‘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 goodbye 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 to-morrow. 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 to-morrow 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 prospect 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 hands, and a sealed letter it remained to me and to every one 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.