The Moonstone

PROLOGUE

THE STORMING OF SERINGAPATAM (1799):

_(Extracted from a Family Paper.)_

I

I address these lines—written in India—to my relatives in England.

My object is to explain the motive which has induced me to refuse the

right hand of friendship to my cousin, John Herncastle. The reserve

which I have hitherto maintained in this matter has been misinterpreted

by members of my family whose good opinion I cannot consent to forfeit.

I request them to suspend their decision until they have read my

narrative. And I declare, on my word of honour, that what I am now

about to write is, strictly and literally, the truth.

The private difference between my cousin and me took its rise in a

great public event in which we were both concerned—the storming of

Seringapatam, under General Baird, on the 4th of May, 1799.

In order that the circumstances may be clearly understood, I must

revert for a moment to the period before the assault, and to the

stories current in our camp of the treasure in jewels and gold stored

up in the Palace of Seringapatam.

II

One of the wildest of these stories related to a Yellow Diamond—a

famous gem in the native annals of India.

The earliest known traditions describe the stone as having been set in

the forehead of the four-handed Indian god who typifies the Moon.

Partly from its peculiar colour, partly from a superstition which

represented it as feeling the influence of the deity whom it adorned,

and growing and lessening in lustre with the waxing and waning of the

moon, it first gained the name by which it continues to be known in

India to this day—the name of THE MOONSTONE. A similar superstition was

once prevalent, as I have heard, in ancient Greece and Rome; not

applying, however (as in India), to a diamond devoted to the service of

a god, but to a semi-transparent stone of the inferior order of gems,

supposed to be affected by the lunar influences—the moon, in this

latter case also, giving the name by which the stone is still known to

collectors in our own time.

The adventures of the Yellow Diamond begin with the eleventh century of

the Christian era.

At that date, the Mohammedan conqueror, Mahmoud of Ghizni, crossed

India; seized on the holy city of Somnauth; and stripped of its

treasures the famous temple, which had stood for centuries—the shrine

of Hindoo pilgrimage, and the wonder of the Eastern world.

Of all the deities worshipped in the temple, the moon-god alone escaped

the rapacity of the conquering Mohammedans. Preserved by three

Brahmins, the inviolate deity, bearing the Yellow Diamond in its

forehead, was removed by night, and was transported to the second of

the sacred cities of India—the city of Benares.

Here, in a new shrine—in a hall inlaid with precious stones, under a

roof supported by pillars of gold—the moon-god was set up and

worshipped. Here, on the night when the shrine was completed, Vishnu

the Preserver appeared to the three Brahmins in a dream.

The deity breathed the breath of his divinity on the Diamond in the

forehead of the god. And the Brahmins knelt and hid their faces in

their robes. The deity commanded that the Moonstone should be watched,

from that time forth, by three priests in turn, night and day, to the

end of the generations of men. And the Brahmins heard, and bowed before

his will. The deity predicted certain disaster to the presumptuous

mortal who laid hands on the sacred gem, and to all of his house and

name who received it after him. And the Brahmins caused the prophecy to

be written over the gates of the shrine in letters of gold.

One age followed another—and still, generation after generation, the

successors of the three Brahmins watched their priceless Moonstone,

night and day. One age followed another until the first years of the

eighteenth Christian century saw the reign of Aurungzebe, Emperor of

the Moguls. At his command havoc and rapine were let loose once more

among the temples of the worship of Brahmah. The shrine of the

four-handed god was polluted by the slaughter of sacred animals; the

images of the deities were broken in pieces; and the Moonstone was

seized by an officer of rank in the army of Aurungzebe.

Powerless to recover their lost treasure by open force, the three

guardian priests followed and watched it in disguise. The generations

succeeded each other; the warrior who had committed the sacrilege

perished miserably; the Moonstone passed (carrying its curse with it)

from one lawless Mohammedan hand to another; and still, through all

chances and changes, the successors of the three guardian priests kept

their watch, waiting the day when the will of Vishnu the Preserver

should restore to them their sacred gem. Time rolled on from the first

to the last years of the eighteenth Christian century. The Diamond fell

into the possession of Tippoo, Sultan of Seringapatam, who caused it to

be placed as an ornament in the handle of a dagger, and who commanded

it to be kept among the choicest treasures of his armoury. Even then—in

the palace of the Sultan himself—the three guardian priests still kept

their watch in secret. There were three officers of Tippoo’s household,

strangers to the rest, who had won their master’s confidence by

conforming, or appearing to conform, to the Mussulman faith; and to

those three men report pointed as the three priests in disguise.

III

So, as told in our camp, ran the fanciful story of the Moonstone. It

made no serious impression on any of us except my cousin—whose love of

the marvellous induced him to believe it. On the night before the

assault on Seringapatam, he was absurdly angry with me, and with

others, for treating the whole thing as a fable. A foolish wrangle

followed; and Herncastle’s unlucky temper got the better of him. He

declared, in his boastful way, that we should see the Diamond on his

finger, if the English army took Seringapatam. The sally was saluted by

a roar of laughter, and there, as we all thought that night, the thing

ended.

Let me now take you on to the day of the assault.

My cousin and I were separated at the outset. I never saw him when we

forded the river; when we planted the English flag in the first breach;

when we crossed the ditch beyond; and, fighting every inch of our way,

entered the town. It was only at dusk, when the place was ours, and

after General Baird himself had found the dead body of Tippoo under a

heap of the slain, that Herncastle and I met.

We were each attached to a party sent out by the general’s orders to

prevent the plunder and confusion which followed our conquest. The

camp-followers committed deplorable excesses; and, worse still, the

soldiers found their way, by an unguarded door, into the treasury of the

Palace, and loaded themselves with gold and jewels. It was in the court

outside the treasury that my cousin and I met, to enforce the laws of

discipline on our own soldiers. Herncastle’s fiery temper had been, as

I could plainly see, exasperated to a kind of frenzy by the terrible

slaughter through which we had passed. He was very unfit, in my

opinion, to perform the duty that had been entrusted to him.

There was riot and confusion enough in the treasury, but no violence

that I saw. The men (if I may use such an expression) disgraced

themselves good-humouredly. All sorts of rough jests and catchwords

were bandied about among them; and the story of the Diamond turned up

again unexpectedly, in the form of a mischievous joke. “Who’s got the

Moonstone?” was the rallying cry which perpetually caused the

plundering, as soon as it was stopped in one place, to break out in

another. While I was still vainly trying to establish order, I heard a

frightful yelling on the other side of the courtyard, and at once ran

towards the cries, in dread of finding some new outbreak of the pillage

in that direction.

I got to an open door, and saw the bodies of two Indians (by their

dress, as I guessed, officers of the palace) lying across the entrance,

dead.

A cry inside hurried me into a room, which appeared to serve as an

armoury. A third Indian, mortally wounded, was sinking at the feet of a

man whose back was towards me. The man turned at the instant when I

came in, and I saw John Herncastle, with a torch in one hand, and a

dagger dripping with blood in the other. A stone, set like a pommel, in

the end of the dagger’s handle, flashed in the torchlight, as he turned

on me, like a gleam of fire. The dying Indian sank to his knees,

pointed to the dagger in Herncastle’s hand, and said, in his native

language—“The Moonstone will have its vengeance yet on you and yours!”

He spoke those words, and fell dead on the floor.

Before I could stir in the matter, the men who had followed me across

the courtyard crowded in. My cousin rushed to meet them, like a madman.

“Clear the room!” he shouted to me, “and set a guard on the door!” The

men fell back as he threw himself on them with his torch and his

dagger. I put two sentinels of my own company, on whom I could rely, to

keep the door. Through the remainder of the night, I saw no more of my

cousin.

Early in the morning, the plunder still going on, General Baird

announced publicly by beat of drum, that any thief detected in the

fact, be he whom he might, should be hung. The provost-marshal was in

attendance, to prove that the General was in earnest; and in the throng

that followed the proclamation, Herncastle and I met again.

He held out his hand, as usual, and said, “Good morning.”

I waited before I gave him my hand in return.

“Tell me first,” I said, “how the Indian in the armoury met his death,

and what those last words meant, when he pointed to the dagger in your

hand.”

“The Indian met his death, as I suppose, by a mortal wound,” said

Herncastle. “What his last words meant I know no more than you do.”

I looked at him narrowly. His frenzy of the previous day had all calmed

down. I determined to give him another chance.

“Is that all you have to tell me?” I asked.

He answered, “That is all.”

I turned my back on him; and we have not spoken since.

IV

I beg it to be understood that what I write here about my cousin

(unless some necessity should arise for making it public) is for the

information of the family only. Herncastle has said nothing that can

justify me in speaking to our commanding officer. He has been taunted

more than once about the Diamond, by those who recollect his angry

outbreak before the assault; but, as may easily be imagined, his own

remembrance of the circumstances under which I surprised him in the

armoury has been enough to keep him silent. It is reported that he

means to exchange into another regiment, avowedly for the purpose of

separating himself from _me_.

Whether this be true or not, I cannot prevail upon myself to become his

accuser—and I think with good reason. If I made the matter public, I

have no evidence but moral evidence to bring forward. I have not only

no proof that he killed the two men at the door; I cannot even declare

that he killed the third man inside—for I cannot say that my own eyes

saw the deed committed. It is true that I heard the dying Indian’s

words; but if those words were pronounced to be the ravings of

delirium, how could I contradict the assertion from my own knowledge?

Let our relatives, on either side, form their own opinion on what I

have written, and decide for themselves whether the aversion I now feel

towards this man is well or ill founded.

Although I attach no sort of credit to the fantastic Indian legend of

the gem, I must acknowledge, before I conclude, that I am influenced by

a certain superstition of my own in this matter. It is my conviction,

or my delusion, no matter which, that crime brings its own fatality

with it. I am not only persuaded of Herncastle’s guilt; I am even

fanciful enough to believe that he will live to regret it, if he keeps

the Diamond; and that others will live to regret taking it from him, if

he gives the Diamond away.

THE STORY

FIRST PERIOD

THE LOSS OF THE DIAMOND (1848)

_The Events related by Gabriel Betteredge, house-steward in the service

of Julia, Lady Verinder._

CHAPTER I

In the first part of _Robinson Crusoe_, at page one hundred and

twenty-nine, you will find it thus written:

“Now I saw, though too late, the Folly of beginning a Work before we

count the Cost, and before we judge rightly of our own Strength to go

through with it.”

Only yesterday, I opened my _Robinson Crusoe_ at that place. Only this

morning (May twenty-first, eighteen hundred and fifty), came my lady’s

nephew, Mr. Franklin Blake, and held a short conversation with me, as

follows:—

“Betteredge,” says Mr. Franklin, “I have been to the lawyer’s about

some family matters; and, among other things, we have been talking of

the loss of the Indian Diamond, in my aunt’s house in Yorkshire, two

years since. Mr. Bruff thinks as I think, that the whole story ought,

in the interests of truth, to be placed on record in writing—and the

sooner the better.”

Not perceiving his drift yet, and thinking it always desirable for the

sake of peace and quietness to be on the lawyer’s side, I said I

thought so too. Mr. Franklin went on.

“In this matter of the Diamond,” he said, “the characters of innocent

people have suffered under suspicion already—as you know. The memories

of innocent people may suffer, hereafter, for want of a record of the

facts to which those who come after us can appeal. There can be no

doubt that this strange family story of ours ought to be told. And I

think, Betteredge, Mr. Bruff and I together have hit on the right way

of telling it.”

Very satisfactory to both of them, no doubt. But I failed to see what I

myself had to do with it, so far.

“We have certain events to relate,” Mr. Franklin proceeded; “and we

have certain persons concerned in those events who are capable of

relating them. Starting from these plain facts, the idea is that we

should all write the story of the Moonstone in turn—as far as our own

personal experience extends, and no farther. We must begin by showing

how the Diamond first fell into the hands of my uncle Herncastle, when

he was serving in India fifty years since. This prefatory narrative I

have already got by me in the form of an old family paper, which

relates the necessary particulars on the authority of an eye-witness.

The next thing to do is to tell how the Diamond found its way into my

aunt’s house in Yorkshire, two years ago, and how it came to be lost in

little more than twelve hours afterwards. Nobody knows as much as you

do, Betteredge, about what went on in the house at that time. So you

must take the pen in hand, and start the story.”

In those terms I was informed of what my personal concern was with the

matter of the Diamond. If you are curious to know what course I took

under the circumstances, I beg to inform you that I did what you would

probably have done in my place. I modestly declared myself to be quite

unequal to the task imposed upon me—and I privately felt, all the time,

that I was quite clever enough to perform it, if I only gave my own

abilities a fair chance. Mr. Franklin, I imagine, must have seen my

private sentiments in my face. He declined to believe in my modesty;

and he insisted on giving my abilities a fair chance.

Two hours have passed since Mr. Franklin left me. As soon as his back

was turned, I went to my writing-desk to start the story. There I have

sat helpless (in spite of my abilities) ever since; seeing what

Robinson Crusoe saw, as quoted above—namely, the folly of beginning a

work before we count the cost, and before we judge rightly of our own

strength to go through with it. Please to remember, I opened the book

by accident, at that bit, only the day before I rashly undertook the

business now in hand; and, allow me to ask—if _that_ isn’t prophecy,

what is?

I am not superstitious; I have read a heap of books in my time; I am a

scholar in my own way. Though turned seventy, I possess an active

memory, and legs to correspond. You are not to take it, if you please,

as the saying of an ignorant man, when I express my opinion that such a

book as _Robinson Crusoe_ never was written, and never will be written

again. I have tried that book for years—generally in combination with a

pipe of tobacco—and I have found it my friend in need in all the

necessities of this mortal life. When my spirits are bad—_Robinson

Crusoe_. When I want advice—_Robinson Crusoe_. In past times when my

wife plagued me; in present times when I have had a drop too

much—_Robinson Crusoe_. I have worn out six stout _Robinson Crusoes_

with hard work in my service. On my lady’s last birthday she gave me a

seventh. I took a drop too much on the strength of it; and _Robinson

Crusoe_ put me right again. Price four shillings and sixpence, bound in

blue, with a picture into the bargain.

Still, this don’t look much like starting the story of the Diamond—does

it? I seem to be wandering off in search of Lord knows what, Lord knows

where. We will take a new sheet of paper, if you please, and begin over

again, with my best respects to you.

CHAPTER II

I spoke of my lady a line or two back. Now the Diamond could never have

been in our house, where it was lost, if it had not been made a present

of to my lady’s daughter; and my lady’s daughter would never have been

in existence to have the present, if it had not been for my lady who

(with pain and travail) produced her into the world. Consequently, if

we begin with my lady, we are pretty sure of beginning far enough back.

And that, let me tell you, when you have got such a job as mine in

hand, is a real comfort at starting.

If you know anything of the fashionable world, you have heard tell of

the three beautiful Miss Herncastles. Miss Adelaide; Miss Caroline; and

Miss Julia—this last being the youngest and the best of the three

sisters, in my opinion; and I had opportunities of judging, as you

shall presently see. I went into the service of the old lord, their

father (thank God, we have got nothing to do with him, in this business

of the Diamond; he had the longest tongue and the shortest temper of

any man, high or low, I ever met with)—I say, I went into the service

of the old lord, as page-boy in waiting on the three honourable young

ladies, at the age of fifteen years. There I lived till Miss Julia

married the late Sir John Verinder. An excellent man, who only wanted

somebody to manage him; and, between ourselves, he found somebody to do

it; and what is more, he throve on it and grew fat on it, and lived

happy and died easy on it, dating from the day when my lady took him to

church to be married, to the day when she relieved him of his last

breath, and closed his eyes for ever.

I have omitted to state that I went with the bride to the bride’s

husband’s house and lands down here. “Sir John,” she says, “I can’t do

without Gabriel Betteredge.” “My lady,” says Sir John, “I can’t do

without him, either.” That was his way with her—and that was how I went

into his service. It was all one to me where I went, so long as my

mistress and I were together.

Seeing that my lady took an interest in the out-of-door work, and the

farms, and such like, I took an interest in them too—with all the more

reason that I was a small farmer’s seventh son myself. My lady got me

put under the bailiff, and I did my best, and gave satisfaction, and

got promotion accordingly. Some years later, on the Monday as it might

be, my lady says, “Sir John, your bailiff is a stupid old man. Pension

him liberally, and let Gabriel Betteredge have his place.” On the

Tuesday as it might be, Sir John says, “My lady, the bailiff is

pensioned liberally; and Gabriel Betteredge has got his place.” You

hear more than enough of married people living together miserably. Here

is an example to the contrary. Let it be a warning to some of you, and

an encouragement to others. In the meantime, I will go on with my

story.

Well, there I was in clover, you will say. Placed in a position of

trust and honour, with a little cottage of my own to live in, with my

rounds on the estate to occupy me in the morning, and my accounts in

the afternoon, and my pipe and my _Robinson Crusoe_ in the evening—what

more could I possibly want to make me happy? Remember what Adam wanted

when he was alone in the Garden of Eden; and if you don’t blame it in

Adam, don’t blame it in me.

The woman I fixed my eye on, was the woman who kept house for me at my

cottage. Her name was Selina Goby. I agree with the late William

Cobbett about picking a wife. See that she chews her food well and sets

her foot down firmly on the ground when she walks, and you’re all

right. Selina Goby was all right in both these respects, which was one

reason for marrying her. I had another reason, likewise, entirely of my

own discovering. Selina, being a single woman, made me pay so much a

week for her board and services. Selina, being my wife, couldn’t charge

for her board, and would have to give me her services for nothing. That

was the point of view I looked at it from. Economy—with a dash of love.

I put it to my mistress, as in duty bound, just as I had put it to

myself.

“I have been turning Selina Goby over in my mind,” I said, “and I

think, my lady, it will be cheaper to marry her than to keep her.”

My lady burst out laughing, and said she didn’t know which to be most

shocked at—my language or my principles. Some joke tickled her, I

suppose, of the sort that you can’t take unless you are a person of

quality. Understanding nothing myself but that I was free to put it

next to Selina, I went and put it accordingly. And what did Selina say?

Lord! how little you must know of women, if you ask that. Of course she

said, Yes.

As my time drew nearer, and there got to be talk of my having a new

coat for the ceremony, my mind began to misgive me. I have compared

notes with other men as to what they felt while they were in my

interesting situation; and they have all acknowledged that, about a

week before it happened, they privately wished themselves out of it. I

went a trifle further than that myself; I actually rose up, as it were,

and tried to get out of it. Not for nothing! I was too just a man to

expect she would let me off for nothing. Compensation to the woman when

the man gets out of it, is one of the laws of England. In obedience to

the laws, and after turning it over carefully in my mind, I offered

Selina Goby a feather-bed and fifty shillings to be off the bargain.

You will hardly believe it, but it is nevertheless true—she was fool

enough to refuse.

After that it was all over with me, of course. I got the new coat as

cheap as I could, and I went through all the rest of it as cheap as I

could. We were not a happy couple, and not a miserable couple. We were

six of one and half-a-dozen of the other. How it was I don’t

understand, but we always seemed to be getting, with the best of

motives, in one another’s way. When I wanted to go upstairs, there was

my wife coming down; or when my wife wanted to go down, there was I

coming up. That is married life, according to my experience of it.

After five years of misunderstandings on the stairs, it pleased an

all-wise Providence to relieve us of each other by taking my wife. I

was left with my little girl Penelope, and with no other child. Shortly

afterwards Sir John died, and my lady was left with her little girl,

Miss Rachel, and no other child. I have written to very poor purpose of

my lady, if you require to be told that my little Penelope was taken

care of, under my good mistress’s own eye, and was sent to school and

taught, and made a sharp girl, and promoted, when old enough, to be

Miss Rachel’s own maid.

As for me, I went on with my business as bailiff year after year up to

Christmas 1847, when there came a change in my life. On that day, my

lady invited herself to a cup of tea alone with me in my cottage. She

remarked that, reckoning from the year when I started as page-boy in

the time of the old lord, I had been more than fifty years in her

service, and she put into my hands a beautiful waistcoat of wool that

she had worked herself, to keep me warm in the bitter winter weather.

I received this magnificent present quite at a loss to find words to

thank my mistress with for the honour she had done me. To my great

astonishment, it turned out, however, that the waistcoat was not an

honour, but a bribe. My lady had discovered that I was getting old

before I had discovered it myself, and she had come to my cottage to

wheedle me (if I may use such an expression) into giving up my hard

out-of-door work as bailiff, and taking my ease for the rest of my days

as steward in the house. I made as good a fight of it against the

indignity of taking my ease as I could. But my mistress knew the weak

side of me; she put it as a favour to herself. The dispute between us

ended, after that, in my wiping my eyes, like an old fool, with my new

woollen waistcoat, and saying I would think about it.

The perturbation in my mind, in regard to thinking about it, being

truly dreadful after my lady had gone away, I applied the remedy which

I have never yet found to fail me in cases of doubt and emergency. I

smoked a pipe and took a turn at _Robinson Crusoe_. Before I had

occupied myself with that extraordinary book five minutes, I came on a

comforting bit (page one hundred and fifty-eight), as follows: “Today

we love, what tomorrow we hate.” I saw my way clear directly. Today I

was all for continuing to be farm-bailiff; tomorrow, on the authority

of _Robinson Crusoe_, I should be all the other way. Take myself

tomorrow while in tomorrow’s humour, and the thing was done. My mind

being relieved in this manner, I went to sleep that night in the

character of Lady Verinder’s farm-bailiff, and I woke up the next

morning in the character of Lady Verinder’s house-steward. All quite

comfortable, and all through _Robinson Crusoe_!

My daughter Penelope has just looked over my shoulder to see what I

have done so far. She remarks that it is beautifully written, and every

word of it true. But she points out one objection. She says what I have

done so far isn’t in the least what I was wanted to do. I am asked to

tell the story of the Diamond and, instead of that, I have been telling

the story of my own self. Curious, and quite beyond me to account for.

I wonder whether the gentlemen who make a business and a living out of

writing books, ever find their own selves getting in the way of their

subjects, like me? If they do, I can feel for them. In the meantime,

here is another false start, and more waste of good writing-paper.

What’s to be done now? Nothing that I know of, except for you to keep

your temper, and for me to begin it all over again for the third time.

CHAPTER III

The question of how I am to start the story properly I have tried to

settle in two ways. First, by scratching my head, which led to nothing.

Second, by consulting my daughter Penelope, which has resulted in an

entirely new idea.

Penelope’s notion is that I should set down what happened, regularly

day by day, beginning with the day when we got the news that Mr.

Franklin Blake was expected on a visit to the house. When you come to

fix your memory with a date in this way, it is wonderful what your

memory will pick up for you upon that compulsion. The only difficulty

is to fetch out the dates, in the first place. This Penelope offers to

do for me by looking into her own diary, which she was taught to keep

when she was at school, and which she has gone on keeping ever since.

In answer to an improvement on this notion, devised by myself, namely,

that she should tell the story instead of me, out of her own diary,

Penelope observes, with a fierce look and a red face, that her journal

is for her own private eye, and that no living creature shall ever know

what is in it but herself. When I inquire what this means, Penelope

says, “Fiddlesticks!” I say, Sweethearts.

Beginning, then, on Penelope’s plan, I beg to mention that I was

specially called one Wednesday morning into my lady’s own sitting-room,

the date being the twenty-fourth of May, eighteen hundred and

forty-eight.

“Gabriel,” says my lady, “here is news that will surprise you. Franklin

Blake has come back from abroad. He has been staying with his father in

London, and he is coming to us tomorrow to stop till next month, and

keep Rachel’s birthday.”

If I had had a hat in my hand, nothing but respect would have prevented

me from throwing that hat up to the ceiling. I had not seen Mr.

Franklin since he was a boy, living along with us in this house. He

was, out of all sight (as I remember him), the nicest boy that ever

spun a top or broke a window. Miss Rachel, who was present, and to whom

I made that remark, observed, in return, that _she_ remembered him as

the most atrocious tyrant that ever tortured a doll, and the hardest

driver of an exhausted little girl in string harness that England could

produce. “I burn with indignation, and I ache with fatigue,” was the

way Miss Rachel summed it up, “when I think of Franklin Blake.”

Hearing what I now tell you, you will naturally ask how it was that Mr.

Franklin should have passed all the years, from the time when he was a

boy to the time when he was a man, out of his own country. I answer,

because his father had the misfortune to be next heir to a Dukedom, and

not to be able to prove it.

In two words, this was how the thing happened:

My lady’s eldest sister married the celebrated Mr. Blake—equally famous

for his great riches, and his great suit at law. How many years he went

on worrying the tribunals of his country to turn out the Duke in

possession, and to put himself in the Duke’s place—how many lawyer’s

purses he filled to bursting, and how many otherwise harmless people he

set by the ears together disputing whether he was right or wrong—is

more by a great deal than I can reckon up. His wife died, and two of

his three children died, before the tribunals could make up their minds

to show him the door and take no more of his money. When it was all

over, and the Duke in possession was left in possession, Mr. Blake

discovered that the only way of being even with his country for the

manner in which it had treated him, was not to let his country have the

honour of educating his son. “How can I trust my native institutions,”

was the form in which he put it, “after the way in which my native

institutions have behaved to _me?_” Add to this, that Mr. Blake

disliked all boys, his own included, and you will admit that it could

only end in one way. Master Franklin was taken from us in England, and

was sent to institutions which his father _could_ trust, in that

superior country, Germany; Mr. Blake himself, you will observe,

remaining snug in England, to improve his fellow-countrymen in the

Parliament House, and to publish a statement on the subject of the Duke

in possession, which has remained an unfinished statement from that day

to this.

There! thank God, that’s told! Neither you nor I need trouble our heads

any more about Mr. Blake, senior. Leave him to the Dukedom; and let you

and I stick to the Diamond.

The Diamond takes us back to Mr. Franklin, who was the innocent means

of bringing that unlucky jewel into the house.

Our nice boy didn’t forget us after he went abroad. He wrote every now

and then; sometimes to my lady, sometimes to Miss Rachel, and sometimes

to me. We had had a transaction together, before he left, which

consisted in his borrowing of me a ball of string, a four-bladed knife,

and seven-and-sixpence in money—the colour of which last I have not

seen, and never expect to see again. His letters to me chiefly related

to borrowing more. I heard, however, from my lady, how he got on

abroad, as he grew in years and stature. After he had learnt what the

institutions of Germany could teach him, he gave the French a turn

next, and the Italians a turn after that. They made him among them a

sort of universal genius, as well as I could understand it. He wrote a

little; he painted a little; he sang and played and composed a

little—borrowing, as I suspect, in all these cases, just as he had

borrowed from me. His mother’s fortune (seven hundred a year) fell to

him when he came of age, and ran through him, as it might be through a

sieve. The more money he had, the more he wanted; there was a hole in

Mr. Franklin’s pocket that nothing would sew up. Wherever he went, the

lively, easy way of him made him welcome. He lived here, there, and

everywhere; his address (as he used to put it himself) being “Post

Office, Europe—to be left till called for.” Twice over, he made up his

mind to come back to England and see us; and twice over (saving your

presence), some unmentionable woman stood in the way and stopped him.

His third attempt succeeded, as you know already from what my lady told

me. On Thursday the twenty-fifth of May, we were to see for the first

time what our nice boy had grown to be as a man. He came of good blood;

he had a high courage; and he was five-and-twenty years of age, by our

reckoning. Now you know as much of Mr. Franklin Blake as I did—before

Mr. Franklin Blake came down to our house.

The Thursday was as fine a summer’s day as ever you saw: and my lady

and Miss Rachel (not expecting Mr. Franklin till dinner-time) drove out

to lunch with some friends in the neighbourhood.

When they were gone, I went and had a look at the bedroom which had

been got ready for our guest, and saw that all was straight. Then,

being butler in my lady’s establishment, as well as steward (at my own

particular request, mind, and because it vexed me to see anybody but

myself in possession of the key of the late Sir John’s cellar)—then, I

say, I fetched up some of our famous Latour claret, and set it in the

warm summer air to take off the chill before dinner. Concluding to set

myself in the warm summer air next—seeing that what is good for old

claret is equally good for old age—I took up my beehive chair to go out

into the back court, when I was stopped by hearing a sound like the

soft beating of a drum, on the terrace in front of my lady’s residence.

Going round to the terrace, I found three mahogany-coloured Indians, in

white linen frocks and trousers, looking up at the house.

The Indians, as I saw on looking closer, had small hand-drums slung in

front of them. Behind them stood a little delicate-looking light-haired

English boy carrying a bag. I judged the fellows to be strolling

conjurors, and the boy with the bag to be carrying the tools of their

trade. One of the three, who spoke English and who exhibited, I must

own, the most elegant manners, presently informed me that my judgment

was right. He requested permission to show his tricks in the presence

of the lady of the house.

Now I am not a sour old man. I am generally all for amusement, and the

last person in the world to distrust another person because he happens

to be a few shades darker than myself. But the best of us have our

weaknesses—and my weakness, when I know a family plate-basket to be out

on a pantry-table, is to be instantly reminded of that basket by the

sight of a strolling stranger whose manners are superior to my own. I

accordingly informed the Indian that the lady of the house was out; and

I warned him and his party off the premises. He made me a beautiful bow

in return; and he and his party went off the premises. On my side, I

returned to my beehive chair, and set myself down on the sunny side of

the court, and fell (if the truth must be owned), not exactly into a

sleep, but into the next best thing to it.

I was roused up by my daughter Penelope running out at me as if the

house was on fire. What do you think she wanted? She wanted to have the

three Indian jugglers instantly taken up; for this reason, namely, that

they knew who was coming from London to visit us, and that they meant

some mischief to Mr. Franklin Blake.

Mr. Franklin’s name roused me. I opened my eyes, and made my girl

explain herself.

It appeared that Penelope had just come from our lodge, where she had

been having a gossip with the lodge-keeper’s daughter. The two girls

had seen the Indians pass out, after I had warned them off, followed by

their little boy. Taking it into their heads that the boy was ill-used

by the foreigners—for no reason that I could discover, except that he

was pretty and delicate-looking—the two girls had stolen along the

inner side of the hedge between us and the road, and had watched the

proceedings of the foreigners on the outer side. Those proceedings

resulted in the performance of the following extraordinary tricks.

They first looked up the road, and down the road, and made sure that

they were alone. Then they all three faced about, and stared hard in

the direction of our house. Then they jabbered and disputed in their

own language, and looked at each other like men in doubt. Then they all

turned to their little English boy, as if they expected _him_ to help

them. And then the chief Indian, who spoke English, said to the boy,

“Hold out your hand.”

On hearing those dreadful words, my daughter Penelope said she didn’t

know what prevented her heart from flying straight out of her. I

thought privately that it might have been her stays. All I said,

however, was, “You make my flesh creep.” (_Nota bene:_ Women like these

little compliments.)

Well, when the Indian said, “Hold out your hand,” the boy shrunk back,

and shook his head, and said he didn’t like it. The Indian, thereupon,

asked him (not at all unkindly), whether he would like to be sent back

to London, and left where they had found him, sleeping in an empty

basket in a market—a hungry, ragged, and forsaken little boy. This, it

seems, ended the difficulty. The little chap unwillingly held out his

hand. Upon that, the Indian took a bottle from his bosom, and poured

out of it some black stuff, like ink, into the palm of the boy’s hand.

The Indian—first touching the boy’s head, and making signs over it in

the air—then said, “Look.” The boy became quite stiff, and stood like a

statue, looking into the ink in the hollow of his hand.

(So far, it seemed to me to be juggling, accompanied by a foolish waste

of ink. I was beginning to feel sleepy again, when Penelope’s next

words stirred me up.)

The Indians looked up the road and down the road once more—and then the

chief Indian said these words to the boy; “See the English gentleman

from foreign parts.”

The boy said, “I see him.”

The Indian said, “Is it on the road to this house, and on no other,

that the English gentleman will travel today?”

The boy said, “It is on the road to this house, and on no other, that

the English gentleman will travel today.”

The Indian put a second question—after waiting a little first. He said:

“Has the English gentleman got It about him?”

The boy answered—also, after waiting a little first—“Yes.”

The Indian put a third and last question: “Will the English gentleman

come here, as he has promised to come, at the close of day?”

The boy said, “I can’t tell.”

The Indian asked why.

The boy said, “I am tired. The mist rises in my head, and puzzles me. I

can see no more today.”

With that the catechism ended. The chief Indian said something in his

own language to the other two, pointing to the boy, and pointing

towards the town, in which (as we afterwards discovered) they were

lodged. He then, after making more signs on the boy’s head, blew on his

forehead, and so woke him up with a start. After that, they all went on

their way towards the town, and the girls saw them no more.

Most things they say have a moral, if you only look for it. What was

the moral of this?

The moral was, as I thought: First, that the chief juggler had heard

Mr. Franklin’s arrival talked of among the servants out-of-doors, and

saw his way to making a little money by it. Second, that he and his men

and boy (with a view to making the said money) meant to hang about till

they saw my lady drive home, and then to come back, and foretell Mr.

Franklin’s arrival by magic. Third, that Penelope had heard them

rehearsing their hocus-pocus, like actors rehearsing a play. Fourth,

that I should do well to have an eye, that evening, on the

plate-basket. Fifth, that Penelope would do well to cool down, and

leave me, her father, to doze off again in the sun.

That appeared to me to be the sensible view. If you know anything of

the ways of young women, you won’t be surprised to hear that Penelope

wouldn’t take it. The moral of the thing was serious, according to my

daughter. She particularly reminded me of the Indian’s third question,

Has the English gentleman got It about him? “Oh, father!” says

Penelope, clasping her hands, “don’t joke about this. What does ‘It’

mean?”

“We’ll ask Mr. Franklin, my dear,” I said, “if you can wait till Mr.

Franklin comes.” I winked to show I meant that in joke. Penelope took

it quite seriously. My girl’s earnestness tickled me. “What on earth

should Mr. Franklin know about it?” I inquired. “Ask him,” says

Penelope. “And see whether _he_ thinks it a laughing matter, too.” With

that parting shot, my daughter left me.

I settled it with myself, when she was gone, that I really would ask

Mr. Franklin—mainly to set Penelope’s mind at rest. What was said

between us, when I did ask him, later on that same day, you will find

set out fully in its proper place. But as I don’t wish to raise your

expectations and then disappoint them, I will take leave to warn you

here—before we go any further—that you won’t find the ghost of a joke

in our conversation on the subject of the jugglers. To my great

surprise, Mr. Franklin, like Penelope, took the thing seriously. How

seriously, you will understand, when I tell you that, in his opinion,

“It” meant the Moonstone.

CHAPTER IV

I am truly sorry to detain you over me and my beehive chair. A sleepy

old man, in a sunny back yard, is not an interesting object, I am well

aware. But things must be put down in their places, as things actually

happened—and you must please to jog on a little while longer with me,

in expectation of Mr. Franklin Blake’s arrival later in the day.

Before I had time to doze off again, after my daughter Penelope had

left me, I was disturbed by a rattling of plates and dishes in the

servants’ hall, which meant that dinner was ready. Taking my own meals

in my own sitting-room, I had nothing to do with the servants’ dinner,

except to wish them a good stomach to it all round, previous to

composing myself once more in my chair. I was just stretching my legs,

when out bounced another woman on me. Not my daughter again; only

Nancy, the kitchen-maid, this time. I was straight in her way out; and

I observed, as she asked me to let her by, that she had a sulky face—a

thing which, as head of the servants, I never allow, on principle, to

pass me without inquiry.

“What are you turning your back on your dinner for?” I asked. “What’s

wrong now, Nancy?”

Nancy tried to push by, without answering; upon which I rose up, and

took her by the ear. She is a nice plump young lass, and it is

customary with me to adopt that manner of showing that I personally

approve of a girl.

“What’s wrong now?” I said once more.

“Rosanna’s late again for dinner,” says Nancy. “And I’m sent to fetch

her in. All the hard work falls on my shoulders in this house. Let me

alone, Mr. Betteredge!”

The person here mentioned as Rosanna was our second housemaid. Having a

kind of pity for our second housemaid (why, you shall presently know),

and seeing in Nancy’s face, that she would fetch her fellow-servant in

with more hard words than might be needful under the circumstances, it

struck me that I had nothing particular to do, and that I might as well

fetch Rosanna myself; giving her a hint to be punctual in future, which

I knew she would take kindly from _me_.

“Where is Rosanna?” I inquired.

“At the sands, of course!” says Nancy, with a toss of her head. “She

had another of her fainting fits this morning, and she asked to go out

and get a breath of fresh air. I have no patience with her!”

“Go back to your dinner, my girl,” I said. “I have patience with her,

and I’ll fetch her in.”

Nancy (who has a fine appetite) looked pleased. When she looks pleased,

she looks nice. When she looks nice, I chuck her under the chin. It

isn’t immorality—it’s only habit.

Well, I took my stick, and set off for the sands.

No! it won’t do to set off yet. I am sorry again to detain you; but you

really must hear the story of the sands, and the story of Rosanna—for

this reason, that the matter of the Diamond touches them both nearly.

How hard I try to get on with my statement without stopping by the way,

and how badly I succeed! But, there!—Persons and Things do turn up so

vexatiously in this life, and will in a manner insist on being noticed.

Let us take it easy, and let us take it short; we shall be in the thick

of the mystery soon, I promise you!

Rosanna (to put the Person before the Thing, which is but common

politeness) was the only new servant in our house. About four months

before the time I am writing of, my lady had been in London, and had

gone over a Reformatory, intended to save forlorn women from drifting

back into bad ways, after they had got released from prison. The

matron, seeing my lady took an interest in the place, pointed out a

girl to her, named Rosanna Spearman, and told her a most miserable

story, which I haven’t the heart to repeat here; for I don’t like to be

made wretched without any use, and no more do you. The upshot of it

was, that Rosanna Spearman had been a thief, and not being of the sort

that get up Companies in the City, and rob from thousands, instead of

only robbing from one, the law laid hold of her, and the prison and the

reformatory followed the lead of the law. The matron’s opinion of

Rosanna was (in spite of what she had done) that the girl was one in a

thousand, and that she only wanted a chance to prove herself worthy of

any Christian woman’s interest in her. My lady (being a Christian

woman, if ever there was one yet) said to the matron, upon that,

“Rosanna Spearman shall have her chance, in my service.” In a week

afterwards, Rosanna Spearman entered this establishment as our second

housemaid.

Not a soul was told the girl’s story, excepting Miss Rachel and me. My

lady, doing me the honour to consult me about most things, consulted me

about Rosanna. Having fallen a good deal latterly into the late Sir

John’s way of always agreeing with my lady, I agreed with her heartily

about Rosanna Spearman.

A fairer chance no girl could have had than was given to this poor girl

of ours. None of the servants could cast her past life in her teeth,

for none of the servants knew what it had been. She had her wages and

her privileges, like the rest of them; and every now and then a

friendly word from my lady, in private, to encourage her. In return,

she showed herself, I am bound to say, well worthy of the kind

treatment bestowed upon her. Though far from strong, and troubled

occasionally with those fainting-fits already mentioned, she went about

her work modestly and uncomplainingly, doing it carefully, and doing it

well. But, somehow, she failed to make friends among the other women

servants, excepting my daughter Penelope, who was always kind to

Rosanna, though never intimate with her.

I hardly know what the girl did to offend them. There was certainly no

beauty about her to make the others envious; she was the plainest woman

in the house, with the additional misfortune of having one shoulder

bigger than the other. What the servants chiefly resented, I think, was

her silent tongue and her solitary ways. She read or worked in leisure

hours when the rest gossiped. And when it came to her turn to go out,

nine times out of ten she quietly put on her bonnet, and had her turn

by herself. She never quarrelled, she never took offence; she only kept

a certain distance, obstinately and civilly, between the rest of them

and herself. Add to this that, plain as she was, there was just a dash

of something that wasn’t like a housemaid, and that _was_ like a lady,

about her. It might have been in her voice, or it might have been in

her face. All I can say is, that the other women pounced on it like

lightning the first day she came into the house, and said (which was

most unjust) that Rosanna Spearman gave herself airs.

Having now told the story of Rosanna, I have only to notice one of the

many queer ways of this strange girl to get on next to the story of the

sands.

Our house is high up on the Yorkshire coast, and close by the sea. We

have got beautiful walks all round us, in every direction but one. That

one I acknowledge to be a horrid walk. It leads, for a quarter of a

mile, through a melancholy plantation of firs, and brings you out

between low cliffs on the loneliest and ugliest little bay on all our

coast.

The sandhills here run down to the sea, and end in two spits of rock

jutting out opposite each other, till you lose sight of them in the

water. One is called the North Spit, and one the South. Between the

two, shifting backwards and forwards at certain seasons of the year,

lies the most horrible quicksand on the shores of Yorkshire. At the

turn of the tide, something goes on in the unknown deeps below, which

sets the whole face of the quicksand shivering and trembling in a

manner most remarkable to see, and which has given to it, among the

people in our parts, the name of the Shivering Sand. A great bank, half

a mile out, nigh the mouth of the bay, breaks the force of the main

ocean coming in from the offing. Winter and summer, when the tide flows

over the quicksand, the sea seems to leave the waves behind it on the

bank, and rolls its waters in smoothly with a heave, and covers the

sand in silence. A lonesome and a horrid retreat, I can tell you! No

boat ever ventures into this bay. No children from our fishing-village,

called Cobb’s Hole, ever come here to play. The very birds of the air,

as it seems to me, give the Shivering Sand a wide berth. That a young

woman, with dozens of nice walks to choose from, and company to go with

her, if she only said “Come!”, should prefer this place, and should sit

and work or read in it, all alone, when it’s her turn out, I grant you,

passes belief. It’s true, nevertheless, account for it as you may, that

this was Rosanna Spearman’s favourite walk, except when she went once

or twice to Cobb’s Hole, to see the only friend she had in our

neighbourhood, of whom more anon. It’s also true that I was now setting

out for this same place, to fetch the girl in to dinner, which brings

us round happily to our former point, and starts us fair again on our

way to the sands.

I saw no sign of the girl in the plantation. When I got out, through

the sandhills, on to the beach, there she was, in her little straw

bonnet, and her plain grey cloak that she always wore to hide her

deformed shoulder as much as might be—there she was, all alone, looking

out on the quicksand and the sea.

She started when I came up with her, and turned her head away from me.

Not looking me in the face being another of the proceedings, which, as

head of the servants, I never allow, on principle, to pass without

inquiry—I turned her round my way, and saw that she was crying. My

bandanna handkerchief—one of six beauties given to me by my lady—was

handy in my pocket. I took it out, and I said to Rosanna, “Come and sit

down, my dear, on the slope of the beach along with me. I’ll dry your

eyes for you first, and then I’ll make so bold as to ask what you have

been crying about.”

When you come to my age, you will find sitting down on the slope of a

beach a much longer job than you think it now. By the time I was

settled, Rosanna had dried her own eyes with a very inferior

handkerchief to mine—cheap cambric. She looked very quiet, and very

wretched; but she sat down by me like a good girl, when I told her.

When you want to comfort a woman by the shortest way, take her on your

knee. I thought of this golden rule. But there! Rosanna wasn’t Nancy,

and that’s the truth of it!

“Now, tell me, my dear,” I said, “what are you crying about?”

“About the years that are gone, Mr. Betteredge,” says Rosanna quietly.

“My past life still comes back to me sometimes.”

“Come, come, my girl,” I said, “your past life is all sponged out. Why

can’t you forget it?”

She took me by one of the lappets of my coat. I am a slovenly old man,

and a good deal of my meat and drink gets splashed about on my clothes.

Sometimes one of the women, and sometimes another, cleans me of my

grease. The day before, Rosanna had taken out a spot for me on the

lappet of my coat, with a new composition, warranted to remove

anything. The grease was gone, but there was a little dull place left

on the nap of the cloth where the grease had been. The girl pointed to

that place, and shook her head.

“The stain is taken off,” she said. “But the place shows, Mr.

Betteredge—the place shows!”

A remark which takes a man unawares by means of his own coat is not an

easy remark to answer. Something in the girl herself, too, made me

particularly sorry for her just then. She had nice brown eyes, plain as

she was in other ways—and she looked at me with a sort of respect for

my happy old age and my good character, as things for ever out of her

own reach, which made my heart heavy for our second housemaid. Not

feeling myself able to comfort her, there was only one other thing to

do. That thing was—to take her in to dinner.

