CHAPTER III
I have only the most indistinct recollection of what happened atHotherstone's Farm.
I remember a hearty welcome; a prodigious supper, which would have fed awhole village in the East; a delightfully clean bedroom, with nothingin it to regret but that detestable product of the folly of ourfore-fathers--a feather-bed; a restless night, with much kindlingof matches, and many lightings of one little candle; and an immensesensation of relief when the sun rose, and there was a prospect ofgetting up.
It had been arranged over-night with Betteredge, that I was to call forhim, on our way to Cobb's Hole, as early as I liked--which, interpretedby my impatience to get possession of the letter, meant as early asI could. Without waiting for breakfast at the Farm, I took a crust ofbread in my hand, and set forth, in some doubt whether I should notsurprise the excellent Betteredge in his bed. To my great relief heproved to be quite as excited about the coming event as I was. I foundhim ready, and waiting for me, with his stick in his hand.
"How are you this morning, Betteredge?"
"Very poorly, sir."
"Sorry to hear it. What do you complain of?"
"I complain of a new disease, Mr. Franklin, of my own inventing. I don'twant to alarm you, but you're certain to catch it before the morning isout."
"The devil I am!"
"Do you feel an uncomfortable heat at the pit of your stomach, sir? anda nasty thumping at the top of your head? Ah! not yet? It will lay holdof you at Cobb's Hole, Mr. Franklin. I call it the detective-fever; andI first caught it in the company of Sergeant Cuff."
"Aye! aye! and the cure in this instance is to open Rosanna Spearman'sletter, I suppose? Come along, and let's get it."
Early as it was, we found the fisherman's wife astir in her kitchen.On my presentation by Betteredge, good Mrs. Yolland performed a socialceremony, strictly reserved (as I afterwards learnt) for strangers ofdistinction. She put a bottle of Dutch gin and a couple of clean pipeson the table, and opened the conversation by saying, "What news fromLondon, sir?"
Before I could find an answer to this immensely comprehensive question,an apparition advanced towards me, out of a dark corner of the kitchen.A wan, wild, haggard girl, with remarkably beautiful hair, and with afierce keenness in her eyes, came limping up on a crutch to the table atwhich I was sitting, and looked at me as if I was an object of mingledinterest and horror, which it quite fascinated her to see.
"Mr. Betteredge," she said, without taking her eyes off me, "mention hisname again, if you please."
"This gentleman's name," answered Betteredge (with a strong emphasis onGENTLEMAN), "is Mr. Franklin Blake."
The girl turned her back on me, and suddenly left the room. Good Mrs.Yolland--as I believe--made some apologies for her daughter's oddbehaviour, and Betteredge (probably) translated them into politeEnglish. I speak of this in complete uncertainty. My attention wasabsorbed in following the sound of the girl's crutch. Thump-thump,up the wooden stairs; thump-thump across the room above our heads;thump-thump down the stairs again--and there stood the apparition at theopen door, with a letter in its hand, beckoning me out!
I left more apologies in course of delivery behind me, and followedthis strange creature--limping on before me, faster and faster--downthe slope of the beach. She led me behind some boats, out of sight andhearing of the few people in the fishing-village, and then stopped, andfaced me for the first time.
"Stand there," she said, "I want to look at you."
There was no mistaking the expression on her face. I inspired her withthe strongest emotions of abhorrence and disgust. Let me not be vainenough to say that no woman had ever looked at me in this manner before.I will only venture on the more modest assertion that no woman had everlet me perceive it yet. There is a limit to the length of the inspectionwhich a man can endure, under certain circumstances. I attempted todirect Limping Lucy's attention to some less revolting object than myface.
"I think you have got a letter to give me," I began. "Is it the letterthere, in your hand?"
"Say that again," was the only answer I received.
I repeated the words, like a good child learning its lesson.
"No," said the girl, speaking to herself, but keeping her eyes stillmercilessly fixed on me. "I can't find out what she saw in his face. Ican't guess what she heard in his voice." She suddenly looked away fromme, and rested her head wearily on the top of her crutch. "Oh, my poordear!" she said, in the first soft tones which had fallen from her, inmy hearing. "Oh, my lost darling! what could you see in this man?" Shelifted her head again fiercely, and looked at me once more. "Can you eatand drink?" she asked.
I did my best to preserve my gravity, and answered, "Yes."
"Can you sleep?"
"Yes."
"When you see a poor girl in service, do you feel no remorse?"
"Certainly not. Why should I?"
She abruptly thrust the letter (as the phrase is) into my face.
"Take it!" she exclaimed furiously. "I never set eyes on you before. GodAlmighty forbid I should ever set eyes on you again."
With those parting words she limped away from me at the top of herspeed. The one interpretation that I could put on her conduct has, nodoubt, been anticipated by everybody. I could only suppose that she wasmad.
Having reached that inevitable conclusion, I turned to the moreinteresting object of investigation which was presented to me by RosannaSpearman's letter. The address was written as follows:--"For FranklinBlake, Esq. To be given into his own hands (and not to be trusted to anyone else), by Lucy Yolland."
