The Moonstone

ad kept the pony-chaise ready, in case Mr. Franklin persisted in
leaving us by the train that night. The appearance of the luggage,
followed downstairs by Mr. Franklin himself, informed me plainly enough
that he had held firm to a resolution for once in his life.

“So you have really made up your mind, sir?” I said, as we met in the
hall. “Why not wait a day or two longer, and give Miss Rachel another
chance?”

The foreign varnish appeared to have all worn off Mr. Franklin, now
that the time had come for saying good-bye. Instead of replying to me
in words, he put the letter which her ladyship had addressed to him
into my hand. The greater part of it said over again what had been said
already in the other communication received by me. But there was a bit
about Miss Rachel added at the end, which will account for the
steadiness of Mr. Franklin’s determination, if it accounts for nothing
else.

“You will wonder, I dare say” (her ladyship wrote), “at my allowing my
own daughter to keep me perfectly in the dark. A Diamond worth twenty
thousand pounds has been lost—and I am left to infer that the mystery
of its disappearance is no mystery to Rachel, and that some
incomprehensible obligation of silence has been laid on her, by some
person or persons utterly unknown to me, with some object in view at
which I cannot even guess. Is it conceivable that I should allow myself
to be trifled with in this way? It is quite conceivable, in Rachel’s
present state. She is in a condition of nervous agitation pitiable to
see. I dare not approach the subject of the Moonstone again until time
has done something to quiet her. To help this end, I have not hesitated
to dismiss the police-officer. The mystery which baffles us, baffles
him too. This is not a matter in which any stranger can help us. He
adds to what I have to suffer; and he maddens Rachel if she only hears
his name.

“My plans for the future are as well settled as they can be. My present
idea is to take Rachel to London—partly to relieve her mind by a
complete change, partly to try what may be done by consulting the best
medical advice. Can I ask you to meet us in town? My dear Franklin,
you, in your way, must imitate my patience, and wait, as I do, for a
fitter time. The valuable assistance which you rendered to the inquiry
after the lost jewel is still an unpardoned offence, in the present
dreadful state of Rachel’s mind. Moving blindfold in this matter, you
have added to the burden of anxiety which she has had to bear, by
innocently threatening her secret with discovery, through your
exertions. It is impossible for me to excuse the perversity that holds
you responsible for consequences which neither you nor I could imagine
or foresee. She is not to be reasoned with—she can only be pitied. I am
grieved to have to say it, but for the present, you and Rachel are
better apart. The only advice I can offer you is, to give her time.”

I handed the letter back, sincerely sorry for Mr. Franklin, for I knew
how fond he was of my young lady; and I saw that her mother’s account
of her had cut him to the heart. “You know the proverb, sir,” was all I
said to him. “When things are at the worst, they’re sure to mend.
Things can’t be much worse, Mr. Franklin, than they are now.”

Mr. Franklin folded up his aunt’s letter, without appearing to be much
comforted by the remark which I had ventured on addressing to him.

“When I came here from London with that horrible Diamond,” he said, “I
don’t believe there was a happier household in England than this. Look
at the household now! Scattered, disunited—the very air of the place
poisoned with mystery and suspicion! Do you remember that morning at
the Shivering Sand, when we talked about my uncle Herncastle, and his
birthday gift? The Moonstone has served the Colonel’s vengeance,
Betteredge, by means which the Colonel himself never dreamt of!”

With that he shook me by the hand, and went out to the pony-chaise.