“Help me up,” I said. “You’re late for dinner, Rosanna—and I have come

to fetch you in.”

“You, Mr. Betteredge!” says she.

“They told Nancy to fetch you,” I said. “But I thought you might like

your scolding better, my dear, if it came from me.”

Instead of helping me up, the poor thing stole her hand into mine, and

gave it a little squeeze. She tried hard to keep from crying again, and

succeeded—for which I respected her. “You’re very kind, Mr.

Betteredge,” she said. “I don’t want any dinner today—let me bide a

little longer here.”

“What makes you like to be here?” I asked. “What is it that brings you

everlastingly to this miserable place?”

“Something draws me to it,” says the girl, making images with her

finger in the sand. “I try to keep away from it, and I can’t.

Sometimes,” says she in a low voice, as if she was frightened at her

own fancy, “sometimes, Mr. Betteredge, I think that my grave is waiting

for me here.”

“There’s roast mutton and suet pudding waiting for you!” says I. “Go in

to dinner directly. This is what comes, Rosanna, of thinking on an

empty stomach!” I spoke severely, being naturally indignant (at my time

of life) to hear a young woman of five-and-twenty talking about her

latter end!

She didn’t seem to hear me: she put her hand on my shoulder, and kept

me where I was, sitting by her side.

“I think the place has laid a spell on me,” she said. “I dream of it

night after night; I think of it when I sit stitching at my work. You

know I am grateful, Mr. Betteredge—you know I try to deserve your

kindness, and my lady’s confidence in me. But I wonder sometimes

whether the life here is too quiet and too good for such a woman as I

am, after all I have gone through, Mr. Betteredge—after all I have gone

through. It’s more lonely to me to be among the other servants, knowing

I am not what they are, than it is to be here. My lady doesn’t know,

the matron at the reformatory doesn’t know, what a dreadful reproach

honest people are in themselves to a woman like me. Don’t scold me,

there’s a dear good man. I do my work, don’t I? Please not to tell my

lady I am discontented—I am not. My mind’s unquiet, sometimes, that’s

all.” She snatched her hand off my shoulder, and suddenly pointed down

to the quicksand. “Look!” she said “Isn’t it wonderful? isn’t it

terrible? I have seen it dozens of times, and it’s always as new to me

as if I had never seen it before!”

I looked where she pointed. The tide was on the turn, and the horrid

sand began to shiver. The broad brown face of it heaved slowly, and

then dimpled and quivered all over. “Do you know what it looks like to

_me?_” says Rosanna, catching me by the shoulder again. “It looks as if

it had hundreds of suffocating people under it—all struggling to get to

the surface, and all sinking lower and lower in the dreadful deeps!

Throw a stone in, Mr. Betteredge! Throw a stone in, and let’s see the

sand suck it down!”

Here was unwholesome talk! Here was an empty stomach feeding on an

unquiet mind! My answer—a pretty sharp one, in the poor girl’s own

interests, I promise you!—was at my tongue’s end, when it was snapped

short off on a sudden by a voice among the sandhills shouting for me by

my name. “Betteredge!” cries the voice, “where are you?” “Here!” I

shouted out in return, without a notion in my mind of who it was.

Rosanna started to her feet, and stood looking towards the voice. I was

just thinking of getting on my own legs next, when I was staggered by a

sudden change in the girl’s face.

Her complexion turned of a beautiful red, which I had never seen in it

before; she brightened all over with a kind of speechless and

breathless surprise. “Who is it?” I asked. Rosanna gave me back my own

question. “Oh! who is it?” she said softly, more to herself than to me.

I twisted round on the sand and looked behind me. There, coming out on

us from among the hills, was a bright-eyed young gentleman, dressed in

a beautiful fawn-coloured suit, with gloves and hat to match, with a

rose in his button-hole, and a smile on his face that might have set

the Shivering Sand itself smiling at him in return. Before I could get

on my legs, he plumped down on the sand by the side of me, put his arm

round my neck, foreign fashion, and gave me a hug that fairly squeezed

the breath out of my body. “Dear old Betteredge!” says he. “I owe you

seven-and-sixpence. Now do you know who I am?”

Lord bless us and save us! Here—four good hours before we expected

him—was Mr. Franklin Blake!

Before I could say a word, I saw Mr. Franklin, a little surprised to

all appearance, look up from me to Rosanna. Following his lead, I

looked at the girl too. She was blushing of a deeper red than ever,

seemingly at having caught Mr. Franklin’s eye; and she turned and left

us suddenly, in a confusion quite unaccountable to my mind, without

either making her curtsey to the gentleman or saying a word to me. Very

unlike her usual self: a civiller and better-behaved servant, in

general, you never met with.

“That’s an odd girl,” says Mr. Franklin. “I wonder what she sees in me

to surprise her?”

“I suppose, sir,” I answered, drolling on our young gentleman’s

Continental education, “it’s the varnish from foreign parts.”

I set down here Mr. Franklin’s careless question, and my foolish

answer, as a consolation and encouragement to all stupid people—it

being, as I have remarked, a great satisfaction to our inferior

fellow-creatures to find that their betters are, on occasions, no

brighter than they are. Neither Mr. Franklin, with his wonderful

foreign training, nor I, with my age, experience, and natural

mother-wit, had the ghost of an idea of what Rosanna Spearman’s

unaccountable behaviour really meant. She was out of our thoughts, poor

soul, before we had seen the last flutter of her little grey cloak

among the sandhills. And what of that? you will ask, naturally enough.

Read on, good friend, as patiently as you can, and perhaps you will be

as sorry for Rosanna Spearman as I was, when I found out the truth.

CHAPTER V

The first thing I did, after we were left together alone, was to make a

third attempt to get up from my seat on the sand. Mr. Franklin stopped

me.

“There is one advantage about this horrid place,” he said; “we have got

it all to ourselves. Stay where you are, Betteredge; I have something

to say to you.”

While he was speaking, I was looking at him, and trying to see

something of the boy I remembered, in the man before me. The man put me

out. Look as I might, I could see no more of his boy’s rosy cheeks than

of his boy’s trim little jacket. His complexion had got pale: his face,

at the lower part was covered, to my great surprise and disappointment,

with a curly brown beard and moustachios. He had a lively touch-and-go

way with him, very pleasant and engaging, I admit; but nothing to

compare with his free-and-easy manners of other times. To make matters

worse, he had promised to be tall, and had not kept his promise. He was

neat, and slim, and well made; but he wasn’t by an inch or two up to

the middle height. In short, he baffled me altogether. The years that

had passed had left nothing of his old self, except the bright,

straightforward look in his eyes. There I found our nice boy again, and

there I concluded to stop in my investigation.

“Welcome back to the old place, Mr. Franklin,” I said. “All the more

welcome, sir, that you have come some hours before we expected you.”

“I have a reason for coming before you expected me,” answered Mr.

Franklin. “I suspect, Betteredge, that I have been followed and watched

in London, for the last three or four days; and I have travelled by the

morning instead of the afternoon train, because I wanted to give a

certain dark-looking stranger the slip.”

Those words did more than surprise me. They brought back to my mind, in

a flash, the three jugglers, and Penelope’s notion that they meant some

mischief to Mr. Franklin Blake.

“Who’s watching you, sir,—and why?” I inquired.

“Tell me about the three Indians you have had at the house today,” says

Mr. Franklin, without noticing my question. “It’s just possible,

Betteredge, that my stranger and your three jugglers may turn out to be

pieces of the same puzzle.”

“How do you come to know about the jugglers, sir?” I asked, putting one

question on the top of another, which was bad manners, I own. But you

don’t expect much from poor human nature—so don’t expect much from me.

“I saw Penelope at the house,” says Mr. Franklin; “and Penelope told

me. Your daughter promised to be a pretty girl, Betteredge, and she has

kept her promise. Penelope has got a small ear and a small foot. Did

the late Mrs. Betteredge possess those inestimable advantages?”

“The late Mrs. Betteredge possessed a good many defects, sir,” says I.

“One of them (if you will pardon my mentioning it) was never keeping to

the matter in hand. She was more like a fly than a woman: she couldn’t

settle on anything.”

“She would just have suited me,” says Mr. Franklin. “I never settle on

anything either. Betteredge, your edge is better than ever. Your

daughter said as much, when I asked for particulars about the jugglers.

‘Father will tell you, sir. He’s a wonderful man for his age; and he

expresses himself beautifully.’ Penelope’s own words—blushing divinely.

Not even my respect for you prevented me from—never mind; I knew her

when she was a child, and she’s none the worse for it. Let’s be

serious. What did the jugglers do?”

I was something dissatisfied with my daughter—not for letting Mr.

Franklin kiss her; Mr. Franklin was welcome to _that_—but for forcing

me to tell her foolish story at second hand. However, there was no help

for it now but to mention the circumstances. Mr. Franklin’s merriment

all died away as I went on. He sat knitting his eyebrows, and twisting

his beard. When I had done, he repeated after me two of the questions

which the chief juggler had put to the boy—seemingly for the purpose of

fixing them well in his mind.

“‘Is it on the road to this house, and on no other, that the English

gentleman will travel today?’ ‘Has the English gentleman got It about

him?’ I suspect,” says Mr. Franklin, pulling a little sealed paper

parcel out of his pocket, “that ‘It’ means _this_. And ‘this,’

Betteredge, means my uncle Herncastle’s famous Diamond.”

“Good Lord, sir!” I broke out, “how do you come to be in charge of the

wicked Colonel’s Diamond?”

“The wicked Colonel’s will has left his Diamond as a birthday present

to my cousin Rachel,” says Mr. Franklin. “And my father, as the wicked

Colonel’s executor, has given it in charge to me to bring down here.”

If the sea, then oozing in smoothly over the Shivering Sand, had been

changed into dry land before my own eyes, I doubt if I could have been

more surprised than I was when Mr. Franklin spoke those words.

“The Colonel’s Diamond left to Miss Rachel!” says I. “And your father,

sir, the Colonel’s executor! Why, I would have laid any bet you like,

Mr. Franklin, that your father wouldn’t have touched the Colonel with a

pair of tongs!”

“Strong language, Betteredge! What was there against the Colonel? He

belonged to your time, not to mine. Tell me what you know about him,

and I’ll tell you how my father came to be his executor, and more

besides. I have made some discoveries in London about my uncle

Herncastle and his Diamond, which have rather an ugly look to my eyes;

and I want you to confirm them. You called him the ‘wicked Colonel’

just now. Search your memory, my old friend, and tell me why.”

I saw he was in earnest, and I told him.

Here follows the substance of what I said, written out entirely for

your benefit. Pay attention to it, or you will be all abroad, when we

get deeper into the story. Clear your mind of the children, or the

dinner, or the new bonnet, or what not. Try if you can’t forget

politics, horses, prices in the City, and grievances at the club. I

hope you won’t take this freedom on my part amiss; it’s only a way I

have of appealing to the gentle reader. Lord! haven’t I seen you with

the greatest authors in your hands, and don’t I know how ready your

attention is to wander when it’s a book that asks for it, instead of a

person?

I spoke, a little way back, of my lady’s father, the old lord with the

short temper and the long tongue. He had five children in all. Two sons

to begin with; then, after a long time, his wife broke out breeding

again, and the three young ladies came briskly one after the other, as

fast as the nature of things would permit; my mistress, as before

mentioned, being the youngest and best of the three. Of the two sons,

the eldest, Arthur, inherited the title and estates. The second, the

Honourable John, got a fine fortune left him by a relative, and went

into the army.

It’s an ill bird, they say, that fouls its own nest. I look on the

noble family of the Herncastles as being my nest; and I shall take it

as a favour if I am not expected to enter into particulars on the

subject of the Honourable John. He was, I honestly believe, one of the

greatest blackguards that ever lived. I can hardly say more or less for

him than that. He went into the army, beginning in the Guards. He had

to leave the Guards before he was two-and-twenty—never mind why. They

are very strict in the army, and they were too strict for the

Honourable John. He went out to India to see whether they were equally

strict there, and to try a little active service. In the matter of

bravery (to give him his due), he was a mixture of bull-dog and

game-cock, with a dash of the savage. He was at the taking of

Seringapatam. Soon afterwards he changed into another regiment, and, in

course of time, changed into a third. In the third he got his last step

as lieutenant-colonel, and, getting that, got also a sunstroke, and

came home to England.

He came back with a character that closed the doors of all his family

against him, my lady (then just married) taking the lead, and declaring

(with Sir John’s approval, of course) that her brother should never

enter any house of hers. There was more than one slur on the Colonel

that made people shy of him; but the blot of the Diamond is all I need

mention here.

It was said he had got possession of his Indian jewel by means which,

bold as he was, he didn’t dare acknowledge. He never attempted to sell

it—not being in need of money, and not (to give him his due again)

making money an object. He never gave it away; he never even showed it

to any living soul. Some said he was afraid of its getting him into a

difficulty with the military authorities; others (very ignorant indeed

of the real nature of the man) said he was afraid, if he showed it, of

its costing him his life.

There was perhaps a grain of truth mixed up with this last report. It

was false to say that he was afraid; but it was a fact that his life

had been twice threatened in India; and it was firmly believed that the

Moonstone was at the bottom of it. When he came back to England, and

found himself avoided by everybody, the Moonstone was thought to be at

the bottom of it again. The mystery of the Colonel’s life got in the

Colonel’s way, and outlawed him, as you may say, among his own people.

The men wouldn’t let him into their clubs; the women—more than one—whom

he wanted to marry, refused him; friends and relations got too

near-sighted to see him in the street.

Some men in this mess would have tried to set themselves right with the

world. But to give in, even when he was wrong, and had all society

against him, was not the way of the Honourable John. He had kept the

Diamond, in flat defiance of assassination, in India. He kept the

Diamond, in flat defiance of public opinion, in England. There you have

the portrait of the man before you, as in a picture: a character that

braved everything; and a face, handsome as it was, that looked

possessed by the devil.

We heard different rumours about him from time to time. Sometimes they

said he was given up to smoking opium and collecting old books;

sometimes he was reported to be trying strange things in chemistry;

sometimes he was seen carousing and amusing himself among the lowest

people in the lowest slums of London. Anyhow, a solitary, vicious,

underground life was the life the Colonel led. Once, and once only,

after his return to England, I myself saw him, face to face.

About two years before the time of which I am now writing, and about a

year and a half before the time of his death, the Colonel came

unexpectedly to my lady’s house in London. It was the night of Miss

Rachel’s birthday, the twenty-first of June; and there was a party in

honour of it, as usual. I received a message from the footman to say

that a gentleman wanted to see me. Going up into the hall, there I

found the Colonel, wasted, and worn, and old, and shabby, and as wild

and as wicked as ever.

“Go up to my sister,” says he; “and say that I have called to wish my

niece many happy returns of the day.”

He had made attempts by letter, more than once already, to be

reconciled with my lady, for no other purpose, I am firmly persuaded,

than to annoy her. But this was the first time he had actually come to

the house. I had it on the tip of my tongue to say that my mistress had

a party that night. But the devilish look of him daunted me. I went

upstairs with his message, and left him, by his own desire, waiting in

the hall. The servants stood staring at him, at a distance, as if he

was a walking engine of destruction, loaded with powder and shot, and

likely to go off among them at a moment’s notice.

My lady had a dash—no more—of the family temper. “Tell Colonel

Herncastle,” she said, when I gave her her brother’s message, “that

Miss Verinder is engaged, and that _I_ decline to see him.” I tried to

plead for a civiller answer than that; knowing the Colonel’s

constitutional superiority to the restraints which govern gentlemen in

general. Quite useless! The family temper flashed out at me directly.

“When I want your advice,” says my lady, “you know that I always ask

for it. I don’t ask for it now.” I went downstairs with the message, of

which I took the liberty of presenting a new and amended edition of my

own contriving, as follows: “My lady and Miss Rachel regret that they

are engaged, Colonel; and beg to be excused having the honour of seeing

you.”

I expected him to break out, even at that polite way of putting it. To

my surprise he did nothing of the sort; he alarmed me by taking the

thing with an unnatural quiet. His eyes, of a glittering bright grey,

just settled on me for a moment; and he laughed, not _out_ of himself,

like other people, but _into_ himself, in a soft, chuckling, horridly

mischievous way. “Thank you, Betteredge,” he said. “I shall remember my

niece’s birthday.” With that, he turned on his heel, and walked out of

the house.

The next birthday came round, and we heard he was ill in bed. Six

months afterwards—that is to say, six months before the time I am now

writing of—there came a letter from a highly respectable clergyman to

my lady. It communicated two wonderful things in the way of family

news. First, that the Colonel had forgiven his sister on his death-bed.

Second, that he had forgiven everybody else, and had made a most

edifying end. I have myself (in spite of the bishops and the clergy) an

unfeigned respect for the Church; but I am firmly persuaded, at the

same time, that the devil remained in undisturbed possession of the

Honourable John, and that the last abominable act in the life of that

abominable man was (saving your presence) to take the clergyman in!

This was the sum-total of what I had to tell Mr. Franklin. I remarked

that he listened more and more eagerly the longer I went on. Also, that

the story of the Colonel being sent away from his sister’s door, on the

occasion of his niece’s birthday, seemed to strike Mr. Franklin like a

shot that had hit the mark. Though he didn’t acknowledge it, I saw that

I had made him uneasy, plainly enough, in his face.

“You have said your say, Betteredge,” he remarked. “It’s my turn now.

Before, however, I tell you what discoveries I have made in London, and

how I came to be mixed up in this matter of the Diamond, I want to know

one thing. You look, my old friend, as if you didn’t quite understand

the object to be answered by this consultation of ours. Do your looks

belie you?”

“No, sir,” I said. “My looks, on this occasion at any rate, tell the

truth.”

“In that case,” says Mr. Franklin, “suppose I put you up to my point of

view, before we go any further. I see three very serious questions

involved in the Colonel’s birthday-gift to my cousin Rachel. Follow me

carefully, Betteredge; and count me off on your fingers, if it will

help you,” says Mr. Franklin, with a certain pleasure in showing how

clear-headed he could be, which reminded me wonderfully of old times

when he was a boy. “Question the first: Was the Colonel’s Diamond the

object of a conspiracy in India? Question the second: Has the

conspiracy followed the Colonel’s Diamond to England? Question the

third: Did the Colonel know the conspiracy followed the Diamond; and

has he purposely left a legacy of trouble and danger to his sister,

through the innocent medium of his sister’s child? _That_ is what I am

driving at, Betteredge. Don’t let me frighten you.”

It was all very well to say that, but he _had_ frightened me.

If he was right, here was our quiet English house suddenly invaded by a

devilish Indian Diamond—bringing after it a conspiracy of living

rogues, set loose on us by the vengeance of a dead man. There was our

situation as revealed to me in Mr. Franklin’s last words! Who ever

heard the like of it—in the nineteenth century, mind; in an age of

progress, and in a country which rejoices in the blessings of the

British constitution? Nobody ever heard the like of it, and,

consequently, nobody can be expected to believe it. I shall go on with

my story, however, in spite of that.

When you get a sudden alarm, of the sort that I had got now, nine times

out of ten the place you feel it in is your stomach. When you feel it

in your stomach, your attention wanders, and you begin to fidget. I

fidgeted silently in my place on the sand. Mr. Franklin noticed me,

contending with a perturbed stomach or mind—which you please; they mean

the same thing—and, checking himself just as he was starting with his

part of the story, said to me sharply, “What do you want?”

What did I want? I didn’t tell _him_; but I’ll tell _you_, in

confidence. I wanted a whiff of my pipe, and a turn at _Robinson

Crusoe_.

CHAPTER VI

Keeping my private sentiments to myself, I respectfully requested Mr.

Franklin to go on. Mr. Franklin replied, “Don’t fidget, Betteredge,”

and went on.

Our young gentleman’s first words informed me that his discoveries,

concerning the wicked Colonel and the Diamond, had begun with a visit

which he had paid (before he came to us) to the family lawyer, at

Hampstead. A chance word dropped by Mr. Franklin, when the two were

alone, one day, after dinner, revealed that he had been charged by his

father with a birthday present to be taken to Miss Rachel. One thing

led to another; and it ended in the lawyer mentioning what the present

really was, and how the friendly connexion between the late Colonel and

Mr. Blake, senior, had taken its rise. The facts here are really so

extraordinary, that I doubt if I can trust my own language to do

justice to them. I prefer trying to report Mr. Franklin’s discoveries,

as nearly as may be, in Mr. Franklin’s own words.

“You remember the time, Betteredge,” he said, “when my father was

trying to prove his title to that unlucky Dukedom? Well! that was also

the time when my uncle Herncastle returned from India. My father

discovered that his brother-in-law was in possession of certain papers

which were likely to be of service to him in his lawsuit. He called on

the Colonel, on pretence of welcoming him back to England. The Colonel

was not to be deluded in that way. ‘You want something,’ he said, ‘or

you would never have compromised your reputation by calling on _me_.’

My father saw that the one chance for him was to show his hand; he

admitted, at once, that he wanted the papers. The Colonel asked for a

day to consider his answer. His answer came in the shape of a most

extraordinary letter, which my friend the lawyer showed me. The Colonel

began by saying that he wanted something of my father, and that he

begged to propose an exchange of friendly services between them. The

fortune of war (that was the expression he used) had placed him in

possession of one of the largest Diamonds in the world; and he had

reason to believe that neither he nor his precious jewel was safe in

any house, in any quarter of the globe, which they occupied together.

Under these alarming circumstances, he had determined to place his

Diamond in the keeping of another person. That person was not expected

to run any risk. He might deposit the precious stone in any place

especially guarded and set apart—like a banker’s or jeweller’s

strongroom—for the safe custody of valuables of high price. His main

personal responsibility in the matter was to be of the passive kind. He

was to undertake either by himself, or by a trustworthy

representative—to receive at a prearranged address, on certain

prearranged days in every year, a note from the Colonel, simply stating

the fact that he was a living man at that date. In the event of the

date passing over without the note being received, the Colonel’s

silence might be taken as a sure token of the Colonel’s death by

murder. In that case, and in no other, certain sealed instructions

relating to the disposal of the Diamond, and deposited with it, were to

be opened, and followed implicitly. If my father chose to accept this

strange charge, the Colonel’s papers were at his disposal in return.

That was the letter.”

“What did your father do, sir?” I asked.

“Do?” says Mr. Franklin. “I’ll tell you what he did. He brought the

invaluable faculty, called common sense, to bear on the Colonel’s

letter. The whole thing, he declared, was simply absurd. Somewhere in

his Indian wanderings, the Colonel had picked up with some wretched

crystal which he took for a diamond. As for the danger of his being

murdered, and the precautions devised to preserve his life and his

piece of crystal, this was the nineteenth century, and any man in his

senses had only to apply to the police. The Colonel had been a

notorious opium-eater for years past; and, if the only way of getting

at the valuable papers he possessed was by accepting a matter of opium

as a matter of fact, my father was quite willing to take the ridiculous

responsibility imposed on him—all the more readily that it involved no

trouble to himself. The Diamond and the sealed instructions went into

his banker’s strongroom, and the Colonel’s letters, periodically

reporting him a living man, were received and opened by our family

lawyer, Mr. Bruff, as my father’s representative. No sensible person,

in a similar position, could have viewed the matter in any other way.

Nothing in this world, Betteredge, is probable unless it appeals to our

own trumpery experience; and we only believe in a romance when we see

it in a newspaper.”

It was plain to me from this, that Mr. Franklin thought his father’s

notion about the Colonel hasty and wrong.

“What is your own private opinion about the matter, sir?” I asked.

“Let’s finish the story of the Colonel first,” says Mr. Franklin.

“There is a curious want of system, Betteredge, in the English mind;

and your question, my old friend, is an instance of it. When we are not

occupied in making machinery, we are (mentally speaking) the most

slovenly people in the universe.”

“So much,” I thought to myself, “for a foreign education! He has

learned that way of girding at us in France, I suppose.”

Mr. Franklin took up the lost thread, and went on.

“My father,” he said, “got the papers he wanted, and never saw his

brother-in-law again from that time. Year after year, on the

prearranged days, the prearranged letter came from the Colonel, and was

opened by Mr. Bruff. I have seen the letters, in a heap, all of them

written in the same brief, business-like form of words: ‘Sir,—This is

to certify that I am still a living man. Let the Diamond be. John

Herncastle.’ That was all he ever wrote, and that came regularly to the

day; until some six or eight months since, when the form of the letter

varied for the first time. It ran now: ‘Sir,—They tell me I am dying.

Come to me, and help me to make my will.’ Mr. Bruff went, and found

him, in the little suburban villa, surrounded by its own grounds, in

which he had lived alone, ever since he had left India. He had dogs,

cats, and birds to keep him company; but no human being near him,

except the person who came daily to do the house-work, and the doctor

at the bedside. The will was a very simple matter. The Colonel had

dissipated the greater part of his fortune in his chemical

investigations. His will began and ended in three clauses, which he

dictated from his bed, in perfect possession of his faculties. The

first clause provided for the safe keeping and support of his animals.

The second founded a professorship of experimental chemistry at a

northern university. The third bequeathed the Moonstone as a birthday

present to his niece, on condition that my father would act as

executor. My father at first refused to act. On second thoughts,

however, he gave way, partly because he was assured that the

executorship would involve him in no trouble; partly because Mr. Bruff

suggested, in Rachel’s interest, that the Diamond might be worth

something, after all.”

“Did the Colonel give any reason, sir,” I inquired, “why he left the

Diamond to Miss Rachel?”

“He not only gave the reason—he had the reason written in his will,”

said Mr. Franklin. “I have got an extract, which you shall see

presently. Don’t be slovenly-minded, Betteredge! One thing at a time.

You have heard about the Colonel’s Will; now you must hear what

happened after the Colonel’s death. It was formally necessary to have

the Diamond valued, before the Will could be proved. All the jewellers

consulted, at once confirmed the Colonel’s assertion that he possessed

one of the largest diamonds in the world. The question of accurately

valuing it presented some serious difficulties. Its size made it a

phenomenon in the diamond market; its colour placed it in a category by

itself; and, to add to these elements of uncertainty, there was a

defect, in the shape of a flaw, in the very heart of the stone. Even

with this last serious draw-back, however, the lowest of the various

estimates given was twenty thousand pounds. Conceive my father’s

astonishment! He had been within a hair’s-breadth of refusing to act as

executor, and of allowing this magnificent jewel to be lost to the

family. The interest he took in the matter now, induced him to open the

sealed instructions which had been deposited with the Diamond. Mr.

Bruff showed this document to me, with the other papers; and it

suggests (to my mind) a clue to the nature of the conspiracy which

threatened the Colonel’s life.”

“Then you do believe, sir,” I said, “that there was a conspiracy?”

“Not possessing my father’s excellent common sense,” answered Mr.

Franklin, “I believe the Colonel’s life was threatened, exactly as the

Colonel said. The sealed instructions, as I think, explain how it was

that he died, after all, quietly in his bed. In the event of his death

by violence (that is to say, in the absence of the regular letter from

him at the appointed date), my father was then directed to send the

Moonstone secretly to Amsterdam. It was to be deposited in that city

with a famous diamond-cutter, and it was to be cut up into from four to

six separate stones. The stones were then to be sold for what they

would fetch, and the proceeds were to be applied to the founding of

that professorship of experimental chemistry, which the Colonel has

since endowed by his Will. Now, Betteredge, exert those sharp wits of

yours, and observe the conclusion to which the Colonel’s instructions

point!”

I instantly exerted my wits. They were of the slovenly English sort;

and they consequently muddled it all, until Mr. Franklin took them in

hand, and pointed out what they ought to see.

“Remark,” says Mr. Franklin, “that the integrity of the Diamond, as a

whole stone, is here artfully made dependent on the preservation from

violence of the Colonel’s life. He is not satisfied with saying to the

enemies he dreads, ‘Kill me—and you will be no nearer to the Diamond

than you are now; it is where you can’t get at it—in the guarded

strongroom of a bank.’ He says instead, ‘Kill me—and the Diamond will

be the Diamond no longer; its identity will be destroyed.’ What does

that mean?”

Here I had (as I thought) a flash of the wonderful foreign brightness.

“I know,” I said. “It means lowering the value of the stone, and

cheating the rogues in that way!”

“Nothing of the sort,” says Mr. Franklin. “I have inquired about that.

The flawed Diamond, cut up, would actually fetch more than the Diamond

as it now is; for this plain reason—that from four to six perfect

brilliants might be cut from it, which would be, collectively, worth

more money than the large—but imperfect single stone. If robbery for

the purpose of gain was at the bottom of the conspiracy, the Colonel’s

instructions absolutely made the Diamond better worth stealing. More

money could have been got for it, and the disposal of it in the diamond

market would have been infinitely easier, if it had passed through the

hands of the workmen of Amsterdam.”

“Lord bless us, sir!” I burst out. “What was the plot, then?”

“A plot organised among the Indians who originally owned the jewel,”

says Mr. Franklin—“a plot with some old Hindoo superstition at the

bottom of it. That is my opinion, confirmed by a family paper which I

have about me at this moment.”

I saw, now, why the appearance of the three Indian jugglers at our

house had presented itself to Mr. Franklin in the light of a

circumstance worth noting.

“I don’t want to force my opinion on you,” Mr. Franklin went on. “The

idea of certain chosen servants of an old Hindoo superstition devoting

themselves, through all difficulties and dangers, to watching the

opportunity of recovering their sacred gem, appears to _me_ to be

perfectly consistent with everything that we know of the patience of

Oriental races, and the influence of Oriental religions. But then I am

an imaginative man; and the butcher, the baker, and the tax-gatherer,

are not the only credible realities in existence to _my_ mind. Let the

guess I have made at the truth in this matter go for what it is worth,

and let us get on to the only practical question that concerns us. Does

the conspiracy against the Moonstone survive the Colonel’s death? And

did the Colonel know it, when he left the birthday gift to his niece?”

I began to see my lady and Miss Rachel at the end of it all, now. Not a

word he said escaped me.

“I was not very willing, when I discovered the story of the Moonstone,”

said Mr. Franklin, “to be the means of bringing it here. But Mr. Bruff

reminded me that somebody must put my cousin’s legacy into my cousin’s

hands—and that I might as well do it as anybody else. After taking the

Diamond out of the bank, I fancied I was followed in the streets by a

shabby, dark-complexioned man. I went to my father’s house to pick up

my luggage, and found a letter there, which unexpectedly detained me in

London. I went back to the bank with the Diamond, and thought I saw the

shabby man again. Taking the Diamond once more out of the bank this

morning, I saw the man for the third time, gave him the slip, and

started (before he recovered the trace of me) by the morning instead of

the afternoon train. Here I am, with the Diamond safe and sound—and

what is the first news that meets me? I find that three strolling

Indians have been at the house, and that my arrival from London, and

something which I am expected to have about me, are two special objects

of investigation to them when they believe themselves to be alone. I

don’t waste time and words on their pouring the ink into the boy’s

hand, and telling him to look in it for a man at a distance, and for

something in that man’s pocket. The thing (which I have often seen done

in the East) is ‘hocus-pocus’ in my opinion, as it is in yours. The

present question for us to decide is, whether I am wrongly attaching a

meaning to a mere accident? or whether we really have evidence of the

Indians being on the track of the Moonstone, the moment it is removed

from the safe keeping of the bank?”

Neither he nor I seemed to fancy dealing with this part of the inquiry.

We looked at each other, and then we looked at the tide, oozing in

smoothly, higher and higher, over the Shivering Sand.

“What are you thinking of?” says Mr. Franklin, suddenly.

“I was thinking, sir,” I answered, “that I should like to shy the

Diamond into the quicksand, and settle the question in _that_ way.”

“If you have got the value of the stone in your pocket,” answered Mr.

Franklin, “say so, Betteredge, and in it goes!”

It’s curious to note, when your mind’s anxious, how very far in the way

of relief a very small joke will go. We found a fund of merriment, at

the time, in the notion of making away with Miss Rachel’s lawful

property, and getting Mr. Blake, as executor, into dreadful

trouble—though where the merriment was, I am quite at a loss to

discover now.

Mr. Franklin was the first to bring the talk back to the talk’s proper

purpose. He took an envelope out of his pocket, opened it, and handed

to me the paper inside.

“Betteredge,” he said, “we must face the question of the Colonel’s

motive in leaving this legacy to his niece, for my aunt’s sake. Bear in

mind how Lady Verinder treated her brother from the time when he

returned to England, to the time when he told you he should remember

his niece’s birthday. And read that.”

He gave me the extract from the Colonel’s Will. I have got it by me

while I write these words; and I copy it, as follows, for your benefit:

“Thirdly, and lastly, I give and bequeath to my niece, Rachel Verinder,

daughter and only child of my sister, Julia Verinder, widow—if her

mother, the said Julia Verinder, shall be living on the said Rachel

Verinder’s next Birthday after my death—the yellow Diamond belonging to

me, and known in the East by the name of The Moonstone: subject to this

condition, that her mother, the said Julia Verinder, shall be living at

the time. And I hereby desire my executor to give my Diamond, either by

his own hands or by the hands of some trustworthy representative whom

he shall appoint, into the personal possession of my said niece Rachel,

on her next birthday after my death, and in the presence, if possible,

of my sister, the said Julia Verinder. And I desire that my said sister

may be informed, by means of a true copy of this, the third and last

clause of my Will, that I give the Diamond to her daughter Rachel, in

token of my free forgiveness of the injury which her conduct towards me

has been the means of inflicting on my reputation in my lifetime; and

especially in proof that I pardon, as becomes a dying man, the insult

offered to me as an officer and a gentleman, when her servant, by her

orders, closed the door of her house against me, on the occasion of her

daughter’s birthday.”

More words followed these, providing if my lady was dead, or if Miss

Rachel was dead, at the time of the testator’s decease, for the Diamond

being sent to Holland, in accordance with the sealed instructions

originally deposited with it. The proceeds of the sale were, in that

case, to be added to the money already left by the Will for the

professorship of chemistry at the university in the north.

I handed the paper back to Mr. Franklin, sorely troubled what to say to

him. Up to that moment, my own opinion had been (as you know) that the

Colonel had died as wickedly as he had lived. I don’t say the copy from

his Will actually converted me from that opinion: I only say it

staggered me.

“Well,” says Mr. Franklin, “now you have read the Colonel’s own

statement, what do you say? In bringing the Moonstone to my aunt’s

house, am I serving his vengeance blindfold, or am I vindicating him in

the character of a penitent and Christian man?”

“It seems hard to say, sir,” I answered, “that he died with a horrid

revenge in his heart, and a horrid lie on his lips. God alone knows the

truth. Don’t ask _me_.”

Mr. Franklin sat twisting and turning the extract from the Will in his

fingers, as if he expected to squeeze the truth out of it in that

manner. He altered quite remarkably, at the same time. From being brisk

and bright, he now became, most unaccountably, a slow, solemn, and

pondering young man.

“This question has two sides,” he said. “An Objective side, and a

Subjective side. Which are we to take?”

He had had a German education as well as a French. One of the two had

been in undisturbed possession of him (as I supposed) up to this time.

And now (as well as I could make out) the other was taking its place.

It is one of my rules in life, never to notice what I don’t understand.

I steered a middle course between the Objective side and the Subjective

side. In plain English I stared hard, and said nothing.

“Let’s extract the inner meaning of this,” says Mr. Franklin. “Why did

my uncle leave the Diamond to Rachel? Why didn’t he leave it to my

aunt?”

“That’s not beyond guessing, sir, at any rate,” I said. “Colonel

Herncastle knew my lady well enough to know that she would have refused

to accept any legacy that came to her from _him_.”

“How did he know that Rachel might not refuse to accept it, too?”

“Is there any young lady in existence, sir, who could resist the

temptation of accepting such a birthday present as The Moonstone?”

“That’s the Subjective view,” says Mr. Franklin. “It does you great

credit, Betteredge, to be able to take the Subjective view. But there’s

another mystery about the Colonel’s legacy which is not accounted for

yet. How are we to explain his only giving Rachel her birthday present

conditionally on her mother being alive?”

“I don’t want to slander a dead man, sir,” I answered. “But if he _has_

purposely left a legacy of trouble and danger to his sister, by the

means of her child, it must be a legacy made conditional on his

sister’s being alive to feel the vexation of it.”

“Oh! That’s your interpretation of his motive, is it? The Subjective

interpretation again! Have you ever been in Germany, Betteredge?”

“No, sir. What’s your interpretation, if you please?”

“I can see,” says Mr. Franklin, “that the Colonel’s object may, quite

possibly, have been—not to benefit his niece, whom he had never even

seen—but to prove to his sister that he had died forgiving her, and to

prove it very prettily by means of a present made to her child. There

is a totally different explanation from yours, Betteredge, taking its

rise in a Subjective-Objective point of view. From all I can see, one

interpretation is just as likely to be right as the other.”

Having brought matters to this pleasant and comforting issue, Mr.

Franklin appeared to think that he had completed all that was required

of him. He laid down flat on his back on the sand, and asked what was

to be done next.

He had been so clever, and clear-headed (before he began to talk the

foreign gibberish), and had so completely taken the lead in the

business up to the present time, that I was quite unprepared for such a

sudden change as he now exhibited in this helpless leaning upon _me_.

It was not till later that I learned—by assistance of Miss Rachel, who

was the first to make the discovery—that these puzzling shifts and

transformations in Mr. Franklin were due to the effect on him of his

foreign training. At the age when we are all of us most apt to take our

colouring, in the form of a reflection from the colouring of other

people, he had been sent abroad, and had been passed on from one nation

to another, before there was time for any one colouring more than

another to settle itself on him firmly. As a consequence of this, he

had come back with so many different sides to his character, all more

or less jarring with each other, that he seemed to pass his life in a

state of perpetual contradiction with himself. He could be a busy man,

and a lazy man; cloudy in the head, and clear in the head; a model of

determination, and a spectacle of helplessness, all together. He had

his French side, and his German side, and his Italian side—the original

English foundation showing through, every now and then, as much as to

say, “Here I am, sorely transmogrified, as you see, but there’s

something of me left at the bottom of him still.” Miss Rachel used to

remark that the Italian side of him was uppermost, on those occasions

when he unexpectedly gave in, and asked you in his nice sweet-tempered

way to take his own responsibilities on your shoulders. You will do him

no injustice, I think, if you conclude that the Italian side of him was

uppermost now.

“Isn’t it your business, sir,” I asked, “to know what to do next?

Surely it can’t be mine?”

Mr. Franklin didn’t appear to see the force of my question—not being in

a position, at the time, to see anything but the sky over his head.

“I don’t want to alarm my aunt without reason,” he said. “And I don’t

want to leave her without what may be a needful warning. If you were in

my place, Betteredge, tell me, in one word, what would you do?”

In one word, I told him: “Wait.”

“With all my heart,” says Mr. Franklin. “How long?”

I proceeded to explain myself.

“As I understand it, sir,” I said, “somebody is bound to put this

plaguy Diamond into Miss Rachel’s hands on her birthday—and you may as

well do it as another. Very good. This is the twenty-fifth of May, and

the birthday is on the twenty-first of June. We have got close on four

weeks before us. Let’s wait and see what happens in that time; and

let’s warn my lady, or not, as the circumstances direct us.”

“Perfect, Betteredge, as far as it goes!” says Mr. Franklin. “But

between this and the birthday, what’s to be done with the Diamond?”

“What your father did with it, to be sure, sir!” I answered. “Your

father put it in the safe keeping of a bank in London. You put in the

safe keeping of the bank at Frizinghall.” (Frizinghall was our nearest

town, and the Bank of England wasn’t safer than the bank there.) “If I

were you, sir,” I added, “I would ride straight away with it to

Frizinghall before the ladies come back.”

The prospect of doing something—and, what is more, of doing that

something on a horse—brought Mr. Franklin up like lightning from the

flat of his back. He sprang to his feet, and pulled me up, without

ceremony, on to mine. “Betteredge, you are worth your weight in gold,”

he said. “Come along, and saddle the best horse in the stables

directly.”

Here (God bless it!) was the original English foundation of him showing

through all the foreign varnish at last! Here was the Master Franklin I

remembered, coming out again in the good old way at the prospect of a

ride, and reminding me of the good old times! Saddle a horse for him? I

would have saddled a dozen horses, if he could only have ridden them

all!

We went back to the house in a hurry; we had the fleetest horse in the

stables saddled in a hurry; and Mr. Franklin rattled off in a hurry, to

lodge the cursed Diamond once more in the strongroom of a bank. When I

heard the last of his horse’s hoofs on the drive, and when I turned

about in the yard and found I was alone again, I felt half inclined to

ask myself if I hadn’t woke up from a dream.

CHAPTER VII

While I was in this bewildered frame of mind, sorely needing a little

quiet time by myself to put me right again, my daughter Penelope got in

my way (just as her late mother used to get in my way on the stairs),

and instantly summoned me to tell her all that had passed at the

conference between Mr. Franklin and me. Under present circumstances,

the one thing to be done was to clap the extinguisher upon Penelope’s

curiosity on the spot. I accordingly replied that Mr. Franklin and I

had both talked of foreign politics, till we could talk no longer, and

had then mutually fallen asleep in the heat of the sun. Try that sort

of answer when your wife or your daughter next worries you with an

awkward question at an awkward time, and depend on the natural

sweetness of women for kissing and making it up again at the next

opportunity.

The afternoon wore on, and my lady and Miss Rachel came back.

Needless to say how astonished they were, when they heard that Mr.

Franklin Blake had arrived, and had gone off again on horseback.

Needless also to say, that _they_ asked awkward questions directly, and

that the “foreign politics” and the “falling asleep in the sun”

wouldn’t serve a second time over with _them_. Being at the end of my

invention, I said Mr. Franklin’s arrival by the early train was

entirely attributable to one of Mr. Franklin’s freaks. Being asked,

upon that, whether his galloping off again on horseback was another of

Mr. Franklin’s freaks, I said, “Yes, it was;” and slipped out of it—I

think very cleverly—in that way.

Having got over my difficulties with the ladies, I found more

difficulties waiting for me when I went back to my own room. In came

Penelope—with the natural sweetness of women—to kiss and make it up

again; and—with the natural curiosity of women—to ask another question.

This time she only wanted me to tell her what was the matter with our

second housemaid, Rosanna Spearman.

After leaving Mr. Franklin and me at the Shivering Sand, Rosanna, it

appeared, had returned to the house in a very unaccountable state of

mind. She had turned (if Penelope was to be believed) all the colours

of the rainbow. She had been merry without reason, and sad without

reason. In one breath she asked hundreds of questions about Mr.

Franklin Blake, and in another breath she had been angry with Penelope

for presuming to suppose that a strange gentleman could possess any

interest for her. She had been surprised, smiling, and scribbling Mr.

Franklin’s name inside her workbox. She had been surprised again,

crying and looking at her deformed shoulder in the glass. Had she and

Mr. Franklin known anything of each other before today? Quite

impossible! Had they heard anything of each other? Impossible again! I

could speak to Mr. Franklin’s astonishment as genuine, when he saw how

the girl stared at him. Penelope could speak to the girl’s

inquisitiveness as genuine, when she asked questions about Mr.

Franklin. The conference between us, conducted in this way, was

tiresome enough, until my daughter suddenly ended it by bursting out

with what I thought the most monstrous supposition I had ever heard in

my life.

“Father!” says Penelope, quite seriously, “there’s only one explanation

of it. Rosanna has fallen in love with Mr. Franklin Blake at first

sight!”

You have heard of beautiful young ladies falling in love at first

sight, and have thought it natural enough. But a housemaid out of a

reformatory, with a plain face and a deformed shoulder, falling in

love, at first sight, with a gentleman who comes on a visit to her

mistress’s house, match me that, in the way of an absurdity, out of any

story-book in Christendom, if you can! I laughed till the tears rolled

down my cheeks. Penelope resented my merriment, in rather a strange

way. “I never knew you cruel before, father,” she said, very gently,

and went out.

My girl’s words fell upon me like a splash of cold water. I was savage

with myself, for feeling uneasy in myself the moment she had spoken

them—but so it was. We will change the subject, if you please. I am

sorry I drifted into writing about it; and not without reason, as you

will see when we have gone on together a little longer.

The evening came, and the dressing-bell for dinner rang, before Mr.