I broke the seal. The envelope contained a letter: and this, in itsturn, contained a slip of paper. I read the letter first:--
"Sir,--If you are curious to know the meaning of my behaviour to you,whilst you were staying in the house of my mistress, Lady Verinder, dowhat you are told to do in the memorandum enclosed with this--and do itwithout any person being present to overlook you. Your humble servant,
"ROSANNA SPEARMAN."
I turned to the slip of paper next. Here is the literal copy of it, wordfor word:
"Memorandum:--To go to the Shivering Sand at the turn of the tide. Towalk out on the South Spit, until I get the South Spit Beacon, andthe flagstaff at the Coast-guard station above Cobb's Hole in a linetogether. To lay down on the rocks, a stick, or any straight thing toguide my hand, exactly in the line of the beacon and the flagstaff. Totake care, in doing this, that one end of the stick shall be at the edgeof the rocks, on the side of them which overlooks the quicksand. To feelalong the stick, among the sea-weed (beginning from the end of the stickwhich points towards the beacon), for the Chain. To run my hand alongthe Chain, when found, until I come to the part of it which stretchesover the edge of the rocks, down into the quicksand. AND THEN TO PULLTHE CHAIN."
Just as I had read the last words--underlined in the original--I heardthe voice of Betteredge behind me. The inventor of the detective-feverhad completely succumbed to that irresistible malady. "I can't stand itany longer, Mr. Franklin. What does her letter say? For mercy's sake,sir, tell us, what does her letter say?"
I handed him the letter, and the memorandum. He read the firstwithout appearing to be much interested in it. But the second--thememorandum--produced a strong impression on him.
"The Sergeant said it!" cried Betteredge. "From first to last, sir, theSergeant said she had got a memorandum of the hiding-place. And hereit is! Lord save us, Mr. Franklin, here is the secret that puzzledeverybody, from the great Cuff downwards, ready and waiting, as one maysay, to show itself to YOU! It's the ebb now, sir, as anybody may seefor themselves. How long will it be till the turn of the tide?" Helooked up, and observed a lad at work, at some little distance from us,mending a net. "Tammie Bright!" he shouted at the top of his voice.
"I hear you!" Tammie shouted back.
"When's the turn of the tide?"
"In an hour's time."
We both looked at our watches.
"We can go round by the coast,
Mr. Franklin," said Betteredge; "and getto the quicksand in that way with plenty of time to spare. What do yousay, sir?"
"Come along!"
On our way to the Shivering Sand, I applied to Betteredge to revivemy memory of events (as affecting Rosanna Spearman) at the period ofSergeant Cuff's inquiry. With my old friend's help, I soon had thesuccession of circumstances clearly registered in my mind. Rosanna'sjourney to Frizinghall, when the whole household believed her to be illin her own room--Rosanna's mysterious employment of the night-time withher door locked, and her candle burning till the morning--Rosanna'ssuspicious purchase of the japanned tin case, and the two dog's chainsfrom Mrs. Yolland--the Sergeant's positive conviction that Rosanna hadhidden something at the Shivering Sand, and the Sergeant's absoluteignorance as to what that something might be--all these strange resultsof the abortive inquiry into the loss of the Moonstone were clearlypresent to me again, when we reached the quicksand, and walked outtogether on the low ledge of rocks called the South Spit.
With Betteredge's help, I soon stood in the right position to see theBeacon and the Coast-guard flagstaff in a line together. Followingthe memorandum as our guide, we next laid my stick in the necessarydirection, as neatly as we could, on the uneven surface of the rocks.And then we looked at our watches once more.
It wanted nearly twenty minutes yet of the turn of the tide. I suggestedwaiting through this interval on the beach, instead of on the wet andslippery surface of the rocks. Having reached the dry sand, I preparedto sit down; and, greatly to my surprise, Betteredge prepared to leaveme.
"What are you going away for?" I asked.
"Look at the letter again, sir, and you will see."
A glance at the letter reminded me that I was charged, when I made mydiscovery, to make it alone.
"It's hard enough for me to leave you, at such a time as this," saidBetteredge. "But she died a dreadful death, poor soul--and I feel a kindof call on me, Mr. Franklin, to humour that fancy of hers. Besides,"he added, confidentially, "there's nothing in the letter againstyour letting out the secret afterwards. I'll hang about in the firplantation, and wait till you pick me up. Don't be longer than you canhelp, sir. The detective-fever isn't an easy disease to deal with, underTHESE circumstances."
With that parting caution, he left me.
The interval of expectation, short as it was when reckoned by themeasure of time, assumed formidable proportions when reckoned bythe measure of suspense. This was one of the occasions on which theinvaluable habit of smoking becomes especially precious and consolatory.I lit a cigar, and sat down on the slope of the beach.
The sunlight poured its unclouded beauty on every object that I couldsee. The exquisite freshness of the air made the mere act of living andbreathing a luxury. Even the lonely little bay welcomed the morningwith a show of cheerfulness; and the bared wet surface of the quicksanditself, glittering with a golden brightness, hid the horror of its falsebrown face under a passing smile. It was the finest day I had seen sincemy return to England.
