Bab Bab 38 · Chapter IV

I have not a word to say about my own sensations.

My impression is that the shock inflicted on me completely suspended my

thinking and feeling power. I certainly could not have known what I was

about when Betteredge joined me—for I have it on his authority that I

laughed, when he asked what was the matter, and putting the nightgown

into his hands, told him to read the riddle for himself.

Of what was said between us on the beach, I have not the faintest

recollection. The first place in which I can now see myself again

plainly is the plantation of firs. Betteredge and I are walking back

together to the house; and Betteredge is telling me that I shall be

able to face it, and he will be able to face it, when we have had a

glass of grog.

The scene shifts from the plantation, to Betteredge’s little

sitting-room. My resolution not to enter Rachel’s house is forgotten. I

feel gratefully the coolness and shadiness and quiet of the room. I

drink the grog (a perfectly new luxury to me, at that time of day),

which my good old friend mixes with icy-cold water from the well. Under

any other circumstances, the drink would simply stupefy me. As things

are, it strings up my nerves. I begin to “face it,” as Betteredge has

predicted. And Betteredge, on his side, begins to “face it,” too.

The picture which I am now presenting of myself, will, I suspect, be

thought a very strange one, to say the least of it. Placed in a

situation which may, I think, be described as entirely without

parallel, what is the first proceeding to which I resort? Do I seclude

myself from all human society? Do I set my mind to analyse the

abominable impossibility which, nevertheless, confronts me as an

undeniable fact? Do I hurry back to London by the first train to

consult the highest authorities, and to set a searching inquiry on foot

immediately? No. I accept the shelter of a house which I had resolved

never to degrade myself by entering again; and I sit, tippling spirits

and water in the company of an old servant, at ten o’clock in the

morning. Is this the conduct that might have been expected from a man

placed in my horrible position? I can only answer that the sight of old

Betteredge’s familiar face was an inexpressible comfort to me, and that

the drinking of old Betteredge’s grog helped me, as I believe nothing

else would have helped me, in the state of complete bodily and mental

prostration into which I had fallen. I can only offer this excuse for

myself; and I can only admire that invariable preservation of dignity,

and that strictly logical consistency of conduct which distinguish

every man and woman who may read these lines, in every emergency of

their lives from the cradle to the grave.

“Now, Mr. Franklin, there’s one thing certain, at any rate,” said

Betteredge, throwing the nightgown down on the table between us, and

pointing to it as if it was a living creature that could hear him.

“_He’s_ a liar, to begin with.”

This comforting view of the matter was not the view that presented

itself to my mind.

“I am as innocent of all knowledge of having taken the Diamond as you

are,” I said. “But there is the witness against me! The paint on the

nightgown, and the name on the nightgown are facts.”

Betteredge lifted my glass, and put it persuasively into my hand.

“Facts?” he repeated. “Take a drop more grog, Mr. Franklin, and you’ll

get over the weakness of believing in facts! Foul play, sir!” he

continued, dropping his voice confidentially. “That is how I read the

riddle. Foul play somewhere—and you and I must find it out. Was there

nothing else in the tin case, when you put your hand into it?”

The question instantly reminded me of the letter in my pocket. I took

it out, and opened it. It was a letter of many pages, closely written.

I looked impatiently for the signature at the end. “Rosanna Spearman.”

As I read the name, a sudden remembrance illuminated my mind, and a

sudden suspicion rose out of the new light.

“Stop!” I exclaimed. “Rosanna Spearman came to my aunt out of a

reformatory? Rosanna Spearman had once been a thief?”

“There’s no denying that, Mr. Franklin. What of it now, if you please?”

“What of it now? How do we know she may not have stolen the Diamond

after all? How do we know she may not have smeared my nightgown

purposely with the paint?”

Betteredge laid his hand on my arm, and stopped me before I could say

any more.

“You will be cleared of this, Mr. Franklin, beyond all doubt. But I

hope you won’t be cleared in _that_ way. See what the letter says, sir.