Franklin returned from Frizinghall. I took his hot water up to his room

myself, expecting to hear, after this extraordinary delay, that

something had happened. To my great disappointment (and no doubt to

yours also), nothing had happened. He had not met with the Indians,

either going or returning. He had deposited the Moonstone in the

bank—describing it merely as a valuable of great price—and he had got

the receipt for it safe in his pocket. I went downstairs, feeling that

this was rather a flat ending, after all our excitement about the

Diamond earlier in the day.

How the meeting between Mr. Franklin and his aunt and cousin went off,

is more than I can tell you.

I would have given something to have waited at table that day. But, in

my position in the household, waiting at dinner (except on high family

festivals) was letting down my dignity in the eyes of the other

servants—a thing which my lady considered me quite prone enough to do

already, without seeking occasions for it. The news brought to me from

the upper regions, that evening, came from Penelope and the footman.

Penelope mentioned that she had never known Miss Rachel so particular

about the dressing of her hair, and had never seen her look so bright

and pretty as she did when she went down to meet Mr. Franklin in the

drawing-room. The footman’s report was, that the preservation of a

respectful composure in the presence of his betters, and the waiting on

Mr. Franklin Blake at dinner, were two of the hardest things to

reconcile with each other that had ever tried his training in service.

Later in the evening, we heard them singing and playing duets, Mr.

Franklin piping high, Miss Rachel piping higher, and my lady, on the

piano, following them as it were over hedge and ditch, and seeing them

safe through it in a manner most wonderful and pleasant to hear through

the open windows, on the terrace at night. Later still, I went to Mr.

Franklin in the smoking-room, with the soda water and brandy, and found

that Miss Rachel had put the Diamond clean out of his head. “She’s the

most charming girl I have seen since I came back to England!” was all I

could extract from him, when I endeavoured to lead the conversation to

more serious things.

Towards midnight, I went round the house to lock up, accompanied by my

second in command (Samuel, the footman), as usual. When all the doors

were made fast, except the side door that opened on the terrace, I sent

Samuel to bed, and stepped out for a breath of fresh air before I too

went to bed in my turn.

The night was still and close, and the moon was at the full in the

heavens. It was so silent out of doors, that I heard from time to time,

very faint and low, the fall of the sea, as the ground-swell heaved it

in on the sand-bank near the mouth of our little bay. As the house

stood, the terrace side was the dark side; but the broad moonlight

showed fair on the gravel walk that ran along the next side to the

terrace. Looking this way, after looking up at the sky, I saw the

shadow of a person in the moonlight thrown forward from behind the

corner of the house.

Being old and sly, I forbore to call out; but being also,

unfortunately, old and heavy, my feet betrayed me on the gravel. Before

I could steal suddenly round the corner, as I had proposed, I heard

lighter feet than mine—and more than one pair of them as I

thought—retreating in a hurry. By the time I had got to the corner, the

trespassers, whoever they were, had run into the shrubbery at the off

side of the walk, and were hidden from sight among the thick trees and

bushes in that part of the grounds. From the shrubbery, they could

easily make their way, over our fence into the road. If I had been

forty years younger, I might have had a chance of catching them before

they got clear of our premises. As it was, I went back to set a-going a

younger pair of legs than mine. Without disturbing anybody, Samuel and

I got a couple of guns, and went all round the house and through the

shrubbery. Having made sure that no persons were lurking about anywhere

in our grounds, we turned back. Passing over the walk where I had seen

the shadow, I now noticed, for the first time, a little bright object,

lying on the clean gravel, under the light of the moon. Picking the

object up, I discovered it was a small bottle, containing a thick

sweet-smelling liquor, as black as ink.

I said nothing to Samuel. But, remembering what Penelope had told me

about the jugglers, and the pouring of the little pool of ink into the

palm of the boy’s hand, I instantly suspected that I had disturbed the

three Indians, lurking about the house, and bent, in their heathenish

way, on discovering the whereabouts of the Diamond that night.

CHAPTER VIII

Here, for one moment, I find it necessary to call a halt.

On summoning up my own recollections—and on getting Penelope to help

me, by consulting her journal—I find that we may pass pretty rapidly

over the interval between Mr. Franklin Blake’s arrival and Miss

Rachel’s birthday. For the greater part of that time the days passed,

and brought nothing with them worth recording. With your good leave,

then, and with Penelope’s help, I shall notice certain dates only in

this place; reserving to myself to tell the story day by day, once

more, as soon as we get to the time when the business of the Moonstone

became the chief business of everybody in our house.

This said, we may now go on again—beginning, of course, with the bottle

of sweet-smelling ink which I found on the gravel walk at night.

On the next morning (the morning of the twenty-sixth) I showed Mr.

Franklin this article of jugglery, and told him what I have already

told you. His opinion was, not only that the Indians had been lurking

about after the Diamond, but also that they were actually foolish

enough to believe in their own magic—meaning thereby the making of

signs on a boy’s head, and the pouring of ink into a boy’s hand, and

then expecting him to see persons and things beyond the reach of human

vision. In our country, as well as in the East, Mr. Franklin informed

me, there are people who practise this curious hocus-pocus (without the

ink, however); and who call it by a French name, signifying something

like brightness of sight. “Depend upon it,” says Mr. Franklin, “the

Indians took it for granted that we should keep the Diamond here; and

they brought their clairvoyant boy to show them the way to it, if they

succeeded in getting into the house last night.”

“Do you think they’ll try again, sir?” I asked.

“It depends,” says Mr. Franklin, “on what the boy can really do. If he

can see the Diamond through the iron safe of the bank at Frizinghall,

we shall be troubled with no more visits from the Indians for the

present. If he can’t, we shall have another chance of catching them in

the shrubbery, before many more nights are over our heads.”

I waited pretty confidently for that latter chance; but, strange to

relate, it never came.

Whether the jugglers heard, in the town, of Mr. Franklin having been

seen at the bank, and drew their conclusions accordingly; or whether

the boy really did see the Diamond where the Diamond was now lodged

(which I, for one, flatly disbelieve); or whether, after all, it was a

mere effect of chance, this at any rate is the plain truth—not the

ghost of an Indian came near the house again, through the weeks that

passed before Miss Rachel’s birthday. The jugglers remained in and

about the town plying their trade; and Mr. Franklin and I remained

waiting to see what might happen, and resolute not to put the rogues on

their guard by showing our suspicions of them too soon. With this

report of the proceedings on either side, ends all that I have to say

about the Indians for the present.

On the twenty-ninth of the month, Miss Rachel and Mr. Franklin hit on a

new method of working their way together through the time which might

otherwise have hung heavy on their hands. There are reasons for taking

particular notice here of the occupation that amused them. You will

find it has a bearing on something that is still to come.

Gentlefolks in general have a very awkward rock ahead in life—the rock

ahead of their own idleness. Their lives being, for the most part,

passed in looking about them for something to do, it is curious to

see—especially when their tastes are of what is called the intellectual

sort—how often they drift blindfold into some nasty pursuit. Nine times

out of ten they take to torturing something, or to spoiling

something—and they firmly believe they are improving their minds, when

the plain truth is, they are only making a mess in the house. I have

seen them (ladies, I am sorry to say, as well as gentlemen) go out, day

after day, for example, with empty pill-boxes, and catch newts, and

beetles, and spiders, and frogs, and come home and stick pins through

the miserable wretches, or cut them up, without a pang of remorse, into

little pieces. You see my young master, or my young mistress, poring

over one of their spiders’ insides with a magnifying-glass; or you meet

one of their frogs walking downstairs without his head—and when you

wonder what this cruel nastiness means, you are told that it means a

taste in my young master or my young mistress for natural history.

Sometimes, again, you see them occupied for hours together in spoiling

a pretty flower with pointed instruments, out of a stupid curiosity to

know what the flower is made of. Is its colour any prettier, or its

scent any sweeter, when you _do_ know? But there! the poor souls must

get through the time, you see—they must get through the time. You

dabbled in nasty mud, and made pies, when you were a child; and you

dabble in nasty science, and dissect spiders, and spoil flowers, when

you grow up. In the one case and in the other, the secret of it is,

that you have got nothing to think of in your poor empty head, and

nothing to do with your poor idle hands. And so it ends in your

spoiling canvas with paints, and making a smell in the house; or in

keeping tadpoles in a glass box full of dirty water, and turning

everybody’s stomach in the house; or in chipping off bits of stone

here, there, and everywhere, and dropping grit into all the victuals in

the house; or in staining your fingers in the pursuit of photography,

and doing justice without mercy on everybody’s face in the house. It

often falls heavy enough, no doubt, on people who are really obliged to

get their living, to be forced to work for the clothes that cover them,

the roof that shelters them, and the food that keeps them going. But

compare the hardest day’s work you ever did with the idleness that

splits flowers and pokes its way into spiders’ stomachs, and thank your

stars that your head has got something it _must_ think of, and your

hands something that they _must_ do.

As for Mr. Franklin and Miss Rachel, they tortured nothing, I am glad

to say. They simply confined themselves to making a mess; and all they

spoilt, to do them justice, was the panelling of a door.

Mr. Franklin’s universal genius, dabbling in everything, dabbled in

what he called “decorative painting.” He had invented, he informed us,

a new mixture to moisten paint with, which he described as a “vehicle.”

What it was made of, I don’t know. What it did, I can tell you in two

words—it stank. Miss Rachel being wild to try her hand at the new

process, Mr. Franklin sent to London for the materials; mixed them up,

with accompaniment of a smell which made the very dogs sneeze when they

came into the room; put an apron and a bib over Miss Rachel’s gown, and

set her to work decorating her own little sitting-room—called, for want

of English to name it in, her “boudoir.” They began with the inside of

the door. Mr. Franklin scraped off all the nice varnish with

pumice-stone, and made what he described as a surface to work on. Miss

Rachel then covered the surface, under his directions and with his

help, with patterns and devices—griffins, birds, flowers, cupids, and

such like—copied from designs made by a famous Italian painter, whose

name escapes me: the one, I mean, who stocked the world with Virgin

Maries, and had a sweetheart at the baker’s. Viewed as work, this

decoration was slow to do, and dirty to deal with. But our young lady

and gentleman never seemed to tire of it. When they were not riding, or

seeing company, or taking their meals, or piping their songs, there

they were with their heads together, as busy as bees, spoiling the

door. Who was the poet who said that Satan finds some mischief still

for idle hands to do? If he had occupied my place in the family, and

had seen Miss Rachel with her brush, and Mr. Franklin with his vehicle,

he could have written nothing truer of either of them than that.

The next date worthy of notice is Sunday the fourth of June.

On that evening we, in the servants’ hall, debated a domestic question

for the first time, which, like the decoration of the door, has its

bearing on something that is still to come.

Seeing the pleasure which Mr. Franklin and Miss Rachel took in each

other’s society, and noting what a pretty match they were in all

personal respects, we naturally speculated on the chance of their

putting their heads together with other objects in view besides the

ornamenting of a door. Some of us said there would be a wedding in the

house before the summer was over. Others (led by me) admitted it was

likely enough Miss Rachel might be married; but we doubted (for reasons

which will presently appear) whether her bridegroom would be Mr.

Franklin Blake.

That Mr. Franklin was in love, on his side, nobody who saw and heard

him could doubt. The difficulty was to fathom Miss Rachel. Let me do

myself the honour of making you acquainted with her; after which, I

will leave you to fathom for yourself—if you can.

My young lady’s eighteenth birthday was the birthday now coming, on the

twenty-first of June. If you happen to like dark women (who, I am

informed, have gone out of fashion latterly in the gay world), and if

you have no particular prejudice in favour of size, I answer for Miss

Rachel as one of the prettiest girls your eyes ever looked on. She was

small and slim, but all in fine proportion from top to toe. To see her

sit down, to see her get up, and specially to see her walk, was enough

to satisfy any man in his senses that the graces of her figure (if you

will pardon me the expression) were in her flesh and not in her

clothes. Her hair was the blackest I ever saw. Her eyes matched her

hair. Her nose was not quite large enough, I admit. Her mouth and chin

were (to quote Mr. Franklin) morsels for the gods; and her complexion

(on the same undeniable authority) was as warm as the sun itself, with

this great advantage over the sun, that it was always in nice order to

look at. Add to the foregoing that she carried her head as upright as a

dart, in a dashing, spirited, thoroughbred way—that she had a clear

voice, with a ring of the right metal in it, and a smile that began

very prettily in her eyes before it got to her lips—and there behold

the portrait of her, to the best of my painting, as large as life!

And what about her disposition next? Had this charming creature no

faults? She had just as many faults as you have, ma’am—neither more nor

less.

To put it seriously, my dear pretty Miss Rachel, possessing a host of

graces and attractions, had one defect, which strict impartiality

compels me to acknowledge. She was unlike most other girls of her age,

in this—that she had ideas of her own, and was stiff-necked enough to

set the fashions themselves at defiance, if the fashions didn’t suit

her views. In trifles, this independence of hers was all well enough;

but in matters of importance, it carried her (as my lady thought, and

as I thought) too far. She judged for herself, as few women of twice

her age judge in general; never asked your advice; never told you

beforehand what she was going to do; never came with secrets and

confidences to anybody, from her mother downwards. In little things and

great, with people she loved, and people she hated (and she did both

with equal heartiness), Miss Rachel always went on a way of her own,

sufficient for herself in the joys and sorrows of her life. Over and

over again I have heard my lady say, “Rachel’s best friend and Rachel’s

worst enemy are, one and the other—Rachel herself.”

Add one thing more to this, and I have done.

With all her secrecy, and self-will, there was not so much as the

shadow of anything false in her. I never remember her breaking her

word; I never remember her saying No, and meaning Yes. I can call to

mind, in her childhood, more than one occasion when the good little

soul took the blame, and suffered the punishment, for some fault

committed by a playfellow whom she loved. Nobody ever knew her to

confess to it, when the thing was found out, and she was charged with

it afterwards. But nobody ever knew her to lie about it, either. She

looked you straight in the face, and shook her little saucy head, and

said plainly, “I won’t tell you!” Punished again for this, she would

own to being sorry for saying “won’t;” but, bread and water

notwithstanding, she never told you. Self-willed—devilish self-willed

sometimes—I grant; but the finest creature, nevertheless, that ever

walked the ways of this lower world. Perhaps you think you see a

certain contradiction here? In that case, a word in your ear. Study

your wife closely, for the next four-and-twenty hours. If your good

lady doesn’t exhibit something in the shape of a contradiction in that

time, Heaven help you!—you have married a monster.

I have now brought you acquainted with Miss Rachel, which you will find

puts us face to face, next, with the question of that young lady’s

matrimonial views.

On June the twelfth, an invitation from my mistress was sent to a

gentleman in London, to come and help to keep Miss Rachel’s birthday.

This was the fortunate individual on whom I believed her heart to be

privately set! Like Mr. Franklin, he was a cousin of hers. His name was

Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite.

My lady’s second sister (don’t be alarmed; we are not going very deep

into family matters this time)—my lady’s second sister, I say, had a

disappointment in love; and taking a husband afterwards, on the neck or

nothing principle, made what they call a misalliance. There was

terrible work in the family when the Honourable Caroline insisted on

marrying plain Mr. Ablewhite, the banker at Frizinghall. He was very

rich and very respectable, and he begot a prodigious large family—all

in his favour, so far. But he had presumed to raise himself from a low

station in the world—and that was against him. However, Time and the

progress of modern enlightenment put things right; and the misalliance

passed muster very well. We are all getting liberal now; and (provided

you can scratch me, if I scratch you) what do I care, in or out of

Parliament, whether you are a Dustman or a Duke? That’s the modern way

of looking at it—and I keep up with the modern way. The Ablewhites

lived in a fine house and grounds, a little out of Frizinghall. Very

worthy people, and greatly respected in the neighbourhood. We shall not

be much troubled with them in these pages—excepting Mr. Godfrey, who

was Mr. Ablewhite’s second son, and who must take his proper place

here, if you please, for Miss Rachel’s sake.

With all his brightness and cleverness and general good qualities, Mr.

Franklin’s chance of topping Mr. Godfrey in our young lady’s estimation

was, in my opinion, a very poor chance indeed.

In the first place, Mr. Godfrey was, in point of size, the finest man

by far of the two. He stood over six feet high; he had a beautiful red

and white colour; a smooth round face, shaved as bare as your hand; and

a head of lovely long flaxen hair, falling negligently over the poll of

his neck. But why do I try to give you this personal description of

him? If you ever subscribed to a Ladies’ Charity in London, you know

Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite as well as I do. He was a barrister by

profession; a ladies’ man by temperament; and a good Samaritan by

choice. Female benevolence and female destitution could do nothing

without him. Maternal societies for confining poor women; Magdalen

societies for rescuing poor women; strong-minded societies for putting

poor women into poor men’s places, and leaving the men to shift for

themselves;—he was vice-president, manager, referee to them all.

Wherever there was a table with a committee of ladies sitting round it

in council there was Mr. Godfrey at the bottom of the board, keeping

the temper of the committee, and leading the dear creatures along the

thorny ways of business, hat in hand. I do suppose this was the most

accomplished philanthropist (on a small independence) that England ever

produced. As a speaker at charitable meetings the like of him for

drawing your tears and your money was not easy to find. He was quite a

public character. The last time I was in London, my mistress gave me

two treats. She sent me to the theatre to see a dancing woman who was

all the rage; and she sent me to Exeter Hall to hear Mr. Godfrey. The

lady did it, with a band of music. The gentleman did it, with a

handkerchief and a glass of water. Crowds at the performance with the

legs. Ditto at the performance with the tongue. And with all this, the

sweetest tempered person (I allude to Mr. Godfrey)—the simplest and

pleasantest and easiest to please—you ever met with. He loved

everybody. And everybody loved _him_. What chance had Mr. Franklin—what

chance had anybody of average reputation and capacities—against such a

man as this?

On the fourteenth, came Mr. Godfrey’s answer.

He accepted my mistress’s invitation, from the Wednesday of the

birthday to the evening of Friday—when his duties to the Ladies’

Charities would oblige him to return to town. He also enclosed a copy

of verses on what he elegantly called his cousin’s “natal day.” Miss

Rachel, I was informed, joined Mr. Franklin in making fun of the verses

at dinner; and Penelope, who was all on Mr. Franklin’s side, asked me,

in great triumph, what I thought of that. “Miss Rachel has led _you_

off on a false scent, my dear,” I replied; “but _my_ nose is not so

easily mystified. Wait till Mr. Ablewhite’s verses are followed by Mr.

Ablewhite himself.”

My daughter replied, that Mr. Franklin might strike in, and try his

luck, before the verses were followed by the poet. In favour of this

view, I must acknowledge that Mr. Franklin left no chance untried of

winning Miss Rachel’s good graces.

Though one of the most inveterate smokers I ever met with, he gave up

his cigar, because she said, one day, she hated the stale smell of it

in his clothes. He slept so badly, after this effort of self-denial,

for want of the composing effect of the tobacco to which he was used,

and came down morning after morning looking so haggard and worn, that

Miss Rachel herself begged him to take to his cigars again. No! he

would take to nothing again that could cause her a moment’s annoyance;

he would fight it out resolutely, and get back his sleep, sooner or

later, by main force of patience in waiting for it. Such devotion as

this, you may say (as some of them said downstairs), could never fail

of producing the right effect on Miss Rachel—backed up, too, as it was,

by the decorating work every day on the door. All very well—but she had

a photograph of Mr. Godfrey in her bedroom; represented speaking at a

public meeting, with all his hair blown out by the breath of his own

eloquence, and his eyes, most lovely, charming the money out of your

pockets. What do you say to that? Every morning—as Penelope herself

owned to me—there was the man whom the women couldn’t do without,

looking on, in effigy, while Miss Rachel was having her hair combed. He

would be looking on, in reality, before long—that was my opinion of it.

June the sixteenth brought an event which made Mr. Franklin’s chance

look, to my mind, a worse chance than ever.

A strange gentleman, speaking English with a foreign accent, came that

morning to the house, and asked to see Mr. Franklin Blake on business.

The business could not possibly have been connected with the Diamond,

for these two reasons—first, that Mr. Franklin told me nothing about

it; secondly, that he communicated it (when the gentleman had gone, as

I suppose) to my lady. She probably hinted something about it next to

her daughter. At any rate, Miss Rachel was reported to have said some

severe things to Mr. Franklin, at the piano that evening, about the

people he had lived among, and the principles he had adopted in foreign

parts. The next day, for the first time, nothing was done towards the

decoration of the door. I suspect some imprudence of Mr. Franklin’s on

the Continent—with a woman or a debt at the bottom of it—had followed

him to England. But that is all guesswork. In this case, not only Mr.

Franklin, but my lady too, for a wonder, left me in the dark.

On the seventeenth, to all appearance, the cloud passed away again.

They returned to their decorating work on the door, and seemed to be as

good friends as ever. If Penelope was to be believed, Mr. Franklin had

seized the opportunity of the reconciliation to make an offer to Miss

Rachel, and had neither been accepted nor refused. My girl was sure

(from signs and tokens which I need not trouble you with) that her

young mistress had fought Mr. Franklin off by declining to believe that

he was in earnest, and had then secretly regretted treating him in that

way afterwards. Though Penelope was admitted to more familiarity with

her young mistress than maids generally are—for the two had been almost

brought up together as children—still I knew Miss Rachel’s reserved

character too well to believe that she would show her mind to anybody

in this way. What my daughter told me, on the present occasion, was, as

I suspected, more what she wished than what she really knew.

On the nineteenth another event happened. We had the doctor in the

house professionally. He was summoned to prescribe for a person whom I

have had occasion to present to you in these pages—our second

housemaid, Rosanna Spearman.

This poor girl—who had puzzled me, as you know already, at the

Shivering Sand—puzzled me more than once again, in the interval time of

which I am now writing. Penelope’s notion that her fellow-servant was

in love with Mr. Franklin (which my daughter, by my orders, kept

strictly secret) seemed to be just as absurd as ever. But I must own

that what I myself saw, and what my daughter saw also, of our second

housemaid’s conduct, began to look mysterious, to say the least of it.

For example, the girl constantly put herself in Mr. Franklin’s way—very

slyly and quietly, but she did it. He took about as much notice of her

as he took of the cat; it never seemed to occur to him to waste a look

on Rosanna’s plain face. The poor thing’s appetite, never much, fell

away dreadfully; and her eyes in the morning showed plain signs of

waking and crying at night. One day Penelope made an awkward discovery,

which we hushed up on the spot. She caught Rosanna at Mr. Franklin’s

dressing-table, secretly removing a rose which Miss Rachel had given

him to wear in his button-hole, and putting another rose like it, of

her own picking, in its place. She was, after that, once or twice

impudent to me, when I gave her a well-meant general hint to be careful

in her conduct; and, worse still, she was not over-respectful now, on

the few occasions when Miss Rachel accidentally spoke to her.

My lady noticed the change, and asked me what I thought about it. I

tried to screen the girl by answering that I thought she was out of

health; and it ended in the doctor being sent for, as already

mentioned, on the nineteenth. He said it was her nerves, and doubted if

she was fit for service. My lady offered to remove her for change of

air to one of our farms, inland. She begged and prayed, with the tears

in her eyes, to be let to stop; and, in an evil hour, I advised my lady

to try her for a little longer. As the event proved, and as you will

soon see, this was the worst advice I could have given. If I could only

have looked a little way into the future, I would have taken Rosanna

Spearman out of the house, then and there, with my own hand.

On the twentieth, there came a note from Mr. Godfrey. He had arranged

to stop at Frizinghall that night, having occasion to consult his

father on business. On the afternoon of the next day, he and his two

eldest sisters would ride over to us on horseback, in good time before

dinner. An elegant little casket in china accompanied the note,

presented to Miss Rachel, with her cousin’s love and best wishes. Mr.

Franklin had only given her a plain locket not worth half the money. My

daughter Penelope, nevertheless—such is the obstinacy of women—still

backed him to win.

Thanks be to Heaven, we have arrived at the eve of the birthday at

last! You will own, I think, that I have got you over the ground this

time, without much loitering by the way. Cheer up! I’ll ease you with

another new chapter here—and, what is more, that chapter shall take you

straight into the thick of the story.

CHAPTER IX

June twenty-first, the day of the birthday, was cloudy and unsettled at

sunrise, but towards noon it cleared up bravely.

We, in the servants’ hall, began this happy anniversary, as usual, by

offering our little presents to Miss Rachel, with the regular speech

delivered annually by me as the chief. I follow the plan adopted by the

Queen in opening Parliament—namely, the plan of saying much the same

thing regularly every year. Before it is delivered, my speech (like the

Queen’s) is looked for as eagerly as if nothing of the kind had ever

been heard before. When it is delivered, and turns out not to be the

novelty anticipated, though they grumble a little, they look forward

hopefully to something newer next year. An easy people to govern, in

the Parliament and in the Kitchen—that’s the moral of it.

After breakfast, Mr. Franklin and I had a private conference on the

subject of the Moonstone—the time having now come for removing it from

the bank at Frizinghall, and placing it in Miss Rachel’s own hands.

Whether he had been trying to make love to his cousin again, and had

got a rebuff—or whether his broken rest, night after night, was

aggravating the queer contradictions and uncertainties in his

character—I don’t know. But certain it is, that Mr. Franklin failed to

show himself at his best on the morning of the birthday. He was in

twenty different minds about the Diamond in as many minutes. For my

part, I stuck fast by the plain facts as we knew them. Nothing had

happened to justify us in alarming my lady on the subject of the jewel;

and nothing could alter the legal obligation that now lay on Mr.

Franklin to put it in his cousin’s possession. That was my view of the

matter; and, twist and turn it as he might, he was forced in the end to

make it his view too. We arranged that he was to ride over, after

lunch, to Frizinghall, and bring the Diamond back, with Mr. Godfrey and

the two young ladies, in all probability, to keep him company on the

way home again.

This settled, our young gentleman went back to Miss Rachel.

They consumed the whole morning, and part of the afternoon, in the

everlasting business of decorating the door, Penelope standing by to

mix the colours, as directed; and my lady, as luncheon time drew near,

going in and out of the room, with her handkerchief to her nose (for

they used a deal of Mr. Franklin’s vehicle that day), and trying vainly

to get the two artists away from their work. It was three o’clock

before they took off their aprons, and released Penelope (much the

worse for the vehicle), and cleaned themselves of their mess. But they

had done what they wanted—they had finished the door on the birthday,

and proud enough they were of it. The griffins, cupids, and so on,

were, I must own, most beautiful to behold; though so many in number,

so entangled in flowers and devices, and so topsy-turvy in their

actions and attitudes, that you felt them unpleasantly in your head for

hours after you had done with the pleasure of looking at them. If I add

that Penelope ended her part of the morning’s work by being sick in the

back-kitchen, it is in no unfriendly spirit towards the vehicle. No!

no! It left off stinking when it dried; and if Art requires these sort

of sacrifices—though the girl is my own daughter—I say, let Art have

them!

Mr. Franklin snatched a morsel from the luncheon-table, and rode off to

Frizinghall—to escort his cousins, as he told my lady. To fetch the

Moonstone, as was privately known to himself and to me.

This being one of the high festivals on which I took my place at the

side-board, in command of the attendance at table, I had plenty to

occupy my mind while Mr. Franklin was away. Having seen to the wine,

and reviewed my men and women who were to wait at dinner, I retired to

collect myself before the company came. A whiff of—you know what, and a

turn at a certain book which I have had occasion to mention in these

pages, composed me, body and mind. I was aroused from what I am

inclined to think must have been, not a nap, but a reverie, by the

clatter of horses’ hoofs outside; and, going to the door, received a

cavalcade comprising Mr. Franklin and his three cousins, escorted by

one of old Mr. Ablewhite’s grooms.

Mr. Godfrey struck me, strangely enough, as being like Mr. Franklin in

this respect—that he did not seem to be in his customary spirits. He

kindly shook hands with me as usual, and was most politely glad to see

his old friend Betteredge wearing so well. But there was a sort of

cloud over him, which I couldn’t at all account for; and when I asked

how he had found his father in health, he answered rather shortly,

“Much as usual.” However, the two Miss Ablewhites were cheerful enough

for twenty, which more than restored the balance. They were nearly as

big as their brother; spanking, yellow-haired, rosy lasses, overflowing

with super-abundant flesh and blood; bursting from head to foot with

health and spirits. The legs of the poor horses trembled with carrying

them; and when they jumped from their saddles (without waiting to be

helped), I declare they bounced on the ground as if they were made of

india-rubber. Everything the Miss Ablewhites said began with a large O;

everything they did was done with a bang; and they giggled and

screamed, in season and out of season, on the smallest provocation.

Bouncers—that’s what I call them.

Under cover of the noise made by the young ladies, I had an opportunity

of saying a private word to Mr. Franklin in the hall.

“Have you got the Diamond safe, sir?”

He nodded, and tapped the breast-pocket of his coat.

“Have you seen anything of the Indians?”

“Not a glimpse.” With that answer, he asked for my lady, and, hearing

she was in the small drawing-room, went there straight. The bell rang,

before he had been a minute in the room, and Penelope was sent to tell

Miss Rachel that Mr. Franklin Blake wanted to speak to her.

Crossing the hall, about half an hour afterwards, I was brought to a

sudden standstill by an outbreak of screams from the small

drawing-room. I can’t say I was at all alarmed; for I recognised in the

screams the favourite large O of the Miss Ablewhites. However, I went

in (on pretence of asking for instructions about the dinner) to

discover whether anything serious had really happened.

There stood Miss Rachel at the table, like a person fascinated, with

the Colonel’s unlucky Diamond in her hand. There, on either side of

her, knelt the two Bouncers, devouring the jewel with their eyes, and

screaming with ecstasy every time it flashed on them in a new light.

There, at the opposite side of the table, stood Mr. Godfrey, clapping

his hands like a large child, and singing out softly, “Exquisite!

exquisite!” There sat Mr. Franklin in a chair by the bookcase, tugging

at his beard, and looking anxiously towards the window. And there, at

the window, stood the object he was contemplating—my lady, having the

extract from the Colonel’s Will in her hand, and keeping her back

turned on the whole of the company.

She faced me, when I asked for my instructions; and I saw the family

frown gathering over her eyes, and the family temper twitching at the

corners of her mouth.

“Come to my room in half an hour,” she answered. “I shall have

something to say to you then.”

With those words, she went out. It was plain enough that she was posed

by the same difficulty which had posed Mr. Franklin and me in our

conference at the Shivering Sand. Was the legacy of the Moonstone a

proof that she had treated her brother with cruel injustice? or was it

a proof that he was worse than the worst she had ever thought of him?

Serious questions those for my lady to determine, while her daughter,

innocent of all knowledge of the Colonel’s character, stood there with

the Colonel’s birthday gift in her hand.

Before I could leave the room in my turn, Miss Rachel, always

considerate to the old servant who had been in the house when she was

born, stopped me. “Look, Gabriel!” she said, and flashed the jewel

before my eyes in a ray of sunlight that poured through the window.

Lord bless us! it _was_ a Diamond! As large, or nearly, as a plover’s

egg! The light that streamed from it was like the light of the harvest

moon. When you looked down into the stone, you looked into a yellow

deep that drew your eyes into it so that they saw nothing else. It

seemed unfathomable; this jewel, that you could hold between your

finger and thumb, seemed unfathomable as the heavens themselves. We set

it in the sun, and then shut the light out of the room, and it shone

awfully out of the depths of its own brightness, with a moony gleam, in

the dark. No wonder Miss Rachel was fascinated: no wonder her cousins

screamed. The Diamond laid such a hold on _me_ that I burst out with as

large an “O” as the Bouncers themselves. The only one of us who kept

his senses was Mr. Godfrey. He put an arm round each of his sisters’

waists, and, looking compassionately backwards and forwards between the

Diamond and me, said, “Carbon, Betteredge! mere carbon, my good friend,

after all!”

His object, I suppose, was to instruct me. All he did, however, was to

remind me of the dinner. I hobbled off to my army of waiters

downstairs. As I went out, Mr. Godfrey said, “Dear old Betteredge, I

have the truest regard for him!” He was embracing his sisters, and

ogling Miss Rachel, while he honoured me with that testimony of

affection. Something like a stock of love to draw on _there!_ Mr.

Franklin was a perfect savage by comparison with him.

At the end of half an hour, I presented myself, as directed, in my

lady’s room.

What passed between my mistress and me, on this occasion, was, in the

main, a repetition of what had passed between Mr. Franklin and me at

the Shivering Sand—with this difference, that I took care to keep my

own counsel about the jugglers, seeing that nothing had happened to

justify me in alarming my lady on this head. When I received my

dismissal, I could see that she took the blackest view possible of the

Colonel’s motives, and that she was bent on getting the Moonstone out

of her daughter’s possession at the first opportunity.

On my way back to my own part of the house, I was encountered by Mr.

Franklin. He wanted to know if I had seen anything of his cousin

Rachel. I had seen nothing of her. Could I tell him where his cousin

Godfrey was? I didn’t know; but I began to suspect that cousin Godfrey

might not be far away from cousin Rachel. Mr. Franklin’s suspicions

apparently took the same turn. He tugged hard at his beard, and went

and shut himself up in the library with a bang of the door that had a

world of meaning in it.

I was interrupted no more in the business of preparing for the birthday

dinner till it was time for me to smarten myself up for receiving the

company. Just as I had got my white waistcoat on, Penelope presented

herself at my toilet, on pretence of brushing what little hair I have

got left, and improving the tie of my white cravat. My girl was in high

spirits, and I saw she had something to say to me. She gave me a kiss

on the top of my bald head, and whispered, “News for you, father! Miss

Rachel has refused him.”

“Who’s ‘_him_’?” I asked.

“The ladies’ committee-man, father,” says Penelope. “A nasty sly

fellow! I hate him for trying to supplant Mr. Franklin!”

If I had had breath enough, I should certainly have protested against

this indecent way of speaking of an eminent philanthropic character.

But my daughter happened to be improving the tie of my cravat at that

moment, and the whole strength of her feelings found its way into her

fingers. I never was more nearly strangled in my life.

“I saw him take her away alone into the rose-garden,” says Penelope.

“And I waited behind the holly to see how they came back. They had gone

out arm-in-arm, both laughing. They came back, walking separate, as

grave as grave could be, and looking straight away from each other in a

manner which there was no mistaking. I never was more delighted,

father, in my life! There’s one woman in the world who can resist Mr.

Godfrey Ablewhite, at any rate; and, if I was a lady, I should be

another!”

Here I should have protested again. But my daughter had got the

hair-brush by this time, and the whole strength of her feelings had

passed into _that_. If you are bald, you will understand how she

sacrificed me. If you are not, skip this bit, and thank God you have

got something in the way of a defence between your hair-brush and your

head.

“Just on the other side of the holly,” Penelope went on, “Mr. Godfrey

came to a standstill. ‘You prefer,’ says he, ‘that I should stop here

as if nothing had happened?’ Miss Rachel turned on him like lightning.

‘You have accepted my mother’s invitation,’ she said; ‘and you are here

to meet her guests. Unless you wish to make a scandal in the house, you

will remain, of course!’ She went on a few steps, and then seemed to

relent a little. ‘Let us forget what has passed, Godfrey,’ she said,

‘and let us remain cousins still.’ She gave him her hand. He kissed it,

which _I_ should have considered taking a liberty, and then she left

him. He waited a little by himself, with his head down, and his heel

grinding a hole slowly in the gravel walk; you never saw a man look

more put out in your life. ‘Awkward!’ he said between his teeth, when

he looked up, and went on to the house—‘very awkward!’ If that was his

opinion of himself, he was quite right. Awkward enough, I’m sure. And

the end of it is, father, what I told you all along,” cries Penelope,

finishing me off with a last scarification, the hottest of all. “Mr.

Franklin’s the man!”

I got possession of the hair-brush, and opened my lips to administer

the reproof which, you will own, my daughter’s language and conduct

richly deserved.

Before I could say a word, the crash of carriage-wheels outside struck

in, and stopped me. The first of the dinner-company had come. Penelope

instantly ran off. I put on my coat, and looked in the glass. My head

was as red as a lobster; but, in other respects, I was as nicely

dressed for the ceremonies of the evening as a man need be. I got into

the hall just in time to announce the two first of the guests. You

needn’t feel particularly interested about them. Only the

philanthropist’s father and mother—Mr. and Mrs. Ablewhite.

CHAPTER X

One on the top of the other the rest of the company followed the

Ablewhites, till we had the whole tale of them complete. Including the

family, they were twenty-four in all. It was a noble sight to see, when

they were settled in their places round the dinner-table, and the

Rector of Frizinghall (with beautiful elocution) rose and said grace.

There is no need to worry you with a list of the guests. You will meet

none of them a second time—in my part of the story, at any rate—with

the exception of two.

Those two sat on either side of Miss Rachel, who, as queen of the day,

was naturally the great attraction of the party. On this occasion she

was more particularly the centre-point towards which everybody’s eyes

were directed; for (to my lady’s secret annoyance) she wore her

wonderful birthday present, which eclipsed all the rest—the Moonstone.

It was without any setting when it had been placed in her hands; but

that universal genius, Mr. Franklin, had contrived, with the help of

his neat fingers and a little bit of silver wire, to fix it as a brooch

in the bosom of her white dress. Everybody wondered at the prodigious

size and beauty of the Diamond, as a matter of course. But the only two

of the company who said anything out of the common way about it were

those two guests I have mentioned, who sat by Miss Rachel on her right

hand and her left.

The guest on her left was Mr. Candy, our doctor at Frizinghall.

This was a pleasant, companionable little man, with the drawback,

however, I must own, of being too fond, in season and out of season, of

his joke, and of his plunging in rather a headlong manner into talk

with strangers, without waiting to feel his way first. In society, he

was constantly making mistakes, and setting people unintentionally by

the ears together. In his medical practice he was a more prudent man;

picking up his discretion (as his enemies said) by a kind of instinct,

and proving to be generally right where more carefully conducted

doctors turned out to be wrong. What _he_ said about the Diamond to

Miss Rachel was said, as usual, by way of a mystification or joke. He

gravely entreated her (in the interests of science) to let him take it

home and burn it. “We will first heat it, Miss Rachel,” says the

doctor, “to such and such a degree; then we will expose it to a current

of air; and, little by little—puff!—we evaporate the Diamond, and spare

you a world of anxiety about the safe keeping of a valuable precious

stone!” My lady, listening with rather a careworn expression on her

face, seemed to wish that the doctor had been in earnest, and that he

could have found Miss Rachel zealous enough in the cause of science to

sacrifice her birthday gift.

The other guest, who sat on my young lady’s right hand, was an eminent

public character—being no other than the celebrated Indian traveller,

Mr. Murthwaite, who, at risk of his life, had penetrated in disguise

where no European had ever set foot before.

This was a long, lean, wiry, brown, silent man. He had a weary look,

and a very steady, attentive eye. It was rumoured that he was tired of

the humdrum life among the people in our parts, and longing to go back

and wander off on the tramp again in the wild places of the East.

Except what he said to Miss Rachel about her jewel, I doubt if he spoke

six words or drank so much as a single glass of wine, all through the

dinner. The Moonstone was the only object that interested him in the

smallest degree. The fame of it seemed to have reached him, in some of

those perilous Indian places where his wanderings had lain. After

looking at it silently for so long a time that Miss Rachel began to get

confused, he said to her in his cool immovable way, “If you ever go to

India, Miss Verinder, don’t take your uncle’s birthday gift with you. A

Hindoo diamond is sometimes part of a Hindoo religion. I know a certain

city, and a certain temple in that city, where, dressed as you are now,

your life would not be worth five minutes’ purchase.” Miss Rachel, safe

in England, was quite delighted to hear of her danger in India. The

Bouncers were more delighted still; they dropped their knives and forks

with a crash, and burst out together vehemently, “O! how interesting!”

My lady fidgeted in her chair, and changed the subject.

As the dinner got on, I became aware, little by little, that this

festival was not prospering as other like festivals had prospered

before it.

Looking back at the birthday now, by the light of what happened

afterwards, I am half inclined to think that the cursed Diamond must

have cast a blight on the whole company. I plied them well with wine;

and being a privileged character, followed the unpopular dishes round

the table, and whispered to the company confidentially, “Please to

change your mind and try it; for I know it will do you good.” Nine

times out of ten they changed their minds—out of regard for their old

original Betteredge, they were pleased to say—but all to no purpose.

There were gaps of silence in the talk, as the dinner got on, that made

me feel personally uncomfortable. When they did use their tongues

again, they used them innocently, in the most unfortunate manner and to

the worst possible purpose. Mr. Candy, the doctor, for instance, said

more unlucky things than I ever knew him to say before. Take one sample

of the way in which he went on, and you will understand what I had to

put up with at the sideboard, officiating as I was in the character of

a man who had the prosperity of the festival at heart.

One of our ladies present at dinner was worthy Mrs. Threadgall, widow

of the late Professor of that name. Talking of her deceased husband

perpetually, this good lady never mentioned to strangers that he _was_

deceased. She thought, I suppose, that every able-bodied adult in

England ought to know as much as that. In one of the gaps of silence,

somebody mentioned the dry and rather nasty subject of human anatomy;

whereupon good Mrs. Threadgall straightway brought in her late husband

as usual, without mentioning that he was dead. Anatomy she described as

the Professor’s favourite recreation in his leisure hours. As ill-luck

would have it, Mr. Candy, sitting opposite (who knew nothing of the

deceased gentleman), heard her. Being the most polite of men, he seized

the opportunity of assisting the Professor’s anatomical amusements on

the spot.

“They have got some remarkably fine skeletons lately at the College of

Surgeons,” says Mr. Candy, across the table, in a loud cheerful voice.

“I strongly recommend the Professor, ma’am, when he next has an hour to

spare, to pay them a visit.”

You might have heard a pin fall. The company (out of respect to the

Professor’s memory) all sat speechless. I was behind Mrs. Threadgall at

the time, plying her confidentially with a glass of hock. She dropped

her head, and said in a very low voice, “My beloved husband is no

more.”

Unluckily Mr. Candy, hearing nothing, and miles away from suspecting

the truth, went on across the table louder and politer than ever.

“The Professor may not be aware,” says he, “that the card of a member

of the College will admit him, on any day but Sunday, between the hours

of ten and four.”

Mrs. Threadgall dropped her head right into her tucker, and, in a lower

voice still, repeated the solemn words, “My beloved husband is no

more.”

I winked hard at Mr. Candy across the table. Miss Rachel touched his

arm. My lady looked unutterable things at him. Quite useless! On he

went, with a cordiality that there was no stopping anyhow. “I shall be

delighted,” says he, “to send the Professor my card, if you will oblige

me by mentioning his present address.”

“His present address, sir, is _the grave_,” says Mrs. Threadgall,

suddenly losing her temper, and speaking with an emphasis and fury that

made the glasses ring again. “The Professor has been dead these ten

years.”

“Oh, good Heavens!” says Mr. Candy. Excepting the Bouncers, who burst

out laughing, such a blank now fell on the company, that they might all

have been going the way of the Professor, and hailing as he did from

the direction of the grave.

So much for Mr. Candy. The rest of them were nearly as provoking in

their different ways as the doctor himself. When they ought to have

spoken, they didn’t speak; or when they did speak they were perpetually

at cross purposes. Mr. Godfrey, though so eloquent in public, declined

to exert himself in private. Whether he was sulky, or whether he was

bashful, after his discomfiture in the rose-garden, I can’t say. He

kept all his talk for the private ear of the lady (a member of our

family) who sat next to him. She was one of his committee-women—a

spiritually-minded person, with a fine show of collar-bone and a pretty

taste in champagne; liked it dry, you understand, and plenty of it.

Being close behind these two at the sideboard, I can testify, from what

I heard pass between them, that the company lost a good deal of very

improving conversation, which I caught up while drawing the corks, and

carving the mutton, and so forth. What they said about their Charities

I didn’t hear. When I had time to listen to them, they had got a long

way beyond their women to be confined, and their women to be rescued,

and were disputing on serious subjects. Religion (I understand Mr.

