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.