CHAPTER IV
I am truly sorry to detain you over me and my beehive chair. A sleepyold man, in a sunny back yard, is not an interesting object, I am wellaware. But things must be put down in their places, as things actuallyhappened--and you must please to jog on a little while longer with me,in expectation of Mr. Franklin Blake's arrival later in the day.
Before I had time to doze off again, after my daughter Penelope had leftme, I was disturbed by a rattling of plates and dishes in the servants'hall, which meant that dinner was ready. Taking my own meals in my ownsitting-room, I had nothing to do with the servants' dinner, except towish them a good stomach to it all round, previous to composing myselfonce more in my chair. I was just stretching my legs, when outbounced another woman on me. Not my daughter again; only Nancy, thekitchen-maid, this time. I was straight in her way out; and I observed,as she asked me to let her by, that she had a sulky face--a thing which,as head of the servants, I never allow, on principle, to pass me withoutinquiry.
"What are you turning your back on your dinner for?" I asked. "What'swrong now, Nancy?"
Nancy tried to push by, without answering; upon which I rose up, andtook her by the ear. She is a nice plump young lass, and it is customarywith me to adopt that manner of showing that I personally approve of agirl.
"What's wrong now?" I said once more.
"Rosanna's late again for dinner," says Nancy. "And I'm sent to fetchher in. All the hard work falls on my shoulders in this house. Let mealone, Mr. Betteredge!"
The person here mentioned as Rosanna was our second housemaid. Having akind of pity for our second housemaid (why, you shall presently know),and seeing in Nancy's face, that she would fetch her fellow-servant inwith more hard words than might be needful under the circumstances, itstruck me that I had nothing particular to do, and that I might as wellfetch Rosanna myself; giving her a hint to be punctual in future, whichI knew she would take kindly from ME.
"Where is Rosanna?" I inquired.
"At the sands, of course!" says Nancy, with a toss of her head. "She hadanother of her fainting fits this morning, and she asked to go out andget a breath of fresh air. I have no patience with her!"
"Go back to your dinner, my girl," I said. "I have patience with her,and I'll fetch her in."
Nancy (who has a fine appetite) looked pleased. When she looks pleased,she looks nice. When she looks nice, I chuck her under the chin. Itisn't immorality--it's only habit.
Well, I took my stick, and set off for the sands.
No! it won't do to set off yet. I am sorry again to detain you; but youreally must hear the story of the sands, and the story of Rosanna--forthis reason, that the matter of the Diamond touches them both nearly.How hard I try to get on with my statement without stopping by the way,and how badly I succeed! But, there!--Persons and Things do turn up sovexatiously in this life, and will in a manner insist on being noticed.Let us take it easy, and let us take it short; we shall be in the thickof the mystery soon, I promise you!
Rosanna (to put the Person before the Thing, which is but commonpoliteness) was the only new servant in our house. About four monthsbefore the time I am writing of, my lady had been in London, and hadgone over a Reformatory, intended to save forlorn women from driftingback into bad ways, after they had got released from prison. The matron,seeing my lady took an interest in the place, pointed out a girl to her,named Rosanna Spearman, and told her a most miserable story, which Ihaven't the heart to repeat here; for I don't like to be made wretchedwithout any use, and no more do you. The upshot of it was, that RosannaSpearman had been a thief, and not being of the sort that get upCompanies in the City, and rob from thousands, instead of only robbingfrom one, the law laid hold of her, and the prison and the reformatoryfollowed the lead of the law. The matron's opinion of Rosanna was (inspite of what she had done) that the girl was one in a thousand, andthat she only wanted a chance to prove herself worthy of any Christianwoman's interest in her. My lady (being a Christian woman, if ever therewas one yet) said to the matron, upon that, "Rosanna Spearman shallhave her chance, in my service." In a week afterwards, Rosanna Spearmanentered this establishment as our second housemaid.