Godfrey to say, between the corks and the carving) meant love. And love

meant religion. And earth was heaven a little the worse for wear. And

heaven was earth, done up again to look like new. Earth had some very

objectionable people in it; but, to make amends for that, all the women

in heaven would be members of a prodigious committee that never

quarrelled, with all the men in attendance on them as ministering

angels. Beautiful! beautiful! But why the mischief did Mr. Godfrey keep

it all to his lady and himself?

Mr. Franklin again—surely, you will say, Mr. Franklin stirred the

company up into making a pleasant evening of it?

Nothing of the sort! He had quite recovered himself, and he was in

wonderful force and spirits, Penelope having informed him, I suspect,

of Mr. Godfrey’s reception in the rose-garden. But, talk as he might,

nine times out of ten he pitched on the wrong subject, or he addressed

himself to the wrong person; the end of it being that he offended some,

and puzzled all of them. That foreign training of his—those French and

German and Italian sides of him, to which I have already alluded—came

out, at my lady’s hospitable board, in a most bewildering manner.

What do you think, for instance, of his discussing the lengths to which

a married woman might let her admiration go for a man who was not her

husband, and putting it in his clear-headed witty French way to the

maiden aunt of the Vicar of Frizinghall? What do you think, when he

shifted to the German side, of his telling the lord of the manor, while

that great authority on cattle was quoting his experience in the

breeding of bulls, that experience, properly understood, counted for

nothing, and that the proper way to breed bulls was to look deep into

your own mind, evolve out of it the idea of a perfect bull, and produce

him? What do you say, when our county member, growing hot, at cheese

and salad time, about the spread of democracy in England, burst out as

follows: “If we once lose our ancient safeguards, Mr. Blake, I beg to

ask you, what have we got left?”—what do you say to Mr. Franklin

answering, from the Italian point of view: “We have got three things

left, sir—Love, Music, and Salad”? He not only terrified the company

with such outbreaks as these, but, when the English side of him turned

up in due course, he lost his foreign smoothness; and, getting on the

subject of the medical profession, said such downright things in

ridicule of doctors, that he actually put good-humoured little Mr.

Candy in a rage.

The dispute between them began in Mr. Franklin being led—I forget

how—to acknowledge that he had latterly slept very badly at night. Mr.

Candy thereupon told him that his nerves were all out of order and that

he ought to go through a course of medicine immediately. Mr. Franklin

replied that a course of medicine, and a course of groping in the dark,

meant, in his estimation, one and the same thing. Mr. Candy, hitting

back smartly, said that Mr. Franklin himself was, constitutionally

speaking, groping in the dark after sleep, and that nothing but

medicine could help him to find it. Mr. Franklin, keeping the ball up

on his side, said he had often heard of the blind leading the blind,

and now, for the first time, he knew what it meant. In this way, they

kept it going briskly, cut and thrust, till they both of them got

hot—Mr. Candy, in particular, so completely losing his self-control, in

defence of his profession, that my lady was obliged to interfere, and

forbid the dispute to go on. This necessary act of authority put the

last extinguisher on the spirits of the company. The talk spurted up

again here and there, for a minute or two at a time; but there was a

miserable lack of life and sparkle in it. The Devil (or the Diamond)

possessed that dinner-party; and it was a relief to everybody when my

mistress rose, and gave the ladies the signal to leave the gentlemen

over their wine.

I had just ranged the decanters in a row before old Mr. Ablewhite (who

represented the master of the house), when there came a sound from the

terrace which startled me out of my company manners on the instant.

Mr. Franklin and I looked at each other; it was the sound of the Indian

drum. As I live by bread, here were the jugglers returning to us with

the return of the Moonstone to the house!

As they rounded the corner of the terrace, and came in sight, I hobbled

out to warn them off. But, as ill-luck would have it, the two Bouncers

were beforehand with me. They whizzed out on to the terrace like a

couple of skyrockets, wild to see the Indians exhibit their tricks. The

other ladies followed; the gentlemen came out on their side. Before you

could say, “Lord bless us!” the rogues were making their salaams; and

the Bouncers were kissing the pretty little boy.

Mr. Franklin got on one side of Miss Rachel, and I put myself behind

her. If our suspicions were right, there she stood, innocent of all

knowledge of the truth, showing the Indians the Diamond in the bosom of

her dress!

I can’t tell you what tricks they performed, or how they did it. What

with the vexation about the dinner, and what with the provocation of

the rogues coming back just in the nick of time to see the jewel with

their own eyes, I own I lost my head. The first thing that I remember

noticing was the sudden appearance on the scene of the Indian

traveller, Mr. Murthwaite. Skirting the half-circle in which the

gentlefolks stood or sat, he came quietly behind the jugglers and spoke

to them on a sudden in the language of their own country.

If he had pricked them with a bayonet, I doubt if the Indians could

have started and turned on him with a more tigerish quickness than they

did, on hearing the first words that passed his lips. The next moment

they were bowing and salaaming to him in their most polite and snaky

way. After a few words in the unknown tongue had passed on either side,

Mr. Murthwaite withdrew as quietly as he had approached. The chief

Indian, who acted as interpreter, thereupon wheeled about again towards

the gentlefolks. I noticed that the fellow’s coffee-coloured face had

turned grey since Mr. Murthwaite had spoken to him. He bowed to my

lady, and informed her that the exhibition was over. The Bouncers,

indescribably disappointed, burst out with a loud “O!” directed against

Mr. Murthwaite for stopping the performance. The chief Indian laid his

hand humbly on his breast, and said a second time that the juggling was

over. The little boy went round with the hat. The ladies withdrew to

the drawing-room; and the gentlemen (excepting Mr. Franklin and Mr.

Murthwaite) returned to their wine. I and the footman followed the

Indians, and saw them safe off the premises.

Going back by way of the shrubbery, I smelt tobacco, and found Mr.

Franklin and Mr. Murthwaite (the latter smoking a cheroot) walking

slowly up and down among the trees. Mr. Franklin beckoned to me to join

them.

“This,” says Mr. Franklin, presenting me to the great traveller, “is

Gabriel Betteredge, the old servant and friend of our family of whom I

spoke to you just now. Tell him, if you please, what you have just told

me.”

Mr. Murthwaite took his cheroot out of his mouth, and leaned, in his

weary way, against the trunk of a tree.

“Mr. Betteredge,” he began, “those three Indians are no more jugglers

than you and I are.”

Here was a new surprise! I naturally asked the traveller if he had ever

met with the Indians before.

“Never,” says Mr. Murthwaite; “but I know what Indian juggling really

is. All you have seen tonight is a very bad and clumsy imitation of it.

Unless, after long experience, I am utterly mistaken, those men are

high-caste Brahmins. I charged them with being disguised, and you saw

how it told on them, clever as the Hindoo people are in concealing

their feelings. There is a mystery about their conduct that I can’t

explain. They have doubly sacrificed their caste—first, in crossing the

sea; secondly, in disguising themselves as jugglers. In the land they

live in that is a tremendous sacrifice to make. There must be some very

serious motive at the bottom of it, and some justification of no

ordinary kind to plead for them, in recovery of their caste, when they

return to their own country.”

I was struck dumb. Mr. Murthwaite went on with his cheroot. Mr.

Franklin, after what looked to me like a little private veering about

between the different sides of his character, broke the silence as

follows:

“I feel some hesitation, Mr. Murthwaite, in troubling you with family

matters, in which you can have no interest and which I am not very

willing to speak of out of our own circle. But, after what you have

said, I feel bound, in the interests of Lady Verinder and her daughter,

to tell you something which may possibly put the clue into your hands.

I speak to you in confidence; you will oblige me, I am sure, by not

forgetting that?”

With this preface, he told the Indian traveller all that he had told me

at the Shivering Sand. Even the immovable Mr. Murthwaite was so

interested in what he heard, that he let his cheroot go out.

“Now,” says Mr. Franklin, when he had done, “what does your experience

say?”

“My experience,” answered the traveller, “says that you have had more

narrow escapes of your life, Mr. Franklin Blake, than I have had of

mine; and that is saying a great deal.”

It was Mr. Franklin’s turn to be astonished now.

“Is it really as serious as that?” he asked.

“In my opinion it is,” answered Mr. Murthwaite. “I can’t doubt, after

what you have told me, that the restoration of the Moonstone to its

place on the forehead of the Indian idol, is the motive and the

justification of that sacrifice of caste which I alluded to just now.

Those men will wait their opportunity with the patience of cats, and

will use it with the ferocity of tigers. How you have escaped them I

can’t imagine,” says the eminent traveller, lighting his cheroot again,

and staring hard at Mr. Franklin. “You have been carrying the Diamond

backwards and forwards, here and in London, and you are still a living

man! Let us try and account for it. It was daylight, both times, I

suppose, when you took the jewel out of the bank in London?”

“Broad daylight,” says Mr. Franklin.

“And plenty of people in the streets?”

“Plenty.”

“You settled, of course, to arrive at Lady Verinder’s house at a

certain time? It’s a lonely country between this and the station. Did

you keep your appointment?”

“No. I arrived four hours earlier than my appointment.”

“I beg to congratulate you on that proceeding! When did you take the

Diamond to the bank at the town here?”

“I took it an hour after I had brought it to this house—and three hours

before anybody was prepared for seeing me in these parts.”

“I beg to congratulate you again! Did you bring it back here alone?”

“No. I happened to ride back with my cousins and the groom.”

“I beg to congratulate you for the third time! If you ever feel

inclined to travel beyond the civilised limits, Mr. Blake, let me know,

and I will go with you. You are a lucky man.”

Here I struck in. This sort of thing didn’t at all square with my

English ideas.

“You don’t really mean to say, sir,” I asked, “that they would have

taken Mr. Franklin’s life, to get their Diamond, if he had given them

the chance?”

“Do you smoke, Mr. Betteredge?” says the traveller.

“Yes, sir.

“Do you care much for the ashes left in your pipe when you empty it?”

“No, sir.”

“In the country those men came from, they care just as much about

killing a man, as you care about emptying the ashes out of your pipe.

If a thousand lives stood between them and the getting back of their

Diamond—and if they thought they could destroy those lives without

discovery—they would take them all. The sacrifice of caste is a serious

thing in India, if you like. The sacrifice of life is nothing at all.”

I expressed my opinion upon this, that they were a set of murdering

thieves. Mr. Murthwaite expressed _his_ opinion that they were a

wonderful people. Mr. Franklin, expressing no opinion at all, brought

us back to the matter in hand.

“They have seen the Moonstone on Miss Verinder’s dress,” he said. “What

is to be done?”

“What your uncle threatened to do,” answered Mr. Murthwaite. “Colonel

Herncastle understood the people he had to deal with. Send the Diamond

tomorrow (under guard of more than one man) to be cut up at Amsterdam.

Make half a dozen diamonds of it, instead of one. There is an end of

its sacred identity as The Moonstone—and there is an end of the

conspiracy.”

Mr. Franklin turned to me.

“There is no help for it,” he said. “We must speak to Lady Verinder

tomorrow.”

“What about tonight, sir?” I asked. “Suppose the Indians come back?”

Mr. Murthwaite answered me before Mr. Franklin could speak.

“The Indians won’t risk coming back tonight,” he said. “The direct way

is hardly ever the way they take to anything—let alone a matter like

this, in which the slightest mistake might be fatal to their reaching

their end.”

“But suppose the rogues are bolder than you think, sir?” I persisted.

“In that case,” says Mr. Murthwaite, “let the dogs loose. Have you got

any big dogs in the yard?”

“Two, sir. A mastiff and a bloodhound.”

“They will do. In the present emergency, Mr. Betteredge, the mastiff

and the bloodhound have one great merit—they are not likely to be

troubled with your scruples about the sanctity of human life.”

The strumming of the piano reached us from the drawing-room, as he

fired that shot at me. He threw away his cheroot, and took Mr.

Franklin’s arm, to go back to the ladies. I noticed that the sky was

clouding over fast, as I followed them to the house. Mr. Murthwaite

noticed it too. He looked round at me, in his dry, droning way, and

said:

“The Indians will want their umbrellas, Mr. Betteredge, tonight!”

It was all very well for _him_ to joke. But I was not an eminent

traveller—and my way in this world had not led me into playing ducks

and drakes with my own life, among thieves and murderers in the

outlandish places of the earth. I went into my own little room, and sat

down in my chair in a perspiration, and wondered helplessly what was to

be done next. In this anxious frame of mind, other men might have ended

by working themselves up into a fever; _I_ ended in a different way. I

lit my pipe, and took a turn at _Robinson Crusoe_.

Before I had been at it five minutes, I came to this amazing bit—page

one hundred and sixty-one—as follows:

“Fear of Danger is ten thousand times more terrifying than Danger

itself, when apparent to the Eyes; and we find the Burthen of Anxiety

greater, by much, than the Evil which we are anxious about.”

The man who doesn’t believe in _Robinson Crusoe_, after _that_, is a

man with a screw loose in his understanding, or a man lost in the mist

of his own self-conceit! Argument is thrown away upon him; and pity is

better reserved for some person with a livelier faith.

I was far on with my second pipe, and still lost in admiration of that

wonderful book, when Penelope (who had been handing round the tea) came

in with her report from the drawing-room. She had left the Bouncers

singing a duet—words beginning with a large “O,” and music to

correspond. She had observed that my lady made mistakes in her game of

whist for the first time in our experience of her. She had seen the

great traveller asleep in a corner. She had overheard Mr. Franklin

sharpening his wits on Mr. Godfrey, at the expense of Ladies’ Charities

in general; and she had noticed that Mr. Godfrey hit him back again

rather more smartly than became a gentleman of his benevolent

character. She had detected Miss Rachel, apparently engaged in

appeasing Mrs. Threadgall by showing her some photographs, and really

occupied in stealing looks at Mr. Franklin, which no intelligent lady’s

maid could misinterpret for a single instant. Finally, she had missed

Mr. Candy, the doctor, who had mysteriously disappeared from the

drawing-room, and had then mysteriously returned, and entered into

conversation with Mr. Godfrey. Upon the whole, things were prospering

better than the experience of the dinner gave us any right to expect.

If we could only hold on for another hour, old Father Time would bring

up their carriages, and relieve us of them altogether.

Everything wears off in this world; and even the comforting effect of

_Robinson Crusoe_ wore off, after Penelope left me. I got fidgety

again, and resolved on making a survey of the grounds before the rain

came. Instead of taking the footman, whose nose was human, and

therefore useless in any emergency, I took the bloodhound with me.

_His_ nose for a stranger was to be depended on. We went all round the

premises, and out into the road—and returned as wise as we went, having

discovered no such thing as a lurking human creature anywhere.

The arrival of the carriages was the signal for the arrival of the

rain. It poured as if it meant to pour all night. With the exception of

the doctor, whose gig was waiting for him, the rest of the company went

home snugly, under cover, in close carriages. I told Mr. Candy that I

was afraid he would get wet through. He told me, in return, that he

wondered I had arrived at my time of life, without knowing that a

doctor’s skin was waterproof. So he drove away in the rain, laughing

over his own little joke; and so we got rid of our dinner company.

The next thing to tell is the story of the night.

CHAPTER XI

When the last of the guests had driven away, I went back into the inner

hall and found Samuel at the side-table, presiding over the brandy and

soda water. My lady and Miss Rachel came out of the drawing-room,

followed by the two gentlemen. Mr. Godfrey had some brandy and soda

water, Mr. Franklin took nothing. He sat down, looking dead tired; the

talking on this birthday occasion had, I suppose, been too much for

him.

My lady, turning round to wish them good-night, looked hard at the

wicked Colonel’s legacy shining in her daughter’s dress.

“Rachel,” she asked, “where are you going to put your Diamond tonight?”

Miss Rachel was in high good spirits, just in that humour for talking

nonsense, and perversely persisting in it as if it was sense, which you

may sometimes have observed in young girls, when they are highly

wrought up, at the end of an exciting day. First, she declared she

didn’t know where to put the Diamond. Then she said, “on her

dressing-table, of course, along with her other things.” Then she

remembered that the Diamond might take to shining of itself, with its

awful moony light in the dark—and that would terrify her in the dead of

night. Then she bethought herself of an Indian cabinet which stood in

her sitting-room; and instantly made up her mind to put the Indian

diamond in the Indian cabinet, for the purpose of permitting two

beautiful native productions to admire each other. Having let her

little flow of nonsense run on as far as that point, her mother

interposed and stopped her.

“My dear! your Indian cabinet has no lock to it,” says my lady.

“Good Heavens, mamma!” cried Miss Rachel, “is this an hotel? Are there

thieves in the house?”

Without taking notice of this fantastic way of talking, my lady wished

the gentlemen good-night. She next turned to Miss Rachel, and kissed

her. “Why not let _me_ keep the Diamond for you tonight?” she asked.

Miss Rachel received that proposal as she might, ten years since, have

received a proposal to part her from a new doll. My lady saw there was

no reasoning with her that night. “Come into my room, Rachel, the first

thing tomorrow morning,” she said. “I shall have something to say to

you.” With those last words she left us slowly; thinking her own

thoughts, and, to all appearance, not best pleased with the way by

which they were leading her.

Miss Rachel was the next to say good-night. She shook hands first with

Mr. Godfrey, who was standing at the other end of the hall, looking at

a picture. Then she turned back to Mr. Franklin, still sitting weary

and silent in a corner.

What words passed between them I can’t say. But standing near the old

oak frame which holds our large looking-glass, I saw her reflected in

it, slyly slipping the locket which Mr. Franklin had given to her, out

of the bosom of her dress, and showing it to him for a moment, with a

smile which certainly meant something out of the common, before she

tripped off to bed. This incident staggered me a little in the reliance

I had previously felt on my own judgment. I began to think that

Penelope might be right about the state of her young lady’s affections,

after all.

As soon as Miss Rachel left him eyes to see with, Mr. Franklin noticed

me. His variable humour, shifting about everything, had shifted about

the Indians already.

“Betteredge,” he said, “I’m half inclined to think I took Mr.

Murthwaite too seriously, when we had that talk in the shrubbery. I

wonder whether he has been trying any of his traveller’s tales on us?

Do you really mean to let the dogs loose?”

“I’ll relieve them of their collars, sir,” I answered, “and leave them

free to take a turn in the night, if they smell a reason for it.”

“All right,” says Mr. Franklin. “We’ll see what is to be done tomorrow.

I am not at all disposed to alarm my aunt, Betteredge, without a very

pressing reason for it. Good-night.”

He looked so worn and pale as he nodded to me, and took his candle to

go upstairs, that I ventured to advise his having a drop of

brandy-and-water, by way of night-cap. Mr. Godfrey, walking towards us

from the other end of the hall, backed me. He pressed Mr. Franklin, in

the friendliest manner, to take something, before he went to bed.

I only note these trifling circumstances, because, after all I had seen

and heard, that day, it pleased me to observe that our two gentlemen

were on just as good terms as ever. Their warfare of words (heard by

Penelope in the drawing-room), and their rivalry for the best place in

Miss Rachel’s good graces, seemed to have set no serious difference

between them. But there! they were both good-tempered, and both men of

the world. And there is certainly this merit in people of station, that

they are not nearly so quarrelsome among each other as people of no

station at all.

Mr. Franklin declined the brandy-and-water, and went upstairs with Mr.

Godfrey, their rooms being next door to each other. On the landing,

however, either his cousin persuaded him, or he veered about and

changed his mind as usual. “Perhaps I may want it in the night,” he

called down to me. “Send up some brandy-and-water into my room.”

I sent up Samuel with the brandy-and-water; and then went out and

unbuckled the dogs’ collars. They both lost their heads with

astonishment on being set loose at that time of night, and jumped upon

me like a couple of puppies! However, the rain soon cooled them down

again: they lapped a drop of water each, and crept back into their

kennels. As I went into the house, I noticed signs in the sky which

betokened a break in the weather for the better. For the present, it

still poured heavily, and the ground was in a perfect sop.

Samuel and I went all over the house, and shut up as usual. I examined

everything myself, and trusted nothing to my deputy on this occasion.

All was safe and fast when I rested my old bones in bed, between

midnight and one in the morning.

The worries of the day had been a little too much for me, I suppose. At

any rate, I had a touch of Mr. Franklin’s malady that night. It was

sunrise before I fell off at last into a sleep. All the time I lay

awake the house was as quiet as the grave. Not a sound stirred but the

splash of the rain, and the sighing of the wind among the trees as a

breeze sprang up with the morning.

About half-past seven I woke, and opened my window on a fine sunshiny

day. The clock had struck eight, and I was just going out to chain up

the dogs again, when I heard a sudden whisking of petticoats on the

stairs behind me.

I turned about, and there was Penelope flying down after me like mad.

“Father!” she screamed, “come upstairs, for God’s sake! _The Diamond is

gone!_”

“Are you out of your mind?” I asked her.

“Gone!” says Penelope. “Gone, nobody knows how! Come up and see.”

She dragged me after her into our young lady’s sitting-room, which

opened into her bedroom. There, on the threshold of her bedroom door,

stood Miss Rachel, almost as white in the face as the white

dressing-gown that clothed her. There also stood the two doors of the

Indian cabinet, wide open. One of the drawers inside was pulled out as

far as it would go.

“Look!” says Penelope. “I myself saw Miss Rachel put the Diamond into

that drawer last night.” I went to the cabinet. The drawer was empty.

“Is this true, miss?” I asked.

With a look that was not like herself, with a voice that was not like

her own, Miss Rachel answered as my daughter had answered:

“The Diamond is gone!”

Having said those words, she withdrew into her bedroom, and shut and

locked the door.

Before we knew which way to turn next, my lady came in, hearing my

voice in her daughter’s sitting-room, and wondering what had happened.

The news of the loss of the Diamond seemed to petrify her. She went

straight to Miss Rachel’s bedroom, and insisted on being admitted. Miss

Rachel let her in.

The alarm, running through the house like fire, caught the two

gentlemen next.

Mr. Godfrey was the first to come out of his room. All he did when he

heard what had happened was to hold up his hands in a state of

bewilderment, which didn’t say much for his natural strength of mind.

Mr. Franklin, whose clear head I had confidently counted on to advise

us, seemed to be as helpless as his cousin when he heard the news in

his turn. For a wonder, he had had a good night’s rest at last; and the

unaccustomed luxury of sleep had, as he said himself, apparently

stupefied him. However, when he had swallowed his cup of coffee—which

he always took, on the foreign plan, some hours before he ate any

breakfast—his brains brightened; the clear-headed side of him turned

up, and he took the matter in hand, resolutely and cleverly, much as

follows:

He first sent for the servants, and told them to leave all the lower

doors and windows (with the exception of the front door, which I had

opened) exactly as they had been left when we locked up over night. He

next proposed to his cousin and to me to make quite sure, before we

took any further steps, that the Diamond had not accidentally dropped

somewhere out of sight—say at the back of the cabinet, or down behind

the table on which the cabinet stood. Having searched in both places,

and found nothing—having also questioned Penelope, and discovered from

her no more than the little she had already told me—Mr. Franklin

suggested next extending our inquiries to Miss Rachel, and sent

Penelope to knock at her bedroom door.

My lady answered the knock, and closed the door behind her. The moment

after we heard it locked inside by Miss Rachel. My mistress came out

among us, looking sorely puzzled and distressed. “The loss of the

Diamond seems to have quite overwhelmed Rachel,” she said, in reply to

Mr. Franklin. “She shrinks, in the strangest manner, from speaking of

it, even to _me_. It is impossible you can see her for the present.”

Having added to our perplexities by this account of Miss Rachel, my

lady, after a little effort, recovered her usual composure, and acted

with her usual decision.

“I suppose there is no help for it?” she said, quietly. “I suppose I

have no alternative but to send for the police?”

“And the first thing for the police to do,” added Mr. Franklin,

catching her up, “is to lay hands on the Indian jugglers who performed

here last night.”

My lady and Mr. Godfrey (not knowing what Mr. Franklin and I knew) both

started, and both looked surprised.

“I can’t stop to explain myself now,” Mr. Franklin went on. “I can only

tell you that the Indians have certainly stolen the Diamond. Give me a

letter of introduction,” says he, addressing my lady, “to one of the

magistrates at Frizinghall—merely telling him that I represent your

interests and wishes, and let me ride off with it instantly. Our chance

of catching the thieves may depend on our not wasting one unnecessary

minute.” (_Nota bene:_ Whether it was the French side or the English,

the right side of Mr. Franklin seemed to be uppermost now. The only

question was, How long would it last?)

He put pen, ink, and paper before his aunt, who (as it appeared to me)

wrote the letter he wanted a little unwillingly. If it had been

possible to overlook such an event as the loss of a jewel worth twenty

thousand pounds, I believe—with my lady’s opinion of her late brother,

and her distrust of his birthday-gift—it would have been privately a

relief to her to let the thieves get off with the Moonstone scot free.

I went out with Mr. Franklin to the stables, and took the opportunity

of asking him how the Indians (whom I suspected, of course, as shrewdly

as he did) could possibly have got into the house.

“One of them might have slipped into the hall, in the confusion, when

the dinner company were going away,” says Mr. Franklin. “The fellow may

have been under the sofa while my aunt and Rachel were talking about

where the Diamond was to be put for the night. He would only have to

wait till the house was quiet, and there it would be in the cabinet, to

be had for the taking.” With those words, he called to the groom to

open the gate, and galloped off.

This seemed certainly to be the only rational explanation. But how had

the thief contrived to make his escape from the house? I had found the

front door locked and bolted, as I had left it at night, when I went to

open it, after getting up. As for the other doors and windows, there

they were still, all safe and fast, to speak for themselves. The dogs,

too? Suppose the thief had got away by dropping from one of the upper

windows, how had he escaped the dogs? Had he come provided for them

with drugged meat? As the doubt crossed my mind, the dogs themselves

came galloping at me round a corner, rolling each other over on the wet

grass, in such lively health and spirits that it was with no small

difficulty I brought them to reason, and chained them up again. The

more I turned it over in my mind, the less satisfactory Mr. Franklin’s

explanation appeared to be.

We had our breakfasts—whatever happens in a house, robbery or murder,

it doesn’t matter, you must have your breakfast. When we had done, my

lady sent for me; and I found myself compelled to tell her all that I

had hitherto concealed, relating to the Indians and their plot. Being a

woman of a high courage, she soon got over the first startling effect

of what I had to communicate. Her mind seemed to be far more perturbed

about her daughter than about the heathen rogues and their conspiracy.

“You know how odd Rachel is, and how differently she behaves sometimes

from other girls,” my lady said to me. “But I have never, in all my

experience, seen her so strange and so reserved as she is now. The loss

of her jewel seems almost to have turned her brain. Who would have

thought that horrible Diamond could have laid such a hold on her in so

short a time?”

It was certainly strange. Taking toys and trinkets in general, Miss

Rachel was nothing like so mad after them as most young girls. Yet

there she was, still locked up inconsolably in her bedroom. It is but

fair to add that she was not the only one of us in the house who was

thrown out of the regular groove. Mr. Godfrey, for instance—though

professionally a sort of consoler-general—seemed to be at a loss where

to look for his own resources. Having no company to amuse him, and

getting no chance of trying what his experience of women in distress

could do towards comforting Miss Rachel, he wandered hither and thither

about the house and gardens in an aimless uneasy way. He was in two

different minds about what it became him to do, after the misfortune

that had happened to us. Ought he to relieve the family, in their

present situation, of the responsibility of him as a guest, or ought he

to stay on the chance that even his humble services might be of some

use? He decided ultimately that the last course was perhaps the most

customary and considerate course to take, in such a very peculiar case

of family distress as this was. Circumstances try the metal a man is

really made of. Mr. Godfrey, tried by circumstances, showed himself of

weaker metal than I had thought him to be. As for the women-servants

excepting Rosanna Spearman, who kept by herself—they took to whispering

together in corners, and staring at nothing suspiciously, as is the

manner of that weaker half of the human family, when anything

extraordinary happens in a house. I myself acknowledge to have been

fidgety and ill-tempered. The cursed Moonstone had turned us all upside

down.

A little before eleven Mr. Franklin came back. The resolute side of him

had, to all appearance, given way, in the interval since his departure,

under the stress that had been laid on it. He had left us at a gallop;

he came back to us at a walk. When he went away, he was made of iron.

When he returned, he was stuffed with cotton, as limp as limp could be.

“Well,” says my lady, “are the police coming?”

“Yes,” says Mr. Franklin; “they said they would follow me in a fly.

Superintendent Seegrave, of your local police force, and two of his

men. A mere form! The case is hopeless.”

“What! have the Indians escaped, sir?” I asked.

“The poor ill-used Indians have been most unjustly put in prison,” says

Mr. Franklin. “They are as innocent as the babe unborn. My idea that

one of them was hidden in the house has ended, like all the rest of my

ideas, in smoke. It’s been proved,” says Mr. Franklin, dwelling with

great relish on his own incapacity, “to be simply impossible.”

After astonishing us by announcing this totally new turn in the matter

of the Moonstone, our young gentleman, at his aunt’s request, took a

seat, and explained himself.

It appeared that the resolute side of him had held out as far as

Frizinghall. He had put the whole case plainly before the magistrate,

and the magistrate had at once sent for the police. The first inquiries

instituted about the Indians showed that they had not so much as

attempted to leave the town. Further questions addressed to the police,

proved that all three had been seen returning to Frizinghall with their

boy, on the previous night between ten and eleven—which (regard being

had to hours and distances) also proved that they had walked straight

back after performing on our terrace. Later still, at midnight, the

police, having occasion to search the common lodging-house where they

lived, had seen them all three again, and their little boy with them,

as usual. Soon after midnight I myself had safely shut up the house.

Plainer evidence than this, in favour of the Indians, there could not

well be. The magistrate said there was not even a case of suspicion

against them so far. But, as it was just possible, when the police came

to investigate the matter, that discoveries affecting the jugglers

might be made, he would contrive, by committing them as rogues and

vagabonds, to keep them at our disposal, under lock and key, for a

week. They had ignorantly done something (I forget what) in the town,

which barely brought them within the operation of the law. Every human

institution (justice included) will stretch a little, if you only pull

it the right way. The worthy magistrate was an old friend of my lady’s,

and the Indians were “committed” for a week, as soon as the court

opened that morning.

Such was Mr. Franklin’s narrative of events at Frizinghall. The Indian

clue to the mystery of the lost jewel was now, to all appearance, a

clue that had broken in our hands. If the jugglers were innocent, who,

in the name of wonder, had taken the Moonstone out of Miss Rachel’s

drawer?

Ten minutes later, to our infinite relief, Superintendent Seegrave

arrived at the house. He reported passing Mr. Franklin on the terrace,

sitting in the sun (I suppose with the Italian side of him uppermost),

and warning the police, as they went by, that the investigation was

hopeless, before the investigation had begun.

For a family in our situation, the Superintendent of the Frizinghall

police was the most comforting officer you could wish to see. Mr.

Seegrave was tall and portly, and military in his manners. He had a

fine commanding voice, and a mighty resolute eye, and a grand

frock-coat which buttoned beautifully up to his leather stock. “I’m the

man you want!” was written all over his face; and he ordered his two

inferior police men about with a severity which convinced us all that

there was no trifling with _him_.

He began by going round the premises, outside and in; the result of

that investigation proving to him that no thieves had broken in upon us

from outside, and that the robbery, consequently, must have been

committed by some person in the house. I leave you to imagine the state

the servants were in when this official announcement first reached

their ears. The Superintendent decided to begin by examining the

boudoir, and, that done, to examine the servants next. At the same

time, he posted one of his men on the staircase which led to the

servants’ bedrooms, with instructions to let nobody in the house pass

him, till further orders.

At this latter proceeding, the weaker half of the human family went

distracted on the spot. They bounced out of their corners, whisked

upstairs in a body to Miss Rachel’s room (Rosanna Spearman being

carried away among them this time), burst in on Superintendent

Seegrave, and, all looking equally guilty, summoned him to say which of

them he suspected, at once.

Mr. Superintendent proved equal to the occasion; he looked at them with

his resolute eye, and he cowed them with his military voice.

“Now, then, you women, go downstairs again, every one of you. I won’t

have you here. Look!” says Mr. Superintendent, suddenly pointing to a

little smear of the decorative painting on Miss Rachel’s door, at the

outer edge, just under the lock. “Look what mischief the petticoats of

some of you have done already. Clear out! clear out!” Rosanna Spearman,

who was nearest to him, and nearest to the little smear on the door,

set the example of obedience, and slipped off instantly to her work.

The rest followed her out. The Superintendent finished his examination

of the room, and, making nothing of it, asked me who had first

discovered the robbery. My daughter had first discovered it. My

daughter was sent for.

Mr. Superintendent proved to be a little too sharp with Penelope at

starting. “Now, young woman, attend to me, and mind you speak the

truth.” Penelope fired up instantly. “I’ve never been taught to tell

lies Mr. Policeman!—and if father can stand there and hear me accused

of falsehood and thieving, and my own bedroom shut against me, and my

character taken away, which is all a poor girl has left, he’s not the

good father I take him for!” A timely word from me put Justice and

Penelope on a pleasanter footing together. The questions and answers

went swimmingly, and ended in nothing worth mentioning. My daughter had

seen Miss Rachel put the Diamond in the drawer of the cabinet the last

thing at night. She had gone in with Miss Rachel’s cup of tea at eight

the next morning, and had found the drawer open and empty. Upon that,

she had alarmed the house—and there was an end of Penelope’s evidence.

Mr. Superintendent next asked to see Miss Rachel herself. Penelope

mentioned his request through the door. The answer reached us by the

same road: “I have nothing to tell the policeman—I can’t see anybody.”

Our experienced officer looked equally surprised and offended when he

heard that reply. I told him my young lady was ill, and begged him to

wait a little and see her later. We thereupon went downstairs again,

and were met by Mr. Godfrey and Mr. Franklin crossing the hall.

The two gentlemen, being inmates of the house, were summoned to say if

they could throw any light on the matter. Neither of them knew anything

about it. Had they heard any suspicious noises during the previous

night? They had heard nothing but the pattering of the rain. Had I,

lying awake longer than either of them, heard nothing either? Nothing!

Released from examination, Mr. Franklin, still sticking to the helpless

view of our difficulty, whispered to me: “That man will be of no

earthly use to us. Superintendent Seegrave is an ass.” Released in his

turn, Mr. Godfrey whispered to me—“Evidently a most competent person.

Betteredge, I have the greatest faith in him!” Many men, many opinions,

as one of the ancients said, before my time.

Mr. Superintendent’s next proceeding took him back to the “boudoir”

again, with my daughter and me at his heels. His object was to discover

whether any of the furniture had been moved, during the night, out of

its customary place—his previous investigation in the room having,

apparently, not gone quite far enough to satisfy his mind on this

point.

While we were still poking about among the chairs and tables, the door

of the bedroom was suddenly opened. After having denied herself to

everybody, Miss Rachel, to our astonishment, walked into the midst of

us of her own accord. She took up her garden hat from a chair, and then

went straight to Penelope with this question:—

“Mr. Franklin Blake sent you with a message to me this morning?”

“Yes, miss.”

“He wished to speak to me, didn’t he?”

“Yes, miss.”

“Where is he now?”

Hearing voices on the terrace below, I looked out of window, and saw

the two gentlemen walking up and down together. Answering for my

daughter, I said, “Mr. Franklin is on the terrace, miss.”

Without another word, without heeding Mr. Superintendent, who tried to

speak to her, pale as death, and wrapped up strangely in her own

thoughts, she left the room, and went down to her cousins on the

terrace.

It showed a want of due respect, it showed a breach of good manners, on

my part, but, for the life of me, I couldn’t help looking out of window

when Miss Rachel met the gentlemen outside. She went up to Mr. Franklin

without appearing to notice Mr. Godfrey, who thereupon drew back and

left them by themselves. What she said to Mr. Franklin appeared to be

spoken vehemently. It lasted but for a short time, and, judging by what

I saw of his face from the window, seemed to astonish him beyond all

power of expression. While they were still together, my lady appeared

on the terrace. Miss Rachel saw her—said a few last words to Mr.

Franklin—and suddenly went back into the house again, before her mother

came up with her. My lady, surprised herself, and noticing Mr.

Franklin’s surprise, spoke to him. Mr. Godfrey joined them, and spoke

also. Mr. Franklin walked away a little between the two, telling them

what had happened I suppose, for they both stopped short, after taking

a few steps, like persons struck with amazement. I had just seen as

much as this, when the door of the sitting-room was opened violently.

Miss Rachel walked swiftly through to her bedroom, wild and angry, with

fierce eyes and flaming cheeks. Mr. Superintendent once more attempted

to question her. She turned round on him at her bedroom door. “_I_ have

not sent for you!” she cried out vehemently. “_I_ don’t want you. My

Diamond is lost. Neither you nor anybody else will ever find it!” With

those words she went in, and locked the door in our faces. Penelope,

standing nearest to it, heard her burst out crying the moment she was

alone again.

In a rage, one moment; in tears, the next! What did it mean?

I told the Superintendent it meant that Miss Rachel’s temper was upset

by the loss of her jewel. Being anxious for the honour of the family,

it distressed me to see my young lady forget herself—even with a

police-officer—and I made the best excuse I could, accordingly. In my

own private mind I was more puzzled by Miss Rachel’s extraordinary

language and conduct than words can tell. Taking what she had said at

her bedroom door as a guide to guess by, I could only conclude that she

was mortally offended by our sending for the police, and that Mr.

Franklin’s astonishment on the terrace was caused by her having

expressed herself to him (as the person chiefly instrumental in

fetching the police) to that effect. If this guess was right,

why—having lost her Diamond—should she object to the presence in the

house of the very people whose business it was to recover it for her?

And how, in Heaven’s name, could _she_ know that the Moonstone would

never be found again?

As things stood, at present, no answer to those questions was to be

hoped for from anybody in the house. Mr. Franklin appeared to think it

a point of honour to forbear repeating to a servant—even to so old a

servant as I was—what Miss Rachel had said to him on the terrace. Mr.

Godfrey, who, as a gentleman and a relative, had been probably admitted

into Mr. Franklin’s confidence, respected that confidence as he was

bound to do. My lady, who was also in the secret no doubt, and who

alone had access to Miss Rachel, owned openly that she could make

nothing of her. “You madden me when you talk of the Diamond!” All her

mother’s influence failed to extract from her a word more than that.

Here we were, then, at a dead-lock about Miss Rachel—and at a dead-lock

about the Moonstone. In the first case, my lady was powerless to help

us. In the second (as you shall presently judge), Mr. Seegrave was fast

approaching the condition of a superintendent at his wits’ end.

Having ferreted about all over the “boudoir,” without making any

discoveries among the furniture, our experienced officer applied to me

to know, whether the servants in general were or were not acquainted

with the place in which the Diamond had been put for the night.

“I knew where it was put, sir,” I said, “to begin with. Samuel, the

footman, knew also—for he was present in the hall, when they were

talking about where the Diamond was to be kept that night. My daughter

knew, as she has already told you. She or Samuel may have mentioned the

thing to the other servants—or the other servants may have heard the

talk for themselves, through the side-door of the hall, which might

have been open to the back staircase. For all I can tell, everybody in

the house may have known where the jewel was, last night.”

My answer presenting rather a wide field for Mr. Superintendent’s

suspicions to range over, he tried to narrow it by asking about the

servants’ characters next.

I thought directly of Rosanna Spearman. But it was neither my place nor

my wish to direct suspicion against a poor girl, whose honesty had been

above all doubt as long as I had known her. The matron at the

Reformatory had reported her to my lady as a sincerely penitent and

thoroughly trustworthy girl. It was the Superintendent’s business to

discover reason for suspecting her first—and then, and not till then,

it would be my duty to tell him how she came into my lady’s service.

“All our people have excellent characters,” I said. “And all have

deserved the trust their mistress has placed in them.” After that,

there was but one thing left for Mr. Seegrave to do—namely, to set to

work, and tackle the servants’ characters himself.

One after another, they were examined. One after another, they proved

to have nothing to say—and said it (so far as the women were concerned)

at great length, and with a very angry sense of the embargo laid on

their bedrooms. The rest of them being sent back to their places

downstairs, Penelope was then summoned, and examined separately a

second time.

My daughter’s little outbreak of temper in the “boudoir,” and her

readiness to think herself suspected, appeared to have produced an

unfavourable impression on Superintendent Seegrave. It seemed also to

dwell a little on his mind, that she had been the last person who saw

the Diamond at night. When the second questioning was over, my girl

came back to me in a frenzy. There was no doubt of it any longer—the

police-officer had almost as good as told her she was the thief! I

could scarcely believe him (taking Mr. Franklin’s view) to be quite

such an ass as that. But, though he said nothing, the eye with which he

looked at my daughter was not a very pleasant eye to see. I laughed it

off with poor Penelope, as something too ridiculous to be treated

seriously—which it certainly was. Secretly, I am afraid I was foolish

enough to be angry too. It was a little trying—it was, indeed. My girl

sat down in a corner, with her apron over her head, quite

broken-hearted. Foolish of her, you will say. She might have waited

till he openly accused her. Well, being a man of just an equal temper,

I admit that. Still Mr. Superintendent might have remembered—never mind

what he might have remembered. The devil take him!

The next and last step in the investigation brought matters, as they

say, to a crisis. The officer had an interview (at which I was present)

with my lady. After informing her that the Diamond _must_ have been

taken by somebody in the house, he requested permission for himself and

his men to search the servants’ rooms and boxes on the spot. My good

mistress, like the generous high-bred woman she was, refused to let us

be treated like thieves. “I will never consent to make such a return as

that,” she said, “for all I owe to the faithful servants who are

employed in my house.”

Mr. Superintendent made his bow, with a look in my direction, which

said plainly, “Why employ me, if you are to tie my hands in this way?”

As head of the servants, I felt directly that we were bound, in justice

to all parties, not to profit by our mistress’s generosity. “We

gratefully thank your ladyship,” I said; “but we ask your permission to

do what is right in this matter by giving up our keys. When Gabriel

Betteredge sets the example,” says I, stopping Superintendent Seegrave

at the door, “the rest of the servants will follow, I promise you.

There are my keys, to begin with!” My lady took me by the hand, and

thanked me with the tears in her eyes. Lord! what would I not have

given, at that moment, for the privilege of knocking Superintendent

Seegrave down!

As I had promised for them, the other servants followed my lead, sorely

against the grain, of course, but all taking the view that I took. The

women were a sight to see, while the police-officers were rummaging

among their things. The cook looked as if she could grill Mr.

Superintendent alive on a furnace, and the other women looked as if

they could eat him when he was done.

The search over, and no Diamond or sign of a Diamond being found, of

course, anywhere, Superintendent Seegrave retired to my little room to

consider with himself what he was to do next. He and his men had now

been hours in the house, and had not advanced us one inch towards a

discovery of how the Moonstone had been taken, or of whom we were to

suspect as the thief.

While the police-officer was still pondering in solitude, I was sent

for to see Mr. Franklin in the library. To my unutterable astonishment,

just as my hand was on the door, it was suddenly opened from the

inside, and out walked Rosanna Spearman!

After the library had been swept and cleaned in the morning, neither

first nor second housemaid had any business in that room at any later

period of the day. I stopped Rosanna Spearman, and charged her with a

breach of domestic discipline on the spot.

“What might you want in the library at this time of day?” I inquired.

“Mr. Franklin Blake dropped one of his rings upstairs,” says Rosanna;

“and I have been into the library to give it to him.” The girl’s face

was all in a flush as she made me that answer; and she walked away with

a toss of her head and a look of self-importance which I was quite at a

loss to account for. The proceedings in the house had doubtless upset

all the women-servants more or less; but none of them had gone clean

out of their natural characters, as Rosanna, to all appearance, had now

gone out of hers.

I found Mr. Franklin writing at the library-table. He asked for a

conveyance to the railway station the moment I entered the room. The

first sound of his voice informed me that we now had the resolute side

of him uppermost once more. The man made of cotton had disappeared; and

the man made of iron sat before me again.

“Going to London, sir?” I asked.

“Going to telegraph to London,” says Mr. Franklin. “I have convinced my

aunt that we must have a cleverer head than Superintendent Seegrave’s

to help us; and I have got her permission to despatch a telegram to my

father. He knows the Chief Commissioner of Police, and the Commissioner

can lay his hand on the right man to solve the mystery of the Diamond.

Talking of mysteries, by-the-bye,” says Mr. Franklin, dropping his

voice, “I have another word to say to you before you go to the stables.

