“Not me, mum!” (Observe my grammar, my dear.) “Not me! Who should know better than those that live in a house whether it’s haunted or not?”
“That’s it, Becky,” cried Mrs. Preedy, excitedly; “that’s it. Who should know better than us? And I’m sure I’ve never seen anything nor heard anything. Nor you either, Becky.”
“Nor me, neither,” I replied. “But the worst of it is, mum, mud sticks. Give a dog a bad name, and you may as well hang him at once.”
Now, who spread this rumour about our house being haunted? Somebody, for sure, who has a motive in giving the place a bad reputation. There is never smoke without a fire. Shall I tell you who is the cause of all this? Richard Manx.
What leads me to this conclusion? you ask. Instinct, my dear. It is an important quality in animals; why not in human beings? What possible motive can Richard Manx have in spreading such a report? you ask next. A just Heaven only knows, my dear. But I will find out his motive, as I am a living and loving woman.
You are not acquainted with Richard Manx, you may say. Nor am I. But is it certain that it is his true name? You are not the only person in the world who has concealed his true name. You concealed yours for an innocent reason. Richard Manx may conceal his for a guilty one. Then think of me, known simply as Becky. Why, my dearest, the world is a perfect medley! Shall I tell you something else about him? My dear, he paints. I hear you, in your unsophisticated innocence, exclaim, “O, he is an artist!” He is, in one sense. His canvass is the human skin. He paints his face.
What will you ask now? Of course, your question will be, “How on earth do you know that he paints his face?” My dear, here I am your superior. Trust a woman to know a natural from an artificial colour. These few last questions trouble your soul. “Does she paint, then?” you mutter. “No, my dear,” I answer, “my complexion is my own!”
Twice have I seen Richard Manx to-day, and I have not avoided him. I looked at him. He looked at me.
“You are Becky,” he said; and if ever a foreigner spoke like an Englishman, Richard Manx did when he said, “You are Becky.”
“Yes, if you please, sir,” I replied, coyly.