I followed him down the steps. It was very miserable to see him leaving
the old place, where he had spent the happiest years of his life, in
this way. Penelope (sadly upset by all that had happened in the house)
came round crying, to bid him good-bye. Mr. Franklin kissed her. I
waved my hand as much as to say, “You’re heartily welcome, sir.” Some
of the other female servants appeared, peeping after him round the
corner. He was one of those men whom the women all like. At the last
moment, I stopped the pony-chaise, and begged as a favour that he would
let us hear from him by letter. He didn’t seem to heed what I said—he
was looking round from one thing to another, taking a sort of farewell
of the old house and grounds. “Tell us where you are going to, sir!” I
said, holding on by the chaise, and trying to get at his future plans
in that way. Mr. Franklin pulled his hat down suddenly over his eyes.
“Going?” says he, echoing the word after me. “I am going to the devil!”
The pony started at the word, as if he had felt a Christian horror of
it. “God bless you, sir, go where you may!” was all I had time to say,
before he was out of sight and hearing. A sweet and pleasant gentleman!
With all his faults and follies, a sweet and pleasant gentleman! He
left a sad gap behind him, when he left my lady’s house.

It was dull and dreary enough, when the long summer evening closed in,
on that Saturday night.

I kept my spirits from sinking by sticking fast to my pipe and my
Robinson Crusoe. The women (excepting Penelope) beguiled the time by
talking of Rosanna’s suicide. They were all obstinately of opinion that
the poor girl had stolen the Moonstone, and that she had destroyed
herself in terror of being found out. My daughter, of course, privately
held fast to what she had said all along. Her notion of the motive
which was really at the bottom of the suicide failed, oddly enough,
just where my young lady’s assertion of her innocence failed also. It
left Rosanna’s secret journey to Frizinghall, and Rosanna’s proceedings
in the matter of the nightgown entirely unaccounted for. There was no
use in pointing this out to Penelope; the objection made about as much
impression on her as a shower of rain on a waterproof coat. The truth
is, my daughter inherits my superiority to reason—and, in respect to
that accomplishment, has got a long way ahead of her own father.

On the next day (Sunday), the close carriage, which had been kept at
Mr. Ablewhite’s, came back to us empty. The coachman brought a message
for me, and written instructions for my lady’s own maid and for
Penelope.

The message informed me that my mistress had determined to take Miss
Rachel to her house in London, on the Monday. The written instructions
informed the two maids of the clothing that was wanted, and directed
them to meet their mistresses in town at a given hour. Most of the
other servants were to follow. My lady had found Miss Rachel so
unwilling to return to the house, after what had happened in it, that
she had decided on going to London direct from Frizinghall. I was to
remain in the country, until further orders, to look after things
indoors and out. The servants left with me were to be put on board
wages.

Being reminded, by all this, of what Mr. Franklin had said about our
being a scattered and disunited household, my mind was led naturally to
Mr. Franklin himself. The more I thought of him, the more uneasy I felt
about his future proceedings. It ended in my writing, by the Sunday’s
post, to his father’s valet, Mr. Jeffco (whom I had known in former
years) to beg he would let me know what Mr. Franklin had settled to do,
on arriving in London.

The Sunday evening was, if possible, duller even than the Saturday
evening. We ended the day of rest, as hundreds of thousands of people
end it regularly, once a week, in these islands—that is to say, we all
anticipated bedtime, and fell asleep in our chairs.

How the Monday affected the rest of the household I don’t know. The
Monday gave me a good shake up. The first of Sergeant Cuff’s
prophecies of what was to happen—namely, that I should hear from the
Yollands—came true on that day.

I had seen Penelope and my lady’s maid off in the railway with the
luggage for London, and was pottering about the grounds, when I heard
my name called. Turning round, I found myself face to face with the
fisherman’s daughter, Limping Lucy. Bating her lame foot and her
leanness (this last a horrid draw-back to a woman, in my opinion), the
girl had some pleasing qualities in the eye of a man. A dark, keen,
clever face, and a nice clear voice, and a beautiful brown head of hair
counted among her merits. A crutch appeared in the list of her
misfortunes. And a temper reckoned high in the sum total of her
defects.

“Well, my dear,” I said, “what do you want with me?”

“Where’s the man you call Franklin Blake?” says the girl, fixing me
with a fierce look, as she rested herself on her crutch.