In justice to the girl’s memory, see what it says.”

I felt the earnestness with which he spoke—felt it as a friendly rebuke

to me. “You shall form your own judgment on her letter,” I said. “I

will read it out.”

I began—and read these lines:

“Sir—I have something to own to you. A confession which means much

misery, may sometimes be made in very few words. This confession can be

made in three words. I love you.”

The letter dropped from my hand. I looked at Betteredge. “In the name

of Heaven,” I said, “what does it mean?”

He seemed to shrink from answering the question.

“You and Limping Lucy were alone together this morning, sir,” he said.

“Did she say nothing about Rosanna Spearman?”

“She never even mentioned Rosanna Spearman’s name.”

“Please to go back to the letter, Mr. Franklin. I tell you plainly, I

can’t find it in my heart to distress you, after what you have had to

bear already. Let her speak for herself, sir. And get on with your

grog. For your own sake, get on with your grog.”

I resumed the reading of the letter.

“It would be very disgraceful to me to tell you this, if I was a living

woman when you read it. I shall be dead and gone, sir, when you find my

letter. It is that which makes me bold. Not even my grave will be left

to tell of me. I may own the truth—with the quicksand waiting to hide

me when the words are written.

“Besides, you will find your nightgown in my hiding-place, with the

smear of the paint on it; and you will want to know how it came to be

hidden by me? and why I said nothing to you about it in my life-time? I

have only one reason to give. I did these strange things, because I

loved you.

“I won’t trouble you with much about myself, or my life, before you

came to my lady’s house. Lady Verinder took me out of a reformatory. I

had gone to the reformatory from the prison. I was put in the prison,

because I was a thief. I was a thief, because my mother went on the

streets when I was quite a little girl. My mother went on the streets,

because the gentleman who was my father deserted her. There is no need

to tell such a common story as this, at any length. It is told quite

often enough in the newspapers.

“Lady Verinder was very kind to me, and Mr. Betteredge was very kind to

me. Those two, and the matron at the reformatory, are the only good

people I have ever met with in all my life. I might have got on in my

place—not happily—but I might have got on, if you had not come

visiting. I don’t blame _you_, sir. It’s my fault—all my fault.

“Do you remember when you came out on us from among the sandhills, that

morning, looking for Mr. Betteredge? You were like a prince in a

fairy-story. You were like a lover in a dream. You were the most

adorable human creature I had ever seen. Something that felt like the

happy life I had never led yet, leapt up in me at the instant I set

eyes on you. Don’t laugh at this if you can help it. Oh, if I could

only make you feel how serious it is to _me!_

“I went back to the house, and wrote your name and mine in my work-box,

and drew a true lovers’ knot under them. Then, some devil—no, I ought

to say some good angel—whispered to me, ‘Go and look in the glass.’ The

glass told me—never mind what. I was too foolish to take the warning. I

went on getting fonder and fonder of you, just as if I was a lady in

your own rank of life, and the most beautiful creature your eyes ever

rested on. I tried—oh, dear, how I tried—to get you to look at me. If

you had known how I used to cry at night with the misery and the

mortification of your never taking any notice of me, you would have

pitied me perhaps, and have given me a look now and then to live on.

“It would have been no very kind look, perhaps, if you had known how I

hated Miss Rachel. I believe I found out you were in love with her,

before you knew it yourself. She used to give you roses to wear in your

button-hole. Ah, Mr. Franklin, you wore _my_ roses oftener than either

you or she thought! The only comfort I had at that time, was putting my

rose secretly in your glass of water, in place of hers—and then

throwing her rose away.

“If she had been really as pretty as you thought her, I might have

borne it better. No; I believe I should have been more spiteful against

her still. Suppose you put Miss Rachel into a servant’s dress, and took

her ornaments off? I don’t know what is the use of my writing in this

way. It can’t be denied that she had a bad figure; she was too thin.

