“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:—

To this letter was appended an Editorial Note:

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.”

“You’re in luck’s way, Becky,” said Mrs. Preedy.

“That I am,” said Becky. “Can I do anything more for you to-night?”

“Nothing more, thank you,” said Mrs. Preedy, very politely. “Good night, Becky.”

“Good night, mum.”

Never in that house had such cordial relations as these existed between mistress and “slavey.”

Becky slept but little. The strange revelations made in the columns of the Evening Moon, the vindication of Frederick Holdfast’s character by an unknown friend, the appearance of Fanny, the expected return of her lover, were events too stirring to admit of calm slumber. Her dreams were as disturbed as her rest. She dreamt of her Frederick lying dead on the banks of a distant river, and the man who had killed him was bending over the body, rifling the pockets. The man raised his head; it was Richard Manx, sucking his acid drops. “Ah, charming Becky,” said the man; “accept this ring—this bracelet—this dress. Your lover is dead. I take his place. I am, for ever, your devoted.” She fled from him, and he followed her through her dreams, presenting himself in a hundred fantastic ways. “Come,” he said, “I will show you something pretty.” He seized her hand, and dragged her to a Court-house, in the witness-box of which stood Lydia Holdfast, giving deadly evidence against Frederick, who was also there, being tried for the murder of his father. “Let me go!” cried Becky. “I can save him from that woman!” But Richard Manx held her fast. “I am your lover, not he,” he whispered; “you shall not save him. He must die.” She could not move, nor could she raise her voice so that the people round about could hear her. The scene changed. She and Frederick were together, in prison. “There is but one hope for me,” said Frederick; “even yet I may be saved. Track that woman,” (and here Lydia Holdfast appeared, smiling in triumph), “follow her, do not allow her out of your sight. But be careful; she is as cunning as a fox, and will slip through your fingers when you least expect it.” Then she and Lydia Holdfast alone played parts in the running commentary of her dreams. “What do you want to find out,” said Lydia Holdfast; “about me? I am a simple creature—but you are much more simple. It is a battle between us, for the life of a man, for the honour of a man. I accept. If you were a thousand times cleverer than you are, you shall not save him.” Becky found herself with this woman in the most extraordinary connections—on the stage of a theatre, where both were enacting characters in the drama of the murder—by a dark river, lighted up by lightning flashes—struggling in the midst of a closely-packed crowd—following each other over the roofs of houses—and Lydia Holdfast, in every fresh presentment, crying, “Well! Have you saved him yet?”

Becky awoke from these dreams in tears, and was glad she had Fanny in bed with her. She rose early, and at eight o’clock went out to buy some clothes for the child. When Fanny appeared before Mrs. Preedy in the kitchen, she was a decent-looking, tidy little girl, with a world of happiness in her face. She had found her friend, her angel friend, who would never again desert her. She understood in some dim way that Becky would call upon her for help in the secret which had caused her to assume the disguise of a servant. “I ’ope it’s somethink ’ard she wants me to do,” thought Fanny. She would like to show Becky what love and gratitude could accomplish.

“You’re a nice looking little thing,” said Mrs. Preedy, pinching Fanny’s cheek.

At about eleven o’clock, Becky asked and received permission to “go to the lawyer’s” to receive her money. Before she left the house she said to Fanny,

“You don’t forget what I said to you last night.”

“I couldn’t if I tried,” replied Fanny.

“Mrs. Preedy is to know nothing. You understand, Fanny?”

“Yes.”

“I shall be out for nearly an hour. If you hear a knock at the street door run up and open it, and if a gentleman comes and asks for me, tell him I shall be back before twelve.”

“I’ll tell him, Becky.”

No person called, however; and Becky, returning, gave Mrs. Preedy forty pounds to take care of. “That,” she thought, “will enable me to keep in this house as long as I choose to remain.”

All the day she waited for news of her lover. As the hours dragged on, her state of suspense became most painful. In the early part of the evening she received a note by the hands of a messenger.

“My darling,” it said, “I am in the deepest grief. A dreadful calamity has overtaken me, and I must consider well and reflect before I move a step. I think it best for me not to present myself in Great Porter Square. You want to see me, I know, as I want to see you, but before we meet it is necessary that you should read a Statement I am preparing for you, and which will be in your hands late tonight. There must be no more secrets between us. Believe me ever your devoted and unhappy lover.”

At eleven o’clock Becky received the “Statement.” It was a thick packet, on the outside of which was written: “For no other eyes but yours.” When the messenger arrived—he was a middle-aged man, with a shrewd face and eye—Mrs. Preedy was out of the house, gossiping as usual with Mrs. Beale, and confiding to her the wonderful news that she had a servant who was very rich. Mrs. Beale gave Mrs. Preedy a bit of shrewd advice. “Orfer to go into partnership with ’er, my dear,” said Mrs. Beale, “and take a ’ouse on the other side of the Square.” Mrs. Preedy confessed it was not half a bad idea.

“I am to give this packet,” said the messenger, “into the hands of a young woman named Becky.”

“I am Becky,” said the anxious girl.

“The gentleman was very particular,” continued the messenger, “and I am to ask you if you expected it.”

“Yes, I expected it.”

“Then I was to ask you for the first letter of the gentleman’s Christian name.”

“F.”

“That is correct.” And the man handed Becky the packet.

“Where is the gentleman staying?” asked Becky, offering the man a shilling.

“No, thank you. I am well paid for what I am doing, and I was told not to accept anything. ‘Where is the gentleman staying?’ I have no instructions to answer the question. There is nothing else, I think. Yes, there is something else. Are you well?”

“Quite well.”

“I am to say that? ‘Quite well.’”

“Yes, say ‘Quite well, but very anxious.’”

“Ah! ‘Quite well, but very anxious.’ Good night, miss.”

Then Becky went to her little bedroom, and lighting a candle, opened the packet. Fanny was asleep, and Becky read until late in the night.