The Moonstone
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!”
He hit the book a sounding blow with his open hand, and struck out of
it a stronger smell of stale tobacco than ever.
“What did I find here,” pursued Betteredge, “at the first page I
opened? This awful bit, sir, page one hundred and seventy-eight, as
follows:—‘Upon these, and many like Reflections, I afterwards made it a
certain rule with me, That whenever I found those secret Hints or
Pressings of my Mind, to doing, or not doing any Thing that presented;
or to going this Way, or that Way, I never failed to obey the secret
Dictate.’ As I live by bread, Mr. Jennings, those were the first words
that met my eye, exactly at the time when I myself was setting the
secret Dictate at defiance! You don’t see anything at all out of the
common in that, do you, sir?”
“I see a coincidence—nothing more.”
“You don’t feel at all shaken, Mr. Jennings, in respect to this medical
enterprise of yours?
“Not the least in the world.”
Betteredge stared hard at me, in dead silence. He closed the book with
great deliberation; he locked it up again in the cupboard with
extraordinary care; he wheeled round, and stared hard at me once more.
Then he spoke.
“Sir,” he said gravely, “there are great allowances to be made for a
man who has not read _Robinson Crusoe_ since he was a child. I wish you
good morning.”
He opened his door with a low bow, and left me at liberty to find my
own way into the garden. I met Mr. Blake returning to the house.
“You needn’t tell me what has happened,” he said. “Betteredge has
played his last card: he has made another prophetic discovery in
_Robinson Crusoe_. Have you humoured his favourite delusion? No? You
have let him see that you don’t believe in _Robinson Crusoe_? Mr.
Jennings! you have fallen to the lowest possible place in Betteredge’s
estimation. Say what you like, and do what you like, for the future.
You will find that he won’t waste another word on you now.”
June 21st.—A short entry must suffice in my journal today.
Mr. Blake has had the worst night that he has passed yet. I have been
obliged, greatly against my will, to prescribe for him. Men of his
sensitive organisation are fortunately quick in feeling the effect of
remedial measures. Otherwise, I should be inclined to fear that he will
be totally unfit for the experiment when the time comes to try it.