But who can tell what the men like? And young ladies may behave in a

manner which would cost a servant her place. It’s no business of mine.

I can’t expect you to read my letter, if I write it in this way. But it

does stir one up to hear Miss Rachel called pretty, when one knows all

the time that it’s her dress does it, and her confidence in herself.

“Try not to lose patience with me, sir. I will get on as fast as I can

to the time which is sure to interest you—the time when the Diamond was

lost.

“But there is one thing which I have got it on my mind to tell you

first.

“My life was not a very hard life to bear, while I was a thief. It was

only when they had taught me at the reformatory to feel my own

degradation, and to try for better things, that the days grew long and

weary. Thoughts of the future forced themselves on me now. I felt the

dreadful reproach that honest people—even the kindest of honest

people—were to me in themselves. A heart-breaking sensation of

loneliness kept with me, go where I might, and do what I might, and see

what persons I might. It was my duty, I know, to try and get on with my

fellow-servants in my new place. Somehow, I couldn’t make friends with

them. They looked (or I thought they looked) as if they suspected what

I had been. I don’t regret, far from it, having been roused to make the

effort to be a reformed woman—but, indeed, indeed it was a weary life.

You had come across it like a beam of sunshine at first—and then you

too failed me. I was mad enough to love you; and I couldn’t even

attract your notice. There was great misery—there really was great

misery in that.

“Now I am coming to what I wanted to tell you. In those days of

bitterness, I went two or three times, when it was my turn to go out,

to my favourite place—the beach above the Shivering Sand. And I said to

myself, ‘I think it will end here. When I can bear it no longer, I

think it will end here.’ You will understand, sir, that the place had

laid a kind of spell on me before you came. I had always had a notion

that something would happen to me at the quicksand. But I had never

looked at it, with the thought of its being the means of my making away

with myself, till the time came of which I am now writing. Then I did

think that here was a place which would end all my troubles for me in a

moment or two—and hide me for ever afterwards.

“This is all I have to say about myself, reckoning from the morning

when I first saw you, to the morning when the alarm was raised in the

house that the Diamond was lost.

“I was so aggravated by the foolish talk among the women servants, all

wondering who was to be suspected first; and I was so angry with you

(knowing no better at that time) for the pains you took in hunting for

the jewel, and sending for the police, that I kept as much as possible

away by myself, until later in the day, when the officer from

Frizinghall came to the house.

“Mr. Seegrave began, as you may remember, by setting a guard on the

women’s bedrooms; and the women all followed him upstairs in a rage, to

know what he meant by the insult he had put on them. I went with the

rest, because if I had done anything different from the rest, Mr.

Seegrave was the sort of man who would have suspected me directly. We

found him in Miss Rachel’s room. He told us he wouldn’t have a lot of

women there; and he pointed to the smear on the painted door, and said

some of our petticoats had done the mischief, and sent us all

downstairs again.

“After leaving Miss Rachel’s room, I stopped a moment on one of the

landings, by myself, to see if I had got the paint-stain by any chance

on _my_ gown. Penelope Betteredge (the only one of the women with whom

I was on friendly terms) passed, and noticed what I was about.

“‘You needn’t trouble yourself, Rosanna,’ she said. ‘The paint on Miss

Rachel’s door has been dry for hours. If Mr. Seegrave hadn’t set a

watch on our bedrooms, I might have told him as much. I don’t know what

_you_ think—_I_ was never so insulted before in my life!’

“Penelope was a hot-tempered girl. I quieted her, and brought her back

to what she had said about the paint on the door having been dry for

hours.

“‘How do you know that?’ I asked.

“‘I was with Miss Rachel, and Mr. Franklin, all yesterday morning,’

Penelope said, ‘mixing the colours, while they finished the door. I

heard Miss Rachel ask whether the door would be dry that evening, in

time for the birthday company to see it. And Mr. Franklin shook his

head, and said it wouldn’t be dry in less than twelve hours. It was

long past luncheon-time—it was three o’clock before they had done. What

does your arithmetic say, Rosanna? Mine says the door was dry by three

this morning.’

