains in the Penny Awfuls which obtain so strong a hold over young people among our poorer classes. The parallel is not a fair one. The villains in the Penny Awfuls are imaginary creatures; they live only in the brains of the cheap novelist; to vilify them, to defame them, can hurt the feelings, can do injury, to no living being. But the villain your Reporter has depicted in his Romance of Real Life is a man who lived, who was honoured, and who had at least one firm and true friend in the person of him who is now tracing these lines. To defame and vilify the dead is an act of the grossest injustice, and of this injustice your Reporter is guilty.
“I was at Oxford with Frederick Holdfast, and shared in his pleasures and his studies. We were cronies. We had few secrets fromeach other, and our close intimacy enabled me not only to gain an insight into Frederick’s character, but to form a just estimate of it. And I solemnly declare that my dead friend was as guiltless of the charges brought against him by Mrs. Holdfast and your Reporter in his Oxford career as I believe him to be incapable of the baseness imputed to him in his father’s house in London. Of the latter I can speak only from presumption. Of the former I can speak with certainty, but my conviction in the one case is as strong as it is in the other.
“It is a monstrous falsehood to describe Frederick Holdfast’s ‘career of dissipation’ as being ‘capped by degraded association with degraded women.’ His estimate of woman was high and lofty; he was almost quixotic in the opinion he entertained of her purity, and even when he felt himself compelled to condemn, there was invariably apparent in his condemnation a touch of beautiful pity it was an experience to meet with in this shrug-shoulder age, in which cynicism and light words upon noble themes have become the fashion. Thathe was free from faults I do not assert, but his errors had in them nothing of that low kind of vice which your Reporter has so glibly attached to his name.
“I have already said I have not the pleasure of an acquaintance with Mrs. Lydia Holdfast; neither was I acquainted with her murdered husband, my dead friend’s father. But I have heard Frederick speak of his father, and always with respect and love. I can go further than this. I have read letters which Mr. Holdfast in London wrote to his son in Oxford, and I cannot recall a sentence or a word which would imply that any difference existed between father and son. These facts go far to prove the accusation I bring against your Reporter of libelling the dead. He, in his turn, may find justification for the picture he has drawn in the statements made to him by Mrs. Lydia Holdfast. With this I have nothing to do; I leave them to settle the matter between them. My duty is to vindicate the honour of my friend, who cannot speak for himself. I ask you to insert thisletter, without abbreviation, in your columns, and I ask those papers at a distance which have quoted from your Romance in Real Life, to copy the letter, to prevent injustice to a dead man’s memory. I enclose my card, as a guarantee of good faith; but I do not wish my name to be published. At the same time, should public occasion demand it, I shall be ready to come forward and personally substantiate the substance of this communication.
“I am, Sir, yours obediently,“Justice.”
To this letter was appended an Editorial Note:
“We insert our correspondent’s letter, as he desires, without abbreviation. His name, which at his request we withhold, is one which is already becoming honourably known, and we see no reason to doubt his honesty of intention, and his thorough belief in what he writes. In the performance of our duties as Editor of this newspaper, we are always readyto present our readers with both sides of a question which has excited public interest. With these differing views fairly and impartially placed before them, they can form their own judgment. Upon the matter between ‘Justice,’ Mrs. Holdfast, and our Special Reporter, we offer no opinion, but we cannot refrain from drawing attention to one feature in the case which has apparently escaped the notice of ‘Justice.’ By Mr. Holdfast’s will his only son, Frederick, is disinherited, and the whole of the murdered man’s property is left to his unhappy widow. This is a sufficient answer to ‘Justice’s’ disbelief in the existence of any difference between Frederick Holdfast and his father. ‘Respect and love’ would never impel a father to leave his son a beggar.—Editor, ‘Evening Moon.’”
“We insert our correspondent’s letter, as he desires, without abbreviation. His name, which at his request we withhold, is one which is already becoming honourably known, and we see no reason to doubt his honesty of intention, and his thorough belief in what he writes. In the performance of our duties as Editor of this newspaper, we are always readyto present our readers with both sides of a question which has excited public interest. With these differing views fairly and impartially placed before them, they can form their own judgment. Upon the matter between ‘Justice,’ Mrs. Holdfast, and our Special Reporter, we offer no opinion, but we cannot refrain from drawing attention to one feature in the case which has apparently escaped the notice of ‘Justice.’ By Mr. Holdfast’s will his only son, Frederick, is disinherited, and the whole of the murdered man’s property is left to his unhappy widow. This is a sufficient answer to ‘Justice’s’ disbelief in the existence of any difference between Frederick Holdfast and his father. ‘Respect and love’ would never impel a father to leave his son a beggar.—Editor, ‘Evening Moon.’”
Becky’s eyes were bright with pleasure as she read the letter. “Bravo, Justice,” she thought; “you are worthy to be the friend of my Frederick. I will thank you one day for your noble defence.”
Here Fanny, arrayed in Becky’s nightdress, made her appearance from the little bedroom.
“Good night, Becky,” she said.
“Good night, my dear,” said Becky, kissing the child.
