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.