“‘Did some of the ladies go upstairs yesterday evening to see it?’ I

asked. ‘I thought I heard Miss Rachel warning them to keep clear of the

door.’

“‘None of the ladies made the smear,’ Penelope answered. ‘I left Miss

Rachel in bed at twelve last night. And I noticed the door, and there

was nothing wrong with it then.’

“‘Oughtn’t you to mention this to Mr. Seegrave, Penelope?’

“‘I wouldn’t say a word to help Mr. Seegrave for anything that could be

offered to me!’

“She went to her work, and I went to mine.

“My work, sir, was to make your bed, and to put your room tidy. It was

the happiest hour I had in the whole day. I used to kiss the pillow on

which your head had rested all night. No matter who has done it since,

you have never had your clothes folded as nicely as I folded them for

you. Of all the little knick-knacks in your dressing-case, there wasn’t

one that had so much as a speck on it. You never noticed it, any more

than you noticed me. I beg your pardon; I am forgetting myself. I will

make haste, and go on again.

“Well, I went in that morning to do my work in your room. There was

your nightgown tossed across the bed, just as you had thrown it off. I

took it up to fold it—and I saw the stain of the paint from Miss

Rachel’s door!

“I was so startled by the discovery that I ran out with the nightgown

in my hand, and made for the back stairs, and locked myself into my own

room, to look at it in a place where nobody could intrude and interrupt

me.

“As soon as I got my breath again, I called to mind my talk with

Penelope, and I said to myself, ‘Here’s the proof that he was in Miss

Rachel’s sitting-room between twelve last night, and three this

morning!’

“I shall not tell you in plain words what was the first suspicion that

crossed my mind, when I had made that discovery. You would only be

angry—and, if you were angry, you might tear my letter up and read no

more of it.

“Let it be enough, if you please, to say only this. After thinking it

over to the best of my ability, I made it out that the thing wasn’t

likely, for a reason that I will tell you. If you had been in Miss

Rachel’s sitting-room, at that time of night, with Miss Rachel’s

knowledge (and if you had been foolish enough to forget to take care of

the wet door) _she_ would have reminded you—_she_ would never have let

you carry away such a witness against her, as the witness I was looking

at now! At the same time, I own I was not completely certain in my own

mind that I had proved my own suspicion to be wrong. You will not have

forgotten that I have owned to hating Miss Rachel. Try to think, if you

can, that there was a little of that hatred in all this. It ended in my

determining to keep the nightgown, and to wait, and watch, and see what

use I might make of it. At that time, please to remember, not the ghost

of an idea entered my head that _you_ had stolen the Diamond.”

There, I broke off in the reading of the letter for the second time.

I had read those portions of the miserable woman’s confession which

related to myself, with unaffected surprise, and, I can honestly add,

with sincere distress. I had regretted, truly regretted, the aspersion

which I had thoughtlessly cast on her memory, before I had seen a line

of her letter. But when I had advanced as far as the passage which is

quoted above, I own I felt my mind growing bitterer and bitterer

against Rosanna Spearman as I went on. “Read the rest for yourself,” I

said, handing the letter to Betteredge across the table. “If there is

anything in it that I _must_ look at, you can tell me as you go on.”

“I understand you, Mr. Franklin,” he answered. “It’s natural, sir, in

_you_. And, God help us all!” he added, in a lower tone, “it’s no less

natural in _her_.”

I proceed to copy the continuation of the letter from the original, in

my own possession:—

“Having determined to keep the nightgown, and to see what use my love,

or my revenge (I hardly know which) could turn it to in the future, the

next thing to discover was how to keep it without the risk of being

found out.

“There was only one way—to make another nightgown exactly like it,

before Saturday came, and brought the laundry-woman and her inventory

to the house.

