The Moonstone
“I have served your family, sir, to mighty little purpose, if you doubt
it!”
“Do you remember how Rachel treated me, before I left England?”
“As well as if it was yesterday! My lady herself wrote you a letter
about it; and you were so good as to show the letter to me. It said
that Miss Rachel was mortally offended with you, for the part you had
taken in trying to recover her jewel. And neither my lady, nor you, nor
anybody else could guess why.
“Quite true, Betteredge! And I come back from my travels, and find her
mortally offended with me still. I knew that the Diamond was at the
bottom of it, last year, and I know that the Diamond is at the bottom
of it now. I have tried to speak to her, and she won’t see me. I have
tried to write to her, and she won’t answer me. How, in Heaven’s name,
am I to clear the matter up? The chance of searching into the loss of
the Moonstone, is the one chance of inquiry that Rachel herself has
left me.”
Those words evidently put the case before him, as he had not seen it
yet. He asked a question which satisfied me that I had shaken him.
“There is no ill-feeling in this, Mr. Franklin, on your side—is there?”
“There was some anger,” I answered, “when I left London. But that is
all worn out now. I want to make Rachel come to an understanding with
me—and I want nothing more.”
“You don’t feel any fear, sir—supposing you make any discoveries—in
regard to what you may find out about Miss Rachel?”
I understood the jealous belief in his young mistress which prompted
those words.
“I am as certain of her as you are,” I answered. “The fullest
disclosure of her secret will reveal nothing that can alter her place
in your estimation, or in mine.”
Betteredge’s last-left scruples vanished at that.
“If I am doing wrong to help you, Mr. Franklin,” he exclaimed, “all I
can say is—I am as innocent of seeing it as the babe unborn! I can put
you on the road to discovery, if you can only go on by yourself. You
remember that poor girl of ours—Rosanna Spearman?”
“Of course!”
“You always thought she had some sort of confession in regard to this
matter of the Moonstone, which she wanted to make to you?”
“I certainly couldn’t account for her strange conduct in any other
way.”
“You may set that doubt at rest, Mr. Franklin, whenever you please.”
It was my turn to come to a standstill now. I tried vainly, in the
gathering darkness, to see his face. In the surprise of the moment, I
asked a little impatiently what he meant.
“Steady, sir!” proceeded Betteredge. “I mean what I say. Rosanna
Spearman left a sealed letter behind her—a letter addressed to _you_.”
“Where is it?”
“In the possession of a friend of hers, at Cobb’s Hole. You must have
heard tell, when you were here last, sir, of Limping Lucy—a lame girl
with a crutch.”
“The fisherman’s daughter?”
“The same, Mr. Franklin.”
“Why wasn’t the letter forwarded to me?”
“Limping Lucy has a will of her own, sir. She wouldn’t give it into any
hands but yours. And you had left England before I could write to you.”
“Let’s go back, Betteredge, and get it at once!”
“Too late, sir, tonight. They’re great savers of candles along our
coast; and they go to bed early at Cobb’s Hole.”
“Nonsense! We might get there in half an hour.”
“_You_ might, sir. And when you did get there, you would find the door
locked.” He pointed to a light, glimmering below us; and, at the same
moment, I heard through the stillness of the evening the bubbling of a
stream. “There’s the Farm, Mr. Franklin! Make yourself comfortable for
tonight, and come to me tomorrow morning—if you’ll be so kind?”
“You will go with me to the fisherman’s cottage?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Early?”
“As early, Mr. Franklin, as you like.”
We descended the path that led to the Farm.
CHAPTER III
I have only the most indistinct recollection of what happened at
Hotherstone’s Farm.
I remember a hearty welcome; a prodigious supper, which would have fed
a whole village in the East; a delightfully clean bedroom, with nothing
in it to regret but that detestable product of the folly of our
forefathers—a feather-bed; a restless night, with much kindling of
matches, and many lightings of one little candle; and an immense
sensation of relief when the sun rose, and there was a prospect of
getting up.
It had been arranged over-night with Betteredge, that I was to call for
him, on our way to Cobb’s Hole, as early as I liked—which, interpreted
by my impatience to get possession of the letter, meant as early as I
could. Without waiting for breakfast at the Farm, I took a crust of
bread in my hand, and set forth, in some doubt whether I should not
surprise the excellent Betteredge in his bed. To my great relief he
proved to be quite as excited about the coming event as I was. I found
him ready, and waiting for me, with his stick in his hand.
“How are you this morning, Betteredge?”
“Very poorly, sir.”
“Sorry to hear it. What do you complain of?”
“I complain of a new disease, Mr. Franklin, of my own inventing. I
don’t want to alarm you, but you’re certain to catch it before the
morning is out.”
“The devil I am!”
“Do you feel an uncomfortable heat at the pit of your stomach, sir? and
a nasty thumping at the top of your head? Ah! not yet? It will lay hold
of you at Cobb’s Hole, Mr. Franklin. I call it the detective-fever; and
_I_ first caught it in the company of Sergeant Cuff.”
“Aye! aye! and the cure in this instance is to open Rosanna Spearman’s
letter, I suppose? Come along, and let’s get it.”
Early as it was, we found the fisherman’s wife astir in her kitchen. On
my presentation by Betteredge, good Mrs. Yolland performed a social
ceremony, strictly reserved (as I afterwards learnt) for strangers of
distinction. She put a bottle of Dutch gin and a couple of clean pipes
on the table, and opened the conversation by saying, “What news from
London, sir?”
