The Indians looked up the road and down the road once more—and then the chief Indian said these words to the boy; 'See the English gentleman from foreign parts.'
The boy said, 'I see him.'
The Indian said, 'Is it on the road to this house, and on no other, that the English gentleman will travel to-day?'
The boy said, 'It is on the road to this house, and on no other, that the English gentleman will travel to-day.' The Indian put a second question—after waiting a little first. He said: 'Has the English gentleman got It about him?'
The boy answered—also, after waiting a little first—'Yes.'
The Indian put a third and last question: 'Will the English gentleman come here, as he has promised to come, at the close of day?'
The boy said, 'I can't tell.'
The Indian asked why.
The boy said, 'I am tired. The mist rises in my head, and puzzles me. I can see no more to-day.'
With that the catechism ended. The chief Indian said something in his own language to the other two, pointing to the boy, and pointing towards the town, in which (as we afterwards discovered) they were lodged. He then, after making more signs on the boy's head, blew on his forehead, and so woke him up with a start. After that, they all went on their way towards the town, and the girls saw them no more.
Most things they say have a moral, if you only look for it. What was the moral of this?
The moral was, as I thought: First, that the chief juggler had heard Mr. Franklin's arrival talked of among the servants out-of-doors, and saw his way to making a little money by it. Second, that he and his men and boy (with a view to making the said money) meant to hang about till they saw my lady drive home, and then to come back, and foretell Mr. Franklin's arrival by magic. Third, that Penelope had heard them rehearsing their hocus-pocus, like actors rehearsing a play. Fourth, that I should do well to have an eye, that evening, on the plate-basket. Fifth, that Penelope would do well to cool down, and leave me, her father, to doze off again in the sun.
That appeared to me to be the sensible view. If you know anything of the ways of young women, you won't be surprised to hear that Penelope wouldn't take it. The moral of the thing was serious, according to my daughter. She particularly reminded me of the Indian's third question, Has the English gentleman got It about him? 'Oh, father!' says Penelope, clasping her hands, 'don't joke about this. What does 'It' mean?'
'We'll ask Mr. Franklin, my dear,' I said, 'if you can wait till Mr. Franklin comes.' I winked to show I meant that in joke. Penelope took it quite seriously. My girl's earnestness tickled me. 'What on earth should Mr. Franklin know about it?' I inquired. 'Ask him,' says Penelope. 'And see whether HE thinks it a laughing matter, too.' With that parting shot, my daughter left me.
I settled it with myself, when she was gone, that I really would ask Mr. Franklin—mainly to set Penelope's mind at rest. What was said between us, when I did ask him, later on that same day, you will find set out fully in its proper place. But as I don't wish to raise your expectations and then disappoint them, I will take leave to warn you here—before we go any further—that you won't find the ghost of a joke in our conversation on the subject of the jugglers. To my great surprise, Mr. Franklin, like Penelope, took the thing seriously. How seriously, you will understand, when I tell you that, in his opinion, 'It' meant the Moonstone.
CHAPTER IV
I am truly sorry to detain you over me and my beehive chair. A sleepy old man, in a sunny back yard, is not an interesting object, I am well aware. But things must be put down in their places, as things actually happened—and you must please to jog on a little while longer with me, in expectation of Mr. Franklin Blake's arrival later in the day.
Before I had time to doze off again, after my daughter Penelope had left me, I was disturbed by a rattling of plates and dishes in the servants' hall, which meant that dinner was ready. Taking my own meals in my own sitting-room, I had nothing to do with the servants' dinner, except to wish them a good stomach to it all round, previous to composing myself once more in my chair. I was just stretching my legs, when out bounced another woman on me. Not my daughter again; only Nancy, the kitchen-maid, this time. I was straight in her way out; and I observed, as she asked me to let her by, that she had a sulky face—a thing which, as head of the servants, I never allow, on principle, to pass me without