“I was afraid to put it off till next day (the Friday); being in doubt

lest some accident might happen in the interval. I determined to make

the new nightgown on that same day (the Thursday), while I could count,

if I played my cards properly, on having my time to myself. The first

thing to do (after locking up your nightgown in my drawer) was to go

back to your bedroom—not so much to put it to rights (Penelope would

have done that for me, if I had asked her) as to find out whether you

had smeared off any of the paint-stain from your nightgown, on the bed,

or on any piece of furniture in the room.

“I examined everything narrowly, and at last, I found a few streaks of

the paint on the inside of your dressing-gown—not the linen

dressing-gown you usually wore in that summer season, but a flannel

dressing-gown which you had with you also. I suppose you felt chilly

after walking to and fro in nothing but your nightdress, and put on the

warmest thing you could find. At any rate, there were the stains, just

visible, on the inside of the dressing-gown. I easily got rid of these

by scraping away the stuff of the flannel. This done, the only proof

left against you was the proof locked up in my drawer.

“I had just finished your room when I was sent for to be questioned by

Mr. Seegrave, along with the rest of the servants. Next came the

examination of all our boxes. And then followed the most extraordinary

event of the day—to _me_—since I had found the paint on your nightgown.

This event came out of the second questioning of Penelope Betteredge by

Superintendent Seegrave.

“Penelope returned to us quite beside herself with rage at the manner

in which Mr. Seegrave had treated her. He had hinted, beyond the

possibility of mistaking him, that he suspected her of being the thief.

We were all equally astonished at hearing this, and we all asked, Why?

“‘Because the Diamond was in Miss Rachel’s sitting-room,’ Penelope

answered. ‘And because I was the last person in the sitting-room at

night!’

“Almost before the words had left her lips, I remembered that another

person had been in the sitting-room later than Penelope. That person

was yourself. My head whirled round, and my thoughts were in dreadful

confusion. In the midst of it all, something in my mind whispered to me

that the smear on your nightgown might have a meaning entirely

different to the meaning which I had given to it up to that time. ‘If

the last person who was in the room is the person to be suspected,’ I

thought to myself, ‘the thief is not Penelope, but Mr. Franklin Blake!’

“In the case of any other gentleman, I believe I should have been

ashamed of suspecting him of theft, almost as soon as the suspicion had

passed through my mind.

“But the bare thought that _you_ had let yourself down to my level, and

that I, in possessing myself of your nightgown, had also possessed

myself of the means of shielding you from being discovered, and

disgraced for life—I say, sir, the bare thought of this seemed to open

such a chance before me of winning your good will, that I passed

blindfold, as one may say, from suspecting to believing. I made up my

mind, on the spot, that you had shown yourself the busiest of anybody

in fetching the police, as a blind to deceive us all; and that the hand

which had taken Miss Rachel’s jewel could by no possibility be any

other hand than yours.

“The excitement of this new discovery of mine must, I think, have

turned my head for a while. I felt such a devouring eagerness to see

you—to try you with a word or two about the Diamond, and to _make_ you

look at me, and speak to me, in that way—that I put my hair tidy, and

made myself as nice as I could, and went to you boldly in the library

where I knew you were writing.

“You had left one of your rings upstairs, which made as good an excuse

for my intrusion as I could have desired. But, oh, sir! if you have

ever loved, you will understand how it was that all my courage cooled,

when I walked into the room, and found myself in your presence. And

then, you looked up at me so coldly, and you thanked me for finding

your ring in such an indifferent manner, that my knees trembled under

me, and I felt as if I should drop on the floor at your feet. When you

had thanked me, you looked back, if you remember, at your writing. I

was so mortified at being treated in this way, that I plucked up spirit

enough to speak. I said, ‘This is a strange thing about the Diamond,

sir.’ And you looked up again, and said, ‘Yes, it is!’ You spoke

civilly (I can’t deny that); but still you kept a distance—a cruel

distance between us. Believing, as I did, that you had got the lost

Diamond hidden about you, while you were speaking, your coolness so

provoked me that I got bold enough, in the heat of the moment, to give

you a hint. I said, ‘They will never find the Diamond, sir, will they?

