Chapter Chapter 45 · Chapter X（2）

“I am certain of it.”

“In that case, _I_ will write to Miss Verinder—if you will give me

leave.”

“Telling her of the proposal that you have made to me?”

“Telling her of everything that has passed between us today.”

It is needless to say that I eagerly accepted the service which he had

offered to me.

“I shall have time to write by today’s post,” he said, looking at his

watch. “Don’t forget to lock up your cigars, when you get back to the

hotel! I will call tomorrow morning and hear how you have passed the

night.”

I rose to take leave of him; and attempted to express the grateful

sense of his kindness which I really felt.

He pressed my hand gently. “Remember what I told you on the moor,” he

answered. “If I can do you this little service, Mr. Blake, I shall feel

it like a last gleam of sunshine, falling on the evening of a long and

clouded day.”

We parted. It was then the fifteenth of June. The events of the next

ten days—every one of them more or less directly connected with the

experiment of which I was the passive object—are all placed on record,

exactly as they happened, in the Journal habitually kept by Mr. Candy’s

assistant. In the pages of Ezra Jennings nothing is concealed, and

nothing is forgotten. Let Ezra Jennings tell how the venture with the

opium was tried, and how it ended.

FOURTH NARRATIVE.

_Extracted from the Journal of Ezra Jennings._

1849.—June 15.... With some interruption from patients, and some

interruption from pain, I finished my letter to Miss Verinder in time

for today’s post. I failed to make it as short a letter as I could have

wished. But I think I have made it plain. It leaves her entirely

mistress of her own decision. If she consents to assist the experiment,

she consents of her own free will, and not as a favour to Mr. Franklin

Blake or to me.

June 16th.—Rose late, after a dreadful night; the vengeance of

yesterday’s opium, pursuing me through a series of frightful dreams. At

one time I was whirling through empty space with the phantoms of the

dead, friends and enemies together. At another, the one beloved face

which I shall never see again, rose at my bedside, hideously

phosphorescent in the black darkness, and glared and grinned at me. A

slight return of the old pain, at the usual time in the early morning,

was welcome as a change. It dispelled the visions—and it was bearable

because it did that.

My bad night made it late in the morning, before I could get to Mr.

Franklin Blake. I found him stretched on the sofa, breakfasting on

brandy and soda water, and a dry biscuit.

“I am beginning, as well as you could possibly wish,” he said. “A

miserable, restless night; and a total failure of appetite this

morning. Exactly what happened last year, when I gave up my cigars. The

sooner I am ready for my second dose of laudanum, the better I shall be

pleased.”

“You shall have it on the earliest possible day,” I answered. “In the

meantime, we must be as careful of your health as we can. If we allow

you to become exhausted, we shall fail in that way. You must get an

appetite for your dinner. In other words, you must get a ride or a walk

this morning, in the fresh air.”

“I will ride, if they can find me a horse here. By-the-bye, I wrote to

Mr. Bruff, yesterday. Have you written to Miss Verinder?”

“Yes—by last night’s post.”

“Very good. We shall have some news worth hearing, to tell each other

tomorrow. Don’t go yet! I have a word to say to you. You appeared to

think, yesterday, that our experiment with the opium was not likely to

be viewed very favourably by some of my friends. You were quite right.

I call old Gabriel Betteredge one of my friends; and you will be amused

to hear that he protested strongly when I saw him yesterday. ‘You have

done a wonderful number of foolish things in the course of your life,

Mr. Franklin, but this tops them all!’ There is Betteredge’s opinion!

You will make allowance for his prejudices, I am sure, if you and he

happen to meet?”

I left Mr. Blake, to go my rounds among my patients; feeling the better

and the happier even for the short interview that I had had with him.

What is the secret of the attraction that there is for me in this man?

Does it only mean that I feel the contrast between the frankly kind

manner in which he has allowed me to become acquainted with him, and

the merciless dislike and distrust with which I am met by other people?

Or is there really something in him which answers to the yearning that

I have for a little human sympathy—the yearning, which has survived the

solitude and persecution of many years; which seems to grow keener and

keener, as the time comes nearer and nearer when I shall endure and

feel no more? How useless to ask these questions! Mr. Blake has given

me a new interest in life. Let that be enough, without seeking to know

what the new interest is.

June 17th.—Before breakfast, this morning, Mr. Candy informed me that

he was going away for a fortnight, on a visit to a friend in the south

of England. He gave me as many special directions, poor fellow, about

the patients, as if he still had the large practice which he possessed

before he was taken ill. The practice is worth little enough now! Other

doctors have superseded _him;_ and nobody who can help it will employ

_me_.

