CHAPTER XIV
IN WHICH BECKY COMMENCES A LETTER TO A FRIEND IN THE COUNTRY
ON the following evening, Becky, the maid-of-all-work, having received a reluctant permission from her mistress to go out until ten o’clock, wrote and posted the following letter: —
MY DARLING FRED, – I will now give you an account of all that has passed since I saw your dear face. I could not write to you before to-day, for the reason that I did not get an address until this morning, when I received your dear letter. It was short, but I was overjoyed when the man at the post office gave it to me. He looked at me suspiciously, having a doubt whether I was the person I represented myself to be. I dare say this remark makes you wonder a little; but you would wonder more if you had seen me when I asked for your letter. Now, be patient, and you will soon learn why.
Patient! Have you not been patient? What other man in the world would have borne what you have borne with such fortitude and courage? None – no, not one! But it is for my sake as well as your own, that, instead of taking your revenge upon the wretches who have persecuted you, you schooled yourself to the endurance of their cruelty, in the hope that the day would come when they would be compelled to set you free. And it came – and you are free! O, my dear! I pray day and night that all will come right in the end.
It seems as if this were going to be a long, long letter, but I cannot help it. I must wander on in my own way, and I have got more than three hours, all to myself.
What have I been doing since you went away? That is what you are asking yourself? Prepare for wonders. I would give you ten thousand guesses, and you would not come near the truth.
You shall be told without guessing. I found it very dull in the lodging you took for me; the days dragged on so slowly, and I thought the nights would never end.
What did I want? Something to do.
Now, with this in my mind, an inspiration fell upon me one night, and the moment it did so I could not help thinking myself a selfish, idle little woman for not having thought of it before. That sounds rather confused, but you will understand it.
So the very next morning I set about it. How, do you think? And about what?
I went to a poor little shop in a lane in Chelsea, where they sell second-hand clothes, and I bought two common frocks, and some common petticoats, and everything else – boots, cloak, hat – such a hat! – and a bunch of false hair. The clothes were very cheap. I do not know how the woman could have sold them for the money except that the poor creatures who sold them to her must have been so near starvation’s door that they were compelled to part with them at any price.
I took them home to my lodgings, and dressed myself in them, put on my false hair, and smudged my face. I looked exactly like the part I intended to play – a servant-of-all-work, ready to go on the stage.
You are burning to know in what theatre I intended to play the part. I will tell you. Don’t start. Great Porter Square.
Of all places in the world (I hear you say) the one place I should wish my little woman to avoid. Your little woman thought differently – thinks differently.
This is what I said to myself: Here is my darling working day and night to get at the heart of a great mystery in which he is involved. He endures dreadful hardships, suffers imprisonment and cruel indignities, and travels hundreds and hundreds of miles, in his endeavour to unravel the mystery which affects his peace and mine – his future and mine – his honour and mine! And here am I, with nothing to do, living close to the very spot where the fearful crime was committed, sitting down in wicked idleness, without making the slightest attempt to assist the man for whom I would cheerfully die, but for whom I would much more cheerfully live. Why should I not go and live in Great Porter Square, assuming such a disguise as would enable me to hear everything that was going on – all the tittle-tattle – all the thousand little things, and words, and circumstances which have never been brought to light – and which might lead to a clue which would help the man I would much more cheerfully live for than die for?
There was no impropriety in what I determined to do, and in what I have done. I must tell you that there is in me a more determined, earnest spirit than you ever gave me credit for. Now that I am actively engaged in this adventure, I know that I am brave and strong and cunning, and a little bird whispers to me that I shall discover something – God alone knows what – which will be of importance to you.
Do you think I shall be debarred by fear of ghosts? I am not frightened of ghosts.
Now you know how it is I arrived at my resolution. Do not blame me for it, and do not write to me to give it up. I do not think I could, even if you commanded me.
I did not make a move until night came. Fortunately, it was a dark night. I watched my opportunity, and when nobody was on the stairs, I glided down in my disguise, slipped open the street door, and vanished from the neighbourhood.
I had never been in Great Porter Square, but it seemed to me as if I must know where it was, and when I thought I was near the Square I went into a greengrocer’s shop and inquired. It was quite close, the woman said, just round the corner to the left.
