
SECOND PERIOD
THE DISCOVERY OF THE TRUTH (1848-1849)
The events related in several narratives.
FIRST NARRATIVE
Contributed by MISS CLACK; niece of the late SIR JOHN
VERINDER
CHAPTER I
I am indebted to my dear parents (both now in heaven) for
having had habits of order and regularity instilled into me
at a very early age.
In that happy bygone time, I was taught to keep my hair
tidy at all hours of the day and night, and to fold up every
article of my clothing carefully, in the same order, on the
same chair, in the same place at the foot of the bed, before
retiring to rest. An entry of the day's events in my little
diary invariably preceded the folding up. The "Evening Hymn"
(repeated in bed) invariably followed the folding up. And
the sweet sleep of childhood invariably followed the
"Evening Hymn."
In later life (alas!) the Hymn has been succeeded by sad
and bitter meditations; and the sweet sleep has been but ill
exchanged for the broken slumbers which haunt the uneasy
pillow of care. On the other hand, I have continued to fold
my clothes, and to keep my little diary. The former habit
links me to my happy childhood—before papa was ruined. The
latter habit—hitherto mainly useful in helping me to
discipline the fallen nature which we all inherit from
Adam—has unexpectedly proved important to my humble
interests in quite another way. It has enabled poor Me to
serve the caprice of a wealthy member of the family into
which my late uncle married. I am fortunate enough to be
useful to Mr. Franklin Blake.
I have been cut off from all news of my relatives by
marriage for some time past. When we are isolated and poor,
we are not infrequently forgotten. I am now living, for
economy's sake, in a little town in Brittany, inhabited by a
select circle of serious English friends, and possessed of
the inestimable advantages of a Protestant clergyman and a
cheap market.
In this retirement—a Patmos amid the howling ocean of
popery that surrounds us—a letter from England has reached
me at last. I find my insignificant existence suddenly
remembered by Mr. Franklin Blake. My wealthy relative—would
that I could add my spiritually-wealthy relative!—writes,
without even an attempt at disguising that he wants
something of me. The whim has seized him to stir up the
deplorable scandal of the Moonstone: and I am to help him by
writing the account of what I myself witnessed while
visiting at Aunt Verinder's house in London. Pecuniary
remuneration is offered to me—with the want of feeling
peculiar to the rich. I am to re-open wounds that Time has
barely closed; I am to recall the most intensely painful
remembrances—and this done, I am to feel myself compensated
by a new laceration, in the shape of Mr. Blake's cheque. My
nature is weak. It cost me a hard struggle, before Christian
humility conquered sinful pride, and self-denial accepted
the cheque.
Without my diary, I doubt—pray let me express it in the
grossest terms!—if I could have honestly earned my money.
With my diary, the poor labourer (who forgives Mr. Blake for
insulting her) is worthy of her hire. Nothing escaped me at
the time I was visiting dear Aunt Verinder. Everything was
entered (thanks to my early training) day by day as it
happened; and everything down to the smallest particular,
shall be told here. My sacred regard for truth is (thank
God) far above my respect for persons. It will be easy for
Mr. Blake to suppress what may not prove to be sufficiently
flattering in these pages to the person chiefly concerned in
them. He has purchased my time, but not even HIS wealth can
purchase my conscience too.*
* NOTE. ADDED BY FRANKLIN BLAKE.—Miss Clack may make her
mind quite easy on this point. Nothing will be added,
altered or removed, in her manuscript, or in any of the
other manuscripts which pass through my hands. Whatever
opinions any of the writers may express, whatever
peculiarities of treatment may mark, and perhaps in a
literary sense, disfigure the narratives which I am now
collecting, not a line will be tampered with anywhere, from
first to last. As genuine documents they are sent to me—and
as genuine documents I shall preserve them, endorsed by the
attestations of witnesses who can speak to the facts. It
only remains to be added that "the person chiefly concerned"
in Miss Clack's narrative, is happy enough at the present
moment, not only to brave the smartest exercise of Miss
Clack's pen, but even to recognise its unquestionable value
as an instrument for the exhibition of Miss Clack's
character.
My diary informs me, that I was accidentally passing Aunt
Verinder's house in Montagu Square, on Monday, 3rd July,
1848.
Seeing the shutters opened, and the blinds drawn up, I
felt that it would be an act of polite attention to knock,
and make inquiries. The person who answered the door,
informed me that my aunt and her daughter (I really cannot
call her my cousin!) had arrived from the country a week
since, and meditated making some stay in London. I sent up a
message at once, declining to disturb them, and only begging
to know whether I could be of any use.
The person who answered the door, took my message in
insolent silence, and left me standing in the hall. She is
the daughter of a heathen old man named Betteredge—long, too
long, tolerated in my aunt's family. I sat down in the hall
to wait for my answer—and, having always a few tracts in my
bag, I selected one which proved to be quite providentially
applicable to the person who answered the door. The hall was
dirty, and the chair was hard; but the blessed consciousness
of returning good for evil raised me quite above any
trifling considerations of that kind. The tract was one of a
series addressed to young women on the sinfulness of dress.
In style it was devoutly familiar. Its title was, "A Word
With You On Your Cap-Ribbons."
"My lady is much obliged, and begs you will come and
lunch to-morrow at two."
I passed over the manner in which she gave her message,
and the dreadful boldness of her look. I thanked this young
castaway; and I said, in a tone of Christian interest, "Will
you favour me by accepting a tract?"
She looked at the title. "Is it written by a man or a
woman, Miss? If it's written by a woman, I had rather not
read it on that account. If it's written by a man, I beg to
inform him that he knows nothing about it." She handed me
back the tract, and opened the door. We must sow the good
seed somehow. I waited till the door was shut on me, and
slipped the tract into the letter-box. When I had dropped
another tract through the area railings, I felt relieved, in
some small degree, of a heavy responsibility towards others.
We had a meeting that evening of the Select Committee of
the Mothers'-Small-Clothes-Conversion-Society. The object of
this excellent Charity is—as all serious people know—to
rescue unredeemed fathers' trousers from the pawnbroker, and
to prevent their resumption, on the part of the
irreclaimable parent, by abridging them immediately to suit
the proportions of the innocent son. I was a member, at that
time, of the select committee; and I mention the Society
here, because my precious and admirable friend, Mr. Godfrey
Ablewhite, was associated with our work of moral and
material usefulness. I had expected to see him in the
boardroom, on the Monday evening of which I am now writing,
and had proposed to tell him, when we met, of dear Aunt
Verinder's arrival in London. To my great disappointment he
never appeared. On my expressing a feeling of surprise at
his absence, my sisters of the Committee all looked up
together from their trousers (we had a great pressure of
business that night), and asked in amazement, if I had not
heard the news. I acknowledged my ignorance, and was then
told, for the first time, of an event which forms, so to
speak, the starting-point of this narrative. On the previous
Friday, two gentlemen—occupying widely-different positions
in society—had been the victims of an outrage which had
startled all London. One of the gentlemen was Mr. Septimus
Luker, of Lambeth. The other was Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite.
Living in my present isolation, I have no means of
introducing the newspaper-account of the outrage into my
narrative. I was also deprived, at the time, of the
inestimable advantage of hearing the events related by the
fervid eloquence of Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite. All I can do is
to state the facts as they were stated, on that Monday
evening, to me; proceeding on the plan which I have been
taught from infancy to adopt in folding up my clothes.
Everything shall be put neatly, and everything shall be put
in its place. These lines are written by a poor weak woman.
From a poor weak woman who will be cruel enough to expect
more?
The date—thanks to my dear parents, no dictionary that
ever was written can be more particular than I am about
dates—was Friday, June 30th, 1848.
Early on that memorable day, our gifted Mr. Godfrey
happened to be cashing a cheque at a banking-house in
Lombard Street. The name of the firm is accidentally blotted
in my diary, and my sacred regard for truth forbids me to
hazard a guess in a matter of this kind. Fortunately, the
name of the firm doesn't matter. What does matter is a
circumstance that occurred when Mr. Godfrey had transacted
his business. On gaining the door, he encountered a
gentleman—a perfect stranger to him—who was accidentally
leaving the office exactly at the same time as himself. A
momentary contest of politeness ensued between them as to
who should be the first to pass through the door of the
bank. The stranger insisted on making Mr. Godfrey precede
him; Mr. Godfrey said a few civil words; they bowed, and
parted in the street.
Thoughtless and superficial people may say, Here is
surely a very trumpery little incident related in an
absurdly circumstantial manner. Oh, my young friends and
fellow-sinners! beware of presuming to exercise your poor
carnal reason. Oh, be morally tidy. Let your faith be as
your stockings, and your stockings as your faith. Both ever
spotless, and both ready to put on at a moment's notice!
I beg a thousand pardons. I have fallen insensibly into
my Sunday-school style. Most inappropriate in such a record
as this. Let me try to be worldly—let me say that trifles,
in this case as in many others, led to terrible results.
Merely premising that the polite stranger was Mr. Luker, of
Lambeth, we will now follow Mr. Godfrey home to his
residence at Kilburn.
He found waiting for him, in the hall, a poorly clad but
delicate and interesting-looking little boy. The boy handed
him a letter, merely mentioning that he had been entrusted
with it by an old lady whom he did not know, and who had
given him no instructions to wait for an answer. Such
incidents as these were not uncommon in Mr. Godfrey's large
experience as a promoter of public charities. He let the boy
go, and opened the letter.
The handwriting was entirely unfamiliar to him. It
requested his attendance, within an hour's time, at a house
in Northumberland Street, Strand, which he had never had
occasion to enter before. The object sought was to obtain
from the worthy manager certain details on the subject of
the Mothers'-Small-Clothes-Conversion-Society, and the
information was wanted by an elderly lady who proposed
adding largely to the resources of the charity, if her
questions were met by satisfactory replies. She mentioned
her name, and she added that the shortness of her stay in
London prevented her from giving any longer notice to the
eminent philanthropist whom she addressed.
Ordinary people might have hesitated before setting aside
their own engagements to suit the convenience of a stranger.
The Christian Hero never hesitates where good is to be done.
Mr. Godfrey instantly turned back, and proceeded to the
house in Northumberland Street. A most respectable though
somewhat corpulent man answered the door, and, on hearing
Mr. Godfrey's name, immediately conducted him into an empty
apartment at the back, on the drawing-room floor. He noticed
two unusual things on entering the room. One of them was a
faint odour of musk and camphor. The other was an ancient
Oriental manuscript, richly illuminated with Indian figures
and devices, that lay open to inspection on a table.
He was looking at the book, the position of which caused
him to stand with his back turned towards the closed folding
doors communicating with the front room, when, without the
slightest previous noise to warn him, he felt himself
suddenly seized round the neck from behind. He had just time
to notice that the arm round his neck was naked and of a
tawny-brown colour, before his eyes were bandaged, his mouth
was gagged, and he was thrown helpless on the floor by (as
he judged) two men. A third rifled his pockets, and—if, as a
lady, I may venture to use such an expression—searched him,
without ceremony, through and through to his skin.
Here I should greatly enjoy saying a few cheering words
on the devout confidence which could alone have sustained
Mr. Godfrey in an emergency so terrible as this. Perhaps,
however, the position and appearance of my admirable friend
at the culminating period of the outrage (as above
described) are hardly within the proper limits of female
discussion. Let me pass over the next few moments, and
return to Mr. Godfrey at the time when the odious search of
his person had been completed. The outrage had been
perpetrated throughout in dead silence. At the end of it
some words were exchanged, among the invisible wretches, in
a language which he did not understand, but in tones which
were plainly expressive (to his cultivated ear) of
disappointment and rage. He was suddenly lifted from the
ground, placed in a chair, and bound there hand and foot.
The next moment he felt the air flowing in from the open
door, listened, and concluded that he was alone again in the
room.
An interval elapsed, and he heard a sound below like the
rustling sound of a woman's dress. It advanced up the
stairs, and stopped. A female scream rent the atmosphere of
guilt. A man's voice below exclaimed "Hullo!" A man's feet
ascended the stairs. Mr. Godfrey felt Christian fingers
unfastening his bandage, and extracting his gag. He looked
in amazement at two respectable strangers, and faintly
articulated, "What does it mean?" The two respectable
strangers looked back, and said, "Exactly the question we
were going to ask YOU."
The inevitable explanation followed. No! Let me be
scrupulously particular. Sal volatile and water followed, to
compose dear Mr. Godfrey's nerves. The explanation came
next.
It appeared from the statement of the landlord and
landlady of the house (persons of good repute in the
neighbourhood), that their first and second floor apartments
had been engaged, on the previous day, for a week certain,
by a most respectable-looking gentleman—the same who has
been already described as answering the door to Mr.
Godfrey's knock. The gentleman had paid the week's rent and
all the week's extras in advance, stating that the
apartments were wanted for three Oriental noblemen, friends
of his, who were visiting England for the first time. Early
on the morning of the outrage, two of the Oriental
strangers, accompanied by their respectable English friend,
took possession of the apartments. The third was expected to
join them shortly; and the luggage (reported as very bulky)
was announced to follow when it had passed through the
Custom-house, late in the afternoon. Not more than ten
minutes previous to Mr. Godfrey's visit, the third foreigner
had arrived. Nothing out of the common had happened, to the
knowledge of the landlord and landlady down-stairs, until
within the last five minutes—when they had seen the three
foreigners, accompanied by their respectable English friend,
all leave the house together, walking quietly in the
direction of the Strand. Remembering that a visitor had
called, and not having seen the visitor also leave the
house, the landlady had thought it rather strange that the
gentleman should be left by himself up-stairs. After a short
discussion with her husband, she had considered it advisable
to ascertain whether anything was wrong. The result had
followed, as I have already attempted to describe it; and
there the explanation of the landlord and the landlady came
to an end.
An investigation was next made in the room. Dear Mr.
Godfrey's property was found scattered in all directions.
When the articles were collected, however, nothing was
missing; his watch, chain, purse, keys, pocket-handkerchief,
note-book, and all his loose papers had been closely
examined, and had then been left unharmed to be resumed by
the owner. In the same way, not the smallest morsel of
property belonging to the proprietors of the house had been
abstracted. The Oriental noblemen had removed their own
illuminated manuscript, and had removed nothing else.
What did it mean? Taking the worldly point of view, it
appeared to mean that Mr. Godfrey had been the victim of
some incomprehensible error, committed by certain unknown
men. A dark conspiracy was on foot in the midst of us; and
our beloved and innocent friend had been entangled in its
meshes. When the Christian hero of a hundred charitable
victories plunges into a pitfall that has been dug for him
by mistake, oh, what a warning it is to the rest of us to be
unceasingly on our guard! How soon may our own evil passions
prove to be Oriental noblemen who pounce on us unawares!
I could write pages of affectionate warning on this one
theme, but (alas!) I am not permitted to improve—I am
condemned to narrate. My wealthy relative's
cheque—henceforth, the incubus of my existence—warns me that
I have not done with this record of violence yet. We must
leave Mr. Godfrey to recover in Northumberland Street, and
must follow the proceedings of Mr. Luker at a later period
of the day.
After leaving the bank, Mr. Luker had visited various
parts of London on business errands. Returning to his own
residence, he found a letter waiting for him, which was
described as having been left a short time previously by a
boy. In this case, as in Mr. Godfrey's case, the handwriting
was strange; but the name mentioned was the name of one of
Mr. Luker's customers. His correspondent announced (writing
in the third person—apparently by the hand of a deputy) that
he had been unexpectedly summoned to London. He had just
established himself in lodgings in Alfred Place, Tottenham
Court Road; and he desired to see Mr. Luker immediately, on
the subject of a purchase which he contemplated making. The
gentleman was an enthusiastic collector of Oriental
antiquities, and had been for many years a liberal patron of
the establishment in Lambeth. Oh, when shall we wean
ourselves from the worship of Mammon! Mr. Luker called a
cab, and drove off instantly to his liberal patron.
Exactly what had happened to Mr. Godfrey in
Northumberland Street now happened to Mr. Luker in Alfred
Place. Once more the respectable man answered the door, and
showed the visitor up-stairs into the back drawing-room.
There, again, lay the illuminated manuscript on a table. Mr.
Luker's attention was absorbed, as Mr. Godfrey's attention
had been absorbed, by this beautiful work of Indian art. He
too was aroused from his studies by a tawny naked arm round
his throat, by a bandage over his eyes, and by a gag in his
mouth. He too was thrown prostrate and searched to the skin.
A longer interval had then elapsed than had passed in the
experience of Mr. Godfrey; but it had ended as before, in
the persons of the house suspecting something wrong, and
going up-stairs to see what had happened. Precisely the same
explanation which the landlord in Northumberland Street had
given to Mr. Godfrey, the landlord in Alfred Place now gave
to Mr. Luker. Both had been imposed on in the same way by
the plausible address and well-filled purse of the
respectable stranger, who introduced himself as acting for
his foreign friends. The one point of difference between the
two cases occurred when the scattered contents of Mr.
Luker's pockets were being collected from the floor. His
watch and purse were safe, but (less fortunate than Mr.
Godfrey) one of the loose papers that he carried about him
had been taken away. The paper in question acknowledged the
receipt of a valuable of great price which Mr. Luker had
that day left in the care of his bankers. This document
would be useless for purposes of fraud, inasmuch as it
provided that the valuable should only be given up on the
personal application of the owner. As soon as he recovered
himself, Mr. Luker hurried to the bank, on the chance that
the thieves who had robbed him might ignorantly present
themselves with the receipt. Nothing had been seen of them
when he arrived at the establishment, and nothing was seen
of them afterwards. Their respectable English friend had (in
the opinion of the bankers) looked the receipt over before
they attempted to make use of it, and had given them the
necessary warning in good time.
Information of both outrages was communicated to the
police, and the needful investigations were pursued, I
believe, with great energy. The authorities held that a
robbery had been planned, on insufficient information
received by the thieves. They had been plainly not sure
whether Mr. Luker had, or had not, trusted the transmission
of his precious gem to another person; and poor polite Mr.
Godfrey had paid the penalty of having been seen
accidentally speaking to him. Add to this, that Mr.
Godfrey's absence from our Monday evening meeting had been
occasioned by a consultation of the authorities, at which he
was requested to assist—and all the explanations required
being now given, I may proceed with the simpler story of my
own little personal experiences in Montagu Square.
I was punctual to the luncheon hour on Tuesday. Reference
to my diary shows this to have been a chequered day—much in
it to be devoutly regretted, much in it to be devoutly
thankful for.
Dear Aunt Verinder received me with her usual grace and
kindness. But I noticed, after a little while, that
something was wrong. Certain anxious looks escaped my aunt,
all of which took the direction of her daughter. I never see
Rachel myself without wondering how it can be that so
insignificant-looking a person should be the child of such
distinguished parents as Sir John and Lady Verinder. On this
occasion, however, she not only disappointed—she really
shocked me. There was an absence of all lady-like restraint
in her language and manner most painful to see. She was
possessed by some feverish excitement which made her
distressingly loud when she laughed, and sinfully wasteful
and capricious in what she ate and drank at lunch. I felt
deeply for her poor mother, even before the true state of
the case had been confidentially made known to me.
Luncheon over, my aunt said: "Remember what the doctor
told you, Rachel, about quieting yourself with a book after
taking your meals."
"I'll go into the library, mamma," she answered. "But if
Godfrey calls, mind I am told of it. I am dying for more
news of him, after his adventure in Northumberland Street."
She kissed her mother on the forehead, and looked my way.
"Good-bye, Clack," she said, carelessly. Her insolence
roused no angry feeling in me; I only made a private
memorandum to pray for her.
When we were left by ourselves, my aunt told me the whole
horrible story of the Indian Diamond, which, I am happy to
know, it is not necessary to repeat here. She did not
conceal from me that she would have preferred keeping
silence on the subject. But when her own servants all knew
of the loss of the Moonstone, and when some of the
circumstances had actually found their way into the
newspapers—when strangers were speculating whether there was
any connection between what had happened at Lady Verinder's
country-house, and what had happened in Northumberland
Street and Alfred Place—concealment was not to be thought
of; and perfect frankness became a necessity as well as a
virtue.
Some persons, hearing what I now heard, would have been
probably overwhelmed with astonishment. For my own part,
knowing Rachel's spirit to have been essentially
unregenerate from her childhood upwards, I was prepared for
whatever my aunt could tell me on the subject of her
daughter. It might have gone on from bad to worse till it
ended in Murder; and I should still have said to myself, The
natural result! oh, dear, dear, the natural result! The one
thing that DID shock me was the course my aunt had taken
under the circumstances. Here surely was a case for a
clergyman, if ever there was one yet! Lady Verinder had
thought it a case for a physician. All my poor aunt's early
life had been passed in her father's godless household. The
natural result again! Oh, dear, dear, the natural result
again!
"The doctors recommend plenty of exercise and amusement
for Rachel, and strongly urge me to keep her mind as much as
possible from dwelling on the past," said Lady Verinder.
"Oh, what heathen advice!" I thought to myself. "In this
Christian country, what heathen advice!"
My aunt went on, "I do my best to carry out my
instructions. But this strange adventure of Godfrey's
happens at a most unfortunate time. Rachel has been
incessantly restless and excited since she first heard of
it. She left me no peace till I had written and asked my
nephew Ablewhite to come here. She even feels an interest in
the other person who was roughly used—Mr. Luker, or some
such name—though the man is, of course, a total stranger to
her."
"Your knowledge of the world, dear aunt, is superior to
mine," I suggested diffidently. "But there must be a reason
surely for this extraordinary conduct on Rachel's part. She
is keeping a sinful secret from you and from everybody. May
there not be something in these recent events which
threatens her secret with discovery?"
"Discovery?" repeated my aunt. "What can you possibly
mean? Discovery through Mr. Luker? Discovery through my
nephew?"
As the word passed her lips, a special providence
occurred. The servant opened the door, and announced Mr.
Godfrey Ablewhite.
CHAPTER II
Mr. Godfrey followed the announcement of his name—as Mr.
Godfrey does everything else—exactly at the right time. He
was not so close on the servant's heels as to startle us. He
was not so far behind as to cause us the double
inconvenience of a pause and an open door. It is in the
completeness of his daily life that the true Christian
appears. This dear man was very complete.
"Go to Miss Verinder," said my aunt, addressing the
servant, "and tell her Mr. Ablewhite is here."
We both inquired after his health. We both asked him
together whether he felt like himself again, after his
terrible adventure of the past week. With perfect tact, he
contrived to answer us at the same moment. Lady Verinder had
his reply in words. I had his charming smile.
"What," he cried, with infinite tenderness, "have I done
to deserve all this sympathy? My dear aunt! my dear Miss
Clack! I have merely been mistaken for somebody else. I have
only been blindfolded; I have only been strangled; I have
only been thrown flat on my back, on a very thin carpet,
covering a particularly hard floor. Just think how much
worse it might have been! I might have been murdered; I
might have been robbed. What have I lost? Nothing but
Nervous Force—which the law doesn't recognise as property;
so that, strictly speaking, I have lost nothing at all. If I
could have had my own way, I would have kept my adventure to
myself—I shrink from all this fuss and publicity. But Mr.
Luker made HIS injuries public, and my injuries, as the
necessary consequence, have been proclaimed in their turn. I
have become the property of the newspapers, until the gentle
reader gets sick of the subject. I am very sick indeed of it
myself. May the gentle reader soon be like me! And how is
dear Rachel? Still enjoying the gaieties of London? So glad
to hear it! Miss Clack, I need all your indulgence. I am
sadly behind-hand with my Committee Work and my dear Ladies.
But I really do hope to look in at the
Mothers'-Small-Clothes next week. Did you make cheering
progress at Monday's Committee? Was the Board hopeful about
future prospects? And are we nicely off for Trousers?"
The heavenly gentleness of his smile made his apologies
irresistible. The richness of his deep voice added its own
indescribable charm to the interesting business question
which he had just addressed to me. In truth, we were almost
TOO nicely off for Trousers; we were quite overwhelmed by
them. I was just about to say so, when the door opened
again, and an element of worldly disturbance entered the
room, in the person of Miss Verinder.
She approached dear Mr. Godfrey at a most unladylike rate
of speed, with her hair shockingly untidy, and her face,
what I should call, unbecomingly flushed.
"I am charmed to see you, Godfrey," she said, addressing
him, I grieve to add, in the off-hand manner of one young
man talking to another. "I wish you had brought Mr. Luker
with you. You and he (as long as our present excitement
lasts) are the two most interesting men in all London. It's
morbid to say this; it's unhealthy; it's all that a
well-regulated mind like Miss Clack's most instinctively
shudders at. Never mind that. Tell me the whole of the
Northumberland Street story directly. I know the newspapers
have left some of it out."
Even dear Mr. Godfrey partakes of the fallen nature which
we all inherit from Adam—it is a very small share of our
human legacy, but, alas! he has it. I confess it grieved me
to see him take Rachel's hand in both of his own hands, and
lay it softly on the left side of his waistcoat. It was a
direct encouragement to her reckless way of talking, and her
insolent reference to me.
"Dearest Rachel," he said, in the same voice which had
thrilled me when he spoke of our prospects and our trousers,
"the newspapers have told you everything—and they have told
it much better than I can."
"Godfrey thinks we all make too much of the matter," my
aunt remarked. "He has just been saying that he doesn't care
to speak of it."
"Why?"
She put the question with a sudden flash in her eyes, and
a sudden look up into Mr. Godfrey's face. On his side, he
looked down at her with an indulgence so injudicious and so
ill-deserved, that I really felt called on to interfere.
"Rachel, darling!" I remonstrated gently, "true greatness
and true courage are ever modest."
"You are a very good fellow in your way, Godfrey," she
said—not taking the smallest notice, observe, of me, and
still speaking to her cousin as if she was one young man
addressing another. "But I am quite sure you are not great;
I don't believe you possess any extraordinary courage; and I
am firmly persuaded—if you ever had any modesty—that your
lady-worshippers relieved you of that virtue a good many
years since. You have some private reason for not talking of
your adventure in Northumberland Street; and I mean to know
it."
"My reason is the simplest imaginable, and the most
easily acknowledged," he answered, still bearing with her.
"I am tired of the subject."
"You are tired of the subject? My dear Godfrey, I am
going to make a remark."
"What is it?"
"You live a great deal too much in the society of women.
And you have contracted two very bad habits in consequence.
You have learnt to talk nonsense seriously, and you have got
into a way of telling fibs for the pleasure of telling them.
You can't go straight with your lady-worshippers. I mean to
make you go straight with me. Come, and sit down. I am
brimful of downright questions; and I expect you to be
brimful of downright answers."
She actually dragged him across the room to a chair by
the window, where the light would fall on his face. I deeply
feel being obliged to report such language, and to describe
such conduct. But, hemmed in, as I am, between Mr. Franklin
Blake's cheque on one side and my own sacred regard for
truth on the other, what am I to do? I looked at my aunt.
She sat unmoved; apparently in no way disposed to interfere.
I had never noticed this kind of torpor in her before. It
was, perhaps, the reaction after the trying time she had had
in the country. Not a pleasant symptom to remark, be it what
it might, at dear Lady Verinder's age, and with dear Lady
Verinder's autumnal exuberance of figure.
In the meantime, Rachel had settled herself at the window
with our amiable and forbearing—our too forbearing—Mr.
Godfrey. She began the string of questions with which she
had threatened him, taking no more notice of her mother, or
of myself, than if we had not been in the room.
"Have the police done anything, Godfrey?"
"Nothing whatever."
"It is certain, I suppose, that the three men who laid
the trap for you were the same three men who afterwards laid
the trap for Mr. Luker?"
"Humanly speaking, my dear Rachel, there can be no doubt
of it."
"And not a trace of them has been discovered?"
"Not a trace."
"It is thought—is it not?—that these three men are the
three Indians who came to our house in the country."
"Some people think so."
"Do you think so?"
"My dear Rachel, they blindfolded me before I could see
their faces. I know nothing whatever of the matter. How can
I offer an opinion on it?"
Even the angelic gentleness of Mr. Godfrey was, you see,
beginning to give way at last under the persecution
inflicted on him. Whether unbridled curiosity, or
ungovernable dread, dictated Miss Verinder's questions I do
not presume to inquire. I only report that, on Mr. Godfrey's
attempting to rise, after giving her the answer just
described, she actually took him by the two shoulders, and
pushed him back into his chair—Oh, don't say this was
immodest! don't even hint that the recklessness of guilty
terror could alone account for such conduct as I have
described! We must not judge others. My Christian friends,
indeed, indeed, indeed, we must not judge others!
She went on with her questions, unabashed. Earnest
Biblical students will perhaps be reminded—as I was
reminded—of the blinded children of the devil, who went on
with their orgies, unabashed, in the time before the Flood.
"I want to know something about Mr. Luker, Godfrey."
"I am again unfortunate, Rachel. No man knows less of Mr.
Luker than I do."
"You never saw him before you and he met accidentally at
the bank?"
"Never."
"You have seen him since?"
"Yes. We have been examined together, as well as
separately, to assist the police."
"Mr. Luker was robbed of a receipt which he had got from
his banker's—was he not? What was the receipt for?"
"For a valuable gem which he had placed in the safe
keeping of the bank."
"That's what the newspapers say. It may be enough for the
general reader; but it is not enough for me. The banker's
receipt must have mentioned what the gem was?"
"The banker's receipt, Rachel—as I have heard it
described—mentioned nothing of the kind. A valuable gem,
belonging to Mr. Luker; deposited by Mr. Luker; sealed with
Mr. Luker's seal; and only to be given up on Mr. Luker's
personal application. That was the form, and that is all I
know about it."
She waited a moment, after he had said that. She looked
at her mother, and sighed. She looked back again at Mr.
Godfrey, and went on.
"Some of our private affairs, at home," she said, "seem
to have got into the newspapers?"
"I grieve to say, it is so."
"And some idle people, perfect strangers to us, are
trying to trace a connexion between what happened at our
house in Yorkshire and what has happened since, here in
London?"
"The public curiosity, in certain quarters, is, I fear,
taking that turn."
"The people who say that the three unknown men who
ill-used you and Mr. Luker are the three Indians, also say
that the valuable gem——"
There she stopped. She had become gradually, within the
last few moments, whiter and whiter in the face. The
extraordinary blackness of her hair made this paleness, by
contrast, so ghastly to look at, that we all thought she
would faint, at the moment when she checked herself in the
middle of her question. Dear Mr. Godfrey made a second
attempt to leave his chair. My aunt entreated her to say no
more. I followed my aunt with a modest medicinal
peace-offering, in the shape of a bottle of salts. We none
of us produced the slightest effect on her. "Godfrey, stay
where you are. Mamma, there is not the least reason to be
alarmed about me. Clack, you're dying to hear the end of
it—I won't faint, expressly to oblige YOU."
Those were the exact words she used—taken down in my
diary the moment I got home. But, oh, don't let us judge! My
Christian friends, don't let us judge!
She turned once more to Mr. Godfrey. With an obstinacy
dreadful to see, she went back again to the place where she
had checked herself, and completed her question in these
words:
"I spoke to you, a minute since, about what people were
saying in certain quarters. Tell me plainly, Godfrey, do
they any of them say that Mr. Luker's valuable gem is—the
Moonstone?"
As the name of the Indian Diamond passed her lips, I saw
a change come over my admirable friend. His complexion
deepened. He lost the genial suavity of manner which is one
of his greatest charms. A noble indignation inspired his
reply.
"They DO say it," he answered. "There are people who
don't hesitate to accuse Mr. Luker of telling a falsehood to
serve some private interests of his own. He has over and
over again solemnly declared that, until this scandal
assailed him, he had never even heard of the Moonstone. And
these vile people reply, without a shadow of proof to
justify them, He has his reasons for concealment; we decline
to believe him on his oath. Shameful! shameful!"
Rachel looked at him very strangely—I can't well describe
how—while he was speaking. When he had done, she said,
"Considering that Mr. Luker is only a chance acquaintance of
yours, you take up his cause, Godfrey, rather warmly."
My gifted friend made her one of the most truly
evangelical answers I ever heard in my life.
"I hope, Rachel, I take up the cause of all oppressed
people rather warmly," he said.
The tone in which those words were spoken might have
melted a stone. But, oh dear, what is the hardness of stone?
Nothing, compared to the hardness of the unregenerate human
heart! She sneered. I blush to record it—she sneered at him
to his face.
"Keep your noble sentiments for your Ladies' Committees,
Godfrey. I am certain that the scandal which has assailed
Mr. Luker, has not spared You."
Even my aunt's torpor was roused by those words.
"My dear Rachel," she remonstrated, "you have really no
right to say that!"
"I mean no harm, mamma—I mean good. Have a moment's
patience with me, and you will see."
She looked back at Mr. Godfrey, with what appeared to be
a sudden pity for him. She went the length—the very
unladylike length—of taking him by the hand.
"I am certain," she said, "that I have found out the true
reason of your unwillingness to speak of this matter before
my mother and before me. An unlucky accident has associated
you in people's minds with Mr. Luker. You have told me what
scandal says of HIM. What does scandal say of you?"
Even at the eleventh hour, dear Mr. Godfrey—always ready
to return good for evil—tried to spare her.
"Don't ask me!" he said. "It's better forgotten,
Rachel—it is, indeed."
"I WILL hear it!" she cried out, fiercely, at the top of
her voice.
"Tell her, Godfrey!" entreated my aunt. "Nothing can do
her such harm as your silence is doing now!"
Mr. Godfrey's fine eyes filled with tears. He cast one
last appealing look at her—and then he spoke the fatal
words:
"If you will have it, Rachel—scandal says that the
Moonstone is in pledge to Mr. Luker, and that I am the man
who has pawned it."
