Those in front had spread the news before us. We found the servants in

a state of panic. As we passed my lady's door, it was thrown open

violently from the inner side. My mistress came out among us (with Mr.

Franklin following, and trying vainly to compose her), quite beside

herself with the horror of the thing.

"You are answerable for this!" she cried out, threatening the Sergeant

wildly with her hand. "Gabriel! give that wretch his money--and release

me from the sight of him!"

The Sergeant was the only one among us who was fit to cope with

her--being the only one among us who was in possession of himself.

"I am no more answerable for this distressing calamity, my lady, than

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you are," he said. "If, in half an hour from this, you still insist on

my leaving the house, I will accept your ladyship's dismissal, but not

your ladyship's money."

It was spoken very respectfully, but very firmly at the same time--and

it had its effect on my mistress as well as on me. She suffered Mr.

Franklin to lead her back into the room. As the door closed on the two,

the Sergeant, looking about among the women-servants in his observant

way, noticed that while all the rest were merely frightened, Penelope

was in tears. "When your father has changed his wet clothes," he said to

her, "come and speak to us, in your father's room."

Before the half-hour was out, I had got my dry clothes on, and had lent

Sergeant Cuff such change of dress as he required. Penelope came in to

us to hear what the Sergeant wanted with her. I don't think I ever felt

what a good dutiful daughter I had, so strongly as I felt it at that

moment. I took her and sat her on my knee and I prayed God bless her.

She hid her head on my bosom, and put her arms round my neck--and we

waited a little while in silence. The poor dead girl must have been at

the bottom of it, I think, with my daughter and with me. The Sergeant

went to the window, and stood there looking out. I thought it right to

thank him for considering us both in this way--and I did.

People in high life have all the luxuries to themselves--among others,

the luxury of indulging their feelings. People in low life have no such

privilege. Necessity, which spares our betters, has no pity on us. We

learn to put our feelings back into ourselves, and to jog on with our

duties as patiently as may be. I don't complain of this--I only notice

it. Penelope and I were ready for the Sergeant, as soon as the Sergeant

was ready on his side. Asked if she knew what had led her fellow-servant

to destroy herself, my daughter answered (as you will foresee) that it

was for love of Mr. Franklin Blake. Asked next, if she had mentioned

this notion of hers to any other person, Penelope answered, "I have not

mentioned it, for Rosanna's sake." I felt it necessary to add a word to

this. I said, "And for Mr. Franklin's sake, my dear, as well. If Rosanna

HAS died for love of him, it is not with his knowledge or by his fault.

Let him leave the house to-day, if he does leave it, without the useless

pain of knowing the truth." Sergeant Cuff said, "Quite right," and fell

silent again; comparing Penelope's notion (as it seemed to me) with some

other notion of his own which he kept to himself.




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