Great Porter Square: A Mystery. v. 2

by B. L. Farjeon

  CHAPTER XXII.

  IN WHICH BECKY GIVES WAY TO HER FEELINGS, AND RENEWS AN OLDACQUAINTANCE.

  Great Porter Square had really been in a state of excitement thewhole of the day, almost equalling that which raged on the day of thediscovery of the murder. The strange revelation made in the columns ofthe _Evening Moon_--whose account of the identification of the body ofthe murdered man was presented in a form so attractive that editionafter edition was sold with amazing rapidity--invested the murder withfeatures romantic enough to engross general attention. There was love init, there was a beautiful and fascinating woman in it, there was a babyin it, there were a hundred thousand pounds in it. The newsboys drovea rare trade; it brought so much grist to their mill that, as theyjingled the copper and silver in their pockets, they sighed for anothermurder as good to-morrow.

  The public-houses, also, throve wonderfully; their bars were crowded,and the publicans rubbed their hands in glee. People from all parts ofLondon came to Great Porter Square to look at the deserted house. Theystared at the bricks, they stared at the street door, they stared at thewindow. With a feeling of enjoyable awe, they peeped over and throughthe iron railings which surrounded the basement. The downlook was notinviting. The ironwork was covered with rust; the paint was peeling offthe doors and shutters; watchful spiders, ever ready for fresh murder,lurked in the corners of their webs. There was nothing to be frightenedat in these natural signs of neglect and decay; but when a man criedout, "There! there!" and pointed downwards, the people rushed from thepavement into the road. They soon returned, and craned their heads andnecks to gaze upon the melancholy walls. Occasionally a man or a womanascended the three stone steps which led to the street door, and touchedthe woodwork with open hand, as if the contact brought them closer tothe tragedy which had been enacted within.

  As night approached, the number of persons who made a point of passingthrough the Square decreased; but up till ten o'clock there were alwaysabout a dozen sightmongers lingering in the roadway before No. 119, and,among these dozen, generally one who appeared to be acquainted withthe construction and disposition of the rooms, and who described theparticulars of the murder with gloating satisfaction. The police did notinterfere with them, the entertainment being one which a free people wasprivileged to enjoy.

  During the whole of the evening Becky had not found time to read herletter or the newspaper. "They'll burn a hole in my pocket, I am sure,"she thought, "if I keep them there much longer." But when the clockstruck ten a period was put to her state of suspense.

  "I've been in the 'ouse all day, Becky," said Mrs. Preedy; "and whatwith the state of my feelings and the excitement in the Square, I'mquite worn out. I shall run round to Mrs. Beale's for arf-an-hour; takecare of the place while I'm gone."

  Becky nodded, and the moment she heard the street-door close, she satdown at the table, and pulled from her pocket the letter and the copiesof the _Evening Moon_. She read the letter first, kissing it as she drewit from the envelope. It ran as follows:--

  "MY DARLING GIRL,--Your letter has surprised and startled me, and I do not know whether to be alarmed or pleased at the strange news it contains. That you have placed yourself in a perilous position for my sake would make it all the harder for me to bear should anything happen to you. You would do anything, I know, rather than cause me sorrow or add to my anxieties, and I am satisfied that the strange fancy you have carried into execution sprang from a heart full of love. I have reason to know how firm you can be in any task you undertake, and I am not hopeful that I shall succeed in turning you from your purpose. If, until I return to London, you still continue in service, I implore you to be careful, to run no risk, and never to forget that the whole happiness of my life is in your hands. For if the mission upon which I am at present engaged should fail (although filial love and duty will not allow me to relinquish it until I see no possibility of bringing it to a successful issue), the opportunity of our living happily together in another part of the world will always be open to us. But first to perform a son's duty, then to offer you a husband's love and care. All that a man _can_ do shall be done to hasten the day on which I shall be privileged to call you wife.

