Great Porter Square: A Mystery. Volume 2

But Richard Manx did not entirely monopolise her thoughts. With the threads of the story, as presented in the Supplement of the Evening Moon, she wove possibilities which occasioned her great distress, for in these possibilities she saw terrible trouble in the future. If there was a grain of truth in them, she could not see how this trouble was to be avoided.

Of the name of the murdered man, Mr. Holdfast, she was utterly ignorant. She had never heard of him, nor of Lydia Holdfast, his second wife, who, living now, and mourning for the dead, had supplied the facts of the case to the Special Reporter of the Evening Moon.

“Had I been in her place,” thought Becky, “I should, for very shame’s sake, if not out of consideration for the dead, have been less free with my tongue. I would have run every risk rather than have allowed myself to be the talking-stock of the whole country. Lydia Holdfast must be a poor, weak creature. Can I do nothing, nothing?”

Becky’s lips quivered, and had she not been sustained by a high purpose, she might have sought relief in tears.

“Let me set down my thoughts in plain words,” she said aloud. “I shall then be able to judge more clearly.”

She produced pen, ink, and paper, and wrote the names:

“Mr. Holdfast.

“Lydia Holdfast.

“Frederick Holdfast.”

She gazed at the names and said,

“My lover’s name is Frederick.”

It was as though the paper upon which she was writing represented a human being, and spoke the words she wrote.

She underlined the name “Frederick,” saying, as she did so, “For reasons which I shall one day learn, he has concealed his surname.”

The next words she wrote were: “Frederick Holdfast was educated in Oxford.”

To which she replied, “My Frederick was educated in Oxford.”

Then she wrote: “Between Frederick Holdfast and his father there was a difference so serious that they quarrelled, and Frederick Holdfast left his father’s house.”

“My Frederick told me,” said Becky aloud, “that he and his father were separated because of a family difference. He could tell me no more, he said, because of a vow he had made to his father. He has repeated this in the letter I received from him this evening.”

Becky took the letter from her dress, kissed it, and replaced it in her bosom. “I do not need this,” she said, “to assure me of his worth and truth.”

She proceeded with her task and wrote: “Frederick Holdfast went to America. His father also went to America.”

And answered it with, “My Frederick went to America, and his father followed him.”

Upon the paper then she wrote: “Mr. Holdfast and his son Frederick both returned to England.”

“As my Frederick and his father did,” she said.

And now Becky’s fingers trembled. She was approaching the tragedy. She traced the words, however, “From the day of his return to England until yesterday nothing was heard of Mr. Holdfast; and there is no accounting for his disappearance.”

“Frederick’s father also has disappeared,” she said, “and there is no accounting for his disappearance.”

These coincidences were so remarkable that they increased in strength tenfold as Becky gazed upon the words she had written. And now she calmly said,

“If they are true, my Frederick is Frederick Holdfast. If they are true, Frederick Holdfast is a villain.” Her face flushed, her bosom rose and fell. “A lie!” she cried. “My lover is the soul of honour and manliness! He is either not Frederick Holdfast, or the story told in the newspaper is a wicked, shameful fabrication. What kind of woman, then, is this Lydia Holdfast, who sheds tears one moment and laughs the next? – who one moment wrings her hands at the murder of her husband, and the next declares that if she had been born a man she might have been a dreadful rake? But Frederick Holdfast is dead; the American newspapers published the circumstances of his death and the identification of his body. Thousands of persons read that account, and believed in its truth, as thousands of persons read and are reading this romance of real life, and believe in its truth.” Contempt and defiance were expressed in Becky’s voice as she touched the copy of the newspaper which had so profoundly agitated her. “Yet both may be false, and if they are false – ” She paused for a few moments, and then continued: “Lydia Holdfast is Frederick Holdfast’s enemy. She believes him to be dead; there is no doubt of that. But if he is alive, and in England, he is in peril – in deadlier peril than my Frederick was, when, as Antony Cowlrick, he was charged with the murder of an unknown man, and that man – as now is proved – his own father. What did I call Lydia Holdfast just now? a poor weak creature! Not she! An artful, designing, cruel woman, whose safety, perhaps, lies in my Frederick’s death. If, without the suspicions which torture me, so near to the truth do they seem, it was necessary to discover the murderer of the poor gentleman who met his death in the next house, how much more imperative is it now that the mystery should be unravelled! Assist me, Eternal God, to bring the truth to light, and to punish the guilty!”

She fell upon her knees, and with tears streaming down her face, prayed for help from above to clear the man she loved from the shameful charges brought against him by his father’s wife. Her prayers comforted her, and she rose in a calmer state of mind. “I must look upon this creature,” she thought, “upon this woman in name, who has invented the disgraceful story. To match her cunning a woman’s cunning is needed. Lydia Holdfast, I declare myself your enemy!”

A noise in the street attracted Becky’s attention, and diverted her thoughts. She hurried from her kitchen, and opened the street door. Twenty or thirty persons were crowding round one, who was lying insensible upon the pavement. They cried, “Give her air!” and pressed more closely upon the helpless form.

“A glass of water!” “Poor child!” “Go and fetch a little brandy!” “Fetch a policeman!” “She’s shamming!” “Starving, more likely!” “Starving? she’s got three boxes of matches in her hands!” “Well, you brute, she can’t eat matches!”

These and other cries greeted Becky as she opened the door, and looked out into the Square.

“What’s the matter?” she asked, striving to push her way into the crowd, which did not willingly yield to her.

It was a poor child, her clothes in rags, who had fainted on the flagstones before the house.

“She’s coming to!” exclaimed a woman.

The child opened her eyes.

“What are you doing here?” asked a man, roughly.

“I came to see the ghost!” replied the child, in a weak, pleading little voice.

The people laughed; they did not see the pathetic side of the picture.

But the child’s voice, faint as it was, reached Becky’s heart. It was a voice familiar to her. She pushed through the crowd vigorously, and bent over the child.

“Blanche!” screamed the child, bursting into hysterical sobs. “O, Blanche! Blanche!”

It was Fanny, the little match girl.

“Hush, Fanny!” whispered Becky. “Hush my dear!”

She raised the poor child in her arms, and a shudder of pain and compassion escaped her as she felt how light the little body was. Fanny’s face was covered with tears, and through her tears she laughed, and clung to Becky.

“I know her,” said Becky to the people, “I will take care of her.”

And kissing the thin, dirty face of the laughing, sobbing, clinging child, Becky carried her into the house, and closed the street-door upon the crowd.

“Well, I’m blowed!” exclaimed the man who had distinguished himself by his rough words. “If this ’ere ain’t the rummiest Square in London!”

CHAPTER XXIII

“JUSTICE” SENDS A LETTER TO THE EDITOR OF THE “EVENING MOON.”

CLOSER and 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.”

“I do mind, 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 out gossiping, 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 it does mean, 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 her face 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 last Evening Moon she 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 the Evening 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 only reads like a romance, but, with reference to one of the characters it introduces to a too curious public, it is a 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 to describe, 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 from each 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. That he 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 this letter, 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 ready to 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 circumstance of 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 you have 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. Preedy unable 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.”