CHAPTER V

by Wilkie Collins

After mentioning the name of Mr. Candy’s assistant, Betteredge seemed to think we had spent enough time on a trivial topic. He returned to reading Rosanna Spearman’s letter.

I sat by the window, waiting for him to finish. Gradually, the strange impression Ezra Jennings had made on me faded away. It felt odd to be affected by anyone at all in my situation. My thoughts drifted back to my reality. I forced myself to confront the incredible position I found myself in once again. I reviewed the plan I had finally managed to piece together for the future.

My plan was straightforward: return to London that day, lay out the entire case before Mr. Bruff, and most importantly, secure a personal meeting with Rachel—no matter the cost. I still had over an hour before the train departed, and I held onto the slim hope that Betteredge might uncover something in the unread part of Rosanna’s letter that could be useful before I left the house where the Diamond had been lost. That was what I was waiting for.

The letter concluded with these words:

“You don’t need to be angry, Mr. Franklin, even if I felt a bit of triumph knowing I held your future in my hands. But soon, anxiety and fear returned. With Sergeant Cuff’s perspective on the Diamond’s loss, he would surely want to examine our linens and dresses. There was no place in my room—or anywhere in the house—that I felt would be safe from him. How could I hide the nightgown so that not even the Sergeant could find it? And how could I do that without wasting a single moment? These were not easy questions. In the end, I took a decision that might make you laugh. I undressed and put on the nightgown. You had worn it, and I found a small pleasure in wearing it after you.

“The next news we received in the servants’ hall showed that I hadn’t secured the nightgown a moment too soon. Sergeant Cuff wanted to see the washing book.

“I found it and took it to him in my lady’s sitting room. The Sergeant and I had crossed paths before, and I was sure he would recognize me. I wasn’t sure how he would react to finding me working as a servant in a house where a valuable jewel had gone missing. In that suspense, I felt it would be a relief to get our meeting over with and face whatever was coming.

“When I handed him the washing book, he looked at me as if I were a stranger, and he was unusually polite in thanking me for bringing it. I took that as a bad sign. I had no idea what he might say about me behind my back, or how soon I might find myself taken into custody on suspicion and searched. Just then, you returned from seeing Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite off at the railway, and I went to your favorite spot in the shrubbery, hoping for one last chance to speak to you.

“But you never showed up. To make matters worse, Mr. Betteredge and Sergeant Cuff walked right by where I was hiding—and the Sergeant saw me.

“With no other choice, I returned to my proper place and my duties before anything worse could happen. Just as I was about to step across the path, you came back from the railway. You were heading straight for the shrubbery when you saw me—I’m certain you did—and then you turned away as if I had the plague and went into the house.

*NOTE by Franklin Blake—The writer is completely mistaken, poor thing. I never noticed her. I had intended to take a stroll in the shrubbery. But then I remembered that my aunt might want to see me after my return from the railway, so I changed my mind and went into the house.

“I hurried back inside through the servants’ entrance. The laundry room was empty, so I sat down there alone. I’ve already shared the thoughts that the Shivering Sand inspired in me. Those thoughts returned now. I wondered which would be harder to endure if things continued like this—Mr. Franklin Blake’s indifference or jumping into the quicksand and ending it all that way.

“It’s pointless to ask me to explain my own behavior during this time. I try, but I can’t make sense of it myself.”

“Why didn’t I stop you when you brushed me off so harshly? Why didn’t I shout, ‘Mr. Franklin, I need to talk to you! It’s about you, and you have to hear it!’ You were in my grasp—I had the upper hand, as they say. Even better, I had the means to help you in the future, if only I could earn your trust.

Of course, I never believed that you—a gentleman—had stolen the Diamond just for the thrill of it. No. Penelope had heard Miss Rachel, and I had heard Mr. Betteredge, talk about your spending habits and your debts. It was clear to me that you had taken the Diamond to sell or pawn it, to get the money you desperately needed. I could have told you about a man in London who would have given you a good amount for the jewel, and wouldn’t have asked any awkward questions.

Why didn’t I speak up? Why didn’t I just say something?

I wonder if the risks and challenges of keeping the nightgown were more than I could handle, without adding more complications to my life. Maybe that would be true for some women—but how could it be true for me? Back when I was a thief, I had faced far greater dangers and navigated through far worse problems than this one, which was nothing but child’s play. I had been trained, in a way, in frauds and deceptions—some so grand and executed so cleverly that they made headlines. Would something as trivial as keeping the nightgown really weigh on my mind and make my heart sink at a time when I should have been talking to you? What a ridiculous question! It couldn’t be.

