الفصل الفصل 23 · Chapter XXIII

I had kept the pony-chaise ready, in case Mr. Franklin persisted in

leaving us by the train that night. The appearance of the luggage,

followed downstairs by Mr. Franklin himself, informed me plainly enough

that he had held firm to a resolution for once in his life.

“So you have really made up your mind, sir?” I said, as we met in the

hall. “Why not wait a day or two longer, and give Miss Rachel another

chance?”

The foreign varnish appeared to have all worn off Mr. Franklin, now

that the time had come for saying good-bye. Instead of replying to me

in words, he put the letter which her ladyship had addressed to him

into my hand. The greater part of it said over again what had been said

already in the other communication received by me. But there was a bit

about Miss Rachel added at the end, which will account for the

steadiness of Mr. Franklin’s determination, if it accounts for nothing

else.

“You will wonder, I dare say” (her ladyship wrote), “at my allowing my

own daughter to keep me perfectly in the dark. A Diamond worth twenty

thousand pounds has been lost—and I am left to infer that the mystery

of its disappearance is no mystery to Rachel, and that some

incomprehensible obligation of silence has been laid on her, by some

person or persons utterly unknown to me, with some object in view at

which I cannot even guess. Is it conceivable that I should allow myself

to be trifled with in this way? It is quite conceivable, in Rachel’s

present state. She is in a condition of nervous agitation pitiable to

see. I dare not approach the subject of the Moonstone again until time

has done something to quiet her. To help this end, I have not hesitated

to dismiss the police-officer. The mystery which baffles us, baffles

him too. This is not a matter in which any stranger can help us. He

adds to what I have to suffer; and he maddens Rachel if she only hears

his name.

“My plans for the future are as well settled as they can be. My present

idea is to take Rachel to London—partly to relieve her mind by a

complete change, partly to try what may be done by consulting the best

medical advice. Can I ask you to meet us in town? My dear Franklin,

you, in your way, must imitate my patience, and wait, as I do, for a

fitter time. The valuable assistance which you rendered to the inquiry

after the lost jewel is still an unpardoned offence, in the present

dreadful state of Rachel’s mind. Moving blindfold in this matter, you

have added to the burden of anxiety which she has had to bear, by

innocently threatening her secret with discovery, through your

exertions. It is impossible for me to excuse the perversity that holds

you responsible for consequences which neither you nor I could imagine

or foresee. She is not to be reasoned with—she can only be pitied. I am

grieved to have to say it, but for the present, you and Rachel are

better apart. The only advice I can offer you is, to give her time.”

I handed the letter back, sincerely sorry for Mr. Franklin, for I knew

how fond he was of my young lady; and I saw that her mother’s account

of her had cut him to the heart. “You know the proverb, sir,” was all I

said to him. “When things are at the worst, they’re sure to mend.

Things can’t be much worse, Mr. Franklin, than they are now.”

Mr. Franklin folded up his aunt’s letter, without appearing to be much

comforted by the remark which I had ventured on addressing to him.

“When I came here from London with that horrible Diamond,” he said, “I

don’t believe there was a happier household in England than this. Look

at the household now! Scattered, disunited—the very air of the place

poisoned with mystery and suspicion! Do you remember that morning at

the Shivering Sand, when we talked about my uncle Herncastle, and his

birthday gift? The Moonstone has served the Colonel’s vengeance,

Betteredge, by means which the Colonel himself never dreamt of!”

With that he shook me by the hand, and went out to the pony-chaise.

I followed him down the steps. It was very miserable to see him leaving

the old place, where he had spent the happiest years of his life, in

this way. Penelope (sadly upset by all that had happened in the house)

came round crying, to bid him good-bye. Mr. Franklin kissed her. I

waved my hand as much as to say, “You’re heartily welcome, sir.” Some

of the other female servants appeared, peeping after him round the

corner. He was one of those men whom the women all like. At the last

moment, I stopped the pony-chaise, and begged as a favour that he would

let us hear from him by letter. He didn’t seem to heed what I said—he

was looking round from one thing to another, taking a sort of farewell

of the old house and grounds. “Tell us where you are going to, sir!” I

said, holding on by the chaise, and trying to get at his future plans

in that way. Mr. Franklin pulled his hat down suddenly over his eyes.