Before I could find an answer to this immensely comprehensive question,
an apparition advanced towards me, out of a dark corner of the kitchen.
A wan, wild, haggard girl, with remarkably beautiful hair, and with a
fierce keenness in her eyes, came limping up on a crutch to the table
at which I was sitting, and looked at me as if I was an object of
mingled interest and horror, which it quite fascinated her to see.
“Mr. Betteredge,” she said, without taking her eyes off me, “mention
his name again, if you please.”
“This gentleman’s name,” answered Betteredge (with a strong emphasis on
_gentleman_), “is Mr. Franklin Blake.”
The girl turned her back on me, and suddenly left the room. Good Mrs.
Yolland—as I believe—made some apologies for her daughter’s odd
behaviour, and Betteredge (probably) translated them into polite
English. I speak of this in complete uncertainty. My attention was
absorbed in following the sound of the girl’s crutch. Thump-thump, up
the wooden stairs; thump-thump across the room above our heads;
thump-thump down the stairs again—and there stood the apparition at the
open door, with a letter in its hand, beckoning me out!
I left more apologies in course of delivery behind me, and followed
this strange creature—limping on before me, faster and faster—down the
slope of the beach. She led me behind some boats, out of sight and
hearing of the few people in the fishing-village, and then stopped, and
faced me for the first time.
“Stand there,” she said, “I want to look at you.”
There was no mistaking the expression on her face. I inspired her with
the strongest emotions of abhorrence and disgust. Let me not be vain
enough to say that no woman had ever looked at me in this manner
before. I will only venture on the more modest assertion that no woman
had ever let me perceive it yet. There is a limit to the length of the
inspection which a man can endure, under certain circumstances. I
attempted to direct Limping Lucy’s attention to some less revolting
object than my face.
“I think you have got a letter to give me,” I began. “Is it the letter
there, in your hand?”
“Say that again,” was the only answer I received.
I repeated the words, like a good child learning its lesson.
“No,” said the girl, speaking to herself, but keeping her eyes still
mercilessly fixed on me. “I can’t find out what she saw in his face. I
can’t guess what she heard in his voice.” She suddenly looked away from
me, and rested her head wearily on the top of her crutch. “Oh, my poor
dear!” she said, in the first soft tones which had fallen from her, in
my hearing. “Oh, my lost darling! what could you see in this man?” She
lifted her head again fiercely, and looked at me once more. “Can you
eat and drink?” she asked.
I did my best to preserve my gravity, and answered, “Yes.”
“Can you sleep?”
“Yes.”
“When you see a poor girl in service, do you feel no remorse?”
“Certainly not. Why should I?”
She abruptly thrust the letter (as the phrase is) into my face.
“Take it!” she exclaimed furiously. “I never set eyes on you before.
God Almighty forbid I should ever set eyes on you again.”
With those parting words she limped away from me at the top of her
speed. The one interpretation that I could put on her conduct has, no
doubt, been anticipated by everybody. I could only suppose that she was
mad.
Having reached that inevitable conclusion, I turned to the more
interesting object of investigation which was presented to me by
Rosanna Spearman’s letter. The address was written as follows:—“For
Franklin Blake, Esq. To be given into his own hands (and not to be
trusted to anyone else), by Lucy Yolland.”
I broke the seal. The envelope contained a letter: and this, in its
turn, contained a slip of paper. I read the letter first:—
“Sir,—If you are curious to know the meaning of my behaviour to you,
whilst you were staying in the house of my mistress, Lady Verinder, do
what you are told to do in the memorandum enclosed with this—and do it
without any person being present to overlook you. Your humble servant,
“ROSANNA SPEARMAN.”
I turned to the slip of paper next. Here is the literal copy of it,
word for word:
“Memorandum:—To go to the Shivering Sand at the turn of the tide. To
walk out on the South Spit, until I get the South Spit Beacon, and the
flagstaff at the Coast-guard station above Cobb’s Hole in a line
together. To lay down on the rocks, a stick, or any straight thing to
guide my hand, exactly in the line of the beacon and the flagstaff. To
take care, in doing this, that one end of the stick shall be at the
edge of the rocks, on the side of them which overlooks the quicksand.
To feel along the stick, among the seaweed (beginning from the end of
the stick which points towards the beacon), for the Chain. To run my
hand along the Chain, when found, until I come to the part of it which
stretches over the edge of the rocks, down into the quicksand. _And
then, to pull the chain._”
Just as I had read the last words—underlined in the original—I heard
the voice of Betteredge behind me. The inventor of the detective-fever
had completely succumbed to that irresistible malady. “I can’t stand it
any longer, Mr. Franklin. What does her letter say? For mercy’s sake,
sir, tell us, what does her letter say?”
I handed him the letter, and the memorandum. He read the first without
appearing to be much interested in it. But the second—the
memorandum—produced a strong impression on him.
“The Sergeant said it!” cried Betteredge. “From first to last, sir, the
Sergeant said she had got a memorandum of the hiding-place. And here it
is! Lord save us, Mr. Franklin, here is the secret that puzzled
everybody, from the great Cuff downwards, ready and waiting, as one may
say, to show itself to _you!_ It’s the ebb now, sir, as anybody may see