What’s the point of dwelling on my own foolishness? The truth is clear enough, isn’t it? Behind your back, I loved you with all my heart and soul. In front of you—there’s no denying it—I was terrified of you; scared of making you angry; scared of what you might say to me (even though you had taken the Diamond) if I dared to tell you I knew the truth. I had come as close as I could when I spoke to you in the library. You hadn’t turned your back on me then. You hadn’t recoiled from me as if I were contagious. I tried to force myself to feel angry with you, to summon my courage that way. But no! All I felt was the misery and humiliation of it. ‘You’re plain; you have a crooked shoulder; you’re just a housemaid—what do you think you’re doing, trying to speak to me?’ You never said those words, Mr. Franklin, but you communicated it all the same! How can such madness be explained? It can’t. All I can do is confess it and let it be.

I apologize again for this rambling. I promise it won’t happen again. I’m almost at the end now.

The first person to interrupt my solitude in that empty room was Penelope. She had figured out my secret long ago, and she had tried to bring me to my senses—kindly, too.

“Ah!” she said, “I know why you’re sitting here, fretting all alone. The best thing for you, Rosanna, will be if Mr. Franklin’s visit ends soon. I believe he won’t be here much longer.”

In all my thoughts about you, I had never considered that you might leave. I couldn’t find the words to speak to Penelope. I could only look at her.

“I’ve just come from Miss Rachel,” Penelope continued. “And it was a struggle to deal with her temper. She says the house is unbearable with the police around, and she’s determined to talk to my lady tonight and go to her Aunt Ablewhite tomorrow. If she does that, you can bet Mr. Franklin will find a reason to leave as well!”

I regained my voice at that. “Are you saying Mr. Franklin will go with her?” I asked.

“Only too gladly, if she would let him; but she won’t. He’s felt her wrath too—he’s in her bad books, despite all he’s done to help her, poor guy! No, if they don’t reconcile by tomorrow, you’ll see Miss Rachel go one way, and Mr. Franklin another. Where he’ll go, I can’t say. But he won’t stay here, Rosanna, once Miss Rachel has left us.”

I struggled to suppress the despair that washed over me at the thought of you leaving. To be honest, I saw a flicker of hope for myself if there was a serious rift between Miss Rachel and you. “Do you know what the argument is between them?” I asked.

“It’s all on Miss Rachel’s side,” Penelope said. “And, for all I know, it’s just her temper causing all this. I hate to upset you, Rosanna, but don’t get the idea that Mr. Franklin is ever going to have a falling out with her. He’s far too fond of her for that!”

She had barely finished those harsh words when Mr. Betteredge called for us. All the indoor staff were to gather in the hall. One by one, we would go into Mr. Betteredge’s room to be questioned by Sergeant Cuff.

After Lady Rachel’s maid and the upper housemaid had been questioned, it was my turn. Sergeant Cuff’s questions, though cleverly disguised, quickly revealed that those two women—my fiercest enemies in the house—had made their discoveries right outside my door, first on Tuesday afternoon and again on Thursday night. They had shared enough with the Sergeant to open his eyes to part of the truth. He rightly suspected that I had secretly made a new nightgown, but he mistakenly believed that the paint-stained nightgown was mine.

From what he said, I sensed something else that puzzled me. He suspected me of being involved in the disappearance of the Diamond, but he also made it clear—perhaps intentionally—that he didn’t see me as the primary person responsible for the jewel’s loss. He seemed to think I was acting under someone else’s direction. Who that person might be, I couldn’t guess then, and I still can’t.

In this uncertainty, one thing was clear: Sergeant Cuff was far from knowing the whole truth. I was safe as long as the nightgown remained safe—and not a moment longer.

I can hardly express the distress and terror that weighed on me at that moment. I couldn’t risk wearing your nightgown any longer. I might be taken off at a moment’s notice to the police court at Frizinghall, charged with suspicion, and searched accordingly. While Sergeant Cuff still left me free, I had to decide—immediately—between destroying the nightgown or hiding it somewhere safe, far from the house.

If I had only been a little less attached to you, I think I would have destroyed it. But how could I destroy the only thing that proved I had saved you from being discovered? If we ever had a conversation and you suspected I had some bad motive, how could I convince you to trust me without the nightgown to show you? Was it wrong to believe, as I still do, that you might hesitate to let a poor girl like me share in your secret and be your accomplice in the theft that your financial troubles had tempted you into? Think of how cold you’ve been to me, and you’ll hardly be surprised at my reluctance to destroy the only claim I had on your trust and gratitude.

I decided to hide it, and the place I chose was the one I knew best—the Shivering Sand.

