The Moonstone Wilkie Collins (ebook reader for manga .txt) 📖

“Nothing.”

“Are you sure of that? Might you not have been asleep a part of the time?”

“I never slept. I never went back to my bed. Nothing happened until Penelope came in, at the usual time in the morning.”

I dropped her hand, and rose, and took a turn in the room. Every question that I could put had been answered. Every detail that I could desire to know had been placed before me. I had even reverted to the idea of sleepwalking, and the idea of intoxication; and, again, the worthlessness of the one theory and the other had been proved⁠—on the authority, this time, of the witness who had seen me. What was to be said next? what was to be done next? There rose the horrible fact of the theft⁠—the one visible, tangible object that confronted me, in the midst of the impenetrable darkness which enveloped all besides! Not a glimpse of light to guide me, when I had possessed myself of Rosanna Spearman’s secret at the Shivering Sand. And not a glimpse of light now, when I had appealed to Rachel herself, and had heard the hateful story of the night from her own lips.

She was the first, this time, to break the silence.

“Well?” she said, “you have asked, and I have answered. You have made me hope something from all this, because you hoped something from it. What have you to say now?”

The tone in which she spoke warned me that my influence over her was a lost influence once more.

“We were to look at what happened on my birthday night, together,” she went on; “and we were then to understand each other. Have we done that?”

She waited pitilessly for my reply. In answering her I committed a fatal error⁠—I let the exasperating helplessness of my situation get the better of my self-control. Rashly and uselessly, I reproached her for the silence which had kept me until that moment in ignorance of the truth.

“If you had spoken when you ought to have spoken,” I began; “if you had done me the common justice to explain yourself⁠—”

She broke in on me with a cry of fury. The few words I had said seemed to have lashed her on the instant into a frenzy of rage.

“Explain myself!” she repeated. “Oh! is there another man like this in the world? I spare him, when my heart is breaking; I screen him when my own character is at stake; and he⁠—of all human beings, he⁠—turns on me now, and tells me that I ought to have explained myself! After believing in him as I did, after loving him as I did, after thinking of him by day, and dreaming of him by night⁠—he wonders I didn’t charge him with his disgrace the first time we met: ‘My heart’s darling, you are a Thief! My hero whom I love and honour, you have crept into my room under cover of the night, and stolen my Diamond!’ That is what I ought to have said. You villain, you mean, mean, mean villain, I would have lost fifty diamonds, rather than see your face lying to me, as I see it lying now!”

I took up my hat. In mercy to her⁠—yes! I can honestly say it⁠—in mercy to her, I turned away without a word, and opened the door by which I had entered the room.

She followed, and snatched the door out of my hand; she closed it, and pointed back to the place that I had left.

“No!” she said. “Not yet! It seems that I owe a justification of my conduct to you. You shall stay and hear it. Or you shall stoop to the lowest infamy of all, and force your way out.”

It wrung my heart to see her; it wrung my heart to hear her. I answered by a sign⁠—it was all I could do⁠—that I submitted myself to her will.

The crimson flush of anger began to fade out of her face, as I went back, and took my chair in silence. She waited a little, and steadied herself. When she went on, but one sign of feeling was discernible in her. She spoke without looking at me. Her hands were fast clasped in her lap, and her eyes were fixed on the ground.

“I ought to have done you the common justice to explain myself,” she said, repeating my own words. “You shall see whether I did try to do you justice, or not. I told you just now that I never slept, and never returned to my bed, after you had left my sitting-room. It’s useless to trouble you by dwelling on what I thought⁠—you would not understand my thoughts⁠—I will only tell you what I did, when time enough had passed to help me to recover myself. I refrained from alarming the house, and telling everybody what had happened⁠—as I ought to have done. In spite of what I had seen, I was fond enough of you to believe⁠—no matter what!⁠—any impossibility, rather than admit it to my own mind that you were deliberately a thief. I thought and thought⁠—and I ended in writing to you.”

“I never received the letter.”

“I know you never received it. Wait a little, and you shall hear why. My letter would have told you nothing openly. It would not have ruined you for life, if it had fallen into some other person’s hands. It would only have said⁠—in a manner which you yourself could not possibly have mistaken⁠—that I had reason to know you were in debt, and that it was in my experience and in my mother’s experience of you, that you were not very discreet, or very scrupulous about how you got money when you wanted it. You would have remembered the visit of the French lawyer, and you would have known what I referred to. If you had read on with some interest after that, you would have come to an