It is perhaps fortunate that he is to be away just at this time. He

would have been mortified if I had not informed him of the experiment

which I am going to try with Mr. Blake. And I hardly know what

undesirable results might not have happened, if I had taken him into my

confidence. Better as it is. Unquestionably, better as it is.

The post brought me Miss Verinder’s answer, after Mr. Candy had left

the house.

A charming letter! It gives me the highest opinion of her. There is no

attempt to conceal the interest that she feels in our proceedings. She

tells me, in the prettiest manner, that my letter has satisfied her of

Mr. Blake’s innocence, without the slightest need (so far as she is

concerned) of putting my assertion to the proof. She even upbraids

herself—most undeservedly, poor thing!—for not having divined at the

time what the true solution of the mystery might really be. The motive

underlying all this proceeds evidently from something more than a

generous eagerness to make atonement for a wrong which she has

innocently inflicted on another person. It is plain that she has loved

him, throughout the estrangement between them. In more than one place

the rapture of discovering that he has deserved to be loved, breaks its

way innocently through the stoutest formalities of pen and ink, and

even defies the stronger restraint still of writing to a stranger. Is

it possible (I ask myself, in reading this delightful letter) that I,

of all men in the world, am chosen to be the means of bringing these

two young people together again? My own happiness has been trampled

under foot; my own love has been torn from me. Shall I live to see a

happiness of others, which is of my making—a love renewed, which is of

my bringing back? Oh merciful Death, let me see it before your arms

enfold me, before your voice whispers to me, “Rest at last!”

There are two requests contained in the letter. One of them prevents me

from showing it to Mr. Franklin Blake. I am authorised to tell him that

Miss Verinder willingly consents to place her house at our disposal;

and, that said, I am desired to add no more.

So far, it is easy to comply with her wishes. But the second request

embarrasses me seriously.

Not content with having written to Mr. Betteredge, instructing him to

carry out whatever directions I may have to give, Miss Verinder asks

leave to assist me, by personally superintending the restoration of her

own sitting-room. She only waits a word of reply from me to make the

journey to Yorkshire, and to be present as one of the witnesses on the

night when the opium is tried for the second time.

Here, again, there is a motive under the surface; and, here again, I

fancy that I can find it out.

What she has forbidden me to tell Mr. Franklin Blake, she is (as I

interpret it) eager to tell him with her own lips, _before_ he is put

to the test which is to vindicate his character in the eyes of other

people. I understand and admire this generous anxiety to acquit him,

without waiting until his innocence may, or may not, be proved. It is

the atonement that she is longing to make, poor girl, after having

innocently and inevitably wronged him. But the thing cannot be done. I

have no sort of doubt that the agitation which a meeting between them

would produce on both sides—reviving dormant feelings, appealing to old

memories, awakening new hopes—would, in their effect on the mind of Mr.

Blake, be almost certainly fatal to the success of our experiment. It

is hard enough, as things are, to reproduce in him the conditions as

they existed, or nearly as they existed, last year. With new interests

and new emotions to agitate him, the attempt would be simply useless.

And yet, knowing this, I cannot find it in my heart to disappoint her.

I must try if I can discover some new arrangement, before post-time,

which will allow me to say Yes to Miss Verinder, without damage to the

service which I have bound myself to render to Mr. Franklin Blake.

Two o’clock.—I have just returned from my round of medical visits;

having begun, of course, by calling at the hotel.

Mr. Blake’s report of the night is the same as before. He has had some

intervals of broken sleep, and no more. But he feels it less today,

having slept after yesterday’s dinner. This after-dinner sleep is the

result, no doubt, of the ride which I advised him to take. I fear I

shall have to curtail his restorative exercise in the fresh air. He

must not be too well; he must not be too ill. It is a case (as a sailor

would say) of very fine steering.

He has not heard yet from Mr. Bruff. I found him eager to know if I had

received any answer from Miss Verinder.

I told him exactly what I was permitted to tell, and no more. It was

quite needless to invent excuses for not showing him the letter. He

told me bitterly enough, poor fellow, that he understood the delicacy

which disinclined me to produce it. “She consents, of course, as a

matter of common courtesy and common justice,” he said. “But she keeps

her own opinion of me, and waits to see the result.” I was sorely

tempted to hint that he was now wronging her as she had wronged him. On

reflection, I shrank from forestalling her in the double luxury of

surprising and forgiving him.