The Square, my dear, as you know, is a very dismal-looking place. There are very few gas lamps in it, and the inclosure in the centre, which they call a garden, containing a few melancholy trees and shrubs, does not add to its attractiveness. When I came to 119, I crossed the road and looked up at the windows. They were quite dark, and there was a bill in one, “To Let.” It had a very gloomy appearance, but the other houses were little better off in that respect. There was not one which did not seem to indicate that some person was lying dead in it, and that a funeral was going to take place to-morrow.
There were a great many rooms to let in Great Porter Square, especially in the houses near to No. 119. No. 118 appeared to be almost quite empty, for, except in a room at the very top of the house, and in the basement, there was not a light to be seen. I did not wonder at it.
Well, my dear, my walk round the Square did not help me much, so what did I do but walk back to the greengrocer’s shop. You know the sort of shop. The people sell coals, wood, gingerbeer, and lemonade, the day before yesterday’s bunches of flowers, and the day before yesterday’s cabbages and vegetables.
“Didn’t you find it?” asked the woman.
“O, yes,” I replied, “but I didn’t find what I was looking for. I heard that a servant was wanted in one of the houses, and I have forgotten the number.”
“There’s a house in the Square,” said the woman, “where they want a servant bad, but they can’t get one to stop.”
“What’s the number?” I asked.
“No. 118,” the woman answered. “Next to – but perhaps you don’t know.”
“Don’t know what?” I inquired.
“That it’s next door to the house where a murder was committed,” she said.
“What is that to me?” I said. “I didn’t do it.”
The woman looked at me admiringly. “Well,” she said, “you’ve got a nerve! And you don’t look it, neither. You look delicate.”
“Don’t you go by looks,” I said, “I’m stronger than you think.”
Then I thanked her, and went to No. 118 Great Porter Square, and knocked at the door.
CHAPTER XV
IN WHICH BECKY CONTINUES HER LETTER AND RELATES HOW SHE OBTAINED THE SITUATION AT NO. 118
I HAD to wait a little while before my knock was answered, and then I heard, in a woman’s voice,
“Who’s there?”
“A girl,” I replied. “I heard you were in want of one.”
“Are you alone?”
“Yes.”
The street-door was thrown suddenly open, and a woman appeared on the doorstep, with a lighted candle in her hand, which the wind instantly blew out. The woman was Mrs. Preedy, lodging-house keeper, my present mistress. She tried to see my face, but the night was too dark.
“Wait a minute,” she said; “stand where you are.”
Upon my word, my dear, I believe she was afraid of poor little me.
She retreated into the passage, and re-lit the candle. Shading and protecting it with her hand, she bade me walk in, but not to shut the street-door. I obeyed her, and she examined me, seeming to measure whether she was a match for me in strength.
“How did you know I wanted a servant?” she asked.
“They told me at the greengrocer’s round the corner,” I said.
“Where did you live last?”
I replied promptly, “I have never been in service. But I am sure I should suit you. I am strong and willing, and I don’t mind what I do so long as the place is comfortable.”
“It’s comfortable enough,” she said. “Are you a London girl?”
“No, I come from the country.”
“What made you leave the country?”
I cast down my eyes. “I had a quarrel with my young man.”
Just reflect for a moment, my dear, upon my boldness!
“It ain’t the thing to take a girl without a character,” said Mrs. Preedy.
Upon this I delivered a master-stroke.
“You can consider it in the wages,” I said.
It had an effect upon the woman. “How much do you expect?” she asked.
“I’m not particular,” I answered; “all I want is a comfortable home.”
There were plenty more questions and answers. Mrs. Preedy must have been in a desperate plight for a domestic, or I should have stood a poor chance of being engaged; but engaged I was at £8 a year, “all found,” and I commenced my new life at once by following my mistress into the kitchen, and washing up the plates and dishes, and cleaning the candlesticks. Mrs. Preedy’s eye was on me.
“It’s easy to see,” she said, “that you’ve never been in service before. But I dare say you’ll do. Mind! I make my girls pay for all they break!”
I can’t help laughing when I think of her words. Reckoning up the things I have already let slip – (they will do it; I can’t prevent them; really I believe they are alive) – I have arrived at the conclusion that the whole of my first month’s wages will be presented to me in broken crockery. My cheerfulness over my misfortunes is a source of considerable astonishment to my mistress.