Don’t breathe a word of it to anybody as yet; but either Rosanna

Spearman’s head is not quite right, or I am afraid she knows more about

the Moonstone than she ought to know.”

I can hardly tell whether I was more startled or distressed at hearing

him say that. If I had been younger, I might have confessed as much to

Mr. Franklin. But when you are old, you acquire one excellent habit. In

cases where you don’t see your way clearly, you hold your tongue.

“She came in here with a ring I dropped in my bedroom,” Mr. Franklin

went on. “When I had thanked her, of course I expected her to go.

Instead of that, she stood opposite to me at the table, looking at me

in the oddest manner—half frightened, and half familiar—I couldn’t make

it out. ‘This is a strange thing about the Diamond, sir,’ she said, in

a curiously sudden, headlong way. I said, ‘Yes, it was,’ and wondered

what was coming next. Upon my honour, Betteredge, I think she must be

wrong in the head! She said, ‘They will never find the Diamond, sir,

will they? No! nor the person who took it—I’ll answer for that.’ She

actually nodded and smiled at me! Before I could ask her what she

meant, we heard your step outside. I suppose she was afraid of your

catching her here. At any rate, she changed colour, and left the room.

What on earth does it mean?”

I could not bring myself to tell him the girl’s story, even then. It

would have been almost as good as telling him that she was the thief.

Besides, even if I had made a clean breast of it, and even supposing

she was the thief, the reason why she should let out her secret to Mr.

Franklin, of all the people in the world, would have been still as far

to seek as ever.

“I can’t bear the idea of getting the poor girl into a scrape, merely

because she has a flighty way with her, and talks very strangely,” Mr.

Franklin went on. “And yet if she had said to the Superintendent what

she said to me, fool as he is, I’m afraid——” He stopped there, and left

the rest unspoken.

“The best way, sir,” I said, “will be for me to say two words privately

to my mistress about it at the first opportunity. My lady has a very

friendly interest in Rosanna; and the girl may only have been forward

and foolish, after all. When there’s a mess of any kind in a house,

sir, the women-servants like to look at the gloomy side—it gives the

poor wretches a kind of importance in their own eyes. If there’s

anybody ill, trust the women for prophesying that the person will die.

If it’s a jewel lost, trust them for prophesying that it will never be

found again.”

This view (which I am bound to say, I thought a probable view myself,

on reflection) seemed to relieve Mr. Franklin mightily: he folded up

his telegram, and dismissed the subject. On my way to the stables, to

order the pony-chaise, I looked in at the servants’ hall, where they

were at dinner. Rosanna Spearman was not among them. On inquiry, I

found that she had been suddenly taken ill, and had gone upstairs to

her own room to lie down.

“Curious! She looked well enough when I saw her last,” I remarked.

Penelope followed me out. “Don’t talk in that way before the rest of

them, father,” she said. “You only make them harder on Rosanna than

ever. The poor thing is breaking her heart about Mr. Franklin Blake.”

Here was another view of the girl’s conduct. If it was possible for

Penelope to be right, the explanation of Rosanna’s strange language and

behaviour might have been all in this—that she didn’t care what she

said, so long as she could surprise Mr. Franklin into speaking to her.

Granting that to be the right reading of the riddle, it accounted,

perhaps, for her flighty, self-conceited manner when she passed me in

the hall. Though he had only said three words, still she had carried

her point, and Mr. Franklin _had_ spoken to her.

I saw the pony harnessed myself. In the infernal network of mysteries

and uncertainties that now surrounded us, I declare it was a relief to

observe how well the buckles and straps understood each other! When you

had seen the pony backed into the shafts of the chaise, you had seen

something there was no doubt about. And that, let me tell you, was

becoming a treat of the rarest kind in our household.

Going round with the chaise to the front door, I found not only Mr.

Franklin, but Mr. Godfrey and Superintendent Seegrave also waiting for

me on the steps.

Mr. Superintendent’s reflections (after failing to find the Diamond in

the servants’ rooms or boxes) had led him, it appeared, to an entirely

new conclusion. Still sticking to his first text, namely, that somebody

in the house had stolen the jewel, our experienced officer was now of

the opinion that the thief (he was wise enough not to name poor

Penelope, whatever he might privately think of her!) had been acting in

concert with the Indians; and he accordingly proposed shifting his

inquiries to the jugglers in the prison at Frizinghall. Hearing of this

new move, Mr. Franklin had volunteered to take the Superintendent back

to the town, from which he could telegraph to London as easily as from

our station. Mr. Godfrey, still devoutly believing in Mr. Seegrave, and

greatly interested in witnessing the examination of the Indians, had

begged leave to accompany the officer to Frizinghall. One of the two

inferior policemen was to be left at the house, in case anything

happened. The other was to go back with the Superintendent to the town.

So the four places in the pony-chaise were just filled.

Before he took the reins to drive off, Mr. Franklin walked me away a

few steps out of hearing of the others.

“I will wait to telegraph to London,” he said, “till I see what comes

of our examination of the Indians. My own conviction is, that this

muddle-headed local police-officer is as much in the dark as ever, and

is simply trying to gain time. The idea of any of the servants being in

league with the Indians is a preposterous absurdity, in my opinion.

Keep about the house, Betteredge, till I come back, and try what you

can make of Rosanna Spearman. I don’t ask you to do anything degrading

to your own self-respect, or anything cruel towards the girl. I only

ask you to exercise your observation more carefully than usual. We will

make as light of it as we can before my aunt—but this is a more

important matter than you may suppose.”

“It is a matter of twenty thousand pounds, sir,” I said, thinking of

the value of the Diamond.

“It’s a matter of quieting Rachel’s mind,” answered Mr. Franklin

gravely. “I am very uneasy about her.”

He left me suddenly; as if he desired to cut short any further talk

between us. I thought I understood why. Further talk might have let me

into the secret of what Miss Rachel had said to him on the terrace.

So they drove away to Frizinghall. I was ready enough, in the girl’s

own interest, to have a little talk with Rosanna in private. But the

needful opportunity failed to present itself. She only came downstairs

again at tea-time. When she did appear, she was flighty and excited,

had what they call an hysterical attack, took a dose of sal-volatile by

my lady’s order, and was sent back to her bed.

The day wore on to its end drearily and miserably enough, I can tell

you. Miss Rachel still kept her room, declaring that she was too ill to

come down to dinner that day. My lady was in such low spirits about her

daughter, that I could not bring myself to make her additionally

anxious, by reporting what Rosanna Spearman had said to Mr. Franklin.

Penelope persisted in believing that she was to be forthwith tried,

sentenced, and transported for theft. The other women took to their

Bibles and hymn-books, and looked as sour as verjuice over their

reading—a result, which I have observed, in my sphere of life, to

follow generally on the performance of acts of piety at unaccustomed

periods of the day. As for me, I hadn’t even heart enough to open my

_Robinson Crusoe_. I went out into the yard, and, being hard up for a

little cheerful society, set my chair by the kennels, and talked to the

dogs.

Half an hour before dinner-time, the two gentlemen came back from

Frizinghall, having arranged with Superintendent Seegrave that he was

to return to us the next day. They had called on Mr. Murthwaite, the

Indian traveller, at his present residence, near the town. At Mr.

Franklin’s request, he had kindly given them the benefit of his

knowledge of the language, in dealing with those two, out of the three

Indians, who knew nothing of English. The examination, conducted

carefully, and at great length, had ended in nothing; not the shadow of

a reason being discovered for suspecting the jugglers of having

tampered with any of our servants. On reaching that conclusion, Mr.

Franklin had sent his telegraphic message to London, and there the

matter now rested till tomorrow came.

So much for the history of the day that followed the birthday. Not a

glimmer of light had broken in on us, so far. A day or two after,

however, the darkness lifted a little. How, and with what result, you

shall presently see.

CHAPTER XII

The Thursday night passed, and nothing happened. With the Friday

morning came two pieces of news.

Item the first: the baker’s man declared he had met Rosanna Spearman,

on the previous afternoon, with a thick veil on, walking towards

Frizinghall by the foot-path way over the moor. It seemed strange that

anybody should be mistaken about Rosanna, whose shoulder marked her out

pretty plainly, poor thing—but mistaken the man must have been; for

Rosanna, as you know, had been all the Thursday afternoon ill upstairs

in her room.

Item the second came through the postman. Worthy Mr. Candy had said one

more of his many unlucky things, when he drove off in the rain on the

birthday night, and told me that a doctor’s skin was waterproof. In

spite of his skin, the wet had got through him. He had caught a chill

that night, and was now down with a fever. The last accounts, brought

by the postman, represented him to be light-headed—talking nonsense as

glibly, poor man, in his delirium as he often talked it in his sober

senses. We were all sorry for the little doctor; but Mr. Franklin

appeared to regret his illness, chiefly on Miss Rachel’s account. From

what he said to my lady, while I was in the room at breakfast-time, he

appeared to think that Miss Rachel—if the suspense about the Moonstone

was not soon set at rest—might stand in urgent need of the best medical

advice at our disposal.

Breakfast had not been over long, when a telegram from Mr. Blake, the

elder, arrived, in answer to his son. It informed us that he had laid

hands (by help of his friend, the Commissioner) on the right man to

help us. The name of him was Sergeant Cuff; and the arrival of him from

London might be expected by the morning train.

At reading the name of the new police-officer, Mr. Franklin gave a

start. It seems that he had heard some curious anecdotes about Sergeant

Cuff, from his father’s lawyer, during his stay in London.

“I begin to hope we are seeing the end of our anxieties already,” he

said. “If half the stories I have heard are true, when it comes to

unravelling a mystery, there isn’t the equal in England of Sergeant

Cuff!”

We all got excited and impatient as the time drew near for the

appearance of this renowned and capable character. Superintendent

Seegrave, returning to us at his appointed time, and hearing that the

Sergeant was expected, instantly shut himself up in a room, with pen,

ink, and paper, to make notes of the Report which would be certainly

expected from him. I should have liked to have gone to the station

myself, to fetch the Sergeant. But my lady’s carriage and horses were

not to be thought of, even for the celebrated Cuff; and the pony-chaise

was required later for Mr. Godfrey. He deeply regretted being obliged

to leave his aunt at such an anxious time; and he kindly put off the

hour of his departure till as late as the last train, for the purpose

of hearing what the clever London police-officer thought of the case.

But on Friday night he must be in town, having a Ladies’ Charity, in

difficulties, waiting to consult him on Saturday morning.

When the time came for the Sergeant’s arrival, I went down to the gate

to look out for him.

A fly from the railway drove up as I reached the lodge; and out got a

grizzled, elderly man, so miserably lean that he looked as if he had

not got an ounce of flesh on his bones in any part of him. He was

dressed all in decent black, with a white cravat round his neck. His

face was as sharp as a hatchet, and the skin of it was as yellow and

dry and withered as an autumn leaf. His eyes, of a steely light grey,

had a very disconcerting trick, when they encountered your eyes, of

looking as if they expected something more from you than you were aware

of yourself. His walk was soft; his voice was melancholy; his long

lanky fingers were hooked like claws. He might have been a parson, or

an undertaker—or anything else you like, except what he really was. A

more complete opposite to Superintendent Seegrave than Sergeant Cuff,

and a less comforting officer to look at, for a family in distress, I

defy you to discover, search where you may.

“Is this Lady Verinder’s?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“I am Sergeant Cuff.”

“This way, sir, if you please.”

On our road to the house, I mentioned my name and position in the

family, to satisfy him that he might speak to me about the business on

which my lady was to employ him. Not a word did he say about the

business, however, for all that. He admired the grounds, and remarked

that he felt the sea air very brisk and refreshing. I privately

wondered, on my side, how the celebrated Cuff had got his reputation.

We reached the house, in the temper of two strange dogs, coupled up

together for the first time in their lives by the same chain.

Asking for my lady, and hearing that she was in one of the

conservatories, we went round to the gardens at the back, and sent a

servant to seek her. While we were waiting, Sergeant Cuff looked

through the evergreen arch on our left, spied out our rosery, and

walked straight in, with the first appearance of anything like interest

that he had shown yet. To the gardener’s astonishment, and to my

disgust, this celebrated policeman proved to be quite a mine of

learning on the trumpery subject of rose-gardens.

“Ah, you’ve got the right exposure here to the south and sou’-west,”

says the Sergeant, with a wag of his grizzled head, and a streak of

pleasure in his melancholy voice. “This is the shape for a

rosery—nothing like a circle set in a square. Yes, yes; with walks

between all the beds. But they oughtn’t to be gravel walks like these.

Grass, Mr. Gardener—grass walks between your roses; gravel’s too hard

for them. That’s a sweet pretty bed of white roses and blush roses.

They always mix well together, don’t they? Here’s the white musk rose,

Mr. Betteredge—our old English rose holding up its head along with the

best and the newest of them. Pretty dear!” says the Sergeant, fondling

the Musk Rose with his lanky fingers, and speaking to it as if he was

speaking to a child.

This was a nice sort of man to recover Miss Rachel’s Diamond, and to

find out the thief who stole it!

“You seem to be fond of roses, Sergeant?” I remarked.

“I haven’t much time to be fond of anything,” says Sergeant Cuff. “But

when I _have_ a moment’s fondness to bestow, most times, Mr.

Betteredge, the roses get it. I began my life among them in my father’s

nursery garden, and I shall end my life among them, if I can. Yes. One

of these days (please God) I shall retire from catching thieves, and

try my hand at growing roses. There will be grass walks, Mr. Gardener,

between my beds,” says the Sergeant, on whose mind the gravel paths of

our rosery seemed to dwell unpleasantly.

“It seems an odd taste, sir,” I ventured to say, “for a man in your

line of life.”

“If you will look about you (which most people won’t do),” says

Sergeant Cuff, “you will see that the nature of a man’s tastes is, most

times, as opposite as possible to the nature of a man’s business. Show

me any two things more opposite one from the other than a rose and a

thief; and I’ll correct my tastes accordingly—if it isn’t too late at

my time of life. You find the damask rose a goodish stock for most of

the tender sorts, don’t you, Mr. Gardener? Ah! I thought so. Here’s a

lady coming. Is it Lady Verinder?”

He had seen her before either I or the gardener had seen her, though we

knew which way to look, and he didn’t. I began to think him rather a

quicker man than he appeared to be at first sight.

The Sergeant’s appearance, or the Sergeant’s errand—one or both—seemed

to cause my lady some little embarrassment. She was, for the first time

in all my experience of her, at a loss what to say at an interview with

a stranger. Sergeant Cuff put her at her ease directly. He asked if any

other person had been employed about the robbery before we sent for

him; and hearing that another person had been called in, and was now in

the house, begged leave to speak to him before anything else was done.

My lady led the way back. Before he followed her, the Sergeant relieved

his mind on the subject of the gravel walks by a parting word to the

gardener. “Get her ladyship to try grass,” he said, with a sour look at

the paths. “No gravel! no gravel!”

Why Superintendent Seegrave should have appeared to be several sizes

smaller than life, on being presented to Sergeant Cuff, I can’t

undertake to explain. I can only state the fact. They retired together;

and remained a weary long time shut up from all mortal intrusion. When

they came out, Mr. Superintendent was excited, and Mr. Sergeant was

yawning.

“The Sergeant wishes to see Miss Verinder’s sitting-room,” says Mr.

Seegrave, addressing me with great pomp and eagerness. “The Sergeant

may have some questions to ask. Attend the Sergeant, if you please!”

While I was being ordered about in this way, I looked at the great

Cuff. The great Cuff, on his side, looked at Superintendent Seegrave in

that quietly expecting way which I have already noticed. I can’t affirm

that he was on the watch for his brother officer’s speedy appearance in

the character of an Ass—I can only say that I strongly suspected it.

I led the way upstairs. The Sergeant went softly all over the Indian

cabinet and all round the “boudoir;” asking questions (occasionally

only of Mr. Superintendent, and continually of me), the drift of which

I believe to have been equally unintelligible to both of us. In due

time, his course brought him to the door, and put him face to face with

the decorative painting that you know of. He laid one lean inquiring

finger on the small smear, just under the lock, which Superintendent

Seegrave had already noticed, when he reproved the women-servants for

all crowding together into the room.

“That’s a pity,” says Sergeant Cuff. “How did it happen?”

He put the question to me. I answered that the women-servants had

crowded into the room on the previous morning, and that some of their

petticoats had done the mischief, “Superintendent Seegrave ordered them

out, sir,” I added, “before they did any more harm.”

“Right!” says Mr. Superintendent in his military way. “I ordered them

out. The petticoats did it, Sergeant—the petticoats did it.”

“Did you notice which petticoat did it?” asked Sergeant Cuff, still

addressing himself, not to his brother-officer, but to me.

“No, sir.”

He turned to Superintendent Seegrave upon that, and said, “_You_

noticed, I suppose?”

Mr. Superintendent looked a little taken aback; but he made the best of

it. “I can’t charge my memory, Sergeant,” he said, “a mere trifle—a

mere trifle.”

Sergeant Cuff looked at Mr. Seegrave, as he had looked at the gravel

walks in the rosery, and gave us, in his melancholy way, the first

taste of his quality which we had had yet.

“I made a private inquiry last week, Mr. Superintendent,” he said. “At

one end of the inquiry there was a murder, and at the other end there

was a spot of ink on a table cloth that nobody could account for. In

all my experience along the dirtiest ways of this dirty little world, I

have never met with such a thing as a trifle yet. Before we go a step

further in this business we must see the petticoat that made the smear,

and we must know for certain when that paint was wet.”

Mr. Superintendent—taking his set-down rather sulkily—asked if he

should summon the women. Sergeant Cuff, after considering a minute,

sighed, and shook his head.

“No,” he said, “we’ll take the matter of the paint first. It’s a

question of Yes or No with the paint—which is short. It’s a question of

petticoats with the women—which is long. What o’clock was it when the

servants were in this room yesterday morning? Eleven o’clock—eh? Is

there anybody in the house who knows whether that paint was wet or dry,

at eleven yesterday morning?”

“Her ladyship’s nephew, Mr. Franklin Blake, knows,” I said.

“Is the gentleman in the house?”

Mr. Franklin was as close at hand as could be—waiting for his first

chance of being introduced to the great Cuff. In half a minute he was

in the room, and was giving his evidence as follows:

“That door, Sergeant,” he said, “has been painted by Miss Verinder,

under my inspection, with my help, and in a vehicle of my own

composition. The vehicle dries whatever colours may be used with it, in

twelve hours.”

“Do you remember when the smeared bit was done, sir?” asked the

Sergeant.

“Perfectly,” answered Mr. Franklin. “That was the last morsel of the

door to be finished. We wanted to get it done, on Wednesday last—and I

myself completed it by three in the afternoon, or soon after.”

“Today is Friday,” said Sergeant Cuff, addressing himself to

Superintendent Seegrave. “Let us reckon back, sir. At three on the

Wednesday afternoon, that bit of the painting was completed. The

vehicle dried it in twelve hours—that is to say, dried it by three

o’clock on Thursday morning. At eleven on Thursday morning you held

your inquiry here. Take three from eleven, and eight remains. That

paint had been _eight hours dry_, Mr. Superintendent, when you supposed

that the women-servants’ petticoats smeared it.”

First knock-down blow for Mr. Seegrave! If he had not suspected poor

Penelope, I should have pitied him.

Having settled the question of the paint, Sergeant Cuff, from that

moment, gave his brother-officer up as a bad job—and addressed himself

to Mr. Franklin, as the more promising assistant of the two.

“It’s quite on the cards, sir,” he said, “that you have put the clue

into our hands.”

As the words passed his lips, the bedroom door opened, and Miss Rachel

came out among us suddenly.

She addressed herself to the Sergeant, without appearing to notice (or

to heed) that he was a perfect stranger to her.

“Did you say,” she asked, pointing to Mr. Franklin, “that _he_ had put

the clue into your hands?”

(“This is Miss Verinder,” I whispered, behind the Sergeant.)

“That gentleman, miss,” says the Sergeant—with his steely-grey eyes

carefully studying my young lady’s face—“has possibly put the clue into

our hands.”

She turned for one moment, and tried to look at Mr. Franklin. I say,

tried, for she suddenly looked away again before their eyes met. There

seemed to be some strange disturbance in her mind. She coloured up, and

then she turned pale again. With the paleness, there came a new look

into her face—a look which it startled me to see.

“Having answered your question, miss,” says the Sergeant, “I beg leave

to make an inquiry in my turn. There is a smear on the painting of your

door, here. Do you happen to know when it was done? or who did it?”

Instead of making any reply, Miss Rachel went on with her questions, as

if he had not spoken, or as if she had not heard him.

“Are you another police-officer?” she asked.

“I am Sergeant Cuff, miss, of the Detective Police.”

“Do you think a young lady’s advice worth having?”

“I shall be glad to hear it, miss.”

“Do your duty by yourself—and don’t allow Mr. Franklin Blake to help

you!”

She said those words so spitefully, so savagely, with such an

extraordinary outbreak of ill-will towards Mr. Franklin, in her voice

and in her look, that—though I had known her from a baby, though I

loved and honoured her next to my lady herself—I was ashamed of Miss

Rachel for the first time in my life.

Sergeant Cuff’s immovable eyes never stirred from off her face. “Thank

you, miss,” he said. “Do you happen to know anything about the smear?

Might you have done it by accident yourself?”

“I know nothing about the smear.”

With that answer, she turned away, and shut herself up again in her

bedroom. This time, I heard her—as Penelope had heard her before—burst

out crying as soon as she was alone again.

I couldn’t bring myself to look at the Sergeant—I looked at Mr.

Franklin, who stood nearest to me. He seemed to be even more sorely

distressed at what had passed than I was.

“I told you I was uneasy about her,” he said. “And now you see why.”

“Miss Verinder appears to be a little out of temper about the loss of

her Diamond,” remarked the Sergeant. “It’s a valuable jewel. Natural

enough! natural enough!”

Here was the excuse that I had made for her (when she forgot herself

before Superintendent Seegrave, on the previous day) being made for her

over again, by a man who couldn’t have had _my_ interest in making

it—for he was a perfect stranger! A kind of cold shudder ran through

me, which I couldn’t account for at the time. I know, now, that I must

have got my first suspicion, at that moment, of a new light (and horrid

light) having suddenly fallen on the case, in the mind of Sergeant

Cuff—purely and entirely in consequence of what he had seen in Miss

Rachel, and heard from Miss Rachel, at that first interview between

them.

“A young lady’s tongue is a privileged member, sir,” says the Sergeant

to Mr. Franklin. “Let us forget what has passed, and go straight on

with this business. Thanks to you, we know when the paint was dry. The

next thing to discover is when the paint was last seen without that

smear. _You_ have got a head on your shoulders—and you understand what

I mean.”

Mr. Franklin composed himself, and came back with an effort from Miss

Rachel to the matter in hand.

“I think I do understand,” he said. “The more we narrow the question of

time, the more we also narrow the field of inquiry.”

“That’s it, sir,” said the Sergeant. “Did you notice your work here, on

the Wednesday afternoon, after you had done it?”

Mr. Franklin shook his head, and answered, “I can’t say I did.”

“Did _you?_” inquired Sergeant Cuff, turning to me.

“I can’t say I did either, sir.”

“Who was the last person in the room, the last thing on Wednesday

night?”

“Miss Rachel, I suppose, sir.”

Mr. Franklin struck in there, “Or possibly your daughter, Betteredge.”

He turned to Sergeant Cuff, and explained that my daughter was Miss

Verinder’s maid.

“Mr. Betteredge, ask your daughter to step up. Stop!” says the

Sergeant, taking me away to the window, out of earshot. “Your

Superintendent here,” he went on, in a whisper, “has made a pretty full

report to me of the manner in which he has managed this case. Among

other things, he has, by his own confession, set the servants’ backs

up. It’s very important to smooth them down again. Tell your daughter,

and tell the rest of them, these two things, with my compliments:

First, that I have no evidence before me, yet, that the Diamond has

been stolen; I only know that the Diamond has been lost. Second, that

_my_ business here with the servants is simply to ask them to lay their

heads together and help me to find it.”

My experience of the women-servants, when Superintendent Seegrave laid

his embargo on their rooms, came in handy here.

“May I make so bold, Sergeant, as to tell the women a third thing?” I

asked. “Are they free (with your compliments) to fidget up and

downstairs, and whisk in and out of their bedrooms, if the fit takes

them?”

“Perfectly free,” said the Sergeant.

“_That_ will smooth them down, sir,” I remarked, “from the cook to the

scullion.”

“Go, and do it at once, Mr. Betteredge.”

I did it in less than five minutes. There was only one difficulty when

I came to the bit about the bedrooms. It took a pretty stiff exertion

of my authority, as chief, to prevent the whole of the female household

from following me and Penelope upstairs, in the character of volunteer

witnesses in a burning fever of anxiety to help Sergeant Cuff.

The Sergeant seemed to approve of Penelope. He became a trifle less

dreary; and he looked much as he had looked when he noticed the white

musk rose in the flower-garden. Here is my daughter’s evidence, as

drawn off from her by the Sergeant. She gave it, I think, very

prettily—but, there! she is my child all over: nothing of her mother in

her; Lord bless you, nothing of her mother in her!

Penelope examined: Took a lively interest in the painting on the door,

having helped to mix the colours. Noticed the bit of work under the

lock, because it was the last bit done. Had seen it, some hours

afterwards, without a smear. Had left it, as late as twelve at night,

without a smear. Had, at that hour, wished her young lady good-night in

the bedroom; had heard the clock strike in the “boudoir”; had her hand

at the time on the handle of the painted door; knew the paint was wet

(having helped to mix the colours, as aforesaid); took particular pains

not to touch it; could swear that she held up the skirts of her dress,

and that there was no smear on the paint then; could _not_ swear that

her dress mightn’t have touched it accidentally in going out;

remembered the dress she had on, because it was new, a present from

Miss Rachel; her father remembered, and could speak to it, too; could,

and would, and did fetch it; dress recognised by her father as the

dress she wore that night; skirts examined, a long job from the size of

them; not the ghost of a paint-stain discovered anywhere. End of

Penelope’s evidence—and very pretty and convincing, too. Signed,

Gabriel Betteredge.

The Sergeant’s next proceeding was to question me about any large dogs

in the house who might have got into the room, and done the mischief

with a whisk of their tails. Hearing that this was impossible, he next

sent for a magnifying-glass, and tried how the smear looked, seen that

way. No skin-mark (as of a human hand) printed off on the paint. All

the signs visible—signs which told that the paint had been smeared by

some loose article of somebody’s dress touching it in going by. That

somebody (putting together Penelope’s evidence and Mr. Franklin’s

evidence) must have been in the room, and done the mischief, between

midnight and three o’clock on the Thursday morning.

Having brought his investigation to this point, Sergeant Cuff

discovered that such a person as Superintendent Seegrave was still left

in the room, upon which he summed up the proceedings for his

brother-officer’s benefit, as follows:

“This trifle of yours, Mr. Superintendent,” says the Sergeant, pointing

to the place on the door, “has grown a little in importance since you

noticed it last. At the present stage of the inquiry there are, as I

take it, three discoveries to make, starting from that smear. Find out

(first) whether there is any article of dress in this house with the

smear of the paint on it. Find out (second) who that dress belongs to.

Find out (third) how the person can account for having been in this

room, and smeared the paint, between midnight and three in the morning.

If the person can’t satisfy you, you haven’t far to look for the hand

that has got the Diamond. I’ll work this by myself, if you please, and

detain you no longer from your regular business in the town. You have

got one of your men here, I see. Leave him here at my disposal, in case

I want him—and allow me to wish you good morning.”

Superintendent Seegrave’s respect for the Sergeant was great; but his

respect for himself was greater still. Hit hard by the celebrated Cuff,

he hit back smartly, to the best of his ability, on leaving the room.

“I have abstained from expressing any opinion, so far,” says Mr.

Superintendent, with his military voice still in good working order. “I

have now only one remark to offer on leaving this case in your hands.

There _is_ such a thing, Sergeant, as making a mountain out of a

molehill. Good morning.”

“There is also such a thing as making nothing out of a molehill, in

consequence of your head being too high to see it.” Having returned his

brother-officer’s compliments in those terms, Sergeant Cuff wheeled

about, and walked away to the window by himself.

Mr. Franklin and I waited to see what was coming next. The Sergeant

stood at the window with his hands in his pockets, looking out, and

whistling the tune of “The Last Rose of Summer” softly to himself.

Later in the proceedings, I discovered that he only forgot his manners

so far as to whistle, when his mind was hard at work, seeing its way

inch by inch to its own private ends, on which occasions “The Last Rose

of Summer” evidently helped and encouraged him. I suppose it fitted in

somehow with his character. It reminded him, you see, of his favourite

roses, and, as _he_ whistled it, it was the most melancholy tune going.

Turning from the window, after a minute or two, the Sergeant walked

into the middle of the room, and stopped there, deep in thought, with

his eyes on Miss Rachel’s bedroom door. After a little he roused

himself, nodded his head, as much as to say, “That will do,” and,

addressing me, asked for ten minutes’ conversation with my mistress, at

her ladyship’s earliest convenience.

Leaving the room with this message, I heard Mr. Franklin ask the

Sergeant a question, and stopped to hear the answer also at the

threshold of the door.

“Can you guess yet,” inquired Mr. Franklin, “who has stolen the

Diamond?”

“_Nobody has stolen the Diamond_,” answered Sergeant Cuff.

We both started at that extraordinary view of the case, and both

earnestly begged him to tell us what he meant.

“Wait a little,” said the Sergeant. “The pieces of the puzzle are not

all put together yet.”

CHAPTER XIII

I found my lady in her own sitting room. She started and looked annoyed

when I mentioned that Sergeant Cuff wished to speak to her.

“_Must_ I see him?” she asked. “Can’t you represent me, Gabriel?”

I felt at a loss to understand this, and showed it plainly, I suppose,

in my face. My lady was so good as to explain herself.

“I am afraid my nerves are a little shaken,” she said. “There is

something in that police-officer from London which I recoil from—I

don’t know why. I have a presentiment that he is bringing trouble and

misery with him into the house. Very foolish, and very unlike _me_—but

so it is.”

I hardly knew what to say to this. The more I saw of Sergeant Cuff, the

better I liked him. My lady rallied a little after having opened her

heart to me—being, naturally, a woman of a high courage, as I have

already told you.

“If I must see him, I must,” she said. “But I can’t prevail on myself

to see him alone. Bring him in, Gabriel, and stay here as long as he

stays.”

This was the first attack of the megrims that I remembered in my

mistress since the time when she was a young girl. I went back to the

“boudoir.” Mr. Franklin strolled out into the garden, and joined Mr.

Godfrey, whose time for departure was now drawing near. Sergeant Cuff

and I went straight to my mistress’s room.

I declare my lady turned a shade paler at the sight of him! She

commanded herself, however, in other respects, and asked the Sergeant

if he had any objection to my being present. She was so good as to add,

that I was her trusted adviser, as well as her old servant, and that in

anything which related to the household I was the person whom it might

be most profitable to consult. The Sergeant politely answered that he

would take my presence as a favour, having something to say about the

servants in general, and having found my experience in that quarter

already of some use to him. My lady pointed to two chairs, and we set

in for our conference immediately.

“I have already formed an opinion on this case,” says Sergeant Cuff,

“which I beg your ladyship’s permission to keep to myself for the

present. My business now is to mention what I have discovered upstairs

in Miss Verinder’s sitting-room, and what I have decided (with your

ladyship’s leave) on doing next.”

He then went into the matter of the smear on the paint, and stated the

conclusions he drew from it—just as he had stated them (only with

greater respect of language) to Superintendent Seegrave. “One thing,”

he said, in conclusion, “is certain. The Diamond is missing out of the

drawer in the cabinet. Another thing is next to certain. The marks from

the smear on the door must be on some article of dress belonging to

somebody in this house. We must discover that article of dress before

we go a step further.”

“And that discovery,” remarked my mistress, “implies, I presume, the

discovery of the thief?”

“I beg your ladyship’s pardon—I don’t say the Diamond is stolen. I only

say, at present, that the Diamond is missing. The discovery of the

stained dress may lead the way to finding it.”

Her ladyship looked at me. “Do you understand this?” she said.

“Sergeant Cuff understands it, my lady,” I answered.

“How do you propose to discover the stained dress?” inquired my

mistress, addressing herself once more to the Sergeant. “My good

servants, who have been with me for years, have, I am ashamed to say,

had their boxes and rooms searched already by the other officer. I

can’t and won’t permit them to be insulted in that way a second time!”

(There was a mistress to serve! There was a woman in ten thousand, if

you like!)

“That is the very point I was about to put to your ladyship,” said the

Sergeant. “The other officer has done a world of harm to this inquiry,

by letting the servants see that he suspected them. If I give them

cause to think themselves suspected a second time, there’s no knowing

what obstacles they may not throw in my way—the women especially. At

the same time, their boxes _must_ be searched again—for this plain

reason, that the first investigation only looked for the Diamond, and

that the second investigation must look for the stained dress. I quite

agree with you, my lady, that the servants’ feelings ought to be

consulted. But I am equally clear that the servants’ wardrobes ought to

be searched.”

This looked very like a dead-lock. My lady said so, in choicer language

than mine.

“I have got a plan to meet the difficulty,” said Sergeant Cuff, “if

your ladyship will consent to it. I propose explaining the case to the

servants.”

“The women will think themselves suspected directly,” I said,

interrupting him.

“The women won’t, Mr. Betteredge,” answered the Sergeant, “if I can

tell them I am going to examine the wardrobes of _everybody_—from her

ladyship downwards—who slept in the house on Wednesday night. It’s a

mere formality,” he added, with a side look at my mistress; “but the

servants will accept it as even dealing between them and their betters;

and, instead of hindering the investigation, they will make a point of

honour of assisting it.”

I saw the truth of that. My lady, after her first surprise was over,

saw the truth of it also.

“You are certain the investigation is necessary?” she said.

“It’s the shortest way that I can see, my lady, to the end we have in

view.”

My mistress rose to ring the bell for her maid. “You shall speak to the

servants,” she said, “with the keys of my wardrobe in your hand.”

Sergeant Cuff stopped her by a very unexpected question.

“Hadn’t we better make sure first,” he asked, “that the other ladies

and gentlemen in the house will consent, too?”

“The only other lady in the house is Miss Verinder,” answered my

mistress, with a look of surprise. “The only gentlemen are my nephews,

Mr. Blake and Mr. Ablewhite. There is not the least fear of a refusal

from any of the three.”

I reminded my lady here that Mr. Godfrey was going away. As I said the

words, Mr. Godfrey himself knocked at the door to say good-bye, and was

followed in by Mr. Franklin, who was going with him to the station. My

lady explained the difficulty. Mr. Godfrey settled it directly. He

called to Samuel, through the window, to take his portmanteau upstairs

again, and he then put the key himself into Sergeant Cuff’s hand. “My

luggage can follow me to London,” he said, “when the inquiry is over.”

The Sergeant received the key with a becoming apology. “I am sorry to

put you to any inconvenience, sir, for a mere formality; but the

example of their betters will do wonders in reconciling the servants to

this inquiry.” Mr. Godfrey, after taking leave of my lady, in a most

sympathising manner, left a farewell message for Miss Rachel, the terms

of which made it clear to my mind that he had not taken No for an

answer, and that he meant to put the marriage question to her once

more, at the next opportunity. Mr. Franklin, on following his cousin

out, informed the Sergeant that all his clothes were open to

examination, and that nothing he possessed was kept under lock and key.

Sergeant Cuff made his best acknowledgments. His views, you will

observe, had been met with the utmost readiness by my lady, by Mr.

Godfrey, and by Mr. Franklin. There was only Miss Rachel now wanting

to follow their lead, before we called the servants together, and began

the search for the stained dress.

My lady’s unaccountable objection to the Sergeant seemed to make our

conference more distasteful to her than ever, as soon as we were left

alone again. “If I send you down Miss Verinder’s keys,” she said to

him, “I presume I shall have done all you want of me for the present?”

“I beg your ladyship’s pardon,” said Sergeant Cuff. “Before we begin, I

should like, if convenient, to have the washing-book. The stained

article of dress may be an article of linen. If the search leads to

nothing, I want to be able to account next for all the linen in the

house, and for all the linen sent to the wash. If there is an article

missing, there will be at least a presumption that it has got the

paint-stain on it, and that it has been purposely made away with,

yesterday or today, by the person owning it. Superintendent Seegrave,”

added the Sergeant, turning to me, “pointed the attention of the

women-servants to the smear, when they all crowded into the room on

Thursday morning. That _may_ turn out, Mr. Betteredge, to have been one

more of Superintendent Seegrave’s many mistakes.”

My lady desired me to ring the bell, and order the washing-book. She

remained with us until it was produced, in case Sergeant Cuff had any

further request to make of her after looking at it.

The washing-book was brought in by Rosanna Spearman. The girl had come

down to breakfast that morning miserably pale and haggard, but

sufficiently recovered from her illness of the previous day to do her

usual work. Sergeant Cuff looked attentively at our second housemaid—at

her face, when she came in; at her crooked shoulder, when she went out.

“Have you anything more to say to me?” asked my lady, still as eager as

ever to be out of the Sergeant’s society.

The great Cuff opened the washing-book, understood it perfectly in half

a minute, and shut it up again. “I venture to trouble your ladyship

with one last question,” he said. “Has the young woman who brought us

this book been in your employment as long as the other servants?”

“Why do you ask?” said my lady.

“The last time I saw her,” answered the Sergeant, “she was in prison

for theft.”

After that, there was no help for it, but to tell him the truth. My

mistress dwelt strongly on Rosanna’s good conduct in her service, and

on the high opinion entertained of her by the matron at the

Reformatory. “You don’t suspect her, I hope?” my lady added, in

conclusion, very earnestly.

“I have already told your ladyship that I don’t suspect any person in

the house of thieving—up to the present time.”

After that answer, my lady rose to go upstairs, and ask for Miss

Rachel’s keys. The Sergeant was beforehand with me in opening the door

for her. He made a very low bow. My lady shuddered as she passed him.

We waited, and waited, and no keys appeared. Sergeant Cuff made no

remark to me. He turned his melancholy face to the window; he put his

lanky hands into his pockets; and he whistled “The Last Rose of Summer”

softly to himself.

At last, Samuel came in, not with the keys, but with a morsel of paper

for me. I got at my spectacles, with some fumbling and difficulty,

feeling the Sergeant’s dismal eyes fixed on me all the time. There were

two or three lines on the paper, written in pencil by my lady. They

informed me that Miss Rachel flatly refused to have her wardrobe

examined. Asked for her reasons, she had burst out crying. Asked again,

she had said: “I won’t, because I won’t. I must yield to force if you

use it, but I will yield to nothing else.” I understood my lady’s

disinclination to face Sergeant Cuff with such an answer from her

daughter as that. If I had not been too old for the amiable weaknesses

of youth, I believe I should have blushed at the notion of facing him

myself.

“Any news of Miss Verinder’s keys?” asked the Sergeant.

“My young lady refuses to have her wardrobe examined.”

“Ah!” said the Sergeant.

His voice was not quite in such a perfect state of discipline as his

face. When he said “Ah!” he said it in the tone of a man who had heard

something which he expected to hear. He half angered and half

frightened me—why, I couldn’t tell, but he did it.

“Must the search be given up?” I asked.

“Yes,” said the Sergeant, “the search must be given up, because your

young lady refuses to submit to it like the rest. We must examine all

the wardrobes in the house or none. Send Mr. Ablewhite’s portmanteau to

London by the next train, and return the washing-book, with my

compliments and thanks, to the young woman who brought it in.”

He laid the washing-book on the table, and taking out his penknife,

began to trim his nails.

“You don’t seem to be much disappointed,” I said.

“No,” said Sergeant Cuff; “I am not much disappointed.”

I tried to make him explain himself.

“Why should Miss Rachel put an obstacle in your way?” I inquired.

“Isn’t it her interest to help you?”

“Wait a little, Mr. Betteredge—wait a little.”

Cleverer heads than mine might have seen his drift. Or a person less

fond of Miss Rachel than I was, might have seen his drift. My lady’s

horror of him might (as I have since thought) have meant that _she_ saw

his drift (as the scripture says) “in a glass darkly.” I didn’t see it

yet—that’s all I know.

“What’s to be done next?” I asked.

Sergeant Cuff finished the nail on which he was then at work, looked at

it for a moment with a melancholy interest, and put up his penknife.

“Come out into the garden,” he said, “and let’s have a look at the

roses.”

CHAPTER XIV

The nearest way to the garden, on going out of my lady’s sitting-room,

was by the shrubbery path, which you already know of. For the sake of

your better understanding of what is now to come, I may add to this,

that the shrubbery path was Mr. Franklin’s favourite walk. When he was

out in the grounds, and when we failed to find him anywhere else, we

generally found him here.

I am afraid I must own that I am rather an obstinate old man. The more

firmly Sergeant Cuff kept his thoughts shut up from me, the more firmly

I persisted in trying to look in at them. As we turned into the

shrubbery path, I attempted to circumvent him in another way.

“As things are now,” I said, “if I was in your place, I should be at my

wits’ end.”

“If you were in my place,” answered the Sergeant, “you would have

formed an opinion—and, as things are now, any doubt you might

previously have felt about your own conclusions would be completely set

at rest. Never mind for the present what those conclusions are, Mr.

Betteredge. I haven’t brought you out here to draw me like a badger; I

have brought you out here to ask for some information. You might have

given it to me no doubt, in the house, instead of out of it. But doors

and listeners have a knack of getting together; and, in my line of

life, we cultivate a healthy taste for the open air.”

Who was to circumvent _this_ man? I gave in—and waited as patiently as

I could to hear what was coming next.

“We won’t enter into your young lady’s motives,” the Sergeant went on;

“we will only say it’s a pity she declines to assist me, because, by so

doing, she makes this investigation more difficult than it might

otherwise have been. We must now try to solve the mystery of the smear

on the door—which, you may take my word for it, means the mystery of

the Diamond also—in some other way. I have decided to see the servants,

and to search their thoughts and actions, Mr. Betteredge, instead of

searching their wardrobes. Before I begin, however, I want to ask you a

question or two. You are an observant man—did you notice anything

strange in any of the servants (making due allowance, of course, for

fright and fluster), after the loss of the Diamond was found out? Any

particular quarrel among them? Anyone of them not in his or her usual

spirits? Unexpectedly out of temper, for instance? or unexpectedly

taken ill?”

I had just time to think of Rosanna Spearman’s sudden illness at

yesterday’s dinner—but not time to make any answer—when I saw Sergeant

Cuff’s eyes suddenly turn aside towards the shrubbery; and I heard him

say softly to himself, “Hullo!”

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

“A touch of the rheumatics in my back,” said the Sergeant, in a loud

voice, as if he wanted some third person to hear us. “We shall have a

change in the weather before long.”

A few steps further brought us to the corner of the house. Turning off

sharp to the right, we entered on the terrace, and went down, by the

steps in the middle, into the garden below. Sergeant Cuff stopped

there, in the open space, where we could see round us on every side.

“About that young person, Rosanna Spearman?” he said. “It isn’t very

likely, with her personal appearance, that she has got a lover. But,

for the girl’s own sake, I must ask you at once whether _she_ has

provided herself with a sweetheart, poor wretch, like the rest of

them?”

What on earth did he mean, under present circumstances, by putting such

a question to me as that? I stared at him, instead of answering him.

“I saw Rosanna Spearman hiding in the shrubbery as we went by,” said

the Sergeant.

“When you said ‘Hullo’?”

“Yes—when I said ‘Hullo!’ If there’s a sweetheart in the case, the

hiding doesn’t much matter. If there isn’t—as things are in this

house—the hiding is a highly suspicious circumstance, and it will be my

painful duty to act on it accordingly.”

What, in God’s name, was I to say to him? I knew the shrubbery was Mr.

Franklin’s favourite walk; I knew he would most likely turn that way

when he came back from the station; I knew that Penelope had over and

over again caught her fellow-servant hanging about there, and had

always declared to me that Rosanna’s object was to attract Mr.