Not a soul was told the girl's story, excepting Miss Rachel and me. Mylady, doing me the honour to consult me about most things, consultedme about Rosanna. Having fallen a good deal latterly into the late SirJohn's way of always agreeing with my lady, I agreed with her heartilyabout Rosanna Spearman.
A fairer chance no girl could have had than was given to this poor girlof ours. None of the servants could cast her past life in her teeth, fornone of the servants knew what it had been. She had her wages and herprivileges, like the rest of them; and every now and then a friendlyword from my lady, in private, to encourage her. In return, she showedherself, I am bound to say, well worthy of the kind treatment bestowedupon her. Though far from strong, and troubled occasionally with thosefainting-fits already mentioned, she went about her work modestly anduncomplainingly, doing it carefully, and doing it well. But, somehow,she failed to make friends among the other women servants, excepting mydaughter Penelope, who was always kind to Rosanna, though never intimatewith her.
I hardly know what the girl did to offend them. There was certainly nobeauty about her to make the others envious; she was the plainest womanin the house, with the additional misfortune of having one shoulderbigger than the other. What the servants chiefly resented, I think, washer silent tongue and her solitary ways. She read or worked in leisurehours when the rest gossiped. And when it came to her turn to go out,nine times out of ten she quietly put on her bonnet, and had her turn byherself. She never quarrelled, she never took offence; she only kept acertain distance, obstinately and civilly, between the rest of them andherself. Add to this that, plain as she was, there was just a dash ofsomething that wasn't like a housemaid, and that WAS like a lady, abouther. It might have been in her voice, or it might have been in her face.All I can say is, that the other women pounced on it like lightning thefirst day she came into the house, and said (which was most unjust) thatRosanna Spearman gave herself airs.
Having now told the story of Rosanna, I have only to notice one of themany queer ways of this strange girl to get on next to the story of thesands.
Our house is high up on the Yorkshire coast, and close by the sea. Wehave got beautiful walks all round us, in every direction but one. Thatone I acknowledge to be a horrid walk. It leads, for a quarter ofa mile, through a melancholy plantation of firs, and brings you outbetween low cliffs on the loneliest and ugliest little bay on all ourcoast.
The sand-hills here run down to the sea, and end in two spits of rockjutting out opposite each other, till you lose sight of them in thewater. One is called the North Spit, and one the South. Between the two,shifting backwards and forwards at certain seasons of the year, lies themost horrible quicksand on the shores of Yorkshire. At the turn of thetide, something goes on in the unknown deeps below, which sets thewhole face of the quicksand shivering and trembling in a manner mostremarkable to see, and which has given to it, among the people in ourparts, the name of the Shivering Sand. A great bank, half a mile out,nigh the mouth of the bay, breaks the force of the main ocean comingin from the offing. Winter and summer, when the tide flows over thequicksand, the sea seems to leave the waves behind it on the bank,and rolls its waters in smoothly with a heave, and covers the sand insilence. A lonesome and a horrid retreat, I can tell you! No boat everventures into this bay. No children from our fishing-village, calledCobb's Hole, ever come here to play. The very birds of the air, as itseems to me, give the Shivering Sand a wide berth. That a young woman,with dozens of nice walks to choose from, and company to go with her, ifshe only said "Come!" should prefer this place, and should sit and workor read in it, all alone, when it's her turn out, I grant you, passesbelief. It's true, nevertheless, account for it as you may, that thiswas Rosanna Spearman's favourite walk, except when she went onceor twice to Cobb's Hole, to see the only friend she had in ourneighbourhood, of whom mor
e anon. It's also true that I was now settingout for this same place, to fetch the girl in to dinner, which brings usround happily to our former point, and starts us fair again on our wayto the sands.
I saw no sign of the girl in the plantation. When I got out, through thesand-hills, on to the beach, there she was, in her little straw bonnet,and her plain grey cloak that she always wore to hide her deformedshoulder as much as might be--there she was, all alone, looking out onthe quicksand and the sea.
