BECKY’S REPLY TO HER LOVER’S STATEMENT.

My Dearest,—It is now very near morning, within an hour of the time I am expected to rise. I have been up all night, and having read the story of your life from beginning to end, have re-read some portions again and again, so that they shall be fixed permanently in my mind. How I love and pity you! To say, as you desire me to say, that my faith is not shaken, is but a poor expression of my feelings towards you. My faith is strengthened, my love is strengthened, my hope is strengthened. Sitting in my little cupboard of a bedroom, with Fanny sleeping peacefully in my bed—yes, my dear, my poor little friend is with me again; I found her, the night before last, fainting for food at the street door of No.119—sitting here, in the presence of that poor human waif, with my candle nearly burnt out, and the dim light of morning just beginning to dawn, it seems to me as if a star is shining upon me, instilling into my heart a wonderful faith and courage.

I am not tired, but that may be because of my excitement and exaltation. I intend to be careful and prudent. When the housework is done, I shall take some rest. I might have a little now, but that I can turn my thoughts to nothing until I write to you what is in my mind. My faith is not shaken; I repeat it; and I add, let not your faith be shaken. Whatever occurs, do not for a moment doubt me, do not for a moment lose faith in me. You say that I must have been guided by a higher than a human impulse when I took the strange step of transforming myself into a servant-of-all-work, and seeking service with Mrs. Preedy, in the house next to that in which your dear father was murdered. Do you remember my telling you in my first letter that an inspiration had fallen upon me when I conceived the idea? And if at that time, before it was known who it was who had been so mysteriously murdered, I believed my idea to be an inspiration, how much more reason have I to believe it now that the awful crime is brought so close to us and is woven into your life? You declare that you will bring your father’s murderer to justice, and you ask me to help you. What answer can I make you? This. That all that a woman’s power, all that a woman’s devotion, all that a woman’s self-sacrifice, can do to the end to which you have pledged yourself, shall be done by me. I can do much, more than you can imagine possible, if certain thoughts, created by what you have written, touch even the border-land of truth. They do, I believe, and they will lead me to the fulfilment of what we both with all our hearts desire.

But you must be guided by me. For once in the way, let a woman take the command, and let her prove herself capable. Not that you could not accomplish what is necessary for our happiness, and in the cause of truth and justice, a great deal better than I. But your hands are not free; you cannot move without the risk of being watched, and persecuted, and hampered—while I am free to act, without the slightest chance of being suspected. I am comparatively unknown, and can work without fear; besides, I am a woman, and can do what you would scorn to do. No man can be a match for such a creature as Lydia Holdfast—let us call her by that name. It must be a case of Greek meeting Greek, and in me this woman will find more than her match. So for the present do not move openly; do not run the risk of being discovered. Do nothing that will put our enemies on their guard; above all, do not write to the newspaper which published Lydia Holdfast’s infamous story; a friend has already stepped forward in vindication of your character, and that should be a comfort to you, as it is to me. You are right in saying that it will be best it should be believed that you are dead; therefore, do nothing rashly, but leave all to me.

See, now—I am writing with so much confidence and assurance that anyone who did not know me would suppose I had a very wise head on my shoulders. Well, it may not be very wise, but it is clever and cunning, and that is just what is wanted—cunning to meet cunning. What is it Shakespeare says about wearing your heart upon your sleeve? Not for me; I will keep my heart hidden, where only you can find it, and will wear in its place something that will make me smile, or pout, or cry—whichever will best serve my turn.

You see, my dear, I am on the spot, and in a position which gives me such immense advantages. Your father has been cruelly murdered—the discovery of the murderer will lead to all the rest. There is in this house a man who is in some way interested in the mystery, who is living under an assumed name, who paints and wears a wig, and who endeavours to pass himself off as a foreigner. I must find out who this Richard Manx really is, and what is his motive in taking a room at the very top of the house, and in presenting himself here under a disguise. It is to him I have traced the report that our house and the next are haunted. He has a purpose in spreading the report. Perhaps it is because he does not wish the house to be let until he has found what he is searching for in the room in which your poor father was killed. He might take it himself you say. But would not this be to attract to himself an amount of attention which would not be agreeable to him? As to his being as poor as he professes to be, I do not believe a word of it. He has taken up his quarters here in such a manner as to cause him to be but little noticed, and it has been done with deliberate intention.

I could say a hundred other things, my mind is so crowded, but I have no time. I shall not send this letter through the post. Asleep in my bed is a trusty little friend, who will faithfully carry out what I give her to do. She will come to you, and you can say whatever you please to her—give her what message you like—and do not attempt to employ her in any other way than in bringing to me whatever you wish me to receive. I myself have a very delicate piece of work for her to do.

I long to see you, to embrace you, to comfort you; but for a little while we must remain apart. I cannot come to you, nor can you come to me. We have too much at stake to run the slightest risk. I propose to write to you every night, and to send Fanny to you every morning with my letters. You can give her your letters to me. Do not send any more strange men to the house. Richard Manx might see them, and his suspicions might be aroused. Perhaps the hardest duty before us is the duty of patience, but unless we submit we shall fail in our purpose. So let us be brave and patient, working not for the present, but for the future. My love, my heart, are yours for ever, and I thank God that I have such a man as you to love. If I write in a more serious vein than I am accustomed to do, it is because I recognise the seriousness of the task upon which we are engaged; it is not that I am altered; I could not write lightly if I tried, and in your eyes I would not be false.

I cannot say good-night. It is morning. Well, to us sunrise is better than sunset. Keep a stout heart, and do not despond—for your own sake and mine. Farewell, dear love, for a few hours.

END OF VOLUME II.