“That’s not a respectful way to speak of any gentleman,” I answered.
“If you wish to inquire for my lady’s nephew, you will please to
mention him as Mr. Franklin Blake.”

She limped a step nearer to me, and looked as if she could have eaten
me alive. “Mr. Franklin Blake?” she repeated after me. “Murderer
Franklin Blake would be a fitter name for him.”

My practice with the late Mrs. Betteredge came in handy here. Whenever
a woman tries to put you out of temper, turn the tables, and put
her out of temper instead. They are generally prepared for every
effort you can make in your own defence, but that. One word does it as
well as a hundred; and one word did it with Limping Lucy. I looked her
pleasantly in the face; and I said—“Pooh!”

The girl’s temper flamed out directly. She poised herself on her sound
foot, and she took her crutch, and beat it furiously three times on the
ground. “He’s a murderer! he’s a murderer! he’s a murderer! He has been
the death of Rosanna Spearman!” She screamed that answer out at the top
of her voice. One or two of the people at work in the grounds near us
looked up—saw it was Limping Lucy—knew what to expect from that
quarter—and looked away again.

“He has been the death of Rosanna Spearman?” I repeated. “What makes
you say that, Lucy?”

“What do you care? What does any man care? Oh! if she had only thought
of the men as I think, she might have been living now!”

“She always thought kindly of me, poor soul,” I said; “and, to the
best of my ability, I always tried to act kindly by her.”

I spoke those words in as comforting a manner as I could. The truth is,
I hadn’t the heart to irritate the girl by another of my smart replies.
I had only noticed her temper at first. I noticed her wretchedness
now—and wretchedness is not uncommonly insolent, you will find, in
humble life. My answer melted Limping Lucy. She bent her head down, and
laid it on the top of her crutch.

“I loved her,” the girl said softly. “She had lived a miserable life,
Mr. Betteredge—vile people had ill-treated her and led her wrong—and it
hadn’t spoiled her sweet temper. She was an angel. She might have been
happy with me. I had a plan for our going to London together like
sisters, and living by our needles. That man came here, and spoilt it
all. He bewitched her. Don’t tell me he didn’t mean it, and didn’t know
it. He ought to have known it. He ought to have taken pity on her. ‘I
can’t live without him—and, oh, Lucy, he never even looks at me.’
That’s what she said. Cruel, cruel, cruel. I said, ‘No man is worth
fretting for in that way.’ And she said, ‘There are men worth dying
for, Lucy, and he is one of them.’ I had saved up a little money. I had
settled things with father and mother. I meant to take her away from
the mortification she was suffering here. We should have had a little
lodging in London, and lived together like sisters. She had a good
education, sir, as you know, and she wrote a good hand. She was quick
at her needle. I have a good education, and I write a good hand. I am
not as quick at my needle as she was—but I could have done. We might
have got our living nicely. And, oh! what happens this morning? what
happens this morning? Her letter comes and tells me that she has done
with the burden of her life. Her letter comes, and bids me good-bye for
ever. Where is he?” cries the girl, lifting her head from the crutch,
and flaming out again through her tears. “Where’s this gentleman that I
mustn’t speak of, except with respect? Ha, Mr. Betteredge, the day is
not far off when the poor will rise against the rich. I pray Heaven
they may begin with him. I pray Heaven they may begin with him.”

Here was another of your average good Christians, and here was the
usual break-down, consequent on that same average Christianity being
pushed too far! The parson himself (though I own this is saying a great
deal) could hardly have lectured the girl in the state she was in now.
All I ventured to do was to keep her to the point—in the hope of
something turning up which might be worth hearing.

“What do you want with Mr. Franklin Blake?” I asked.

“I want to see him.”

“For anything particular?”

“I have got a letter to give him.”

“From Rosanna Spearman?”

“Yes.”

“Sent to you in your own letter?”

