I found Sergeant Cuff and the gardener, with a bottle of Scotch whisky
between them, head over ears in an argument on the growing of roses. The
Sergeant was so deeply interested that he held up his hand, and signed
to me not to interrupt the discussion, when I came in. As far as I could
understand it, the question between them was, whether the white moss
rose did, or did not, require to be budded on the dog-rose to make
it grow well. Mr. Begbie said, Yes; and Sergeant Cuff said, No. They
appealed to me, as hotly as a couple of boys. Knowing nothing whatever
about the growing of roses, I steered a middle course--just as her
Majesty's judges do, when the scales of justice bother them by hanging
even to a hair. "Gentlemen," I remarked, "there is much to be said on
both sides." In the temporary lull produced by that impartial sentence,
I laid my lady's written message on the table, under the eyes of
Sergeant Cuff.
I had got by this time, as nearly as might be, to hate the Sergeant. But
truth compels me to acknowledge that, in respect of readiness of mind,
he was a wonderful man.
In half a minute after he had read the message, he had looked back into
his memory for Superintendent Seegrave's report; had picked out that
part of it in which the Indians were concerned; and was ready with his
answer. A certain great traveller, who understood the Indians and their
language, had figured in Mr. Seegrave's report, hadn't he? Very well.
Did I know the gentleman's name and address? Very well again. Would
I write them on the back of my lady's message? Much obliged to me.
Sergeant Cuff would look that gentleman up, when he went to Frizinghall
in the morning.
"Do you expect anything to come of it?" I asked. "Superintendent
Seegrave found the Indians as innocent as the babe unborn."
"Superintendent Seegrave has been proved wrong, up to this time, in all
his conclusions," answered the Sergeant. "It may be worth while to
find out to-morrow whether Superintendent Seegrave was wrong about the
Indians as well." With that he turned to Mr. Begbie, and took up
the argument again exactly at the place where it had left off. "This
question between us is a question of soils and seasons, and patience
and pains, Mr. Gardener. Now let me put it to you from another point of
view. You take your white moss rose----"
By that time, I had closed the door on them, and was out of hearing of
the rest of the dispute.
In the passage, I met Penelope hanging about, and asked what she was
waiting for.
She was waiting for her young lady's bell, when her young lady chose
to call her back to go on with the packing for the next day's journey.
Further inquiry revealed to me, that Miss Rachel had given it as a
reason for wanting to go to her aunt at Frizinghall, that the house was
unendurable to her, and that she could bear the odious presence of a
policeman under the same roof with herself no longer. On being informed,
half an hour since, that her departure would be delayed till two in the
afternoon, she had flown into a violent passion. My lady, present at the
time, had severely rebuked her, and then (having apparently something
to say, which was reserved for her daughter's private ear) had sent
Penelope out of the room. My girl was in wretchedly low spirits about
the changed state of things in the house. "Nothing goes right,
father; nothing is like what it used to be. I feel as if some dreadful
misfortune was hanging over us all."