“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.