She started to her feet with a scream. She looked
backwards and forwards from Mr. Godfrey to my aunt, and from
my aunt to Mr. Godfrey, in such a frantic manner that I
really thought she had gone mad.
"Don't speak to me! Don't touch me!" she exclaimed,
shrinking back from all of us (I declare like some hunted
animal!) into a corner of the room. "This is my fault! I
must set it right. I have sacrificed myself—I had a right to
do that, if I liked. But to let an innocent man be ruined;
to keep a secret which destroys his character for life—Oh,
good God, it's too horrible! I can't bear it!"
My aunt half rose from her chair, then suddenly sat down
again. She called to me faintly, and pointed to a little
phial in her work-box.
"Quick!" she whispered. "Six drops, in water. Don't let
Rachel see."
Under other circumstances, I should have thought this
strange. There was no time now to think—there was only time
to give the medicine. Dear Mr. Godfrey unconsciously
assisted me in concealing what I was about from Rachel, by
speaking composing words to her at the other end of the
room.
"Indeed, indeed, you exaggerate," I heard him say. "My
reputation stands too high to be destroyed by a miserable
passing scandal like this. It will be all forgotten in
another week. Let us never speak of it again." She was
perfectly inaccessible, even to such generosity as this. She
went on from bad to worse.
"I must, and will, stop it," she said. "Mamma! hear what
I say. Miss Clack! hear what I say. I know the hand that
took the Moonstone. I know—" she laid a strong emphasis on
the words; she stamped her foot in the rage that possessed
her—"I KNOW THAT GODFREY ABLEWHITE IS INNOCENT. Take me to
the magistrate, Godfrey! Take me to the magistrate, and I
will swear it!"
My aunt caught me by the hand, and whispered, "Stand
between us for a minute or two. Don't let Rachel see me." I
noticed a bluish tinge in her face which alarmed me. She saw
I was startled. "The drops will put me right in a minute or
two," she said, and so closed her eyes, and waited a little.
While this was going on, I heard dear Mr. Godfrey still
gently remonstrating.
"You must not appear publicly in such a thing as this,"
he said. "YOUR reputation, dearest Rachel, is something too
pure and too sacred to be trifled with."
"MY reputation!" She burst out laughing. "Why, I am
accused, Godfrey, as well as you. The best detective officer
in England declares that I have stolen my own Diamond. Ask
him what he thinks—and he will tell you that I have pledged
the Moonstone to pay my private debts!" She stopped, ran
across the room—and fell on her knees at her mother's feet.
"Oh mamma! mamma! mamma! I must be mad—mustn't I?—not to own
the truth NOW?" She was too vehement to notice her mother's
condition—she was on her feet again, and back with Mr.
Godfrey, in an instant. "I won't let you—I won't let any
innocent man—be accused and disgraced through my fault. If
you won't take me before the magistrate, draw out a
declaration of your innocence on paper, and I will sign it.
Do as I tell you, Godfrey, or I'll write it to the
newspapers I'll go out, and cry it in the streets!"
We will not say this was the language of remorse—we will
say it was the language of hysterics. Indulgent Mr. Godfrey
pacified her by taking a sheet of paper, and drawing out the
declaration. She signed it in a feverish hurry. "Show it
everywhere—don't think of ME," she said, as she gave it to
him. "I am afraid, Godfrey, I have not done you justice,
hitherto, in my thoughts. You are more unselfish—you are a
better man than I believed you to be. Come here when you
can, and I will try and repair the wrong I have done you."
She gave him her hand. Alas, for our fallen nature! Alas,
for Mr. Godfrey! He not only forgot himself so far as to
kiss her hand—he adopted a gentleness of tone in answering
her which, in such a case, was little better than a
compromise with sin. "I will come, dearest," he said, "on
condition that we don't speak of this hateful subject
again." Never had I seen and heard our Christian Hero to
less advantage than on this occasion.
Before another word could be said by anybody, a
thundering knock at the street door startled us all. I
looked through the window, and saw the World, the Flesh, and
the Devil waiting before the house—as typified in a carriage
and horses, a powdered footman, and three of the most
audaciously dressed women I ever beheld in my life.
Rachel started, and composed herself. She crossed the
room to her mother.
"They have come to take me to the flower-show," she said.
"One word, mamma, before I go. I have not distressed you,
have I?"
(Is the bluntness of moral feeling which could ask such a
question as that, after what had just happened, to be pitied
or condemned? I like to lean towards mercy. Let us pity it.)
The drops had produced their effect. My poor aunt's
complexion was like itself again. "No, no, my dear," she
said. "Go with our friends, and enjoy yourself."
Her daughter stooped, and kissed her. I had left the
window, and was near the door, when Rachel approached it to
go out. Another change had come over her—she was in tears. I
looked with interest at the momentary softening of that
obdurate heart. I felt inclined to say a few earnest words.
Alas! my well-meant sympathy only gave offence. "What do you
mean by pitying me?" she asked in a bitter whisper, as she
passed to the door. "Don't you see how happy I am? I'm going
to the flower-show, Clack; and I've got the prettiest bonnet
in London." She completed the hollow mockery of that address
by blowing me a kiss—and so left the room.
I wish I could describe in words the compassion I felt
for this miserable and misguided girl. But I am almost as
poorly provided with words as with money. Permit me to
say—my heart bled for her.
Returning to my aunt's chair, I observed dear Mr. Godfrey
searching for something softly, here and there, in different
parts of the room. Before I could offer to assist him he had
found what he wanted. He came back to my aunt and me, with
his declaration of innocence in one hand, and with a box of
matches in the other.
"Dear aunt, a little conspiracy!" he said. "Dear Miss
Clack, a pious fraud which even your high moral rectitude
will excuse! Will you leave Rachel to suppose that I accept
the generous self-sacrifice which has signed this paper? And
will you kindly bear witness that I destroy it in your
presence, before I leave the house?" He kindled a match,
and, lighting the paper, laid it to burn in a plate on the
table. "Any trifling inconvenience that I may suffer is as
nothing," he remarked, "compared with the importance of
preserving that pure name from the contaminating contact of
the world. There! We have reduced it to a little harmless
heap of ashes; and our dear impulsive Rachel will never know
what we have done! How do you feel? My precious friends, how
do you feel? For my poor part, I am as light-hearted as a
boy!"
He beamed on us with his beautiful smile; he held out a
hand to my aunt, and a hand to me. I was too deeply affected
by his noble conduct to speak. I closed my eyes; I put his
hand, in a kind of spiritual self-forgetfulness, to my lips.
He murmured a soft remonstrance. Oh the ecstasy, the pure,
unearthly ecstasy of that moment! I sat—I hardly know on
what—quite lost in my own exalted feelings. When I opened my
eyes again, it was like descending from heaven to earth.
There was nobody but my aunt in the room. He had gone.
I should like to stop here—I should like to close my
narrative with the record of Mr. Godfrey's noble conduct.
Unhappily there is more, much more, which the unrelenting
pecuniary pressure of Mr. Blake's cheque obliges me to tell.
The painful disclosures which were to reveal themselves in
my presence, during that Tuesday's visit to Montagu Square,
were not at an end yet.
Finding myself alone with Lady Verinder, I turned
naturally to the subject of her health; touching delicately
on the strange anxiety which she had shown to conceal her
indisposition, and the remedy applied to it, from the
observation of her daughter.
My aunt's reply greatly surprised me.
"Drusilla," she said (if I have not already mentioned
that my Christian name is Drusilla, permit me to mention it
now), "you are touching quite innocently, I know—on a very
distressing subject."
I rose immediately. Delicacy left me but one
alternative—the alternative, after first making my
apologies, of taking my leave. Lady Verinder stopped me, and
insisted on my sitting down again.
"You have surprised a secret," she said, "which I had
confided to my sister Mrs. Ablewhite, and to my lawyer Mr.
Bruff, and to no one else. I can trust in their discretion;
and I am sure, when I tell you the circumstances, I can
trust in yours. Have you any pressing engagement, Drusilla?
or is your time your own this afternoon?"
It is needless to say that my time was entirely at my
aunt's disposal.
"Keep me company then," she said, "for another hour. I
have something to tell you which I believe you will be sorry
to hear. And I shall have a service to ask of you
afterwards, if you don't object to assist me."
It is again needless to say that, so far from objecting,
I was all eagerness to assist her.
"You can wait here," she went on, "till Mr. Bruff comes
at five. And you can be one of the witnesses, Drusilla, when
I sign my Will."
Her Will! I thought of the drops which I had seen in her
work-box. I thought of the bluish tinge which I had noticed
in her complexion. A light which was not of this world—a
light shining prophetically from an unmade grave—dawned on
my mind. My aunt's secret was a secret no longer.
CHAPTER III
Consideration for poor Lady Verinder forbade me even to
hint that I had guessed the melancholy truth, before she
opened her lips. I waited her pleasure in silence; and,
having privately arranged to say a few sustaining words at
the first convenient opportunity, felt prepared for any duty
that could claim me, no matter how painful it might be.
"I have been seriously ill, Drusilla, for some time
past," my aunt began. "And, strange to say, without knowing
it myself."
I thought of the thousands and thousands of perishing
human creatures who were all at that moment spiritually ill,
without knowing it themselves. And I greatly feared that my
poor aunt might be one of the number. "Yes, dear," I said,
sadly. "Yes."
"I brought Rachel to London, as you know, for medical
advice," she went on. "I thought it right to consult two
doctors."
Two doctors! And, oh me (in Rachel's state), not one
clergyman! "Yes, dear?" I said once more. "Yes?"
"One of the two medical men," proceeded my aunt, "was a
stranger to me. The other had been an old friend of my
husband's, and had always felt a sincere interest in me for
my husband's sake. After prescribing for Rachel, he said he
wished to speak to me privately in another room. I expected,
of course, to receive some special directions for the
management of my daughter's health. To my surprise, he took
me gravely by the hand, and said, 'I have been looking at
you, Lady Verinder, with a professional as well as a
personal interest. You are, I am afraid, far more urgently
in need of medical advice than your daughter.' He put some
questions to me, which I was at first inclined to treat
lightly enough, until I observed that my answers distressed
him. It ended in his making an appointment to come and see
me, accompanied by a medical friend, on the next day, at an
hour when Rachel would not be at home. The result of that
visit—most kindly and gently conveyed to me—satisfied both
the physicians that there had been precious time lost, which
could never be regained, and that my case had now passed
beyond the reach of their art. For more than two years I
have been suffering under an insidious form of heart
disease, which, without any symptoms to alarm me, has, by
little and little, fatally broken me down. I may live for
some months, or I may die before another day has passed over
my head—the doctors cannot, and dare not, speak more
positively than this. It would be vain to say, my dear, that
I have not had some miserable moments since my real
situation has been made known to me. But I am more resigned
than I was, and I am doing my best to set my worldly affairs
in order. My one great anxiety is that Rachel should be kept
in ignorance of the truth. If she knew it, she would at once
attribute my broken health to anxiety about the Diamond, and
would reproach herself bitterly, poor child, for what is in
no sense her fault. Both the doctors agree that the mischief
began two, if not three years since. I am sure you will keep
my secret, Drusilla—for I am sure I see sincere sorrow and
sympathy for me in your face."
Sorrow and sympathy! Oh, what Pagan emotions to expect
from a Christian Englishwoman anchored firmly on her faith!
Little did my poor aunt imagine what a gush of devout
thankfulness thrilled through me as she approached the close
of her melancholy story. Here was a career of usefulness
opened before me! Here was a beloved relative and perishing
fellow-creature, on the eve of the great change, utterly
unprepared; and led, providentially led, to reveal her
situation to Me! How can I describe the joy with which I now
remembered that the precious clerical friends on whom I
could rely, were to be counted, not by ones or twos, but by
tens and twenties. I took my aunt in my arms—my overflowing
tenderness was not to be satisfied, now, with anything less
than an embrace. "Oh!" I said to her, fervently, "the
indescribable interest with which you inspire me! Oh! the
good I mean to do you, dear, before we part!" After another
word or two of earnest prefatory warning, I gave her her
choice of three precious friends, all plying the work of
mercy from morning to night in her own neighbourhood; all
equally inexhaustible in exhortation; all affectionately
ready to exercise their gifts at a word from me. Alas! the
result was far from encouraging. Poor Lady Verinder looked
puzzled and frightened, and met everything I could say to
her with the purely worldly objection that she was not
strong enough to face strangers. I yielded—for the moment
only, of course. My large experience (as Reader and Visitor,
under not less, first and last, than fourteen beloved
clerical friends) informed me that this was another case for
preparation by books. I possessed a little library of works,
all suitable to the present emergency, all calculated to
arouse, convince, prepare, enlighten, and fortify my aunt.
"You will read, dear, won't you?" I said, in my most winning
way. "You will read, if I bring you my own precious books?
Turned down at all the right places, aunt. And marked in
pencil where you are to stop and ask yourself, 'Does this
apply to me?'" Even that simple appeal—so absolutely
heathenising is the influence of the world—appeared to
startle my aunt. She said, "I will do what I can, Drusilla,
to please you," with a look of surprise, which was at once
instructive and terrible to see. Not a moment was to be
lost. The clock on the mantel-piece informed me that I had
just time to hurry home; to provide myself with a first
series of selected readings (say a dozen only); and to
return in time to meet the lawyer, and witness Lady
Verinder's Will. Promising faithfully to be back by five
o'clock, I left the house on my errand of mercy.
When no interests but my own are involved, I am humbly
content to get from place to place by the omnibus. Permit me
to give an idea of my devotion to my aunt's interests by
recording that, on this occasion, I committed the
prodigality of taking a cab.
I drove home, selected and marked my first series of
readings, and drove back to Montagu Square, with a dozen
works in a carpet-bag, the like of which, I firmly believe,
are not to be found in the literature of any other country
in Europe. I paid the cabman exactly his fare. He received
it with an oath; upon which I instantly gave him a tract. If
I had presented a pistol at his head, this abandoned wretch
could hardly have exhibited greater consternation. He jumped
up on his box, and, with profane exclamations of dismay,
drove off furiously. Quite useless, I am happy to say! I
sowed the good seed, in spite of him, by throwing a second
tract in at the window of the cab.
The servant who answered the door—not the person with the
cap-ribbons, to my great relief, but the foot-man—informed
me that the doctor had called, and was still shut up with
Lady Verinder. Mr. Bruff, the lawyer, had arrived a minute
since and was waiting in the library. I was shown into the
library to wait too.
Mr. Bruff looked surprised to see me. He is the family
solicitor, and we had met more than once, on previous
occasions, under Lady Verinder's roof. A man, I grieve to
say, grown old and grizzled in the service of the world. A
man who, in his hours of business, was the chosen prophet of
Law and Mammon; and who, in his hours of leisure, was
equally capable of reading a novel and of tearing up a
tract.
"Have you come to stay here, Miss Clack?" he asked, with
a look at my carpet-bag.
To reveal the contents of my precious bag to such a
person as this would have been simply to invite an outburst
of profanity. I lowered myself to his own level, and
mentioned my business in the house.
"My aunt has informed me that she is about to sign her
Will," I answered. "She has been so good as to ask me to be
one of the witnesses."
"Aye? aye? Well, Miss Clack, you will do. You are over
twenty-one, and you have not the slightest pecuniary
interest in Lady Verinder's Will."
Not the slightest pecuniary interest in Lady Verinder's
Will. Oh, how thankful I felt when I heard that! If my aunt,
possessed of thousands, had remembered poor Me, to whom five
pounds is an object—if my name had appeared in the Will,
with a little comforting legacy attached to it—my enemies
might have doubted the motive which had loaded me with the
choicest treasures of my library, and had drawn upon my
failing resources for the prodigal expenses of a cab. Not
the cruellest scoffer of them all could doubt now. Much
better as it was! Oh, surely, surely, much better as it was!
I was aroused from these consoling reflections by the
voice of Mr. Bruff. My meditative silence appeared to weigh
upon the spirits of this worldling, and to force him, as it
were, into talking to me against his own will.
"Well, Miss Clack, what's the last news in the charitable
circles? How is your friend Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite, after the
mauling he got from the rogues in Northumberland Street?
Egad! they're telling a pretty story about that charitable
gentleman at my club!"
I had passed over the manner in which this person had
remarked that I was more than twenty-one, and that I had no
pecuniary interest in my aunt's Will. But the tone in which
he alluded to dear Mr. Godfrey was too much for my
forbearance. Feeling bound, after what had passed in my
presence that afternoon, to assert the innocence of my
admirable friend, whenever I found it called in question—I
own to having also felt bound to include in the
accomplishment of this righteous purpose, a stinging
castigation in the case of Mr. Bruff.
"I live very much out of the world," I said; "and I don't
possess the advantage, sir, of belonging to a club. But I
happen to know the story to which you allude; and I also
know that a viler falsehood than that story never was told."
"Yes, yes, Miss Clack—you believe in your friend. Natural
enough. Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite, won't find the world in
general quite so easy to convince as a committee of
charitable ladies. Appearances are dead against him. He was
in the house when the Diamond was lost. And he was the first
person in the house to go to London afterwards. Those are
ugly circumstances, ma'am, viewed by the light of later
events."
I ought, I know, to have set him right before he went any
farther. I ought to have told him that he was speaking in
ignorance of a testimony to Mr. Godfrey's innocence, offered
by the only person who was undeniably competent to speak
from a positive knowledge of the subject. Alas! the
temptation to lead the lawyer artfully on to his own
discomfiture was too much for me. I asked what he meant by
"later events"—with an appearance of the utmost innocence.
"By later events, Miss Clack, I mean events in which the
Indians are concerned," proceeded Mr. Bruff, getting more
and more superior to poor Me, the longer he went on. "What
do the Indians do, the moment they are let out of the prison
at Frizinghall? They go straight to London, and fix on Mr.
Luker. What follows? Mr. Luker feels alarmed for the safety
of 'a valuable of great price,' which he has got in the
house. He lodges it privately (under a general description)
in his bankers' strong-room. Wonderfully clever of him: but
the Indians are just as clever on their side. They have
their suspicions that the 'valuable of great price' is being
shifted from one place to another; and they hit on a
singularly bold and complete way of clearing those
suspicions up. Whom do they seize and search? Not Mr. Luker
only—which would be intelligible enough—but Mr. Godfrey
Ablewhite as well. Why? Mr. Ablewhite's explanation is, that
they acted on blind suspicion, after seeing him accidentally
speaking to Mr. Luker. Absurd! Half-a-dozen other people
spoke to Mr. Luker that morning. Why were they not followed
home too, and decoyed into the trap? No! no! The plain
inference is, that Mr. Ablewhite had his private interest in
the 'valuable' as well as Mr. Luker, and that the Indians
were so uncertain as to which of the two had the disposal of
it, that there was no alternative but to search them both.
Public opinion says that, Miss Clack. And public opinion, on
this occasion, is not easily refuted."
He said those last words, looking so wonderfully wise in
his own worldly conceit, that I really (to my shame be it
spoken) could not resist leading him a little farther still,
before I overwhelmed him with the truth.
"I don't presume to argue with a clever lawyer like you,"
I said. "But is it quite fair, sir, to Mr. Ablewhite to pass
over the opinion of the famous London police officer who
investigated this case? Not the shadow of a suspicion rested
upon anybody but Miss Verinder, in the mind of Sergeant
Cuff."
"Do you mean to tell me, Miss Clack, that you agree with
the Sergeant?"
"I judge nobody, sir, and I offer no opinion."
"And I commit both those enormities, ma'am. I judge the
Sergeant to have been utterly wrong; and I offer the opinion
that, if he had known Rachel's character as I know it, he
would have suspected everybody in the house but HER. I admit
that she has her faults—she is secret, and self-willed; odd
and wild, and unlike other girls of her age. But true as
steel, and high-minded and generous to a fault. If the
plainest evidence in the world pointed one way, and if
nothing but Rachel's word of honour pointed the other, I
would take her word before the evidence, lawyer as I am!
Strong language, Miss Clack; but I mean it."
"Would you object to illustrate your meaning, Mr. Bruff,
so that I may be sure I understand it? Suppose you found
Miss Verinder quite unaccountably interested in what has
happened to Mr. Ablewhite and Mr. Luker? Suppose she asked
the strangest questions about this dreadful scandal, and
displayed the most ungovernable agitation when she found out
the turn it was taking?"
"Suppose anything you please, Miss Clack, it wouldn't
shake my belief in Rachel Verinder by a hair's-breadth."
"She is so absolutely to be relied on as that?"
"So absolutely to be relied on as that."
"Then permit me to inform you, Mr. Bruff, that Mr.
Godfrey Ablewhite was in this house not two hours since, and
that his entire innocence of all concern in the
disappearance of the Moonstone was proclaimed by Miss
Verinder herself, in the strongest language I ever heard
used by a young lady in my life."
I enjoyed the triumph—the unholy triumph, I fear I must
admit—of seeing Mr. Bruff utterly confounded and overthrown
by a few plain words from Me. He started to his feet, and
stared at me in silence. I kept my seat, undisturbed, and
related the whole scene as it had occurred. "And what do you
say about Mr. Ablewhite now?" I asked, with the utmost
possible gentleness, as soon as I had done.
"If Rachel has testified to his innocence, Miss Clack, I
don't scruple to say that I believe in his innocence as
firmly as you do: I have been misled by appearances, like
the rest of the world; and I will make the best atonement I
can, by publicly contradicting the scandal which has
assailed your friend wherever I meet with it. In the
meantime, allow me to congratulate you on the masterly
manner in which you have opened the full fire of your
batteries on me at the moment when I least expected it. You
would have done great things in my profession, ma'am, if you
had happened to be a man."
With those words he turned away from me, and began
walking irritably up and down the room.
I could see plainly that the new light I had thrown on
the subject had greatly surprised and disturbed him. Certain
expressions dropped from his lips, as he became more and
more absorbed in his own thoughts, which suggested to my
mind the abominable view that he had hitherto taken of the
mystery of the lost Moonstone. He had not scrupled to
suspect dear Mr. Godfrey of the infamy of stealing the
Diamond, and to attribute Rachel's conduct to a generous
resolution to conceal the crime. On Miss Verinder's own
authority—a perfectly unassailable authority, as you are
aware, in the estimation of Mr. Bruff—that explanation of
the circumstances was now shown to be utterly wrong. The
perplexity into which I had plunged this high legal
authority was so overwhelming that he was quite unable to
conceal it from notice. "What a case!" I heard him say to
himself, stopping at the window in his walk, and drumming on
the glass with his fingers. "It not only defies explanation,
it's even beyond conjecture."
There was nothing in these words which made any reply at
all needful, on my part—and yet, I answered them! It seems
hardly credible that I should not have been able to let Mr.
Bruff alone, even now. It seems almost beyond mere mortal
perversity that I should have discovered, in what he had
just said, a new opportunity of making myself personally
disagreeable to him. But—ah, my friends! nothing is beyond
mortal perversity; and anything is credible when our fallen
natures get the better of us!
"Pardon me for intruding on your reflections," I said to
the unsuspecting Mr. Bruff. "But surely there is a
conjecture to make which has not occurred to us yet."
"Maybe, Miss Clack. I own I don't know what it is."
"Before I was so fortunate, sir, as to convince you of
Mr. Ablewhite's innocence, you mentioned it as one of the
reasons for suspecting him, that he was in the house at the
time when the Diamond was lost. Permit me to remind you that
Mr. Franklin Blake was also in the house at the time when
the Diamond was lost."
The old worldling left the window, took a chair exactly
opposite to mine, and looked at me steadily, with a hard and
vicious smile.
"You are not so good a lawyer, Miss Clack," he remarked
in a meditative manner, "as I supposed. You don't know how
to let well alone."
"I am afraid I fail to follow you, Mr. Bruff," I said,
modestly.
"It won't do, Miss Clack—it really won't do a second
time. Franklin Blake is a prime favourite of mine, as you
are well aware. But that doesn't matter. I'll adopt your
view, on this occasion, before you have time to turn round
on me. You're quite right, ma'am. I have suspected Mr.
Ablewhite, on grounds which abstractedly justify suspecting
Mr. Blake too. Very good—let's suspect them together. It's
quite in his character, we will say, to be capable of
stealing the Moonstone. The only question is, whether it was
his interest to do so."
"Mr. Franklin Blake's debts," I remarked, "are matters of
family notoriety."
"And Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite's debts have not arrived at
that stage of development yet. Quite true. But there happen
to be two difficulties in the way of your theory, Miss
Clack. I manage Franklin Blake's affairs, and I beg to
inform you that the vast majority of his creditors (knowing
his father to be a rich man) are quite content to charge
interest on their debts, and to wait for their money. There
is the first difficulty—which is tough enough. You will find
the second tougher still. I have it on the authority of Lady
Verinder herself, that her daughter was ready to marry
Franklin Blake, before that infernal Indian Diamond
disappeared from the house. She had drawn him on and put him
off again, with the coquetry of a young girl. But she had
confessed to her mother that she loved cousin Franklin, and
her mother had trusted cousin Franklin with the secret. So
there he was, Miss Clack, with his creditors content to
wait, and with the certain prospect before him of marrying
an heiress. By all means consider him a scoundrel; but tell
me, if you please, why he should steal the Moonstone?"
"The human heart is unsearchable," I said gently. "Who is
to fathom it?"
"In other words, ma'am—though he hadn't the shadow of a
reason for taking the Diamond—he might have taken it,
nevertheless, through natural depravity. Very well. Say he
did. Why the devil——"
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Bruff. If I hear the devil
referred to in that manner, I must leave the room."
"I beg YOUR pardon, Miss Clack—I'll be more careful in my
choice of language for the future. All I meant to ask was
this. Why—even supposing he did take the Diamond—should
Franklin Blake make himself the most prominent person in the
house in trying to recover it? You may tell me he cunningly
did that to divert suspicion from himself. I answer that he
had no need to divert suspicion—because nobody suspected
him. He first steals the Moonstone (without the slightest
reason) through natural depravity; and he then acts a part,
in relation to the loss of the jewel, which there is not the
slightest necessity to act, and which leads to his mortally
offending the young lady who would otherwise have married
him. That is the monstrous proposition which you are driven
to assert, if you attempt to associate the disappearance of
the Moonstone with Franklin Blake. No, no, Miss Clack! After
what has passed here to-day, between us two, the dead-lock,
in this case, is complete. Rachel's own innocence is (as her
mother knows, and as I know) beyond a doubt. Mr. Ablewhite's
innocence is equally certain—or Rachel would never have
testified to it. And Franklin Blake's innocence, as you have
just seen, unanswerably asserts itself. On the one hand, we
are morally certain of all these things. And, on the other
hand, we are equally sure that somebody has brought the
Moonstone to London, and that Mr. Luker, or his banker, is
in private possession of it at this moment. What is the use
of my experience, what is the use of any person's
experience, in such a case as that? It baffles me; it
baffles you, it baffles everybody."
No—not everybody. It had not baffled Sergeant Cuff. I was
about to mention this, with all possible mildness, and with
every necessary protest against being supposed to cast a
slur upon Rachel—when the servant came in to say that the
doctor had gone, and that my aunt was waiting to receive us.
This stopped the discussion. Mr. Bruff collected his
papers, looking a little exhausted by the demands which our
conversation had made on him. I took up my bag-full of
precious publications, feeling as if I could have gone on
talking for hours. We proceeded in silence to Lady
Verinder's room.
Permit me to add here, before my narrative advances to
other events, that I have not described what passed between
the lawyer and me, without having a definite object in view.
I am ordered to include in my contribution to the shocking
story of the Moonstone a plain disclosure, not only of the
turn which suspicion took, but even of the names of the
persons on whom suspicion rested, at the time when the
Indian Diamond was believed to be in London. A report of my
conversation in the library with Mr. Bruff appeared to me to
be exactly what was wanted to answer this purpose—while, at
the same time, it possessed the great moral advantage of
rendering a sacrifice of sinful self-esteem essentially
necessary on my part. I have been obliged to acknowledge
that my fallen nature got the better of me. In making that
humiliating confession, I get the better of my fallen
nature. The moral balance is restored; the spiritual
atmosphere feels clear once more. Dear friends, we may go on
again.
CHAPTER IV
The signing of the Will was a much shorter matter than I
had anticipated. It was hurried over, to my thinking, in
indecent haste. Samuel, the footman, was sent for to act as
second witness—and the pen was put at once into my aunt's
hand. I felt strongly urged to say a few appropriate words
on this solemn occasion. But Mr. Bruff's manner convinced me
that it was wisest to check the impulse while he was in the
room. In less than two minutes it was all over—and Samuel
(unbenefited by what I might have said) had gone downstairs
again.
Mr. Bruff folded up the Will, and then looked my way;
apparently wondering whether I did or did not mean to leave
him alone with my aunt. I had my mission of mercy to fulfil,
and my bag of precious publications ready on my lap. He
might as well have expected to move St. Paul's Cathedral by
looking at it, as to move Me. There was one merit about him
(due no doubt to his worldly training) which I have no wish
to deny. He was quick at seeing things. I appeared to
produce almost the same impression on him which I had
produced on the cabman. HE too uttered a profane expression,
and withdrew in a violent hurry, and left me mistress of the
field.
As soon as we were alone, my aunt reclined on the sofa,
and then alluded, with some appearance of confusion, to the
subject of her Will.
"I hope you won't think yourself neglected, Drusilla,"
she said. "I mean to GIVE you your little legacy, my dear,
with my own hand."
Here was a golden opportunity! I seized it on the spot.
In other words, I instantly opened my bag, and took out the
top publication. It proved to be an early edition—only the
twenty-fifth—of the famous anonymous work (believed to be by
precious Miss Bellows), entitled THE SERPENT AT HOME. The
design of the book—with which the worldly reader may not be
acquainted—is to show how the Evil One lies in wait for us
in all the most apparently innocent actions of our daily
lives. The chapters best adapted to female perusal are
"Satan in the Hair Brush;" "Satan behind the Looking Glass;"
"Satan under the Tea Table;" "Satan out of the Window'—and
many others.
"Give your attention, dear aunt, to this precious
book—and you will give me all I ask." With those words, I
handed it to her open, at a marked passage—one continuous
burst of burning eloquence! Subject: Satan among the Sofa
Cushions.
Poor Lady Verinder (reclining thoughtlessly on her own
sofa cushions) glanced at the book, and handed it back to me
looking more confused than ever.
"I'm afraid, Drusilla," she said, "I must wait till I am
a little better, before I can read that. The doctor——"
The moment she mentioned the doctor's name, I knew what
was coming. Over and over again in my past experience among
my perishing fellow-creatures, the members of the
notoriously infidel profession of Medicine had stepped
between me and my mission of mercy—on the miserable pretence
that the patient wanted quiet, and that the disturbing
influence of all others which they most dreaded, was the
influence of Miss Clack and her Books. Precisely the same
blinded materialism (working treacherously behind my back)
now sought to rob me of the only right of property that my
poverty could claim—my right of spiritual property in my
perishing aunt.
"The doctor tells me," my poor misguided relative went
on, "that I am not so well to-day. He forbids me to see any
strangers; and he orders me, if I read at all, only to read
the lightest and the most amusing books. 'Do nothing, Lady
Verinder, to weary your head, or to quicken your
pulse'—those were his last words, Drusilla, when he left me
to-day."
There was no help for it but to yield again—for the
moment only, as before. Any open assertion of the infinitely
superior importance of such a ministry as mine, compared
with the ministry of the medical man, would only have
provoked the doctor to practise on the human weakness of his
patient, and to threaten to throw up the case. Happily,
there are more ways than one of sowing the good seed, and
few persons are better versed in those ways than myself.
"You might feel stronger, dear, in an hour or two," I
said. "Or you might wake, to-morrow morning, with a sense of
something wanting, and even this unpretending volume might
be able to supply it. You will let me leave the book, aunt?
The doctor can hardly object to that!"
I slipped it under the sofa cushions, half in, and half
out, close by her handkerchief, and her smelling-bottle.
