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 drawback 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.