“Yes.”

Was the darkness going to lift? Were all the discoveries that I was
dying to make, coming and offering themselves to me of their own
accord? I was obliged to wait a moment. Sergeant Cuff had left his
infection behind him. Certain signs and tokens, personal to myself,
warned me that the detective-fever was beginning to set in again.

“You can’t see Mr. Franklin,” I said.

“I must, and will, see him.”

“He went to London last night.”

Limping Lucy looked me hard in the face, and saw that I was speaking
the truth. Without a word more, she turned about again instantly
towards Cobb’s Hole.

“Stop!” I said. “I expect news of Mr. Franklin Blake tomorrow. Give me
your letter, and I’ll send it on to him by the post.”

Limping Lucy steadied herself on her crutch and looked back at me over
her shoulder.

“I am to give it from my hands into his hands,” she said. “And I am to
give it to him in no other way.”

“Shall I write, and tell him what you have said?”

“Tell him I hate him. And you will tell him the truth.”

“Yes, yes. But about the letter——?”

“If he wants the letter, he must come back here, and get it from Me.”

With those words she limped off on the way to Cobb’s Hole. The
detective-fever burnt up all my dignity on the spot. I followed her,
and tried to make her talk. All in vain. It was my misfortune to be a
man—and Limping Lucy enjoyed disappointing me. Later in the day, I
tried my luck with her mother. Good Mrs. Yolland could only cry, and
recommend a drop of comfort out of the Dutch bottle. I found the
fisherman on the beach. He said it was “a bad job,” and went on mending
his net. Neither father nor mother knew more than I knew. The one way
left to try was the chance, which might come with the morning, of
writing to Mr. Franklin Blake.

I leave you to imagine how I watched for the postman on Tuesday
morning. He brought me two letters. One, from Penelope (which I had
hardly patience enough to read), announced that my lady and Miss Rachel
were safely established in London. The other, from Mr. Jeffco, informed
me that his master’s son had left England already.

On reaching the metropolis, Mr. Franklin had, it appeared, gone
straight to his father’s residence. He arrived at an awkward time. Mr.
Blake, the elder, was up to his eyes in the business of the House of
Commons, and was amusing himself at home that night with the favourite
parliamentary plaything which they call “a private bill.” Mr. Jeffco
himself showed Mr. Franklin into his father’s study. “My dear Franklin!
why do you surprise me in this way? Anything wrong?” “Yes; something
wrong with Rachel; I am dreadfully distressed about it.” “Grieved to
hear it. But I can’t listen to you now.” “When can you listen?” “My
dear boy! I won’t deceive you. I can listen at the end of the session,
not a moment before. Good-night.” “Thank you, sir. Good-night.”

Such was the conversation, inside the study, as reported to me by Mr.
Jeffco. The conversation outside the study, was shorter still. “Jeffco,
see what time the tidal train starts tomorrow morning.” “At six-forty,
Mr. Franklin.” “Have me called at five.” “Going abroad, sir?” “Going,
Jeffco, wherever the railway chooses to take me.” “Shall I tell your
father, sir?” “Yes; tell him at the end of the session.”

The next morning Mr. Franklin had started for foreign parts. To what
particular place he was bound, nobody (himself included) could presume
to guess. We might hear of him next in Europe, Asia, Africa, or
America. The chances were as equally divided as possible, in Mr.
Jeffco’s opinion, among the four quarters of the globe.