Franklin’s attention. If my daughter was right, she might well have

been lying in wait for Mr. Franklin’s return when the Sergeant noticed

her. I was put between the two difficulties of mentioning Penelope’s

fanciful notion as if it was mine, or of leaving an unfortunate

creature to suffer the consequences, the very serious consequences, of

exciting the suspicion of Sergeant Cuff. Out of pure pity for the

girl—on my soul and my character, out of pure pity for the girl—I gave

the Sergeant the necessary explanations, and told him that Rosanna had

been mad enough to set her heart on Mr. Franklin Blake.

Sergeant Cuff never laughed. On the few occasions when anything amused

him, he curled up a little at the corners of the lips, nothing more. He

curled up now.

“Hadn’t you better say she’s mad enough to be an ugly girl and only a

servant?” he asked. “The falling in love with a gentleman of Mr.

Franklin Blake’s manners and appearance doesn’t seem to _me_ to be the

maddest part of her conduct by any means. However, I’m glad the thing

is cleared up: it relieves one’s mind to have things cleared up. Yes,

I’ll keep it a secret, Mr. Betteredge. I like to be tender to human

infirmity—though I don’t get many chances of exercising that virtue in

my line of life. You think Mr. Franklin Blake hasn’t got a suspicion of

the girl’s fancy for him? Ah! he would have found it out fast enough if

she had been nice-looking. The ugly women have a bad time of it in this

world; let’s hope it will be made up to them in another. You have got a

nice garden here, and a well-kept lawn. See for yourself how much

better the flowers look with grass about them instead of gravel. No,

thank you. I won’t take a rose. It goes to my heart to break them off

the stem. Just as it goes to your heart, you know, when there’s

something wrong in the servants’ hall. Did you notice anything you

couldn’t account for in any of the servants when the loss of the

Diamond was first found out?”

I had got on very fairly well with Sergeant Cuff so far. But the

slyness with which he slipped in that last question put me on my guard.

In plain English, I didn’t at all relish the notion of helping his

inquiries, when those inquiries took him (in the capacity of snake in

the grass) among my fellow-servants.

“I noticed nothing,” I said, “except that we all lost our heads

together, myself included.”

“Oh,” says the Sergeant, “that’s all you have to tell me, is it?”

I answered, with (as I flattered myself) an unmoved countenance, “That

is all.”

Sergeant Cuff’s dismal eyes looked me hard in the face.

“Mr. Betteredge,” he said, “have you any objection to oblige me by

shaking hands? I have taken an extraordinary liking to you.”

(Why he should have chosen the exact moment when I was deceiving him to

give me that proof of his good opinion, is beyond all comprehension! I

felt a little proud—I really did feel a little proud of having been one

too many at last for the celebrated Cuff!)

We went back to the house; the Sergeant requesting that I would give

him a room to himself, and then send in the servants (the indoor

servants only), one after another, in the order of their rank, from

first to last.

I showed Sergeant Cuff into my own room, and then called the servants

together in the hall. Rosanna Spearman appeared among them, much as

usual. She was as quick in her way as the Sergeant in his, and I

suspect she had heard what he said to me about the servants in general,

just before he discovered her. There she was, at any rate, looking as

if she had never heard of such a place as the shrubbery in her life.

I sent them in, one by one, as desired. The cook was the first to enter

the Court of Justice, otherwise my room. She remained but a short time.

Report, on coming out: “Sergeant Cuff is depressed in his spirits; but

Sergeant Cuff is a perfect gentleman.” My lady’s own maid followed.

Remained much longer. Report, on coming out: “If Sergeant Cuff doesn’t

believe a respectable woman, he might keep his opinion to himself, at

any rate!” Penelope went next. Remained only a moment or two. Report,

on coming out: “Sergeant Cuff is much to be pitied. He must have been

crossed in love, father, when he was a young man.” The first housemaid

followed Penelope. Remained, like my lady’s maid, a long time. Report,

on coming out: “I didn’t enter her ladyship’s service, Mr. Betteredge,

to be doubted to my face by a low police-officer!” Rosanna Spearman

went next. Remained longer than any of them. No report on coming

out—dead silence, and lips as pale as ashes. Samuel, the footman,

followed Rosanna. Remained a minute or two. Report, on coming out:

“Whoever blacks Sergeant Cuff’s boots ought to be ashamed of himself.”

Nancy, the kitchen-maid, went last. Remained a minute or two. Report,

on coming out: “Sergeant Cuff has a heart; _he_ doesn’t cut jokes, Mr.

Betteredge, with a poor hard-working girl.”

Going into the Court of Justice, when it was all over, to hear if there

were any further commands for me, I found the Sergeant at his old

trick—looking out of window, and whistling “The Last Rose of Summer” to

himself.

“Any discoveries, sir?” I inquired.

“If Rosanna Spearman asks leave to go out,” said the Sergeant, “let the

poor thing go; but let me know first.”

I might as well have held my tongue about Rosanna and Mr. Franklin! It

was plain enough; the unfortunate girl had fallen under Sergeant Cuff’s

suspicions, in spite of all I could do to prevent it.

“I hope you don’t think Rosanna is concerned in the loss of the

Diamond?” I ventured to say.

The corners of the Sergeant’s melancholy mouth curled up, and he looked

hard in my face, just as he had looked in the garden.

“I think I had better not tell you, Mr. Betteredge,” he said. “You

might lose your head, you know, for the second time.”

I began to doubt whether I had been one too many for the celebrated

Cuff, after all! It was rather a relief to me that we were interrupted

here by a knock at the door, and a message from the cook. Rosanna

Spearman _had_ asked to go out, for the usual reason, that her head was

bad, and she wanted a breath of fresh air. At a sign from the Sergeant,

I said, Yes. “Which is the servants’ way out?” he asked, when the

messenger had gone. I showed him the servants’ way out. “Lock the door

of your room,” says the Sergeant; “and if anybody asks for me, say I’m

in there, composing my mind.” He curled up again at the corners of the

lips, and disappeared.

Left alone, under those circumstances, a devouring curiosity pushed me

on to make some discoveries for myself.

It was plain that Sergeant Cuff’s suspicions of Rosanna had been roused

by something that he had found out at his examination of the servants

in my room. Now, the only two servants (excepting Rosanna herself) who

had remained under examination for any length of time, were my lady’s

own maid and the first housemaid, those two being also the women who

had taken the lead in persecuting their unfortunate fellow-servant from

the first. Reaching these conclusions, I looked in on them, casually as

it might be, in the servants’ hall, and, finding tea going forward,

instantly invited myself to that meal. (For, _nota bene_, a drop of tea

is to a woman’s tongue what a drop of oil is to a wasting lamp.)

My reliance on the tea-pot, as an ally, did not go unrewarded. In less

than half an hour I knew as much as the Sergeant himself.

My lady’s maid and the housemaid, had, it appeared, neither of them

believed in Rosanna’s illness of the previous day. These two devils—I

ask your pardon; but how else _can_ you describe a couple of spiteful

women?—had stolen upstairs, at intervals during the Thursday afternoon;

had tried Rosanna’s door, and found it locked; had knocked, and not

been answered; had listened, and not heard a sound inside. When the

girl had come down to tea, and had been sent up, still out of sorts, to

bed again, the two devils aforesaid had tried her door once more, and

found it locked; had looked at the keyhole, and found it stopped up;

had seen a light under the door at midnight, and had heard the

crackling of a fire (a fire in a servant’s bedroom in the month of

June!) at four in the morning. All this they had told Sergeant Cuff,

who, in return for their anxiety to enlighten him, had eyed them with

sour and suspicious looks, and had shown them plainly that he didn’t

believe either one or the other. Hence, the unfavourable reports of him

which these two women had brought out with them from the examination.

Hence, also (without reckoning the influence of the tea-pot), their

readiness to let their tongues run to any length on the subject of the

Sergeant’s ungracious behaviour to them.

Having had some experience of the great Cuff’s roundabout ways, and

having last seen him evidently bent on following Rosanna privately when

she went out for her walk, it seemed clear to me that he had thought it

unadvisable to let the lady’s maid and the housemaid know how

materially they had helped him. They were just the sort of women, if he

had treated their evidence as trustworthy, to have been puffed up by

it, and to have said or done something which would have put Rosanna

Spearman on her guard.

I walked out in the fine summer afternoon, very sorry for the poor

girl, and very uneasy in my mind at the turn things had taken. Drifting

towards the shrubbery, some time later, there I met Mr. Franklin. After

returning from seeing his cousin off at the station, he had been with

my lady, holding a long conversation with her. She had told him of Miss

Rachel’s unaccountable refusal to let her wardrobe be examined; and had

put him in such low spirits about my young lady that he seemed to

shrink from speaking on the subject. The family temper appeared in his

face that evening, for the first time in my experience of him.

“Well, Betteredge,” he said, “how does the atmosphere of mystery and

suspicion in which we are all living now, agree with you? Do you

remember that morning when I first came here with the Moonstone? I wish

to God we had thrown it into the quicksand!”

After breaking out in that way, he abstained from speaking again until

he had composed himself. We walked silently, side by side, for a minute

or two, and then he asked me what had become of Sergeant Cuff. It was

impossible to put Mr. Franklin off with the excuse of the Sergeant

being in my room, composing his mind. I told him exactly what had

happened, mentioning particularly what my lady’s maid and the

house-maid had said about Rosanna Spearman.

Mr. Franklin’s clear head saw the turn the Sergeant’s suspicions had

taken, in the twinkling of an eye.

“Didn’t you tell me this morning,” he said, “that one of the

tradespeople declared he had met Rosanna yesterday, on the footway to

Frizinghall, when we supposed her to be ill in her room?”

“Yes, sir.”

“If my aunt’s maid and the other woman have spoken the truth, you may

depend upon it the tradesman _did_ meet her. The girl’s attack of

illness was a blind to deceive us. She had some guilty reason for going

to the town secretly. The paint-stained dress is a dress of hers; and

the fire heard crackling in her room at four in the morning was a fire

lit to destroy it. Rosanna Spearman has stolen the Diamond. I’ll go in

directly, and tell my aunt the turn things have taken.”

“Not just yet, if you please, sir,” said a melancholy voice behind us.

We both turned about, and found ourselves face to face with Sergeant

Cuff.

“Why not just yet?” asked Mr. Franklin.

“Because, sir, if you tell her ladyship, her ladyship will tell Miss

Verinder.”

“Suppose she does. What then?” Mr. Franklin said those words with a

sudden heat and vehemence, as if the Sergeant had mortally offended

him.

“Do you think it’s wise, sir,” said Sergeant Cuff, quietly, “to put

such a question as that to me—at such a time as this?”

There was a moment’s silence between them: Mr. Franklin walked close up

to the Sergeant. The two looked each other straight in the face. Mr.

Franklin spoke first, dropping his voice as suddenly as he had raised

it.

“I suppose you know, Mr. Cuff,” he said, “that you are treading on

delicate ground?”

“It isn’t the first time, by a good many hundreds, that I find myself

treading on delicate ground,” answered the other, as immovable as ever.

“I am to understand that you forbid me to tell my aunt what has

happened?”

“You are to understand, if you please, sir, that I throw up the case,

if you tell Lady Verinder, or tell anybody, what has happened, until I

give you leave.”

That settled it. Mr. Franklin had no choice but to submit. He turned

away in anger—and left us.

I had stood there listening to them, all in a tremble; not knowing whom

to suspect, or what to think next. In the midst of my confusion, two

things, however, were plain to me. First, that my young lady was, in

some unaccountable manner, at the bottom of the sharp speeches that had

passed between them. Second, that they thoroughly understood each

other, without having previously exchanged a word of explanation on

either side.

“Mr. Betteredge,” says the Sergeant, “you have done a very foolish

thing in my absence. You have done a little detective business on your

own account. For the future, perhaps you will be so obliging as to do

your detective business along with me.”

He took me by the arm, and walked me away with him along the road by

which he had come. I dare say I had deserved his reproof—but I was not

going to help him to set traps for Rosanna Spearman, for all that.

Thief or no thief, legal or not legal, I don’t care—I pitied her.

“What do you want of me?” I asked, shaking him off, and stopping short.

“Only a little information about the country round here,” said the

Sergeant.

I couldn’t well object to improve Sergeant Cuff in his geography.

“Is there any path, in that direction, leading to the sea-beach from

this house?” asked the Sergeant. He pointed, as he spoke, to the

fir-plantation which led to the Shivering Sand.

“Yes,” I said, “there is a path.”

“Show it to me.”

Side by side, in the grey of the summer evening, Sergeant Cuff and I

set forth for the Shivering Sand.

CHAPTER XV

The Sergeant remained silent, thinking his own thoughts, till we

entered the plantation of firs which led to the quicksand. There he

roused himself, like a man whose mind was made up, and spoke to me

again.

“Mr. Betteredge,” he said, “as you have honoured me by taking an oar in

my boat, and as you may, I think, be of some assistance to me before

the evening is out, I see no use in our mystifying one another any

longer, and I propose to set you an example of plain speaking on my

side. You are determined to give me no information to the prejudice of

Rosanna Spearman, because she has been a good girl to _you_, and

because you pity her heartily. Those humane considerations do you a

world of credit, but they happen in this instance to be humane

considerations clean thrown away. Rosanna Spearman is not in the

slightest danger of getting into trouble—no, not if I fix her with

being concerned in the disappearance of the Diamond, on evidence which

is as plain as the nose on your face!”

“Do you mean that my lady won’t prosecute?” I asked.

“I mean that your lady _can’t_ prosecute,” said the Sergeant. “Rosanna

Spearman is simply an instrument in the hands of another person, and

Rosanna Spearman will be held harmless for that other person’s sake.”

He spoke like a man in earnest—there was no denying that. Still, I felt

something stirring uneasily against him in my mind. “Can’t you give

that other person a name?” I said.

“Can’t _you_, Mr. Betteredge?”

“No.”

Sergeant Cuff stood stock-still, and surveyed me with a look of

melancholy interest.

“It’s always a pleasure to me to be tender towards human infirmity,” he

said. “I feel particularly tender at the present moment, Mr.

Betteredge, towards you. And you, with the same excellent motive, feel

particularly tender towards Rosanna Spearman, don’t you? Do you happen

to know whether she has had a new outfit of linen lately?”

What he meant by slipping in this extraordinary question unawares, I

was at a total loss to imagine. Seeing no possible injury to Rosanna if

I owned the truth, I answered that the girl had come to us rather

sparely provided with linen, and that my lady, in recompense for her

good conduct (I laid a stress on her good conduct), had given her a new

outfit not a fortnight since.

“This is a miserable world,” says the Sergeant. “Human life, Mr.

Betteredge, is a sort of target—misfortune is always firing at it, and

always hitting the mark. But for that outfit, we should have discovered

a new nightgown or petticoat among Rosanna’s things, and have nailed

her in that way. You’re not at a loss to follow me, are you? You have

examined the servants yourself, and you know what discoveries two of

them made outside Rosanna’s door. Surely you know what the girl was

about yesterday, after she was taken ill? You can’t guess? Oh dear me,

it’s as plain as that strip of light there, at the end of the trees. At

eleven, on Thursday morning, Superintendent Seegrave (who is a mass of

human infirmity) points out to all the women servants the smear on the

door. Rosanna has her own reasons for suspecting her own things; she

takes the first opportunity of getting to her room, finds the

paint-stain on her night-gown, or petticoat, or what not, shams ill and

slips away to the town, gets the materials for making a new petticoat

or nightgown, makes it alone in her room on the Thursday night, lights

a fire (not to destroy it; two of her fellow-servants are prying

outside her door, and she knows better than to make a smell of burning,

and to have a lot of tinder to get rid of)—lights a fire, I say, to dry

and iron the substitute dress after wringing it out, keeps the stained

dress hidden (probably _on_ her), and is at this moment occupied in

making away with it, in some convenient place, on that lonely bit of

beach ahead of us. I have traced her this evening to your fishing

village, and to one particular cottage, which we may possibly have to

visit, before we go back. She stopped in the cottage for some time, and

she came out with (as I believe) something hidden under her cloak. A

cloak (on a woman’s back) is an emblem of charity—it covers a multitude

of sins. I saw her set off northwards along the coast, after leaving

the cottage. Is your sea-shore here considered a fine specimen of

marine landscape, Mr. Betteredge?”

I answered, “Yes,” as shortly as might be.

“Tastes differ,” says Sergeant Cuff. “Looking at it from my point of

view, I never saw a marine landscape that I admired less. If you happen

to be following another person along your sea-coast, and if that person

happens to look round, there isn’t a scrap of cover to hide you

anywhere. I had to choose between taking Rosanna in custody on

suspicion, or leaving her, for the time being, with her little game in

her own hands. For reasons which I won’t trouble you with, I decided on

making any sacrifice rather than give the alarm as soon as tonight to a

certain person who shall be nameless between us. I came back to the

house to ask you to take me to the north end of the beach by another

way. Sand—in respect of its printing off people’s footsteps—is one of

the best detective officers I know. If we don’t meet with Rosanna

Spearman by coming round on her in this way, the sand may tell us what

she has been at, if the light only lasts long enough. Here _is_ the

sand. If you will excuse my suggesting it—suppose you hold your tongue,

and let me go first?”

If there is such a thing known at the doctor’s shop as a

_detective-fever_, that disease had now got fast hold of your humble

servant. Sergeant Cuff went on between the hillocks of sand, down to

the beach. I followed him (with my heart in my mouth); and waited at a

little distance for what was to happen next.

As it turned out, I found myself standing nearly in the same place

where Rosanna Spearman and I had been talking together when Mr.

Franklin suddenly appeared before us, on arriving at our house from

London. While my eyes were watching the Sergeant, my mind wandered away

in spite of me to what had passed, on that former occasion, between

Rosanna and me. I declare I almost felt the poor thing slip her hand

again into mine, and give it a little grateful squeeze to thank me for

speaking kindly to her. I declare I almost heard her voice telling me

again that the Shivering Sand seemed to draw her to it against her own

will, whenever she went out—almost saw her face brighten again, as it

brightened when she first set eyes upon Mr. Franklin coming briskly out

on us from among the hillocks. My spirits fell lower and lower as I

thought of these things—and the view of the lonesome little bay, when I

looked about to rouse myself, only served to make me feel more uneasy

still.

The last of the evening light was fading away; and over all the

desolate place there hung a still and awful calm. The heave of the main

ocean on the great sandbank out in the bay, was a heave that made no

sound. The inner sea lay lost and dim, without a breath of wind to stir

it. Patches of nasty ooze floated, yellow-white, on the dead surface of

the water. Scum and slime shone faintly in certain places, where the

last of the light still caught them on the two great spits of rock

jutting out, north and south, into the sea. It was now the time of the

turn of the tide: and even as I stood there waiting, the broad brown

face of the quicksand began to dimple and quiver—the only moving thing

in all the horrid place.

I saw the Sergeant start as the shiver of the sand caught his eye.

After looking at it for a minute or so, he turned and came back to me.

“A treacherous place, Mr. Betteredge,” he said; “and no signs of

Rosanna Spearman anywhere on the beach, look where you may.”

He took me down lower on the shore, and I saw for myself that his

footsteps and mine were the only footsteps printed off on the sand.

“How does the fishing village bear, standing where we are now?” asked

Sergeant Cuff.

“Cobb’s Hole,” I answered (that being the name of the place), “bears as

near as may be, due south.”

“I saw the girl this evening, walking northward along the shore, from

Cobb’s Hole,” said the Sergeant. “Consequently, she must have been

walking towards this place. Is Cobb’s Hole on the other side of that

point of land there? And can we get to it—now it’s low water—by the

beach?”

I answered, “Yes,” to both those questions.

“If you’ll excuse my suggesting it, we’ll step out briskly,” said the

Sergeant. “I want to find the place where she left the shore, before it

gets dark.”

We had walked, I should say, a couple of hundred yards towards Cobb’s

Hole, when Sergeant Cuff suddenly went down on his knees on the beach,

to all appearance seized with a sudden frenzy for saying his prayers.

“There’s something to be said for your marine landscape here, after

all,” remarked the Sergeant. “Here are a woman’s footsteps, Mr.

Betteredge! Let us call them Rosanna’s footsteps, until we find

evidence to the contrary that we can’t resist. Very confused footsteps,

you will please to observe—purposely confused, I should say. Ah, poor

soul, she understands the detective virtues of sand as well as I do!

But hasn’t she been in rather too great a hurry to tread out the marks

thoroughly? I think she has. Here’s one footstep going _from_ Cobb’s

Hole; and here is another going back to it. Isn’t that the toe of her

shoe pointing straight to the water’s edge? And don’t I see two

heel-marks further down the beach, close at the water’s edge also? I

don’t want to hurt your feelings, but I’m afraid Rosanna is sly. It

looks as if she had determined to get to that place you and I have just

come from, without leaving any marks on the sand to trace her by. Shall

we say that she walked through the water from this point till she got

to that ledge of rocks behind us, and came back the same way, and then

took to the beach again where those two heel marks are still left? Yes,

we’ll say that. It seems to fit in with my notion that she had

something under her cloak, when she left the cottage. No! not something

to destroy—for, in that case, where would have been the need of all

these precautions to prevent my tracing the place at which her walk

ended? Something to hide is, I think, the better guess of the two.

Perhaps, if we go on to the cottage, we may find out what that

something is?”

At this proposal, my detective-fever suddenly cooled. “You don’t want

me,” I said. “What good can I do?”

“The longer I know you, Mr. Betteredge,” said the Sergeant, “the more

virtues I discover. Modesty—oh dear me, how rare modesty is in this

world! and how much of that rarity you possess! If I go alone to the

cottage, the people’s tongues will be tied at the first question I put

to them. If I go with you, I go introduced by a justly respected

neighbour, and a flow of conversation is the necessary result. It

strikes me in that light; how does it strike you?”

Not having an answer of the needful smartness as ready as I could have

wished, I tried to gain time by asking him what cottage he wanted to go

to.

On the Sergeant describing the place, I recognised it as a cottage

inhabited by a fisherman named Yolland, with his wife and two grown-up

children, a son and a daughter. If you will look back, you will find

that, in first presenting Rosanna Spearman to your notice, I have

described her as occasionally varying her walk to the Shivering Sand,

by a visit to some friends of hers at Cobb’s Hole. Those friends were

the Yollands—respectable, worthy people, a credit to the neighbourhood.

Rosanna’s acquaintance with them had begun by means of the daughter,

who was afflicted with a misshapen foot, and who was known in our parts

by the name of Limping Lucy. The two deformed girls had, I suppose, a

kind of fellow-feeling for each other. Anyway, the Yollands and Rosanna

always appeared to get on together, at the few chances they had of

meeting, in a pleasant and friendly manner. The fact of Sergeant Cuff

having traced the girl to _their_ cottage, set the matter of my helping

his inquiries in quite a new light. Rosanna had merely gone where she

was in the habit of going; and to show that she had been in company

with the fisherman and his family was as good as to prove that she had

been innocently occupied so far, at any rate. It would be doing the

girl a service, therefore, instead of an injury, if I allowed myself to

be convinced by Sergeant Cuff’s logic. I professed myself convinced by

it accordingly.

We went on to Cobb’s Hole, seeing the footsteps on the sand, as long as

the light lasted.

On reaching the cottage, the fisherman and his son proved to be out in

the boat; and Limping Lucy, always weak and weary, was resting on her

bed upstairs. Good Mrs. Yolland received us alone in her kitchen. When

she heard that Sergeant Cuff was a celebrated character in London, she

clapped a bottle of Dutch gin and a couple of clean pipes on the table,

and stared as if she could never see enough of him.

I sat quiet in a corner, waiting to hear how the Sergeant would find

his way to the subject of Rosanna Spearman. His usual roundabout manner

of going to work proved, on this occasion, to be more roundabout than

ever. How he managed it is more than I could tell at the time, and more

than I can tell now. But this is certain, he began with the Royal

Family, the Primitive Methodists, and the price of fish; and he got

from that (in his dismal, underground way) to the loss of the

Moonstone, the spitefulness of our first house-maid, and the hard

behaviour of the women-servants generally towards Rosanna Spearman.

Having reached his subject in this fashion, he described himself as

making his inquiries about the lost Diamond, partly with a view to find

it, and partly for the purpose of clearing Rosanna from the unjust

suspicions of her enemies in the house. In about a quarter of an hour

from the time when we entered the kitchen, good Mrs. Yolland was

persuaded that she was talking to Rosanna’s best friend, and was

pressing Sergeant Cuff to comfort his stomach and revive his spirits

out of the Dutch bottle.

Being firmly persuaded that the Sergeant was wasting his breath to no

purpose on Mrs. Yolland, I sat enjoying the talk between them, much as

I have sat, in my time, enjoying a stage play. The great Cuff showed a

wonderful patience; trying his luck drearily this way and that way, and

firing shot after shot, as it were, at random, on the chance of hitting

the mark. Everything to Rosanna’s credit, nothing to Rosanna’s

prejudice—that was how it ended, try as he might; with Mrs. Yolland

talking nineteen to the dozen, and placing the most entire confidence

in him. His last effort was made, when we had looked at our watches,

and had got on our legs previous to taking leave.

“I shall now wish you good-night, ma’am,” says the Sergeant. “And I

shall only say, at parting, that Rosanna Spearman has a sincere

well-wisher in myself, your obedient servant. But, oh dear me! she will

never get on in her present place; and my advice to her is—leave it.”

“Bless your heart alive! she is _going_ to leave it!” cries Mrs.

Yolland. (_Nota bene_—I translate Mrs. Yolland out of the Yorkshire

language into the English language. When I tell you that the

all-accomplished Cuff was every now and then puzzled to understand her

until I helped him, you will draw your own conclusions as to what

_your_ state of mind would be if I reported her in her native tongue.)

Rosanna Spearman going to leave us! I pricked up my ears at that. It

seemed strange, to say the least of it, that she should have given no

warning, in the first place, to my lady or to me. A certain doubt came

up in my mind whether Sergeant Cuff’s last random shot might not have

hit the mark. I began to question whether my share in the proceedings

was quite as harmless a one as I had thought it. It might be all in the

way of the Sergeant’s business to mystify an honest woman by wrapping

her round in a network of lies but it was my duty to have remembered,

as a good Protestant, that the father of lies is the Devil—and that

mischief and the Devil are never far apart. Beginning to smell mischief

in the air, I tried to take Sergeant Cuff out. He sat down again

instantly, and asked for a little drop of comfort out of the Dutch

bottle. Mrs. Yolland sat down opposite to him, and gave him his nip. I

went on to the door, excessively uncomfortable, and said I thought I

must bid them good-night—and yet I didn’t go.

“So she means to leave?” says the Sergeant. “What is she to do when she

does leave? Sad, sad! The poor creature has got no friends in the

world, except you and me.”

“Ah, but she has though!” says Mrs. Yolland. “She came in here, as I

told you, this evening; and, after sitting and talking a little with my

girl Lucy and me she asked to go upstairs by herself, into Lucy’s room.

It’s the only room in our place where there’s pen and ink. ‘I want to

write a letter to a friend,’ she says ‘and I can’t do it for the prying

and peeping of the servants up at the house.’ Who the letter was

written to I can’t tell you: it must have been a mortal long one,

judging by the time she stopped upstairs over it. I offered her a

postage-stamp when she came down. She hadn’t got the letter in her

hand, and she didn’t accept the stamp. A little close, poor soul (as

you know), about herself and her doings. But a friend she has got

somewhere, I can tell you; and to that friend you may depend upon it,

she will go.”

“Soon?” asked the Sergeant.

“As soon as she can,” says Mrs. Yolland.

Here I stepped in again from the door. As chief of my lady’s

establishment, I couldn’t allow this sort of loose talk about a servant

of ours going, or not going, to proceed any longer in my presence,

without noticing it.

“You must be mistaken about Rosanna Spearman,” I said. “If she had been

going to leave her present situation, she would have mentioned it, in

the first place, to _me_.”

“Mistaken?” cries Mrs. Yolland. “Why, only an hour ago she bought some

things she wanted for travelling—of my own self, Mr. Betteredge, in

this very room. And that reminds me,” says the wearisome woman,

suddenly beginning to feel in her pocket, “of something I have got it

on my mind to say about Rosanna and her money. Are you either of you

likely to see her when you go back to the house?”

“I’ll take a message to the poor thing, with the greatest pleasure,”

answered Sergeant Cuff, before I could put in a word edgewise.

Mrs. Yolland produced out of her pocket, a few shillings and sixpences,

and counted them out with a most particular and exasperating

carefulness in the palm of her hand. She offered the money to the

Sergeant, looking mighty loth to part with it all the while.

“Might I ask you to give this back to Rosanna, with my love and

respects?” says Mrs. Yolland. “She insisted on paying me for the one or

two things she took a fancy to this evening—and money’s welcome enough

in our house, I don’t deny it. Still, I’m not easy in my mind about

taking the poor thing’s little savings. And to tell you the truth, I

don’t think my man would like to hear that I had taken Rosanna

Spearman’s money, when he comes back tomorrow morning from his work.

Please say she’s heartily welcome to the things she bought of me—as a

gift. And don’t leave the money on the table,” says Mrs. Yolland,

putting it down suddenly before the Sergeant, as if it burnt her

fingers—“don’t, there’s a good man! For times are hard, and flesh is

weak; and I _might_ feel tempted to put it back in my pocket again.”

“Come along!” I said, “I can’t wait any longer: I must go back to the

house.”

“I’ll follow you directly,” says Sergeant Cuff.

For the second time, I went to the door; and, for the second time, try

as I might, I couldn’t cross the threshold.

“It’s a delicate matter, ma’am,” I heard the Sergeant say, “giving

money back. You charged her cheap for the things, I’m sure?”

“Cheap!” says Mrs. Yolland. “Come and judge for yourself.”

She took up the candle and led the Sergeant to a corner of the kitchen.

For the life of me, I couldn’t help following them. Shaken down in the

corner was a heap of odds and ends (mostly old metal), which the

fisherman had picked up at different times from wrecked ships, and

which he hadn’t found a market for yet, to his own mind. Mrs. Yolland

dived into this rubbish, and brought up an old japanned tin case, with

a cover to it, and a hasp to hang it up by—the sort of thing they use,

on board ship, for keeping their maps and charts, and such-like, from

the wet.

“There!” says she. “When Rosanna came in this evening, she bought the

fellow to that. ‘It will just do,’ she says, ‘to put my cuffs and

collars in, and keep them from being crumpled in my box.’ One and

ninepence, Mr. Cuff. As I live by bread, not a halfpenny more!”

“Dirt cheap!” says the Sergeant, with a heavy sigh.

He weighed the case in his hand. I thought I heard a note or two of

“The Last Rose of Summer” as he looked at it. There was no doubt now!

He had made another discovery to the prejudice of Rosanna Spearman, in

the place of all others where I thought her character was safest, and

all through me! I leave you to imagine what I felt, and how sincerely I

repented having been the medium of introduction between Mrs. Yolland

and Sergeant Cuff.

“That will do,” I said. “We really must go.”

Without paying the least attention to me, Mrs. Yolland took another

dive into the rubbish, and came up out of it, this time, with a

dog-chain.

“Weigh it in your hand, sir,” she said to the Sergeant. “We had three

of these; and Rosanna has taken two of them. ‘What can you want, my

dear, with a couple of dog’s chains?’ says I. ‘If I join them together

they’ll go round my box nicely,’ says she. ‘Rope’s cheapest,’ says I.

‘Chain’s surest,’ says she. ‘Who ever heard of a box corded with

chain,’ says I. ‘Oh, Mrs. Yolland, don’t make objections!’ says she;

‘let me have my chains!’ A strange girl, Mr. Cuff—good as gold, and

kinder than a sister to my Lucy—but always a little strange. There! I

humoured her. Three and sixpence. On the word of an honest woman, three

_and_ sixpence, Mr. Cuff!”

“Each?” says the Sergeant.

“Both together!” says Mrs. Yolland. “Three and sixpence for the two.”

“Given away, ma’am,” says the Sergeant, shaking his head. “Clean given

away!”

“There’s the money,” says Mrs. Yolland, getting back sideways to the

little heap of silver on the table, as if it drew her in spite of

herself. “The tin case and the dog chains were all she bought, and all

she took away. One and ninepence and three and sixpence—total, five and

three. With my love and respects—and I can’t find it in my conscience

to take a poor girl’s savings, when she may want them herself.”

“I can’t find it in _my_ conscience, ma’am, to give the money back,”

says Sergeant Cuff. “You have as good as made her a present of the

things—you have indeed.”

“Is that your sincere opinion, sir?” says Mrs. Yolland brightening up

wonderfully.

“There can’t be a doubt about it,” answered the Sergeant. “Ask Mr.

Betteredge.”

It was no use asking _me_. All they got out of _me_ was, “Good-night.”

“Bother the money!” says Mrs. Yolland. With these words, she appeared

to lose all command over herself; and, making a sudden snatch at the

heap of silver, put it back, holus-bolus, in her pocket. “It upsets

one’s temper, it does, to see it lying there, and nobody taking it,”

cries this unreasonable woman, sitting down with a thump, and looking

at Sergeant Cuff, as much as to say, “It’s in my pocket again now—get

it out if you can!”

This time, I not only went to the door, but went fairly out on the road

back. Explain it how you may, I felt as if one or both of them had

mortally offended me. Before I had taken three steps down the village,

I heard the Sergeant behind me.

“Thank you for your introduction, Mr. Betteredge,” he said. “I am

indebted to the fisherman’s wife for an entirely new sensation. Mrs.

Yolland has puzzled me.”

It was on the tip of my tongue to have given him a sharp answer, for no

better reason than this—that I was out of temper with him, because I

was out of temper with myself. But when he owned to being puzzled, a

comforting doubt crossed my mind whether any great harm had been done

after all. I waited in discreet silence to hear more.

“Yes,” says the Sergeant, as if he was actually reading my thoughts in

the dark. “Instead of putting me on the scent, it may console you to

know, Mr. Betteredge (with your interest in Rosanna), that you have

been the means of throwing me off. What the girl has done, tonight, is

clear enough, of course. She has joined the two chains, and has

fastened them to the hasp in the tin case. She has sunk the case, in

the water or in the quicksand. She has made the loose end of the chain

fast to some place under the rocks, known only to herself. And she will

leave the case secure at its anchorage till the present proceedings

have come to an end; after which she can privately pull it up again out

of its hiding-place, at her own leisure and convenience. All perfectly

plain, so far. But,” says the Sergeant, with the first tone of

impatience in his voice that I had heard yet, “the mystery is—what the

devil has she hidden in the tin case?”

I thought to myself, “The Moonstone!” But I only said to Sergeant Cuff,

“Can’t you guess?”

“It’s not the Diamond,” says the Sergeant. “The whole experience of my

life is at fault, if Rosanna Spearman has got the Diamond.”

On hearing those words, the infernal detective-fever began, I suppose,

to burn in me again. At any rate, I forgot myself in the interest of

guessing this new riddle. I said rashly, “The stained dress!”

Sergeant Cuff stopped short in the dark, and laid his hand on my arm.

“Is anything thrown into that quicksand of yours, ever thrown up on the

surface again?” he asked.

“Never,” I answered. “Light or heavy, whatever goes into the Shivering

Sand is sucked down, and seen no more.”

“Does Rosanna Spearman know that?”

“She knows it as well as I do.”

“Then,” says the Sergeant, “what on earth has she got to do but to tie

up a bit of stone in the stained dress and throw it into the quicksand?

There isn’t the shadow of a reason why she should have hidden it—and

yet she _must_ have hidden it. Query,” says the Sergeant, walking on

again, “is the paint-stained dress a petticoat or a night-gown? or is

it something else which there is a reason for preserving at any risk?

Mr. Betteredge, if nothing occurs to prevent it, I must go to

Frizinghall tomorrow, and discover what she bought in the town, when

she privately got the materials for making the substitute dress. It’s a

risk to leave the house, as things are now—but it’s a worse risk still

to stir another step in this matter in the dark. Excuse my being a

little out of temper; I’m degraded in my own estimation—I have let

Rosanna Spearman puzzle me.”

When we got back, the servants were at supper. The first person we saw

in the outer yard was the policeman whom Superintendent Seegrave had

left at the Sergeant’s disposal. The Sergeant asked if Rosanna Spearman

had returned. Yes. When? Nearly an hour since. What had she done? She

had gone upstairs to take off her bonnet and cloak—and she was now at

supper quietly with the rest.

Without making any remark, Sergeant Cuff walked on, sinking lower and

lower in his own estimation, to the back of the house. Missing the

entrance in the dark, he went on (in spite of my calling to him) till

he was stopped by a wicket-gate which led into the garden. When I

joined him to bring him back by the right way, I found that he was

looking up attentively at one particular window, on the bedroom floor,

at the back of the house.

Looking up, in my turn, I discovered that the object of his

contemplation was the window of Miss Rachel’s room, and that lights

were passing backwards and forwards there as if something unusual was

going on.

“Isn’t that Miss Verinder’s room?” asked Sergeant Cuff.

I replied that it was, and invited him to go in with me to supper. The

Sergeant remained in his place, and said something about enjoying the

smell of the garden at night. I left him to his enjoyment. Just as I

was turning in at the door, I heard “The Last Rose of Summer” at the

wicket-gate. Sergeant Cuff had made another discovery! And my young

lady’s window was at the bottom of it this time!

The latter reflection took me back again to the Sergeant, with a polite

intimation that I could not find it in my heart to leave him by

himself. “Is there anything you don’t understand up there?” I added,

pointing to Miss Rachel’s window.

Judging by his voice, Sergeant Cuff had suddenly risen again to the

right place in his own estimation. “You are great people for betting in

Yorkshire, are you not?” he asked.

“Well?” I said. “Suppose we are?”

“If I was a Yorkshireman,” proceeded the Sergeant, taking my arm, “I

would lay you an even sovereign, Mr. Betteredge, that your young lady

has suddenly resolved to leave the house. If I won on that event, I

should offer to lay another sovereign, that the idea has occurred to

her within the last hour.” The first of the Sergeant’s guesses startled

me. The second mixed itself up somehow in my head with the report we

had heard from the policeman, that Rosanna Spearman had returned from

the sands within the last hour. The two together had a curious effect

on me as we went in to supper. I shook off Sergeant Cuff’s arm, and,

forgetting my manners, pushed by him through the door to make my own

inquiries for myself.

Samuel, the footman, was the first person I met in the passage.

“Her ladyship is waiting to see you and Sergeant Cuff,” he said, before

I could put any questions to him.

“How long has she been waiting?” asked the Sergeant’s voice behind me.

“For the last hour, sir.”

There it was again! Rosanna had come back; Miss Rachel had taken some

resolution out of the common; and my lady had been waiting to see the

Sergeant—all within the last hour! It was not pleasant to find these

very different persons and things linking themselves together in this

way. I went on upstairs, without looking at Sergeant Cuff, or speaking

to him. My hand took a sudden fit of trembling as I lifted it to knock

at my mistress’s door.

“I shouldn’t be surprised,” whispered the Sergeant over my shoulder,

“if a scandal was to burst up in the house tonight. Don’t be alarmed! I

have put the muzzle on worse family difficulties than this, in my

time.”

As he said the words I heard my mistress’s voice calling to us to come

in.

CHAPTER XVI

We found my lady with no light in the room but the reading-lamp. The

shade was screwed down so as to overshadow her face. Instead of looking

up at us in her usual straightforward way, she sat close at the table,

and kept her eyes fixed obstinately on an open book.

“Officer,” she said, “is it important to the inquiry you are

conducting, to know beforehand if any person now in this house wishes

to leave it?”

“Most important, my lady.”

“I have to tell you, then, that Miss Verinder proposes going to stay

with her aunt, Mrs. Ablewhite, of Frizinghall. She has arranged to

leave us the first thing tomorrow morning.”

Sergeant Cuff looked at me. I made a step forward to speak to my

mistress—and, feeling my heart fail me (if I must own it), took a step

back again, and said nothing.

“May I ask your ladyship _when_ Miss Verinder informed you that she was

going to her aunt’s?” inquired the Sergeant.

“About an hour since,” answered my mistress.

Sergeant Cuff looked at me once more. They say old people’s hearts are

not very easily moved. _My_ heart couldn’t have thumped much harder

than it did now, if I had been five-and-twenty again!

“I have no claim, my lady,” says the Sergeant, “to control Miss

Verinder’s actions. All I can ask you to do is to put off her

departure, if possible, till later in the day. I must go to Frizinghall

myself tomorrow morning—and I shall be back by two o’clock, if not

before. If Miss Verinder can be kept here till that time, I should wish

to say two words to her—unexpectedly—before she goes.”

My lady directed me to give the coachman her orders, that the carriage

was not to come for Miss Rachel until two o’clock. “Have you more to

say?” she asked of the Sergeant, when this had been done.

“Only one thing, your ladyship. If Miss Verinder is surprised at this

change in the arrangements, please not to mention Me as being the cause

of putting off her journey.”

My mistress lifted her head suddenly from her book as if she was going

to say something—checked herself by a great effort—and, looking back

again at the open page, dismissed us with a sign of her hand.

“That’s a wonderful woman,” said Sergeant Cuff, when we were out in the

hall again. “But for her self-control, the mystery that puzzles you,

Mr. Betteredge, would have been at an end tonight.”

At those words, the truth rushed at last into my stupid old head. For

the moment, I suppose I must have gone clean out of my senses. I seized

the Sergeant by the collar of his coat, and pinned him against the

wall.

“Damn you!” I cried out, “there’s something wrong about Miss Rachel—and

you have been hiding it from me all this time!”

Sergeant Cuff looked up at me—flat against the wall—without stirring a

hand, or moving a muscle of his melancholy face.

“Ah,” he said, “you’ve guessed it at last.”

My hand dropped from his collar, and my head sunk on my breast. Please

to remember, as some excuse for my breaking out as I did, that I had

served the family for fifty years. Miss Rachel had climbed upon my

knees, and pulled my whiskers, many and many a time when she was a

child. Miss Rachel, with all her faults, had been, to my mind, the

dearest and prettiest and best young mistress that ever an old servant

waited on, and loved. I begged Sergeant’s Cuff’s pardon, but I am

afraid I did it with watery eyes, and not in a very becoming way.

“Don’t distress yourself, Mr. Betteredge,” says the Sergeant, with more

kindness than I had any right to expect from him. “In my line of life

if we were quick at taking offence, we shouldn’t be worth salt to our

porridge. If it’s any comfort to you, collar me again. You don’t in the

least know how to do it; but I’ll overlook your awkwardness in

consideration of your feelings.”

He curled up at the corners of his lips, and, in his own dreary way,

seemed to think he had delivered himself of a very good joke.

I led him into my own little sitting-room, and closed the door.

“Tell me the truth, Sergeant,” I said. “What do you suspect? It’s no

kindness to hide it from me now.”

“I don’t suspect,” said Sergeant Cuff. “I know.”

My unlucky temper began to get the better of me again.

“Do you mean to tell me, in plain English,” I said, “that Miss Rachel

has stolen her own Diamond?”

“Yes,” says the Sergeant; “that is what I mean to tell you, in so many

words. Miss Verinder has been in secret possession of the Moonstone

from first to last; and she has taken Rosanna Spearman into her

confidence, because she has calculated on our suspecting Rosanna

Spearman of the theft. There is the whole case in a nutshell. Collar me

again, Mr. Betteredge. If it’s any vent to your feelings, collar me

again.”

God help me! my feelings were not to be relieved in that way. “Give me

your reasons!” That was all I could say to him.

“You shall hear my reasons tomorrow,” said the Sergeant. “If Miss

Verinder refuses to put off her visit to her aunt (which you will find

Miss Verinder will do), I shall be obliged to lay the whole case before

your mistress tomorrow. And, as I don’t know what may come of it, I

shall request you to be present, and to hear what passes on both sides.

Let the matter rest for tonight. No, Mr. Betteredge, you don’t get a

word more on the subject of the Moonstone out of me. There is your

table spread for supper. That’s one of the many human infirmities which

I always treat tenderly. If you will ring the bell, I’ll say grace.

‘For what we are going to receive——’”

“I wish you a good appetite to it, Sergeant,” I said. “_My_ appetite is

gone. I’ll wait and see you served, and then I’ll ask you to excuse me,

if I go away, and try to get the better of this by myself.”

I saw him served with the best of everything—and I shouldn’t have been

sorry if the best of everything had choked him. The head gardener (Mr.

