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
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.