  "You have placed such trust and confidence in me, you have so firmly relied upon my truth and honour, that I often reproach myself for having kept from you some of the most important incidents in my life. But I was pledged to secresy. I had given my solemn word never to speak of certain matters without the sanction of my father. Thus much you know, and you know, also, that I am now in search of that father for whose mysterious disappearance I am unable to account. When I find him he will release me from a vow I made to him under the most painful and distressing circumstances; then I can offer you the name which is my own, and which I renounced; then I can unfold to you the sad and painful story of my life; then I can hold up my head with honour once more, and take my place among men--the place I lost.

  "You say that you have something to communicate to me which bears upon the murder in Great Porter Square. It is, of course, of the greatest importance to me that I should be cleared of the suspicion which must still attach to me; the police have sharp eyes, and although I gave a false name--as true however, as the charge brought against me--it is quite possible that some person who was in the Police Court might recognise me, and cause me fresh trouble. Therefore I shall scarcely ever feel myself safe in the London streets until the murderer is discovered and punished. But above even this in importance I place the strange disappearance of my father. To find him is my first and paramount desire.

  "The picture you have drawn of Mrs. Bailey, the bedridden old lodger, and her deaf and nearly blind old sister, with the languid linnet, and the moping bullfinch, is most amusing. I shall not be at all surprised if, in your next letter, you inform me that the old lady's mattress is stuffed with bank notes.

  "How highly I value your true womanly attempts to cheer and comfort me! To read your letters is almost to hear you speak, you write so feelingly and earnestly. My fullest love is yours, and yours only. What a loving grateful heart, what willing hands can do, to make you happy when the clouds have cleared, shall be done by me. Rely upon me; have faith in me; and believe me to be,

  "Your faithful lover, "FRED."

  Becky read the letter slowly, with smiles and tears; then kissed itrepeatedly, and placed it in the bosom of her dress.

  Before turning her attention to the newspaper she had bought in theafternoon, she ran upstairs to Mrs. Bailey. The old woman was awake,staring at her birds. She asked Becky to rub her side with the liniment,and the girl--to whose heart Fred's affectionate letter had impartedfresh happiness--did so in a blithe and cheerful manner.

  "You're better than a doctor, Becky," said the old woman, "a thousandtimes better. I was as young and merry as you once--I was indeed.Pretty--too--eh, Becky?"

  "That's to be seen," said Becky, rubbing away. "You have the remainsnow."

  "Have I, Becky, have I--eh?"

  "Indeed you have--you're a good-looking old lady."

  A gleam of vanity and delight lit up the old creature's eyes for amoment.

  "Am I, Becky--eh? You're a good girl--listen; I shall leave yousomething in my will. I'm going to make one--by and bye, but I don'twant any lawyers. You shall do it for me. I can trust you, eh, Becky?"

  "Indeed you can," replied Becky, tucking the old woman in; "you feelmore comfortable now, don't you?"

  "Yes, your soft hands rub the pain away. But it comes again, Becky, itcomes again."

  "So will I, to rub it away again. I must go down now, I have so much todo." She patted the old woman's shoulder, and reached the door, when shestopped and asked, in a careless tone,

  "Have you heard any more mice to-night scratching at the wall in thenext house, Mrs. Bailey."

  "Not a sound, Becky. It's been as quiet as a churchyard."

  As she left the room, Becky heard the old woman mumbling to herself,with the vanity o
f a child,

  "I was pretty once, and I've got the remains now. I'm a good-lookingold lady--a good-looking old lady--a good-looking old lady! Becky's aclever girl--I won't forget her."

  As Becky descended to the kitchen, she heard a newsboy calling out a newedition of the _Evening Moon_. Becky went to the street door and askedthe boy if there was anything fresh in the paper about the murder.

  "A lot," replied the boy; "I've only two copies left, and I thought Icould sell 'em in the Square."

  Becky bought the two copies, and the boy, whose only motive for cominginto the Square was to look at No. 119, refreshed himself by running upand down the steps, and then, retreating to the garden railings, almoststared his eyes out in the endeavour to see the ghost that haunted thedeserted house.