No! nor the person who took it—I’ll answer for that.’ I nodded, and

smiled at you, as much as to say, ‘I know!’ _This_ time, you looked up

at me with something like interest in your eyes; and I felt that a few

more words on your side and mine might bring out the truth. Just at

that moment, Mr. Betteredge spoilt it all by coming to the door. I knew

his footstep, and I also knew that it was against his rules for me to

be in the library at that time of day—let alone being there along with

you. I had only just time to get out of my own accord, before he could

come in and tell me to go. I was angry and disappointed; but I was not

entirely without hope for all that. The ice, you see, was broken

between us—and I thought I would take care, on the next occasion, that

Mr. Betteredge was out of the way.

“When I got back to the servants’ hall, the bell was going for our

dinner. Afternoon already! and the materials for making the new

nightgown were still to be got! There was but one chance of getting

them. I shammed ill at dinner; and so secured the whole of the interval

from then till tea-time to my own use.

“What I was about, while the household believed me to be lying down in

my own room; and how I spent the night, after shamming ill again at

tea-time, and having been sent up to bed, there is no need to tell you.

Sergeant Cuff discovered that much, if he discovered nothing more. And

I can guess how. I was detected (though I kept my veil down) in the

draper’s shop at Frizinghall. There was a glass in front of me, at the

counter where I was buying the longcloth; and—in that glass—I saw one

of the shopmen point to my shoulder and whisper to another. At night

again, when I was secretly at work, locked into my room, I heard the

breathing of the women servants who suspected me, outside my door.

“It didn’t matter then; it doesn’t matter now. On the Friday morning,

hours before Sergeant Cuff entered the house, there was the new

nightgown—to make up your number in place of the nightgown that I had

got—made, wrung out, dried, ironed, marked, and folded as the laundry

woman folded all the others, safe in your drawer. There was no fear (if

the linen in the house was examined) of the newness of the nightgown

betraying me. All your underclothing had been renewed, when you came to

our house—I suppose on your return home from foreign parts.

“The next thing was the arrival of Sergeant Cuff; and the next great

surprise was the announcement of what _he_ thought about the smear on

the door.

“I had believed you to be guilty (as I have owned), more because I

wanted you to be guilty than for any other reason. And now, the

Sergeant had come round by a totally different way to the same

conclusion (respecting the nightgown) as mine! And I had got the dress

that was the only proof against you! And not a living creature knew

it—yourself included! I am afraid to tell you how I felt when I called

these things to mind—you would hate my memory for ever afterwards.”

At that place, Betteredge looked up from the letter.

“Not a glimmer of light so far, Mr. Franklin,” said the old man, taking

off his heavy tortoiseshell spectacles, and pushing Rosanna Spearman’s

confession a little away from him. “Have you come to any conclusion,

sir, in your own mind, while I have been reading?”

“Finish the letter first, Betteredge; there may be something to

enlighten us at the end of it. I shall have a word or two to say to you

after that.”

“Very good, sir. I’ll just rest my eyes, and then I’ll go on again. In

the meantime, Mr. Franklin—I don’t want to hurry you—but would you mind

telling me, in one word, whether you see your way out of this dreadful

mess yet?”

“I see my way back to London,” I said, “to consult Mr. Bruff. If he

can’t help me——”

“Yes, sir?”

“And if the Sergeant won’t leave his retirement at Dorking——”

“He won’t, Mr. Franklin!”

“Then, Betteredge—as far as I can see now—I am at the end of my

resources. After Mr. Bruff and the Sergeant, I don’t know of a living

creature who can be of the slightest use to me.”

As the words passed my lips, some person outside knocked at the door of

the room.

Betteredge looked surprised as well as annoyed by the interruption.

