Great Porter Square: A Mystery. Volume 2. Farjeon Benjamin Leopold

insinuatingly, “am a poor gentleman. Ah! If I were – a – rich, I should say to you, accept this ring.” He made a motion as if offering her a ring. “Accept this – a – bracelet,” with corresponding action. “Or this dress. But I have not – a – money.” He took another acid drop. “It is a misfortune. But what can a poor devil do? You do not – a – despise me because I am thus?”

      “Oh, no. I hope you will be rich one day.”

      “It will happen,” he said, in a quick, eager tone. “From my country” – he waved his hands vaguely – “shall come what I wait for here. Then shall I say to you, ‘Becky’ – pardon; I have heard the amiable Mrs. Preedy thus call you – ‘Becky,’ shall I say, ‘be no longer a servant. Be a lady.’ How then, will you speak?”

      “I must not listen to you,” replied Becky, coquettishly; “you foreign gentlemen have such smooth tongues that they are enough to turn a poor girl’s head.” They were now in Great Porter Square. “What a number of people there are in the square,” she said.

      “It is – a – remarkable, this murder. The man is – a – found.”

      “What man?” cried Becky, excitedly. “The murderer!”

      “Ah, no. That is not yet. It is the dead man who is – what do you call it? – discovered. That is it. He was not known – he is known. His name has come to the light. Yesterday he was a beggar – to-day he is rich. What, then? He is dead. His millions – in my country’s money, sweet Becky, veritably millions – shall not bring life into his bones. His money is – a – here. He is” – Richard Manx looked up at the sky – “Ah, he is there! or” – he cast his eyes to the pavement – “there! We shall not know till there comes a time. It is sad.”

      “He was a rich gentleman, you say. What could have induced a rich man to live in such a neighbourhood?”

      “In such a neighbourhood!” Richard Manx smiled, and shrugged his shoulders. “Ah! he came here not to die, surely – no, to live. It would have been well – for him – that he came not; but so it was. What should induce him here? you ask of me. Becky, I shall ask of the air.” He put himself into the attitude of listening. “Ha! ha! I hear perhaps the reason. There was a lady. Enough. We shall not betray more. I propose to you a thought. I live in the amiable house of Mrs. Preedy. It is high, my apartment. Wherefore? I am a poor gentleman – as yet. I am one morning discovered – dead. Startle not yourself. It will not be – no, it will not be; but I propose to you my thought. You would not be glad – you would not laugh, if so it should be?”

      “It would be a shocking thing,” said Becky, gravely.

      “It is well. I thank you – your face is sad, your eyes are not so bright. Then when I am thus, as I have said – dead! – from my country comes what I wait for here – money, also in millions. ‘Ah,’ says the amiable Mrs. Preedy, ‘what could induce’ – your word is good – ‘what could induce one who was rich to live in such a neighbourhood?’ Observe me, Becky. I place my hand, on my heart and say, ‘There is a lady.’ Ah, yes, though you call yourself not so, I say, ‘There is a lady.’ I say no more. We are at home. You are beautiful, and I – till for ever – am your devoted. If it were not for so many people – I am discreet, Becky – I should kiss your hand.”

      And, indeed, the remark that he was discreet was proved by the change in his manner, now that he and Becky were in closer contact with strangers; the tenderness left his face, and observers at a distance would never have guessed that he was making something very much like a declaration of love to the girl. He opened the street door with his latch-key, and went up to his garret, sucking his acid drops. Becky opened the little gate and went down to her kitchen, where her mind was set at ease by seeing Mrs. Preedy still asleep in her arm chair.

      Becky looked at her hand. It was a pretty hand and small, but the work she had done lately rather detracted from its prettiness. There was dirt on it, too, from the scrubbing and cleaning of the day. “He would kiss my hand,” she murmured. “I am afraid our innocent young man lodger is a bit of a flirt. Be careful, young man. You are not in this house without a motive; you are in danger if that motive touches the welfare of the man I love!”

      This soliloquy, in which she indulged in the kitchen, might have been of greater length had not Mrs. Preedy stirred in her sleep. The slight movement was sufficient to wake her.

      “I do believe, Becky,” she said, opening her eyes, “that I have overslept myself.”

      CHAPTER XXII

      IN WHICH BECKY GIVES WAY TO HER FEELINGS, AND RENEWS AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE

      GREAT PORTER SQUARE had really been in a state of excitement the whole of the day, almost equalling that which raged on the day of the discovery of the murder. The strange revelation made in the columns of the Evening Moon– whose account of the identification of the body of the murdered man was presented in a form so attractive that edition after edition was sold with amazing rapidity – invested the murder with features romantic enough to engross general attention. There was love in it, there was a beautiful and fascinating woman in it, there was a baby in it, there were a hundred thousand pounds in it. The newsboys drove a rare trade; it brought so much grist to their mill that, as they jingled the copper and silver in their pockets, they sighed for another murder 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 of London came to Great Porter Square to look at the deserted house. They stared at the bricks, they stared at the street door, they stared at the window. With a feeling of enjoyable awe, they peeped over and through the iron railings which surrounded the basement. The downlook was not inviting. The ironwork was covered with rust; the paint was peeling off the doors and shutters; watchful spiders, ever ready for fresh murder, lurked in the corners of their webs. There was nothing to be frightened at in these natural signs of neglect and decay; but when a man cried out, “There! there!” and pointed downwards, the people rushed from the pavement into the road. They soon returned, and craned their heads and necks to gaze upon the melancholy walls. Occasionally a man or a woman ascended the three stone steps which led to the street door, and touched the woodwork with open hand, as if the contact brought them closer to the tragedy which had been enacted within.

      As night approached, the number of persons who made a point of passing through the Square decreased; but up till ten o’clock there were always about a dozen sightmongers lingering in the roadway before No. 119, and, among these dozen, generally one who appeared to be acquainted with the construction and disposition of the rooms, and who described the particulars of the murder with gloating satisfaction. The police did not interfere with them, the entertainment being one which a free people was privileged to enjoy.

      During the whole of the evening Becky had not found time to read her letter 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 clock struck ten a period was put to her state of suspense.

      “I’ve been in the ’ouse all day, Becky,” said Mrs. Preedy; “and what with the state of my feelings and the excitement in the Square, I’m quite worn out. I shall run round to Mrs. Beale’s for arf-an-hour; take care of the place while I’m gone.”

      Becky nodded, and the moment she heard the street-door close, she sat down at the table, and pulled from her pocket the letter and the copies of the Evening Moon. She read the letter first, kissing it as she drew it 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