“Going?” says he, echoing the word after me. “I am going to the devil!”

The pony started at the word, as if he had felt a Christian horror of

it. “God bless you, sir, go where you may!” was all I had time to say,

before he was out of sight and hearing. A sweet and pleasant gentleman!

With all his faults and follies, a sweet and pleasant gentleman! He

left a sad gap behind him, when he left my lady’s house.

It was dull and dreary enough, when the long summer evening closed in,

on that Saturday night.

I kept my spirits from sinking by sticking fast to my pipe and my

_Robinson Crusoe_. The women (excepting Penelope) beguiled the time by

talking of Rosanna’s suicide. They were all obstinately of opinion that

the poor girl had stolen the Moonstone, and that she had destroyed

herself in terror of being found out. My daughter, of course, privately

held fast to what she had said all along. Her notion of the motive

which was really at the bottom of the suicide failed, oddly enough,

just where my young lady’s assertion of her innocence failed also. It

left Rosanna’s secret journey to Frizinghall, and Rosanna’s proceedings

in the matter of the nightgown entirely unaccounted for. There was no

use in pointing this out to Penelope; the objection made about as much

impression on her as a shower of rain on a waterproof coat. The truth

is, my daughter inherits my superiority to reason—and, in respect to

that accomplishment, has got a long way ahead of her own father.

On the next day (Sunday), the close carriage, which had been kept at

Mr. Ablewhite’s, came back to us empty. The coachman brought a message

for me, and written instructions for my lady’s own maid and for

Penelope.

The message informed me that my mistress had determined to take Miss

Rachel to her house in London, on the Monday. The written instructions

informed the two maids of the clothing that was wanted, and directed

them to meet their mistresses in town at a given hour. Most of the

other servants were to follow. My lady had found Miss Rachel so

unwilling to return to the house, after what had happened in it, that

she had decided on going to London direct from Frizinghall. I was to

remain in the country, until further orders, to look after things

indoors and out. The servants left with me were to be put on board

wages.

Being reminded, by all this, of what Mr. Franklin had said about our

being a scattered and disunited household, my mind was led naturally to

Mr. Franklin himself. The more I thought of him, the more uneasy I felt

about his future proceedings. It ended in my writing, by the Sunday’s

post, to his father’s valet, Mr. Jeffco (whom I had known in former

years) to beg he would let me know what Mr. Franklin had settled to do,

on arriving in London.

The Sunday evening was, if possible, duller even than the Saturday

evening. We ended the day of rest, as hundreds of thousands of people

end it regularly, once a week, in these islands—that is to say, we all

anticipated bedtime, and fell asleep in our chairs.

How the Monday affected the rest of the household I don’t know. The

Monday gave _me_ a good shake up. The first of Sergeant Cuff’s

prophecies of what was to happen—namely, that I should hear from the

Yollands—came true on that day.

I had seen Penelope and my lady’s maid off in the railway with the

luggage for London, and was pottering about the grounds, when I heard

my name called. Turning round, I found myself face to face with the

fisherman’s daughter, Limping Lucy. Bating her lame foot and her

leanness (this last a horrid draw-back to a woman, in my opinion), the

girl had some pleasing qualities in the eye of a man. A dark, keen,

clever face, and a nice clear voice, and a beautiful brown head of hair

counted among her merits. A crutch appeared in the list of her

misfortunes. And a temper reckoned high in the sum total of her

defects.

“Well, my dear,” I said, “what do you want with me?”

“Where’s the man you call Franklin Blake?” says the girl, fixing me

with a fierce look, as she rested herself on her crutch.