Every time her hand searched for either of these, it would
touch the book; and, sooner or later (who knows?) the book
might touch HER. After making this arrangement, I thought it
wise to withdraw. "Let me leave you to repose, dear aunt; I
will call again to-morrow." I looked accidentally towards
the window as I said that. It was full of flowers, in boxes
and pots. Lady Verinder was extravagantly fond of these
perishable treasures, and had a habit of rising every now
and then, and going to look at them and smell them. A new
idea flashed across my mind. "Oh! may I take a flower?" I
said—and got to the window unsuspected, in that way. Instead
of taking away a flower, I added one, in the shape of
another book from my bag, which I left, to surprise my aunt,
among the geraniums and roses. The happy thought followed,
"Why not do the same for her, poor dear, in every other room
that she enters?" I immediately said good-bye; and, crossing
the hall, slipped into the library. Samuel, coming up to let
me out, and supposing I had gone, went down-stairs again. On
the library table I noticed two of the "amusing books" which
the infidel doctor had recommended. I instantly covered them
from sight with two of my own precious publications. In the
breakfast-room I found my aunt's favourite canary singing in
his cage. She was always in the habit of feeding the bird
herself. Some groundsel was strewed on a table which stood
immediately under the cage. I put a book among the
groundsel. In the drawing-room I found more cheering
opportunities of emptying my bag. My aunt's favourite
musical pieces were on the piano. I slipped in two more
books among the music. I disposed of another in the back
drawing-room, under some unfinished embroidery, which I knew
to be of Lady Verinder's working. A third little room opened
out of the back drawing-room, from which it was shut off by
curtains instead of a door. My aunt's plain old-fashioned
fan was on the chimney-piece. I opened my ninth book at a
very special passage, and put the fan in as a marker, to
keep the place. The question then came, whether I should go
higher still, and try the bed-room floor—at the risk,
undoubtedly, of being insulted, if the person with the
cap-ribbons happened to be in the upper regions of the
house, and to find me put. But oh, what of that? It is a
poor Christian that is afraid of being insulted. I went
upstairs, prepared to bear anything. All was silent and
solitary—it was the servants' tea-time, I suppose. My aunt's
room was in front. The miniature of my late dear uncle, Sir
John, hung on the wall opposite the bed. It seemed to smile
at me; it seemed to say, "Drusilla! deposit a book." There
were tables on either side of my aunt's bed. She was a bad
sleeper, and wanted, or thought she wanted, many things at
night. I put a book near the matches on one side, and a book
under the box of chocolate drops on the other. Whether she
wanted a light, or whether she wanted a drop, there was a
precious publication to meet her eye, or to meet her hand,
and to say with silent eloquence, in either case, "Come, try
me! try me!" But one book was now left at the bottom of my
bag, and but one apartment was still unexplored—the
bath-room, which opened out of the bed-room. I peeped in;
and the holy inner voice that never deceives, whispered to
me, "You have met her, Drusilla, everywhere else; meet her
at the bath, and the work is done." I observed a
dressing-gown thrown across a chair. It had a pocket in it,
and in that pocket I put my last book. Can words express my
exquisite sense of duty done, when I had slipped out of the
house, unsuspected by any of them, and when I found myself
in the street with my empty bag under my arm? Oh, my worldly
friends, pursuing the phantom, Pleasure, through the guilty
mazes of Dissipation, how easy it is to be happy, if you
will only be good!
When I folded up my things that night—when I reflected on
the true riches which I had scattered with such a lavish
hand, from top to bottom of the house of my wealthy aunt—I
declare I felt as free from all anxiety as if I had been a
child again. I was so light-hearted that I sang a verse of
the Evening Hymn. I was so light-hearted that I fell asleep
before I could sing another. Quite like a child again! quite
like a child again!
So I passed that blissful night. On rising the next
morning, how young I felt! I might add, how young I looked,
if I were capable of dwelling on the concerns of my own
perishable body. But I am not capable—and I add nothing.
Towards luncheon time—not for the sake of the
creature-comforts, but for the certainty of finding dear
aunt—I put on my bonnet to go to Montagu Square. Just as I
was ready, the maid at the lodgings in which I then lived
looked in at the door, and said, "Lady Verinder's servant,
to see Miss Clack."
I occupied the parlour-floor, at that period of my
residence in London. The front parlour was my sitting-room.
Very small, very low in the ceiling, very poorly
furnished—but, oh, so neat! I looked into the passage to see
which of Lady Verinder's servants had asked for me. It was
the young footman, Samuel—a civil fresh-coloured person,
with a teachable look and a very obliging manner. I had
always felt a spiritual interest in Samuel, and a wish to
try him with a few serious words. On this occasion, I
invited him into my sitting-room.
He came in, with a large parcel under his arm. When he
put the parcel down, it appeared to frighten him. "My lady's
love, Miss; and I was to say that you would find a letter
inside." Having given that message, the fresh-coloured young
footman surprised me by looking as if he would have liked to
run away.
I detained him to make a few kind inquiries. Could I see
my aunt, if I called in Montagu Square? No; she had gone out
for a drive. Miss Rachel had gone with her, and Mr.
Ablewhite had taken a seat in the carriage, too. Knowing how
sadly dear Mr. Godfrey's charitable work was in arrear, I
thought it odd that he should be going out driving, like an
idle man. I stopped Samuel at the door, and made a few more
kind inquiries. Miss Rachel was going to a ball that night,
and Mr. Ablewhite had arranged to come to coffee, and go
with her. There was a morning concert advertised for
to-morrow, and Samuel was ordered to take places for a large
party, including a place for Mr. Ablewhite. "All the tickets
may be gone, Miss," said this innocent youth, "if I don't
run and get them at once!" He ran as he said the words—and I
found myself alone again, with some anxious thoughts to
occupy me.
We had a special meeting of the
Mothers'-Small-Clothes-Conversion Society that night,
summoned expressly with a view to obtaining Mr. Godfrey's
advice and assistance. Instead of sustaining our sisterhood,
under an overwhelming flow of Trousers which quite
prostrated our little community, he had arranged to take
coffee in Montagu Square, and to goto a ball afterwards! The
afternoon of the next day had been selected for the Festival
of the
British-Ladies'-Servants'-Sunday-Sweetheart-Supervision
Society. Instead of being present, the life and soul of that
struggling Institution, he had engaged to make one of a
party of worldlings at a morning concert! I asked myself
what did it mean? Alas! it meant that our Christian Hero was
to reveal himself to me in a new character, and to become
associated in my mind with one of the most awful
backslidings of modern times.
To return, however, to the history of the passing day. On
finding myself alone in my room, I naturally turned my
attention to the parcel which appeared to have so strangely
intimidated the fresh-coloured young footman. Had my aunt
sent me my promised legacy? and had it taken the form of
cast-off clothes, or worn-out silver spoons, or
unfashionable jewellery, or anything of that sort? Prepared
to accept all, and to resent nothing, I opened the
parcel—and what met my view? The twelve precious
publications which I had scattered through the house, on the
previous day; all returned to me by the doctor's orders!
Well might the youthful Samuel shrink when he brought his
parcel into my room! Well might he run when he had performed
his miserable errand! As to my aunt's letter, it simply
amounted, poor soul, to this—that she dare not disobey her
medical man.
What was to be done now? With my training and my
principles, I never had a moment's doubt.
Once self-supported by conscience, once embarked on a
career of manifest usefulness, the true Christian never
yields. Neither public nor private influences produce the
slightest effect on us, when we have once got our mission.
Taxation may be the consequence of a mission; riots may be
the consequence of a mission; wars may be the consequence of
a mission: we go on with our work, irrespective of every
human consideration which moves the world outside us. We are
above reason; we are beyond ridicule; we see with nobody's
eyes, we hear with nobody's ears, we feel with nobody's
hearts, but our own. Glorious, glorious privilege! And how
is it earned? Ah, my friends, you may spare yourselves the
useless inquiry! We are the only people who can earn it—for
we are the only people who are always right.
In the case of my misguided aunt, the form which pious
perseverance was next to take revealed itself to me plainly
enough.
Preparation by clerical friends had failed, owing to Lady
Verinder's own reluctance. Preparation by books had failed,
owing to the doctor's infidel obstinacy. So be it! What was
the next thing to try? The next thing to try was—Preparation
by Little Notes. In other words, the books themselves having
been sent back, select extracts from the books, copied by
different hands, and all addressed as letters to my aunt,
were, some to be sent by post, and some to be distributed
about the house on the plan I had adopted on the previous
day. As letters they would excite no suspicion; as letters
they would be opened—and, once opened, might be read. Some
of them I wrote myself. "Dear aunt, may I ask your attention
to a few lines?" &c. "Dear aunt, I was reading last night,
and I chanced on the following passage," &c. Other letters
were written for me by my valued fellow-workers, the
sisterhood at the Mothers'-Small-Clothes. "Dear madam,
pardon the interest taken in you by a true, though humble,
friend." "Dear madam, may a serious person surprise you by
saying a few cheering words?" Using these and other similar
forms of courteous appeal, we reintroduced all my precious
passages under a form which not even the doctor's watchful
materialism could suspect. Before the shades of evening had
closed around us, I had a dozen awakening letters for my
aunt, instead of a dozen awakening books. Six I made
immediate arrangements for sending through the post, and six
I kept in my pocket for personal distribution in the house
the next day.
Soon after two o'clock I was again on the field of pious
conflict, addressing more kind inquiries to Samuel at Lady
Verinder's door.
My aunt had had a bad night. She was again in the room in
which I had witnessed her Will, resting on the sofa, and
trying to get a little sleep.
I said I would wait in the library, on the chance of
seeing her. In the fervour of my zeal to distribute the
letters, it never occurred to me to inquire about Rachel.
The house was quiet, and it was past the hour at which the
musical performance began. I took it for granted that she
and her party of pleasure-seekers (Mr. Godfrey, alas!
included) were all at the concert, and eagerly devoted
myself to my good work, while time and opportunity were
still at my own disposal.
My aunt's correspondence of the morning—including the six
awakening letters which I had posted overnight—was lying
unopened on the library table. She had evidently not felt
herself equal to dealing with a large mass of letters—and
she might be daunted by the number of them, if she entered
the library later in the day. I put one of my second set of
six letters on the chimney-piece by itself; leaving it to
attract her curiosity, by means of its solitary position,
apart from the rest. A second letter I put purposely on the
floor in the breakfast-room. The first servant who went in
after me would conclude that my aunt had dropped it, and
would be specially careful to restore it to her. The field
thus sown on the basement story, I ran lightly upstairs to
scatter my mercies next over the drawing-room floor.
Just as I entered the front room, I heard a double knock
at the street-door—a soft, fluttering, considerate little
knock. Before I could think of slipping back to the library
(in which I was supposed to be waiting), the active young
footman was in the hall, answering the door. It mattered
little, as I thought. In my aunt's state of health, visitors
in general were not admitted. To my horror and amazement,
the performer of the soft little knock proved to be an
exception to general rules. Samuel's voice below me (after
apparently answering some questions which I did not hear)
said, unmistakably, "Upstairs, if you please, sir." The next
moment I heard footsteps—a man's footsteps—approaching the
drawing-room floor. Who could this favoured male visitor
possibly be? Almost as soon as I asked myself the question,
the answer occurred to me. Who COULD it be but the doctor?
In the case of any other visitor, I should have allowed
myself to be discovered in the drawing-room. There would
have been nothing out of the common in my having got tired
of the library, and having gone upstairs for a change. But
my own self-respect stood in the way of my meeting the
person who had insulted me by sending me back my books. I
slipped into the little third room, which I have mentioned
as communicating with the back drawing-room, and dropped the
curtains which closed the open doorway. If I only waited
there for a minute or two, the usual result in such cases
would take place. That is to say, the doctor would be
conducted to his patient's room.
I waited a minute or two, and more than a minute or two.
I heard the visitor walking restlessly backwards and
forwards. I also heard him talking to himself. I even
thought I recognised the voice. Had I made a mistake? Was it
not the doctor, but somebody else? Mr. Bruff, for instance?
No! an unerring instinct told me it was not Mr. Bruff.
Whoever he was, he was still talking to himself. I parted
the heavy curtains the least little morsel in the world, and
listened.
The words I heard were, "I'll do it to-day!" And the
voice that spoke them was Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite's.
CHAPTER V
My hand dropped from the curtain. But don't suppose—oh,
don't suppose—that the dreadful embarrassment of my
situation was the uppermost idea in my mind! So fervent
still was the sisterly interest I felt in Mr. Godfrey, that
I never stopped to ask myself why he was not at the concert.
No! I thought only of the words—the startling words—which
had just fallen from his lips. He would do it to-day. He had
said, in a tone of terrible resolution, he would do it
to-day. What, oh what, would he do? Something even more
deplorably unworthy of him than what he had done already?
Would he apostatise from the faith? Would he abandon us at
the Mothers'-Small-Clothes? Had we seen the last of his
angelic smile in the committee-room? Had we heard the last
of his unrivalled eloquence at Exeter Hall? I was so wrought
up by the bare idea of such awful eventualities as these in
connection with such a man, that I believe I should have
rushed from my place of concealment, and implored him in the
name of all the Ladies' Committees in London to explain
himself—when I suddenly heard another voice in the room. It
penetrated through the curtains; it was loud, it was bold,
it was wanting in every female charm. The voice of Rachel
Verinder.
"Why have you come up here, Godfrey?" she asked. "Why
didn't you go into the library?"
He laughed softly, and answered, "Miss Clack is in the
library."
"Clack in the library!" She instantly seated herself on
the ottoman in the back drawing-room. "You are quite right,
Godfrey. We had much better stop here."
I had been in a burning fever, a moment since, and in
some doubt what to do next. I became extremely cold now, and
felt no doubt whatever. To show myself, after what I had
heard, was impossible. To retreat—except into the
fireplace—was equally out of the question. A martyrdom was
before me. In justice to myself, I noiselessly arranged the
curtains so that I could both see and hear. And then I met
my martyrdom, with the spirit of a primitive Christian.
"Don't sit on the ottoman," the young lady proceeded.
"Bring a chair, Godfrey. I like people to be opposite to me
when I talk to them."
He took the nearest seat. It was a low chair. He was very
tall, and many sizes too large for it. I never saw his legs
to such disadvantage before.
"Well?" she went on. "What did you say to them?"
"Just what you said, dear Rachel, to me."
"That mamma was not at all well to-day? And that I didn't
quite like leaving her to go to the concert?"
"Those were the words. They were grieved to lose you at
the concert, but they quite understood. All sent their love;
and all expressed a cheering belief that Lady Verinder's
indisposition would soon pass away."
"YOU don't think it's serious, do you, Godfrey?"
"Far from it! In a few days, I feel quite sure, all will
be well again."
"I think so, too. I was a little frightened at first, but
I think so too. It was very kind to go and make my excuses
for me to people who are almost strangers to you. But why
not have gone with them to the concert? It seems very hard
that you should miss the music too."
"Don't say that, Rachel! If you only knew how much
happier I am—here, with you!"
He clasped his hands, and looked at her. In the position
which he occupied, when he did that, he turned my way. Can
words describe how I sickened when I noticed exactly the
same pathetic expression on his face, which had charmed me
when he was pleading for destitute millions of his
fellow-creatures on the platform at Exeter Hall!
"It's hard to get over one's bad habits, Godfrey. But do
try to get over the habit of paying compliments—do, to
please me."
"I never paid you a compliment, Rachel, in my life.
Successful love may sometimes use the language of flattery,
I admit. But hopeless love, dearest, always speaks the
truth."
He drew his chair close, and took her hand, when he said
"hopeless love." There was a momentary silence. He, who
thrilled everybody, had doubtless thrilled HER. I thought I
now understood the words which had dropped from him when he
was alone in the drawing-room, "I'll do it to-day." Alas!
the most rigid propriety could hardly have failed to
discover that he was doing it now.
"Have you forgotten what we agreed on, Godfrey, when you
spoke to me in the country? We agreed that we were to be
cousins, and nothing more."
"I break the agreement, Rachel, every time I see you."
"Then don't see me."
"Quite useless! I break the agreement every time I think
of you. Oh, Rachel! how kindly you told me, only the other
day, that my place in your estimation was a higher place
than it had ever been yet! Am I mad to build the hopes I do
on those dear words? Am I mad to dream of some future day
when your heart may soften to me? Don't tell me so, if I am!
Leave me my delusion, dearest! I must have THAT to cherish,
and to comfort me, if I have nothing else!"
His voice trembled, and he put his white handkerchief to
his eyes. Exeter Hall again! Nothing wanting to complete the
parallel but the audience, the cheers, and the glass of
water.
Even her obdurate nature was touched. I saw her lean a
little nearer to him. I heard a new tone of interest in her
next words.
"Are you really sure, Godfrey, that you are so fond of me
as that?"
"Sure! You know what I was, Rachel. Let me tell you what
I am. I have lost every interest in life, but my interest in
you. A transformation has come over me which I can't account
for, myself. Would you believe it? My charitable business is
an unendurable nuisance to me; and when I see a Ladies'
Committee now, I wish myself at the uttermost ends of the
earth!"
If the annals of apostasy offer anything comparable to
such a declaration as that, I can only say that the case in
point is not producible from the stores of my reading. I
thought of the Mothers'-Small-Clothes. I thought of the
Sunday-Sweetheart-Supervision. I thought of the other
Societies, too numerous to mention, all built up on this man
as on a tower of strength. I thought of the struggling
Female Boards, who, so to speak, drew the breath of their
business-life through the nostrils of Mr. Godfrey—of that
same Mr. Godfrey who had just reviled our good work as a
"nuisance"—and just declared that he wished he was at the
uttermost ends of the earth when he found himself in our
company! My young female friends will feel encouraged to
persevere, when I mention that it tried even My discipline
before I could devour my own righteous indignation in
silence. At the same time, it is only justice to myself to
add, that I didn't lose a syllable of the conversation.
Rachel was the next to speak.
"You have made your confession," she said. "I wonder
whether it would cure you of your unhappy attachment to me,
if I made mine?"
He started. I confess I started too. He thought, and I
thought, that she was about to divulge the mystery of the
Moonstone.
"Would you think, to look at me," she went on, "that I am
the wretchedest girl living? It's true, Godfrey. What
greater wretchedness can there be than to live degraded in
your own estimation? That is my life now."
"My dear Rachel! it's impossible you can have any reason
to speak of yourself in that way!"
"How do you know I have no reason?"
"Can you ask me the question! I know it, because I know
you. Your silence, dearest, has never lowered you in the
estimation of your true friends. The disappearance of your
precious birthday gift may seem strange; your unexplained
connection with that event may seem stranger still."
"Are you speaking of the Moonstone, Godfrey——"
"I certainly thought that you referred——"
"I referred to nothing of the sort. I can hear of the
loss of the Moonstone, let who will speak of it, without
feeling degraded in my own estimation. If the story of the
Diamond ever comes to light, it will be known that I
accepted a dreadful responsibility; it will be known that I
involved myself in the keeping of a miserable secret—but it
will be as clear as the sun at noon-day that I did nothing
mean! You have misunderstood me, Godfrey. It's my fault for
not speaking more plainly. Cost me what it may, I will be
plainer now. Suppose you were not in love with me? Suppose
you were in love with some other woman?"
"Yes?"
"Suppose you discovered that woman to be utterly unworthy
of you? Suppose you were quite convinced that it was a
disgrace to you to waste another thought on her? Suppose the
bare idea of ever marrying such a person made your face
burn, only with thinking of it."
"Yes?"
"And, suppose, in spite of all that—you couldn't tear her
from your heart? Suppose the feeling she had roused in you
(in the time when you believed in her) was not a feeling to
be hidden? Suppose the love this wretch had inspired in you?
Oh, how can I find words to say it in! How can I make a MAN
understand that a feeling which horrifies me at myself, can
be a feeling that fascinates me at the same time? It's the
breath of my life, Godfrey, and it's the poison that kills
me—both in one! Go away! I must be out of my mind to talk as
I am talking now. No! you mustn't leave me—you mustn't carry
away a wrong impression. I must say what is to be said in my
own defence. Mind this! HE doesn't know—he never will know,
what I have told you. I will never see him—I don't care what
happens—I will never, never, never see him again! Don't ask
me his name! Don't ask me any more! Let's change the
subject. Are you doctor enough, Godfrey, to tell me why I
feel as if I was stifling for want of breath? Is there a
form of hysterics that bursts into words instead of tears? I
dare say! What does it matter? You will get over any trouble
I have caused you, easily enough now. I have dropped to my
right place in your estimation, haven't I? Don't notice me!
Don't pity me! For God's sake, go away!"
She turned round on a sudden, and beat her hands wildly
on the back of the ottoman. Her head dropped on the
cushions; and she burst out crying. Before I had time to
feel shocked, at this, I was horror-struck by an entirely
unexpected proceeding on the part of Mr. Godfrey. Will it be
credited that he fell on his knees at her feet?—on BOTH
knees, I solemnly declare! May modesty mention that he put
his arms round her next? And may reluctant admiration
acknowledge that he electrified her with two words?
"Noble creature!"
No more than that! But he did it with one of the bursts
which have made his fame as a public speaker. She sat,
either quite thunderstruck, or quite fascinated—I don't know
which—without even making an effort to put his arms back
where his arms ought to have been. As for me, my sense of
propriety was completely bewildered. I was so painfully
uncertain whether it was my first duty to close my eyes, or
to stop my ears, that I did neither. I attribute my being
still able to hold the curtain in the right position for
looking and listening, entirely to suppressed hysterics. In
suppressed hysterics, it is admitted, even by the doctors,
that one must hold something.
"Yes," he said, with all the fascination of his
evangelical voice and manner, "you are a noble creature! A
woman who can speak the truth, for the truth's own sake—a
woman who will sacrifice her pride, rather than sacrifice an
honest man who loves her—is the most priceless of all
treasures. When such a woman marries, if her husband only
wins her esteem and regard, he wins enough to ennoble his
whole life. You have spoken, dearest, of your place in my
estimation. Judge what that place is—when I implore you on
my knees, to let the cure of your poor wounded heart be my
care. Rachel! will you honour me, will you bless me, by
being my wife?"
By this time I should certainly have decided on stopping
my ears, if Rachel had not encouraged me to keep them open,
by answering him in the first sensible words I had ever
heard fall from her lips.
"Godfrey!" she said, "you must be mad!"
"I never spoke more reasonably, dearest—in your
interests, as well as in mine. Look for a moment to the
future. Is your happiness to be sacrificed to a man who has
never known how you feel towards him, and whom you are
resolved never to see again? Is it not your duty to yourself
to forget this ill-fated attachment? and is forgetfulness to
be found in the life you are leading now? You have tried
that life, and you are wearying of it already. Surround
yourself with nobler interests than the wretched interests
of the world. A heart that loves and honours you; a home
whose peaceful claims and happy duties win gently on you day
by day—try the consolation, Rachel, which is to be found
THERE! I don't ask for your love—I will be content with your
affection and regard. Let the rest be left, confidently
left, to your husband's devotion, and to Time that heals
even wounds as deep as yours."
She began to yield already. Oh, what a bringing-up she
must have had! Oh, how differently I should have acted in
her place!
"Don't tempt me, Godfrey," she said; "I am wretched
enough and reckless enough as it is. Don't tempt me to be
more wretched and more wreckless still!"
"One question, Rachel. Have you any personal objection to
me?"
"I! I always liked you. After what you have just said to
me, I should be insensible indeed if I didn't respect and
admire you as well."
"Do you know many wives, my dear Rachel, who respect and
admire their husbands? And yet they and their husbands get
on very well. How many brides go to the altar with hearts
that would bear inspection by the men who take them there?
And yet it doesn't end unhappily—somehow or other the
nuptial establishment jogs on. The truth is, that women try
marriage as a Refuge, far more numerously than they are
willing to admit; and, what is more, they find that marriage
has justified their confidence in it. Look at your own case
once again. At your age, and with your attractions, is it
possible for you to sentence yourself to a single life?
Trust my knowledge of the world—nothing is less possible. It
is merely a question of time. You may marry some other man,
some years hence. Or you may marry the man, dearest, who is
now at your feet, and who prizes your respect and admiration
above the love of any other woman on the face of the earth."
"Gently, Godfrey! you are putting something into my head
which I never thought of before. You are tempting me with a
new prospect, when all my other prospects are closed before
me. I tell you again, I am miserable enough and desperate
enough, if you say another word, to marry you on your own
terms. Take the warning, and go!"
"I won't even rise from my knees, till you have said
yes!"
"If I say yes you will repent, and I shall repent, when
it is too late!"
"We shall both bless the day, darling, when I pressed,
and when you yielded."
"Do you feel as confidently as you speak?"
"You shall judge for yourself. I speak from what I have
seen in my own family. Tell me what you think of our
household at Frizinghall. Do my father and mother live
unhappily together?"
"Far from it—so far as I can see."
"When my mother was a girl, Rachel (it is no secret in
the family), she had loved as you love—she had given her
heart to a man who was unworthy of her. She married my
father, respecting him, admiring him, but nothing more. Your
own eyes have seen the result. Is there no encouragement in
it for you and for me?" *
* See Betteredge's Narrative, chapter viii.
"You won't hurry me, Godfrey?"
"My time shall be yours."
"You won't ask me for more than I can give?"
"My angel! I only ask you to give me yourself."
"Take me!"
In those two words she accepted him!
He had another burst—a burst of unholy rapture this time.
He drew her nearer and nearer to him till her face touched
his; and then—No! I really cannot prevail upon myself to
carry this shocking disclosure any farther. Let me only say,
that I tried to close my eyes before it happened, and that I
was just one moment too late. I had calculated, you see, on
her resisting. She submitted. To every right-feeling person
of my own sex, volumes could say no more.
Even my innocence in such matters began to see its way to
the end of the interview now. They understood each other so
thoroughly by this time, that I fully expected to see them
walk off together, arm in arm, to be married. There
appeared, however, judging by Mr. Godfrey's next words, to
be one more trifling formality which it was necessary to
observe. He seated himself—unforbidden this time—on the
ottoman by her side. "Shall I speak to your dear mother?" he
asked. "Or will you?"
She declined both alternatives.
"Let my mother hear nothing from either of us, until she
is better. I wish it to be kept a secret for the present,
Godfrey. Go now, and come back this evening. We have been
here alone together quite long enough."
She rose, and in rising, looked for the first time
towards the little room in which my martyrdom was going on.
"Who has drawn those curtains?" she exclaimed.
"The room is close enough, as it is, without keeping the
air out of it in that way."
She advanced to the curtains. At the moment when she laid
her hand on them—at the moment when the discovery of me
appeared to be quite inevitable—the voice of the
fresh-coloured young footman, on the stairs, suddenly
suspended any further proceedings on her side or on mine. It
was unmistakably the voice of a man in great alarm.
"Miss Rachel!" he called out, "where are you, Miss
Rachel?"
She sprang back from the curtains, and ran to the door.
The footman came just inside the room. His ruddy colour
was all gone. He said, "Please to come down-stairs, Miss! My
lady has fainted, and we can't bring her to again."
In a moment more I was alone, and free to go down-stairs
in my turn, quite unobserved.
Mr. Godfrey passed me in the hall, hurrying out, to fetch
the doctor. "Go in, and help them!" he said, pointing to the
room. I found Rachel on her knees by the sofa, with her
mother's head on her bosom. One look at my aunt's face
(knowing what I knew) was enough to warn me of the dreadful
truth. I kept my thoughts to myself till the doctor came in.
It was not long before he arrived. He began by sending
Rachel out of the room—and then he told the rest of us that
Lady Verinder was no more. Serious persons, in search of
proofs of hardened scepticism, may be interested in hearing
that he showed no signs of remorse when he looked at Me.
At a later hour I peeped into the breakfast-room, and the
library. My aunt had died without opening one of the letters
which I had addressed to her. I was so shocked at this, that
it never occurred to me, until some days afterwards, that
she had also died without giving me my little legacy.
CHAPTER VI
(1.) "Miss Clack presents her compliments to Mr. Franklin
Blake; and, in sending him the fifth chapter of her humble
narrative, begs to say that she feels quite unequal to
enlarge as she could wish on an event so awful, under the
circumstances, as Lady Verinder's death. She has, therefore,
attached to her own manuscripts, copious Extracts from
precious publications in her possession, all bearing on this
terrible subject. And may those Extracts (Miss Clack
fervently hopes) sound as the blast of a trumpet in the ears
of her respected kinsman, Mr. Franklin Blake."
(2.) "Mr. Franklin Blake presents his compliments to Miss
Clack, and begs to thank her for the fifth chapter of her
narrative. In returning the extracts sent with it, he will
refrain from mentioning any personal objection which he may
entertain to this species of literature, and will merely say
that the proposed additions to the manuscript are not
necessary to the fulfilment of the purpose that he has in
view."
(3.) "Miss Clack begs to acknowledge the return of her
Extracts. She affectionately reminds Mr. Franklin Blake that
she is a Christian, and that it is, therefore, quite
impossible for him to offend her. Miss C. persists in
feeling the deepest interest in Mr. Blake, and pledges
herself, on the first occasion when sickness may lay him
low, to offer him the use of her Extracts for the second
time. In the meanwhile she would be glad to know, before
beginning the final chapters of her narrative, whether she
may be permitted to make her humble contribution complete,
by availing herself of the light which later discoveries
have thrown on the mystery of the Moonstone."
(4.) "Mr. Franklin Blake is sorry to disappoint Miss
Clack. He can only repeat the instructions which he had the
honour of giving her when she began her narrative. She is
requested to limit herself to her own individual experience
of persons and events, as recorded in her diary. Later
discoveries she will be good enough to leave to the pens of
those persons who can write in the capacity of actual
witnesses."
(5.) "Miss Clack is extremely sorry to trouble Mr.
Franklin Blake with another letter. Her Extracts have been
returned, and the expression of her matured views on the
subject of the Moonstone has been forbidden. Miss Clack is
painfully conscious that she ought (in the worldly phrase)
to feel herself put down. But, no—Miss C. has learnt
Perseverance in the School of Adversity. Her object in
writing is to know whether Mr. Blake (who prohibits
everything else) prohibits the appearance of the present
correspondence in Miss Clack's narrative? Some explanation
of the position in which Mr. Blake's interference has placed
her as an authoress, seems due on the ground of common
justice. And Miss Clack, on her side, is most anxious that
her letters should be produced to speak for themselves."
(6.) "Mr. Franklin Blake agrees to Miss Clack's proposal,
on the understanding that she will kindly consider this
intimation of his consent as closing the correspondence
between them."
(7.) "Miss Clack feels it an act of Christian duty
(before the correspondence closes) to inform Mr. Franklin
Blake that his last letter—evidently intended to offend
her—has not succeeded in accomplishing the object of the
writer. She affectionately requests Mr. Blake to retire to
the privacy of his own room, and to consider with himself
whether the training which can thus elevate a poor weak
woman above the reach of insult, be not worthy of greater
admiration than he is now disposed to feel for it. On being
favoured with an intimation to that effect, Miss C. solemnly
pledges herself to send back the complete series of her
Extracts to Mr. Franklin Blake."
[To this letter no answer was received. Comment is
needless.
(Signed) DRUSILLA CLACK.]
CHAPTER VII
The foregoing correspondence will sufficiently explain
why no choice is left to me but to pass over Lady Verinder's
death with the simple announcement of the fact which ends my
fifth chapter.
Keeping myself for the future strictly within the limits
of my own personal experience, I have next to relate that a
month elapsed from the time of my aunt's decease before
Rachel Verinder and I met again. That meeting was the
occasion of my spending a few days under the same roof with
her. In the course of my visit, something happened, relative
to her marriage-engagement with Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite, which
is important enough to require special notice in these
pages. When this last of many painful family circumstances
has been disclosed, my task will be completed; for I shall
then have told all that I know, as an actual (and most
unwilling) witness of events.
My aunt's remains were removed from London, and were
buried in the little cemetery attached to the church in her
own park. I was invited to the funeral with the rest of the
family. But it was impossible (with my religious views) to
rouse myself in a few days only from the shock which this
death had caused me. I was informed, moreover, that the
rector of Frizinghall was to read the service. Having myself
in past times seen this clerical castaway making one of the
players at Lady Verinder's whist-table, I doubt, even if I
had been fit to travel, whether I should have felt justified
in attending the ceremony.
Lady Verinder's death left her daughter under the care of
her brother-in-law, Mr. Ablewhite the elder. He was
appointed guardian by the will, until his niece married, or
came of age. Under these circumstances, Mr. Godfrey informed
his father, I suppose, of the new relation in which he stood
towards Rachel. At any rate, in ten days from my aunt's
death, the secret of the marriage-engagement was no secret
at all within the circle of the family, and the grand
question for Mr. Ablewhite senior—another confirmed
castaway!—was how to make himself and his authority most
agreeable to the wealthy young lady who was going to marry
his son.
Rachel gave him some trouble at the outset, about the
choice of a place in which she could be prevailed upon to
reside. The house in Montagu Square was associated with the
calamity of her mother's death. The house in Yorkshire was
associated with the scandalous affair of the lost Moonstone.
Her guardian's own residence at Frizinghall was open to
neither of these objections. But Rachel's presence in it,
after her recent bereavement, operated as a check on the
gaieties of her cousins, the Miss Ablewhites—and she herself
requested that her visit might be deferred to a more
favourable opportunity. It ended in a proposal, emanating
from old Mr. Ablewhite, to try a furnished house at
Brighton. His wife, an invalid daughter, and Rachel were to
inhabit it together, and were to expect him to join them
later in the season. They would see no society but a few old
friends, and they would have his son Godfrey, travelling
backwards and forwards by the London train, always at their
disposal.
I describe this aimless flitting about from one place of
residence to another—this insatiate restlessness of body and
appalling stagnation of soul—merely with the view to
arriving at results. The event which (under Providence)
proved to be the means of bringing Rachel Verinder and
myself together again, was no other than the hiring of the
house at Brighton.
My Aunt Ablewhite is a large, silent, fair-complexioned
woman, with one noteworthy point in her character. From the
hour of her birth she has never been known to do anything
for herself. She has gone through life, accepting
everybody's help, and adopting everybody's opinions. A more
hopeless person, in a spiritual point of view, I have never
met with—there is absolutely, in this perplexing case, no
obstructive material to work upon. Aunt Ablewhite would
listen to the Grand Lama of Thibet exactly as she listens to
Me, and would reflect his views quite as readily as she
reflects mine. She found the furnished house at Brighton by
stopping at an hotel in London, composing herself on a sofa,
and sending for her son. She discovered the necessary
servants by breakfasting in bed one morning (still at the
hotel), and giving her maid a holiday on condition that the
girl "would begin enjoying herself by fetching Miss Clack."
I found her placidly fanning herself in her dressing-gown at
eleven o'clock. "Drusilla, dear, I want some servants. You
are so clever—please get them for me." I looked round the
untidy room. The church-bells were going for a week-day
service; they suggested a word of affectionate remonstrance
on my part. "Oh, aunt!" I said sadly. "Is THIS worthy of a
Christian Englishwoman? Is the passage from time to eternity
to be made in THIS manner?" My aunt answered, "I'll put on
my gown, Drusilla, if you will be kind enough to help me."