This news—by closing up all prospects of my bringing Limping Lucy and
Mr. Franklin together—at once stopped any further progress of mine on
the way to discovery. Penelope’s belief that her fellow-servant had
destroyed herself through unrequited love for Mr. Franklin Blake, was
confirmed—and that was all. Whether the letter which Rosanna had left
to be given to him after her death did, or did not, contain the
confession which Mr. Franklin had suspected her of trying to make to
him in her life-time, it was impossible to say. It might be only a
farewell word, telling nothing but the secret of her unhappy fancy for
a person beyond her reach. Or it might own the whole truth about the
strange proceedings in which Sergeant Cuff had detected her, from the
time when the Moonstone was lost, to the time when she rushed to her
own destruction at the Shivering Sand. A sealed letter it had been
placed in Limping Lucy’s hand, and a sealed letter it remained to me
and to everyone about the girl, her own parents included. We all
suspected her of having been in the dead woman’s confidence; we all
tried to make her speak; we all failed. Now one, and now another, of
the servants—still holding to the belief that Rosanna had stolen the
Diamond and had hidden it—peered and poked about the rocks to which she
had been traced, and peered and poked in vain. The tide ebbed, and the
tide flowed; the summer went on, and the autumn came. And the
Quicksand, which hid her body, hid her secret too.

The news of Mr. Franklin’s departure from England on the Sunday
morning, and the news of my lady’s arrival in London with Miss Rachel
on the Monday afternoon, had reached me, as you are aware, by the
Tuesday’s post. The Wednesday came, and brought nothing. The Thursday
produced a second budget of news from Penelope.

My girl’s letter informed me that some great London doctor had been
consulted about her young lady, and had earned a guinea by remarking
that she had better be amused. Flower-shows, operas, balls—there was a
whole round of gaieties in prospect; and Miss Rachel, to her mother’s
astonishment, eagerly took to it all. Mr. Godfrey had called; evidently
as sweet as ever on his cousin, in spite of the reception he had met
with, when he tried his luck on the occasion of the birthday. To
Penelope’s great regret, he had been most graciously received, and had
added Miss Rachel’s name to one of his Ladies’ Charities on the spot.
My mistress was reported to be out of spirits, and to have held two
long interviews with her lawyer. Certain speculations followed,
referring to a poor relation of the family—one Miss Clack, whom I have
mentioned in my account of the birthday dinner, as sitting next to Mr.
Godfrey, and having a pretty taste in champagne. Penelope was
astonished to find that Miss Clack had not called yet. She would surely
not be long before she fastened herself on my lady as usual—and so
forth, and so forth, in the way women have of girding at each other, on
and off paper. This would not have been worth mentioning, I admit, but
for one reason. I hear you are likely to be turned over to Miss Clack,
after parting with me. In that case, just do me the favour of not
believing a word she says, if she speaks of your humble servant.

On Friday, nothing happened—except that one of the dogs showed signs of
a breaking out behind the ears. I gave him a dose of syrup of
buckthorn, and put him on a diet of pot-liquor and vegetables till
further orders. Excuse my mentioning this. It has slipped in somehow.
Pass it over please. I am fast coming to the end of my offences against
your cultivated modern taste. Besides, the dog was a good creature, and
deserved a good physicking; he did indeed.

Saturday, the last day of the week, is also the last day in my
narrative.

The morning’s post brought me a surprise in the shape of a London
newspaper. The handwriting on the direction puzzled me. I compared it
with the money-lender’s name and address as recorded in my pocket-book,
and identified it at once as the writing of Sergeant Cuff.

Looking through the paper eagerly enough, after this discovery, I found
an ink-mark drawn round one of the police reports. Here it is, at your
service. Read it as I read it, and you will set the right value on the
Sergeant’s polite attention in sending me the news of the day:

