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.