“That’s not a respectful way to speak of any gentleman,” I answered.

“If you wish to inquire for my lady’s nephew, you will please to

mention him as Mr. Franklin Blake.”

She limped a step nearer to me, and looked as if she could have eaten

me alive. “_Mr._ Franklin Blake?” she repeated after me. “Murderer

Franklin Blake would be a fitter name for him.”

My practice with the late Mrs. Betteredge came in handy here. Whenever

a woman tries to put _you_ out of temper, turn the tables, and put

_her_ out of temper instead. They are generally prepared for every

effort you can make in your own defence, but that. One word does it as

well as a hundred; and one word did it with Limping Lucy. I looked her

pleasantly in the face; and I said—“Pooh!”

The girl’s temper flamed out directly. She poised herself on her sound

foot, and she took her crutch, and beat it furiously three times on the

ground. “He’s a murderer! he’s a murderer! he’s a murderer! He has been

the death of Rosanna Spearman!” She screamed that answer out at the top

of her voice. One or two of the people at work in the grounds near us

looked up—saw it was Limping Lucy—knew what to expect from that

quarter—and looked away again.

“He has been the death of Rosanna Spearman?” I repeated. “What makes

you say that, Lucy?”

“What do you care? What does any man care? Oh! if she had only thought

of the men as I think, she might have been living now!”

“She always thought kindly of _me_, poor soul,” I said; “and, to the

best of my ability, I always tried to act kindly by _her_.”

I spoke those words in as comforting a manner as I could. The truth is,

I hadn’t the heart to irritate the girl by another of my smart replies.

I had only noticed her temper at first. I noticed her wretchedness

now—and wretchedness is not uncommonly insolent, you will find, in

humble life. My answer melted Limping Lucy. She bent her head down, and

laid it on the top of her crutch.

“I loved her,” the girl said softly. “She had lived a miserable life,

Mr. Betteredge—vile people had ill-treated her and led her wrong—and it

hadn’t spoiled her sweet temper. She was an angel. She might have been

happy with me. I had a plan for our going to London together like

sisters, and living by our needles. That man came here, and spoilt it

all. He bewitched her. Don’t tell me he didn’t mean it, and didn’t know

it. He ought to have known it. He ought to have taken pity on her. ‘I

can’t live without him—and, oh, Lucy, he never even looks at me.’

That’s what she said. Cruel, cruel, cruel. I said, ‘No man is worth

fretting for in that way.’ And she said, ‘There are men worth dying

for, Lucy, and he is one of them.’ I had saved up a little money. I had

settled things with father and mother. I meant to take her away from

the mortification she was suffering here. We should have had a little

lodging in London, and lived together like sisters. She had a good

education, sir, as you know, and she wrote a good hand. She was quick

at her needle. I have a good education, and I write a good hand. I am

not as quick at my needle as she was—but I could have done. We might

have got our living nicely. And, oh! what happens this morning? what

happens this morning? Her letter comes and tells me that she has done

with the burden of her life. Her letter comes, and bids me good-bye for

ever. Where is he?” cries the girl, lifting her head from the crutch,

and flaming out again through her tears. “Where’s this gentleman that I

mustn’t speak of, except with respect? Ha, Mr. Betteredge, the day is

not far off when the poor will rise against the rich. I pray Heaven

they may begin with _him_. I pray Heaven they may begin with _him_.”

Here was another of your average good Christians, and here was the

usual break-down, consequent on that same average Christianity being

pushed too far! The parson himself (though I own this is saying a great

deal) could hardly have lectured the girl in the state she was in now.

All I ventured to do was to keep her to the point—in the hope of

something turning up which might be worth hearing.

“What do you want with Mr. Franklin Blake?” I asked.

“I want to see him.”

“For anything particular?”

“I have got a letter to give him.”

“From Rosanna Spearman?”

“Yes.”