She started when I came up with her, and turned her head away from me.Not looking me in the face being another of the proceedings, which,as head of the servants, I never allow, on principle, to pass withoutinquiry--I turned her round my way, and saw that she was crying. Mybandanna handkerchief--one of six beauties given to me by my lady--washandy in my pocket. I took it out, and I said to Rosanna, "Come and sitdown, my dear, on the slope of the beach along with me. I'll dry youreyes for you first, and then I'll make so bold as to ask what you havebeen crying about."
When you come to my age, you will find sitting down on the slope ofa beach a much longer job than you think it now. By the time Iwas settled, Rosanna had dried her own eyes with a very inferiorhandkerchief to mine--cheap cambric. She looked very quiet, and verywretched; but she sat down by me like a good girl, when I told her. Whenyou want to comfort a woman by the shortest way, take her on your knee.I thought of this golden rule. But there! Rosanna wasn't Nancy, andthat's the truth of it!
"Now, tell me, my dear," I said, "what are you crying about?"
"About the years that are gone, Mr. Betteredge," says Rosanna quietly."My past life still comes back to me sometimes."
"Come, come, my girl," I said, "your past life is all sponged out. Whycan't you forget it?"
She took me by one of the lappets of my coat. I am a slovenly old man,and a good deal of my meat and drink gets splashed about on my clothes.Sometimes one of the women, and sometimes another, cleans me of mygrease. The day before, Rosanna had taken out a spot for me on thelappet of my coat, with a new composition, warranted to remove anything.The grease was gone, but there was a little dull place left on the napof the cloth where the grease had been. The girl pointed to that place,and shook her head.
"The stain is taken off," she said. "But the place shows, Mr.Betteredge--the place shows!"
A remark which takes a man unawares by means of his own coat is notan easy remark to answer. Something in the girl herself, too, made meparticularly sorry for her just then. She had nice brown eyes, plain asshe was in other ways--and she looked at me with a sort of respect formy happy old age and my good character, as things for ever out of herown reach, which made my heart heavy for our second housemaid. Notfeeling myself able to comfort her, there was only one other thing todo. That thing was--to take her in to dinner.
"Help me up," I said. "You're late for dinner, Rosanna--and I have cometo fetch you in."
"You, Mr. Betteredge!" says she.
"They told Nancy to fetch you," I said. "But thought you might like yourscolding better, my dear, if it came from me."
Instead of helping me up, the poor thing stole her hand into mine, andgave it a little squeeze. She tried hard to keep from crying again,and succeeded--for which I respected her. "You're very kind, Mr.Betteredge," she said. "I don't want any dinner to-day--let me bide alittle longer here."
"What makes you like to be here?" I asked. "What is it that brings youeverlastingly to this miserable place?"
"Something draws me to it," says the girl, making images with her fingerin the sand. "I try to keep away from it, and I can't. Sometimes,"says she in a low voice, as if she was frightened at her own fancy,"sometimes, Mr. Betteredge, I think that my grave is waiting for mehere."
"There's roast mutton and suet-pudding waiting for you!" says I. "Go into dinner directly. This is what comes, Rosanna, of thinking on an emptystomach!" I spoke severely, being naturally indignant (at my time oflife) to hear a young woman of five-and-twenty talking about her latterend!
She didn't seem to hear me: she put her hand on my shoulder, and kept mewhere I was, sitting by her side.