Begbie) came in at the same time, with his weekly account. The Sergeant

got on the subject of roses and the merits of grass walks and gravel

walks immediately. I left the two together, and went out with a heavy

heart. This was the first trouble I remember for many a long year which

wasn’t to be blown off by a whiff of tobacco, and which was even beyond

the reach of _Robinson Crusoe_.

Being restless and miserable, and having no particular room to go to, I

took a turn on the terrace, and thought it over in peace and quietness

by myself. It doesn’t much matter what my thoughts were. I felt

wretchedly old, and worn out, and unfit for my place—and began to

wonder, for the first time in my life, when it would please God to take

me. With all this, I held firm, notwithstanding, to my belief in Miss

Rachel. If Sergeant Cuff had been Solomon in all his glory, and had

told me that my young lady had mixed herself up in a mean and guilty

plot, I should have had but one answer for Solomon, wise as he was,

“You don’t know her; and I do.”

My meditations were interrupted by Samuel. He brought me a written

message from my mistress.

Going into the house to get a light to read it by, Samuel remarked that

there seemed a change coming in the weather. My troubled mind had

prevented me from noticing it before. But, now my attention was roused,

I heard the dogs uneasy, and the wind moaning low. Looking up at the

sky, I saw the rack of clouds getting blacker and blacker, and hurrying

faster and faster over a watery moon. Wild weather coming—Samuel was

right, wild weather coming.

The message from my lady informed me, that the magistrate at

Frizinghall had written to remind her about the three Indians. Early in

the coming week, the rogues must needs be released, and left free to

follow their own devices. If we had any more questions to ask them,

there was no time to lose. Having forgotten to mention this, when she

had last seen Sergeant Cuff, my mistress now desired me to supply the

omission. The Indians had gone clean out of my head (as they have, no

doubt, gone clean out of yours). I didn’t see much use in stirring that

subject again. However, I obeyed my orders on the spot, as a matter of

course.

I found Sergeant Cuff and the gardener, with a bottle of Scotch whisky

between them, head over ears in an argument on the growing of roses.

The Sergeant was so deeply interested that he held up his hand, and

signed to me not to interrupt the discussion, when I came in. As far as

I could understand it, the question between them was, whether the white

moss rose did, or did not, require to be budded on the dog-rose to make

it grow well. Mr. Begbie said, Yes; and Sergeant Cuff said, No. They

appealed to me, as hotly as a couple of boys. Knowing nothing whatever

about the growing of roses, I steered a middle course—just as her

Majesty’s judges do, when the scales of justice bother them by hanging

even to a hair. “Gentlemen,” I remarked, “there is much to be said on

both sides.” In the temporary lull produced by that impartial sentence,

I laid my lady’s written message on the table, under the eyes of

Sergeant Cuff.

I had got by this time, as nearly as might be, to hate the Sergeant.

But truth compels me to acknowledge that, in respect of readiness of

mind, he was a wonderful man.

In half a minute after he had read the message, he had looked back into

his memory for Superintendent Seegrave’s report; had picked out that

part of it in which the Indians were concerned; and was ready with his

answer. A certain great traveller, who understood the Indians and their

language, had figured in Mr. Seegrave’s report, hadn’t he? Very well.

Did I know the gentleman’s name and address? Very well again. Would I

write them on the back of my lady’s message? Much obliged to me.

Sergeant Cuff would look that gentleman up, when he went to Frizinghall

in the morning.

“Do you expect anything to come of it?” I asked. “Superintendent

Seegrave found the Indians as innocent as the babe unborn.”

“Superintendent Seegrave has been proved wrong, up to this time, in all

his conclusions,” answered the Sergeant. “It may be worth while to find

out tomorrow whether Superintendent Seegrave was wrong about the

Indians as well.” With that he turned to Mr. Begbie, and took up the

argument again exactly at the place where it had left off. “This

question between us is a question of soils and seasons, and patience

and pains, Mr. Gardener. Now let me put it to you from another point of

view. You take your white moss rose——”

By that time, I had closed the door on them, and was out of hearing of

the rest of the dispute.

In the passage, I met Penelope hanging about, and asked what she was

waiting for.

She was waiting for her young lady’s bell, when her young lady chose to

call her back to go on with the packing for the next day’s journey.

Further inquiry revealed to me, that Miss Rachel had given it as a

reason for wanting to go to her aunt at Frizinghall, that the house was

unendurable to her, and that she could bear the odious presence of a

policeman under the same roof with herself no longer. On being

informed, half an hour since, that her departure would be delayed till

two in the afternoon, she had flown into a violent passion. My lady,

present at the time, had severely rebuked her, and then (having

apparently something to say, which was reserved for her daughter’s

private ear) had sent Penelope out of the room. My girl was in

wretchedly low spirits about the changed state of things in the house.

“Nothing goes right, father; nothing is like what it used to be. I feel

as if some dreadful misfortune was hanging over us all.”

That was my feeling too. But I put a good face on it, before my

daughter. Miss Rachel’s bell rang while we were talking. Penelope ran

up the back stairs to go on with the packing. I went by the other way

to the hall, to see what the glass said about the change in the

weather.

Just as I approached the swing-door leading into the hall from the

servants’ offices, it was violently opened from the other side, and

Rosanna Spearman ran by me, with a miserable look of pain in her face,

and one of her hands pressed hard over her heart, as if the pang was in

that quarter. “What’s the matter, my girl?” I asked, stopping her. “Are

you ill?” “For God’s sake, don’t speak to me,” she answered, and

twisted herself out of my hands, and ran on towards the servants’

staircase. I called to the cook (who was within hearing) to look after

the poor girl. Two other persons proved to be within hearing, as well

as the cook. Sergeant Cuff darted softly out of my room, and asked what

was the matter. I answered, “Nothing.” Mr. Franklin, on the other side,

pulled open the swing-door, and beckoning me into the hall, inquired if

I had seen anything of Rosanna Spearman.

“She has just passed me, sir, with a very disturbed face, and in a very

odd manner.”

“I am afraid I am innocently the cause of that disturbance,

Betteredge.”

“You, sir!”

“I can’t explain it,” says Mr. Franklin; “but, if the girl _is_

concerned in the loss of the Diamond, I do really believe she was on

the point of confessing everything—to me, of all the people in the

world—not two minutes since.”

Looking towards the swing-door, as he said those last words, I fancied

I saw it opened a little way from the inner side.

Was there anybody listening? The door fell to, before I could get to

it. Looking through, the moment after, I thought I saw the tails of

Sergeant Cuff’s respectable black coat disappearing round the corner of

the passage. He knew, as well as I did, that he could expect no more

help from me, now that I had discovered the turn which his

investigations were really taking. Under those circumstances, it was

quite in his character to help himself, and to do it by the underground

way.

Not feeling sure that I had really seen the Sergeant—and not desiring

to make needless mischief, where, Heaven knows, there was mischief

enough going on already—I told Mr. Franklin that I thought one of the

dogs had got into the house—and then begged him to describe what had

happened between Rosanna and himself.

“Were you passing through the hall, sir?” I asked. “Did you meet her

accidentally, when she spoke to you?”

Mr. Franklin pointed to the billiard-table.

“I was knocking the balls about,” he said, “and trying to get this

miserable business of the Diamond out of my mind. I happened to look

up—and there stood Rosanna Spearman at the side of me, like a ghost!

Her stealing on me in that way was so strange, that I hardly knew what

to do at first. Seeing a very anxious expression in her face, I asked

her if she wished to speak to me. She answered, ‘Yes, if I dare.’

Knowing what suspicion attached to her, I could only put one

construction on such language as that. I confess it made me

uncomfortable. I had no wish to invite the girl’s confidence. At the

same time, in the difficulties that now beset us, I could hardly feel

justified in refusing to listen to her, if she was really bent on

speaking to me. It was an awkward position; and I dare say I got out of

it awkwardly enough. I said to her, ‘I don’t quite understand you. Is

there anything you want me to do?’ Mind, Betteredge, I didn’t speak

unkindly! The poor girl can’t help being ugly—I felt that, at the time.

The cue was still in my hand, and I went on knocking the balls about,

to take off the awkwardness of the thing. As it turned out, I only made

matters worse still. I’m afraid I mortified her without meaning it! She

suddenly turned away. ‘He looks at the billiard balls,’ I heard her

say. ‘Anything rather than look at _me!_’ Before I could stop her, she

had left the hall. I am not quite easy about it, Betteredge. Would you

mind telling Rosanna that I meant no unkindness? I have been a little

hard on her, perhaps, in my own thoughts—I have almost hoped that the

loss of the Diamond might be traced to _her_. Not from any ill-will to

the poor girl: but——” He stopped there, and going back to the

billiard-table, began to knock the balls about once more.

After what had passed between the Sergeant and me, I knew what it was

that he had left unspoken as well as he knew it himself.

Nothing but the tracing of the Moonstone to our second housemaid could

now raise Miss Rachel above the infamous suspicion that rested on her

in the mind of Sergeant Cuff. It was no longer a question of quieting

my young lady’s nervous excitement; it was a question of proving her

innocence. If Rosanna had done nothing to compromise herself, the hope

which Mr. Franklin confessed to having felt would have been hard enough

on her in all conscience. But this was not the case. She had pretended

to be ill, and had gone secretly to Frizinghall. She had been up all

night, making something or destroying something, in private. And she

had been at the Shivering Sand, that evening, under circumstances which

were highly suspicious, to say the least of them. For all these reasons

(sorry as I was for Rosanna) I could not but think that Mr. Franklin’s

way of looking at the matter was neither unnatural nor unreasonable, in

Mr. Franklin’s position. I said a word to him to that effect.

“Yes, yes!” he said in return. “But there is just a chance—a very poor

one, certainly—that Rosanna’s conduct may admit of some explanation

which we don’t see at present. I hate hurting a woman’s feelings,

Betteredge! Tell the poor creature what I told you to tell her. And if

she wants to speak to me—I don’t care whether I get into a scrape or

not—send her to me in the library.” With those kind words he laid down

the cue and left me.

Inquiry at the servants’ offices informed me that Rosanna had retired

to her own room. She had declined all offers of assistance with thanks,

and had only asked to be left to rest in quiet. Here, therefore, was an

end of any confession on her part (supposing she really had a

confession to make) for that night. I reported the result to Mr.

Franklin, who, thereupon, left the library, and went up to bed.

I was putting the lights out, and making the windows fast, when Samuel

came in with news of the two guests whom I had left in my room.

The argument about the white moss rose had apparently come to an end at

last. The gardener had gone home, and Sergeant Cuff was nowhere to be

found in the lower regions of the house.

I looked into my room. Quite true—nothing was to be discovered there

but a couple of empty tumblers and a strong smell of hot grog. Had the

Sergeant gone of his own accord to the bedchamber that was prepared for

him? I went upstairs to see.

After reaching the second landing, I thought I heard a sound of quiet

and regular breathing on my left-hand side. My left-hand side led to

the corridor which communicated with Miss Rachel’s room. I looked in,

and there, coiled up on three chairs placed right across the

passage—there, with a red handkerchief tied round his grizzled head,

and his respectable black coat rolled up for a pillow, lay and slept

Sergeant Cuff!

He woke, instantly and quietly, like a dog, the moment I approached

him.

“Good-night, Mr. Betteredge,” he said. “And mind, if you ever take to

growing roses, the white moss rose is all the better for _not_ being

budded on the dog-rose, whatever the gardener may say to the contrary!”

“What are you doing here?” I asked. “Why are you not in your proper

bed?”

“I am not in my proper bed,” answered the Sergeant, “because I am one

of the many people in this miserable world who can’t earn their money

honestly and easily at the same time. There was a coincidence, this

evening, between the period of Rosanna Spearman’s return from the Sands

and the period when Miss Verinder stated her resolution to leave the

house. Whatever Rosanna may have hidden, it’s clear to my mind that

your young lady couldn’t go away until she knew that it _was_ hidden.

The two must have communicated privately once already tonight. If they

try to communicate again, when the house is quiet, I want to be in the

way, and stop it. Don’t blame me for upsetting your sleeping

arrangements, Mr. Betteredge—blame the Diamond.”

“I wish to God the Diamond had never found its way into this house!” I

broke out.

Sergeant Cuff looked with a rueful face at the three chairs on which he

had condemned himself to pass the night.

“So do I,” he said, gravely.

CHAPTER XVII

Nothing happened in the night; and (I am happy to add) no attempt at

communication between Miss Rachel and Rosanna rewarded the vigilance of

Sergeant Cuff.

I had expected the Sergeant to set off for Frizinghall the first thing

in the morning. He waited about, however, as if he had something else

to do first. I left him to his own devices; and going into the grounds

shortly after, met Mr. Franklin on his favourite walk by the shrubbery

side.

Before we had exchanged two words, the Sergeant unexpectedly joined us.

He made up to Mr. Franklin, who received him, I must own, haughtily

enough. “Have you anything to say to me?” was all the return he got for

politely wishing Mr. Franklin good morning.

“I have something to say to you, sir,” answered the Sergeant, “on the

subject of the inquiry I am conducting here. You detected the turn that

inquiry was really taking, yesterday. Naturally enough, in your

position, you are shocked and distressed. Naturally enough, also, you

visit your own angry sense of your own family scandal upon Me.”

“What do you want?” Mr. Franklin broke in, sharply enough.

“I want to remind you, sir, that I have at any rate, thus far, not been

_proved_ to be wrong. Bearing that in mind, be pleased to remember, at

the same time, that I am an officer of the law acting here under the

sanction of the mistress of the house. Under these circumstances, is

it, or is it not, your duty as a good citizen, to assist me with any

special information which you may happen to possess?”

“I possess no special information,” says Mr. Franklin.

Sergeant Cuff put that answer by him, as if no answer had been made.

“You may save my time, sir, from being wasted on an inquiry at a

distance,” he went on, “if you choose to understand me and speak out.”

“I don’t understand you,” answered Mr. Franklin; “and I have nothing to

say.”

“One of the female servants (I won’t mention names) spoke to you

privately, sir, last night.”

Once more Mr. Franklin cut him short; once more Mr. Franklin answered,

“I have nothing to say.”

Standing by in silence, I thought of the movement in the swing-door on

the previous evening, and of the coat-tails which I had seen

disappearing down the passage. Sergeant Cuff had, no doubt, just heard

enough, before I interrupted him, to make him suspect that Rosanna had

relieved her mind by confessing something to Mr. Franklin Blake.

This notion had barely struck me—when who should appear at the end of

the shrubbery walk but Rosanna Spearman in her own proper person! She

was followed by Penelope, who was evidently trying to make her retrace

her steps to the house. Seeing that Mr. Franklin was not alone, Rosanna

came to a standstill, evidently in great perplexity what to do next.

Penelope waited behind her. Mr. Franklin saw the girls as soon as I saw

them. The Sergeant, with his devilish cunning, took on not to have

noticed them at all. All this happened in an instant. Before either Mr.

Franklin or I could say a word, Sergeant Cuff struck in smoothly, with

an appearance of continuing the previous conversation.

“You needn’t be afraid of harming the girl, sir,” he said to Mr.

Franklin, speaking in a loud voice, so that Rosanna might hear him. “On

the contrary, I recommend you to honour me with your confidence, if you

feel any interest in Rosanna Spearman.”

Mr. Franklin instantly took on not to have noticed the girls either. He

answered, speaking loudly on his side:

“I take no interest whatever in Rosanna Spearman.”

I looked towards the end of the walk. All I saw at the distance was

that Rosanna suddenly turned round, the moment Mr. Franklin had spoken.

Instead of resisting Penelope, as she had done the moment before, she

now let my daughter take her by the arm and lead her back to the house.

The breakfast-bell rang as the two girls disappeared—and even Sergeant

Cuff was now obliged to give it up as a bad job! He said to me quietly,

“I shall go to Frizinghall, Mr. Betteredge; and I shall be back before

two.” He went his way without a word more—and for some few hours we

were well rid of him.

“You must make it right with Rosanna,” Mr. Franklin said to me, when we

were alone. “I seem to be fated to say or do something awkward, before

that unlucky girl. You must have seen yourself that Sergeant Cuff laid

a trap for both of us. If he could confuse _me_, or irritate _her_ into

breaking out, either she or I might have said something which would

answer his purpose. On the spur of the moment, I saw no better way out

of it than the way I took. It stopped the girl from saying anything,

and it showed the Sergeant that I saw through him. He was evidently

listening, Betteredge, when I was speaking to you last night.”

He had done worse than listen, as I privately thought to myself. He had

remembered my telling him that the girl was in love with Mr. Franklin;

and he had calculated on _that_, when he appealed to Mr. Franklin’s

interest in Rosanna—in Rosanna’s hearing.

“As to listening, sir,” I remarked (keeping the other point to myself),

“we shall all be rowing in the same boat if this sort of thing goes on

much longer. Prying, and peeping, and listening are the natural

occupations of people situated as we are. In another day or two, Mr.

Franklin, we shall all be struck dumb together—for this reason, that we

shall all be listening to surprise each other’s secrets, and all know

it. Excuse my breaking out, sir. The horrid mystery hanging over us in

this house gets into my head like liquor, and makes me wild. I won’t

forget what you have told me. I’ll take the first opportunity of making

it right with Rosanna Spearman.”

“You haven’t said anything to her yet about last night, have you?” Mr.

Franklin asked.

“No, sir.”

“Then say nothing now. I had better not invite the girl’s confidence,

with the Sergeant on the look-out to surprise us together. My conduct

is not very consistent, Betteredge—is it? I see no way out of this

business, which isn’t dreadful to think of, unless the Diamond is

traced to Rosanna. And yet I can’t, and won’t, help Sergeant Cuff to

find the girl out.”

Unreasonable enough, no doubt. But it was my state of mind as well. I

thoroughly understood him. If you will, for once in your life, remember

that you are mortal, perhaps you will thoroughly understand him too.

The state of things, indoors and out, while Sergeant Cuff was on his

way to Frizinghall, was briefly this:

Miss Rachel waited for the time when the carriage was to take her to

her aunt’s, still obstinately shut up in her own room. My lady and Mr.

Franklin breakfasted together. After breakfast, Mr. Franklin took one

of his sudden resolutions, and went out precipitately to quiet his mind

by a long walk. I was the only person who saw him go; and he told me he

should be back before the Sergeant returned. The change in the weather,

foreshadowed overnight, had come. Heavy rain had been followed soon

after dawn, by high wind. It was blowing fresh, as the day got on. But

though the clouds threatened more than once, the rain still held off.

It was not a bad day for a walk, if you were young and strong, and

could breast the great gusts of wind which came sweeping in from the

sea.

I attended my lady after breakfast, and assisted her in the settlement

of our household accounts. She only once alluded to the matter of the

Moonstone, and that was in the way of forbidding any present mention of

it between us. “Wait till that man comes back,” she said, meaning the

Sergeant. “We _must_ speak of it then: we are not obliged to speak of

it now.”

After leaving my mistress, I found Penelope waiting for me in my room.

“I wish, father, you would come and speak to Rosanna,” she said. “I am

very uneasy about her.”

I suspected what was the matter readily enough. But it is a maxim of

mine that men (being superior creatures) are bound to improve women—if

they can. When a woman wants me to do anything (my daughter, or not, it

doesn’t matter), I always insist on knowing why. The oftener you make

them rummage their own minds for a reason, the more manageable you will

find them in all the relations of life. It isn’t their fault (poor

wretches!) that they act first and think afterwards; it’s the fault of

the fools who humour them.

Penelope’s reason why, on this occasion, may be given in her own words.

“I am afraid, father,” she said, “Mr. Franklin has hurt Rosanna

cruelly, without intending it.”

“What took Rosanna into the shrubbery walk?” I asked.

“Her own madness,” says Penelope; “I can call it nothing else. She was

bent on speaking to Mr. Franklin, this morning, come what might of it.

I did my best to stop her; you saw that. If I could only have got her

away before she heard those dreadful words——”

“There! there!” I said, “don’t lose your head. I can’t call to mind

that anything happened to alarm Rosanna.”

“Nothing to alarm her, father. But Mr. Franklin said he took no

interest whatever in her—and, oh, he said it in such a cruel voice!”

“He said it to stop the Sergeant’s mouth,” I answered.

“I told her that,” says Penelope. “But you see, father (though Mr.

Franklin isn’t to blame), he’s been mortifying and disappointing her

for weeks and weeks past; and now this comes on the top of it all! She

has no right, of course, to expect him to take any interest in her.

It’s quite monstrous that she should forget herself and her station in

that way. But she seems to have lost pride, and proper feeling, and

everything. She frightened me, father, when Mr. Franklin said those

words. They seemed to turn her into stone. A sudden quiet came over

her, and she has gone about her work, ever since, like a woman in a

dream.”

I began to feel a little uneasy. There was something in the way

Penelope put it which silenced my superior sense. I called to mind, now

my thoughts were directed that way, what had passed between Mr.

Franklin and Rosanna overnight. She looked cut to the heart on that

occasion; and now, as ill-luck would have it, she had been unavoidably

stung again, poor soul, on the tender place. Sad! sad!—all the more sad

because the girl had no reason to justify her, and no right to feel it.

I had promised Mr. Franklin to speak to Rosanna, and this seemed the

fittest time for keeping my word.

We found the girl sweeping the corridor outside the bedrooms, pale and

composed, and neat as ever in her modest print dress. I noticed a

curious dimness and dullness in her eyes—not as if she had been crying

but as if she had been looking at something too long. Possibly, it was

a misty something raised by her own thoughts. There was certainly no

object about her to look at which she had not seen already hundreds on

hundreds of times.

“Cheer up, Rosanna!” I said. “You mustn’t fret over your own fancies. I

have got something to say to you from Mr. Franklin.”

I thereupon put the matter in the right view before her, in the

friendliest and most comforting words I could find. My principles, in

regard to the other sex, are, as you may have noticed, very severe. But

somehow or other, when I come face to face with the women, my practice

(I own) is not conformable.

“Mr. Franklin is very kind and considerate. Please to thank him.” That

was all the answer she made me.

My daughter had already noticed that Rosanna went about her work like a

woman in a dream. I now added to this observation, that she also

listened and spoke like a woman in a dream. I doubted if her mind was

in a fit condition to take in what I had said to her.

“Are you quite sure, Rosanna, that you understand me?” I asked.

“Quite sure.”

She echoed me, not like a living woman, but like a creature moved by

machinery. She went on sweeping all the time. I took away the broom as

gently and as kindly as I could.

“Come, come, my girl!” I said, “this is not like yourself. You have got

something on your mind. I’m your friend—and I’ll stand your friend,

even if you have done wrong. Make a clean breast of it, Rosanna—make a

clean breast of it!”

The time had been, when my speaking to her in that way would have

brought the tears into her eyes. I could see no change in them now.

“Yes,” she said, “I’ll make a clean breast of it.”

“To my lady?” I asked.

“No.”

“To Mr. Franklin?”

“Yes; to Mr. Franklin.”

I hardly knew what to say to that. She was in no condition to

understand the caution against speaking to him in private, which Mr.

Franklin had directed me to give her. Feeling my way, little by little,

I only told her Mr. Franklin had gone out for a walk.

“It doesn’t matter,” she answered. “I shan’t trouble Mr. Franklin,

today.”

“Why not speak to my lady?” I said. “The way to relieve your mind is to

speak to the merciful and Christian mistress who has always been kind

to you.”

She looked at me for a moment with a grave and steady attention, as if

she was fixing what I said in her mind. Then she took the broom out of

my hands and moved off with it slowly, a little way down the corridor.

“No,” she said, going on with her sweeping, and speaking to herself; “I

know a better way of relieving my mind than that.”

“What is it?”

“Please to let me go on with my work.”

Penelope followed her, and offered to help her.

She answered, “No. I want to do my work. Thank you, Penelope.” She

looked round at me. “Thank you, Mr. Betteredge.”

There was no moving her—there was nothing more to be said. I signed to

Penelope to come away with me. We left her, as we had found her,

sweeping the corridor, like a woman in a dream.

“This is a matter for the doctor to look into,” I said. “It’s beyond

me.”

My daughter reminded me of Mr. Candy’s illness, owing (as you may

remember) to the chill he had caught on the night of the dinner-party.

His assistant—a certain Mr. Ezra Jennings—was at our disposal, to be

sure. But nobody knew much about him in our parts. He had been engaged

by Mr. Candy under rather peculiar circumstances; and, right or wrong,

we none of us liked him or trusted him. There were other doctors at

Frizinghall. But they were strangers to our house; and Penelope

doubted, in Rosanna’s present state, whether strangers might not do her

more harm than good.

I thought of speaking to my lady. But, remembering the heavy weight of

anxiety which she already had on her mind, I hesitated to add to all

the other vexations this new trouble. Still, there was a necessity for

doing something. The girl’s state was, to my thinking, downright

alarming—and my mistress ought to be informed of it. Unwilling enough,

I went to her sitting-room. No one was there. My lady was shut up with

Miss Rachel. It was impossible for me to see her till she came out

again.

I waited in vain till the clock on the front staircase struck the

quarter to two. Five minutes afterwards, I heard my name called, from

the drive outside the house. I knew the voice directly. Sergeant Cuff

had returned from Frizinghall.

CHAPTER XVIII

Going down to the front door, I met the Sergeant on the steps.

It went against the grain with me, after what had passed between us, to

show him that I felt any sort of interest in his proceedings. In spite

of myself, however, I felt an interest that there was no resisting. My

sense of dignity sank from under me, and out came the words: “What news

from Frizinghall?”

“I have seen the Indians,” answered Sergeant Cuff. “And I have found

out what Rosanna bought privately in the town, on Thursday last. The

Indians will be set free on Wednesday in next week. There isn’t a doubt

on my mind, and there isn’t a doubt on Mr. Murthwaite’s mind, that they

came to this place to steal the Moonstone. Their calculations were all

thrown out, of course, by what happened in the house on Wednesday

night; and they have no more to do with the actual loss of the jewel

than you have. But I can tell you one thing, Mr. Betteredge—if _we_

don’t find the Moonstone, _they_ will. You have not heard the last of

the three jugglers yet.”

Mr. Franklin came back from his walk as the Sergeant said those

startling words. Governing his curiosity better than I had governed

mine, he passed us without a word, and went on into the house.

As for me, having already dropped my dignity, I determined to have the

whole benefit of the sacrifice. “So much for the Indians,” I said.

“What about Rosanna next?”

Sergeant Cuff shook his head.

“The mystery in that quarter is thicker than ever,” he said. “I have

traced her to a shop at Frizinghall, kept by a linen draper named

Maltby. She bought nothing whatever at any of the other drapers’ shops,

or at any milliners’ or tailors’ shops; and she bought nothing at

Maltby’s but a piece of long cloth. She was very particular in choosing

a certain quality. As to quantity, she bought enough to make a

nightgown.”

“Whose nightgown?” I asked.

“Her own, to be sure. Between twelve and three, on the Thursday

morning, she must have slipped down to your young lady’s room, to

settle the hiding of the Moonstone while all the rest of you were in

bed. In going back to her own room, her nightgown must have brushed the

wet paint on the door. She couldn’t wash out the stain; and she

couldn’t safely destroy the night-gown without first providing another

like it, to make the inventory of her linen complete.”

“What proves that it was Rosanna’s nightgown?” I objected.

“The material she bought for making the substitute dress,” answered the

Sergeant. “If it had been Miss Verinder’s nightgown, she would have had

to buy lace, and frilling, and Lord knows what besides; and she

wouldn’t have had time to make it in one night. Plain long cloth means

a plain servant’s nightgown. No, no, Mr. Betteredge—all that is clear

enough. The pinch of the question is—why, after having provided the

substitute dress, does she hide the smeared nightgown, instead of

destroying it? If the girl won’t speak out, there is only one way of

settling the difficulty. The hiding-place at the Shivering Sand must be

searched—and the true state of the case will be discovered there.”

“How are you to find the place?” I inquired.

“I am sorry to disappoint you,” said the Sergeant—“but that’s a secret

which I mean to keep to myself.”

(Not to irritate your curiosity, as he irritated mine, I may here

inform you that he had come back from Frizinghall provided with a

search-warrant. His experience in such matters told him that Rosanna

was in all probability carrying about her a memorandum of the

hiding-place, to guide her, in case she returned to it, under changed

circumstances and after a lapse of time. Possessed of this memorandum,

the Sergeant would be furnished with all that he could desire.)

“Now, Mr. Betteredge,” he went on, “suppose we drop speculation, and

get to business. I told Joyce to have an eye on Rosanna. Where is

Joyce?”

Joyce was the Frizinghall policeman, who had been left by

Superintendent Seegrave at Sergeant Cuff’s disposal. The clock struck

two, as he put the question; and, punctual to the moment, the carriage

came round to take Miss Rachel to her aunt’s.

“One thing at a time,” said the Sergeant, stopping me as I was about to

send in search of Joyce. “I must attend to Miss Verinder first.”

As the rain was still threatening, it was the close carriage that had

been appointed to take Miss Rachel to Frizinghall. Sergeant Cuff

beckoned Samuel to come down to him from the rumble behind.

“You will see a friend of mine waiting among the trees, on this side of

the lodge gate,” he said. “My friend, without stopping the carriage,

will get up into the rumble with you. You have nothing to do but to

hold your tongue, and shut your eyes. Otherwise, you will get into

trouble.”

With that advice, he sent the footman back to his place. What Samuel

thought I don’t know. It was plain, to my mind, that Miss Rachel was to

be privately kept in view from the time when she left our house—if she

did leave it. A watch set on my young lady! A spy behind her in the

rumble of her mother’s carriage! I could have cut my own tongue out for

having forgotten myself so far as to speak to Sergeant Cuff.

The first person to come out of the house was my lady. She stood aside,

on the top step, posting herself there to see what happened. Not a word

did she say, either to the Sergeant or to me. With her lips closed, and

her arms folded in the light garden cloak which she had wrapped round

her on coming into the air, there she stood, as still as a statue,

waiting for her daughter to appear.

In a minute more, Miss Rachel came downstairs—very nicely dressed in

some soft yellow stuff, that set off her dark complexion, and clipped

her tight (in the form of a jacket) round the waist. She had a smart

little straw hat on her head, with a white veil twisted round it. She

had primrose-coloured gloves that fitted her hands like a second skin.

Her beautiful black hair looked as smooth as satin under her hat. Her

little ears were like rosy shells—they had a pearl dangling from each

of them. She came swiftly out to us, as straight as a lily on its stem,

and as lithe and supple in every movement she made as a young cat.

Nothing that I could discover was altered in her pretty face, but her

eyes and her lips. Her eyes were brighter and fiercer than I liked to

see; and her lips had so completely lost their colour and their smile

that I hardly knew them again. She kissed her mother in a hasty and

sudden manner on the cheek. She said, “Try to forgive me, mamma”—and

then pulled down her veil over her face so vehemently that she tore it.

In another moment she had run down the steps, and had rushed into the

carriage as if it was a hiding-place.

Sergeant Cuff was just as quick on his side. He put Samuel back, and

stood before Miss Rachel, with the open carriage-door in his hand, at

the instant when she settled herself in her place.

“What do you want?” says Miss Rachel, from behind her veil.

“I want to say one word to you, miss,” answered the Sergeant, “before

you go. I can’t presume to stop your paying a visit to your aunt. I can

only venture to say that your leaving us, as things are now, puts an

obstacle in the way of my recovering your Diamond. Please to understand

that; and now decide for yourself whether you go or stay.”

Miss Rachel never even answered him. “Drive on, James!” she called out

to the coachman.

Without another word, the Sergeant shut the carriage-door. Just as he

closed it, Mr. Franklin came running down the steps. “Good-bye,

Rachel,” he said, holding out his hand.

“Drive on!” cried Miss Rachel, louder than ever, and taking no more

notice of Mr. Franklin than she had taken of Sergeant Cuff.

Mr. Franklin stepped back thunderstruck, as well he might be. The

coachman, not knowing what to do, looked towards my lady, still

standing immovable on the top step. My lady, with anger and sorrow and

shame all struggling together in her face, made him a sign to start the

horses, and then turned back hastily into the house. Mr. Franklin,

recovering the use of his speech, called after her, as the carriage

drove off, “Aunt! you were quite right. Accept my thanks for all your

kindness—and let me go.”

My lady turned as though to speak to him. Then, as if distrusting

herself, waved her hand kindly. “Let me see you, before you leave us,

Franklin,” she said, in a broken voice—and went on to her own room.

“Do me a last favour, Betteredge,” says Mr. Franklin, turning to me,

with the tears in his eyes. “Get me away to the train as soon as you

can!”

He too went his way into the house. For the moment, Miss Rachel had

completely unmanned him. Judge from that, how fond he must have been of

her!

Sergeant Cuff and I were left face to face, at the bottom of the steps.

The Sergeant stood with his face set towards a gap in the trees,

commanding a view of one of the windings of the drive which led from

the house. He had his hands in his pockets, and he was softly whistling

“The Last Rose of Summer” to himself.

“There’s a time for everything,” I said savagely enough. “This isn’t a

time for whistling.”

At that moment, the carriage appeared in the distance, through the gap,

on its way to the lodge-gate. There was another man, besides Samuel,

plainly visible in the rumble behind.

“All right!” said the Sergeant to himself. He turned round to me. “It’s

no time for whistling, Mr. Betteredge, as you say. It’s time to take

this business in hand, now, without sparing anybody. We’ll begin with

Rosanna Spearman. Where is Joyce?”

We both called for Joyce, and received no answer. I sent one of the

stable-boys to look for him.

“You heard what I said to Miss Verinder?” remarked the Sergeant, while

we were waiting. “And you saw how she received it? I tell her plainly

that her leaving us will be an obstacle in the way of my recovering her

Diamond—and she leaves, in the face of that statement! Your young lady

has got a travelling companion in her mother’s carriage, Mr.

Betteredge—and the name of it is, the Moonstone.”

I said nothing. I only held on like death to my belief in Miss Rachel.

The stable-boy came back, followed—very unwillingly, as it appeared to

me—by Joyce.

“Where is Rosanna Spearman?” asked Sergeant Cuff.

“I can’t account for it, sir,” Joyce began; “and I am very sorry. But

somehow or other——”

“Before I went to Frizinghall,” said the Sergeant, cutting him short,

“I told you to keep your eyes on Rosanna Spearman, without allowing her

to discover that she was being watched. Do you mean to tell me that you

have let her give you the slip?”

“I am afraid, sir,” says Joyce, beginning to tremble, “that I was

perhaps a little _too_ careful not to let her discover me. There are

such a many passages in the lower parts of this house——”

“How long is it since you missed her?”

“Nigh on an hour since, sir.”

“You can go back to your regular business at Frizinghall,” said the

Sergeant, speaking just as composedly as ever, in his usual quiet and

dreary way. “I don’t think your talents are at all in our line, Mr.

Joyce. Your present form of employment is a trifle beyond you. Good

morning.”

The man slunk off. I find it very difficult to describe how I was

affected by the discovery that Rosanna Spearman was missing. I seemed

to be in fifty different minds about it, all at the same time. In that

state, I stood staring at Sergeant Cuff—and my powers of language quite

failed me.

“No, Mr. Betteredge,” said the Sergeant, as if he had discovered the

uppermost thought in me, and was picking it out to be answered, before

all the rest. “Your young friend, Rosanna, won’t slip through my

fingers so easy as you think. As long as I know where Miss Verinder is,

I have the means at my disposal of tracing Miss Verinder’s accomplice.

I prevented them from communicating last night. Very good. They will

get together at Frizinghall, instead of getting together here. The

present inquiry must be simply shifted (rather sooner than I had

anticipated) from this house, to the house at which Miss Verinder is

visiting. In the meantime, I’m afraid I must trouble you to call the

servants together again.”

I went round with him to the servants’ hall. It is very disgraceful,

but it is not the less true, that I had another attack of the

detective-fever, when he said those last words. I forgot that I hated

Sergeant Cuff. I seized him confidentially by the arm. I said, “For

goodness’ sake, tell us what you are going to do with the servants

now?”

The great Cuff stood stock-still, and addressed himself in a kind of

melancholy rapture to the empty air.

“If this man,” said the Sergeant (apparently meaning me), “only

understood the growing of roses he would be the most completely perfect

character on the face of creation!” After that strong expression of

feeling, he sighed, and put his arm through mine. “This is how it

stands,” he said, dropping down again to business. “Rosanna has done

one of two things. She has either gone direct to Frizinghall (before I

can get there), or she has gone first to visit her hiding-place at the

Shivering Sand. The first thing to find out is, which of the servants

saw the last of her before she left the house.”

On instituting this inquiry, it turned out that the last person who had

set eyes on Rosanna was Nancy, the kitchenmaid.

Nancy had seen her slip out with a letter in her hand, and stop the

butcher’s man who had just been delivering some meat at the back door.

Nancy had heard her ask the man to post the letter when he got back to

Frizinghall. The man had looked at the address, and had said it was a

roundabout way of delivering a letter directed to Cobb’s Hole, to post

it at Frizinghall—and that, moreover, on a Saturday, which would

prevent the letter from getting to its destination until Monday

morning. Rosanna had answered that the delivery of the letter being

delayed till Monday was of no importance. The only thing she wished to

be sure of was that the man would do what she told him. The man had

promised to do it, and had driven away. Nancy had been called back to

her work in the kitchen. And no other person had seen anything

afterwards of Rosanna Spearman.

“Well?” I asked, when we were alone again.

“Well,” says the Sergeant. “I must go to Frizinghall.”

“About the letter, sir?”

“Yes. The memorandum of the hiding-place is in that letter. I must see

the address at the post-office. If it is the address I suspect, I shall

pay our friend, Mrs. Yolland, another visit on Monday next.”

I went with the Sergeant to order the pony-chaise. In the stable-yard

we got a new light thrown on the missing girl.

CHAPTER XIX

The news of Rosanna’s disappearance had, as it appeared, spread among

the out-of-door servants. They too had made their inquiries; and they

had just laid hands on a quick little imp, nicknamed “Duffy”—who was

occasionally employed in weeding the garden, and who had seen Rosanna

Spearman as lately as half-an-hour since. Duffy was certain that the

girl had passed him in the fir-plantation, not walking, but _running_,

in the direction of the sea-shore.

“Does this boy know the coast hereabouts?” asked Sergeant Cuff.

“He has been born and bred on the coast,” I answered.

“Duffy!” says the Sergeant, “do you want to earn a shilling? If you do,

come along with me. Keep the pony-chaise ready, Mr. Betteredge, till I

come back.”

He started for the Shivering Sand, at a rate that my legs (though well

enough preserved for my time of life) had no hope of matching. Little

Duffy, as the way is with the young savages in our parts when they are

in high spirits, gave a howl, and trotted off at the Sergeant’s heels.

Here again, I find it impossible to give anything like a clear account

of the state of my mind in the interval after Sergeant Cuff had left

us. A curious and stupefying restlessness got possession of me. I did a

dozen different needless things in and out of the house, not one of

which I can now remember. I don’t even know how long it was after the

Sergeant had gone to the sands, when Duffy came running back with a

message for me. Sergeant Cuff had given the boy a leaf torn out of his

pocket-book, on which was written in pencil, “Send me one of Rosanna

Spearman’s boots, and be quick about it.”

I despatched the first woman-servant I could find to Rosanna’s room;

and I sent the boy back to say that I myself would follow him with the

boot.

This, I am well aware, was not the quickest way to take of obeying the

directions which I had received. But I was resolved to see for myself

what new mystification was going on before I trusted Rosanna’s boot in

the Sergeant’s hands. My old notion of screening the girl, if I could,

seemed to have come back on me again, at the eleventh hour. This state

of feeling (to say nothing of the detective-fever) hurried me off, as

soon as I had got the boot, at the nearest approach to a run which a

man turned seventy can reasonably hope to make.

As I got near the shore, the clouds gathered black, and the rain came

down, drifting in great white sheets of water before the wind. I heard

the thunder of the sea on the sand-bank at the mouth of the bay. A

little further on, I passed the boy crouching for shelter under the lee

of the sandhills. Then I saw the raging sea, and the rollers tumbling

in on the sand-bank, and the driven rain sweeping over the waters like

a flying garment, and the yellow wilderness of the beach with one

solitary black figure standing on it—the figure of Sergeant Cuff.

He waved his hand towards the north, when he first saw me. “Keep on

that side!” he shouted. “And come on down here to me!”

I went down to him, choking for breath, with my heart leaping as if it

was like to leap out of me. I was past speaking. I had a hundred

questions to put to him; and not one of them would pass my lips. His

face frightened me. I saw a look in his eyes which was a look of

horror. He snatched the boot out of my hand, and set it in a footmark

on the sand, bearing south from us as we stood, and pointing straight

towards the rocky ledge called the South Spit. The mark was not yet

blurred out by the rain—and the girl’s boot fitted it to a hair.

The Sergeant pointed to the boot in the footmark, without saying a

word.

I caught at his arm, and tried to speak to him, and failed as I had

failed when I tried before. He went on, following the footsteps down

and down to where the rocks and the sand joined. The South Spit was

just awash with the flowing tide; the waters heaved over the hidden

face of the Shivering Sand. Now this way and now that, with an

obstinate patience that was dreadful to see, Sergeant Cuff tried the

boot in the footsteps, and always found it pointing the same

way—straight _to_ the rocks. Hunt as he might, no sign could he find

anywhere of the footsteps walking _from_ them.

He gave it up at last. Still keeping silence, he looked again at me;

and then he looked out at the waters before us, heaving in deeper and

deeper over the quicksand. I looked where he looked—and I saw his

thought in his face. A dreadful dumb trembling crawled all over me on a

sudden. I fell upon my knees on the beach.

“She has been back at the hiding-place,” I heard the Sergeant say to

himself. “Some fatal accident has happened to her on those rocks.”

The girl’s altered looks, and words, and actions—the numbed, deadened

way in which she listened to me, and spoke to me—when I had found her

sweeping the corridor but a few hours since, rose up in my mind, and

warned me, even as the Sergeant spoke, that his guess was wide of the

dreadful truth. I tried to tell him of the fear that had frozen me up.

I tried to say, “The death she has died, Sergeant, was a death of her

own seeking.” No! the words wouldn’t come. The dumb trembling held me

in its grip. I couldn’t feel the driving rain. I couldn’t see the

rising tide. As in the vision of a dream, the poor lost creature came

back before me. I saw her again as I had seen her in the past time—on

the morning when I went to fetch her into the house. I heard her again,

telling me that the Shivering Sand seemed to draw her to it against her

will, and wondering whether her grave was waiting for her _there_. The

horror of it struck at me, in some unfathomable way, through my own

child. My girl was just her age. My girl, tried as Rosanna was tried,

might have lived that miserable life, and died this dreadful death.

The Sergeant kindly lifted me up, and turned me away from the sight of

the place where she had perished.

With that relief, I began to fetch my breath again, and to see things

about me, as things really were. Looking towards the sandhills, I saw

the men-servants from out-of-doors, and the fisherman, named Yolland,

all running down to us together; and all, having taken the alarm,

calling out to know if the girl had been found. In the fewest words,

the Sergeant showed them the evidence of the footmarks, and told them

that a fatal accident must have happened to her. He then picked out the

fisherman from the rest, and put a question to him, turning about again

towards the sea: “Tell me,” he said. “Could a boat have taken her off,

in such weather as this, from those rocks where her footmarks stop?”

The fisherman pointed to the rollers tumbling in on the sand-bank, and

to the great waves leaping up in clouds of foam against the headlands

on either side of us.

“No boat that ever was built,” he answered, “could have got to her

through _that_.”

Sergeant Cuff looked for the last time at the foot-marks on the sand,

which the rain was now fast blurring out.

“There,” he said, “is the evidence that she can’t have left this place

by land. And here,” he went on, looking at the fisherman, “is the

evidence that she can’t have got away by sea.” He stopped, and

considered for a minute. “She was seen running towards this place, half

an hour before I got here from the house,” he said to Yolland. “Some

time has passed since then. Call it, altogether, an hour ago. How high

would the water be, at that time, on this side of the rocks?” He

pointed to the south side—otherwise, the side which was not filled up

by the quicksand.

“As the tide makes today,” said the fisherman, “there wouldn’t have

been water enough to drown a kitten on that side of the Spit, an hour

since.”

Sergeant Cuff turned about northward, towards the quicksand.