Fanny’s face was clean, and her hair was nicely brushed; she did not look now like a child of the gutter.
“I feel all new, Becky—and so ’appy!” she said, with quivering lips.
“That’s right, dear,” said Becky; “now tumble into bed. I hear Mrs. Preedy opening the street door.”
Fanny flew back to the bedroom, and scrambling into bed, fell asleep with a prayer in her mind that God would bless Becky for ever, and ever, and ever, and send her everything in the world she wanted.
Becky was prepared for her interview with Mrs. Preedy; her plan was already formed. She put the newspapers out of sight, and when Mrs. Preedy entered the kitchen she found Becky busy with her needle.
“Still up, Becky!” exclaimed Mrs. Preedy. “You ought to ’ave been a-bed.”
“I didn’t like to go,” said Becky, “till you came home; I wanted to speak to you about something.”
“What is it?” cried Mrs. Preedy, for ever ready to take alarm. “Nothink’s ’appened in the ’ouse, I ’ope. Mrs. Bailey!”——
“Nothing has happened; it’s about myself I want to speak.”
“I suppose you’re going to give notice,” said Mrs. Preedy, glaring at Becky.
“O, no; I’m satisfied with the place, and I’m sure no servant ever had a kinder missis.” Mrs. Preedy was mollified. “It’s about my legacy and a little cousin of mine.”
“O,” said Mrs. Preedy, feeling no interest in the little cousin, but a great deal in the legacy. “You may sit down, Becky.”
“Thank you, mum. I am to receive fifty pounds of my legacy to-morrow, and I want you to take care of some of it.”
“I’ll do it with pleasure, Becky.” Mrs. Preedy was slightly bewildered by the circumstanceof having a servant with so much money at command; it was an unprecedented experience. Of course she would take care of the girl’s money.
“While you were out,” said Becky, “there was a knock at the door, and when I opened it I saw a little cousin of mine who has lost her mother, and has no one in the world but me to look after her. She knew I was in service here and she came to ask me to help her. I hope you will not consider it a liberty, but I took her in, poor little thing, and perhaps you’ll let her sleep with me to-night.”
Mrs. Preedy stared at Becky. “Is she there?” she asked, pointing to the servant’s bedroom.
“Yes, mum.”
Mrs. Preedy took a candle, and went into the room. Fanny was asleep, and when Mrs. Preedy laid her hand on her, she moved, and murmured—
“Is that you, Becky?”
Becky called out, “Yes, Fanny. Go to sleep again.”
“I thought,” said Becky, upon Mrs. Preedy’s return, “as my little cousin has no home now, and as there is plenty of room in the house, that you might let her remain here as a lodger.”
“As a lodger!” said Mrs. Preedy, in a tone of surprise and satisfaction.
“Of course,” continued Becky, “I couldn’t ask you to let her stay here for nothing, and as I have plenty of money I can afford to pay for her. Then she can help me a bit now and then. She can live in the kitchen, and sleep with me. I’ll look after her, and nobody need know anything about it but ourselves. I wouldn’t mind eight or ten shillings a week.”
Mrs. Preedy, with more eagerness than she was in the habit of exhibiting, agreed to Becky’s proposition, and said they would split the difference, and make it nine shillings a week for Fanny’s board and lodging.
“And if you won’t mind my mentioning it,” said Becky, “if you are pressed for a few pounds I should be glad to let youhave it till the lodgers come back to the house.”
This offer completed the conquest. Mrs. Preedy shook Becky by the hand, and vowed that, from the moment she had entered her service, she had looked upon her more as a daughter than as a domestic, and that she was sure she and Becky and Fanny would get along famously together. So gushing did she become that she offered Becky a glass of gin and water, which Becky declined. A double knock at the street door startled them both, and they went in company to answer it. A telegraph boy stood on the step.
“Does Becky live here?” he asked.
“Yes,” answered the two women.
“A telegram,” he said, holding out the buff-coloured envelope.
Becky took it, and opened it in the kitchen. It was from “Fred” to “Becky,” and ran:—“I return to London by to-night’s mail. Do not write again until you see or hear from me.”
“Who is it from?” asked Mrs. Preedyunable to restrain her curiosity. “What does it say?”
“It’s from my lawyer,” replied Becky, without a blush, “and says I am to receive a hundred pounds to-morrow instead of fifty.”
“You’re in luck’s way, Becky,” said Mrs. Preedy.
“That I am,” said Becky. “Can I do anything more for you to-night?”
“Nothing more, thank you,” said Mrs. Preedy, very politely. “Good night, Becky.”
“Good night, mum.”
Never in that house had such cordial relations as these existed between mistress and “slavey.”