As soon as the questioning was over, I made up the first excuse that came to mind and asked to step outside for some fresh air. I went straight to Cobb’s Hole, to Mr. Yolland’s cottage. His wife and daughter were my closest friends. Don’t think I trusted them with your secret—I haven’t trusted anyone. All I wanted was to write this letter to you and find a safe opportunity to take the nightgown off. Suspected as I was, I couldn’t do either of those things securely in the house.

Now, I’ve nearly finished my long letter, writing it alone in Lucy Yolland’s bedroom. Once it’s done, I’ll go downstairs with the nightgown rolled up and hidden under my cloak. I’ll find a way to keep it safe and dry in its hiding place among the clutter in Mrs. Yolland’s kitchen. Then I’ll head to the Shivering Sand—don’t worry about my footprints giving me away!—and hide the nightgown in the sand, where no one can find it unless I choose to reveal the secret.

And then what?

Then, Mr. Franklin, I’ll have two reasons to try again to say the words I haven’t said yet. If you leave the house, as Penelope believes you will, and if I haven’t spoken to you before that, I’ll lose my chance forever. That’s one reason. The other is the comforting thought—if my speaking does upset you—that I have the nightgown ready to plead my case like nothing else can. If those two reasons don’t harden my heart against the coldness that has frozen it up until now (the coldness of your treatment of me), then that will be the end of my efforts—and the end of my life.

“Yes. If I miss my next chance—if you remain as cruel as ever, and if I feel that same pain again—then it’s goodbye to a world that has denied me the happiness it gives to others. Goodbye to life, which only a little kindness from you could ever make bearable again. Don’t blame yourself if it ends this way. But please—try to feel some sorrow for me! I’ll make sure you know what I’ve done for you when I can no longer tell you myself. Will you say something kind about me then, in the same gentle way you speak to Miss Rachel? If you do that, and if there are such things as ghosts, I believe my spirit will hear it and tremble with joy.

“It’s time for me to stop. I’m making myself cry. How can I find my way to the hiding place if I let these useless tears blind me?

“Besides, why focus on the gloomy side? Why not believe, while I can, that it will all turn out well after all? I might find you in a good mood tonight—or if not, maybe I’ll have better luck tomorrow morning. I won’t improve my plain face by fretting, will I? Who knows, maybe I’ve filled these long pages for nothing. They’ll go, for safety’s sake (and for other reasons I won’t mention now) into the hiding place along with the nightgown. Writing this letter has been hard, hard work. Oh! If only we end up understanding each other, how I’ll enjoy tearing it up!

“I remain, sir, your true lover and humble servant,

“ROSANNA SPEARMAN.”

Betteredge finished reading the letter in silence. After carefully putting it back in the envelope, he sat there, lost in thought, his head bowed and his eyes on the ground.

“Betteredge,” I said, “is there any hint for me at the end of the letter?”

He looked up slowly, sighing heavily.

“There’s nothing to guide you, Mr. Franklin,” he replied. “If you take my advice, you’ll keep the letter in the envelope until your current worries have passed. It will only distress you if you read it now.”

I tucked the letter away in my pocketbook.

A glance back at the sixteenth and seventeenth chapters of Betteredge’s Narrative will show that there was indeed a reason for my decision to spare myself at a time when my strength had already been severely tested. Twice, the unfortunate woman had tried to reach out to me. And twice, through no fault of my own, I had pushed her away. On Friday night, as Betteredge accurately described, she found me alone at the billiard table. Her manner and words suggested to me—and would have suggested to any man in my position—that she was about to confess some guilty knowledge about the Diamond’s disappearance. For her sake, I had deliberately shown no special interest in what she was about to say; I had focused on the billiard balls instead of looking at her. And what was the result? I sent her away, wounded to the core.

Then, on Saturday—when she must have realized, after what Penelope told her, that my departure was imminent—the same unfortunate fate followed us. She attempted to meet me again in the shrubbery walk, only to find me there with Betteredge and Sergeant Cuff. In her hearing, the Sergeant, with his own hidden agenda, appealed to my interest in Rosanna Spearman. Once again, for the poor girl’s sake, I met the police officer with a flat denial, loudly declaring that I felt “no interest whatsoever in Rosanna Spearman.” Those words, meant to warn her against trying to speak to me privately, made her turn away and leave. I thought I was protecting her; now I see I only doomed her.

From that moment, I’ve traced the series of events that led to the shocking discovery at the quicksand. The past is now complete. I can leave the tragic story of Rosanna Spearman—one that still brings me pain even now—to speak for itself in the silence of what remains unsaid. I will move on from the tragedy at the Shivering Sand, with its strange and terrible impact on my current situation and future, to focus on the living characters in this narrative and the events that were already paving my way from darkness to light.