“LAMBETH—Shortly before the closing of the court, Mr. Septimus Luker,
the well-known dealer in ancient gems, carvings, intagli, &c., &c.,
applied to the sitting magistrate for advice. The applicant stated that
he had been annoyed, at intervals throughout the day, by the
proceedings of some of those strolling Indians who infest the streets.
The persons complained of were three in number. After having been sent
away by the police, they had returned again and again, and had
attempted to enter the house on pretence of asking for charity. Warned
off in the front, they had been discovered again at the back of the
premises. Besides the annoyance complained of, Mr. Luker expressed
himself as being under some apprehension that robbery might be
contemplated. His collection contained many unique gems, both classical
and Oriental, of the highest value. He had only the day before been
compelled to dismiss a skilled workman in ivory carving from his
employment (a native of India, as we understood), on suspicion of
attempted theft; and he felt by no means sure that this man and the
street jugglers of whom he complained, might not be acting in concert.
It might be their object to collect a crowd, and create a disturbance
in the street, and, in the confusion thus caused, to obtain access to
the house. In reply to the magistrate, Mr. Luker admitted that he had
no evidence to produce of any attempt at robbery being in
contemplation. He could speak positively to the annoyance and
interruption caused by the Indians, but not to anything else. The
magistrate remarked that, if the annoyance were repeated, the applicant
could summon the Indians to that court, where they might easily be
dealt with under the Act. As to the valuables in Mr. Luker’s
possession, Mr. Luker himself must take the best measures for their
safe custody. He would do well perhaps to communicate with the police,
and to adopt such additional precautions as their experience might
suggest. The applicant thanked his worship, and withdrew.”

One of the wise ancients is reported (I forget on what occasion) as
having recommended his fellow-creatures to “look to the end.” Looking
to the end of these pages of mine, and wondering for some days past how
I should manage to write it, I find my plain statement of facts coming
to a conclusion, most appropriately, of its own self. We have gone on,
in this matter of the Moonstone, from one marvel to another; and here
we end with the greatest marvel of all—namely, the accomplishment of
Sergeant Cuff’s three predictions in less than a week from the time
when he had made them.

After hearing from the Yollands on the Monday, I had now heard of the
Indians, and heard of the money-lender, in the news from London—Miss
Rachel herself remember, being also in London at the time. You see, I
put things at their worst, even when they tell dead against my own
view. If you desert me, and side with the Sergeant, on the evidence
before you—if the only rational explanation you can see is, that Miss
Rachel and Mr. Luker must have got together, and that the Moonstone
must be now in pledge in the money-lender’s house—I own, I can’t blame
you for arriving at that conclusion. In the dark, I have brought you
thus far. In the dark I am compelled to leave you, with my best
respects.

Why compelled? it may be asked. Why not take the persons who have gone
along with me, so far, up into those regions of superior enlightenment
in which I sit myself?

In answer to this, I can only state that I am acting under orders, and
that those orders have been given to me (as I understand) in the
interests of truth. I am forbidden to tell more in this narrative than
I knew myself at the time. Or, to put it plainer, I am to keep strictly
within the limits of my own experience, and am not to inform you of
what other persons told me—for the very sufficient reason that you are
to have the information from those other persons themselves, at first
hand. In this matter of the Moonstone the plan is, not to present
reports, but to produce witnesses. I picture to myself a member of the
family reading these pages fifty years hence. Lord! what a compliment
he will feel it, to be asked to take nothing on hear-say, and to be
treated in all respects like a Judge on the bench.

At this place, then, we part—for the present, at least—after long
journeying together, with a companionable feeling, I hope, on both
sides. The devil’s dance of the Indian Diamond has threaded its way to
London; and to London you must go after it, leaving me at the country
house. Please to excuse the faults of this composition—my talking so
much of myself, and being too familiar, I am afraid, with you. I mean
no harm; and I drink most respectfully (having just done dinner) to
your health and prosperity, in a tankard of her ladyship’s ale. May you
find in these leaves of my writing, what Robinson Crusoe found in his
experience on the desert island—namely, “something to comfort
yourselves from, and to set in the Description of Good and Evil, on the
Credit Side of the Account.”—Farewell.

THE END OF THE FIRST PERIOD.

SECOND PERIOD.

THE DISCOVERY OF THE TRUTH. (1848-1849.)

The Events related in several Narratives.

FIRST NARRATIVE.

Contributed by Miss Clack; niece of the late Sir John Verinder