Becky slept but little. The strange revelations made in the columns of theEvening Moon, the vindication of Frederick Holdfast’s character by an unknown friend, the appearance of Fanny, the expected return of her lover, were events too stirring to admit of calm slumber. Her dreams were as disturbed as her rest. She dreamt of her Frederick lying dead on the banks of a distant river,and the man who had killed him was bending over the body, rifling the pockets. The man raised his head; it was Richard Manx, sucking his acid drops. “Ah, charming Becky,” said the man; “accept this ring—this bracelet—this dress. Your lover is dead. I take his place. I am, for ever, your devoted.” She fled from him, and he followed her through her dreams, presenting himself in a hundred fantastic ways. “Come,” he said, “I will show you something pretty.” He seized her hand, and dragged her to a Court-house, in the witness-box of which stood Lydia Holdfast, giving deadly evidence against Frederick, who was also there, being tried for the murder of his father. “Let me go!” cried Becky. “I can save him from that woman!” But Richard Manx held her fast. “I am your lover, not he,” he whispered; “you shall not save him. He must die.” She could not move, nor could she raise her voice so that the people round about could hear her. The scene changed. She and Frederick were together, in prison. “There is but one hopefor me,” said Frederick; “even yet I may be saved. Track that woman,” (and here Lydia Holdfast appeared, smiling in triumph), “follow her, do not allow her out of your sight. But be careful; she is as cunning as a fox, and will slip through your fingers when you least expect it.” Then she and Lydia Holdfast alone played parts in the running commentary of her dreams. “What do you want to find out,” said Lydia Holdfast; “about me? I am a simple creature—but you are much more simple. It is a battle between us, for the life of a man, for the honour of a man. I accept. If you were a thousand times cleverer than you are, you shall not save him.” Becky found herself with this woman in the most extraordinary connections—on the stage of a theatre, where both were enacting characters in the drama of the murder—by a dark river, lighted up by lightning flashes—struggling in the midst of a closely-packed crowd—following each other over the roofs of houses—and Lydia Holdfast, in every fresh presentment,crying, “Well! Have you saved him yet?”
Becky awoke from these dreams in tears, and was glad she had Fanny in bed with her. She rose early, and at eight o’clock went out to buy some clothes for the child. When Fanny appeared before Mrs. Preedy in the kitchen, she was a decent-looking, tidy little girl, with a world of happiness in her face. She had found her friend, her angel friend, who would never again desert her. She understood in some dim way that Becky would call upon her for help in the secret which had caused her to assume the disguise of a servant. “I ’ope it’s somethink ’ard she wants me to do,” thought Fanny. She would like to show Becky what love and gratitude could accomplish.
“You’re a nice looking little thing,” said Mrs. Preedy, pinching Fanny’s cheek.
At about eleven o’clock, Becky asked and received permission to “go to the lawyer’s” to receive her money. Before she left the house she said to Fanny,
“You don’t forget what I said to you last night.”
“I couldn’t if I tried,” replied Fanny.
“Mrs. Preedy is to know nothing. You understand, Fanny?”
“Yes.”
“I shall be out for nearly an hour. If you hear a knock at the street door run up and open it, and if a gentleman comes and asks for me, tell him I shall be back before twelve.”
“I’ll tell him, Becky.”
No person called, however; and Becky, returning, gave Mrs. Preedy forty pounds to take care of. “That,” she thought, “will enable me to keep in this house as long as I choose to remain.”
All the day she waited for news of her lover. As the hours dragged on, her state of suspense became most painful. In the early part of the evening she received a note by the hands of a messenger.
“My darling,” it said, “I am in the deepest grief. A dreadful calamity has overtaken me,and I must consider well and reflect before I move a step. I think it best for me not to present myself in Great Porter Square. You want to see me, I know, as I want to see you, but before we meet it is necessary that you should read a Statement I am preparing for you, and which will be in your hands late tonight. There must be no more secrets between us. Believe me ever your devoted and unhappy lover.”
At eleven o’clock Becky received the “Statement.” It was a thick packet, on the outside of which was written: “For no other eyes but yours.” When the messenger arrived—he was a middle-aged man, with a shrewd face and eye—Mrs. Preedy was out of the house, gossiping as usual with Mrs. Beale, and confiding to her the wonderful news that she had a servant who was very rich. Mrs. Beale gave Mrs. Preedy a bit of shrewd advice. “Orfer to go into partnership with ’er, my dear,” said Mrs. Beale, “and take a ’ouse on the other side of the Square.” Mrs. Preedy confessed it was not half a bad idea.
“I am to give this packet,” said the messenger, “into the hands of a young woman named Becky.”
“I am Becky,” said the anxious girl.
“The gentleman was very particular,” continued the messenger, “and I am to ask you if you expected it.”
“Yes, I expected it.”
“Then I was to ask you for the first letter of the gentleman’s Christian name.”
“F.”
“That is correct.” And the man handed Becky the packet.
“Where is the gentleman staying?” asked Becky, offering the man a shilling.
“No, thank you. I am well paid for what I am doing, and I was told not to accept anything. ‘Where is the gentleman staying?’ I have no instructions to answer the question. There is nothing else, I think. Yes, thereissomething else. Are you well?”
“Quite well.”
“I am to say that? ‘Quite well.’”
“Yes, say ‘Quite well, but very anxious.’”
“Ah! ‘Quite well, but very anxious.’ Good night, miss.”
Then Becky went to her little bedroom, and lighting a candle, opened the packet. Fanny was asleep, and Becky read until late in the night.