“Sent to you in your own letter?”

“Yes.”

Was the darkness going to lift? Were all the discoveries that I was

dying to make, coming and offering themselves to me of their own

accord? I was obliged to wait a moment. Sergeant Cuff had left his

infection behind him. Certain signs and tokens, personal to myself,

warned me that the detective-fever was beginning to set in again.

“You can’t see Mr. Franklin,” I said.

“I must, and will, see him.”

“He went to London last night.”

Limping Lucy looked me hard in the face, and saw that I was speaking

the truth. Without a word more, she turned about again instantly

towards Cobb’s Hole.

“Stop!” I said. “I expect news of Mr. Franklin Blake tomorrow. Give me

your letter, and I’ll send it on to him by the post.”

Limping Lucy steadied herself on her crutch and looked back at me over

her shoulder.

“I am to give it from my hands into his hands,” she said. “And I am to

give it to him in no other way.”

“Shall I write, and tell him what you have said?”

“Tell him I hate him. And you will tell him the truth.”

“Yes, yes. But about the letter——?”

“If he wants the letter, he must come back here, and get it from Me.”

With those words she limped off on the way to Cobb’s Hole. The

detective-fever burnt up all my dignity on the spot. I followed her,

and tried to make her talk. All in vain. It was my misfortune to be a

man—and Limping Lucy enjoyed disappointing me. Later in the day, I

tried my luck with her mother. Good Mrs. Yolland could only cry, and

recommend a drop of comfort out of the Dutch bottle. I found the

fisherman on the beach. He said it was “a bad job,” and went on mending

his net. Neither father nor mother knew more than I knew. The one way

left to try was the chance, which might come with the morning, of

writing to Mr. Franklin Blake.

I leave you to imagine how I watched for the postman on Tuesday

morning. He brought me two letters. One, from Penelope (which I had

hardly patience enough to read), announced that my lady and Miss Rachel

were safely established in London. The other, from Mr. Jeffco, informed

me that his master’s son had left England already.

On reaching the metropolis, Mr. Franklin had, it appeared, gone

straight to his father’s residence. He arrived at an awkward time. Mr.

Blake, the elder, was up to his eyes in the business of the House of

Commons, and was amusing himself at home that night with the favourite

parliamentary plaything which they call “a private bill.” Mr. Jeffco

himself showed Mr. Franklin into his father’s study. “My dear Franklin!

why do you surprise me in this way? Anything wrong?” “Yes; something

wrong with Rachel; I am dreadfully distressed about it.” “Grieved to

hear it. But I can’t listen to you now.” “When _can_ you listen?” “My

dear boy! I won’t deceive you. I can listen at the end of the session,

not a moment before. Good-night.” “Thank you, sir. Good-night.”

Such was the conversation, inside the study, as reported to me by Mr.

Jeffco. The conversation outside the study, was shorter still. “Jeffco,

see what time the tidal train starts tomorrow morning.” “At six-forty,

Mr. Franklin.” “Have me called at five.” “Going abroad, sir?” “Going,

Jeffco, wherever the railway chooses to take me.” “Shall I tell your

father, sir?” “Yes; tell him at the end of the session.”

The next morning Mr. Franklin had started for foreign parts. To what

particular place he was bound, nobody (himself included) could presume

to guess. We might hear of him next in Europe, Asia, Africa, or

America. The chances were as equally divided as possible, in Mr.

Jeffco’s opinion, among the four quarters of the globe.