My visit was a very short one. After the experience of the other night,

I have been compelled once more to give up my dose of opium. As a

necessary result, the agony of the disease that is in me has got the

upper hand again. I felt the attack coming on, and left abruptly, so as

not to alarm or distress him. It only lasted a quarter of an hour this

time, and it left me strength enough to go on with my work.

Five o’clock.—I have written my reply to Miss Verinder.

The arrangement I have proposed reconciles the interests on both sides,

if she will only consent to it. After first stating the objections that

there are to a meeting between Mr. Blake and herself, before the

experiment is tried, I have suggested that she should so time her

journey as to arrive at the house privately, on the evening when we

make the attempt. Travelling by the afternoon train from London, she

would delay her arrival until nine o’clock. At that hour, I have

undertaken to see Mr. Blake safely into his bedchamber; and so to leave

Miss Verinder free to occupy her own rooms until the time comes for

administering the laudanum. When that has been done, there can be no

objection to her watching the result, with the rest of us. On the next

morning, she shall show Mr. Blake (if she likes) her correspondence

with me, and shall satisfy him in that way that he was acquitted in her

estimation, before the question of his innocence was put to the proof.

In that sense, I have written to her. This is all that I can do today.

Tomorrow I must see Mr. Betteredge, and give the necessary directions

for re-opening the house.

June 18th.—Late again, in calling on Mr. Franklin Blake. More of that

horrible pain in the early morning; followed, this time, by complete

prostration, for some hours. I foresee, in spite of the penalties which

it exacts from me, that I shall have to return to the opium for the

hundredth time. If I had only myself to think of, I should prefer the

sharp pains to the frightful dreams. But the physical suffering

exhausts me. If I let myself sink, it may end in my becoming useless to

Mr. Blake at the time when he wants me most.

It was nearly one o’clock before I could get to the hotel today. The

visit, even in my shattered condition, proved to be a most amusing

one—thanks entirely to the presence on the scene of Gabriel Betteredge.

I found him in the room, when I went in. He withdrew to the window and

looked out, while I put my first customary question to my patient. Mr.

Blake had slept badly again, and he felt the loss of rest this morning

more than he had felt it yet.

I asked next if he had heard from Mr. Bruff.

A letter had reached him that morning. Mr. Bruff expressed the

strongest disapproval of the course which his friend and client was

taking under my advice. It was mischievous—for it excited hopes that

might never be realised. It was quite unintelligible to _his_ mind,

except that it looked like a piece of trickery, akin to the trickery of

mesmerism, clairvoyance, and the like. It unsettled Miss Verinder’s

house, and it would end in unsettling Miss Verinder herself. He had put

the case (without mentioning names) to an eminent physician; and the

eminent physician had smiled, had shaken his head, and had

said—nothing. On these grounds, Mr. Bruff entered his protest, and left

it there.

My next inquiry related to the subject of the Diamond. Had the lawyer

produced any evidence to prove that the jewel was in London?

No, the lawyer had simply declined to discuss the question. He was

himself satisfied that the Moonstone had been pledged to Mr. Luker. His

eminent absent friend, Mr. Murthwaite (whose consummate knowledge of

the Indian character no one could deny), was satisfied also. Under

these circumstances, and with the many demands already made on him, he

must decline entering into any disputes on the subject of evidence.

Time would show; and Mr. Bruff was willing to wait for time.

It was quite plain—even if Mr. Blake had not made it plainer still by

reporting the substance of the letter, instead of reading what was

actually written—that distrust of _me_ was at the bottom of all this.

Having myself foreseen that result, I was neither mortified nor

surprised. I asked Mr. Blake if his friend’s protest had shaken him. He

answered emphatically, that it had not produced the slightest effect on

his mind. I was free after that to dismiss Mr. Bruff from

consideration—and I did dismiss him accordingly.

A pause in the talk between us, followed—and Gabriel Betteredge came

out from his retirement at the window.

“Can you favour me with your attention, sir?” he inquired, addressing

himself to me.

“I am quite at your service,” I answered.

Betteredge took a chair and seated himself at the table. He produced a

huge old-fashioned leather pocket-book, with a pencil of dimensions to

match. Having put on his spectacles, he opened the pocket-book, at a

blank page, and addressed himself to me once more.

