The Moonstone
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