The Moonstone

CHAPTER VI

I walked to the railway station accompanied, it is needless to say, by Gabriel Betteredge. I had the letter in my pocket, and the nightgown safely packed in a little bag—both to be submitted, before I slept that night, to the investigation of Mr. Bruff.

We left the house in silence. For the first time in my experience of him, I found old Betteredge in my company without a word to say to me. Having something to say on my side, I opened the conversation as soon as we were clear of the lodge gates.

“Before I go to London,” I began, “I have two questions to ask you. They relate to myself, and I believe they will rather surprise you.”

“If they will put that poor creature’s letter out of my head, Mr. Franklin, they may do anything else they like with me. Please to begin surprising me, sir, as soon as you can.”

“My first question, Betteredge, is this. Was I drunk on the night of Rachel’s Birthday?”

“You drunk!” exclaimed the old man. “Why it’s the great defect of your character, Mr. Franklin that you only drink with your dinner, and never touch a drop of liquor afterwards!”

“But the birthday was a special occasion. I might have abandoned my regular habits, on that night of all others.”

Betteredge considered for a moment.

“You did go out of your habits, sir,” he said. “And I’ll tell you how. You looked wretchedly ill—and we persuaded you to have a drop of brandy and water to cheer you up a little.”

“I am not used to brandy and water. It is quite possible——”

“Wait a bit, Mr. Franklin. I knew you were not used, too. I poured you out half a wineglass-full of our fifty year old Cognac; and (more shame for me!) I drowned that noble liquor in nigh on a tumbler-full of cold water. A child couldn’t have got drunk on it—let alone a grown man!”

I knew I could depend on his memory, in a matter of this kind. It was plainly impossible that I could have been intoxicated. I passed on to the second question.

“Before I was sent abroad, Betteredge, you saw a great deal of me when I was a boy? Now tell me plainly, do you remember anything strange of me, after I had gone to bed at night? Did you ever discover me walking in my sleep?”

Betteredge stopped, looked at me for a moment, nodded his head, and walked on again.

“I see your drift now, Mr. Franklin!” he said “You’re trying to account for how you got the paint on your nightgown, without knowing it yourself. It won’t do, sir. You’re miles away still from getting at the truth. Walk in your sleep? You never did such a thing in your life!”

Here again, I felt that Betteredge must be right. Neither at home nor abroad had my life ever been of the solitary sort. If I had been a sleep-walker, there were hundreds on hundreds of people who must have discovered me, and who, in the interest of my own safety, would have warned me of the habit, and have taken precautions to restrain it.

Still, admitting all this, I clung—with an obstinacy which was surely natural and excusable, under the circumstances—to one or other of the only two explanations that I could see which accounted for the unendurable position in which I then stood. Observing that I was not yet satisfied, Betteredge shrewdly adverted to certain later events in the history of the Moonstone; and scattered both my theories to the wind at once and for ever.

“Let’s try it another way, sir,” he said. “Keep your own opinion, and see how far it will take you towards finding out the truth. If we are to believe the nightgown—which I don’t for one—you not only smeared off the paint from the door, without knowing it, but you also took the Diamond without knowing it. Is that right, so far?”

“Quite right. Go on.”

“Very good, sir. We’ll say you were drunk, or walking in your sleep, when you took the jewel. That accounts for the night and morning, after the birthday. But how does it account for what has happened since that time? The Diamond has been taken to London, since that time. The Diamond has been pledged to Mr. Luker, since that time. Did you do those two things, without knowing it, too? Were you drunk when I saw you off in the pony-chaise on that Saturday evening? And did you walk in your sleep to Mr. Luker’s, when the train had brought you to your journey’s end? Excuse me for saying it, Mr. Franklin, but this business has so upset you, that you’re not fit yet to judge for yourself. The sooner you lay your head alongside Mr. Bruff’s head, the sooner you will see your way out of the dead-lock that has got you now.”

We reached the station, with only a minute or two to spare.

I hurriedly gave Betteredge my address in London, so that he might write to me, if necessary; promising, on my side, to inform him of any news which I might have to communicate. This done, and just as I was bidding him farewell, I happened to glance towards the book-and-newspaper stall. There was Mr. Candy’s remarkable-looking assistant again, speaking to the keeper of the stall! Our eyes met at the same moment. Ezra Jennings took off his hat to me. I returned the salute, and got into a carriage just as the train started. It was a relief to my mind, I suppose, to dwell on any subject which appeared to be, personally, of no sort of importance to me. At all events, I began the momentous journey back which was to take me to Mr. Bruff, wondering—absurdly enough, I admit—that I should have seen the man with the piebald hair twice in one day!