“How much on this side?” he asked.

“Less still,” answered Yolland. “The Shivering Sand would have been

just awash, and no more.”

The Sergeant turned to me, and said that the accident must have

happened on the side of the quicksand. My tongue was loosened at that.

“No accident!” I told him. “When she came to this place, she came weary

of her life, to end it here.”

He started back from me. “How do you know?” he asked. The rest of them

crowded round. The Sergeant recovered himself instantly. He put them

back from me; he said I was an old man; he said the discovery had

shaken me; he said, “Let him alone a little.” Then he turned to

Yolland, and asked, “Is there any chance of finding her, when the tide

ebbs again?” And Yolland answered, “None. What the Sand gets, the Sand

keeps for ever.” Having said that, the fisherman came a step nearer,

and addressed himself to me.

“Mr. Betteredge,” he said, “I have a word to say to you about the young

woman’s death. Four foot out, broadwise, along the side of the Spit,

there’s a shelf of rock, about half fathom down under the sand. My

question is—why didn’t she strike that? If she slipped, by accident,

from off the Spit, she fell in where there’s foothold at the bottom, at

a depth that would barely cover her to the waist. She must have waded

out, or jumped out, into the Deeps beyond—or she wouldn’t be missing

now. No accident, sir! The Deeps of the Quicksand have got her. And

they have got her by her own act.”

After that testimony from a man whose knowledge was to be relied on,

the Sergeant was silent. The rest of us, like him, held our peace. With

one accord, we all turned back up the slope of the beach.

At the sandhillocks we were met by the under-groom, running to us from

the house. The lad is a good lad, and has an honest respect for me. He

handed me a little note, with a decent sorrow in his face. “Penelope

sent me with this, Mr. Betteredge,” he said. “She found it in Rosanna’s

room.”

It was her last farewell word to the old man who had done his

best—thank God, always done his best—to befriend her.

“You have often forgiven me, Mr. Betteredge, in past times. When you

next see the Shivering Sand, try to forgive me once more. I have found

my grave where my grave was waiting for me. I have lived, and died,

sir, grateful for your kindness.”

There was no more than that. Little as it was, I hadn’t manhood enough

to hold up against it. Your tears come easy, when you’re young, and

beginning the world. Your tears come easy, when you’re old, and leaving

it. I burst out crying.

Sergeant Cuff took a step nearer to me—meaning kindly, I don’t doubt. I

shrank back from him. “Don’t touch me,” I said. “It’s the dread of you,

that has driven her to it.”

“You are wrong, Mr. Betteredge,” he answered, quietly. “But there will

be time enough to speak of it when we are indoors again.”

I followed the rest of them, with the help of the groom’s arm. Through

the driving rain we went back—to meet the trouble and the terror that

were waiting for us at the house.

CHAPTER XX

Those in front had spread the news before us. We found the servants in

a state of panic. As we passed my lady’s door, it was thrown open

violently from the inner side. My mistress came out among us (with Mr.

Franklin following, and trying vainly to compose her), quite beside

herself with the horror of the thing.

“You are answerable for this!” she cried out, threatening the Sergeant

wildly with her hand. “Gabriel! give that wretch his money—and release

me from the sight of him!”

The Sergeant was the only one among us who was fit to cope with

her—being the only one among us who was in possession of himself.

“I am no more answerable for this distressing calamity, my lady, than

you are,” he said. “If, in half an hour from this, you still insist on

my leaving the house, I will accept your ladyship’s dismissal, but not

your ladyship’s money.”

It was spoken very respectfully, but very firmly at the same time—and

it had its effect on my mistress as well as on me. She suffered Mr.

Franklin to lead her back into the room. As the door closed on the two,

the Sergeant, looking about among the women-servants in his observant

way, noticed that while all the rest were merely frightened, Penelope

was in tears. “When your father has changed his wet clothes,” he said

to her, “come and speak to us, in your father’s room.”

Before the half-hour was out, I had got my dry clothes on, and had lent

Sergeant Cuff such change of dress as he required. Penelope came in to

us to hear what the Sergeant wanted with her. I don’t think I ever felt

what a good dutiful daughter I had, so strongly as I felt it at that

moment. I took her and sat her on my knee and I prayed God bless her.

She hid her head on my bosom, and put her arms round my neck—and we

waited a little while in silence. The poor dead girl must have been at

the bottom of it, I think, with my daughter and with me. The Sergeant

went to the window, and stood there looking out. I thought it right to

thank him for considering us both in this way—and I did.

People in high life have all the luxuries to themselves—among others,

the luxury of indulging their feelings. People in low life have no such

privilege. Necessity, which spares our betters, has no pity on _us_. We

learn to put our feelings back into ourselves, and to jog on with our

duties as patiently as may be. I don’t complain of this—I only notice

it. Penelope and I were ready for the Sergeant, as soon as the Sergeant

was ready on his side. Asked if she knew what had led her

fellow-servant to destroy herself, my daughter answered (as you will

foresee) that it was for love of Mr. Franklin Blake. Asked next, if she

had mentioned this notion of hers to any other person, Penelope

answered, “I have not mentioned it, for Rosanna’s sake.” I felt it

necessary to add a word to this. I said, “And for Mr. Franklin’s sake,

my dear, as well. If Rosanna _has_ died for love of him, it is not with

his knowledge or by his fault. Let him leave the house today, if he

does leave it, without the useless pain of knowing the truth.” Sergeant

Cuff said, “Quite right,” and fell silent again; comparing Penelope’s

notion (as it seemed to me) with some other notion of his own which he

kept to himself.

At the end of the half-hour, my mistress’s bell rang.

On my way to answer it, I met Mr. Franklin coming out of his aunt’s

sitting-room. He mentioned that her ladyship was ready to see Sergeant

Cuff—in my presence as before—and he added that he himself wanted to

say two words to the Sergeant first. On our way back to my room, he

stopped, and looked at the railway time-table in the hall.

“Are you really going to leave us, sir?” I asked. “Miss Rachel will

surely come right again, if you only give her time?”

“She will come right again,” answered Mr. Franklin, “when she hears

that I have gone away, and that she will see me no more.”

I thought he spoke in resentment of my young lady’s treatment of him.

But it was not so. My mistress had noticed, from the time when the

police first came into the house, that the bare mention of him was

enough to set Miss Rachel’s temper in a flame. He had been too fond of

his cousin to like to confess this to himself, until the truth had been

forced on him, when she drove off to her aunt’s. His eyes once opened

in that cruel way which you know of, Mr. Franklin had taken his

resolution—the one resolution which a man of any spirit _could_ take—to

leave the house.

What he had to say to the Sergeant was spoken in my presence. He

described her ladyship as willing to acknowledge that she had spoken

over-hastily. And he asked if Sergeant Cuff would consent—in that

case—to accept his fee, and to leave the matter of the Diamond where

the matter stood now. The Sergeant answered, “No, sir. My fee is paid

me for doing my duty. I decline to take it, until my duty is done.”

“I don’t understand you,” says Mr. Franklin.

“I’ll explain myself, sir,” says the Sergeant. “When I came here, I

undertook to throw the necessary light on the matter of the missing

Diamond. I am now ready, and waiting to redeem my pledge. When I have

stated the case to Lady Verinder as the case now stands, and when I

have told her plainly what course of action to take for the recovery of

the Moonstone, the responsibility will be off my shoulders. Let her

ladyship decide, after that, whether she does, or does not, allow me to

go on. I shall then have done what I undertook to do—and I’ll take my

fee.”

In those words Sergeant Cuff reminded us that, even in the Detective

Police, a man may have a reputation to lose.

The view he took was so plainly the right one, that there was no more

to be said. As I rose to conduct him to my lady’s room, he asked if Mr.

Franklin wished to be present. Mr. Franklin answered, “Not unless Lady

Verinder desires it.” He added, in a whisper to me, as I was following

the Sergeant out, “I know what that man is going to say about Rachel;

and I am too fond of her to hear it, and keep my temper. Leave me by

myself.”

I left him, miserable enough, leaning on the sill of my window, with

his face hidden in his hands and Penelope peeping through the door,

longing to comfort him. In Mr. Franklin’s place, I should have called

her in. When you are ill-used by one woman, there is great comfort in

telling it to another—because, nine times out of ten, the other always

takes your side. Perhaps, when my back was turned, he did call her in?

In that case it is only doing my daughter justice to declare that she

would stick at nothing, in the way of comforting Mr. Franklin Blake.

In the meantime, Sergeant Cuff and I proceeded to my lady’s room.

At the last conference we had held with her, we had found her not over

willing to lift her eyes from the book which she had on the table. On

this occasion there was a change for the better. She met the Sergeant’s

eye with an eye that was as steady as his own. The family spirit showed

itself in every line of her face; and I knew that Sergeant Cuff would

meet his match, when a woman like my mistress was strung up to hear the

worst he could say to her.

CHAPTER XXI

The first words, when we had taken our seats, were spoken by my lady.

“Sergeant Cuff,” she said, “there was perhaps some excuse for the

inconsiderate manner in which I spoke to you half an hour since. I have

no wish, however, to claim that excuse. I say, with perfect sincerity,

that I regret it, if I wronged you.”

The grace of voice and manner with which she made him that atonement

had its due effect on the Sergeant. He requested permission to justify

himself—putting his justification as an act of respect to my mistress.

It was impossible, he said, that he could be in any way responsible for

the calamity, which had shocked us all, for this sufficient reason,

that his success in bringing his inquiry to its proper end depended on

his neither saying nor doing anything that could alarm Rosanna

Spearman. He appealed to me to testify whether he had, or had not,

carried that object out. I could, and did, bear witness that he had.

And there, as I thought, the matter might have been judiciously left to

come to an end.

Sergeant Cuff, however, took it a step further, evidently (as you shall

now judge) with the purpose of forcing the most painful of all possible

explanations to take place between her ladyship and himself.

“I have heard a motive assigned for the young woman’s suicide,” said

the Sergeant, “which may possibly be the right one. It is a motive

quite unconnected with the case which I am conducting here. I am bound

to add, however, that my own opinion points the other way. Some

unbearable anxiety in connexion with the missing Diamond, has, I

believe, driven the poor creature to her own destruction. I don’t

pretend to know what that unbearable anxiety may have been. But I think

(with your ladyship’s permission) I can lay my hand on a person who is

capable of deciding whether I am right or wrong.”

“Is the person now in the house?” my mistress asked, after waiting a

little.

“The person has left the house, my lady.”

That answer pointed as straight to Miss Rachel as straight could be. A

silence dropped on us which I thought would never come to an end. Lord!

how the wind howled, and how the rain drove at the window, as I sat

there waiting for one or other of them to speak again!

“Be so good as to express yourself plainly,” said my lady. “Do you

refer to my daughter?”

“I do,” said Sergeant Cuff, in so many words.

My mistress had her cheque-book on the table when we entered the

room—no doubt to pay the Sergeant his fee. She now put it back in the

drawer. It went to my heart to see how her poor hand trembled—the hand

that had loaded her old servant with benefits; the hand that, I pray

God, may take mine, when my time comes, and I leave my place for ever!

“I had hoped,” said my lady, very slowly and quietly, “to have

recompensed your services, and to have parted with you without Miss

Verinder’s name having been openly mentioned between us as it has been

mentioned now. My nephew has probably said something of this, before

you came into my room?”

“Mr. Blake gave his message, my lady. And I gave Mr. Blake a reason——”

“It is needless to tell me your reason. After what you have just said,

you know as well as I do that you have gone too far to go back. I owe

it to myself, and I owe it to my child, to insist on your remaining

here, and to insist on your speaking out.”

The Sergeant looked at his watch.

“If there had been time, my lady,” he answered, “I should have

preferred writing my report, instead of communicating it by word of

mouth. But, if this inquiry is to go on, time is of too much importance

to be wasted in writing. I am ready to go into the matter at once. It

is a very painful matter for me to speak of, and for you to hear.”

There my mistress stopped him once more.

“I may possibly make it less painful to you, and to my good servant and

friend here,” she said, “if I set the example of speaking boldly, on my

side. You suspect Miss Verinder of deceiving us all, by secreting the

Diamond for some purpose of her own? Is that true?”

“Quite true, my lady.”

“Very well. Now, before you begin, I have to tell you, as Miss

Verinder’s mother, that she is _absolutely incapable_ of doing what you

suppose her to have done. Your knowledge of her character dates from a

day or two since. My knowledge of her character dates from the

beginning of her life. State your suspicion of her as strongly as you

please—it is impossible that you can offend me by doing so. I am sure,

beforehand, that (with all your experience) the circumstances have

fatally misled you in this case. Mind! I am in possession of no private

information. I am as absolutely shut out of my daughter’s confidence as

you are. My one reason for speaking positively, is the reason you have

heard already. I know my child.”

She turned to me, and gave me her hand. I kissed it in silence. “You

may go on,” she said, facing the Sergeant again as steadily as ever.

Sergeant Cuff bowed. My mistress had produced but one effect on him.

His hatchet-face softened for a moment, as if he was sorry for her. As

to shaking him in his own conviction, it was plain to see that she had

not moved him by a single inch. He settled himself in his chair; and he

began his vile attack on Miss Rachel’s character in these words:

“I must ask your ladyship,” he said, “to look this matter in the face,

from my point of view as well as from yours. Will you please to suppose

yourself coming down here, in my place, and with my experience? and

will you allow me to mention very briefly what that experience has

been?”

My mistress signed to him that she would do this. The Sergeant went on:

“For the last twenty years,” he said, “I have been largely employed in

cases of family scandal, acting in the capacity of confidential man.

The one result of my domestic practice which has any bearing on the

matter now in hand, is a result which I may state in two words. It is

well within my experience, that young ladies of rank and position do

occasionally have private debts which they dare not acknowledge to

their nearest relatives and friends. Sometimes, the milliner and the

jeweller are at the bottom of it. Sometimes, the money is wanted for

purposes which I don’t suspect in this case, and which I won’t shock

you by mentioning. Bear in mind what I have said, my lady—and now let

us see how events in this house have forced me back on my own

experience, whether I liked it or not!”

He considered with himself for a moment, and went on—with a horrid

clearness that obliged you to understand him; with an abominable

justice that favoured nobody.

“My first information relating to the loss of the Moonstone,” said the

Sergeant, “came to me from Superintendent Seegrave. He proved to my

complete satisfaction that he was perfectly incapable of managing the

case. The one thing he said which struck me as worth listening to, was

this—that Miss Verinder had declined to be questioned by him, and had

spoken to him with a perfectly incomprehensible rudeness and contempt.

I thought this curious—but I attributed it mainly to some clumsiness on

the Superintendent’s part which might have offended the young lady.

After that, I put it by in my mind, and applied myself, single-handed,

to the case. It ended, as you are aware, in the discovery of the smear

on the door, and in Mr. Franklin Blake’s evidence satisfying me, that

this same smear, and the loss of the Diamond, were pieces of the same

puzzle. So far, if I suspected anything, I suspected that the Moonstone

had been stolen, and that one of the servants might prove to be the

thief. Very good. In this state of things, what happens? Miss Verinder

suddenly comes out of her room, and speaks to me. I observe three

suspicious appearances in that young lady. She is still violently

agitated, though more than four-and-twenty hours have passed since the

Diamond was lost. She treats me as she has already treated

Superintendent Seegrave. And she is mortally offended with Mr. Franklin

Blake. Very good again. Here (I say to myself) is a young lady who has

lost a valuable jewel—a young lady, also, as my own eyes and ears

inform me, who is of an impetuous temperament. Under these

circumstances, and with that character, what does she do? She betrays

an incomprehensible resentment against Mr. Blake, Mr. Superintendent,

and myself—otherwise, the very three people who have all, in their

different ways, been trying to help her to recover her lost jewel.

Having brought my inquiry to that point—_then_, my lady, and not till

then, I begin to look back into my own mind for my own experience. My

own experience explains Miss Verinder’s otherwise incomprehensible

conduct. It associates her with those other young ladies that I know

of. It tells me she has debts she daren’t acknowledge, that must be

paid. And it sets me asking myself, whether the loss of the Diamond may

not mean—that the Diamond must be secretly pledged to pay them. That is

the conclusion which my experience draws from plain facts. What does

your ladyship’s experience say against it?”

“What I have said already,” answered my mistress. “The circumstances

have misled you.”

I said nothing on my side. _Robinson Crusoe_—God knows how—had got into

my muddled old head. If Sergeant Cuff had found himself, at that

moment, transported to a desert island, without a man Friday to keep

him company, or a ship to take him off—he would have found himself

exactly where I wished him to be! (_Nota bene:_—I am an average good

Christian, when you don’t push my Christianity too far. And all the

rest of you—which is a great comfort—are, in this respect, much the

same as I am.)

Sergeant Cuff went on:

“Right or wrong, my lady,” he said, “having drawn my conclusion, the

next thing to do was to put it to the test. I suggested to your

ladyship the examination of all the wardrobes in the house. It was a

means of finding the article of dress which had, in all probability,

made the smear; and it was a means of putting my conclusion to the

test. How did it turn out? Your ladyship consented; Mr. Blake

consented; Mr. Ablewhite consented. Miss Verinder alone stopped the

whole proceeding by refusing point-blank. That result satisfied me that

my view was the right one. If your ladyship and Mr. Betteredge persist

in not agreeing with me, you must be blind to what happened before you

this very day. In your hearing, I told the young lady that her leaving

the house (as things were then) would put an obstacle in the way of my

recovering her jewel. You saw yourselves that she drove off in the face

of that statement. You saw yourself that, so far from forgiving Mr.

Blake for having done more than all the rest of you to put the clue

into my hands, she publicly insulted Mr. Blake, on the steps of her

mother’s house. What do these things mean? If Miss Verinder is not

privy to the suppression of the Diamond, what do these things mean?”

This time he looked my way. It was downright frightful to hear him

piling up proof after proof against Miss Rachel, and to know, while one

was longing to defend her, that there was no disputing the truth of

what he said. I am (thank God!) constitutionally superior to reason.

This enabled me to hold firm to my lady’s view, which was my view also.

This roused my spirit, and made me put a bold face on it before

Sergeant Cuff. Profit, good friends, I beseech you, by my example. It

will save you from many troubles of the vexing sort. Cultivate a

superiority to reason, and see how you pare the claws of all the

sensible people when they try to scratch you for your own good!

Finding that I made no remark, and that my mistress made no remark,

Sergeant Cuff proceeded. Lord! how it did enrage me to notice that he

was not in the least put out by our silence!

“There is the case, my lady, as it stands against Miss Verinder alone,”

he said. “The next thing is to put the case as it stands against Miss

Verinder and the deceased Rosanna Spearman taken together. We will go

back for a moment, if you please, to your daughter’s refusal to let her

wardrobe be examined. My mind being made up, after that circumstance, I

had two questions to consider next. First, as to the right method of

conducting my inquiry. Second, as to whether Miss Verinder had an

accomplice among the female servants in the house. After carefully

thinking it over, I determined to conduct the inquiry in, what we

should call at our office, a highly irregular manner. For this reason:

I had a family scandal to deal with, which it was my business to keep

within the family limits. The less noise made, and the fewer strangers

employed to help me, the better. As to the usual course of taking

people in custody on suspicion, going before the magistrate, and all

the rest of it—nothing of the sort was to be thought of, when your

ladyship’s daughter was (as I believed) at the bottom of the whole

business. In this case, I felt that a person of Mr. Betteredge’s

character and position in the house—knowing the servants as he did, and

having the honour of the family at heart—would be safer to take as an

assistant than any other person whom I could lay my hand on. I should

have tried Mr. Blake as well—but for one obstacle in the way. _He_ saw

the drift of my proceedings at a very early date; and, with his

interest in Miss Verinder, any mutual understanding was impossible

between him and me. I trouble your ladyship with these particulars to

show you that I have kept the family secret within the family circle. I

am the only outsider who knows it—and my professional existence depends

on holding my tongue.”

Here I felt that _my_ professional existence depended on not holding

_my_ tongue. To be held up before my mistress, in my old age, as a sort

of deputy-policeman, was, once again, more than my Christianity was

strong enough to bear.

“I beg to inform your ladyship,” I said, “that I never, to my

knowledge, helped this abominable detective business, in any way, from

first to last; and I summon Sergeant Cuff to contradict me, if he

dares!”

Having given vent in those words, I felt greatly relieved. Her ladyship

honoured me by a little friendly pat on the shoulder. I looked with

righteous indignation at the Sergeant, to see what he thought of such a

testimony as _that!_ The Sergeant looked back like a lamb, and seemed

to like me better than ever.

My lady informed him that he might continue his statement. “I

understand,” she said, “that you have honestly done your best, in what

you believe to be my interest. I am ready to hear what you have to say

next.”

“What I have to say next,” answered Sergeant Cuff, “relates to Rosanna

Spearman. I recognised the young woman, as your ladyship may remember,

when she brought the washing-book into this room. Up to that time I was

inclined to doubt whether Miss Verinder had trusted her secret to

anyone. When I saw Rosanna, I altered my mind. I suspected her at once

of being privy to the suppression of the Diamond. The poor creature has

met her death by a dreadful end, and I don’t want your ladyship to

think, now she’s gone, that I was unduly hard on her. If this had been

a common case of thieving, I should have given Rosanna the benefit of

the doubt just as freely as I should have given it to any of the other

servants in the house. Our experience of the Reformatory women is, that

when tried in service—and when kindly and judiciously treated—they

prove themselves in the majority of cases to be honestly penitent, and

honestly worthy of the pains taken with them. But this was not a common

case of thieving. It was a case—in my mind—of a deeply planned fraud,

with the owner of the Diamond at the bottom of it. Holding this view,

the first consideration which naturally presented itself to me, in

connection with Rosanna, was this: Would Miss Verinder be satisfied

(begging your ladyship’s pardon) with leading us all to think that the

Moonstone was merely lost? Or would she go a step further, and delude

us into believing that the Moonstone was stolen? In the latter event

there was Rosanna Spearman—with the character of a thief—ready to her

hand; the person of all others to lead your ladyship off, and to lead

me off, on a false scent.”

Was it possible (I asked myself) that he could put his case against

Miss Rachel and Rosanna in a more horrid point of view than this? It

_was_ possible, as you shall now see.

“I had another reason for suspecting the deceased woman,” he said,

“which appears to me to have been stronger still. Who would be the very

person to help Miss Verinder in raising money privately on the Diamond?

Rosanna Spearman. No young lady in Miss Verinder’s position could

manage such a risky matter as that by herself. A go-between she must

have, and who so fit, I ask again, as Rosanna Spearman? Your ladyship’s

deceased housemaid was at the top of her profession when she was a

thief. She had relations, to my certain knowledge, with one of the few

men in London (in the money-lending line) who would advance a large sum

on such a notable jewel as the Moonstone, without asking awkward

questions, or insisting on awkward conditions. Bear this in mind, my

lady; and now let me show you how my suspicions have been justified by

Rosanna’s own acts, and by the plain inferences to be drawn from them.”

He thereupon passed the whole of Rosanna’s proceedings under review.

You are already as well acquainted with those proceedings as I am; and

you will understand how unanswerably this part of his report fixed the

guilt of being concerned in the disappearance of the Moonstone on the

memory of the poor dead girl. Even my mistress was daunted by what he

said now. She made him no answer when he had done. It didn’t seem to

matter to the Sergeant whether he was answered or not. On he went

(devil take him!), just as steady as ever.

“Having stated the whole case as I understand it,” he said, “I have

only to tell your ladyship, now, what I propose to do next. I see two

ways of bringing this inquiry successfully to an end. One of those ways

I look upon as a certainty. The other, I admit, is a bold experiment,

and nothing more. Your ladyship shall decide. Shall we take the

certainty first?”

My mistress made him a sign to take his own way, and choose for

himself.

“Thank you,” said the Sergeant. “We’ll begin with the certainty, as

your ladyship is so good as to leave it to me. Whether Miss Verinder

remains at Frizinghall, or whether she returns here, I propose, in

either case, to keep a careful watch on all her proceedings—on the

people she sees, on the rides and walks she may take, and on the

letters she may write and receive.”

“What next?” asked my mistress.

“I shall next,” answered the Sergeant, “request your ladyship’s leave

to introduce into the house, as a servant in the place of Rosanna

Spearman, a woman accustomed to private inquiries of this sort, for

whose discretion I can answer.”

“What next?” repeated my mistress.

“Next,” proceeded the Sergeant, “and last, I propose to send one of my

brother-officers to make an arrangement with that money-lender in

London, whom I mentioned just now as formerly acquainted with Rosanna

Spearman—and whose name and address, your ladyship may rely on it, have

been communicated by Rosanna to Miss Verinder. I don’t deny that the

course of action I am now suggesting will cost money, and consume time.

But the result is certain. We run a line round the Moonstone, and we

draw that line closer and closer till we find it in Miss Verinder’s

possession, supposing she decides to keep it. If her debts press, and

she decides on sending it away, then we have our man ready, and we meet

the Moonstone on its arrival in London.”

To hear her own daughter made the subject of such a proposal as this,

stung my mistress into speaking angrily for the first time.

“Consider your proposal declined, in every particular,” she said. “And

go on to your other way of bringing the inquiry to an end.”

“My other way,” said the Sergeant, going on as easy as ever, “is to try

that bold experiment to which I have alluded. I think I have formed a

pretty correct estimate of Miss Verinder’s temperament. She is quite

capable (according to my belief) of committing a daring fraud. But she

is too hot and impetuous in temper, and too little accustomed to deceit

as a habit, to act the hypocrite in small things, and to restrain

herself under all provocations. Her feelings, in this case, have

repeatedly got beyond her control, at the very time when it was plainly

her interest to conceal them. It is on this peculiarity in her

character that I now propose to act. I want to give her a great shock

suddenly, under circumstances that will touch her to the quick. In

plain English, I want to tell Miss Verinder, without a word of warning,

of Rosanna’s death—on the chance that her own better feelings will

hurry her into making a clean breast of it. Does your ladyship accept

_that_ alternative?”

My mistress astonished me beyond all power of expression. She answered

him on the instant:

“Yes; I do.”

“The pony-chaise is ready,” said the Sergeant. “I wish your ladyship

good morning.”

My lady held up her hand, and stopped him at the door.

“My daughter’s better feelings shall be appealed to, as you propose,”

she said. “But I claim the right, as her mother, of putting her to the

test myself. You will remain here, if you please; and I will go to

Frizinghall.”

For once in his life, the great Cuff stood speechless with amazement,

like an ordinary man.

My mistress rang the bell, and ordered her waterproof things. It was

still pouring with rain; and the close carriage had gone, as you know,

with Miss Rachel to Frizinghall. I tried to dissuade her ladyship from

facing the severity of the weather. Quite useless! I asked leave to go

with her, and hold the umbrella. She wouldn’t hear of it. The

pony-chaise came round, with the groom in charge. “You may rely on two

things,” she said to Sergeant Cuff, in the hall. “I will try the

experiment on Miss Verinder as boldly as you could try it yourself. And

I will inform you of the result, either personally or by letter, before

the last train leaves for London tonight.”

With that, she stepped into the chaise, and, taking the reins herself,

drove off to Frizinghall.

CHAPTER XXII

My mistress having left us, I had leisure to think of Sergeant Cuff. I

found him sitting in a snug corner of the hall, consulting his

memorandum book, and curling up viciously at the corners of the lips.

“Making notes of the case?” I asked.

“No,” said the Sergeant. “Looking to see what my next professional

engagement is.”

“Oh!” I said. “You think it’s all over then, here?”

“I think,” answered Sergeant Cuff, “that Lady Verinder is one of the

cleverest women in England. I also think a rose much better worth

looking at than a diamond. Where is the gardener, Mr. Betteredge?”

There was no getting a word more out of him on the matter of the

Moonstone. He had lost all interest in his own inquiry; and he would

persist in looking for the gardener. An hour afterwards, I heard them

at high words in the conservatory, with the dog-rose once more at the

bottom of the dispute.

In the meantime, it was my business to find out whether Mr. Franklin

persisted in his resolution to leave us by the afternoon train. After

having been informed of the conference in my lady’s room, and of how it

had ended, he immediately decided on waiting to hear the news from

Frizinghall. This very natural alteration in his plans—which, with

ordinary people, would have led to nothing in particular—proved, in Mr.

Franklin’s case, to have one objectionable result. It left him

unsettled, with a legacy of idle time on his hands, and, in so doing,

it let out all the foreign sides of his character, one on the top of

another, like rats out of a bag.

Now as an Italian-Englishman, now as a German-Englishman, and now as a

French-Englishman, he drifted in and out of all the sitting-rooms in

the house, with nothing to talk of but Miss Rachel’s treatment of him;

and with nobody to address himself to but me. I found him (for example)

in the library, sitting under the map of Modern Italy, and quite

unaware of any other method of meeting his troubles, except the method

of talking about them. “I have several worthy aspirations, Betteredge;

but what am I to do with them now? I am full of dormant good qualities,

if Rachel would only have helped me to bring them out!” He was so

eloquent in drawing the picture of his own neglected merits, and so

pathetic in lamenting over it when it was done, that I felt quite at my

wits’ end how to console him, when it suddenly occurred to me that here

was a case for the wholesome application of a bit of _Robinson Crusoe_.

I hobbled out to my own room, and hobbled back with that immortal book.

Nobody in the library! The map of Modern Italy stared at _me_; and _I_

stared at the map of Modern Italy.

I tried the drawing-room. There was his handkerchief on the floor, to

prove that he had drifted in. And there was the empty room to prove

that he had drifted out again.

I tried the dining-room, and discovered Samuel with a biscuit and a

glass of sherry, silently investigating the empty air. A minute since,

Mr. Franklin had rung furiously for a little light refreshment. On its

production, in a violent hurry, by Samuel, Mr. Franklin had vanished

before the bell downstairs had quite done ringing with the pull he had

given to it.

I tried the morning-room, and found him at last. There he was at the

window, drawing hieroglyphics with his finger in the damp on the glass.

“Your sherry is waiting for you, sir,” I said to him. I might as well

have addressed myself to one of the four walls of the room; he was down

in the bottomless deep of his own meditations, past all pulling up.

“How do _you_ explain Rachel’s conduct, Betteredge?” was the only

answer I received. Not being ready with the needful reply, I produced

_Robinson Crusoe_, in which I am firmly persuaded some explanation

might have been found, if we had only searched long enough for it. Mr.

Franklin shut up _Robinson Crusoe_, and floundered into his

German-English gibberish on the spot. “Why not look into it?” he said,

as if I had personally objected to looking into it. “Why the devil lose

your patience, Betteredge, when patience is all that’s wanted to arrive

at the truth? Don’t interrupt me. Rachel’s conduct is perfectly

intelligible, if you will only do her the common justice to take the

Objective view first, and the Subjective view next, and the

Objective-Subjective view to wind up with. What do we know? We know

that the loss of the Moonstone, on Thursday morning last, threw her

into a state of nervous excitement, from which she has not recovered

yet. Do you mean to deny the Objective view, so far? Very well,

then—don’t interrupt me. Now, being in a state of nervous excitement,

how are we to expect that she should behave as she might otherwise have

behaved to any of the people about her? Arguing in this way, from

within-outwards, what do we reach? We reach the Subjective view. I defy

you to controvert the Subjective view. Very well then—what follows?

Good Heavens! the Objective-Subjective explanation follows, of course!

Rachel, properly speaking, is _not_ Rachel, but Somebody Else. Do I

mind being cruelly treated by Somebody Else? You are unreasonable

enough, Betteredge; but you can hardly accuse me of that. Then how does

it end? It ends, in spite of your confounded English narrowness and

prejudice, in my being perfectly happy and comfortable. Where’s the

sherry?”

My head was by this time in such a condition, that I was not quite sure

whether it was my own head, or Mr. Franklin’s. In this deplorable

state, I contrived to do, what I take to have been, three Objective

things. I got Mr. Franklin his sherry; I retired to my own room; and I

solaced myself with the most composing pipe of tobacco I ever remember

to have smoked in my life.

Don’t suppose, however, that I was quit of Mr. Franklin on such easy

terms as these. Drifting again, out of the morning-room into the hall,

he found his way to the offices next, smelt my pipe, and was instantly

reminded that he had been simple enough to give up smoking for Miss

Rachel’s sake. In the twinkling of an eye, he burst in on me with his

cigar-case, and came out strong on the one everlasting subject, in his

neat, witty, unbelieving, French way. “Give me a light, Betteredge. Is

it conceivable that a man can have smoked as long as I have without

discovering that there is a complete system for the treatment of women

at the bottom of his cigar-case? Follow me carefully, and I will prove

it in two words. You choose a cigar, you try it, and it disappoints

you. What do you do upon that? You throw it away and try another. Now

observe the application! You choose a woman, you try her, and she

breaks your heart. Fool! take a lesson from your cigar-case. Throw her

away, and try another!”

I shook my head at that. Wonderfully clever, I dare say, but my own

experience was dead against it. “In the time of the late Mrs.

Betteredge,” I said, “I felt pretty often inclined to try your

philosophy, Mr. Franklin. But the law insists on your smoking your

cigar, sir, when you have once chosen it.” I pointed that observation

with a wink. Mr. Franklin burst out laughing—and we were as merry as

crickets, until the next new side of his character turned up in due

course. So things went on with my young master and me; and so (while

the Sergeant and the gardener were wrangling over the roses) we two

spent the interval before the news came back from Frizinghall.

The pony-chaise returned a good half hour before I had ventured to

expect it. My lady had decided to remain for the present, at her

sister’s house. The groom brought two letters from his mistress; one

addressed to Mr. Franklin, and the other to me.

Mr. Franklin’s letter I sent to him in the library—into which refuge

his driftings had now taken him for the second time. My own letter, I

read in my own room. A cheque, which dropped out when I opened it,

informed me (before I had mastered the contents) that Sergeant Cuff’s

dismissal from the inquiry after the Moonstone was now a settled thing.

I sent to the conservatory to say that I wished to speak to the

Sergeant directly. He appeared, with his mind full of the gardener and

the dog-rose, declaring that the equal of Mr. Begbie for obstinacy

never had existed yet, and never would exist again. I requested him to

dismiss such wretched trifling as this from our conversation, and to

give his best attention to a really serious matter. Upon that he

exerted himself sufficiently to notice the letter in my hand. “Ah!” he

said in a weary way, “you have heard from her ladyship. Have I anything

to do with it, Mr. Betteredge?”

“You shall judge for yourself, Sergeant.” I thereupon read him the

letter (with my best emphasis and discretion), in the following words:

“MY GOOD GABRIEL,—I request that you will inform Sergeant Cuff, that I

have performed the promise I made to him; with this result, so far as

Rosanna Spearman is concerned. Miss Verinder solemnly declares, that

she has never spoken a word in private to Rosanna, since that unhappy

woman first entered my house. They never met, even accidentally, on the

night when the Diamond was lost; and no communication of any sort

whatever took place between them, from the Thursday morning when the

alarm was first raised in the house, to this present Saturday

afternoon, when Miss Verinder left us. After telling my daughter

suddenly, and in so many words, of Rosanna Spearman’s suicide—this is

what has come of it.”

Having reached that point, I looked up, and asked Sergeant Cuff what he

thought of the letter, so far?

“I should only offend you if I expressed _my_ opinion,” answered the

Sergeant. “Go on, Mr. Betteredge,” he said, with the most exasperating

resignation, “go on.”

When I remembered that this man had had the audacity to complain of our

gardener’s obstinacy, my tongue itched to “go on” in other words than

my mistress’s. This time, however, my Christianity held firm. I

proceeded steadily with her ladyship’s letter:

“Having appealed to Miss Verinder in the manner which the officer

thought most desirable, I spoke to her next in the manner which I

myself thought most likely to impress her. On two different occasions,

before my daughter left my roof, I privately warned her that she was

exposing herself to suspicion of the most unendurable and most

degrading kind. I have now told her, in the plainest terms, that my

apprehensions have been realised.

“Her answer to this, on her own solemn affirmation, is as plain as

words can be. In the first place, she owes no money privately to any

living creature. In the second place, the Diamond is not now, and never

has been, in her possession, since she put it into her cabinet on

Wednesday night.

“The confidence which my daughter has placed in me goes no further than

this. She maintains an obstinate silence, when I ask her if she can

explain the disappearance of the Diamond. She refuses, with tears, when

I appeal to her to speak out for my sake. ‘The day will come when you

will know why I am careless about being suspected, and why I am silent

even to _you_. I have done much to make my mother pity me—nothing to

make my mother blush for me.’ Those are my daughter’s own words.

“After what has passed between the officer and me, I think—stranger as

he is—that he should be made acquainted with what Miss Verinder has

said, as well as you. Read my letter to him, and then place in his

hands the cheque which I enclose. In resigning all further claim on his

services, I have only to say that I am convinced of his honesty and his

intelligence; but I am more firmly persuaded than ever, that the

circumstances, in this case, have fatally misled him.”

There the letter ended. Before presenting the cheque, I asked Sergeant

Cuff if he had any remark to make.

“It’s no part of my duty, Mr. Betteredge,” he answered, “to make

remarks on a case, when I have done with it.”

I tossed the cheque across the table to him. “Do you believe in _that_

part of her ladyship’s letter?” I said, indignantly.

The Sergeant looked at the cheque, and lifted up his dismal eyebrows in

acknowledgment of her ladyship’s liberality.

“This is such a generous estimate of the value of my time,” he said,

“that I feel bound to make some return for it. I’ll bear in mind the

amount in this cheque, Mr. Betteredge, when the occasion comes round

for remembering it.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Her ladyship has smoothed matters over for the present very cleverly,”

said the Sergeant. “But _this_ family scandal is of the sort that

bursts up again when you least expect it. We shall have more

detective-business on our hands, sir, before the Moonstone is many

months older.”

If those words meant anything, and if the manner in which he spoke them

meant anything—it came to this. My mistress’s letter had proved, to his

mind, that Miss Rachel was hardened enough to resist the strongest

appeal that could be addressed to her, and that she had deceived her

own mother (good God, under what circumstances!) by a series of

abominable lies. How other people, in my place, might have replied to

the Sergeant, I don’t know. I answered what he said in these plain

terms:

“Sergeant Cuff, I consider your last observation as an insult to my

lady and her daughter!”

“Mr. Betteredge, consider it as a warning to yourself, and you will be

nearer the mark.”

Hot and angry as I was, the infernal confidence with which he gave me

that answer closed my lips.

I walked to the window to compose myself. The rain had given over; and,

who should I see in the court-yard, but Mr. Begbie, the gardener,

waiting outside to continue the dog-rose controversy with Sergeant

Cuff.

“My compliments to the Sairgent,” said Mr. Begbie, the moment he set

eyes on me. “If he’s minded to walk to the station, I’m agreeable to go

with him.”

“What!” cries the Sergeant, behind me, “are you not convinced yet?”

“The de’il a bit I’m convinced!” answered Mr. Begbie.

“Then I’ll walk to the station!” says the Sergeant.

“Then I’ll meet you at the gate!” says Mr. Begbie.

I was angry enough, as you know—but how was any man’s anger to hold out

against such an interruption as this? Sergeant Cuff noticed the change

in me, and encouraged it by a word in season. “Come! come!” he said,

“why not treat my view of the case as her ladyship treats it? Why not

say, the circumstances have fatally misled me?”

To take anything as her ladyship took it was a privilege worth

enjoying—even with the disadvantage of its having been offered to me by

Sergeant Cuff. I cooled slowly down to my customary level. I regarded

any other opinion of Miss Rachel, than my lady’s opinion or mine, with

a lofty contempt. The only thing I could _not_ do, was to keep off the

subject of the Moonstone! My own good sense ought to have warned me, I

know, to let the matter rest—but, there! the virtues which distinguish

the present generation were not invented in my time. Sergeant Cuff had

hit me on the raw, and, though I did look down upon him with contempt,

the tender place still tingled for all that. The end of it was that I

perversely led him back to the subject of her ladyship’s letter. “I am

quite satisfied myself,” I said. “But never mind that! Go on, as if I

was still open to conviction. You think Miss Rachel is not to be

believed on her word; and you say we shall hear of the Moonstone again.

Back your opinion, Sergeant,” I concluded, in an airy way. “Back your

opinion.”

Instead of taking offence, Sergeant Cuff seized my hand, and shook it

till my fingers ached again.

“I declare to heaven,” says this strange officer solemnly, “I would

take to domestic service tomorrow, Mr. Betteredge, if I had a chance of

being employed along with You! To say you are as transparent as a

child, sir, is to pay the children a compliment which nine out of ten

of them don’t deserve. There! there! we won’t begin to dispute again.

You shall have it out of me on easier terms than that. I won’t say a

word more about her ladyship, or about Miss Verinder—I’ll only turn

prophet, for once in a way, and for your sake. I have warned you

already that you haven’t done with the Moonstone yet. Very well. Now

I’ll tell you, at parting, of three things which will happen in the

future, and which, I believe, will force themselves on your attention,

whether you like it or not.”

“Go on!” I said, quite unabashed, and just as airy as ever.

“First,” said the Sergeant, “you will hear something from the

Yollands—when the postman delivers Rosanna’s letter at Cobb’s Hole, on

Monday next.”

If he had thrown a bucket of cold water over me, I doubt if I could

have felt it much more unpleasantly than I felt those words. Miss

Rachel’s assertion of her innocence had left Rosanna’s conduct—the

making the new nightgown, the hiding the smeared nightgown, and all the

rest of it—entirely without explanation. And this had never occurred to

me, till Sergeant Cuff forced it on my mind all in a moment!

“In the second place,” proceeded the Sergeant, “you will hear of the

three Indians again. You will hear of them in the neighbourhood, if

Miss Rachel remains in the neighbourhood. You will hear of them in

London, if Miss Rachel goes to London.”

Having lost all interest in the three jugglers, and having thoroughly

convinced myself of my young lady’s innocence, I took this second

prophecy easily enough. “So much for two of the three things that are

going to happen,” I said. “Now for the third!”

“Third, and last,” said Sergeant Cuff, “you will, sooner or later, hear

something of that money-lender in London, whom I have twice taken the

liberty of mentioning already. Give me your pocket-book, and I’ll make

a note for you of his name and address—so that there may be no mistake

about it if the thing really happens.”

He wrote accordingly on a blank leaf—“Mr. Septimus Luker,

Middlesex-place, Lambeth, London.”

“There,” he said, pointing to the address, “are the last words, on the

subject of the Moonstone, which I shall trouble you with for the

present. Time will show whether I am right or wrong. In the meanwhile,

sir, I carry away with me a sincere personal liking for you, which I

think does honour to both of us. If we don’t meet again before my

professional retirement takes place, I hope you will come and see me in

a little house near London, which I have got my eye on. There will be

grass walks, Mr. Betteredge, I promise you, in _my_ garden. And as for

the white moss rose——”

“The de’il a bit ye’ll get the white moss rose to grow, unless you bud

him on the dogue-rose first,” cried a voice at the window.

We both turned round. There was the everlasting Mr. Begbie, too eager

for the controversy to wait any longer at the gate. The Sergeant wrung

my hand, and darted out into the court-yard, hotter still on his side.

“Ask him about the moss rose, when he comes back, and see if I have

left him a leg to stand on!” cried the great Cuff, hailing me through

the window in his turn. “Gentlemen, both!” I answered, moderating them

again as I had moderated them once already. “In the matter of the moss

rose there is a great deal to be said on both sides!” I might as well

(as the Irish say) have whistled jigs to a milestone. Away they went

together, fighting the battle of the roses without asking or giving

quarter on either side. The last I saw of them, Mr. Begbie was shaking

his obstinate head, and Sergeant Cuff had got him by the arm like a

prisoner in charge. Ah, well! well! I own I couldn’t help liking the

Sergeant—though I hated him all the time.

Explain that state of mind, if you can. You will soon be rid, now, of

me and my contradictions. When I have reported Mr. Franklin’s

departure, the history of the Saturday’s events will be finished at

last. And when I have next described certain strange things that

happened in the course of the new week, I shall have done my part of

the Story, and shall hand over the pen to the person who is appointed

to follow my lead. If you are as tired of reading this narrative as I

am of writing it—Lord, how we shall enjoy ourselves on both sides a few

pages further on!

CHAPTER XXIII

I had kept the pony-chaise ready, in case Mr. Franklin persisted in