And no result came from sending the moonstone to another place. One general and unanimous opinion: it had no value—that was all. And still for months the blighting frost lay dead on everything.
In vain, with burning fever under the outward chill that froze her too, did Rosalie take the fork and try with what little strength was in her arms to break the iron earth. Nothing moved. It only made her recognise the more the great impossibility, the strength of life imprisoned by the frozen hands of death.
At last (for now the gate within the edge was never fast) she went again to the Governor.
“What am I to do?” she asked. “I can’t get on with anything, nor move either way. I’ve prayed to God a thousand times to give me peace or break the ice, or let me get the price of freedom from that jewel which I brought to you, and nothing ever answers, except in contradiction. I prayed one night the thaw might come—a hundred times and more I prayed it. In the morning a double frost had settled, petrifying hard as iron. Another night I prayed for peace and rest. I could not stand so terrible a strain. I never dreamt as that night. Ten times I dozed and woke again, covered with sweat, all shivering in the cold, to think myself alive within a coffin, buried within the ground. And most incessantly that other prayer to reap the price of freedom with the stone, and as you know, it lies here in your keeping—a useless thing, and judged devoid of worth.”
“You say your heart is in the stone,” he answered.
“Yes; I think it sends out shafts of brilliancy to pierce to that dull, empty place, and prick it into fearful pain. What can I do? I’ve prayed to God—what more can I do?”
“There is one thing more. You’d better give it up.”
“Oh! but that is everything—the whole of the little garden. For the frost will never break till the stone is free, and I.”
“You can give the garden back to God who gave it.”
“But why give me a thing and take it back just when it’s fit for using?” and then a great pain and fear came into her eyes. “I would do as you tell me, I would really, but I haven’t the strength, and I’m afraid. The frost is too strong for me. It freezes my heart, and leaves my mind quite free, so that the blood courses through my brain in quickest time, and then stops suddenly. It’s worse than killing me. I’m going mad, and what use am I to God, or how can I see the light of heaven, if once that heavy cloud descends, and coupled with the frost, freezes upon my eyes and lips, and eats out everything?”