What was to be said after that? I have done wonders with
murderesses—I have never advanced an inch with Aunt
Ablewhite. "Where is the list," I asked, "of the servants
whom you require?" My aunt shook her head; she hadn't even
energy enough to keep the list. "Rachel has got it, dear,"
she said, "in the next room." I went into the next room, and
so saw Rachel again for the first time since we had parted
in Montagu Square.
She looked pitiably small and thin in her deep mourning.
If I attached any serious importance to such a perishable
trifle as personal appearance, I might be inclined to add
that hers was one of those unfortunate complexions which
always suffer when not relieved by a border of white next
the skin. But what are our complexions and our looks?
Hindrances and pitfalls, dear girls, which beset us on our
way to higher things! Greatly to my surprise, Rachel rose
when I entered the room, and came forward to meet me with
outstretched hand.
"I am glad to see you," she said. "Drusilla, I have been
in the habit of speaking very foolishly and very rudely to
you, on former occasions. I beg your pardon. I hope you will
forgive me."
My face, I suppose, betrayed the astonishment I felt at
this. She coloured up for a moment, and then proceeded to
explain herself.
"In my poor mother's lifetime," she went on, "her friends
were not always my friends, too. Now I have lost her, my
heart turns for comfort to the people she liked. She liked
you. Try to be friends with me, Drusilla, if you can."
To any rightly-constituted mind, the motive thus
acknowledged was simply shocking. Here in Christian England
was a young woman in a state of bereavement, with so little
idea of where to look for true comfort, that she actually
expected to find it among her mother's friends! Here was a
relative of mine, awakened to a sense of her shortcomings
towards others, under the influence, not of conviction and
duty, but of sentiment and impulse! Most deplorable to think
of—but, still, suggestive of something hopeful, to a person
of my experience in plying the good work. There could be no
harm, I thought, in ascertaining the extent of the change
which the loss of her mother had wrought in Rachel's
character. I decided, as a useful test, to probe her on the
subject of her marriage-engagement to Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite.
Having first met her advances with all possible
cordiality, I sat by her on the sofa, at her own request. We
discussed family affairs and future plans—always excepting
that one future plan which was to end in her marriage. Try
as I might to turn the conversation that way, she resolutely
declined to take the hint. Any open reference to the
question, on my part, would have been premature at this
early stage of our reconciliation. Besides, I had discovered
all I wanted to know. She was no longer the reckless,
defiant creature whom I had heard and seen, on the occasion
of my martyrdom in Montagu Square. This was, of itself,
enough to encourage me to take her future conversion in
hand—beginning with a few words of earnest warning directed
against the hasty formation of the marriage tie, and so
getting on to higher things. Looking at her, now, with this
new interest—and calling to mind the headlong suddenness
with which she had met Mr. Godfrey's matrimonial views—I
felt the solemn duty of interfering with a fervour which
assured me that I should achieve no common results. Rapidity
of proceeding was, as I believed, of importance in this
case. I went back at once to the question of the servants
wanted for the furnished house.
"Where is the list, dear?"
Rachel produced it.
"Cook, kitchen-maid, housemaid, and footman," I read. "My
dear Rachel, these servants are only wanted for a term—the
term during which your guardian has taken the house. We
shall have great difficulty in finding persons of character
and capacity to accept a temporary engagement of that sort,
if we try in London. Has the house in Brighton been found
yet?"
"Yes. Godfrey has taken it; and persons in the house
wanted him to hire them as servants. He thought they would
hardly do for us, and came back having settled nothing."
"And you have no experience yourself in these matters,
Rachel?"
"None whatever."
"And Aunt Ablewhite won't exert herself?"
"No, poor dear. Don't blame her, Drusilla. I think she is
the only really happy woman I have ever met with."
"There are degrees in happiness, darling. We must have a
little talk, some day, on that subject. In the meantime I
will undertake to meet the difficulty about the servants.
Your aunt will write a letter to the people of the house——"
"She will sign a letter, if I write it for her, which
comes to the same thing."
"Quite the same thing. I shall get the letter, and I will
go to Brighton to-morrow."
"How extremely kind of you! We will join you as soon as
you are ready for us. And you will stay, I hope, as my
guest. Brighton is so lively; you are sure to enjoy it."
In those words the invitation was given, and the glorious
prospect of interference was opened before me.
It was then the middle of the week. By Saturday afternoon
the house was ready for them. In that short interval I had
sifted, not the characters only, but the religious views as
well, of all the disengaged servants who applied to me, and
had succeeded in making a selection which my conscience
approved. I also discovered, and called on two serious
friends of mine, residents in the town, to whom I knew I
could confide the pious object which had brought me to
Brighton. One of them—a clerical friend—kindly helped me to
take sittings for our little party in the church in which he
himself ministered. The other—a single lady, like
myself—placed the resources of her library (composed
throughout of precious publications) entirely at my
disposal. I borrowed half-a-dozen works, all carefully
chosen with a view to Rachel. When these had been
judiciously distributed in the various rooms she would be
likely to occupy, I considered that my preparations were
complete. Sound doctrine in the servants who waited on her;
sound doctrine in the minister who preached to her; sound
doctrine in the books that lay on her table—such was the
treble welcome which my zeal had prepared for the motherless
girl! A heavenly composure filled my mind, on that Saturday
afternoon, as I sat at the window waiting the arrival of my
relatives. The giddy throng passed and repassed before my
eyes. Alas! how many of them felt my exquisite sense of duty
done? An awful question. Let us not pursue it.
Between six and seven the travellers arrived. To my
indescribable surprise, they were escorted, not by Mr.
Godfrey (as I had anticipated), but by the lawyer, Mr.
Bruff.
"How do you do, Miss Clack?" he said. "I mean to stay
this time."
That reference to the occasion on which I had obliged him
to postpone his business to mine, when we were both visiting
in Montagu Square, satisfied me that the old worldling had
come to Brighton with some object of his own in view. I had
prepared quite a little Paradise for my beloved Rachel—and
here was the Serpent already!
"Godfrey was very much vexed, Drusilla, not to be able to
come with us," said my Aunt Ablewhite. "There was something
in the way which kept him in town. Mr. Bruff volunteered to
take his place, and make a holiday of it till Monday
morning. By-the-by, Mr. Bruff, I'm ordered to take exercise,
and I don't like it. That," added Aunt Ablewhite, pointing
out of window to an invalid going by in a chair on wheels,
drawn by a man, "is my idea of exercise. If it's air you
want, you get it in your chair. And if it's fatigue you
want, I am sure it's fatigue enough to look at the man."
Rachel stood silent, at a window by herself, with her
eyes fixed on the sea.
"Tired, love?" I inquired.
"No. Only a little out of spirits," she answered. "I have
often seen the sea, on our Yorkshire coast, with that light
on it. And I was thinking, Drusilla, of the days that can
never come again."
Mr. Bruff remained to dinner, and stayed through the
evening. The more I saw of him, the more certain I felt that
he had some private end to serve in coming to Brighton. I
watched him carefully. He maintained the same appearance of
ease, and talked the same godless gossip, hour after hour,
until it was time to take leave. As he shook hands with
Rachel, I caught his hard and cunning eyes resting on her
for a moment with a peculiar interest and attention. She was
plainly concerned in the object that he had in view. He said
nothing out of the common to her or to anyone on leaving. He
invited himself to luncheon the next day, and then he went
away to his hotel.
It was impossible the next morning to get my Aunt
Ablewhite out of her dressing-gown in time for church. Her
invalid daughter (suffering from nothing, in my opinion, but
incurable laziness, inherited from her mother) announced
that she meant to remain in bed for the day. Rachel and I
went alone together to church. A magnificent sermon was
preached by my gifted friend on the heathen indifference of
the world to the sinfulness of little sins. For more than an
hour his eloquence (assisted by his glorious voice)
thundered through the sacred edifice. I said to Rachel, when
we came out, "Has it found its way to your heart, dear?" And
she answered, "No; it has only made my head ache." This
might have been discouraging to some people; but, once
embarked on a career of manifest usefulness, nothing
discourages Me.
We found Aunt Ablewhite and Mr. Bruff at luncheon. When
Rachel declined eating anything, and gave as a reason for it
that she was suffering from a headache, the lawyer's cunning
instantly saw, and seized, the chance that she had given
him.
"There is only one remedy for a headache," said this
horrible old man. "A walk, Miss Rachel, is the thing to cure
you. I am entirely at your service, if you will honour me by
accepting my arm."
"With the greatest pleasure. A walk is the very thing I
was longing for."
"It's past two," I gently suggested. "And the afternoon
service, Rachel, begins at three."
"How can you expect me to go to church again," she asked,
petulantly, "with such a headache as mine?"
Mr. Bruff officiously opened the door for her. In another
minute more they were both out of the house. I don't know
when I have felt the solemn duty of interfering so strongly
as I felt it at that moment. But what was to be done?
Nothing was to be done but to interfere at the first
opportunity, later in the day.
On my return from the afternoon service I found that they
had just got back. One look at them told me that the lawyer
had said what he wanted to say. I had never before seen
Rachel so silent and so thoughtful. I had never before seen
Mr. Bruff pay her such devoted attention, and look at her
with such marked respect. He had (or pretended that he had)
an engagement to dinner that day—and he took an early leave
of us all; intending to go back to London by the first train
the next morning.
"Are you sure of your own resolution?" he said to Rachel
at the door.
"Quite sure," she answered—and so they parted.
The moment his back was turned, Rachel withdrew to her
own room. She never appeared at dinner. Her maid (the person
with the cap-ribbons) was sent down-stairs to announce that
her headache had returned. I ran up to her and made all
sorts of sisterly offers through the door. It was locked,
and she kept it locked. Plenty of obstructive material to
work on here! I felt greatly cheered and stimulated by her
locking the door.
When her cup of tea went up to her the next morning, I
followed it in. I sat by her bedside and said a few earnest
words. She listened with languid civility. I noticed my
serious friend's precious publications huddled together on a
table in a corner. Had she chanced to look into them?—I
asked. Yes—and they had not interested her. Would she allow
me to read a few passages of the deepest interest, which had
probably escaped her eye? No, not now—she had other things
to think of. She gave these answers, with her attention
apparently absorbed in folding and refolding the frilling on
her nightgown. It was plainly necessary to rouse her by some
reference to those worldly interests which she still had at
heart.
"Do you know, love," I said, "I had an odd fancy,
yesterday, about Mr. Bruff? I thought, when I saw you after
your walk with him, that he had been telling you some bad
news."
Her fingers dropped from the frilling of her nightgown,
and her fierce black eyes flashed at me.
"Quite the contrary!" she said. "It was news I was
interested in hearing—and I am deeply indebted to Mr. Bruff
for telling me of it."
"Yes?" I said, in a tone of gentle interest.
Her fingers went back to the frilling, and she turned her
head sullenly away from me. I had been met in this manner,
in the course of plying the good work, hundreds of times.
She merely stimulated me to try again. In my dauntless zeal
for her welfare, I ran the great risk, and openly alluded to
her marriage engagement.
"News you were interested in hearing?" I repeated. "I
suppose, my dear Rachel, that must be news of Mr. Godfrey
Ablewhite?"
She started up in the bed, and turned deadly pale. It was
evidently on the tip of her tongue to retort on me with the
unbridled insolence of former times. She checked
herself—laid her head back on the pillow—considered a
minute—and then answered in these remarkable words:
"I SHALL NEVER MARRY MR.
GODFREY ABLEWHITE."
It was my turn to start at that.
"What can you possibly mean?" I exclaimed. "The marriage
is considered by the whole family as a settled thing!"
"Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite is expected here to-day," she said
doggedly. "Wait till he comes—and you will see."
"But my dear Rachel——"
She rang the bell at the head of her bed. The person with
the cap-ribbons appeared.
"Penelope! my bath."
Let me give her her due. In the state of my feelings at
that moment, I do sincerely believe that she had hit on the
only possible way of forcing me to leave the room.
By the mere worldly mind my position towards Rachel might
have been viewed as presenting difficulties of no ordinary
kind. I had reckoned on leading her to higher things by
means of a little earnest exhortation on the subject of her
marriage. And now, if she was to be believed, no such event
as her marriage was to take place at all. But ah, my
friends! a working Christian of my experience (with an
evangelising prospect before her) takes broader views than
these. Supposing Rachel really broke off the marriage, on
which the Ablewhites, father and son, counted as a settled
thing, what would be the result? It could only end, if she
held firm, in an exchanging of hard words and bitter
accusations on both sides. And what would be the effect on
Rachel when the stormy interview was over? A salutary moral
depression would be the effect. Her pride would be
exhausted, her stubbornness would be exhausted, by the
resolute resistance which it was in her character to make
under the circumstances. She would turn for sympathy to the
nearest person who had sympathy to offer. And I was that
nearest person—brimful of comfort, charged to overflowing
with seasonable and reviving words. Never had the
evangelising prospect looked brighter, to my eyes, than it
looked now.
She came down to breakfast, but she ate nothing, and
hardly uttered a word.
After breakfast she wandered listlessly from room to
room—then suddenly roused herself, and opened the piano. The
music she selected to play was of the most scandalously
profane sort, associated with performances on the stage
which it curdles one's blood to think of. It would have been
premature to interfere with her at such a time as this. I
privately ascertained the hour at which Mr. Godfrey
Ablewhite was expected, and then I escaped the music by
leaving the house.
Being out alone, I took the opportunity of calling upon
my two resident friends. It was an indescribable luxury to
find myself indulging in earnest conversation with serious
persons. Infinitely encouraged and refreshed, I turned my
steps back again to the house, in excellent time to await
the arrival of our expected visitor. I entered the
dining-room, always empty at that hour of the day, and found
myself face to face with Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite!
He made no attempt to fly the place. Quite the contrary.
He advanced to meet me with the utmost eagerness.
"Dear Miss Clack, I have been only waiting to see you!
Chance set me free of my London engagements to-day sooner
than I had expected, and I have got here, in consequence,
earlier than my appointed time."
Not the slightest embarrassment encumbered his
explanation, though this was his first meeting with me after
the scene in Montagu Square. He was not aware, it is true,
of my having been a witness of that scene. But he knew, on
the other hand, that my attendances at the Mothers'
Small-Clothes, and my relations with friends attached to
other charities, must have informed me of his shameless
neglect of his Ladies and of his Poor. And yet there he was
before me, in full possession of his charming voice and his
irresistible smile!
"Have you seen Rachel yet?" I asked.
He sighed gently, and took me by the hand. I should
certainly have snatched my hand away, if the manner in which
he gave his answer had not paralysed me with astonishment.
"I have seen Rachel," he said with perfect tranquillity.
"You are aware, dear friend, that she was engaged to me?
Well, she has taken a sudden resolution to break the
engagement. Reflection has convinced her that she will best
consult her welfare and mine by retracting a rash promise,
and leaving me free to make some happier choice elsewhere.
That is the only reason she will give, and the only answer
she will make to every question that I can ask of her."
"What have you done on your side?" I inquired. "Have you
submitted."
"Yes," he said with the most unruffled composure, "I have
submitted."
His conduct, under the circumstances, was so utterly
inconceivable, that I stood bewildered with my hand in his.
It is a piece of rudeness to stare at anybody, and it is an
act of indelicacy to stare at a gentleman. I committed both
those improprieties. And I said, as if in a dream, "What
does it mean?"
"Permit me to tell you," he replied. "And suppose we sit
down?"
He led me to a chair. I have an indistinct remembrance
that he was very affectionate. I don't think he put his arm
round my waist to support me—but I am not sure. I was quite
helpless, and his ways with ladies were very endearing. At
any rate, we sat down. I can answer for that, if I can
answer for nothing more.
CHAPTER VIII
"I have lost a beautiful girl, an excellent social
position, and a handsome income," Mr. Godfrey began; "and I
have submitted to it without a struggle. What can be the
motive for such extraordinary conduct as that? My precious
friend, there is no motive."
"No motive?" I repeated.
"Let me appeal, my dear Miss Clack, to your experience of
children," he went on. "A child pursues a certain course of
conduct. You are greatly struck by it, and you attempt to
get at the motive. The dear little thing is incapable of
telling you its motive. You might as well ask the grass why
it grows, or the birds why they sing. Well! in this matter,
I am like the dear little thing—like the grass—like the
birds. I don't know why I made a proposal of marriage to
Miss Verinder. I don't know why I have shamefully neglected
my dear Ladies. I don't know why I have apostatised from the
Mothers' Small-Clothes. You say to the child, Why have you
been naughty? And the little angel puts its finger into its
mouth, and doesn't know. My case exactly, Miss Clack! I
couldn't confess it to anybody else. I feel impelled to
confess it to YOU!"
I began to recover myself. A mental problem was involved
here. I am deeply interested in mental problems—and I am
not, it is thought, without some skill in solving them.
"Best of friends, exert your intellect, and help me," he
proceeded. "Tell me—why does a time come when these
matrimonial proceedings of mine begin to look like something
done in a dream? Why does it suddenly occur to me that my
true happiness is in helping my dear Ladies, in going my
modest round of useful work, in saying my few earnest words
when called on by my Chairman? What do I want with a
position? I have got a position? What do I want with an
income? I can pay for my bread and cheese, and my nice
little lodging, and my two coats a year. What do I want with
Miss Verinder? She has told me with her own lips (this, dear
lady, is between ourselves) that she loves another man, and
that her only idea in marrying me is to try and put that
other man out of her head. What a horrid union is this! Oh,
dear me, what a horrid union is this! Such are my
reflections, Miss Clack, on my way to Brighton. I approach
Rachel with the feeling of a criminal who is going to
receive his sentence. When I find that she has changed her
mind too—when I hear her propose to break the engagement—I
experience (there is no sort of doubt about it) a most
overpowering sense of relief. A month ago I was pressing her
rapturously to my bosom. An hour ago, the happiness of
knowing that I shall never press her again, intoxicates me
like strong liquor. The thing seems impossible—the thing
can't be. And yet there are the facts, as I had the honour
of stating them when we first sat down together in these two
chairs. I have lost a beautiful girl, an excellent social
position, and a handsome income; and I have submitted to it
without a struggle. Can you account for it, dear friend?
It's quite beyond ME."
His magnificent head sank on his breast, and he gave up
his own mental problem in despair.
I was deeply touched. The case (if I may speak as a
spiritual physician) was now quite plain to me. It is no
uncommon event, in the experience of us all, to see the
possessors of exalted ability occasionally humbled to the
level of the most poorly-gifted people about them. The
object, no doubt, in the wise economy of Providence, is to
remind greatness that it is mortal and that the power which
has conferred it can also take it away. It was now—to my
mind—easy to discern one of these salutary humiliations in
the deplorable proceedings on dear Mr. Godfrey's part, of
which I had been the unseen witness. And it was equally easy
to recognise the welcome reappearance of his own finer
nature in the horror with which he recoiled from the idea of
a marriage with Rachel, and in the charming eagerness which
he showed to return to his Ladies and his Poor.
I put this view before him in a few simple and sisterly
words. His joy was beautiful to see. He compared himself, as
I went on, to a lost man emerging from the darkness into the
light. When I answered for a loving reception of him at the
Mothers' Small-Clothes, the grateful heart of our Christian
Hero overflowed. He pressed my hands alternately to his
lips. Overwhelmed by the exquisite triumph of having got him
back among us, I let him do what he liked with my hands. I
closed my eyes. I felt my head, in an ecstasy of spiritual
self-forgetfulness, sinking on his shoulder. In a moment
more I should certainly have swooned away in his arms, but
for an interruption from the outer world, which brought me
to myself again. A horrid rattling of knives and forks
sounded outside the door, and the footman came in to lay the
table for luncheon.
Mr. Godfrey started up, and looked at the clock on the
mantelpiece.
"How time flies with YOU!" he exclaimed. "I shall barely
catch the train."
I ventured on asking why he was in such a hurry to get
back to town. His answer reminded me of family difficulties
that were still to be reconciled, and of family
disagreements that were yet to come.
"I have heard from my father," he said. "Business obliges
him to leave Frizinghall for London to-day, and he proposes
coming on here, either this evening or to-morrow. I must
tell him what has happened between Rachel and me. His heart
is set on our marriage—there will be great difficulty, I
fear, in reconciling him to the breaking-off of the
engagement. I must stop him, for all our sakes, from coming
here till he IS reconciled. Best and dearest of friends, we
shall meet again!"
With those words he hurried out. In equal haste on my
side, I ran upstairs to compose myself in my own room before
meeting Aunt Ablewhite and Rachel at the luncheon-table.
I am well aware—to dwell for a moment yet on the subject
of Mr. Godfrey—that the all-profaning opinion of the world
has charged him with having his own private reasons for
releasing Rachel from her engagement, at the first
opportunity she gave him. It has also reached my ears, that
his anxiety to recover his place in my estimation has been
attributed in certain quarters, to a mercenary eagerness to
make his peace (through me) with a venerable committee-woman
at the Mothers' Small-Clothes, abundantly blessed with the
goods of this world, and a beloved and intimate friend of my
own. I only notice these odious slanders for the sake of
declaring that they never had a moment's influence on my
mind. In obedience to my instructions, I have exhibited the
fluctuations in my opinion of our Christian Hero, exactly as
I find them recorded in my diary. In justice to myself, let
me here add that, once reinstated in his place in my
estimation, my gifted friend never lost that place again. I
write with the tears in my eyes, burning to say more. But
no—I am cruelly limited to my actual experience of persons
and things. In less than a month from the time of which I am
now writing, events in the money-market (which diminished
even my miserable little income) forced me into foreign
exile, and left me with nothing but a loving remembrance of
Mr. Godfrey which the slander of the world has assailed, and
assailed in vain.
Let me dry my eyes, and return to my narrative.
I went downstairs to luncheon, naturally anxious to see
how Rachel was affected by her release from her marriage
engagement.
It appeared to me—but I own I am a poor authority in such
matters—that the recovery of her freedom had set her
thinking again of that other man whom she loved, and that
she was furious with herself for not being able to control a
revulsion of feeling of which she was secretly ashamed. Who
was the man? I had my suspicions—but it was needless to
waste time in idle speculation. When I had converted her,
she would, as a matter of course, have no concealments from
Me. I should hear all about the man; I should hear all about
the Moonstone. If I had had no higher object in stirring her
up to a sense of spiritual things, the motive of relieving
her mind of its guilty secrets would have been enough of
itself to encourage me to go on.
Aunt Ablewhite took her exercise in the afternoon in an
invalid chair. Rachel accompanied her. "I wish I could drag
the chair," she broke out, recklessly. "I wish I could
fatigue myself till I was ready to drop."
She was in the same humour in the evening. I discovered
in one of my friend's precious publications—the Life,
Letters, and Labours of Miss Jane Ann Stamper, forty-fourth
edition—passages which bore with a marvellous
appropriateness on Rachel's present position. Upon my
proposing to read them, she went to the piano. Conceive how
little she must have known of serious people, if she
supposed that my patience was to be exhausted in that way! I
kept Miss Jane Ann Stamper by me, and waited for events with
the most unfaltering trust in the future.
Old Mr. Ablewhite never made his appearance that night.
But I knew the importance which his worldly greed attached
to his son's marriage with Miss Verinder—and I felt a
positive conviction (do what Mr. Godfrey might to prevent
it) that we should see him the next day. With his
interference in the matter, the storm on which I had counted
would certainly come, and the salutary exhaustion of
Rachel's resisting powers would as certainly follow. I am
not ignorant that old Mr. Ablewhite has the reputation
generally (especially among his inferiors) of being a
remarkably good-natured man. According to my observation of
him, he deserves his reputation as long as he has his own
way, and not a moment longer.
The next day, exactly as I had foreseen, Aunt Ablewhite
was as near to being astonished as her nature would permit,
by the sudden appearance of her husband. He had barely been
a minute in the house, before he was followed, to MY
astonishment this time, by an unexpected complication in the
shape of Mr. Bruff.
I never remember feeling the presence of the lawyer to be
more unwelcome than I felt it at that moment. He looked
ready for anything in the way of an obstructive
proceeding—capable even of keeping the peace with Rachel for
one of the combatants!
"This is a pleasant surprise, sir," said Mr. Ablewhite,
addressing himself with his deceptive cordiality to Mr.
Bruff. "When I left your office yesterday, I didn't expect
to have the honour of seeing you at Brighton to-day."
"I turned over our conversation in my mind, after you had
gone," replied Mr. Bruff. "And it occurred to me that I
might perhaps be of some use on this occasion. I was just in
time to catch the train, and I had no opportunity of
discovering the carriage in which you were travelling."
Having given that explanation, he seated himself by
Rachel. I retired modestly to a corner—with Miss Jane Ann
Stamper on my lap, in case of emergency. My aunt sat at the
window; placidly fanning herself as usual. Mr. Ablewhite
stood up in the middle of the room, with his bald head much
pinker than I had ever seen it yet, and addressed himself in
the most affectionate manner to his niece.
"Rachel, my dear," he said, "I have heard some very
extraordinary news from Godfrey. And I am here to inquire
about it. You have a sitting-room of your own in this house.
Will you honour me by showing me the way to it?"
Rachel never moved. Whether she was determined to bring
matters to a crisis, or whether she was prompted by some
private sign from Mr. Bruff, is more than I can tell. She
declined doing old Mr. Ablewhite the honour of conducting
him into her sitting-room.
"Whatever you wish to say to me," she answered, "can be
said here—in the presence of my relatives, and in the
presence" (she looked at Mr. Bruff) "of my mother's trusted
old friend."
"Just as you please, my dear," said the amiable Mr.
Ablewhite. He took a chair. The rest of them looked at his
face—as if they expected it, after seventy years of worldly
training, to speak the truth. I looked at the top of his
bald head; having noticed on other occasions that the temper
which was really in him had a habit of registering itself
THERE.
"Some weeks ago," pursued the old gentleman, "my son
informed me that Miss Verinder had done him the honour to
engage herself to marry him. Is it possible, Rachel, that he
can have misinterpreted—or presumed upon—what you really
said to him?"
"Certainly not," she replied. "I did engage myself to
marry him."
"Very frankly answered!" said Mr. Ablewhite. "And most
satisfactory, my dear, so far. In respect to what happened
some weeks since, Godfrey has made no mistake. The error is
evidently in what he told me yesterday. I begin to see it
now. You and he have had a lovers' quarrel—and my foolish
son has interpreted it seriously. Ah! I should have known
better than that at his age."
The fallen nature in Rachel—the mother Eve, so to
speak—began to chafe at this.
"Pray let us understand each other, Mr. Ablewhite," she
said. "Nothing in the least like a quarrel took place
yesterday between your son and me. If he told you that I
proposed breaking off our marriage engagement, and that he
agreed on his side—he told you the truth."
The self-registering thermometer at the top of Mr.
Ablewhite's bald head began to indicate a rise of temper.
His face was more amiable than ever—but THERE was the pink
at the top of his face, a shade deeper already!
"Come, come, my dear!" he said, in his most soothing
manner, "now don't be angry, and don't be hard on poor
Godfrey! He has evidently said some unfortunate thing. He
was always clumsy from a child—but he means well, Rachel, he
means well!"
"Mr. Ablewhite, I have either expressed myself very
badly, or you are purposely mistaking me. Once for all, it
is a settled thing between your son and myself that we
remain, for the rest of our lives, cousins and nothing more.
Is that plain enough?"
The tone in which she said those words made it
impossible, even for old Mr. Ablewhite, to mistake her any
longer. His thermometer went up another degree, and his
voice when he next spoke, ceased to be the voice which is
appropriate to a notoriously good-natured man.
"I am to understand, then," he said, "that your marriage
engagement is broken off?"
"You are to understand that, Mr. Ablewhite, if you
please."
"I am also to take it as a matter of fact that the
proposal to withdraw from the engagement came, in the first
instance, from YOU?"
"It came, in the first instance, from me. And it met, as
I have told you, with your son's consent and approval."
The thermometer went up to the top of the register. I
mean, the pink changed suddenly to scarlet.
"My son is a mean-spirited hound!" cried this furious old
worldling. "In justice to myself as his father—not in
justice to HIM—I beg to ask you, Miss Verinder, what
complaint you have to make of Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite?"
Here Mr. Bruff interfered for the first time.
"You are not bound to answer that question," he said to
Rachel.
Old Mr. Ablewhite fastened on him instantly.
"Don't forget, sir," he said, "that you are a
self-invited guest here. Your interference would have come
with a better grace if you had waited until it was asked
for."
Mr. Bruff took no notice. The smooth varnish on HIS
wicked old face never cracked. Rachel thanked him for the
advice he had given to her, and then turned to old Mr.
Ablewhite—preserving her composure in a manner which (having
regard to her age and her sex) was simply awful to see.
"Your son put the same question to me which you have just
asked," she said. "I had only one answer for him, and I have
only one answer for you. I proposed that we should release
each other, because reflection had convinced me that I
should best consult his welfare and mine by retracting a
rash promise, and leaving him free to make his choice
elsewhere."
"What has my son done?" persisted Mr. Ablewhite. "I have
a right to know that. What has my son done?"
She persisted just as obstinately on her side.
"You have had the only explanation which I think it
necessary to give to you, or to him," she answered.
"In plain English, it's your sovereign will and pleasure,
Miss Verinder, to jilt my son?"
Rachel was silent for a moment. Sitting close behind her,
I heard her sigh. Mr. Bruff took her hand, and gave it a
little squeeze. She recovered herself, and answered Mr.
Ablewhite as boldly as ever.
"I have exposed myself to worse misconstruction than
that," she said. "And I have borne it patiently. The time
has gone by, when you could mortify me by calling me a
jilt."
She spoke with a bitterness of tone which satisfied me
that the scandal of the Moonstone had been in some way
recalled to her mind. "I have no more to say," she added,
wearily, not addressing the words to anyone in particular,
and looking away from us all, out of the window that was
nearest to her.
Mr. Ablewhite got upon his feet, and pushed away his
chair so violently that it toppled over and fell on the
floor.
"I have something more to say on my side," he announced,
bringing down the flat of his hand on the table with a bang.
"I have to say that if my son doesn't feel this insult, I
do!"
Rachel started, and looked at him in sudden surprise.
"Insult?" she repeated. "What do you mean?"
"Insult!" reiterated Mr. Ablewhite. "I know your motive,
Miss Verinder, for breaking your promise to my son! I know
it as certainly as if you had confessed it in so many words.
Your cursed family pride is insulting Godfrey, as it
insulted ME when I married your aunt. Her family—her
beggarly family—turned their backs on her for marrying an
honest man, who had made his own place and won his own
fortune. I had no ancestors. I wasn't descended from a set
of cut-throat scoundrels who lived by robbery and murder. I
couldn't point to the time when the Ablewhites hadn't a
shirt to their backs, and couldn't sign their own names. Ha!
ha! I wasn't good enough for the Herncastles, when I
married. And now, it comes to the pinch, my son isn't good
enough for YOU. I suspected it, all along. You have got the
Herncastle blood in you, my young lady! I suspected it all
along."
"A very unworthy suspicion," remarked Mr. Bruff. "I am
astonished that you have the courage to acknowledge it."
Before Mr. Ablewhite could find words to answer in,
Rachel spoke in a tone of the most exasperating contempt.
"Surely," she said to the lawyer, "this is beneath
notice. If he can think in THAT way, let us leave him to
think as he pleases."
From scarlet, Mr. Ablewhite was now becoming purple. He
gasped for breath; he looked backwards and forwards from
Rachel to Mr. Bruff in such a frenzy of rage with both of
them that he didn't know which to attack first. His wife,
who had sat impenetrably fanning herself up to this time,
began to be alarmed, and attempted, quite uselessly, to
quiet him. I had, throughout this distressing interview,
felt more than one inward call to interfere with a few
earnest words, and had controlled myself under a dread of
the possible results, very unworthy of a Christian
Englishwoman who looks, not to what is meanly prudent, but
to what is morally right. At the point at which matters had
now arrived, I rose superior to all considerations of mere
expediency. If I had contemplated interposing any
remonstrance of my own humble devising, I might possibly
have still hesitated. But the distressing domestic emergency
which now confronted me, was most marvellously and
beautifully provided for in the Correspondence of Miss Jane
Ann Stamper—Letter one thousand and one, on "Peace in
Families." I rose in my modest corner, and I opened my
precious book.
"Dear Mr. Ablewhite," I said, "one word!"
When I first attracted the attention of the company by
rising, I could see that he was on the point of saying
something rude to me. My sisterly form of address checked
him. He stared at me in heathen astonishment.
"As an affectionate well-wisher and friend," I proceeded,
"and as one long accustomed to arouse, convince, prepare,
enlighten, and fortify others, permit me to take the most
pardonable of all liberties—the liberty of composing your
mind."
He began to recover himself; he was on the point of
breaking out—he WOULD have broken out, with anybody else.
But my voice (habitually gentle) possesses a high note or
so, in emergencies. In this emergency, I felt imperatively
called upon to have the highest voice of the two.
I held up my precious book before him; I rapped the open
page impressively with my forefinger. "Not my words!" I
exclaimed, in a burst of fervent interruption. "Oh, don't
suppose that I claim attention for My humble words! Manna in
the wilderness, Mr. Ablewhite! Dew on the parched earth!
Words of comfort, words of wisdom, words of love—the
blessed, blessed, blessed words of Miss Jane Ann Stamper!"
I was stopped there by a momentary impediment of the
breath. Before I could recover myself, this monster in human
form shouted out furiously,
"Miss Jane Ann Stamper be——!"