The turn of the tide came, before my cigar was finished. I saw thepreliminary heaving of the Sand, and then the awful shiver that creptover its surface--as if some spirit of terror lived and moved andshuddered in the fathomless deeps beneath. I threw away my cigar, andwent back again to the rocks.
My directions in the memorandum instructed me to feel along the linetraced by the stick, beginning with the end which was nearest to thebeacon.
I advanced, in this manner, more than half way along the stick, withoutencountering anything but the edges of the rocks. An inch or two furtheron, however, my patience was rewarded. In a narrow little fissure, justwithin reach of my forefinger, I felt the chain. Attempting, next,to follow it, by touch, in the direction of the quicksand, I found myprogress stopped by a thick growth of seaweed--which had fastened itselfinto the fissure, no doubt, in the time that had elapsed since RosannaSpearman had chosen her hiding-place.
It was equally impossible to pull up the seaweed, or to force my handthrough it. After marking the spot indicated by the end of the stickwhich was placed nearest to the quicksand, I determined to pursuethe search for the chain on a plan of my own. My idea was to "sound"immediately under the rocks, on the chance of recovering the lost traceof the chain at the point at which it entered the sand. I took up thestick, and knelt down on the brink of the South Spit.
In this position, my face was within a few feet of the surface of thequicksand. The sight of it so near me, still disturbed at intervals byits hideous shivering fit, shook my nerves for the moment. A horriblefancy that the dead woman might appear on the scene of her suicide, toassist my search--an unutterable dread of seeing her rise through theheaving surface of the sand, and point to the place--forced itself intomy mind, and turned me cold in the warm sunlight. I own I closed my eyesat the moment when the point of the stick first entered the quicksand.
The instant afterwards, before the stick could have been submerged morethan a few inches, I was free from the hold of my own superstitiousterror, and was throbbing with excitement from head to foot. Soundingblindfold, at my first attempt--at that first attempt I had soundedright! The stick struck the chain.
Taking a firm hold of the roots of the seaweed with my left hand, Ilaid myself down over the brink, and felt with my right hand under theoverhanging edges of the rock. My right hand found the chain.
I drew it up without the slightest difficulty. And there was thejapanned tin case fastened to the end of it.
The action of the water had so rusted the chain, that it was impossiblefor me to unfasten it from the hasp which attached it to the case.Putting the case between my knees and exerting my utmost strength, Icontrived to draw off the cover. Some white substance filled the wholeinterior when I looked in. I put in my hand, and found it to be linen.
In drawing out the linen, I also drew out a letter crumpled up with it.After looking at the direction, and discovering that it bore my name, Iput the letter in my pocket, and completely removed the linen. It cameout in a thick roll, moulded, of course, to the shape of the case inwhich it had been so long confined, and perfectly preserved from anyinjury by the sea.
I carried the linen to the dry sand of the beach, and there unrolled andsmoothed it out. There was no mistaking it as an article of dress. Itwas a nightgown.
The uppermost side, when I spread it out, presented to view innumerablefolds and creases, and nothing more. I tried the undermost side,next--and instantly discovered the smear of the paint from the door ofRachel's boudoir!
My eyes remained riveted on the stain, and my mind took me back at aleap from present to past. The very words of Sergeant Cuff recurredto me, as if the man himself was at my side again, pointing to theunanswerable inference which he drew from the smear on the door.
"Find out whether there is any article of dress in this house with thestain of paint on it. Find out who that dress belongs to. Find out howthe person can account for having been in the room, and smeared thepaint between midnight and three in the morning. If the person can'tsatisfy you, you haven't far to look for the hand that took theDiamond."
One after another those words travelled over my memory, repeatingthemselves again and again with a wearisome, mechanical reiteration.I was roused from what felt like a trance of many hours--from what wasreally, no doubt, the pause of a few moments only--by a voice callingto me. I looked up, and saw that Betteredge's patience had failed him atlast. He was just visible between the sandhills, returning to the beach.
The old man's appearance recalled me, the moment I perceived it, to mysense of present things, and reminded me that the inquiry which I hadpursued thus far still remained incomplete. I had discovered the smearon the nightgown. To whom did the nightgown belong?
My first impulse was to consult the letter in my pocket--the letterwhich I had found in the case.
As I raised my hand to take it out, I remembered that there was ashorter way to discovery than this. The nightgown itself would revealthe truth, for, in all probability,
the nightgown was marked with itsowner's name.
I took it up from the sand, and looked for the mark.
I found the mark, and read--MY OWN NAME.
There were the familiar letters which told me that the nightgownwas mine. I looked up from them. There was the sun; there were theglittering waters of the bay; there was old Betteredge, advancing nearerand nearer to me. I looked back again at the letters. My own name.Plainly confronting me--my own name.
"If time, pains, and money can do it, I will lay my hand on the thiefwho took the Moonstone."--I had left London, with those words on mylips. I had penetrated the secret which the quicksand had kept fromevery other living creature. And, on the unanswerable evidence of thepaint-stain, I had discovered Myself as the Thief.
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