"I think the place has laid a spell on me," she said. "I dream of itnight after night; I think of it when I sit stitching at my work. Youknow I am grateful, Mr. Betteredge--you know I try to deserve yourkindness, and my lady's confidence in me. But I wonder sometimes whetherthe life here is too quiet and too good for such a woman as I am, afterall I have gone through, Mr. Betteredge--after all I have gone through.It's more lonely to me to be among the other servants, knowing I am notwhat they are, than it is to be here. My lady doesn't know, the matronat the reformatory doesn't know, what a dreadful reproach honest peopleare in themselves to a woman like me. Don't scold me, there's a deargood man. I do my work, don't I? Please not to tell my lady I amdiscontented--I am not. My mind's unquiet, sometimes, that's all." Shesnatched her hand off my shoulder, and suddenly pointed down to thequicksand. "Look!" she said "Isn't it wonderful? isn't it terrible? Ihave seen it dozens of times, and it's always as new to me as if I hadnever seen it before!"
I looked where she pointed. The tide was on the turn, and the horridsand began to shiver. The broad brown face of it heaved slowly, and thendimpled and quivered all over. "Do you know what it looks like to ME?"says Rosanna, catching me by the shoulder again. "It looks as if it hadhundreds of suffocating people under it--all struggling to get to thesurface, and all sinking lower and lower in the dreadful deeps! Throw astone in, Mr. Betteredge! Throw a stone in, and let's see the sand suckit down!"
Here was unwholesome talk! Here was an empty stomach feeding on anunquiet mind! My answer--a pretty sharp one, in the poor girl's owninterests, I promise you!--was at my tongue's end, when it was snappedshort off on a sudden by a voice among the sand-hills shouting for meby my name. "Betteredge!" cries the voice, "where are you?" "Here!"I shouted out in return, without a notion in my mind of who it was.Rosanna started to her feet, and stood looking towards the voice. I wasjust thinking of getting on my own legs next, when I was staggered by asudden change in the girl's face.
Her complexion turned of a beautiful red, which I had never seen in itbefore; she brightened all over with a kind of speechless and breathlesssurprise. "Who is it?" I asked. Rosanna gave me back my own question."Oh! who is it?" she said softly, more to herself than to me. I twistedround on the sand and looked behind me. There, coming out on us fromamong the hills, was a bright-eyed young gentleman, dressed in abeautiful fawn-coloured suit, with gloves and hat to match, with a rosein his button-hole, and a smile on his face that might have set theShivering Sand itself smiling at him in return. Before I could get on mylegs, he plumped down on the sand by the side of me, put his arm roundmy neck, foreign fashion, and gave me a hug that fairly squeezed thebreath out of my body. "Dear old Betteredge!" says he. "I owe youseven-and-sixpence. Now do you know who I am?"
Lord bless us and save us! Here--four good hours before we expectedhim--was Mr. Franklin Blake!
Before I could say a word, I saw Mr. Franklin, a little surprised to allappearance, look up from me to Rosanna. Following his lead, I looked atthe girl too. She was blushing of a deeper red than ever, seemingly athaving caught Mr. Franklin's eye; and she turned and left us suddenly,in a confusion quite unaccountable to my mind, without either making hercurtsey to the gentleman or saying a word to me. Very unlike her usualself: a civiller and better-behaved servant, in general, you never metwith.
"That's an odd girl," says Mr. Franklin. "I wonder what she sees in meto surprise her?"
"I suppose, sir," I answered, drolling on our young gentleman'sContinental education, "it's the varnish from foreign parts."
I set down here Mr. Franklin's careless question, and my foolish answer,as a consolation and encouragement to all stupid people--it being, as Ihave remarked, a great satisfaction to our inferior fellow-creatures tofind that their betters are, on occasions, no brighter than they are.Neither Mr. Franklin, with his wonderful foreign training, nor I, withmy age, experience, and natural mother-
wit, had the ghost of an idea ofwhat Rosanna Spearman's unaccountable behaviour really meant. She wasout of our thoughts, poor soul, before we had seen the last flutter ofher little grey cloak among the sand-hills. And what of that? you willask, naturally enough. Read on, good friend, as patiently as you can,and perhaps you will be as sorry for Rosanna Spearman as I was, when Ifound out the truth.
The Moonstone Page 7