The hour at which I arrived in London precluded all hope of my finding Mr. Bruff at his place of business. I drove from the railway to his private residence at Hampstead, and disturbed the old lawyer dozing alone in his dining-room, with his favourite pug-dog on his lap, and his bottle of wine at his elbow.

I shall best describe the effect which my story produced on the mind of Mr. Bruff by relating his proceedings when he had heard it to the end. He ordered lights, and strong tea, to be taken into his study; and he sent a message to the ladies of his family, forbidding them to disturb us on any pretence whatever. These preliminaries disposed of, he first examined the nightgown, and then devoted himself to the reading of Rosanna Spearman’s letter.

The reading completed, Mr. Bruff addressed me for the first time since we had been shut up together in the seclusion of his own room.

“Franklin Blake,” said the old gentleman, “this is a very serious matter, in more respects than one. In my opinion, it concerns Rachel quite as nearly as it concerns you. Her extraordinary conduct is no mystery now. She believes you have stolen the Diamond.”

I had shrunk from reasoning my own way fairly to that revolting conclusion. But it had forced itself on me, nevertheless. My resolution to obtain a personal interview with Rachel, rested really and truly on the ground just stated by Mr. Bruff.

“The first step to take in this investigation,” the lawyer proceeded, “is to appeal to Rachel. She has been silent all this time, from motives which I (who know her character) can readily understand. It is impossible, after what has happened, to submit to that silence any longer. She must be persuaded to tell us, or she must be forced to tell us, on what grounds she bases her belief that you took the Moonstone. The chances are, that the whole of this case, serious as it seems now, will tumble to pieces, if we can only break through Rachel’s inveterate reserve, and prevail upon her to speak out.”

“That is a very comforting opinion for me,” I said. “I own I should like to know——”

“You would like to know how I can justify it,” interposed Mr. Bruff. “I can tell you in two minutes. Understand, in the first place, that I look at this matter from a lawyer’s point of view. It’s a question of evidence, with me. Very well. The evidence breaks down, at the outset, on one important point.”

“On what point?”

“You shall hear. I admit that the mark of the name proves the nightgown to be yours. I admit that the mark of the paint proves the nightgown to have made the smear on Rachel’s door. But what evidence is there to prove that you are the person who wore it, on the night when the Diamond was lost?”

The objection struck me, all the more forcibly that it reflected an objection which I had felt myself.

“As to this,” pursued the lawyer taking up Rosanna Spearman’s confession, “I can understand that the letter is a distressing one to you. I can understand that you may hesitate to analyse it from a purely impartial point of view. But I am not in your position. I can bring my professional experience to bear on this document, just as I should bring it to bear on any other. Without alluding to the woman’s career as a thief, I will merely remark that her letter proves her to have been an adept at deception, on her own showing; and I argue from that, that I am justified in suspecting her of not having told the whole truth. I won’t start any theory, at present, as to what she may or may not have done. I will only say that, if Rachel has suspected you on the evidence of the nightgown only, the chances are ninety-nine to a hundred that Rosanna Spearman was the person who showed it to her. In that case, there is the woman’s letter, confessing that she was jealous of Rachel, confessing that she changed the roses, confessing that she saw a glimpse of hope for herself, in the prospect of a quarrel between Rachel and you. I don’t stop to ask who took the Moonstone (as a means to her end, Rosanna Spearman would have taken fifty Moonstones)—I only say that the disappearance of the jewel gave this reclaimed thief who was in love with you, an opportunity of setting you and Rachel at variance for the rest of your lives. She had not decided on destroying herself, then, remember; and, having the opportunity, I distinctly assert that it was in her character, and in her position at the time, to take it. What do you say to that?”

“Some such suspicion,” I answered, “crossed my own mind, as soon as I opened the letter.”

“Exactly! And when you had read the letter, you pitied the poor creature, and couldn’t find it in your heart to suspect her. Does you credit, my dear sir—does you credit!”

“But suppose it turns out that I did wear the nightgown? What then?”