It is impossible for me to write the awful word, which is
here represented by a blank. I shrieked as it passed his
lips; I flew to my little bag on the side table; I shook out
all my tracts; I seized the one particular tract on profane
swearing, entitled, "Hush, for Heaven's Sake!"; I handed it
to him with an expression of agonised entreaty. He tore it
in two, and threw it back at me across the table. The rest
of them rose in alarm, not knowing what might happen next. I
instantly sat down again in my corner. There had once been
an occasion, under somewhat similar circumstances, when Miss
Jane Ann Stamper had been taken by the two shoulders and
turned out of a room. I waited, inspired by HER spirit, for
a repetition of HER martyrdom.
But no—it was not to be. His wife was the next person
whom he addressed. "Who—who—who," he said, stammering with
rage, "who asked this impudent fanatic into the house? Did
you?"
Before Aunt Ablewhite could say a word, Rachel answered
for her.
"Miss Clack is here," she said, "as my guest."
Those words had a singular effect on Mr. Ablewhite. They
suddenly changed him from a man in a state of red-hot anger
to a man in a state of icy-cold contempt. It was plain to
everybody that Rachel had said something—short and plain as
her answer had been—which gave him the upper hand of her at
last.
"Oh?" he said. "Miss Clack is here as YOUR guest—in MY
house?"
It was Rachel's turn to lose her temper at that. Her
colour rose, and her eyes brightened fiercely. She turned to
the lawyer, and, pointing to Mr. Ablewhite, asked haughtily,
"What does he mean?"
Mr. Bruff interfered for the third time.
"You appear to forget," he said, addressing Mr.
Ablewhite, "that you took this house as Miss Verinder's
guardian, for Miss Verinder's use."
"Not quite so fast," interposed Mr. Ablewhite. "I have a
last word to say, which I should have said some time since,
if this——" He looked my way, pondering what abominable name
he should call me—"if this Rampant Spinster had not
interrupted us. I beg to inform you, sir, that, if my son is
not good enough to be Miss Verinder's husband, I cannot
presume to consider his father good enough to be Miss
Verinder's guardian. Understand, if you please, that I
refuse to accept the position which is offered to me by Lady
Verinder's will. In your legal phrase, I decline to act.
This house has necessarily been hired in my name. I take the
entire responsibility of it on my shoulders. It is my house.
I can keep it, or let it, just as I please. I have no wish
to hurry Miss Verinder. On the contrary, I beg her to remove
her guest and her luggage, at her own entire convenience."
He made a low bow, and walked out of the room.
That was Mr. Ablewhite's revenge on Rachel, for refusing
to marry his son!
The instant the door closed, Aunt Ablewhite exhibited a
phenomenon which silenced us all. She became endowed with
energy enough to cross the room!
"My dear," she said, taking Rachel by the hand, "I should
be ashamed of my husband, if I didn't know that it is his
temper which has spoken to you, and not himself. You,"
continued Aunt Ablewhite, turning on me in my corner with
another endowment of energy, in her looks this time instead
of her limbs—"you are the mischievous person who irritated
him. I hope I shall never see you or your tracts again." She
went back to Rachel and kissed her. "I beg your pardon, my
dear," she said, "in my husband's name. What can I do for
you?"
Consistently perverse in everything—capricious and
unreasonable in all the actions of her life—Rachel melted
into tears at those commonplace words, and returned her
aunt's kiss in silence.
"If I may be permitted to answer for Miss Verinder," said
Mr. Bruff, "might I ask you, Mrs. Ablewhite, to send
Penelope down with her mistress's bonnet and shawl. Leave us
ten minutes together," he added, in a lower tone, "and you
may rely on my setting matters right, to your satisfaction
as well as to Rachel's."
The trust of the family in this man was something
wonderful to see. Without a word more, on her side, Aunt
Ablewhite left the room.
"Ah!" said Mr. Bruff, looking after her. "The Herncastle
blood has its drawbacks, I admit. But there IS something in
good breeding after all!"
Having made that purely worldly remark, he looked hard at
my corner, as if he expected me to go. My interest in
Rachel—an infinitely higher interest than his—riveted me to
my chair.
Mr. Bruff gave it up, exactly as he had given it up at
Aunt Verinder's, in Montagu Square. He led Rachel to a chair
by the window, and spoke to her there.
"My dear young lady," he said, "Mr. Ablewhite's conduct
has naturally shocked you, and taken you by surprise. If it
was worth while to contest the question with such a man, we
might soon show him that he is not to have things all his
own way. But it isn't worth while. You were quite right in
what you said just now; he is beneath our notice."
He stopped, and looked round at my corner. I sat there
quite immovable, with my tracts at my elbow and with Miss
Jane Ann Stamper on my lap.
"You know," he resumed, turning back again to Rachel,
"that it was part of your poor mother's fine nature always
to see the best of the people about her, and never the
worst. She named her brother-in-law your guardian because
she believed in him, and because she thought it would please
her sister. I had never liked Mr. Ablewhite myself, and I
induced your mother to let me insert a clause in the will,
empowering her executors, in certain events, to consult with
me about the appointment of a new guardian. One of those
events has happened to-day; and I find myself in a position
to end all these dry business details, I hope agreeably,
with a message from my wife. Will you honour Mrs. Bruff by
becoming her guest? And will you remain under my roof, and
be one of my family, until we wise people have laid our
heads together, and have settled what is to be done next?"
At those words, I rose to interfere. Mr. Bruff had done
exactly what I had dreaded he would do, when he asked Mrs.
Ablewhite for Rachel's bonnet and shawl.
Before I could interpose a word, Rachel had accepted his
invitation in the warmest terms. If I suffered the
arrangement thus made between them to be carried out—if she
once passed the threshold of Mr. Bruff's door—farewell to
the fondest hope of my life, the hope of bringing my lost
sheep back to the fold! The bare idea of such a calamity as
this quite overwhelmed me. I cast the miserable trammels of
worldly discretion to the winds, and spoke with the fervour
that filled me, in the words that came first.
"Stop!" I said—"stop! I must be heard. Mr. Bruff! you are
not related to her, and I am. I invite her—I summon the
executors to appoint me guardian. Rachel, dearest Rachel, I
offer you my modest home; come to London by the next train,
love, and share it with me!"
Mr. Bruff said nothing. Rachel looked at me with a cruel
astonishment which she made no effort to conceal.
"You are very kind, Drusilla," she said. "I shall hope to
visit you whenever I happen to be in London. But I have
accepted Mr. Bruff's invitation, and I think it will be
best, for the present, if I remain under Mr. Bruff's care."
"Oh, don't say so!" I pleaded. "I can't part with you,
Rachel—I can't part with you!"
I tried to fold her in my arms. But she drew back. My
fervour did not communicate itself; it only alarmed her.
"Surely," she said, "this is a very unnecessary display
of agitation? I don't understand it."
"No more do I," said Mr. Bruff.
Their hardness—their hideous, worldly hardness—revolted
me.
"Oh, Rachel! Rachel!" I burst out. "Haven't you seen yet,
that my heart yearns to make a Christian of you? Has no
inner voice told you that I am trying to do for you, what I
was trying to do for your dear mother when death snatched
her out of my hands?"
Rachel advanced a step nearer, and looked at me very
strangely.
"I don't understand your reference to my mother," she
said. "Miss Clack, will you have the goodness to explain
yourself?"
Before I could answer, Mr. Bruff came forward, and
offering his arm to Rachel, tried to lead her out of the
room.
"You had better not pursue the subject, my dear," he
said. "And Miss Clack had better not explain herself."
If I had been a stock or a stone, such an interference as
this must have roused me into testifying to the truth. I put
Mr. Bruff aside indignantly with my own hand, and, in solemn
and suitable language, I stated the view with which sound
doctrine does not scruple to regard the awful calamity of
dying unprepared.
Rachel started back from me—I blush to write—with a
scream of horror.
"Come away!" she said to Mr. Bruff. "Come away, for God's
sake, before that woman can say any more! Oh, think of my
poor mother's harmless, useful, beautiful life! You were at
the funeral, Mr. Bruff; you saw how everybody loved her; you
saw the poor helpless people crying at her grave over the
loss of their best friend. And that wretch stands there, and
tries to make me doubt that my mother, who was an angel on
earth, is an angel in heaven now! Don't stop to talk about
it! Come away! It stifles me to breathe the same air with
her! It frightens me to feel that we are in the same room
together!"
Deaf to all remonstrance, she ran to the door.
At the same moment, her maid entered with her bonnet and
shawl. She huddled them on anyhow. "Pack my things," she
said, "and bring them to Mr. Bruff's." I attempted to
approach her—I was shocked and grieved, but, it is needless
to say, not offended. I only wished to say to her, "May your
hard heart be softened! I freely forgive you!" She pulled
down her veil, and tore her shawl away from my hand, and,
hurrying out, shut the door in my face. I bore the insult
with my customary fortitude. I remember it now with my
customary superiority to all feeling of offence.
Mr. Bruff had his parting word of mockery for me, before
he too hurried out, in his turn.
"You had better not have explained yourself, Miss Clack,"
he said, and bowed, and left the room.
The person with the cap-ribbons followed.
"It's easy to see who has set them all by the ears
together," she said. "I'm only a poor servant—but I declare
I'm ashamed of you!" She too went out, and banged the door
after her.
I was left alone in the room. Reviled by them all,
deserted by them all, I was left alone in the room.
Is there more to be added to this plain statement of
facts—to this touching picture of a Christian persecuted by
the world? No! my diary reminds me that one more of the many
chequered chapters in my life ends here. From that day
forth, I never saw Rachel Verinder again. She had my
forgiveness at the time when she insulted me. She has had my
prayerful good wishes ever since. And when I die—to complete
the return on my part of good for evil—she will have the
LIFE, LETTERS, AND LABOURS OF MISS JANE ANN STAMPER left her
as a legacy by my will.

SECOND NARRATIVE
Contributed by MATHEW BRUFF, Solicitor, of Gray's Inn
Square
CHAPTER I
My fair friend, Miss Clack, having laid down the pen,
there are two reasons for my taking it up next, in my turn.
In the first place, I am in a position to throw the
necessary light on certain points of interest which have
thus far been left in the dark. Miss Verinder had her own
private reason for breaking her marriage engagement—and I
was at the bottom of it. Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite had his own
private reason for withdrawing all claim to the hand of his
charming cousin—and I discovered what it was.
In the second place, it was my good or ill fortune, I
hardly know which, to find myself personally involved—at the
period of which I am now writing—in the mystery of the
Indian Diamond. I had the honour of an interview, at my own
office, with an Oriental stranger of distinguished manners,
who was no other, unquestionably, than the chief of the
three Indians. Add to this, that I met with the celebrated
traveller, Mr. Murthwaite, the day afterwards, and that I
held a conversation with him on the subject of the
Moonstone, which has a very important bearing on later
events. And there you have the statement of my claims to
fill the position which I occupy in these pages.
The true story of the broken marriage engagement comes
first in point of time, and must therefore take the first
place in the present narrative. Tracing my way back along
the chain of events, from one end to the other, I find it
necessary to open the scene, oddly enough as you will think,
at the bedside of my excellent client and friend, the late
Sir John Verinder.
Sir John had his share—perhaps rather a large share—of
the more harmless and amiable of the weaknesses incidental
to humanity. Among these, I may mention as applicable to the
matter in hand, an invincible reluctance—so long as he
enjoyed his usual good health—to face the responsibility of
making his will. Lady Verinder exerted her influence to
rouse him to a sense of duty in this matter; and I exerted
my influence. He admitted the justice of our views—but he
went no further than that, until he found himself afflicted
with the illness which ultimately brought him to his grave.
Then, I was sent for at last, to take my client's
instructions on the subject of his will. They proved to be
the simplest instructions I had ever received in the whole
of my professional career.
Sir John was dozing, when I entered the room. He roused
himself at the sight of me.
"How do you do, Mr. Bruff?" he said. "I sha'n't be very
long about this. And then I'll go to sleep again." He looked
on with great interest while I collected pens, ink, and
paper. "Are you ready?" he asked. I bowed and took a dip of
ink, and waited for my instructions.
"I leave everything to my wife," said Sir John. "That's
all." He turned round on his pillow, and composed himself to
sleep again.
I was obliged to disturb him.
"Am I to understand," I asked, "that you leave the whole
of the property, of every sort and description, of which you
die possessed, absolutely to Lady Verinder?"
"Yes," said Sir John. "Only, I put it shorter. Why can't
you put it shorter, and let me go to sleep again? Everything
to my wife. That's my Will."
His property was entirely at his own disposal, and was of
two kinds. Property in land (I purposely abstain from using
technical language), and property in money. In the majority
of cases, I am afraid I should have felt it my duty to my
client to ask him to reconsider his Will. In the case of Sir
John, I knew Lady Verinder to be, not only worthy of the
unreserved trust which her husband had placed in her (all
good wives are worthy of that)—but to be also capable of
properly administering a trust (which, in my experience of
the fair sex, not one in a thousand of them is competent to
do). In ten minutes, Sir John's Will was drawn, and
executed, and Sir John himself, good man, was finishing his
interrupted nap.
Lady Verinder amply justified the confidence which her
husband had placed in her. In the first days of her
widowhood, she sent for me, and made her Will. The view she
took of her position was so thoroughly sound and sensible,
that I was relieved of all necessity for advising her. My
responsibility began and ended with shaping her instructions
into the proper legal form. Before Sir John had been a
fortnight in his grave, the future of his daughter had been
most wisely and most affectionately provided for.
The Will remained in its fireproof box at my office,
through more years than I Like to reckon up. It was not till
the summer of eighteen hundred and forty-eight that I found
occasion to look at it again under very melancholy
circumstances.
At the date I have mentioned, the doctors pronounced the
sentence on poor Lady Verinder, which was literally a
sentence of death. I was the first person whom she informed
of her situation; and I found her anxious to go over her
Will again with me.
It was impossible to improve the provisions relating to
her daughter. But, in the lapse of time, her wishes in
regard to certain minor legacies, left to different
relatives, had undergone some modification; and it became
necessary to add three or four Codicils to the original
document. Having done this at once, for fear of accident, I
obtained her ladyship's permission to embody her recent
instructions in a second Will. My object was to avoid
certain inevitable confusions and repetitions which now
disfigured the original document, and which, to own the
truth, grated sadly on my professional sense of the fitness
of things.
The execution of this second Will has been described by
Miss Clack, who was so obliging as to witness it. So far as
regarded Rachel Verinder's pecuniary interests, it was, word
for word, the exact counterpart of the first Will. The only
changes introduced related to the appointment of a guardian,
and to certain provisions concerning that appointment, which
were made under my advice. On Lady Verinder's death, the
Will was placed in the hands of my proctor to be "proved"
(as the phrase is) in the usual way.
In about three weeks from that time—as well as I can
remember—the first warning reached me of something unusual
going on under the surface. I happened to be looking in at
my friend the proctor's office, and I observed that he
received me with an appearance of greater interest than
usual.
"I have some news for you," he said. "What do you think I
heard at Doctors' Commons this morning? Lady Verinder's Will
has been asked for, and examined, already!"
This was news indeed! There was absolutely nothing which
could be contested in the Will; and there was nobody I could
think of who had the slightest interest in examining it. (I
shall perhaps do well if I explain in this place, for the
benefit of the few people who don't know it already, that
the law allows all Wills to be examined at Doctors' Commons
by anybody who applies, on the payment of a shilling fee.)
"Did you hear who asked for the Will?" I asked.
"Yes; the clerk had no hesitation in telling ME. Mr.
Smalley, of the firm of Skipp and Smalley, asked for it. The
Will has not been copied yet into the great Folio Registers.
So there was no alternative but to depart from the usual
course, and to let him see the original document. He looked
it over carefully, and made a note in his pocket-book. Have
you any idea of what he wanted with it?"
I shook my head. "I shall find out," I answered, "before
I am a day older." With that I went back at once to my own
office.
If any other firm of solicitors had been concerned in
this unaccountable examination of my deceased client's Will,
I might have found some difficulty in making the necessary
discovery. But I had a hold over Skipp and Smalley which
made my course in this matter a comparatively easy one. My
common-law clerk (a most competent and excellent man) was a
brother of Mr. Smalley's; and, owing to this sort of
indirect connection with me, Skipp and Smalley had, for some
years past, picked up the crumbs that fell from my table, in
the shape of cases brought to my office, which, for various
reasons, I did not think it worth while to undertake. My
professional patronage was, in this way, of some importance
to the firm. I intended, if necessary, to remind them of
that patronage, on the present occasion.
The moment I got back I spoke to my clerk; and, after
telling him what had happened, I sent him to his brother's
office, "with Mr. Bruff's compliments, and he would be glad
to know why Messrs. Skipp and Smalley had found it necessary
to examine Lady Verinder's will."
This message brought Mr. Smalley back to my office in
company with his brother. He acknowledged that he had acted
under instructions received from a client. And then he put
it to me, whether it would not be a breach of professional
confidence on his part to say more.
We had a smart discussion upon that. He was right, no
doubt; and I was wrong. The truth is, I was angry and
suspicious—and I insisted on knowing more. Worse still, I
declined to consider any additional information offered me,
as a secret placed in my keeping: I claimed perfect freedom
to use my own discretion. Worse even than that, I took an
unwarrantable advantage of my position. "Choose, sir," I
said to Mr. Smalley, "between the risk of losing your
client's business and the risk of losing Mine." Quite
indefensible, I admit—an act of tyranny, and nothing less.
Like other tyrants, I carried my point. Mr. Smalley chose
his alternative, without a moment's hesitation.
He smiled resignedly, and gave up the name of his client:
Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite.
That was enough for me—I wanted to know no more.
Having reached this point in my narrative, it now becomes
necessary to place the reader of these lines—so far as Lady
Verinder's Will is concerned—on a footing of perfect
equality, in respect of information, with myself.
Let me state, then, in the fewest possible words, that
Rachel Verinder had nothing but a life-interest in the
property. Her mother's excellent sense, and my long
experience, had combined to relieve her of all
responsibility, and to guard her from all danger of becoming
the victim in the future of some needy and unscrupulous man.
Neither she, nor her husband (if she married), could raise
sixpence, either on the property in land, or on the property
in money. They would have the houses in London and in
Yorkshire to live in, and they would have the handsome
income—and that was all.
When I came to think over what I had discovered, I was
sorely perplexed what to do next.
Hardly a week had passed since I had heard (to my
surprise and distress) of Miss Verinder's proposed marriage.
I had the sincerest admiration and affection for her; and I
had been inexpressibly grieved when I heard that she was
about to throw herself away on Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite. And
now, here was the man—whom I had always believed to be a
smooth-tongued impostor—justifying the very worst that I had
thought of him, and plainly revealing the mercenary object
of the marriage, on his side! And what of that?—you may
reply—the thing is done every day. Granted, my dear sir. But
would you think of it quite as lightly as you do, if the
thing was done (let us say) with your own sister?
The first consideration which now naturally occurred to
me was this. Would Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite hold to his
engagement, after what his lawyer had discovered for him?
It depended entirely on his pecuniary position, of which
I knew nothing. If that position was not a desperate one, it
would be well worth his while to marry Miss Verinder for her
income alone. If, on the other hand, he stood in urgent need
of realising a large sum by a given time, then Lady
Verinder's Will would exactly meet the case, and would
preserve her daughter from falling into a scoundrel's hands.
In the latter event, there would be no need for me to
distress Miss Rachel, in the first days of her mourning for
her mother, by an immediate revelation of the truth. In the
former event, if I remained silent, I should be conniving at
a marriage which would make her miserable for life.
My doubts ended in my calling at the hotel in London, at
which I knew Mrs. Ablewhite and Miss Verinder to be staying.
They informed me that they were going to Brighton the next
day, and that an unexpected obstacle prevented Mr. Godfrey
Ablewhite from accompanying them. I at once proposed to take
his place. While I was only thinking of Rachel Verinder, it
was possible to hesitate. When I actually saw her, my mind
was made up directly, come what might of it, to tell her the
truth.
I found my opportunity, when I was out walking with her,
on the day after my arrival.
"May I speak to you," I asked, "about your marriage
engagement?"
"Yes," she said, indifferently, "if you have nothing more
interesting to talk about."
"Will you forgive an old friend and servant of your
family, Miss Rachel, if I venture on asking whether your
heart is set on this marriage?"
"I am marrying in despair, Mr. Bruff—on the chance of
dropping into some sort of stagnant happiness which may
reconcile me to my life."
Strong language! and suggestive of something below the
surface, in the shape of a romance. But I had my own object
in view, and I declined (as we lawyers say) to pursue the
question into its side issues.
"Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite can hardly be of your way of
thinking," I said. "HIS heart must be set on the marriage at
any rate?"
"He says so, and I suppose I ought to believe him. He
would hardly marry me, after what I have owned to him,
unless he was fond of me."
Poor thing! the bare idea of a man marrying her for his
own selfish and mercenary ends had never entered her head.
The task I had set myself began to look like a harder task
than I had bargained for.
"It sounds strangely," I went on, "in my old-fashioned
ears——"
"What sounds strangely?" she asked.
"To hear you speak of your future husband as if you were
not quite sure of the sincerity of his attachment. Are you
conscious of any reason in your own mind for doubting him?"
Her astonishing quickness of perception, detected a
change in my voice, or my manner, when I put that question,
which warned her that I had been speaking all along with
some ulterior object in view. She stopped, and taking her
arm out of mine, looked me searchingly in the face.
"Mr. Bruff," she said, "you have something to tell me
about Godfrey Ablewhite. Tell it."
I knew her well enough to take her at her word. I told
it.
She put her arm again into mine, and walked on with me
slowly. I felt her hand tightening its grasp mechanically on
my arm, and I saw her getting paler and paler as I went
on—but, not a word passed her lips while I was speaking.
When I had done, she still kept silence. Her head drooped a
little, and she walked by my side, unconscious of my
presence, unconscious of everything about her; lost—buried,
I might almost say—in her own thoughts.
I made no attempt to disturb her. My experience of her
disposition warned me, on this, as on former occasions, to
give her time.
The first instinct of girls in general, on being told of
anything which interests them, is to ask a multitude of
questions, and then to run off, and talk it all over with
some favourite friend. Rachel Verinder's first instinct,
under similar circumstances, was to shut herself up in her
own mind, and to think it over by herself. This absolute
self-dependence is a great virtue in a man. In a woman it
has a serious drawback of morally separating her from the
mass of her sex, and so exposing her to misconstruction by
the general opinion. I strongly suspect myself of thinking
as the rest of the world think in this matter—except in the
case of Rachel Verinder. The self-dependence in HER
character, was one of its virtues in my estimation; partly,
no doubt, because I sincerely admired and liked her; partly,
because the view I took of her connexion with the loss of
the Moonstone was based on my own special knowledge of her
disposition. Badly as appearances might look, in the matter
of the Diamond—shocking as it undoubtedly was to know that
she was associated in any way with the mystery of an
undiscovered theft—I was satisfied nevertheless that she had
done nothing unworthy of her, because I was also satisfied
that she had not stirred a step in the business, without
shutting herself up in her own mind, and thinking it over
first.
We had walked on, for nearly a mile I should say before
Rachel roused herself. She suddenly looked up at me with a
faint reflection of her smile of happier times—the most
irresistible smile I have ever seen on a woman's face.
"I owe much already to your kindness," she said. "And I
feel more deeply indebted to it now than ever. If you hear
any rumours of my marriage when you get back to London
contradict them at once, on my authority."
"Have you resolved to break your engagement?" I asked.
"Can you doubt it?" she returned proudly, "after what you
have told me!"
"My dear Miss Rachel, you are very young—and you may find
more difficulty in withdrawing from your present position
than you anticipate. Have you no one—I mean a lady, of
course—whom you could consult?"
"No one," she answered.
It distressed me, it did indeed distress me, to hear her
say that. She was so young and so lonely—and she bore it so
well! The impulse to help her got the better of any sense of
my own unfitness which I might have felt under the
circumstances; and I stated such ideas on the subject as
occurred to me on the spur of the moment, to the best of my
ability. I have advised a prodigious number of clients, and
have dealt with some exceedingly awkward difficulties, in my
time. But this was the first occasion on which I had ever
found myself advising a young lady how to obtain her release
from a marriage engagement. The suggestion I offered
amounted briefly to this. I recommended her to tell Mr.
Godfrey Ablewhite—at a private interview, of course—that he
had, to her certain knowledge, betrayed the mercenary nature
of the motive on his side. She was then to add that their
marriage, after what she had discovered, was a simple
impossibility—and she was to put it to him, whether he
thought it wisest to secure her silence by falling in with
her views, or to force her, by opposing them, to make the
motive under which she was acting generally known. If he
attempted to defend himself, or to deny the facts, she was,
in that event, to refer him to ME.
Miss Verinder listened attentively till I had done. She
then thanked me very prettily for my advice, but informed me
at the same time that it was impossible for her to follow
it.
"May I ask," I said, "what objection you see to following
it?"
She hesitated—and then met me with a question on her
side.
"Suppose you were asked to express your opinion of Mr.
Godfrey Ablewhite's conduct?" she began.
"Yes?"
"What would you call it?"
"I should call it the conduct of a meanly deceitful man."
"Mr. Bruff! I have believed in that man. I have promised
to marry that man. How can I tell him he is mean, how can I
tell him he has deceived me, how can I disgrace him in the
eyes of the world after that? I have degraded myself by ever
thinking of him as my husband. If I say what you tell me to
say to him—I am owning that I have degraded myself to his
face. I can't do that. After what has passed between us, I
can't do that! The shame of it would be nothing to HIM. But
the shame of it would be unendurable to me."
Here was another of the marked peculiarities in her
character disclosing itself to me without reserve. Here was
her sensitive horror of the bare contact with anything mean,
blinding her to every consideration of what she owed to
herself, hurrying her into a false position which might
compromise her in the estimation of all her friends! Up to
this time, I had been a little diffident about the propriety
of the advice I had given to her. But, after what she had
just said, I had no sort of doubt that it was the best
advice that could have been offered; and I felt no sort of
hesitation in pressing it on her again.
She only shook her head, and repeated her objection in
other words.
"He has been intimate enough with me to ask me to be his
wife. He has stood high enough in my estimation to obtain my
consent. I can't tell him to his face that he is the most
contemptible of living creatures, after that!"
"But, my dear Miss Rachel," I remonstrated, "it's equally
impossible for you to tell him that you withdraw from your
engagement without giving some reason for it."
"I shall say that I have thought it over, and that I am
satisfied it will be best for both of us if we part.
"No more than that?"
"No more."
"Have you thought of what he may say, on his side?"
"He may say what he pleases."
It was impossible not to admire her delicacy and her
resolution, and it was equally impossible not to feel that
she was putting herself in the wrong. I entreated her to
consider her own position I reminded her that she would be
exposing herself to the most odious misconstruction of her
motives. "You can't brave public opinion," I said, "at the
command of private feeling."
"I can," she answered. "I have done it already."
"What do you mean?"
"You have forgotten the Moonstone, Mr. Bruff. Have I not
braved public opinion, THERE, with my own private reasons
for it?"
Her answer silenced me for the moment. It set me trying
to trace the explanation of her conduct, at the time of the
loss of the Moonstone, out of the strange avowal which had
just escaped her. I might perhaps have done it when I was
younger. I certainly couldn't do it now.
I tried a last remonstrance before we returned to the
house. She was just as immovable as ever. My mind was in a
strange conflict of feelings about her when I left her that
day. She was obstinate; she was wrong. She was interesting;
she was admirable; she was deeply to be pitied. I made her
promise to write to me the moment she had any news to send.
And I went back to my business in London, with a mind
exceedingly ill at ease.
On the evening of my return, before it was possible for
me to receive my promised letter, I was surprised by a visit
from Mr. Ablewhite the elder, and was informed that Mr.
Godfrey had got his dismissal—AND HAD ACCEPTED IT—that very
day.
With the view I already took of the case, the bare fact
stated in the words that I have underlined, revealed Mr.
Godfrey Ablewhite's motive for submission as plainly as if
he had acknowledged it himself. He needed a large sum of
money; and he needed it by a given time. Rachel's income,
which would have helped him to anything else, would not help
him here; and Rachel had accordingly released herself,
without encountering a moment's serious opposition on his
part. If I am told that this is a mere speculation, I ask,
in my turn, what other theory will account for his giving up
a marriage which would have maintained him in splendour for
the rest of his life?
Any exultation I might otherwise have felt at the lucky
turn which things had now taken, was effectually checked by
what passed at my interview with old Mr. Ablewhite.
He came, of course, to know whether I could give him any
explanation of Miss Verinder's extraordinary conduct. It is
needless to say that I was quite unable to afford him the
information he wanted. The annoyance which I thus inflicted,
following on the irritation produced by a recent interview
with his son, threw Mr. Ablewhite off his guard. Both his
looks and his language convinced me that Miss Verinder would
find him a merciless man to deal with, when he joined the
ladies at Brighton the next day.
I had a restless night, considering what I ought to do
next. How my reflections ended, and how thoroughly well
founded my distrust of Mr. Ablewhite proved to be, are items
of information which (as I am told) have already been put
tidily in their proper places, by that exemplary person,
Miss Clack. I have only to add—in completion of her
narrative—that Miss Verinder found the quiet and repose
which she sadly needed, poor thing, in my house at
Hampstead. She honoured us by making a long stay. My wife
and daughters were charmed with her; and, when the executors
decided on the appointment of a new guardian, I feel sincere
pride and pleasure in recording that my guest and my family
parted like old friends, on either side.
CHAPTER II
The next thing I have to do, is to present such
additional information as I possess on the subject of the
Moonstone, or, to speak more correctly, on the subject of
the Indian plot to steal the Diamond. The little that I have
to tell is (as I think I have already said) of some
importance, nevertheless, in respect of its bearing very
remarkably on events which are still to come.
About a week or ten days after Miss Verinder had left us,
one of my clerks entered the private room at my office, with
a card in his hand, and informed me that a gentleman was
below, who wanted to speak to me.
I looked at the card. There was a foreign name written on
it, which has escaped my memory. It was followed by a line
written in English at the bottom of the card, which I
remember perfectly well:
"Recommended by Mr. Septimus Luker."
The audacity of a person in Mr. Luker's position
presuming to recommend anybody to me, took me so completely
by surprise, that I sat silent for the moment, wondering
whether my own eyes had not deceived me. The clerk,
observing my bewilderment, favoured me with the result of
his own observation of the stranger who was waiting
downstairs.
"He is rather a remarkable-looking man, sir. So dark in
the complexion that we all set him down in the office for an
Indian, or something of that sort."
Associating the clerk's idea with the line inscribed on
the card in my hand, I thought it possible that the
Moonstone might be at the bottom of Mr. Luker's
recommendation, and of the stranger's visit at my office. To
the astonishment of my clerk, I at once decided on granting
an interview to the gentleman below.
In justification of the highly unprofessional sacrifice
to mere curiosity which I thus made, permit me to remind
anybody who may read these lines, that no living person (in
England, at any rate) can claim to have had such an intimate
connexion with the romance of the Indian Diamond as mine has
been. I was trusted with the secret of Colonel Herncastle's
plan for escaping assassination. I received the Colonel's
letters, periodically reporting himself a living man. I drew
his Will, leaving the Moonstone to Miss Verinder. I
persuaded his executor to act, on the chance that the jewel
might prove to be a valuable acquisition to the family. And,
lastly, I combated Mr. Franklin Blake's scruples, and
induced him to be the means of transporting the Diamond to
Lady Verinder's house. If anyone can claim a prescriptive
right of interest in the Moonstone, and in everything
connected with it, I think it is hardly to be denied that I
am the man.
The moment my mysterious client was shown in, I felt an
inner conviction that I was in the presence of one of the
three Indians—probably of the chief. He was carefully
dressed in European costume. But his swarthy complexion, his
long lithe figure, and his grave and graceful politeness of
manner were enough to betray his Oriental origin to any
intelligent eyes that looked at him.
I pointed to a chair, and begged to be informed of the
nature of his business with me.
After first apologising—in an excellent selection of
English words—for the liberty which he had taken in
disturbing me, the Indian produced a small parcel the outer
covering of which was of cloth of gold. Removing this and a
second wrapping of some silken fabric, he placed a little
box, or casket, on my table, most beautifully and richly
inlaid in jewels, on an ebony ground.
"I have come, sir," he said, "to ask you to lend me some
money. And I leave this as an assurance to you that my debt
will be paid back."
I pointed to his card. "And you apply to me," I rejoined,
"at Mr. Luker's recommendation?"
The Indian bowed.
"May I ask how it is that Mr. Luker himself did not
advance the money that you require?"
"Mr. Luker informed me, sir, that he had no money to
lend."
"And so he recommended you to come to me?"
The Indian, in his turn, pointed to the card. "It is
written there," he said.
Briefly answered, and thoroughly to the purpose! If the
Moonstone had been in my possession, this Oriental gentleman
would have murdered me, I am well aware, without a moment's
hesitation. At the same time, and barring that slight
drawback, I am bound to testify that he was the perfect
model of a client. He might not have respected my life. But
he did what none of my own countrymen had ever done, in all
my experience of them—he respected my time.
"I am sorry," I said, "that you should have had the
trouble of coming to me. Mr. Luker is quite mistaken in
sending you here. I am trusted, like other men in my
profession, with money to lend. But I never lend it to
strangers, and I never lend it on such a security as you
have produced."
