The Moonstone

I have only the most indistinct recollection of what happened at

Hotherstone's Farm.

I remember a hearty welcome; a prodigious supper, which would have fed a

whole village in the East; a delightfully clean bedroom, with nothing

in it to regret but that detestable product of the folly of our

fore-fathers--a feather-bed; a restless night, with much kindling

of matches, and many lightings of one little candle; and an immense

sensation of relief when the sun rose, and there was a prospect of

getting up.

It had been arranged over-night with Betteredge, that I was to call for

him, on our way to Cobb's Hole, as early as I liked--which, interpreted

by my impatience to get possession of the letter, meant as early as

I could. Without waiting for breakfast at the Farm, I took a crust of

bread in my hand, and set forth, in some doubt whether I should not

surprise the excellent Betteredge in his bed. To my great relief he

proved to be quite as excited about the coming event as I was. I found

him ready, and waiting for me, with his stick in his hand.

"How are you this morning, Betteredge?"

"Very poorly, sir."

"Sorry to hear it. What do you complain of?"

"I complain of a new disease, Mr. Franklin, of my own inventing. I don't

want to alarm you, but you're certain to catch it before the morning is

out."

"The devil I am!"

"Do you feel an uncomfortable heat at the pit of your stomach, sir? and

a nasty thumping at the top of your head? Ah! not yet? It will lay hold

of you at Cobb's Hole, Mr. Franklin. I call it the detective-fever; and

I first caught it in the company of Sergeant Cuff."

"Aye! aye! and the cure in this instance is to open Rosanna Spearman's

letter, I suppose? Come along, and let's get it."

Early as it was, we found the fisherman's wife astir in her kitchen.

On my presentation by Betteredge, good Mrs. Yolland performed a social

ceremony, strictly reserved (as I afterwards learnt) for strangers of

distinction. She put a bottle of Dutch gin and a couple of clean pipes

on the table, and opened the conversation by saying, "What news from

London, sir?"

Before I could find an answer to this immensely comprehensive question,

an apparition advanced towards me, out of a dark corner of the kitchen.

A wan, wild, haggard girl, with remarkably beautiful hair, and with a

fierce keenness in her eyes, came limping up on a crutch to the table at

which I was sitting, and looked at me as if I was an object of mingled

interest and horror, which it quite fascinated her to see.

"Mr. Betteredge," she said, without taking her eyes off me, "mention his

name again, if you please."