“I don’t see how the fact can be proved,” said Mr. Bruff. “But assuming the proof to be possible, the vindication of your innocence would be no easy matter. We won’t go into that, now. Let us wait and see whether Rachel hasn’t suspected you on the evidence of the nightgown only.”

“Good God, how coolly you talk of Rachel suspecting me!” I broke out. “What right has she to suspect Me, on any evidence, of being a thief?”

“A very sensible question, my dear sir. Rather hotly put—but well worth considering for all that. What puzzles you, puzzles me too. Search your memory, and tell me this. Did anything happen while you were staying at the house—not, of course, to shake Rachel’s belief in your honour—but, let us say, to shake her belief (no matter with how little reason) in your principles generally?”

I started, in ungovernable agitation, to my feet. The lawyer’s question reminded me, for the first time since I had left England, that something had happened.

In the eighth chapter of Betteredge’s Narrative, an allusion will be found to the arrival of a foreigner and a stranger at my aunt’s house, who came to see me on business. The nature of his business was this.

I had been foolish enough (being, as usual, straitened for money at the time) to accept a loan from the keeper of a small restaurant in Paris, to whom I was well known as a customer. A time was settled between us for paying the money back; and when the time came, I found it (as thousands of other honest men have found it) impossible to keep my engagement. I sent the man a bill. My name was unfortunately too well known on such documents: he failed to negotiate it. His affairs had fallen into disorder, in the interval since I had borrowed of him; bankruptcy stared him in the face; and a relative of his, a French lawyer, came to England to find me, and to insist upon the payment of my debt. He was a man of violent temper; and he took the wrong way with me. High words passed on both sides; and my aunt and Rachel were unfortunately in the next room, and heard us. Lady Verinder came in, and insisted on knowing what was the matter. The Frenchman produced his credentials, and declared me to be responsible for the ruin of a poor man, who had trusted in my honour. My aunt instantly paid him the money, and sent him off. She knew me better of course than to take the Frenchman’s view of the transaction. But she was shocked at my carelessness, and justly angry with me for placing myself in a position, which, but for her interference, might have become a very disgraceful one. Either her mother told her, or Rachel heard what passed—I can’t say which. She took her own romantic, high-flown view of the matter. I was “heartless”; I was “dishonourable”; I had “no principle”; there was “no knowing what I might do next”—in short, she said some of the severest things to me which I had ever heard from a young lady’s lips. The breach between us lasted for the whole of the next day. The day after, I succeeded in making my peace, and thought no more of it. Had Rachel reverted to this unlucky accident, at the critical moment when my place in her estimation was again, and far more seriously, assailed? Mr. Bruff, when I had mentioned the circumstances to him, answered the question at once in the affirmative.

“It would have its effect on her mind,” he said gravely. “And I wish, for your sake, the thing had not happened. However, we have discovered that there was a predisposing influence against you—and there is one uncertainty cleared out of our way, at any rate. I see nothing more that we can do now. Our next step in this inquiry must be the step that takes us to Rachel.”

He rose, and began walking thoughtfully up and down the room. Twice, I was on the point of telling him that I had determined on seeing Rachel personally; and twice, having regard to his age and his character, I hesitated to take him by surprise at an unfavourable moment.

“The grand difficulty is,” he resumed, “how to make her show her whole mind in this matter, without reserve. Have you any suggestions to offer?”

“I have made up my mind, Mr. Bruff, to speak to Rachel myself.”

“You!” He suddenly stopped in his walk, and looked at me as if he thought I had taken leave of my senses. “You, of all the people in the world!” He abruptly checked himself, and took another turn in the room. “Wait a little,” he said. “In cases of this extraordinary kind, the rash way is sometimes the best way.” He considered the question for a moment or two, under that new light, and ended boldly by a decision in my favour. “Nothing venture, nothing have,” the old gentleman resumed. “You have a chance in your favour which I don’t possess—and you shall be the first to try the experiment.”

“A chance in my favour?” I repeated, in the greatest surprise.

Mr. Bruff’s face softened, for the first time, into a smile.

“This is how it stands,” he said. “I tell you fairly, I don’t trust your discretion, and I don’t trust your temper. But I do trust in Rachel’s still preserving, in some remote little corner of her heart, a certain perverse weakness for you. Touch that—and trust to the consequences for the fullest disclosures that can flow from a woman’s lips! The question is—how are you to see her?”