Far from attempting, as other people would have done, to
induce me to relax my own rules, the Indian only made me
another bow, and wrapped up his box in its two coverings
without a word of protest. He rose—this admirable assassin
rose to go, the moment I had answered him!
"Will your condescension towards a stranger, excuse my
asking one question," he said, "before I take my leave?"
I bowed on my side. Only one question at parting! The
average in my experience was fifty.
"Supposing, sir, it had been possible (and customary) for
you to lend me the money," he said, "in what space of time
would it have been possible (and customary) for me to pay it
back?"
"According to the usual course pursued in this country,"
I answered, "you would have been entitled to pay the money
back (if you liked) in one year's time from the date at
which it was first advanced to you."
The Indian made me a last bow, the lowest of all—and
suddenly and softly walked out of the room.
It was done in a moment, in a noiseless, supple, cat-like
way, which a little startled me, I own. As soon as I was
composed enough to think, I arrived at one distinct
conclusion in reference to the otherwise incomprehensible
visitor who had favoured me with a call.
His face, voice, and manner—while I was in his
company—were under such perfect control that they set all
scrutiny at defiance. But he had given me one chance of
looking under the smooth outer surface of him, for all that.
He had not shown the slightest sign of attempting to fix
anything that I had said to him in his mind, until I
mentioned the time at which it was customary to permit the
earliest repayment, on the part of a debtor, of money that
had been advanced as a loan. When I gave him that piece of
information, he looked me straight in the face, while I was
speaking, for the first time. The inference I drew from this
was—that he had a special purpose in asking me his last
question, and a special interest in hearing my answer to it.
The more carefully I reflected on what had passed between
us, the more shrewdly I suspected the production of the
casket, and the application for the loan, of having been
mere formalities, designed to pave the way for the parting
inquiry addressed to me.
I had satisfied myself of the correctness of this
conclusion—and was trying to get on a step further, and
penetrate the Indian's motives next—when a letter was
brought to me, which proved to be from no less a person that
Mr. Septimus Luker himself. He asked my pardon in terms of
sickening servility, and assured me that he could explain
matters to my satisfaction, if I would honour him by
consenting to a personal interview.
I made another unprofessional sacrifice to mere
curiosity. I honoured him by making an appointment at my
office, for the next day.
Mr. Luker was, in every respect, such an inferior
creature to the Indian—he was so vulgar, so ugly, so
cringing, and so prosy—that he is quite unworthy of being
reported, at any length, in these pages. The substance of
what he had to tell me may be fairly stated as follows:
The day before I had received the visit of the Indian,
Mr. Luker had been favoured with a call from that
accomplished gentleman. In spite of his European disguise,
Mr. Luker had instantly identified his visitor with the
chief of the three Indians, who had formerly annoyed him by
loitering about his house, and who had left him no
alternative but to consult a magistrate. From this startling
discovery he had rushed to the conclusion (naturally enough
I own) that he must certainly be in the company of one of
the three men, who had blindfolded him, gagged him, and
robbed him of his banker's receipt. The result was that he
became quite paralysed with terror, and that he firmly
believed his last hour had come.
On his side, the Indian preserved the character of a
perfect stranger. He produced the little casket, and made
exactly the same application which he had afterwards made to
me. As the speediest way of getting rid of him, Mr. Luker
had at once declared that he had no money. The Indian had
thereupon asked to be informed of the best and safest person
to apply to for the loan he wanted. Mr. Luker had answered
that the best and safest person, in such cases, was usually
a respectable solicitor. Asked to name some individual of
that character and profession, Mr. Luker had mentioned
me—for the one simple reason that, in the extremity of his
terror, mine was the first name which occurred to him. "The
perspiration was pouring off me like rain, sir," the
wretched creature concluded. "I didn't know what I was
talking about. And I hope you'll look over it, Mr. Bruff,
sir, in consideration of my having been really and truly
frightened out of my wits."
I excused the fellow graciously enough. It was the
readiest way of releasing myself from the sight of him.
Before he left me, I detained him to make one inquiry.
Had the Indian said anything noticeable, at the moment of
quitting Mr. Luker's house?
Yes! The Indian had put precisely the same question to
Mr. Luker, at parting, which he had put to me; receiving of
course, the same answer as the answer which I had given him.
What did it mean? Mr. Luker's explanation gave me no
assistance towards solving the problem. My own unaided
ingenuity, consulted next, proved quite unequal to grapple
with the difficulty. I had a dinner engagement that evening;
and I went upstairs, in no very genial frame of mind, little
suspecting that the way to my dressing-room and the way to
discovery, meant, on this particular occasion, one and the
same thing.
CHAPTER III
The prominent personage among the guests at the dinner
party I found to be Mr. Murthwaite.
On his appearance in England, after his wanderings,
society had been greatly interested in the traveller, as a
man who had passed through many dangerous adventures, and
who had escaped to tell the tale. He had now announced his
intention of returning to the scene of his exploits, and of
penetrating into regions left still unexplored. This
magnificent indifference to placing his safety in peril for
the second time, revived the flagging interest of the
worshippers in the hero. The law of chances was clearly
against his escaping on this occasion. It is not every day
that we can meet an eminent person at dinner, and feel that
there is a reasonable prospect of the news of his murder
being the news that we hear of him next.
When the gentlemen were left by themselves in the
dining-room, I found myself sitting next to Mr. Murthwaite.
The guests present being all English, it is needless to say
that, as soon as the wholesome check exercised by the
presence of the ladies was removed, the conversation turned
on politics as a necessary result.
In respect to this all-absorbing national topic, I happen
to be one of the most un-English Englishmen living. As a
general rule, political talk appears to me to be of all talk
the most dreary and the most profitless. Glancing at Mr.
Murthwaite, when the bottles had made their first round of
the table, I found that he was apparently of my way of
thinking. He was doing it very dexterously—with all possible
consideration for the feelings of his host—but it is not the
less certain that he was composing himself for a nap. It
struck me as an experiment worth attempting, to try whether
a judicious allusion to the subject of the Moonstone would
keep him awake, and, if it did, to see what HE thought of
the last new complication in the Indian conspiracy, as
revealed in the prosaic precincts of my office.
"If I am not mistaken, Mr. Murthwaite," I began, "you
were acquainted with the late Lady Verinder, and you took
some interest in the strange succession of events which
ended in the loss of the Moonstone?"
The eminent traveller did me the honour of waking up in
an instant, and asking me who I was.
I informed him of my professional connection with the
Herncastle family, not forgetting the curious position which
I had occupied towards the Colonel and his Diamond in the
bygone time.
Mr. Murthwaite shifted round in his chair, so as to put
the rest of the company behind him (Conservatives and
Liberals alike), and concentrated his whole attention on
plain Mr. Bruff, of Gray's Inn Square.
"Have you heard anything, lately, of the Indians?" he
asked.
"I have every reason to believe," I answered, "that one
of them had an interview with me, in my office, yesterday."
Mr. Murthwaite was not an easy man to astonish; but that
last answer of mine completely staggered him. I described
what had happened to Mr. Luker, and what had happened to
myself, exactly as I have described it here. "It is clear
that the Indian's parting inquiry had an object," I added.
"Why should he be so anxious to know the time at which a
borrower of money is usually privileged to pay the money
back?"
"Is it possible that you don't see his motive, Mr.
Bruff?"
"I am ashamed of my stupidity, Mr. Murthwaite—but I
certainly don't see it."
The great traveller became quite interested in sounding
the immense vacuity of my dulness to its lowest depths.
"Let me ask you one question," he said. "In what position
does the conspiracy to seize the Moonstone now stand?"
"I can't say," I answered. "The Indian plot is a mystery
to me."
"The Indian plot, Mr. Bruff, can only be a mystery to
you, because you have never seriously examined it. Shall we
run it over together, from the time when you drew Colonel
Herncastle's Will, to the time when the Indian called at
your office? In your position, it may be of very serious
importance to the interests of Miss Verinder, that you
should be able to take a clear view of this matter in case
of need. Tell me, bearing that in mind, whether you will
penetrate the Indian's motive for yourself? or whether you
wish me to save you the trouble of making any inquiry into
it?"
It is needless to say that I thoroughly appreciated the
practical purpose which I now saw that he had in view, and
that the first of the two alternatives was the alternative I
chose.
"Very good," said Mr. Murthwaite. "We will take the
question of the ages of the three Indians first. I can
testify that they all look much about the same age—and you
can decide for yourself, whether the man whom you saw was,
or was not, in the prime of life. Not forty, you think? My
idea too. We will say not forty. Now look back to the time
when Colonel Herncastle came to England, and when you were
concerned in the plan he adopted to preserve his life. I
don't want you to count the years. I will only say, it is
clear that these present Indians, at their age, must be the
successors of three other Indians (high caste Brahmins all
of them, Mr. Bruff, when they left their native country!)
who followed the Colonel to these shores. Very well. These
present men of ours have succeeded to the men who were here
before them. If they had only done that, the matter would
not have been worth inquiring into. But they have done more.
They have succeeded to the organisation which their
predecessors established in this country. Don't start! The
organisation is a very trumpery affair, according to our
ideas, I have no doubt. I should reckon it up as including
the command of money; the services, when needed, of that
shady sort of Englishman, who lives in the byways of foreign
life in London; and, lastly, the secret sympathy of such few
men of their own country, and (formerly, at least) of their
own religion, as happen to be employed in ministering to
some of the multitudinous wants of this great city. Nothing
very formidable, as you see! But worth notice at starting,
because we may find occasion to refer to this modest little
Indian organisation as we go on. Having now cleared the
ground, I am going to ask you a question; and I expect your
experience to answer it. What was the event which gave the
Indians their first chance of seizing the Diamond?"
I understood the allusion to my experience.
"The first chance they got," I replied, "was clearly
offered to them by Colonel Herncastle's death. They would be
aware of his death, I suppose, as a matter of course?"
"As a matter of course. And his death, as you say, gave
them their first chance. Up to that time the Moonstone was
safe in the strong-room of the bank. You drew the Colonel's
Will leaving his jewel to his niece; and the Will was proved
in the usual way. As a lawyer, you can be at no loss to know
what course the Indians would take (under English advice)
after THAT."
"They would provide themselves with a copy of the Will
from Doctors' Commons," I said.
"Exactly. One or other of those shady Englishmen to whom
I have alluded, would get them the copy you have described.
That copy would inform them that the Moonstone was
bequeathed to the daughter of Lady Verinder, and that Mr.
Blake the elder, or some person appointed by him, was to
place it in her hands. You will agree with me that the
necessary information about persons in the position of Lady
Verinder and Mr. Blake, would be perfectly easy information
to obtain. The one difficulty for the Indians would be to
decide whether they should make their attempt on the Diamond
when it was in course of removal from the keeping of the
bank, or whether they should wait until it was taken down to
Yorkshire to Lady Verinder's house. The second way would be
manifestly the safest way—and there you have the explanation
of the appearance of the Indians at Frizinghall, disguised
as jugglers, and waiting their time. In London, it is
needless to say, they had their organisation at their
disposal to keep them informed of events. Two men would do
it. One to follow anybody who went from Mr. Blake's house to
the bank. And one to treat the lower men servants with beer,
and to hear the news of the house. These commonplace
precautions would readily inform them that Mr. Franklin
Blake had been to the bank, and that Mr. Franklin Blake was
the only person in the house who was going to visit Lady
Verinder. What actually followed upon that discovery, you
remember, no doubt, quite as correctly as I do."
I remembered that Franklin Blake had detected one of the
spies, in the street—that he had, in consequence, advanced
the time of his arrival in Yorkshire by some hours—and that
(thanks to old Betteredge's excellent advice) he had lodged
the Diamond in the bank at Frizinghall, before the Indians
were so much as prepared to see him in the neighbourhood.
All perfectly clear so far. But the Indians being ignorant
of the precautions thus taken, how was it that they had made
no attempt on Lady Verinder's house (in which they must have
supposed the Diamond to be) through the whole of the
interval that elapsed before Rachel's birthday?
In putting this difficulty to Mr. Murthwaite, I thought
it right to add that I had heard of the little boy, and the
drop of ink, and the rest of it, and that any explanation
based on the theory of clairvoyance was an explanation which
would carry no conviction whatever with it, to MY mind.
"Nor to mine either," said Mr. Murthwaite. "The
clairvoyance in this case is simply a development of the
romantic side of the Indian character. It would be
refreshment and an encouragement to those men—quite
inconceivable, I grant you, to the English mind—to surround
their wearisome and perilous errand in this country with a
certain halo of the marvellous and the supernatural. Their
boy is unquestionably a sensitive subject to the mesmeric
influence—and, under that influence, he has no doubt
reflected what was already in the mind of the person
mesmerising him. I have tested the theory of
clairvoyance—and I have never found the manifestations get
beyond that point. The Indians don't investigate the matter
in this way; the Indians look upon their boy as a Seer of
things invisible to their eyes—and, I repeat, in that marvel
they find the source of a new interest in the purpose that
unites them. I only notice this as offering a curious view
of human character, which must be quite new to you. We have
nothing whatever to do with clairvoyance, or with mesmerism,
or with anything else that is hard of belief to a practical
man, in the inquiry that we are now pursuing. My object in
following the Indian plot, step by step, is to trace results
back, by rational means, to natural causes. Have I succeeded
to your satisfaction so far?"
"Not a doubt of it, Mr. Murthwaite! I am waiting,
however, with some anxiety, to hear the rational explanation
of the difficulty which I have just had the honour of
submitting to you."
Mr. Murthwaite smiled. "It's the easiest difficulty to
deal with of all," he said. "Permit me to begin by admitting
your statement of the case as a perfectly correct one. The
Indians were undoubtedly not aware of what Mr. Franklin
Blake had done with the Diamond—for we find them making
their first mistake, on the first night of Mr. Blake's
arrival at his aunt's house."
"Their first mistake?" I repeated.
"Certainly! The mistake of allowing themselves to be
surprised, lurking about the terrace at night, by Gabriel
Betteredge. However, they had the merit of seeing for
themselves that they had taken a false step—for, as you say,
again, with plenty of time at their disposal, they never
came near the house for weeks afterwards."
"Why, Mr. Murthwaite? That's what I want to know! Why?"
"Because no Indian, Mr. Bruff, ever runs an unnecessary
risk. The clause you drew in Colonel Herncastle's Will,
informed them (didn't it?) that the Moonstone was to pass
absolutely into Miss Verinder's possession on her birthday.
Very well. Tell me which was the safest course for men in
their position? To make their attempt on the Diamond while
it was under the control of Mr. Franklin Blake, who had
shown already that he could suspect and outwit them? Or to
wait till the Diamond was at the disposal of a young girl,
who would innocently delight in wearing the magnificent
jewel at every possible opportunity? Perhaps you want a
proof that my theory is correct? Take the conduct of the
Indians themselves as the proof. They appeared at the house,
after waiting all those weeks, on Miss Verinder's birthday;
and they were rewarded for the patient accuracy of their
calculations by seeing the Moonstone in the bosom of her
dress! When I heard the story of the Colonel and the
Diamond, later in the evening, I felt so sure about the risk
Mr. Franklin Blake had run (they would have certainly
attacked him, if he had not happened to ride back to Lady
Verinder's in the company of other people); and I was so
strongly convinced of the worse risk still, in store for
Miss Verinder, that I recommended following the Colonel's
plan, and destroying the identity of the gem by having it
cut into separate stones. How its extraordinary
disappearance that night, made my advice useless, and
utterly defeated the Hindoo plot—and how all further action
on the part of the Indians was paralysed the next day by
their confinement in prison as rogues and vagabonds—you know
as well as I do. The first act in the conspiracy closes
there. Before we go on to the second, may I ask whether I
have met your difficulty, with an explanation which is
satisfactory to the mind of a practical man?"
It was impossible to deny that he had met my difficulty
fairly; thanks to his superior knowledge of the Indian
character—and thanks to his not having had hundreds of other
Wills to think of since Colonel Herncastle's time!
"So far, so good," resumed Mr. Murthwaite. "The first
chance the Indians had of seizing the Diamond was a chance
lost, on the day when they were committed to the prison at
Frizinghall. When did the second chance offer itself? The
second chance offered itself—as I am in a condition to
prove—while they were still in confinement."
He took out his pocket-book, and opened it at a
particular leaf, before he went on.
"I was staying," he resumed, "with some friends at
Frizinghall, at the time. A day or two before the Indians
were set free (on a Monday, I think), the governor of the
prison came to me with a letter. It had been left for the
Indians by one Mrs. Macann, of whom they had hired the
lodging in which they lived; and it had been delivered at
Mrs. Macann's door, in ordinary course of post, on the
previous morning. The prison authorities had noticed that
the postmark was 'Lambeth,' and that the address on the
outside, though expressed in correct English, was, in form,
oddly at variance with the customary method of directing a
letter. On opening it, they had found the contents to be
written in a foreign language, which they rightly guessed at
as Hindustani. Their object in coming to me was, of course,
to have the letter translated to them. I took a copy in my
pocket-book of the original, and of my translation—and there
they are at your service."
He handed me the open pocket-book. The address on the
letter was the first thing copied. It was all written in one
paragraph, without any attempt at punctuation, thus: "To the
three Indian men living with the lady called Macann at
Frizinghall in Yorkshire." The Hindoo characters followed;
and the English translation appeared at the end, expressed
in these mysterious words:
"In the name of the Regent of the Night, whose seat is on
the Antelope, whose arms embrace the four corners of the
earth.
"Brothers, turn your faces to the south, and come to me
in the street of many noises, which leads down to the muddy
river.
"The reason is this.
"My own eyes have seen it."
There the letter ended, without either date or signature.
I handed it back to Mr. Murthwaite, and owned that this
curious specimen of Hindoo correspondence rather puzzled me.
"I can explain the first sentence to you," he said; "and
the conduct of the Indians themselves will explain the rest.
The god of the moon is represented, in the Hindoo mythology,
as a four-armed deity, seated on an antelope; and one of his
titles is the regent of the night. Here, then, to begin
with, is something which looks suspiciously like an indirect
reference to the Moonstone. Now, let us see what the Indians
did, after the prison authorities had allowed them to
receive their letter. On the very day when they were set
free they went at once to the railway station, and took
their places in the first train that started for London. We
all thought it a pity at Frizinghall that their proceedings
were not privately watched. But, after Lady Verinder had
dismissed the police-officer, and had stopped all further
inquiry into the loss of the Diamond, no one else could
presume to stir in the matter. The Indians were free to go
to London, and to London they went. What was the next news
we heard of them, Mr. Bruff?"
"They were annoying Mr. Luker," I answered, "by loitering
about the house at Lambeth."
"Did you read the report of Mr. Luker's application to
the magistrate?"
"Yes."
"In the course of his statement he referred, if you
remember, to a foreign workman in his employment, whom he
had just dismissed on suspicion of attempted theft, and whom
he also distrusted as possibly acting in collusion with the
Indians who had annoyed him. The inference is pretty plain,
Mr. Bruff, as to who wrote that letter which puzzled you
just now, and as to which of Mr. Luker's Oriental treasures
the workman had attempted to steal."
The inference (as I hastened to acknowledge) was too
plain to need being pointed out. I had never doubted that
the Moonstone had found its way into Mr. Luker's hands, at
the time Mr. Murthwaite alluded to. My only question had
been, How had the Indians discovered the circumstance? This
question (the most difficult to deal with of all, as I had
thought) had now received its answer, like the rest. Lawyer
as I was, I began to feel that I might trust Mr. Murthwaite
to lead me blindfold through the last windings of the
labyrinth, along which he had guided me thus far. I paid him
the compliment of telling him this, and found my little
concession very graciously received.
"You shall give me a piece of information in your turn
before we go on," he said. "Somebody must have taken the
Moonstone from Yorkshire to London. And somebody must have
raised money on it, or it would never have been in Mr.
Luker's possession. Has there been any discovery made of who
that person was?"
"None that I know of."
"There was a story (was there not?) about Mr. Godfrey
Ablewhite. I am told he is an eminent philanthropist—which
is decidedly against him, to begin with."
I heartily agreed in this with Mr. Murthwaite. At the
same time, I felt bound to inform him (without, it is
needless to say, mentioning Miss Verinder's name) that Mr.
Godfrey Ablewhite had been cleared of all suspicion, on
evidence which I could answer for as entirely beyond
dispute.
"Very well," said Mr. Murthwaite, quietly, "let us leave
it to time to clear the matter up. In the meanwhile, Mr.
Bruff, we must get back again to the Indians, on your
account. Their journey to London simply ended in their
becoming the victims of another defeat. The loss of their
second chance of seizing the Diamond is mainly attributable,
as I think, to the cunning and foresight of Mr. Luker—who
doesn't stand at the top of the prosperous and ancient
profession of usury for nothing! By the prompt dismissal of
the man in his employment, he deprived the Indians of the
assistance which their confederate would have rendered them
in getting into the house. By the prompt transport of the
Moonstone to his banker's, he took the conspirators by
surprise before they were prepared with a new plan for
robbing him. How the Indians, in this latter case, suspected
what he had done, and how they contrived to possess
themselves of his banker's receipt, are events too recent to
need dwelling on. Let it be enough to say that they know the
Moonstone to be once more out of their reach; deposited
(under the general description of 'a valuable of great
price') in a banker's strong room. Now, Mr. Bruff, what is
their third chance of seizing the Diamond? and when will it
come?"
As the question passed his lips, I penetrated the motive
of the Indian's visit to my office at last!
"I see it!" I exclaimed. "The Indians take it for
granted, as we do, that the Moonstone has been pledged; and
they want to be certainly informed of the earliest period at
which the pledge can be redeemed—because that will be the
earliest period at which the Diamond can be removed from the
safe keeping of the bank!"
"I told you you would find it out for yourself, Mr.
Bruff, if I only gave you a fair chance. In a year from the
time when the Moonstone was pledged, the Indians will be on
the watch for their third chance. Mr. Luker's own lips have
told them how long they will have to wait, and your
respectable authority has satisfied them that Mr. Luker has
spoken the truth. When do we suppose, at a rough guess, that
the Diamond found its way into the money-lender's hands?"
"Towards the end of last June," I answered, "as well as I
can reckon it."
"And we are now in the year 'forty-eight. Very good. If
the unknown person who has pledged the Moonstone can redeem
it in a year, the jewel will be in that person's possession
again at the end of June, 'forty-nine. I shall be thousands
of miles from England and English news at that date. But it
may be worth YOUR while to take a note of it, and to arrange
to be in London at the time."
"You think something serious will happen?" I said.
"I think I shall be safer," he answered, "among the
fiercest fanatics of Central Asia than I should be if I
crossed the door of the bank with the Moonstone in my
pocket. The Indians have been defeated twice running, Mr.
Bruff. It's my firm belief that they won't be defeated a
third time."
Those were the last words he said on the subject. The
coffee came in; the guests rose, and dispersed themselves
about the room; and we joined the ladies of the dinner-party
upstairs.
I made a note of the date, and it may not be amiss if I
close my narrative by repeating that note here:
JUNE, 'FORTY-NINE. EXPECT NEWS OF THE INDIANS, TOWARDS
THE END OF THE MONTH.
And that done, I hand the pen, which I have now no
further claim to use, to the writer who follows me next.

THIRD NARRATIVE
Contributed by FRANKLIN BLAKE
CHAPTER I
In the spring of the year eighteen hundred and forty-nine
I was wandering in the East, and had then recently altered
the travelling plans which I had laid out some months
before, and which I had communicated to my lawyer and my
banker in London.
This change made it necessary for me to send one of my
servants to obtain my letters and remittances from the
English consul in a certain city, which was no longer
included as one of my resting-places in my new travelling
scheme. The man was to join me again at an appointed place
and time. An accident, for which he was not responsible,
delayed him on his errand. For a week I and my people
waited, encamped on the borders of a desert. At the end of
that time the missing man made his appearance, with the
money and the letters, at the entrance of my tent.
"I am afraid I bring you bad news, sir," he said, and
pointed to one of the letters, which had a mourning border
round it, and the address on which was in the handwriting of
Mr. Bruff.
I know nothing, in a case of this kind, so unendurable as
suspense. The letter with the mourning border was the letter
that I opened first.
It informed me that my father was dead, and that I was
heir to his great fortune. The wealth which had thus fallen
into my hands brought its responsibilities with it, and Mr.
Bruff entreated me to lose no time in returning to England.
By daybreak the next morning, I was on my way back to my
own country.
The picture presented of me, by my old friend Betteredge,
at the time of my departure from England, is (as I think) a
little overdrawn. He has, in his own quaint way, interpreted
seriously one of his young mistress's many satirical
references to my foreign education; and has persuaded
himself that he actually saw those French, German, and
Italian sides to my character, which my lively cousin only
professed to discover in jest, and which never had any real
existence, except in our good Betteredge's own brain. But,
barring this drawback, I am bound to own that he has stated
no more than the truth in representing me as wounded to the
heart by Rachel's treatment, and as leaving England in the
first keenness of suffering caused by the bitterest
disappointment of my life.
I went abroad, resolved—if change and absence could help
me—to forget her. It is, I am persuaded, no true view of
human nature which denies that change and absence DO help a
man under these circumstances; they force his attention away
from the exclusive contemplation of his own sorrow. I never
forgot her; but the pang of remembrance lost its worst
bitterness, little by little, as time, distance, and novelty
interposed themselves more and more effectually between
Rachel and me.
On the other hand, it is no less certain that, with the
act of turning homeward, the remedy which had gained its
ground so steadily, began now, just as steadily, to drop
back. The nearer I drew to the country which she inhabited,
and to the prospect of seeing her again, the more
irresistibly her influence began to recover its hold on me.
On leaving England she was the last person in the world
whose name I would have suffered to pass my lips. On
returning to England, she was the first person I inquired
after, when Mr. Bruff and I met again.
I was informed, of course, of all that had happened in my
absence; in other words, of all that has been related here
in continuation of Betteredge's narrative—one circumstance
only being excepted. Mr. Bruff did not, at that time, feel
himself at liberty to inform me of the motives which had
privately influenced Rachel and Godfrey Ablewhite in
recalling the marriage promise, on either side. I troubled
him with no embarrassing questions on this delicate subject.
It was relief enough to me, after the jealous disappointment
caused by hearing that she had ever contemplated being
Godfrey's wife, to know that reflection had convinced her of
acting rashly, and that she had effected her own release
from her marriage engagement.
Having heard the story of the past, my next inquiries
(still inquiries after Rachel!) advanced naturally to the
present time. Under whose care had she been placed after
leaving Mr. Bruff's house? and where was she living now?
She was living under the care of a widowed sister of the
late Sir John Verinder—one Mrs. Merridew—whom her mother's
executors had requested to act as guardian, and who had
accepted the proposal. They were reported to me as getting
on together admirably well, and as being now established,
for the season, in Mrs. Merridew's house in Portland Place.
Half an hour after receiving this information, I was on
my way to Portland Place—without having had the courage to
own it to Mr. Bruff!
The man who answered the door was not sure whether Miss
Verinder was at home or not. I sent him upstairs with my
card, as the speediest way of setting the question at rest.
The man came down again with an impenetrable face, and
informed me that Miss Verinder was out.
I might have suspected other people of purposely denying
themselves to me. But it was impossible to suspect Rachel. I
left word that I would call again at six o'clock that
evening.
At six o'clock I was informed for the second time that
Miss Verinder was not at home. Had any message been left for
me. No message had been left for me. Had Miss Verinder not
received my card? The servant begged my pardon—Miss Verinder
HAD received it.
The inference was too plain to be resisted. Rachel
declined to see me.
On my side, I declined to be treated in this way, without
making an attempt, at least, to discover a reason for it. I
sent up my name to Mrs. Merridew, and requested her to
favour me with a personal interview at any hour which it
might be most convenient to her to name.
Mrs. Merridew made no difficulty about receiving me at
once. I was shown into a comfortable little sitting-room,
and found myself in the presence of a comfortable little
elderly lady. She was so good as to feel great regret and
much surprise, entirely on my account. She was at the same
time, however, not in a position to offer me any
explanation, or to press Rachel on a matter which appeared
to relate to a question of private feeling alone. This was
said over and over again, with a polite patience that
nothing could tire; and this was all I gained by applying to
Mrs. Merridew.
My last chance was to write to Rachel. My servant took a
letter to her the next day, with strict instructions to wait
for an answer.
The answer came back, literally in one sentence.
"Miss Verinder begs to decline entering into any
correspondence with Mr. Franklin Blake."
Fond as I was of her, I felt indignantly the insult
offered to me in that reply. Mr. Bruff came in to speak to
me on business, before I had recovered possession of myself.
I dismissed the business on the spot, and laid the whole
case before him. He proved to be as incapable of
enlightening me as Mrs. Merridew herself. I asked him if any
slander had been spoken of me in Rachel's hearing. Mr. Bruff
was not aware of any slander of which I was the object. Had
she referred to me in any way while she was staying under
Mr. Bruff's roof? Never. Had she not so much as asked,
during all my long absence, whether I was living or dead? No
such question had ever passed her lips. I took out of my
pocket-book the letter which poor Lady Verinder had written
to me from Frizinghall, on the day when I left her house in
Yorkshire. And I pointed Mr. Bruff's attention to these two
sentences in it:
"The valuable assistance which you rendered to the
inquiry after the lost jewel is still an unpardoned offence,
in the present dreadful state of Rachel's mind. Moving
blindfold in this matter, you have added to the burden of
anxiety which she has had to bear, by innocently threatening
her secret with discovery through your exertions."
"Is it possible," I asked, "that the feeling towards me
which is there described, is as bitter as ever against me
now?"
Mr. Bruff looked unaffectedly distressed.
"If you insist on an answer," he said, "I own I can place
no other interpretation on her conduct than that."
I rang the bell, and directed my servant to pack my
portmanteau, and to send out for a railway guide. Mr. Bruff
asked, in astonishment, what I was going to do.
"I am going to Yorkshire," I answered, "by the next
train."
"May I ask for what purpose?"
"Mr. Bruff, the assistance I innocently rendered to the
inquiry after the Diamond was an unpardoned offence, in
Rachel's mind, nearly a year since; and it remains an
unpardoned offence still. I won't accept that position! I am
determined to find out the secret of her silence towards her
mother, and her enmity towards me. If time, pains, and money
can do it, I will lay my hand on the thief who took the
Moonstone!"
The worthy old gentleman attempted to remonstrate—to
induce me to listen to reason—to do his duty towards me, in
short. I was deaf to everything that he could urge. No
earthly consideration would, at that moment, have shaken the
resolution that was in me.
"I shall take up the inquiry again," I went on, "at the
point where I dropped it; and I shall follow it onwards,
step by step, till I come to the present time. There are
missing links in the evidence, as I left it, which Gabriel
Betteredge can supply, and to Gabriel Betteredge I go!"
Towards sunset that evening I stood again on the
well-remembered terrace, and looked once more at the
peaceful old country house. The gardener was the first
person whom I saw in the deserted grounds. He had left
Betteredge, an hour since, sunning himself in the customary
corner of the back yard. I knew it well; and I said I would
go and seek him myself.
I walked round by the familiar paths and passages, and
looked in at the open gate of the yard.
There he was—the dear old friend of the happy days that
were never to come again—there he was in the old corner, on
the old beehive chair, with his pipe in his mouth, and his
ROBINSON CRUSOE on his lap, and his two friends, the dogs,
dozing on either side of him! In the position in which I
stood, my shadow was projected in front of me by the last
slanting rays of the sun. Either the dogs saw it, or their
keen scent informed them of my approach; they started up
with a growl. Starting in his turn, the old man quieted them
by a word, and then shaded his failing eyes with his hand,
and looked inquiringly at the figure at the gate.
My own eyes were full of tears. I was obliged to wait a
moment before I could trust myself to speak to him.
CHAPTER II
"Betteredge!" I said, pointing to the well-remembered
book on his knee, "has ROBINSON CRUSOE informed you, this
evening, that you might expect to see Franklin Blake?"
"By the lord Harry, Mr. Franklin!" cried the old man,
"that's exactly what ROBINSON CRUSOE has done!"
He struggled to his feet with my assistance, and stood
for a moment, looking backwards and forwards between
ROBINSON CRUSOE and me, apparently at a loss to discover
which of us had surprised him most. The verdict ended in
favour of the book. Holding it open before him in both
hands, he surveyed the wonderful volume with a stare of
unutterable anticipation—as if he expected to see Robinson
Crusoe himself walk out of the pages, and favour us with a
personal interview.
"Here's the bit, Mr. Franklin!" he said, as soon as he
had recovered the use of his speech. "As I live by bread,
sir, here's the bit I was reading, the moment before you
came in! Page one hundred and fifty-six as follows:—'I stood
like one Thunderstruck, or as if I had seen an Apparition.'
If that isn't as much as to say: 'Expect the sudden
appearance of Mr. Franklin Blake'—there's no meaning in the
English language!" said Betteredge, closing the book with a
bang, and getting one of his hands free at last to take the
hand which I offered him.
I had expected him, naturally enough under the
circumstances, to overwhelm me with questions. But no—the
hospitable impulse was the uppermost impulse in the old
servant's mind, when a member of the family appeared (no
matter how!) as a visitor at the house.
"Walk in, Mr. Franklin," he said, opening the door behind
him, with his quaint old-fashioned bow. "I'll ask what
brings you here afterwards—I must make you comfortable
first. There have been sad changes, since you went away. The
house is shut up, and the servants are gone. Never mind
that! I'll cook your dinner; and the gardener's wife will
make your bed—and if there's a bottle of our famous Latour
claret left in the cellar, down your throat, Mr. Franklin,
that bottle shall go. I bid you welcome, sir! I bid you
heartily welcome!" said the poor old fellow, fighting
manfully against the gloom of the deserted house, and
receiving me with the sociable and courteous attention of
the bygone time.