  Once more in the kitchen, Becky sat down, and with a methodical air,opened last evening's paper, and read the "Romance in Real Life" whichhad caused so much excitement. The writer of the narrative would havebeen gratified had he witnessed the interest Becky took in his clevermanipulation of his facts. The most thrilling romance could not havefascinated her as much as this story of to-day, formed as it was out ofwhat may be designated ordinary newspaper material. Not once did shepause, but proceeded steadily on, column after column, every detailbeing indelibly fixed upon her mind. Only when she came to theconcluding words did she raise her head, and become once more consciousof her surroundings.

  She drew a long breath, and looked before her into the air, as thoughendeavouring to obtain from invisible space some connecting linksbetween the new ideas formed by this romance in real life. The dominantthought in her mind as she read the narrative was whether she would beable to obtain from it any clue to connect Richard Manx with the murder.Her desire lay in this direction, without reference to its justice orinjustice, and she would have felt better satisfied had such a cluebeen supplied. But she was compelled to confess that, as far as herknowledge of him went in their brief personal intercourse, he was not inthe remotest way connected with the crime. Say that this _was_ so--saythat he was as little implicated in it as she herself, what, then, washis motive in making his way secretly into the room in which the murderhad been committed? Of the fact that he had done so, without having beenan eye-witness of it, Becky was morally convinced. What was his motivefor this proceeding?

  But Richard Manx did not entirely monopolise her thoughts. With thethreads of the story, as presented in the Supplement of the _EveningMoon_, she wove possibilities which occasioned her great distress, forin these possibilities she saw terrible trouble in the future. If therewas a grain of truth in them, she could not see how this trouble was tobe avoided.

  Of the name of the murdered man, Mr. Holdfast, she was utterly ignorant.She had never heard of him, nor of Lydia Holdfast, his second wife,who, living now, and mourning for the dead, had supplied the facts ofthe case to the Special Reporter of the _Evening Moon_.

  "Had I been in her place," thought Becky, "I should, for very shame'ssake, if not out of consideration for the dead, have been less free withmy tongue. I would have run every risk rather than have allowed myselfto be the talking-stock of the whole country. Lydia Holdfast must be apoor, weak creature. Can I do nothing, nothing?"

  Becky's lips quivered, and had she not been sustained by a high purpose,she might have sought relief in tears.

  "Let me set down my thoughts in plain words," she said aloud. "I shallthen be able to judge more clearly."

  She produced pen, ink, and paper, and wrote the names:

  "Mr. Holdfast.

  "Lydia Holdfast.

  "Frederick Holdfast."

  She gazed at the names and said,

  "My lover's name is Frederick."

  It was as though the paper upon which she was writing represented ahuman being, and spoke the words she wrote.

  She underlined the name "_Frederick_," saying, as she did so, "Forreasons which I shall one day learn, he has concealed his surname."

  The next words she wrote were: "Frederick Holdfast was educated inOxford."

  To which she replied, "_My_ Frederick was educated in Oxford."

  Then she wrote: "Between Frederick Holdfast and his father there was adifference so serious that they quarrelled, and Frederick Holdfast lefthis father's house."

  "My Frederick told me," said Becky aloud, "that he and his father wereseparated because of a family difference. He could tell me no more, hesaid, because of a vow he had made to his father. He has repeated thisin the letter I received from him this evening."

  Becky took the letter from her dress, kissed it, and replaced it in herbosom. "I do not need this," she said, "to assure me of his worth andtruth."

  She proceeded with her task and wrote: "Frederick Holdfast went toAmerica. His father also went to America."

  And answered it with, "_My_ Frederick went to America, and his fatherfollowed him."

  Upon the paper then she wrote: "Mr. Holdfast and his son Frederick bothreturned to England."

  "As my Frederick and his father did," she said.

  And now Becky's fingers trembled. She was approaching the tragedy. Shetraced the words, however, "From the day of his return to England untilyesterday nothing was heard of Mr. Holdfast; and there is no accountingfor his disappearance."

  "Frederick's father also has disappeared," she said, "and there is noaccounting for _his_ disappearance."

