THE MOONSTONE.

By THE AUTHOR OF "THE WOMAN IN WHITE," &c. &c.

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

THIRD NARRATIVE.

THE NARRATIVE OF FRANKLIN BLAKE.

CHAPTER II.

"BETTEREDGE!" I said, pointing to the well
remembered book on his knee, "has Robinson
Crusoe informed you, this evening, that you
might expect to see Franklin Blake?"

"By the lord Harry, Mr. Franklin!" cried
the old man, " that's exactly what Robinson
Crusoe has done!"

He struggled to his feet with my assistance,
and stood for a moment, looking backwards and
forwards between Robinson Crusoe and me,
apparently at a loss to discover which of us had
surprised him most. The verdict ended in
favour of the book. Holding it open before
him in both hands, he surveyed the wonderful
volume with a stare of unutterable anticipation
—as if he expected to see Robinson Crusoe
himself walk out of the pages, and favour us
with a personal interview.

"Here's the bit, Mr. Franklin!" he said, as
soon as he had recovered the use of his speech.
"As I live by bread, sir, here's the bit I was
reading, the moment before you came in! Page
one hundred and fifty-six as follows:—' I stood
like one Thunder-struck, or as if I had seen an
Apparition.' If that isn't as much as to say:
' Expect the sudden appearance of Mr. Franklin
Blake'—there's no meaning in the English
language!" said Betteredge, closing the book
with a bang, and getting one of his hands free
at last to take the hand which I offered him.

I had expected him, naturally enough under
the circumstances, to overwhelm me with
questions. But no— the hospitable impulse was the
uppermost impulse in the old servant's mind,
when a member of the family appeared (no
matter how!) as a visitor at the house.

"Walk in, Mr. Franklin," he said, opening
the door behind him, with his quaint old-
fashioned bow. " I'll ask what brings you here
afterwards—I must make you comfortable first.
There have been sad changes, since you went
away. The house is shut up, and the servants
are gone. Never mind that! I'll cook your
dinner; and the gardener's wife will make your
bed— and if there's a bottle of our famous Latour
claret left in the cellar, down your throat, Mr.
Franklin, that bottle shall go. I bid you
welcome, sir! I bid you heartily welcome!"
said the poor old fellow, fighting manfully
against the gloom of the deserted house, and
receiving me with the sociable and courteous
attention of the byegone time.

It vexed me to disappoint him. But the
house was Rachel's house, now. Could I eat
in it, or sleep in it, after what had happened in
London? The commonest sense of self-respect
forbade me—properly forbade me— to cross the
threshold.

I took Betteredge by the arm, and led him
out into the garden. There was no help for it.
I was obliged to tell him the truth. Between
his attachment to Rachel, and his attachment
to me, he was sorely puzzled and distressed at
the turn that things had taken. His opinion,
when he expressed it, was given in his usual
downright manner, and was agreeably redolent
of the most positive philosophy I know—the
philosophy of the Betteredge school.

"Miss Rachel has her faults—I've never
denied it," he began. "And riding the high
horse, now and then, is one of them. She has
been trying to ride over you— and you have put
up with it. Lord, Mr. Franklin, don't you
know women by this time better than that?
You have heard me talk of the late Mrs. Betteredge?"

I had heard him talk of the late Mrs.
Betteredge pretty often—invariably producing her
as his one undeniable example of the inbred
frailty and perversity of the other sex. In that
capacity he exhibited her now.

"Very well, Mr. Franklin. Now listen to
me. Different women have different ways of
riding the high horse. The late Mrs. Betteredge
took her exercise on that favourite female animal
whenever I happened to deny her anything that
she had set her heart on. So sure as I came
home from my work on these occasions, so sure
was my wife to call to me up the kitchen stairs,
and to say that, after my brutal treatment of
her, she hadn't the heart to cook me my dinner.
I put up with it for some time—just as you are
putting up with it now from Miss Rachel. At
last my patience wore out. I went down-stairs,
and I took Mrs. Betteredge— affectionately, you