It vexed me to disappoint him. But the house was Rachel's
house, now. Could I eat in it, or sleep in it, after what
had happened in London? The commonest sense of self-respect
forbade me—properly forbade me—to cross the threshold.
I took Betteredge by the arm, and led him out into the
garden. There was no help for it. I was obliged to tell him
the truth. Between his attachment to Rachel, and his
attachment to me, he was sorely puzzled and distressed at
the turn things had taken. His opinion, when he expressed
it, was given in his usual downright manner, and was
agreeably redolent of the most positive philosophy I
know—the philosophy of the Betteredge school.
"Miss Rachel has her faults—I've never denied it," he
began. "And riding the high horse, now and then, is one of
them. She has been trying to ride over you—and you have put
up with it. Lord, Mr. Franklin, don't you know women by this
time better than that? You have heard me talk of the late
Mrs. Betteredge?"
I had heard him talk of the late Mrs. Betteredge pretty
often—invariably producing her as his one undeniable example
of the inbred frailty and perversity of the other sex. In
that capacity he exhibited her now.
"Very well, Mr. Franklin. Now listen to me. Different
women have different ways of riding the high horse. The late
Mrs. Betteredge took her exercise on that favourite female
animal whenever I happened to deny her anything that she had
set her heart on. So sure as I came home from my work on
these occasions, so sure was my wife to call to me up the
kitchen stairs, and to say that, after my brutal treatment
of her, she hadn't the heart to cook me my dinner. I put up
with it for some time—just as you are putting up with it now
from Miss Rachel. At last my patience wore out. I went
downstairs, and I took Mrs. Betteredge—affectionately, you
understand—up in my arms, and carried her, holus-bolus, into
the best parlour where she received her company. I said
'That's the right place for you, my dear,' and so went back
to the kitchen. I locked myself in, and took off my coat,
and turned up my shirt-sleeves, and cooked my own dinner.
When it was done, I served it up in my best manner, and
enjoyed it most heartily. I had my pipe and my drop of grog
afterwards; and then I cleared the table, and washed the
crockery, and cleaned the knives and forks, and put the
things away, and swept up the hearth. When things were as
bright and clean again, as bright and clean could be, I
opened the door and let Mrs. Betteredge in. 'I've had my
dinner, my dear,' I said; 'and I hope you will find that I
have left the kitchen all that your fondest wishes can
desire.' For the rest of that woman's life, Mr. Franklin, I
never had to cook my dinner again! Moral: You have put up
with Miss Rachel in London; don't put up with her in
Yorkshire. Come back to the house!"
Quite unanswerable! I could only assure my good friend
that even HIS powers of persuasion were, in this case,
thrown away on me.
"It's a lovely evening," I said. "I shall walk to
Frizinghall, and stay at the hotel, and you must come
to-morrow morning and breakfast with me. I have something to
say to you."
Betteredge shook his head gravely.
"I am heartily sorry for this," he said. "I had hoped,
Mr. Franklin, to hear that things were all smooth and
pleasant again between you and Miss Rachel. If you must have
your own way, sir," he continued, after a moment's
reflection, "there is no need to go to Frizinghall to-night
for a bed. It's to be had nearer than that. There's
Hotherstone's Farm, barely two miles from here. You can
hardly object to THAT on Miss Rachel's account," the old man
added slily. "Hotherstone lives, Mr. Franklin, on his own
freehold."
I remembered the place the moment Betteredge mentioned
it. The farm-house stood in a sheltered inland valley, on
the banks of the prettiest stream in that part of Yorkshire:
and the farmer had a spare bedroom and parlour, which he was
accustomed to let to artists, anglers, and tourists in
general. A more agreeable place of abode, during my stay in
the neighbourhood, I could not have wished to find.
"Are the rooms to let?" I inquired.
"Mrs. Hotherstone herself, sir, asked for my good word to
recommend the rooms, yesterday."
"I'll take them, Betteredge, with the greatest pleasure."
We went back to the yard, in which I had left my
travelling-bag. After putting a stick through the handle,
and swinging the bag over his shoulder, Betteredge appeared
to relapse into the bewilderment which my sudden appearance
had caused, when I surprised him in the beehive chair. He
looked incredulously at the house, and then he wheeled
about, and looked more incredulously still at me.
"I've lived a goodish long time in the world," said this
best and dearest of all old servants—"but the like of this,
I never did expect to see. There stands the house, and here
stands Mr. Franklin Blake—and, Damme, if one of them isn't
turning his back on the other, and going to sleep in a
lodging!"
He led the way out, wagging his head and growling
ominously. "There's only one more miracle that CAN happen,"
he said to me, over his shoulder. "The next thing you'll do,
Mr. Franklin, will be to pay me back that seven-and-sixpence
you borrowed of me when you were a boy."
This stroke of sarcasm put him in a better humour with
himself and with me. We left the house, and passed through
the lodge gates. Once clear of the grounds, the duties of
hospitality (in Betteredge's code of morals) ceased, and the
privileges of curiosity began.
He dropped back, so as to let me get on a level with him.
"Fine evening for a walk, Mr. Franklin," he said, as if we
had just accidentally encountered each other at that moment.
"Supposing you had gone to the hotel at Frizinghall, sir?"
"Yes?"
"I should have had the honour of breakfasting with you,
to-morrow morning."
"Come and breakfast with me at Hotherstone's Farm,
instead."
"Much obliged to you for your kindness, Mr. Franklin. But
it wasn't exactly breakfast that I was driving at. I think
you mentioned that you had something to say to me? If it's
no secret, sir," said Betteredge, suddenly abandoning the
crooked way, and taking the straight one, "I'm burning to
know what's brought you down here, if you please, in this
sudden way."
"What brought me here before?" I asked.
"The Moonstone, Mr. Franklin. But what brings you now,
sir?"
"The Moonstone again, Betteredge."
The old man suddenly stood still, and looked at me in the
grey twilight as if he suspected his own ears of deceiving
him.
"If that's a joke, sir," he said, "I'm afraid I'm getting
a little dull in my old age. I don't take it."
"It's no joke," I answered. "I have come here to take up
the inquiry which was dropped when I left England. I have
come here to do what nobody has done yet—to find out who
took the Diamond."
"Let the Diamond be, Mr. Franklin! Take my advice, and
let the Diamond be! That cursed Indian jewel has misguided
everybody who has come near it. Don't waste your money and
your temper—in the fine spring time of your life, sir—by
meddling with the Moonstone. How can YOU hope to succeed
(saving your presence), when Sergeant Cuff himself made a
mess of it? Sergeant Cuff!" repeated Betteredge, shaking his
forefinger at me sternly. "The greatest policeman in
England!"
"My mind is made up, my old friend. Even Sergeant Cuff
doesn't daunt me. By-the-bye, I may want to speak to him,
sooner or later. Have you heard anything of him lately?"
"The Sergeant won't help you, Mr. Franklin."
"Why not?"
"There has been an event, sir, in the police-circles,
since you went away. The great Cuff has retired from
business. He has got a little cottage at Dorking; and he's
up to his eyes in the growing of roses. I have it in his own
handwriting, Mr. Franklin. He has grown the white moss rose,
without budding it on the dog-rose first. And Mr. Begbie the
gardener is to go to Dorking, and own that the Sergeant has
beaten him at last."
"It doesn't much matter," I said. "I must do without
Sergeant Cuff's help. And I must trust to you, at starting."
It is likely enough that I spoke rather carelessly.
At any rate, Betteredge seemed to be piqued by something
in the reply which I had just made to him. "You might trust
to worse than me, Mr. Franklin—I can tell you that," he said
a little sharply.
The tone in which he retorted, and a certain disturbance,
after he had spoken, which I detected in his manner,
suggested to me that he was possessed of some information
which he hesitated to communicate.
"I expect you to help me," I said, "in picking up the
fragments of evidence which Sergeant Cuff has left behind
him. I know you can do that. Can you do no more?"
"What more can you expect from me, sir?" asked
Betteredge, with an appearance of the utmost humility.
"I expect more—from what you said just now."
"Mere boasting, Mr. Franklin," returned the old man
obstinately. "Some people are born boasters, and they never
get over it to their dying day. I'm one of them."
There was only one way to take with him. I appealed to
his interest in Rachel, and his interest in me.
"Betteredge, would you be glad to hear that Rachel and I
were good friends again?"
"I have served your family, sir, to mighty little
purpose, if you doubt it!"
"Do you remember how Rachel treated me, before I left
England?"
"As well as if it was yesterday! My lady herself wrote
you a letter about it; and you were so good as to show the
letter to me. It said that Miss Rachel was mortally offended
with you, for the part you had taken in trying to recover
her jewel. And neither my lady, nor you, nor anybody else
could guess why.
"Quite true, Betteredge! And I come back from my travels,
and find her mortally offended with me still. I knew that
the Diamond was at the bottom of it, last year, and I know
that the Diamond is at the bottom of it now. I have tried to
speak to her, and she won't see me. I have tried to write to
her, and she won't answer me. How, in Heaven's name, am I to
clear the matter up? The chance of searching into the loss
of the Moonstone, is the one chance of inquiry that Rachel
herself has left me."
Those words evidently put the case before him, as he had
not seen it yet. He asked a question which satisfied me that
I had shaken him.
"There is no ill-feeling in this, Mr. Franklin, on your
side—is there?"
"There was some anger," I answered, "when I left London.
But that is all worn out now. I want to make Rachel come to
an understanding with me—and I want nothing more."
"You don't feel any fear, sir—supposing you make any
discoveries—in regard to what you may find out about Miss
Rachel?"
I understood the jealous belief in his young mistress
which prompted those words.
"I am as certain of her as you are," I answered. "The
fullest disclosure of her secret will reveal nothing that
can alter her place in your estimation, or in mine."
Betteredge's last-left scruples vanished at that.
"If I am doing wrong to help you, Mr. Franklin," he
exclaimed, "all I can say is—I am as innocent of seeing it
as the babe unborn! I can put you on the road to discovery,
if you can only go on by yourself. You remember that poor
girl of ours—Rosanna Spearman?"
"Of course!"
"You always thought she had some sort of confession in
regard to this matter of the Moonstone, which she wanted to
make to you?"
"I certainly couldn't account for her strange conduct in
any other way."
"You may set that doubt at rest, Mr. Franklin, whenever
you please."
It was my turn to come to a standstill now. I tried
vainly, in the gathering darkness, to see his face. In the
surprise of the moment, I asked a little impatiently what he
meant.
"Steady, sir!" proceeded Betteredge. "I mean what I say.
Rosanna Spearman left a sealed letter behind her—a letter
addressed to YOU."
"Where is it?"
"In the possession of a friend of hers, at Cobb's Hole.
You must have heard tell, when you were here last, sir, of
Limping Lucy—a lame girl with a crutch."
"The fisherman's daughter?"
"The same, Mr. Franklin."
"Why wasn't the letter forwarded to me?"
"Limping Lucy has a will of her own, sir. She wouldn't
give it into any hands but yours. And you had left England
before I could write to you."
"Let's go back, Betteredge, and get it at once!"
"Too late, sir, to-night. They're great savers of candles
along our coast; and they go to bed early at Cobb's Hole."
"Nonsense! We might get there in half an hour."
"You might, sir. And when you did get there, you would
find the door locked. He pointed to a light, glimmering
below us; and, at the same moment, I heard through the
stillness of the evening the bubbling of a stream. 'There's
the Farm, Mr. Franklin! Make yourself comfortable for
to-night, and come to me to-morrow morning if you'll be so
kind?'"
"You will go with me to the fisherman's cottage?"
"Yes, sir."
"Early?"
"As early, Mr. Franklin, as you like."
We descended the path that led to the Farm.
CHAPTER III
I have only the most indistinct recollection of what
happened at Hotherstone's Farm.
I remember a hearty welcome; a prodigious supper, which
would have fed a whole village in the East; a delightfully
clean bedroom, with nothing in it to regret but that
detestable product of the folly of our fore-fathers—a
feather-bed; a restless night, with much kindling of
matches, and many lightings of one little candle; and an
immense sensation of relief when the sun rose, and there was
a prospect of getting up.
It had been arranged over-night with Betteredge, that I
was to call for him, on our way to Cobb's Hole, as early as
I liked—which, interpreted by my impatience to get
possession of the letter, meant as early as I could. Without
waiting for breakfast at the Farm, I took a crust of bread
in my hand, and set forth, in some doubt whether I should
not surprise the excellent Betteredge in his bed. To my
great relief he proved to be quite as excited about the
coming event as I was. I found him ready, and waiting for
me, with his stick in his hand.
"How are you this morning, Betteredge?"
"Very poorly, sir."
"Sorry to hear it. What do you complain of?"
"I complain of a new disease, Mr. Franklin, of my own
inventing. I don't want to alarm you, but you're certain to
catch it before the morning is out."
"The devil I am!"
"Do you feel an uncomfortable heat at the pit of your
stomach, sir? and a nasty thumping at the top of your head?
Ah! not yet? It will lay hold of you at Cobb's Hole, Mr.
Franklin. I call it the detective-fever; and I first caught
it in the company of Sergeant Cuff."
"Aye! aye! and the cure in this instance is to open
Rosanna Spearman's letter, I suppose? Come along, and let's
get it."
Early as it was, we found the fisherman's wife astir in
her kitchen. On my presentation by Betteredge, good Mrs.
Yolland performed a social ceremony, strictly reserved (as I
afterwards learnt) for strangers of distinction. She put a
bottle of Dutch gin and a couple of clean pipes on the
table, and opened the conversation by saying, "What news
from London, sir?"
Before I could find an answer to this immensely
comprehensive question, an apparition advanced towards me,
out of a dark corner of the kitchen. A wan, wild, haggard
girl, with remarkably beautiful hair, and with a fierce
keenness in her eyes, came limping up on a crutch to the
table at which I was sitting, and looked at me as if I was
an object of mingled interest and horror, which it quite
fascinated her to see.
"Mr. Betteredge," she said, without taking her eyes off
me, "mention his name again, if you please."
"This gentleman's name," answered Betteredge (with a
strong emphasis on GENTLEMAN), "is Mr. Franklin Blake."
The girl turned her back on me, and suddenly left the
room. Good Mrs. Yolland—as I believe—made some apologies for
her daughter's odd behaviour, and Betteredge (probably)
translated them into polite English. I speak of this in
complete uncertainty. My attention was absorbed in following
the sound of the girl's crutch. Thump-thump, up the wooden
stairs; thump-thump across the room above our heads;
thump-thump down the stairs again—and there stood the
apparition at the open door, with a letter in its hand,
beckoning me out!
I left more apologies in course of delivery behind me,
and followed this strange creature—limping on before me,
faster and faster—down the slope of the beach. She led me
behind some boats, out of sight and hearing of the few
people in the fishing-village, and then stopped, and faced
me for the first time.
"Stand there," she said, "I want to look at you."
There was no mistaking the expression on her face. I
inspired her with the strongest emotions of abhorrence and
disgust. Let me not be vain enough to say that no woman had
ever looked at me in this manner before. I will only venture
on the more modest assertion that no woman had ever let me
perceive it yet. There is a limit to the length of the
inspection which a man can endure, under certain
circumstances. I attempted to direct Limping Lucy's
attention to some less revolting object than my face.
"I think you have got a letter to give me," I began. "Is
it the letter there, in your hand?"
"Say that again," was the only answer I received.
I repeated the words, like a good child learning its
lesson.
"No," said the girl, speaking to herself, but keeping her
eyes still mercilessly fixed on me. "I can't find out what
she saw in his face. I can't guess what she heard in his
voice." She suddenly looked away from me, and rested her
head wearily on the top of her crutch. "Oh, my poor dear!"
she said, in the first soft tones which had fallen from her,
in my hearing. "Oh, my lost darling! what could you see in
this man?" She lifted her head again fiercely, and looked at
me once more. "Can you eat and drink?" she asked.
I did my best to preserve my gravity, and answered,
"Yes."
"Can you sleep?"
"Yes."
"When you see a poor girl in service, do you feel no
remorse?"
"Certainly not. Why should I?"
She abruptly thrust the letter (as the phrase is) into my
face.
"Take it!" she exclaimed furiously. "I never set eyes on
you before. God Almighty forbid I should ever set eyes on
you again."
With those parting words she limped away from me at the
top of her speed. The one interpretation that I could put on
her conduct has, no doubt, been anticipated by everybody. I
could only suppose that she was mad.
Having reached that inevitable conclusion, I turned to
the more interesting object of investigation which was
presented to me by Rosanna Spearman's letter. The address
was written as follows:—"For Franklin Blake, Esq. To be
given into his own hands (and not to be trusted to any one
else), by Lucy Yolland."
I broke the seal. The envelope contained a letter: and
this, in its turn, contained a slip of paper. I read the
letter first:—
"Sir,—If you are curious to know the meaning of my
behaviour to you, whilst you were staying in the house of my
mistress, Lady Verinder, do what you are told to do in the
memorandum enclosed with this—and do it without any person
being present to overlook you. Your humble servant,
"ROSANNA SPEARMAN."
I turned to the slip of paper next. Here is the literal
copy of it, word for word:
"Memorandum:—To go to the Shivering Sand at the turn of
the tide. To walk out on the South Spit, until I get the
South Spit Beacon, and the flagstaff at the Coast-guard
station above Cobb's Hole in a line together. To lay down on
the rocks, a stick, or any straight thing to guide my hand,
exactly in the line of the beacon and the flagstaff. To take
care, in doing this, that one end of the stick shall be at
the edge of the rocks, on the side of them which overlooks
the quicksand. To feel along the stick, among the sea-weed
(beginning from the end of the stick which points towards
the beacon), for the Chain. To run my hand along the Chain,
when found, until I come to the part of it which stretches
over the edge of the rocks, down into the quicksand. AND
THEN TO PULL THE CHAIN."
Just as I had read the last words—underlined in the
original—I heard the voice of Betteredge behind me. The
inventor of the detective-fever had completely succumbed to
that irresistible malady. "I can't stand it any longer, Mr.
Franklin. What does her letter say? For mercy's sake, sir,
tell us, what does her letter say?"
I handed him the letter, and the memorandum. He read the
first without appearing to be much interested in it. But the
second—the memorandum—produced a strong impression on him.
"The Sergeant said it!" cried Betteredge. "From first to
last, sir, the Sergeant said she had got a memorandum of the
hiding-place. And here it is! Lord save us, Mr. Franklin,
here is the secret that puzzled everybody, from the great
Cuff downwards, ready and waiting, as one may say, to show
itself to YOU! It's the ebb now, sir, as anybody may see for
themselves. How long will it be till the turn of the tide?"
He looked up, and observed a lad at work, at some little
distance from us, mending a net. "Tammie Bright!" he shouted
at the top of his voice.
"I hear you!" Tammie shouted back.
"When's the turn of the tide?"
"In an hour's time."
We both looked at our watches.
"We can go round by the coast, Mr. Franklin," said
Betteredge; "and get to the quicksand in that way with
plenty of time to spare. What do you say, sir?"
"Come along!"
On our way to the Shivering Sand, I applied to Betteredge
to revive my memory of events (as affecting Rosanna
Spearman) at the period of Sergeant Cuff's inquiry. With my
old friend's help, I soon had the succession of
circumstances clearly registered in my mind. Rosanna's
journey to Frizinghall, when the whole household believed
her to be ill in her own room—Rosanna's mysterious
employment of the night-time with her door locked, and her
candle burning till the morning—Rosanna's suspicious
purchase of the japanned tin case, and the two dog's chains
from Mrs. Yolland—the Sergeant's positive conviction that
Rosanna had hidden something at the Shivering Sand, and the
Sergeant's absolute ignorance as to what that something
might be—all these strange results of the abortive inquiry
into the loss of the Moonstone were clearly present to me
again, when we reached the quicksand, and walked out
together on the low ledge of rocks called the South Spit.
With Betteredge's help, I soon stood in the right
position to see the Beacon and the Coast-guard flagstaff in
a line together. Following the memorandum as our guide, we
next laid my stick in the necessary direction, as neatly as
we could, on the uneven surface of the rocks. And then we
looked at our watches once more.
It wanted nearly twenty minutes yet of the turn of the
tide. I suggested waiting through this interval on the
beach, instead of on the wet and slippery surface of the
rocks. Having reached the dry sand, I prepared to sit down;
and, greatly to my surprise, Betteredge prepared to leave
me.
"What are you going away for?" I asked.
"Look at the letter again, sir, and you will see."
A glance at the letter reminded me that I was charged,
when I made my discovery, to make it alone.
"It's hard enough for me to leave you, at such a time as
this," said Betteredge. "But she died a dreadful death, poor
soul—and I feel a kind of call on me, Mr. Franklin, to
humour that fancy of hers. Besides," he added,
confidentially, "there's nothing in the letter against your
letting out the secret afterwards. I'll hang about in the
fir plantation, and wait till you pick me up. Don't be
longer than you can help, sir. The detective-fever isn't an
easy disease to deal with, under THESE circumstances."
With that parting caution, he left me.
The interval of expectation, short as it was when
reckoned by the measure of time, assumed formidable
proportions when reckoned by the measure of suspense. This
was one of the occasions on which the invaluable habit of
smoking becomes especially precious and consolatory. I lit a
cigar, and sat down on the slope of the beach.
The sunlight poured its unclouded beauty on every object
that I could see. The exquisite freshness of the air made
the mere act of living and breathing a luxury. Even the
lonely little bay welcomed the morning with a show of
cheerfulness; and the bared wet surface of the quicksand
itself, glittering with a golden brightness, hid the horror
of its false brown face under a passing smile. It was the
finest day I had seen since my return to England.
The turn of the tide came, before my cigar was finished.
I saw the preliminary heaving of the Sand, and then the
awful shiver that crept over its surface—as if some spirit
of terror lived and moved and shuddered in the fathomless
deeps beneath. I threw away my cigar, and went back again to
the rocks.
My directions in the memorandum instructed me to feel
along the line traced by the stick, beginning with the end
which was nearest to the beacon.
I advanced, in this manner, more than half way along the
stick, without encountering anything but the edges of the
rocks. An inch or two further on, however, my patience was
rewarded. In a narrow little fissure, just within reach of
my forefinger, I felt the chain. Attempting, next, to follow
it, by touch, in the direction of the quicksand, I found my
progress stopped by a thick growth of seaweed—which had
fastened itself into the fissure, no doubt, in the time that
had elapsed since Rosanna Spearman had chosen her
hiding-place.
It was equally impossible to pull up the seaweed, or to
force my hand through it. After marking the spot indicated
by the end of the stick which was placed nearest to the
quicksand, I determined to pursue the search for the chain
on a plan of my own. My idea was to "sound" immediately
under the rocks, on the chance of recovering the lost trace
of the chain at the point at which it entered the sand. I
took up the stick, and knelt down on the brink of the South
Spit.
In this position, my face was within a few feet of the
surface of the quicksand. The sight of it so near me, still
disturbed at intervals by its hideous shivering fit, shook
my nerves for the moment. A horrible fancy that the dead
woman might appear on the scene of her suicide, to assist my
search—an unutterable dread of seeing her rise through the
heaving surface of the sand, and point to the place—forced
itself into my mind, and turned me cold in the warm
sunlight. I own I closed my eyes at the moment when the
point of the stick first entered the quicksand.
The instant afterwards, before the stick could have been
submerged more than a few inches, I was free from the hold
of my own superstitious terror, and was throbbing with
excitement from head to foot. Sounding blindfold, at my
first attempt—at that first attempt I had sounded right! The
stick struck the chain.
Taking a firm hold of the roots of the seaweed with my
left hand, I laid myself down over the brink, and felt with
my right hand under the overhanging edges of the rock. My
right hand found the chain.
I drew it up without the slightest difficulty. And there
was the japanned tin case fastened to the end of it.
The action of the water had so rusted the chain, that it
was impossible for me to unfasten it from the hasp which
attached it to the case. Putting the case between my knees
and exerting my utmost strength, I contrived to draw off the
cover. Some white substance filled the whole interior when I
looked in. I put in my hand, and found it to be linen.
In drawing out the linen, I also drew out a letter
crumpled up with it. After looking at the direction, and
discovering that it bore my name, I put the letter in my
pocket, and completely removed the linen. It came out in a
thick roll, moulded, of course, to the shape of the case in
which it had been so long confined, and perfectly preserved
from any injury by the sea.
I carried the linen to the dry sand of the beach, and
there unrolled and smoothed it out. There was no mistaking
it as an article of dress. It was a nightgown.
The uppermost side, when I spread it out, presented to
view innumerable folds and creases, and nothing more. I
tried the undermost side, next—and instantly discovered the
smear of the paint from the door of Rachel's boudoir!
My eyes remained riveted on the stain, and my mind took
me back at a leap from present to past. The very words of
Sergeant Cuff recurred to me, as if the man himself was at
my side again, pointing to the unanswerable inference which
he drew from the smear on the door.
"Find out whether there is any article of dress in this
house with the stain of paint on it. Find out who that dress
belongs to. Find out how the person can account for having
been in the room, and smeared the paint between midnight and
three in the morning. If the person can't satisfy you, you
haven't far to look for the hand that took the Diamond."
One after another those words travelled over my memory,
repeating themselves again and again with a wearisome,
mechanical reiteration. I was roused from what felt like a
trance of many hours—from what was really, no doubt, the
pause of a few moments only—by a voice calling to me. I
looked up, and saw that Betteredge's patience had failed him
at last. He was just visible between the sandhills,
returning to the beach.
The old man's appearance recalled me, the moment I
perceived it, to my sense of present things, and reminded me
that the inquiry which I had pursued thus far still remained
incomplete. I had discovered the smear on the nightgown. To
whom did the nightgown belong?
My first impulse was to consult the letter in my
pocket—the letter which I had found in the case.
As I raised my hand to take it out, I remembered that
there was a shorter way to discovery than this. The
nightgown itself would reveal the truth, for, in all
probability, the nightgown was marked with its owner's name.
I took it up from the sand, and looked for the mark.
I found the mark, and read—MY OWN NAME.
There were the familiar letters which told me that the
nightgown was mine. I looked up from them. There was the
sun; there were the glittering waters of the bay; there was
old Betteredge, advancing nearer and nearer to me. I looked
back again at the letters. My own name. Plainly confronting
me—my own name.
"If time, pains, and money can do it, I will lay my hand
on the thief who took the Moonstone."—I had left London,
with those words on my lips. I had penetrated the secret
which the quicksand had kept from every other living
creature. And, on the unanswerable evidence of the
paint-stain, I had discovered Myself as the Thief.
CHAPTER IV
I have not a word to say about my own sensations.
My impression is that the shock inflicted on me
completely suspended my thinking and feeling power. I
certainly could not have known what I was about when
Betteredge joined me—for I have it on his authority that I
laughed, when he asked what was the matter, and putting the
nightgown into his hands, told him to read the riddle for
himself.
Of what was said between us on the beach, I have not the
faintest recollection. The first place in which I can now
see myself again plainly is the plantation of firs.
Betteredge and I are walking back together to the house; and
Betteredge is telling me that I shall be able to face it,
and he will be able to face it, when we have had a glass of
grog.
The scene shifts from the plantation, to Betteredge's
little sitting-room. My resolution not to enter Rachel's
house is forgotten. I feel gratefully the coolness and
shadiness and quiet of the room. I drink the grog (a
perfectly new luxury to me, at that time of day), which my
good old friend mixes with icy-cold water from the well.
Under any other circumstances, the drink would simply
stupefy me. As things are, it strings up my nerves. I begin
to "face it," as Betteredge has predicted. And Betteredge,
on his side, begins to "face it," too.
The picture which I am now presenting of myself, will, I
suspect, be thought a very strange one, to say the least of
it. Placed in a situation which may, I think, be described
as entirely without parallel, what is the first proceeding
to which I resort? Do I seclude myself from all human
society? Do I set my mind to analyse the abominable
impossibility which, nevertheless, confronts me as an
undeniable fact? Do I hurry back to London by the first
train to consult the highest authorities, and to set a
searching inquiry on foot immediately? No. I accept the
shelter of a house which I had resolved never to degrade
myself by entering again; and I sit, tippling spirits and
water in the company of an old servant, at ten o'clock in
the morning. Is this the conduct that might have been
expected from a man placed in my horrible position? I can
only answer that the sight of old Betteredge's familiar face
was an inexpressible comfort to me, and that the drinking of
old Betteredge's grog helped me, as I believe nothing else
would have helped me, in the state of complete bodily and
mental prostration into which I had fallen. I can only offer
this excuse for myself; and I can only admire that
invariable preservation of dignity, and that strictly
logical consistency of conduct which distinguish every man
and woman who may read these lines, in every emergency of
their lives from the cradle to the grave.
"Now, Mr. Franklin, there's one thing certain, at any
rate," said Betteredge, throwing the nightgown down on the
table between us, and pointing to it as if it was a living
creature that could hear him. "HE'S a liar, to begin with."
This comforting view of the matter was not the view that
presented itself to my mind.
"I am as innocent of all knowledge of having taken the
Diamond as you are," I said. "But there is the witness
against me! The paint on the nightgown, and the name on the
nightgown are facts."
Betteredge lifted my glass, and put it persuasively into
my hand.
"Facts?" he repeated. "Take a drop more grog, Mr.
Franklin, and you'll get over the weakness of believing in
facts! Foul play, sir!" he continued, dropping his voice
confidentially. "That is how I read the riddle. Foul play
somewhere—and you and I must find it out. Was there nothing
else in the tin case, when you put your hand into it?"
The question instantly reminded me of the letter in my
pocket. I took it out, and opened it. It was a letter of
many pages, closely written. I looked impatiently for the
signature at the end. "Rosanna Spearman."
As I read the name, a sudden remembrance illuminated my
mind, and a sudden suspicion rose out of the new light.
"Stop!" I exclaimed. "Rosanna Spearman came to my aunt
out of a reformatory? Rosanna Spearman had once been a
thief?"
"There's no denying that, Mr. Franklin. What of it now,
if you please?"
"What of it now? How do we know she may not have stolen
the Diamond after all? How do we know she may not have
smeared my nightgown purposely with the paint?"
Betteredge laid his hand on my arm, and stopped me before
I could say any more.
"You will be cleared of this, Mr. Franklin, beyond all
doubt. But I hope you won't be cleared in THAT way. See what
the letter says, sir. In justice to the girl's memory, see
what it says."
I felt the earnestness with which he spoke—felt it as a
friendly rebuke to me. "You shall form your own judgment on
her letter," I said. "I will read it out."
I began—and read these lines:
"Sir—I have something to own to you. A confession which
means much misery, may sometimes be made in very few words.
This confession can be made in three words. I love you."
The letter dropped from my hand. I looked at Betteredge.
"In the name of Heaven," I said, "what does it mean?"
He seemed to shrink from answering the question.
"You and Limping Lucy were alone together this morning,
sir," he said. "Did she say nothing about Rosanna Spearman?"
"She never even mentioned Rosanna Spearman's name."
"Please to go back to the letter, Mr. Franklin. I tell
you plainly, I can't find it in my heart to distress you,
after what you have had to bear already. Let her speak for
herself, sir. And get on with your grog. For your own sake,
get on with your grog."
I resumed the reading of the letter.
"It would be very disgraceful to me to tell you this, if
I was a living woman when you read it. I shall be dead and
gone, sir, when you find my letter. It is that which makes
me bold. Not even my grave will be left to tell of me. I may
own the truth—with the quicksand waiting to hide me when the
words are written.
"Besides, you will find your nightgown in my
hiding-place, with the smear of the paint on it; and you
will want to know how it came to be hidden by me? and why I
said nothing to you about it in my life-time? I have only
one reason to give. I did these strange things, because I
loved you.
"I won't trouble you with much about myself, or my life,
before you came to my lady's house. Lady Verinder took me
out of a reformatory. I had gone to the reformatory from the
prison. I was put in the prison, because I was a thief. I
was a thief, because my mother went on the streets when I
was quite a little girl. My mother went on the streets,
because the gentleman who was my father deserted her. There
is no need to tell such a common story as this, at any
length. It is told quite often enough in the newspapers.
"Lady Verinder was very kind to me, and Mr. Betteredge
was very kind to me. Those two, and the matron at the
reformatory, are the only good people I have ever met with
in all my life. I might have got on in my place—not
happily—but I might have got on, if you had not come
visiting. I don't blame you, sir. It's my fault—all my
fault.
"Do you remember when you came out on us from among the
sand hills, that morning, looking for Mr. Betteredge? You
were like a prince in a fairy-story. You were like a lover
in a dream. You were the most adorable human creature I had
ever seen. Something that felt like the happy life I had
never led yet, leapt up in me at the instant I set eyes on
you. Don't laugh at this if you can help it. Oh, if I could
only make you feel how serious it is to ME!
"I went back to the house, and wrote your name and mine
in my work-box, and drew a true lovers' knot under them.
Then, some devil—no, I ought to say some good
angel—whispered to me, 'Go and look in the glass.' The glass
told me—never mind what. I was too foolish to take the
warning. I went on getting fonder and fonder of you, just as
if I was a lady in your own rank of life, and the most
beautiful creature your eyes ever rested on. I tried—oh,
dear, how I tried—to get you to look at me. If you had known
how I used to cry at night with the misery and the
mortification of your never taking any notice of me, you
would have pitied me perhaps, and have given me a look now
and then to live on.