This news—by closing up all prospects of my bringing Limping Lucy and

Mr. Franklin together—at once stopped any further progress of mine on

the way to discovery. Penelope’s belief that her fellow-servant had

destroyed herself through unrequited love for Mr. Franklin Blake, was

confirmed—and that was all. Whether the letter which Rosanna had left

to be given to him after her death did, or did not, contain the

confession which Mr. Franklin had suspected her of trying to make to

him in her life-time, it was impossible to say. It might be only a

farewell word, telling nothing but the secret of her unhappy fancy for

a person beyond her reach. Or it might own the whole truth about the

strange proceedings in which Sergeant Cuff had detected her, from the

time when the Moonstone was lost, to the time when she rushed to her

own destruction at the Shivering Sand. A sealed letter it had been

placed in Limping Lucy’s hand, and a sealed letter it remained to me

and to every one about the girl, her own parents included. We all

suspected her of having been in the dead woman’s confidence; we all

tried to make her speak; we all failed. Now one, and now another, of

the servants—still holding to the belief that Rosanna had stolen the

Diamond and had hidden it—peered and poked about the rocks to which she

had been traced, and peered and poked in vain. The tide ebbed, and the

tide flowed; the summer went on, and the autumn came. And the

Quicksand, which hid her body, hid her secret too.

The news of Mr. Franklin’s departure from England on the Sunday

morning, and the news of my lady’s arrival in London with Miss Rachel

on the Monday afternoon, had reached me, as you are aware, by the

Tuesday’s post. The Wednesday came, and brought nothing. The Thursday

produced a second budget of news from Penelope.

My girl’s letter informed me that some great London doctor had been

consulted about her young lady, and had earned a guinea by remarking

that she had better be amused. Flower-shows, operas, balls—there was a

whole round of gaieties in prospect; and Miss Rachel, to her mother’s

astonishment, eagerly took to it all. Mr. Godfrey had called; evidently

as sweet as ever on his cousin, in spite of the reception he had met

with, when he tried his luck on the occasion of the birthday. To

Penelope’s great regret, he had been most graciously received, and had

added Miss Rachel’s name to one of his Ladies’ Charities on the spot.

My mistress was reported to be out of spirits, and to have held two

long interviews with her lawyer. Certain speculations followed,

referring to a poor relation of the family—one Miss Clack, whom I have

mentioned in my account of the birthday dinner, as sitting next to Mr.

Godfrey, and having a pretty taste in champagne. Penelope was

astonished to find that Miss Clack had not called yet. She would surely

not be long before she fastened herself on my lady as usual—and so

forth, and so forth, in the way women have of girding at each other, on

and off paper. This would not have been worth mentioning, I admit, but

for one reason. I hear you are likely to be turned over to Miss Clack,

after parting with me. In that case, just do me the favour of not

believing a word she says, if she speaks of your humble servant.

On Friday, nothing happened—except that one of the dogs showed signs of

a breaking out behind the ears. I gave him a dose of syrup of

buckthorn, and put him on a diet of pot-liquor and vegetables till

further orders. Excuse my mentioning this. It has slipped in somehow.

Pass it over please. I am fast coming to the end of my offences against

your cultivated modern taste. Besides, the dog was a good creature, and

deserved a good physicking; he did indeed.

Saturday, the last day of the week, is also the last day in my

narrative.

The morning’s post brought me a surprise in the shape of a London

newspaper. The handwriting on the direction puzzled me. I compared it

with the money-lender’s name and address as recorded in my pocket-book,

and identified it at once as the writing of Sergeant Cuff.

Looking through the paper eagerly enough, after this discovery, I found

an ink-mark drawn round one of the police reports. Here it is, at your

service. Read it as I read it, and you will set the right value on the

Sergeant’s polite attention in sending me the news of the day:

“LAMBETH—Shortly before the closing of the court, Mr. Septimus Luker,

the well-known dealer in ancient gems, carvings, intagli, &c., &c.,

applied to the sitting magistrate for advice. The applicant stated that

he had been annoyed, at intervals throughout the day, by the

proceedings of some of those strolling Indians who infest the streets.