“I have lived,” said Betteredge, looking at me sternly, “nigh on fifty

years in the service of my late lady. I was page-boy before that, in

the service of the old lord, her father. I am now somewhere between

seventy and eighty years of age—never mind exactly where! I am reckoned

to have got as pretty a knowledge and experience of the world as most

men. And what does it all end in? It ends, Mr. Ezra Jennings, in a

conjuring trick being performed on Mr. Franklin Blake, by a doctor’s

assistant with a bottle of laudanum—and by the living jingo, I’m

appointed, in my old age, to be conjurer’s boy!”

Mr. Blake burst out laughing. I attempted to speak. Betteredge held up

his hand, in token that he had not done yet.

“Not a word, Mr. Jennings!” he said, “It don’t want a word, sir, from

you. I have got my principles, thank God. If an order comes to me,

which is own brother to an order come from Bedlam, it don’t matter. So

long as I get it from my master or mistress, as the case may be, I obey

it. I may have my own opinion, which is also, you will please to

remember, the opinion of Mr. Bruff—the Great Mr. Bruff!” said

Betteredge, raising his voice, and shaking his head at me solemnly. “It

don’t matter; I withdraw my opinion, for all that. My young lady says,

‘Do it.’ And I say, ‘Miss, it shall be done.’ Here I am, with my book

and my pencil—the latter not pointed so well as I could wish, but when

Christians take leave of their senses, who is to expect that pencils

will keep their points? Give me your orders, Mr. Jennings. I’ll have

them in writing, sir. I’m determined not to be behind ’em, or before

’em, by so much as a hair’s breadth. I’m a blind agent—that’s what I

am. A blind agent!” repeated Betteredge, with infinite relish of his

own description of himself.

“I am very sorry,” I began, “that you and I don’t agree——”

“Don’t bring _me_, into it!” interposed Betteredge. “This is not a

matter of agreement, it’s a matter of obedience. Issue your directions,

sir—issue your directions!”

Mr. Blake made me a sign to take him at his word. I “issued my

directions” as plainly and as gravely as I could.

“I wish certain parts of the house to be re-opened,” I said, “and to be

furnished, exactly as they were furnished at this time last year.”

Betteredge gave his imperfectly-pointed pencil a preliminary lick with

his tongue. “Name the parts, Mr. Jennings!” he said loftily.

“First, the inner hall, leading to the chief staircase.”

“‘First, the inner hall,’” Betteredge wrote. “Impossible to furnish

that, sir, as it was furnished last year—to begin with.”

“Why?”

“Because there was a stuffed buzzard, Mr. Jennings, in the hall last

year. When the family left, the buzzard was put away with the other

things. When the buzzard was put away—he burst.”

“We will except the buzzard then.”

Betteredge took a note of the exception. “‘The inner hall to be

furnished again, as furnished last year. A burst buzzard alone

excepted.’ Please to go on, Mr. Jennings.”

“The carpet to be laid down on the stairs, as before.”

“‘The carpet to be laid down on the stairs, as before.’ Sorry to

disappoint you, sir. But that can’t be done either.”

“Why not?”

“Because the man who laid that carpet down is dead, Mr. Jennings—and

the like of him for reconciling together a carpet and a corner, is not

to be found in all England, look where you may.”

“Very well. We must try the next best man in England.”

Betteredge took another note; and I went on issuing my directions.

“Miss Verinder’s sitting-room to be restored exactly to what it was

last year. Also, the corridor leading from the sitting-room to the

first landing. Also, the second corridor, leading from the second

landing to the best bedrooms. Also, the bedroom occupied last June by

Mr. Franklin Blake.”

Betteredge’s blunt pencil followed me conscientiously, word by word.

“Go on, sir,” he said, with sardonic gravity. “There’s a deal of

writing left in the point of this pencil yet.”

I told him that I had no more directions to give. “Sir,” said

Betteredge, “in that case, I have a point or two to put on my own

behalf.” He opened the pocket-book at a new page, and gave the

inexhaustible pencil another preliminary lick.

“I wish to know,” he began, “whether I may, or may not, wash my

hands——”

“You may decidedly,” said Mr. Blake. “I’ll ring for the waiter.”

“——of certain responsibilities,” pursued Betteredge, impenetrably

declining to see anybody in the room but himself and me. “As to Miss

Verinder’s sitting-room, to begin with. When we took up the carpet last

year, Mr. Jennings, we found a surprising quantity of pins. Am I

responsible for putting back the pins?”

“Certainly not.”

Betteredge made a note of that concession, on the spot.