When I finished washing up the things, I was sent out to “The Green Dragon” for the supper beer, and upon my return, took possession of my very small bedroom, and, unpacking my bundle of clothes (which had already been untied and examined by Mrs. Preedy while I was fetching the supper beer – artful woman!) I went to bed. Mrs. Preedy had no need to tell me to be up early in the morning. I was awake all night, but I was not unhappy, for I thought of you and of the likelihood that I might be able to help you.
My name, my dear, is Becky.
So behold me fairly launched on my adventure. And let me entreat of you, once and for all, not to distress yourself about me. I am very comfortable, and as the house is almost empty there is not much to do. It is astonishing how easily we accustom ourselves to circumstances.
Mrs. Preedy had only one lodger when I entered her service – a bedridden old lady, Mrs. Bailey, who has not left her bed for more than three years. She lives on the first floor in a back room, and is the widow of a soldier who bequeathed to her half-a-dozen medals, and a small annuity, upon which she just manages to live. This is what the old lady herself declares; she has “barely enough – barely enough; not a penny to spare!” But Mrs. Preedy is firm in the belief – popularly shared by every householder in Great Porter Square – that the old lady is very rich, and has a hoard of gold hidden in her apartment, the exact locality being the mattress upon which she lies. As she never leaves her bed, the demonstration of this suspicion is not practicable without violence to the old lady’s bones and feelings. She pays Mrs. Preedy twelve shillings a week for her room and two meals a day, and she occasionally takes a fancy to a little delicacy, which may cost her about eighteenpence more a week, so it is not difficult to calculate the amount of the annuity.
The days of Mrs. Bailey’s existence should pass wearily enough in all conscience, but she appears to enjoy herself, her chief source of amusement being two birds, a linnet which never sings a note, and a bullfinch that looks as old as Methuselah. Their cages hang on the wall at the foot of the old lady’s bed. They never catch a glimpse of the sun, and their movements have scarcely in them the brisk movement of feathered things. Their hops are languid, and the bullfinch mopes dreadfully.
The old lady was an object of interest to me at once. One by one, shortly after the murder next door was committed, Mrs. Preedy’s lodgers left her. Only Mrs. Bailey remained, the apparent reason being that she was helpless. She appears to have but one friend in the world (not taking her birds into account), a sister older than herself, who comes to spend an afternoon with her once in every month, who is very deaf, almost blind, and who cannot walk without the assistance of a thick stick. The old creature, whose name I do not know, takes snuff, and inspires me with a fear that she will one day suddenly fall all to pieces – in the way that I once saw harlequin in a pantomime do. I have no hope that, if such a dreadful thing happens, she will have a clown at her elbow, as the harlequin had, who in the most marvellous manner put the pieces together and brought them to life again. To see these two old ladies, as I saw them a few days ago, with the languid linnet and the moping bullfinch, is a sight not easy to forget.
Although I have written such a long letter, I have not told you half I intended. To-morrow I will send you another, which I will write to-night, while Mrs. Preedy is asleep. If you think I have nothing to say which has the slightest bearing upon the murder, you are mistaken; but you must restrain your impatience till to-morrow.
My darling, I write in a light vein, I know, but my feeling is deep and earnest. I want to cheer you, if I can, and win a smile from you. Before we met in Leicester Square, on the day you were released, I was serious enough, and in deep trouble; but the moment we were together again, hope entered my heart, and, with that bright angel, a little of the gaiety of spirits in which you used to take delight. Hope is with me now. Receive it from me, if you are despondent. I kiss it into this letter, and send you my heart with it. No – how can I do that, when you have my heart already! And if, with that in your possession, you do not now and then see a ray of light in the midst of your anxieties, I shall call you ungrateful. Adieu, my love for a few hours.
For ever and ever your own,BECKY.
CHAPTER XVI
IN WHICH BECKY WRITES A SECOND LETTER TO HER FRIEND IN THE COUNTRY, AND GIVES A WOMAN’S REASON FOR NOT LIKING RICHARD MANX
MY OWN 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 – playing softly – 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 story of 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 than one lodger,” 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 the justice 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.