The Moonstone
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_
CHAPTER I
I am indebted to my dear parents (both now in heaven) for having had
habits of order and regularity instilled into me at a very early age.
In that happy bygone time, I was taught to keep my hair tidy at all
hours of the day and night, and to fold up every article of my clothing
carefully, in the same order, on the same chair, in the same place at
the foot of the bed, before retiring to rest. An entry of the day’s
events in my little diary invariably preceded the folding up. The
“Evening Hymn” (repeated in bed) invariably followed the folding up.
And the sweet sleep of childhood invariably followed the “Evening
Hymn.”
In later life (alas!) the Hymn has been succeeded by sad and bitter
meditations; and the sweet sleep has been but ill exchanged for the
broken slumbers which haunt the uneasy pillow of care. On the other
hand, I have continued to fold my clothes, and to keep my little diary.
The former habit links me to my happy childhood—before papa was ruined.
The latter habit—hitherto mainly useful in helping me to discipline the
fallen nature which we all inherit from Adam—has unexpectedly proved
important to my humble interests in quite another way. It has enabled
poor Me to serve the caprice of a wealthy member of the family into
which my late uncle married. I am fortunate enough to be useful to Mr.
Franklin Blake.
I have been cut off from all news of my relatives by marriage for some
time past. When we are isolated and poor, we are not infrequently
forgotten. I am now living, for economy’s sake, in a little town in
Brittany, inhabited by a select circle of serious English friends, and
possessed of the inestimable advantages of a Protestant clergyman and a
cheap market.
In this retirement—a Patmos amid the howling ocean of popery that
surrounds us—a letter from England has reached me at last. I find my
insignificant existence suddenly remembered by Mr. Franklin Blake. My
wealthy relative—would that I could add my spiritually-wealthy
relative!—writes, without even an attempt at disguising that he wants
something of me. The whim has seized him to stir up the deplorable
scandal of the Moonstone: and I am to help him by writing the account