  These coincidences were so remarkable that they increased in strengthtenfold as Becky gazed upon the words she had written. And now shecalmly said,

  "If they are true, my Frederick is Frederick Holdfast. If they are true,Frederick Holdfast is a villain." Her face flushed, her bosom rose andfell. "A lie!" she cried. "My lover is the soul of honour and manliness!He is either not Frederick Holdfast, or the story told in the newspaperis a wicked, shameful fabrication. What kind of woman, then, is thisLydia Holdfast, who sheds tears one moment and laughs the next?--whoone moment wrings her hands at the murder of her husband, and the nextdeclares that if she had been born a man she might have been a dreadfulrake? But Frederick Holdfast is dead; the American newspapers publishedthe circumstances of his death and the identification of his body.Thousands of persons read that account, and believed in its truth, asthousands of persons read and are reading this romance of real life, andbelieve in its truth." Contempt and defiance were expressed in Becky'svoice as she touched the copy of the newspaper which had so profoundlyagitated her. "Yet both may be false, and if they are false----"She paused for a few moments, and then continued: "Lydia Holdfast isFrederick Holdfast's enemy. She believes him to be dead; there is nodoubt of that. But if he is alive, and in England, he is in peril--indeadlier peril than my Frederick was, when, as Antony Cowlrick, he wascharged with the murder of an unknown man, and that man--as now isproved--his own father. What did I call Lydia Holdfast just now? a poorweak creature! Not she! An artful, designing, cruel woman, whose safety,perhaps, lies in my Frederick's death. If, without the suspicions whichtorture me, so near to the truth do they seem, it was necessary todiscover the murderer of the poor gentleman who met his death in thenext house, how much more imperative is it now that the mystery shouldbe unravelled! Assist me, Eternal God, to bring the truth to light, andto punish the guilty!"

  She fell upon her knees, and with tears streaming down her face, prayedfor help from above to clear the man she loved from the shameful chargesbrought against him by his father's wife. Her prayers comforted her, andshe rose in a calmer state of mind. "I must look upon this creature,"she thought, "upon this woman in name, who has invented the disgracefulstory. To match her cunning a woman's cunning is needed. Lydia Holdfast,I declare myself your enemy!"

  A noise in the street attracted Becky's attention, and diverted herthoughts. She hurried from her kitchen, and opened the street door.Twenty or thirty persons were crowding round one, who was lyinginsensible upon the pavement. They cried, "Give her air!" and pressedmore closely upon the helpless form.

  "A glass of water!" "Poor child!" "Go and fetch a little brandy!" "F
etcha policeman!" "She's shamming!" "Starving, more likely!" "Starving?she's got three boxes of matches in her hands!" "Well, you brute, shecan't eat matches!"

  These and other cries greeted Becky as she opened the door, and lookedout into the Square.

  "What's the matter?" she asked, striving to push her way into the crowd,which did not willingly yield to her.

  It was a poor child, her clothes in rags, who had fainted on theflagstones before the house.

  "She's coming to!" exclaimed a woman.

  The child opened her eyes.

  "What are you doing here?" asked a man, roughly.

  "I came to see the ghost!" replied the child, in a weak, pleading littlevoice.

  The people laughed; they did not see the pathetic side of the picture.

  But the child's voice, faint as it was, reached Becky's heart. It was avoice familiar to her. She pushed through the crowd vigorously, and bentover the child.

  "Blanche!" screamed the child, bursting into hysterical sobs. "O,Blanche! Blanche!"

  It was Fanny, the little match girl.

  "Hush, Fanny!" whispered Becky. "Hush my dear!"

  She raised the poor child in her arms, and a shudder of pain andcompassion escaped her as she felt how light the little body was.Fanny's face was covered with tears, and through her tears she laughed,and clung to Becky.

  "I know her," said Becky to the people, "I will take care of her."

  And kissing the thin, dirty face of the laughing, sobbing, clingingchild, Becky carried her into the house, and closed the street-door uponthe crowd.

  "Well, I'm blowed!" exclaimed the man who had distinguished himself byhis rough words. "If this 'ere ain't the rummiest Square in London!"