The Moonstone

hose 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.