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 IV.

I HAVE not a word to say about my own sensations.

My impression is, that the shock inflicted on
me completely suspended my thinking and feeling
power. I certainly could not have known
what I was about, when Betteredge joined me
—for I have it on his authority that I laughed,
when he asked what was the matter, and, putting
the nightgown into his hands, told him to read
the riddle for himself.

Of what was said between us on the beach,
I have not the faintest recollection. The first
place in which I can now see myself again
plainly is the plantation of firs. Betteredge
and I are walking back together to the house;
and Betteredge is telling me that I shall be
able to face it, and he will be able to face it,
when we have had a glass of grog.

The scene shifts from the plantation, to
Betteredge's little sitting-room. My resolution not
to enter Rachel's house is forgotten. I feel
gratefully the coolness and shadiness and quiet
of the room. I drink the grog (a perfectly new
luxury to me, at that time of day), which my
good old friend mixes with icy-cool water from
the well. Under any other circumstances, the
drink would simply stupefy me. As things are,
it strings up my nerves. I begin to "face it,"
as Betteredge has predicted. And Betteredge,
on his side, begins to "face it," too.

The picture which I am now presenting of
myself, will, I suspect, be thought a very strange
one, to say the least of it. Placed in a situation
which may, I think, be described as entirely
without parallel, what is the first proceeding to
which I resort? Do I seclude myself from all
human society? Do I set my mind to analyse
the abominable impossibility which, nevertheless,
confronts me as an undeniable fact? Do
I hurry back to London by the first train to
consult the highest authorities, and to set a
searching inquiry on foot immediately? No. I
accept the shelter of a house which I had
resolved never to degrade myself by entering
again; and I sit, tippling spirits and water in the
company of an old servant, at ten o'clock in the
morning. Is this the conduct that might have
been expected from a man placed in my horrible
position? I can only answer, that the sight of
old Betteredge's familiar face was an
inexpressible comfort to me, and that the drinking
of old Betteredge's grog helped me, as I believe
nothing else would have helped me, in the state
of complete bodily and mental prostration into
which I had fallen. I can only offer this excuse
for myself; and I can only admire that invariable
preservation of dignity, and that strictly
logical consistency of conduct which distinguish
every man and woman who may read these
lines, in every emergency of their lives from the
cradle to the grave.

"Now, Mr. Franklin, there's one thing
certain, at any rate," said Betteredge, throwing
the nightgown down on the table between us,
and pointing to it as if it was a living creature
that could hear him. "He's a liar, to begin
with."

This comforting view of the matter was not
the view that presented itself to my mind.

"I am as innocent of all knowledge of having
taken the Diamond as you are," I said. "But
there is the witness against me! The paint on
the nightgown, and the name on the nightgown
are facts."

Betteredge lifted my glass, and put it
persuasively into my hand.

"Facts?" he repeated. "Take a drop more
grog, Mr. Franklin, and you'll get over the
weakness of believing in facts! Foul play,
sir!" he continued, dropping his voice
confidentially. "That is how I read the riddle.
Foul play, somewhere—and you and I must
find it out. Was there nothing else in the tin
case, when you put your hand into it?"

The question instantly reminded me of the
letter in my pocket. I took it out, and opened
it. It was a letter of many pages, closely
written. I looked impatiently for the signature
at the end. "Rosanna Spearman."

As I read the name, a sudden remembrance
illuminated my mind, and a sudden suspicion
rose out of the new light.

"Stop!" I exclaimed. "Rosanna Spearman
came to my aunt out of a Reformatory?
Rosanna Spearman had once been a thief?"