The Moonstone, Wilkie Collins [best motivational books of all time .TXT] 📗

it, and partly for the purpose of clearing Rosanna from the unjust suspicions of her enemies in the house. In about a quarter of an hour from the time when we entered the kitchen, good Mrs. Yolland was persuaded that she was talking to Rosanna’s best friend, and was pressing Sergeant Cuff to comfort his stomach and revive his spirits out of the Dutch bottle.

Being firmly persuaded that the Sergeant was wasting his breath to no purpose on Mrs. Yolland, I sat enjoying the talk between them, much as I have sat, in my time, enjoying a stage play. The great Cuff showed a wonderful patience; trying his luck drearily this way and that way, and firing shot after shot, as it were, at random, on the chance of hitting the mark. Everything to Rosanna’s credit, nothing to Rosanna’s prejudice⁠—that was how it ended, try as he might; with Mrs. Yolland talking nineteen to the dozen, and placing the most entire confidence in him. His last effort was made, when we had looked at our watches, and had got on our legs previous to taking leave.

“I shall now wish you good night, ma’am,” says the Sergeant. “And I shall only say, at parting, that Rosanna Spearman has a sincere well-wisher in myself, your obedient servant. But, oh dear me! she will never get on in her present place; and my advice to her is⁠—leave it.”

“Bless your heart alive! she is going to leave it!” cries Mrs. Yolland. (Nota bene⁠—I translate Mrs. Yolland out of the Yorkshire language into the English language. When I tell you that the all-accomplished Cuff was every now and then puzzled to understand her until I helped him, you will draw your own conclusions as to what your state of mind would be if I reported her in her native tongue.)

Rosanna Spearman going to leave us! I pricked up my ears at that. It seemed strange, to say the least of it, that she should have given no warning, in the first place, to my lady or to me. A certain doubt came up in my mind whether Sergeant Cuff’s last random shot might not have hit the mark. I began to question whether my share in the proceedings was quite as harmless a one as I had thought it. It might be all in the way of the Sergeant’s business to mystify an honest woman by wrapping her round in a network of lies but it was my duty to have remembered, as a good Protestant, that the father of lies is the Devil⁠—and that mischief and the Devil are never far apart. Beginning to smell mischief in the air, I tried to take Sergeant Cuff out. He sat down again instantly, and asked for a little drop of comfort out of the Dutch bottle. Mrs. Yolland sat down opposite to him, and gave him his nip. I went on to the door, excessively uncomfortable, and said I thought I must bid them good night⁠—and yet I didn’t go.

“So she means to leave?” says the Sergeant. “What is she to do when she does leave? Sad, sad! The poor creature has got no friends in the world, except you and me.”

“Ah, but she has though!” says Mrs. Yolland. “She came in here, as I told you, this evening; and, after sitting and talking a little with my girl Lucy and me she asked to go upstairs by herself, into Lucy’s room. It’s the only room in our place where there’s pen and ink. ‘I want to write a letter to a friend,’ she says ‘and I can’t do it for the prying and peeping of the servants up at the house.’ Who the letter was written to I can’t tell you: it must have been a mortal long one, judging by the time she stopped upstairs over it. I offered her a postage-stamp when she came down. She hadn’t got the letter in her hand, and she didn’t accept the stamp. A little close, poor soul (as you know), about herself and her doings. But a friend she has got somewhere, I can tell you; and to that friend you may depend upon it, she will go.”

“Soon?” asked the Sergeant.

“As soon as she can.” says Mrs. Yolland.

Here I stepped in again from the door. As chief of my lady’s establishment, I couldn’t allow this sort of loose talk about a servant of ours going, or not going, to proceed any longer in my presence, without noticing it.

“You must be mistaken about Rosanna Spearman,” I said. “If she had been going to leave her present situation, she would have mentioned it, in the first place, to me.”

“Mistaken?” cries Mrs. Yolland. “Why, only an hour ago she bought some things she wanted for travelling⁠—of my own self, Mr. Betteredge, in this very room. And that reminds me,” says the wearisome woman, suddenly beginning to feel in her pocket, “of something I have got it on my mind to say about Rosanna and her money. Are you either of you likely to see her when you go back to the house?”

“I’ll take a message to the poor thing, with the greatest pleasure,” answered Sergeant Cuff, before I could put in a word edgewise.

Mrs. Yolland produced out of her pocket, a few shillings and sixpences, and counted them out with a most particular and exasperating carefulness in the palm of her hand. She offered the money to the Sergeant, looking mighty loth to part with it all the while.

“Might I ask you to give this back to Rosanna, with my love and respects?” says Mrs. Yolland. “She insisted on paying me for the one or two things she took a fancy to this evening⁠—and money’s welcome enough in our house, I don’t deny it. Still, I’m not easy in my mind about taking the poor thing’s little savings. And to tell you the truth, I don’t think my man would like to hear that I had taken Rosanna Spearman’s money, when he comes back tomorrow morning from his work.