“As to the first corridor next,” he resumed. “When we moved the

ornaments in that part, we moved a statue of a fat naked

child—profanely described in the catalogue of the house as ‘Cupid, god

of Love.’ He had two wings last year, in the fleshy part of his

shoulders. My eye being off him, for the moment, he lost one of them.

Am I responsible for Cupid’s wing?”

I made another concession, and Betteredge made another note.

“As to the second corridor,” he went on. “There having been nothing in

it, last year, but the doors of the rooms (to every one of which I can

swear, if necessary), my mind is easy, I admit, respecting that part of

the house only. But, as to Mr. Franklin’s bedroom (if _that_ is to be

put back to what it was before), I want to know who is responsible for

keeping it in a perpetual state of litter, no matter how often it may

be set right—his trousers here, his towels there, and his French novels

everywhere. I say, who is responsible for untidying the tidiness of Mr.

Franklin’s room, him or me?”

Mr. Blake declared that he would assume the whole responsibility with

the greatest pleasure. Betteredge obstinately declined to listen to any

solution of the difficulty, without first referring it to my sanction

and approval. I accepted Mr. Blake’s proposal; and Betteredge made a

last entry in the pocket-book to that effect.

“Look in when you like, Mr. Jennings, beginning from tomorrow,” he

said, getting on his legs. “You will find me at work, with the

necessary persons to assist me. I respectfully beg to thank you, sir,

for overlooking the case of the stuffed buzzard, and the other case of

the Cupid’s wing—as also for permitting me to wash my hands of all

responsibility in respect of the pins on the carpet, and the litter in

Mr. Franklin’s room. Speaking as a servant, I am deeply indebted to

you. Speaking as a man, I consider you to be a person whose head is

full of maggots, and I take up my testimony against your experiment as

a delusion and a snare. Don’t be afraid, on that account, of my

feelings as a man getting in the way of my duty as a servant! You shall

be obeyed. The maggots notwithstanding, sir, you shall be obeyed. If it

ends in your setting the house on fire, Damme if I send for the

engines, unless you ring the bell and order them first!”

With that farewell assurance, he made me a bow, and walked out of the

room.

“Do you think we can depend on him?” I asked.

“Implicitly,” answered Mr. Blake. “When we go to the house, we shall

find nothing neglected, and nothing forgotten.”

June 19th.—Another protest against our contemplated proceedings! From a

lady this time.

The morning’s post brought me two letters. One from Miss Verinder,

consenting, in the kindest manner, to the arrangement that I have

proposed. The other from the lady under whose care she is living—one

Mrs. Merridew.

Mrs. Merridew presents her compliments, and does not pretend to

understand the subject on which I have been corresponding with Miss

Verinder, in its scientific bearings. Viewed in its social bearings,

however, she feels free to pronounce an opinion. I am probably, Mrs.

Merridew thinks, not aware that Miss Verinder is barely nineteen years

of age. To allow a young lady, at her time of life, to be present

(without a “chaperone”) in a house full of men among whom a medical

experiment is being carried on, is an outrage on propriety which Mrs.

Merridew cannot possibly permit. If the matter is allowed to proceed,

she will feel it to be her duty—at a serious sacrifice of her own

personal convenience—to accompany Miss Verinder to Yorkshire. Under

these circumstances, she ventures to request that I will kindly

reconsider the subject; seeing that Miss Verinder declines to be guided

by any opinion but mine. Her presence cannot possibly be necessary; and

a word from me, to that effect, would relieve both Mrs. Merridew and

myself of a very unpleasant responsibility.

Translated from polite commonplace into plain English, the meaning of

this is, as I take it, that Mrs. Merridew stands in mortal fear of the

opinion of the world. She has unfortunately appealed to the very last

man in existence who has any reason to regard that opinion with

respect. I won’t disappoint Miss Verinder; and I won’t delay a

reconciliation between two young people who love each other, and who

have been parted too long already. Translated from plain English into

polite commonplace, this means that Mr. Jennings presents his

compliments to Mrs. Merridew, and regrets that he cannot feel justified

in interfering any farther in the matter.

Mr. Blake’s report of himself, this morning, was the same as before. We

determined not to disturb Betteredge by overlooking him at the house

today. Tomorrow will be time enough for our first visit of inspection.

June 20th.—Mr. Blake is beginning to feel his continued restlessness at

night. The sooner the rooms are refurnished, now, the better.

On our way to the house, this morning, he consulted me, with some

nervous impatience and irresolution, about a letter (forwarded to him

from London) which he had received from Sergeant Cuff.