The persons complained of were three in number. After having been sent

away by the police, they had returned again and again, and had

attempted to enter the house on pretence of asking for charity. Warned

off in the front, they had been discovered again at the back of the

premises. Besides the annoyance complained of, Mr. Luker expressed

himself as being under some apprehension that robbery might be

contemplated. His collection contained many unique gems, both classical

and Oriental, of the highest value. He had only the day before been

compelled to dismiss a skilled workman in ivory carving from his

employment (a native of India, as we understood), on suspicion of

attempted theft; and he felt by no means sure that this man and the

street jugglers of whom he complained, might not be acting in concert.

It might be their object to collect a crowd, and create a disturbance

in the street, and, in the confusion thus caused, to obtain access to

the house. In reply to the magistrate, Mr. Luker admitted that he had

no evidence to produce of any attempt at robbery being in

contemplation. He could speak positively to the annoyance and

interruption caused by the Indians, but not to anything else. The

magistrate remarked that, if the annoyance were repeated, the applicant

could summon the Indians to that court, where they might easily be

dealt with under the Act. As to the valuables in Mr. Luker’s

possession, Mr. Luker himself must take the best measures for their

safe custody. He would do well perhaps to communicate with the police,

and to adopt such additional precautions as their experience might

suggest. The applicant thanked his worship, and withdrew.”

One of the wise ancients is reported (I forget on what occasion) as

having recommended his fellow-creatures to “look to the end.” Looking

to the end of these pages of mine, and wondering for some days past how

I should manage to write it, I find my plain statement of facts coming

to a conclusion, most appropriately, of its own self. We have gone on,

in this matter of the Moonstone, from one marvel to another; and here

we end with the greatest marvel of all—namely, the accomplishment of

Sergeant Cuff’s three predictions in less than a week from the time

when he had made them.

After hearing from the Yollands on the Monday, I had now heard of the

Indians, and heard of the money-lender, in the news from London—Miss

Rachel herself remember, being also in London at the time. You see, I

put things at their worst, even when they tell dead against my own

view. If you desert me, and side with the Sergeant, on the evidence

before you—if the only rational explanation you can see is, that Miss

Rachel and Mr. Luker must have got together, and that the Moonstone

must be now in pledge in the money-lender’s house—I own, I can’t blame

you for arriving at that conclusion. In the dark, I have brought you

thus far. In the dark I am compelled to leave you, with my best

respects.

Why compelled? it may be asked. Why not take the persons who have gone

along with me, so far, up into those regions of superior enlightenment

in which I sit myself?

In answer to this, I can only state that I am acting under orders, and

that those orders have been given to me (as I understand) in the

interests of truth. I am forbidden to tell more in this narrative than

I knew myself at the time. Or, to put it plainer, I am to keep strictly

within the limits of my own experience, and am not to inform you of

what other persons told me—for the very sufficient reason that you are

to have the information from those other persons themselves, at first

hand. In this matter of the Moonstone the plan is, not to present

reports, but to produce witnesses. I picture to myself a member of the

family reading these pages fifty years hence. Lord! what a compliment

he will feel it, to be asked to take nothing on hear-say, and to be

treated in all respects like a Judge on the bench.

At this place, then, we part—for the present, at least—after long

journeying together, with a companionable feeling, I hope, on both

sides. The devil’s dance of the Indian Diamond has threaded its way to

London; and to London you must go after it, leaving me at the country

house. Please to excuse the faults of this composition—my talking so

much of myself, and being too familiar, I am afraid, with you. I mean

no harm; and I drink most respectfully (having just done dinner) to

your health and prosperity, in a tankard of her ladyship’s ale. May you

find in these leaves of my writing, what _Robinson Crusoe_ found in his

experience on the desert island—namely, “something to comfort

yourselves from, and to set in the Description of Good and Evil, on the

Credit Side of the Account.”—Farewell.

THE END OF THE FIRST PERIOD.

SECOND PERIOD.

THE DISCOVERY OF THE TRUTH. (1848-1849.)

_The Events related in several Narratives._

FIRST NARRATIVE.

_Contributed by Miss Clack; niece of the late Sir John Verinder_