“She has been a guest of yours at this house,” I answered. “May I venture to suggest—if nothing was said about me beforehand—that I might see her here?”

“Cool!” said Mr. Bruff. With that one word of comment on the reply that I had made to him, he took another turn up and down the room.

“In plain English,” he said, “my house is to be turned into a trap to catch Rachel; with a bait to tempt her, in the shape of an invitation from my wife and daughters. If you were anybody else but Franklin Blake, and if this matter was one atom less serious than it really is, I should refuse point-blank. As things are, I firmly believe Rachel will live to thank me for turning traitor to her in my old age. Consider me your accomplice. Rachel shall be asked to spend the day here; and you shall receive due notice of it.”

“When? Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow won’t give us time enough to get her answer. Say the day after.”

“How shall I hear from you?”

“Stay at home all the morning and expect me to call on you.”

I thanked him for the inestimable assistance which he was rendering to me, with the gratitude that I really felt; and, declining a hospitable invitation to sleep that night at Hampstead, returned to my lodgings in London.

Of the day that followed, I have only to say that it was the longest day of my life. Innocent as I knew myself to be, certain as I was that the abominable imputation which rested on me must sooner or later be cleared off, there was nevertheless a sense of self-abasement in my mind which instinctively disinclined me to see any of my friends. We often hear (almost invariably, however, from superficial observers) that guilt can look like innocence. I believe it to be infinitely the truer axiom of the two that innocence can look like guilt. I caused myself to be denied all day, to every visitor who called; and I only ventured out under cover of the night.

The next morning, Mr. Bruff surprised me at the breakfast-table. He handed me a large key, and announced that he felt ashamed of himself for the first time in his life.

“Is she coming?”

“She is coming today, to lunch and spend the afternoon with my wife and my girls.”

“Are Mrs. Bruff, and your daughters, in the secret?”

“Inevitably. But women, as you may have observed, have no principles. My family don’t feel my pangs of conscience. The end being to bring you and Rachel together again, my wife and daughters pass over the means employed to gain it, as composedly as if they were Jesuits.”

“I am infinitely obliged to them. What is this key?”

“The key of the gate in my back-garden wall. Be there at three this afternoon. Let yourself into the garden, and make your way in by the conservatory door. Cross the small drawing-room, and open the door in front of you which leads into the music-room. There, you will find Rachel—and find her, alone.”

“How can I thank you!”

“I will tell you how. Don’t blame me for what happens afterwards.”

With those words, he went out.

I had many weary hours still to wait through. To while away the time, I looked at my letters. Among them was a letter from Betteredge.

I opened it eagerly. To my surprise and disappointment, it began with an apology warning me to expect no news of any importance. In the next sentence the everlasting Ezra Jennings appeared again! He had stopped Betteredge on the way out of the station, and had asked who I was. Informed on this point, he had mentioned having seen me to his master Mr. Candy. Mr. Candy hearing of this, had himself driven over to Betteredge, to express his regret at our having missed each other. He had a reason for wishing particularly to speak to me; and when I was next in the neighbourhood of Frizinghall, he begged I would let him know. Apart from a few characteristic utterances of the Betteredge philosophy, this was the sum and substance of my correspondent’s letter. The warm-hearted, faithful old man acknowledged that he had written “mainly for the pleasure of writing to me.”

I crumpled up the letter in my pocket, and forgot it the moment after, in the all-absorbing interest of my coming interview with Rachel.

As the clock of Hampstead church struck three, I put Mr. Bruff’s key into the lock of the door in the wall. When I first stepped into the garden, and while I was securing the door again on the inner side, I own to having felt a certain guilty doubtfulness about what might happen next. I looked furtively on either side of me; suspicious of the presence of some unexpected witness in some unknown corner of the garden. Nothing appeared, to justify my apprehensions. The walks were, one and all, solitudes; and the birds and the bees were the only witnesses.

I passed through the garden; entered the conservatory; and crossed the small drawing-room. As I laid my hand on the door opposite, I heard a few plaintive chords struck on the piano in the room within. She had often idled over the instrument in this way, when I was staying at her mother’s house. I was obliged to wait a little, to steady myself. The past and present rose side by side, at that supreme moment—and the contrast shook me.

After the lapse of a minute, I roused my manhood, and opened the door.