“Come in,” he called out, irritably, “whoever you are!”

The door opened, and there entered to us, quietly, the most

remarkable-looking man that I had ever seen. Judging him by his figure

and his movements, he was still young. Judging him by his face, and

comparing him with Betteredge, he looked the elder of the two. His

complexion was of a gipsy darkness; his fleshless cheeks had fallen

into deep hollows, over which the bone projected like a penthouse. His

nose presented the fine shape and modelling so often found among the

ancient people of the East, so seldom visible among the newer races of

the West. His forehead rose high and straight from the brow. His marks

and wrinkles were innumerable. From this strange face, eyes, stranger

still, of the softest brown—eyes dreamy and mournful, and deeply sunk

in their orbits—looked out at you, and (in my case, at least) took your

attention captive at their will. Add to this a quantity of thick

closely-curling hair, which, by some freak of Nature, had lost its

colour in the most startlingly partial and capricious manner. Over the

top of his head it was still of the deep black which was its natural

colour. Round the sides of his head—without the slightest gradation of

grey to break the force of the extraordinary contrast—it had turned

completely white. The line between the two colours preserved no sort of

regularity. At one place, the white hair ran up into the black; at

another, the black hair ran down into the white. I looked at the man

with a curiosity which, I am ashamed to say, I found it quite

impossible to control. His soft brown eyes looked back at me gently;

and he met my involuntary rudeness in staring at him, with an apology

which I was conscious that I had not deserved.

“I beg your pardon,” he said. “I had no idea that Mr. Betteredge was

engaged.” He took a slip of paper from his pocket, and handed it to

Betteredge. “The list for next week,” he said. His eyes just rested on

me again—and he left the room as quietly as he had entered it.

“Who is that?” I asked.

“Mr. Candy’s assistant,” said Betteredge. “By-the-bye, Mr. Franklin,

you will be sorry to hear that the little doctor has never recovered

that illness he caught, going home from the birthday dinner. He’s

pretty well in health; but he lost his memory in the fever, and he has

never recovered more than the wreck of it since. The work all falls on

his assistant. Not much of it now, except among the poor. _They_ can’t

help themselves, you know. _They_ must put up with the man with the

piebald hair, and the gipsy complexion—or they would get no doctoring

at all.”

“You don’t seem to like him, Betteredge?”

“Nobody likes him, sir.”

“Why is he so unpopular?”

“Well, Mr. Franklin, his appearance is against him, to begin with. And

then there’s a story that Mr. Candy took him with a very doubtful

character. Nobody knows who he is—and he hasn’t a friend in the place.

How can you expect one to like him, after that?”

“Quite impossible, of course! May I ask what he wanted with you, when

he gave you that bit of paper?”

“Only to bring me the weekly list of the sick people about here, sir,

who stand in need of a little wine. My lady always had a regular

distribution of good sound port and sherry among the infirm poor; and

Miss Rachel wishes the custom to be kept up. Times have changed! times

have changed! I remember when Mr. Candy himself brought the list to my

mistress. Now it’s Mr. Candy’s assistant who brings the list to me.

I’ll go on with the letter, if you will allow me, sir,” said

Betteredge, drawing Rosanna Spearman’s confession back to him. “It

isn’t lively reading, I grant you. But, there! it keeps me from getting

sour with thinking of the past.” He put on his spectacles, and wagged

his head gloomily. “There’s a bottom of good sense, Mr. Franklin, in

our conduct to our mothers, when they first start us on the journey of

life. We are all of us more or less unwilling to be brought into the

world. And we are all of us right.”

Mr. Candy’s assistant had produced too strong an impression on me to be

immediately dismissed from my thoughts. I passed over the last

unanswerable utterance of the Betteredge philosophy; and returned to

the subject of the man with the piebald hair.

“What is his name?” I asked.

“As ugly a name as need be,” Betteredge answered gruffly. “Ezra

Jennings.”