The Sergeant writes from Ireland. He acknowledges the receipt (through

his housekeeper) of a card and message which Mr. Blake left at his

residence near Dorking, and announces his return to England as likely

to take place in a week or less. In the meantime, he requests to be

favoured with Mr. Blake’s reasons for wishing to speak to him (as

stated in the message) on the subject of the Moonstone. If Mr. Blake

can convict him of having made any serious mistake, in the course of

his last year’s inquiry concerning the Diamond, he will consider it a

duty (after the liberal manner in which he was treated by the late Lady

Verinder) to place himself at that gentleman’s disposal. If not, he

begs permission to remain in his retirement, surrounded by the peaceful

horticultural attractions of a country life.

After reading the letter, I had no hesitation in advising Mr. Blake to

inform Sergeant Cuff, in reply, of all that had happened since the

inquiry was suspended last year, and to leave him to draw his own

conclusions from the plain facts.

On second thoughts I also suggested inviting the Sergeant to be present

at the experiment, in the event of his returning to England in time to

join us. He would be a valuable witness to have, in any case; and, if I

proved to be wrong in believing the Diamond to be hidden in Mr. Blake’s

room, his advice might be of great importance, at a future stage of the

proceedings over which I could exercise no control. This last

consideration appeared to decide Mr. Blake. He promised to follow my

advice.

The sound of the hammer informed us that the work of refurnishing was

in full progress, as we entered the drive that led to the house.

Betteredge, attired for the occasion in a fisherman’s red cap, and an

apron of green baize, met us in the outer hall. The moment he saw me,

he pulled out the pocket-book and pencil, and obstinately insisted on

taking notes of everything that I said to him. Look where we might, we

found, as Mr. Blake had foretold, that the work was advancing as rapidly

and as intelligently as it was possible to desire. But there was still

much to be done in the inner hall, and in Miss Verinder’s room. It

seemed doubtful whether the house would be ready for us before the end

of the week.

Having congratulated Betteredge on the progress that he had made (he

persisted in taking notes every time I opened my lips; declining, at

the same time, to pay the slightest attention to anything said by Mr.

Blake); and having promised to return for a second visit of inspection

in a day or two, we prepared to leave the house, going out by the back

way. Before we were clear of the passages downstairs, I was stopped by

Betteredge, just as I was passing the door which led into his own room.

“Could I say two words to you in private?” he asked, in a mysterious

whisper.

I consented of course. Mr. Blake walked on to wait for me in the

garden, while I accompanied Betteredge into his room. I fully

anticipated a demand for certain new concessions, following the

precedent already established in the cases of the stuffed buzzard, and

the Cupid’s wing. To my great surprise, Betteredge laid his hand

confidentially on my arm, and put this extraordinary question to me:

“Mr. Jennings, do you happen to be acquainted with _Robinson Crusoe_?”

I answered that I had read _Robinson Crusoe_ when I was a child.

“Not since then?” inquired Betteredge.

“Not since then.”

He fell back a few steps, and looked at me with an expression of

compassionate curiosity, tempered by superstitious awe.

“He has not read _Robinson Crusoe_ since he was a child,” said

Betteredge, speaking to himself—not to me. “Let’s try how _Robinson

Crusoe_ strikes him now!”

He unlocked a cupboard in a corner, and produced a dirty and

dog’s-eared book, which exhaled a strong odour of stale tobacco as he

turned over the leaves. Having found a passage of which he was

apparently in search, he requested me to join him in the corner; still

mysteriously confidential, and still speaking under his breath.

“In respect to this hocus-pocus of yours, sir, with the laudanum and

Mr. Franklin Blake,” he began. “While the workpeople are in the house,

my duty as a servant gets the better of my feelings as a man. When the

workpeople are gone, my feelings as a man get the better of my duty as

a servant. Very good. Last night, Mr. Jennings, it was borne in

powerfully on my mind that this new medical enterprise of yours would

end badly. If I had yielded to that secret Dictate, I should have put

all the furniture away again with my own hand, and have warned the

workmen off the premises when they came the next morning.”

“I am glad to find, from what I have seen upstairs,” I said, “that you

resisted the secret Dictate.”

“Resisted isn’t the word,” answered Betteredge. “Wrostled is the word.

I wrostled, sir, between the silent orders in my bosom pulling me one

way, and the written orders in my pocket-book pushing me the other,

until (saving your presence) I was in a cold sweat. In that dreadful

perturbation of mind and laxity of body, to what remedy did I apply? To

the remedy, sir, which has never failed me yet for the last thirty

years and more—to This Book!”