"It would have been no very kind look, perhaps, if you
had known how I hated Miss Rachel. I believe I found out you
were in love with her, before you knew it yourself. She used
to give you roses to wear in your button-hole. Ah, Mr.
Franklin, you wore my roses oftener than either you or she
thought! The only comfort I had at that time, was putting my
rose secretly in your glass of water, in place of hers—and
then throwing her rose away.
"If she had been really as pretty as you thought her, I
might have borne it better. No; I believe I should have been
more spiteful against her still. Suppose you put Miss Rachel
into a servant's dress, and took her ornaments off? I don't
know what is the use of my writing in this way. It can't be
denied that she had a bad figure; she was too thin. But who
can tell what the men like? And young ladies may behave in a
manner which would cost a servant her place. It's no
business of mine. I can't expect you to read my letter, if I
write it in this way. But it does stir one up to hear Miss
Rachel called pretty, when one knows all the time that it's
her dress does it, and her confidence in herself.
"Try not to lose patience with me, sir. I will get on as
fast as I can to the time which is sure to interest you—the
time when the Diamond was lost.
"But there is one thing which I have got it on my mind to
tell you first.
"My life was not a very hard life to bear, while I was a
thief. It was only when they had taught me at the
reformatory to feel my own degradation, and to try for
better things, that the days grew long and weary. Thoughts
of the future forced themselves on me now. I felt the
dreadful reproach that honest people—even the kindest of
honest people—were to me in themselves. A heart-breaking
sensation of loneliness kept with me, go where I might, and
do what I might, and see what persons I might. It was my
duty, I know, to try and get on with my fellow-servants in
my new place. Somehow, I couldn't make friends with them.
They looked (or I thought they looked) as if they suspected
what I had been. I don't regret, far from it, having been
roused to make the effort to be a reformed woman—but,
indeed, indeed it was a weary life. You had come across it
like a beam of sunshine at first—and then you too failed me.
I was mad enough to love you; and I couldn't even attract
your notice. There was great misery—there really was great
misery in that.
"Now I am coming to what I wanted to tell you. In those
days of bitterness, I went two or three times, when it was
my turn to go out, to my favourite place—the beach above the
Shivering Sand. And I said to myself, 'I think it will end
here. When I can bear it no longer, I think it will end
here.' You will understand, sir, that the place had laid a
kind of spell on me before you came. I had always had a
notion that something would happen to me at the quicksand.
But I had never looked at it, with the thought of its being
the means of my making away with myself, till the time came
of which I am now writing. Then I did think that here was a
place which would end all my troubles for me in a moment or
two—and hide me for ever afterwards.
"This is all I have to say about myself, reckoning from
the morning when I first saw you, to the morning when the
alarm was raised in the house that the Diamond was lost.
"I was so aggravated by the foolish talk among the women
servants, all wondering who was to be suspected first; and I
was so angry with you (knowing no better at that time) for
the pains you took in hunting for the jewel, and sending for
the police, that I kept as much as possible away by myself,
until later in the day, when the officer from Frizinghall
came to the house.
"Mr. Seegrave began, as you may remember, by setting a
guard on the women's bedrooms; and the women all followed
him up-stairs in a rage, to know what he meant by the insult
he had put on them. I went with the rest, because if I had
done anything different from the rest, Mr. Seegrave was the
sort of man who would have suspected me directly. We found
him in Miss Rachel's room. He told us he wouldn't have a lot
of women there; and he pointed to the smear on the painted
door, and said some of our petticoats had done the mischief,
and sent us all down-stairs again.
"After leaving Miss Rachel's room, I stopped a moment on
one of the landings, by myself, to see if I had got the
paint-stain by any chance on MY gown. Penelope Betteredge
(the only one of the women with whom I was on friendly
terms) passed, and noticed what I was about.
"'You needn't trouble yourself, Rosanna,' she said. 'The
paint on Miss Rachel's door has been dry for hours. If Mr.
Seegrave hadn't set a watch on our bedrooms, I might have
told him as much. I don't know what you think—I was never so
insulted before in my life!'
"Penelope was a hot-tempered girl. I quieted her, and
brought her back to what she had said about the paint on the
door having been dry for hours.
"'How do you know that?' I asked.
"'I was with Miss Rachel, and Mr. Franklin, all yesterday
morning,' Penelope said, 'mixing the colours, while they
finished the door. I heard Miss Rachel ask whether the door
would be dry that evening, in time for the birthday company
to see it. And Mr. Franklin shook his head, and said it
wouldn't be dry in less than twelve hours. It was long past
luncheon-time—it was three o'clock before they had done.
What does your arithmetic say, Rosanna? Mine says the door
was dry by three this morning.'
"'Did some of the ladies go up-stairs yesterday evening
to see it?' I asked. 'I thought I heard Miss Rachel warning
them to keep clear of the door.'
"'None of the ladies made the smear,' Penelope answered.
'I left Miss Rachel in bed at twelve last night. And I
noticed the door, and there was nothing wrong with it then.'
"'Oughtn't you to mention this to Mr. Seegrave,
Penelope?'
"'I wouldn't say a word to help Mr. Seegrave for anything
that could be offered to me!'
"She went to her work, and I went to mine."
"My work, sir, was to make your bed, and to put your room
tidy. It was the happiest hour I had in the whole day. I
used to kiss the pillow on which your head had rested all
night. No matter who has done it since, you have never had
your clothes folded as nicely as I folded them for you. Of
all the little knick-knacks in your dressing-case, there
wasn't one that had so much as a speck on it. You never
noticed it, any more than you noticed me. I beg your pardon;
I am forgetting myself. I will make haste, and go on again.
"Well, I went in that morning to do my work in your room.
There was your nightgown tossed across the bed, just as you
had thrown it off. I took it up to fold it—and I saw the
stain of the paint from Miss Rachel's door!
"I was so startled by the discovery that I ran out with
the nightgown in my hand, and made for the back stairs, and
locked myself into my own room, to look at it in a place
where nobody could intrude and interrupt me.
"As soon as I got my breath again, I called to mind my
talk with Penelope, and I said to myself, 'Here's the proof
that he was in Miss Rachel's sitting-room between twelve
last night, and three this morning!'
"I shall not tell you in plain words what was the first
suspicion that crossed my mind, when I had made that
discovery. You would only be angry—and, if you were angry,
you might tear my letter up and read no more of it.
"Let it be enough, if you please, to say only this. After
thinking it over to the best of my ability, I made it out
that the thing wasn't likely, for a reason that I will tell
you. If you had been in Miss Rachel's sitting-room, at that
time of night, with Miss Rachel's knowledge (and if you had
been foolish enough to forget to take care of the wet door)
SHE would have reminded you—SHE would never have let you
carry away such a witness against her, as the witness I was
looking at now! At the same time, I own I was not completely
certain in my own mind that I had proved my own suspicion to
be wrong. You will not have forgotten that I have owned to
hating Miss Rachel. Try to think, if you can, that there was
a little of that hatred in all this. It ended in my
determining to keep the nightgown, and to wait, and watch,
and see what use I might make of it. At that time, please to
remember, not the ghost of an idea entered my head that you
had stolen the Diamond."
There, I broke off in the reading of the letter for the
second time.
I had read those portions of the miserable woman's
confession which related to myself, with unaffected
surprise, and, I can honestly add, with sincere distress. I
had regretted, truly regretted, the aspersion which I had
thoughtlessly cast on her memory, before I had seen a line
of her letter. But when I had advanced as far as the passage
which is quoted above, I own I felt my mind growing bitterer
and bitterer against Rosanna Spearman as I went on. "Read
the rest for yourself," I said, handing the letter to
Betteredge across the table. "If there is anything in it
that I must look at, you can tell me as you go on."
"I understand you, Mr. Franklin," he answered. "It's
natural, sir, in YOU. And, God help us all!" he added, in a
lower tone, "it's no less natural in HER."
I proceed to copy the continuation of the letter from the
original, in my own possession:—
"Having determined to keep the nightgown, and to see what
use my love, or my revenge (I hardly know which) could turn
it to in the future, the next thing to discover was how to
keep it without the risk of being found out.
"There was only one way—to make another nightgown exactly
like it, before Saturday came, and brought the laundry-woman
and her inventory to the house.
"I was afraid to put it off till next day (the Friday);
being in doubt lest some accident might happen in the
interval. I determined to make the new nightgown on that
same day (the Thursday), while I could count, if I played my
cards properly, on having my time to myself. The first thing
to do (after locking up your nightgown in my drawer) was to
go back to your bed-room—not so much to put it to rights
(Penelope would have done that for me, if I had asked her)
as to find out whether you had smeared off any of the
paint-stain from your nightgown, on the bed, or on any piece
of furniture in the room.
"I examined everything narrowly, and at last, I found a
few streaks of the paint on the inside of your
dressing-gown—not the linen dressing-gown you usually wore
in that summer season, but a flannel dressing-gown which you
had with you also. I suppose you felt chilly after walking
to and fro in nothing but your nightdress, and put on the
warmest thing you could find. At any rate, there were the
stains, just visible, on the inside of the dressing-gown. I
easily got rid of these by scraping away the stuff of the
flannel. This done, the only proof left against you was the
proof locked up in my drawer.
"I had just finished your room when I was sent for to be
questioned by Mr. Seegrave, along with the rest of the
servants. Next came the examination of all our boxes. And
then followed the most extraordinary event of the day—to
ME—since I had found the paint on your nightgown. This event
came out of the second questioning of Penelope Betteredge by
Superintendent Seegrave.
"Penelope returned to us quite beside herself with rage
at the manner in which Mr. Seegrave had treated her. He had
hinted, beyond the possibility of mistaking him, that he
suspected her of being the thief. We were all equally
astonished at hearing this, and we all asked, Why?
"'Because the Diamond was in Miss Rachel's sitting-room,"
Penelope answered. "And because I was the last person in the
sitting-room at night!"
"Almost before the words had left her lips, I remembered
that another person had been in the sitting-room later than
Penelope. That person was yourself. My head whirled round,
and my thoughts were in dreadful confusion. In the midst of
it all, something in my mind whispered to me that the smear
on your nightgown might have a meaning entirely different to
the meaning which I had given to it up to that time. 'If the
last person who was in the room is the person to be
suspected,' I thought to myself, 'the thief is not Penelope,
but Mr. Franklin Blake!'
"In the case of any other gentleman, I believe I should
have been ashamed of suspecting him of theft, almost as soon
as the suspicion had passed through my mind.
"But the bare thought that YOU had let yourself down to
my level, and that I, in possessing myself of your
nightgown, had also possessed myself of the means of
shielding you from being discovered, and disgraced for
life—I say, sir, the bare thought of this seemed to open
such a chance before me of winning your good will, that I
passed blindfold, as one may say, from suspecting to
believing. I made up my mind, on the spot, that you had
shown yourself the busiest of anybody in fetching the
police, as a blind to deceive us all; and that the hand
which had taken Miss Rachel's jewel could by no possibility
be any other hand than yours.
"The excitement of this new discovery of mine must, I
think, have turned my head for a while. I felt such a
devouring eagerness to see you—to try you with a word or two
about the Diamond, and to MAKE you look at me, and speak to
me, in that way—that I put my hair tidy, and made myself as
nice as I could, and went to you boldly in the library where
I knew you were writing.
"You had left one of your rings up-stairs, which made as
good an excuse for my intrusion as I could have desired.
But, oh, sir! if you have ever loved, you will understand
how it was that all my courage cooled, when I walked into
the room, and found myself in your presence. And then, you
looked up at me so coldly, and you thanked me for finding
your ring in such an indifferent manner, that my knees
trembled under me, and I felt as if I should drop on the
floor at your feet. When you had thanked me, you looked
back, if you remember, at your writing. I was so mortified
at being treated in this way, that I plucked up spirit
enough to speak. I said, 'This is a strange thing about the
Diamond, sir.' And you looked up again, and said, 'Yes, it
is!' You spoke civilly (I can't deny that); but still you
kept a distance—a cruel distance between us. Believing, as I
did, that you had got the lost Diamond hidden about you,
while you were speaking, your coolness so provoked me that I
got bold enough, in the heat of the moment, to give you a
hint. I said, 'They will never find the Diamond, sir, will
they? No! nor the person who took it—I'll answer for that.'
I nodded, and smiled at you, as much as to say, 'I know!'
THIS time, you looked up at me with something like interest
in your eyes; and I felt that a few more words on your side
and mine might bring out the truth. Just at that moment, Mr.
Betteredge spoilt it all by coming to the door. I knew his
footstep, and I also knew that it was against his rules for
me to be in the library at that time of day—let alone being
there along with you. I had only just time to get out of my
own accord, before he could come in and tell me to go. I was
angry and disappointed; but I was not entirely without hope
for all that. The ice, you see, was broken between us—and I
thought I would take care, on the next occasion, that Mr.
Betteredge was out of the way.
"When I got back to the servants' hall, the bell was
going for our dinner. Afternoon already! and the materials
for making the new nightgown were still to be got! There was
but one chance of getting them. I shammed ill at dinner; and
so secured the whole of the interval from then till tea-time
to my own use.
"What I was about, while the household believed me to be
lying down in my own room; and how I spent the night, after
shamming ill again at tea-time, and having been sent up to
bed, there is no need to tell you. Sergeant Cuff discovered
that much, if he discovered nothing more. And I can guess
how. I was detected (though I kept my veil down) in the
draper's shop at Frizinghall. There was a glass in front of
me, at the counter where I was buying the longcloth; and—in
that glass—I saw one of the shopmen point to my shoulder and
whisper to another. At night again, when I was secretly at
work, locked into my room, I heard the breathing of the
women servants who suspected me, outside my door.
"It didn't matter then; it doesn't matter now. On the
Friday morning, hours before Sergeant Cuff entered the
house, there was the new nightgown—to make up your number in
place of the nightgown that I had got—made, wrung out,
dried, ironed, marked, and folded as the laundry woman
folded all the others, safe in your drawer. There was no
fear (if the linen in the house was examined) of the newness
of the nightgown betraying me. All your underclothing had
been renewed, when you came to our house—I suppose on your
return home from foreign parts.
"The next thing was the arrival of Sergeant Cuff; and the
next great surprise was the announcement of what HE thought
about the smear on the door.
"I had believed you to be guilty (as I have owned), more
because I wanted you to be guilty than for any other reason.
And now, the Sergeant had come round by a totally different
way to the same conclusion (respecting the nightgown) as
mine! And I had got the dress that was the only proof
against you! And not a living creature knew it—yourself
included! I am afraid to tell you how I felt when I called
these things to mind—you would hate my memory for ever
afterwards."
At that place, Betteredge looked up from the letter.
"Not a glimmer of light so far, Mr. Franklin," said the
old man, taking off his heavy tortoiseshell spectacles, and
pushing Rosanna Spearman's confession a little away from
him. "Have you come to any conclusion, sir, in your own
mind, while I have been reading?"
"Finish the letter first, Betteredge; there may be
something to enlighten us at the end of it. I shall have a
word or two to say to you after that."
"Very good, sir. I'll just rest my eyes, and then I'll go
on again. In the meantime, Mr. Franklin—I don't want to
hurry you—but would you mind telling me, in one word,
whether you see your way out of this dreadful mess yet?"
"I see my way back to London," I said, "to consult Mr.
Bruff. If he can't help me——"
"Yes, sir?"
"And if the Sergeant won't leave his retirement at
Dorking——"
"He won't, Mr. Franklin!"
"Then, Betteredge—as far as I can see now—I am at the end
of my resources. After Mr. Bruff and the Sergeant, I don't
know of a living creature who can be of the slightest use to
me."
As the words passed my lips, some person outside knocked
at the door of the room.
Betteredge looked surprised as well as annoyed by the
interruption.
"Come in," he called out, irritably, "whoever you are!"
The door opened, and there entered to us, quietly, the
most remarkable-looking man that I had ever seen. Judging
him by his figure and his movements, he was still young.
Judging him by his face, and comparing him with Betteredge,
he looked the elder of the two. His complexion was of a
gipsy darkness; his fleshless cheeks had fallen into deep
hollows, over which the bone projected like a pent-house.
His nose presented the fine shape and modelling so often
found among the ancient people of the East, so seldom
visible among the newer races of the West. His forehead rose
high and straight from the brow. His marks and wrinkles were
innumerable. From this strange face, eyes, stranger still,
of the softest brown—eyes dreamy and mournful, and deeply
sunk in their orbits—looked out at you, and (in my case, at
least) took your attention captive at their will. Add to
this a quantity of thick closely-curling hair, which, by
some freak of Nature, had lost its colour in the most
startlingly partial and capricious manner. Over the top of
his head it was still of the deep black which was its
natural colour. Round the sides of his head—without the
slightest gradation of grey to break the force of the
extraordinary contrast—it had turned completely white. The
line between the two colours preserved no sort of
regularity. At one place, the white hair ran up into the
black; at another, the black hair ran down into the white. I
looked at the man with a curiosity which, I am ashamed to
say, I found it quite impossible to control. His soft brown
eyes looked back at me gently; and he met my involuntary
rudeness in staring at him, with an apology which I was
conscious that I had not deserved.
"I beg your pardon," he said. "I had no idea that Mr.
Betteredge was engaged." He took a slip of paper from his
pocket, and handed it to Betteredge. "The list for next
week," he said. His eyes just rested on me again—and he left
the room as quietly as he had entered it.
"Who is that?" I asked.
"Mr. Candy's assistant," said Betteredge. "By-the-bye,
Mr. Franklin, you will be sorry to hear that the little
doctor has never recovered that illness he caught, going
home from the birthday dinner. He's pretty well in health;
but he lost his memory in the fever, and he has never
recovered more than the wreck of it since. The work all
falls on his assistant. Not much of it now, except among the
poor. THEY can't help themselves, you know. THEY must put up
with the man with the piebald hair, and the gipsy
complexion—or they would get no doctoring at all."
"You don't seem to like him, Betteredge?"
"Nobody likes him, sir."
"Why is he so unpopular?"
"Well, Mr. Franklin, his appearance is against him, to
begin with. And then there's a story that Mr. Candy took him
with a very doubtful character. Nobody knows who he is—and
he hasn't a friend in the place. How can you expect one to
like him, after that?"
"Quite impossible, of course! May I ask what he wanted
with you, when he gave you that bit of paper?"
"Only to bring me the weekly list of the sick people
about here, sir, who stand in need of a little wine. My lady
always had a regular distribution of good sound port and
sherry among the infirm poor; and Miss Rachel wishes the
custom to be kept up. Times have changed! times have
changed! I remember when Mr. Candy himself brought the list
to my mistress. Now it's Mr. Candy's assistant who brings
the list to me. I'll go on with the letter, if you will
allow me, sir," said Betteredge, drawing Rosanna Spearman's
confession back to him. "It isn't lively reading, I grant
you. But, there! it keeps me from getting sour with thinking
of the past." He put on his spectacles, and wagged his head
gloomily. "There's a bottom of good sense, Mr. Franklin, in
our conduct to our mothers, when they first start us on the
journey of life. We are all of us more or less unwilling to
be brought into the world. And we are all of us right."
Mr. Candy's assistant had produced too strong an
impression on me to be immediately dismissed from my
thoughts. I passed over the last unanswerable utterance of
the Betteredge philosophy; and returned to the subject of
the man with the piebald hair.
"What is his name?" I asked.
"As ugly a name as need be," Betteredge answered gruffly.
"Ezra Jennings."
CHAPTER V
Having told me the name of Mr. Candy's assistant,
Betteredge appeared to think that we had wasted enough of
our time on an insignificant subject. He resumed the perusal
of Rosanna Spearman's letter.
On my side, I sat at the window, waiting until he had
done. Little by little, the impression produced on me by
Ezra Jennings—it seemed perfectly unaccountable, in such a
situation as mine, that any human being should have produced
an impression on me at all!—faded from my mind. My thoughts
flowed back into their former channel. Once more, I forced
myself to look my own incredible position resolutely in the
face. Once more, I reviewed in my own mind the course which
I had at last summoned composure enough to plan out for the
future.
To go back to London that day; to put the whole case
before Mr. Bruff; and, last and most important, to obtain
(no matter by what means or at what sacrifice) a personal
interview with Rachel—this was my plan of action, so far as
I was capable of forming it at the time. There was more than
an hour still to spare before the train started. And there
was the bare chance that Betteredge might discover something
in the unread portion of Rosanna Spearman's letter, which it
might be useful for me to know before I left the house in
which the Diamond had been lost. For that chance I was now
waiting.
The letter ended in these terms:
"You have no need to be angry, Mr. Franklin, even if I
did feel some little triumph at knowing that I held all your
prospects in life in my own hands. Anxieties and fears soon
came back to me. With the view Sergeant Cuff took of the
loss of the Diamond, he would be sure to end in examining
our linen and our dresses. There was no place in my
room—there was no place in the house—which I could feel
satisfied would be safe from him. How to hide the nightgown
so that not even the Sergeant could find it? and how to do
that without losing one moment of precious time?—these were
not easy questions to answer. My uncertainties ended in my
taking a way that may make you laugh. I undressed, and put
the nightgown on me. You had worn it—and I had another
little moment of pleasure in wearing it after you.
"The next news that reached us in the servants' hall
showed that I had not made sure of the nightgown a moment
too soon. Sergeant Cuff wanted to see the washing-book.
"I found it, and took it to him in my lady's
sitting-room. The Sergeant and I had come across each other
more than once in former days. I was certain he would know
me again—and I was NOT certain of what he might do when he
found me employed as servant in a house in which a valuable
jewel had been lost. In this suspense, I felt it would be a
relief to me to get the meeting between us over, and to know
the worst of it at once.
"He looked at me as if I was a stranger, when I handed
him the washing-book; and he was very specially polite in
thanking me for bringing it. I thought those were both bad
signs. There was no knowing what he might say of me behind
my back; there was no knowing how soon I might not find
myself taken in custody on suspicion, and searched. It was
then time for your return from seeing Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite
off by the railway; and I went to your favourite walk in the
shrubbery, to try for another chance of speaking to you—the
last chance, for all I knew to the contrary, that I might
have.
"You never appeared; and, what was worse still, Mr.
Betteredge and Sergeant Cuff passed by the place where I was
hiding—and the Sergeant saw me.
"I had no choice, after that, but to return to my proper
place and my proper work, before more disasters happened to
me. Just as I was going to step across the path, you came
back from the railway. You were making straight for the
shrubbery, when you saw me—I am certain, sir, you saw me—and
you turned away as if I had got the plague, and went into
the house.*
* NOTE: by Franklin Blake.—The writer is entirely mistaken,
poor creature. I never noticed her. My intention was
certainly to have taken a turn in the shrubbery. But,
remembering at the same moment that my aunt might wish to
see me, after my return from the railway, I altered my mind,
and went into the house.
"I made the best of my way indoors again, returning by
the servants' entrance. There was nobody in the laundry-room
at that time; and I sat down there alone. I have told you
already of the thoughts which the Shivering Sand put into my
head. Those thoughts came back to me now. I wondered in
myself which it would be harder to do, if things went on in
this manner—to bear Mr. Franklin Blake's indifference to me,
or to jump into the quicksand and end it for ever in that
way?
"It's useless to ask me to account for my own conduct, at
this time. I try—and I can't understand it myself.
"Why didn't I stop you, when you avoided me in that cruel
manner? Why didn't I call out, 'Mr. Franklin, I have got
something to say to you; it concerns yourself, and you must,
and shall, hear it?' You were at my mercy—I had got the
whip-hand of you, as they say. And better than that, I had
the means (if I could only make you trust me) of being
useful to you in the future. Of course, I never supposed
that you—a gentleman—had stolen the Diamond for the mere
pleasure of stealing it. No. Penelope had heard Miss Rachel,
and I had heard Mr. Betteredge, talk about your extravagance
and your debts. It was plain enough to me that you had taken
the Diamond to sell it, or pledge it, and so to get the
money of which you stood in need. Well! I could have told
you of a man in London who would have advanced a good large
sum on the jewel, and who would have asked no awkward
questions about it either.
"Why didn't I speak to you! why didn't I speak to you!
"I wonder whether the risks and difficulties of keeping
the nightgown were as much as I could manage, without having
other risks and difficulties added to them? This might have
been the case with some women—but how could it be the case
with me? In the days when I was a thief, I had run fifty
times greater risks, and found my way out of difficulties to
which THIS difficulty was mere child's play. I had been
apprenticed, as you may say, to frauds and deceptions—some
of them on such a grand scale, and managed so cleverly, that
they became famous, and appeared in the newspapers. Was such
a little thing as the keeping of the nightgown likely to
weigh on my spirits, and to set my heart sinking within me,
at the time when I ought to have spoken to you? What
nonsense to ask the question! The thing couldn't be.
"Where is the use of my dwelling in this way on my own
folly? The plain truth is plain enough, surely? Behind your
back, I loved you with all my heart and soul. Before your
face—there's no denying it—I was frightened of you;
frightened of making you angry with me; frightened of what
you might say to me (though you HAD taken the Diamond) if I
presumed to tell you that I had found it out. I had gone as
near to it as I dared when I spoke to you in the library.
You had not turned your back on me then. You had not started
away from me as if I had got the plague. I tried to provoke
myself into feeling angry with you, and to rouse up my
courage in that way. No! I couldn't feel anything but the
misery and the mortification of it. You're a plain girl; you
have got a crooked shoulder; you're only a housemaid—what do
you mean by attempting to speak to Me?" You never uttered a
word of that, Mr. Franklin; but you said it all to me,
nevertheless! Is such madness as this to be accounted for?
No. There is nothing to be done but to confess it, and let
it be.
"I ask your pardon, once more, for this wandering of my
pen. There is no fear of its happening again. I am close at
the end now.
"The first person who disturbed me by coming into the
empty room was Penelope. She had found out my secret long
since, and she had done her best to bring me to my
senses—and done it kindly too.
"'Ah!' she said, 'I know why you're sitting here, and
fretting, all by yourself. The best thing that can happen
for your advantage, Rosanna, will be for Mr. Franklin's
visit here to come to an end. It's my belief that he won't
be long now before he leaves the house."
"In all my thoughts of you I had never thought of your
going away. I couldn't speak to Penelope. I could only look
at her.
"'I've just left Miss Rachel,' Penelope went on. 'And a
hard matter I have had of it to put up with her temper. She
says the house is unbearable to her with the police in it;
and she's determined to speak to my lady this evening, and
to go to her Aunt Ablewhite to-morrow. If she does that, Mr.
Franklin will be the next to find a reason for going away,
you may depend on it!'
"I recovered the use of my tongue at that. 'Do you mean
to say Mr. Franklin will go with her?' I asked.
"'Only too gladly, if she would let him; but she won't.
HE has been made to feel her temper; HE is in her black
books too—and that after having done all he can to help her,
poor fellow! No! no! If they don't make it up before
to-morrow, you will see Miss Rachel go one way, and Mr.
Franklin another. Where he may betake himself to I can't
say. But he will never stay here, Rosanna, after Miss Rachel
has left us.'
"I managed to master the despair I felt at the prospect
of your going away. To own the truth, I saw a little glimpse
of hope for myself if there was really a serious
disagreement between Miss Rachel and you. 'Do you know,' I
asked, 'what the quarrel is between them?'
"'It is all on Miss Rachel's side,' Penelope said. 'And,
for anything I know to the contrary, it's all Miss Rachel's
temper, and nothing else. I am loth to distress you,
Rosanna; but don't run away with the notion that Mr.
Franklin is ever likely to quarrel with HER. He's a great
deal too fond of her for that!'
"She had only just spoken those cruel words when there
came a call to us from Mr. Betteredge. All the indoor
servants were to assemble in the hall. And then we were to
go in, one by one, and be questioned in Mr. Betteredge's
room by Sergeant Cuff.
"It came to my turn to go in, after her ladyship's maid
and the upper housemaid had been questioned first. Sergeant
Cuff's inquiries—though he wrapped them up very
cunningly—soon showed me that those two women (the bitterest
enemies I had in the house) had made their discoveries
outside my door, on the Tuesday afternoon, and again on the
Thursday night. They had told the Sergeant enough to open
his eyes to some part of the truth. He rightly believed me
to have made a new nightgown secretly, but he wrongly
believed the paint-stained nightgown to be mine. I felt
satisfied of another thing, from what he said, which it
puzzled me to understand. He suspected me, of course, of
being concerned in the disappearance of the Diamond. But, at
the same time, he let me see—purposely, as I thought—that he
did not consider me as the person chiefly answerable for the
loss of the jewel. He appeared to think that I had been
acting under the direction of somebody else. Who that person
might be, I couldn't guess then, and can't guess now.
"In this uncertainty, one thing was plain—that Sergeant
Cuff was miles away from knowing the whole truth. You were
safe as long as the nightgown was safe—and not a moment
longer.
"I quite despair of making you understand the distress
and terror which pressed upon me now. It was impossible for
me to risk wearing your nightgown any longer. I might find
myself taken off, at a moment's notice, to the police court
at Frizinghall, to be charged on suspicion, and searched
accordingly. While Sergeant Cuff still left me free, I had
to choose—and at once—between destroying the nightgown, or
hiding it in some safe place, at some safe distance from the
house.
"If I had only been a little less fond of you, I think I
should have destroyed it. But oh! how could destroy the only
thing I had which proved that I had saved you from
discovery? If we did come to an explanation together, and if
you suspected me of having some bad motive, and denied it
all, how could I win upon you to trust me, unless I had the
nightgown to produce? Was it wronging you to believe, as I
did and do still, that you might hesitate to let a poor girl
like me be the sharer of your secret, and your accomplice in
the theft which your money-troubles had tempted you to
commit? Think of your cold behaviour to me, sir, and you
will hardly wonder at my unwillingness to destroy the only
claim on your confidence and your gratitude which it was my
fortune to possess.
"I determined to hide it; and the place I fixed on was
the place I knew best—the Shivering Sand.
"As soon as the questioning was over, I made the first
excuse that came into my head, and got leave to go out for a
breath of fresh air. I went straight to Cobb's Hole, to Mr.
Yolland's cottage. His wife and daughter were the best
friends I had. Don't suppose I trusted them with your
secret—I have trusted nobody. All I wanted was to write this
letter to you, and to have a safe opportunity of taking the
nightgown off me. Suspected as I was, I could do neither of
those things with any sort of security, at the house.
"And now I have nearly got through my long letter,
writing it alone in Lucy Yolland's bedroom. When it is done,
I shall go downstairs with the nightgown rolled up, and
hidden under my cloak. I shall find the means I want for
keeping it safe and dry in its hiding-place, among the
litter of old things in Mrs. Yolland's kitchen. And then I
shall go to the Shivering Sand—don't be afraid of my letting
my footmarks betray me!—and hide the nightgown down in the
sand, where no living creature can find it without being
first let into the secret by myself.
"And, when that's done, what then?
"Then, Mr. Franklin, I shall have two reasons for making
another attempt to say the words to you which I have not
said yet. If you leave the house, as Penelope believes you
will leave it, and if I haven't spoken to you before that, I
shall lose my opportunity forever. That is one reason. Then,
again, there is the comforting knowledge—if my speaking does
make you angry—that I have got the nightgown ready to plead
my cause for me as nothing else can. That is my other
reason. If these two together don't harden my heart against
the coldness which has hitherto frozen it up (I mean the
coldness of your treatment of me), there will be the end of
my efforts—and the end of my life.
"Yes. If I miss my next opportunity—if you are as cruel
as ever, and if I feel it again as I have felt it
already—good-bye to the world which has grudged me the
happiness that it gives to others. Good-bye to life, which
nothing but a little kindness from you can ever make
pleasurable to me again. Don't blame yourself, sir, if it
ends in this way. But try—do try—to feel some forgiving
sorrow for me! I shall take care that you find out what I
have done for you, when I am past telling you of it myself.
Will you say something kind of me then—in the same gentle
way that you have when you speak to Miss Rachel? If you do
that, and if there are such things as ghosts, I believe my
ghost will hear it, and tremble with the pleasure of it.
"It's time I left off. I am making myself cry. How am I
to see my way to the hiding-place if I let these useless
tears come and blind me?
"Besides, why should I look at the gloomy side? Why not
believe, while I can, that it will end well after all? I may
find you in a good humour to-night—or, if not, I may succeed
better to-morrow morning. I sha'n't improve my plain face by
fretting—shall I? Who knows but I may have filled all these
weary long pages of paper for nothing? They will go, for
safety's sake (never mind now for what other reason) into
the hiding-place along with the nightgown. It has been hard,
hard work writing my letter. Oh! if we only end in
understanding each other, how I shall enjoy tearing it up!
"I beg to remain, sir, your true lover and humble
servant,
"ROSANNA SPEARMAN."
The reading of the letter was completed by Betteredge in
silence. After carefully putting it back in the envelope, he
sat thinking, with his head bowed down, and his eyes on the
ground.
"Betteredge," I said, "is there any hint to guide me at
the end of the letter?"
He looked up slowly, with a heavy sigh.
"There is nothing to guide you, Mr. Franklin," he
answered. "If you take my advice you will keep the letter in
the cover till these present anxieties of yours have come to
an end. It will sorely distress you, whenever you read it.
Don't read it now."
I put the letter away in my pocket-book.
A glance back at the sixteenth and seventeenth chapters
of Betteredge's Narrative will show that there really was a
reason for my thus sparing myself, at a time when my
fortitude had been already cruelly tried. Twice over, the
unhappy woman had made her last attempt to speak to me. And
twice over, it had been my misfortune (God knows how
innocently!) to repel the advances she had made to me. On
the Friday night, as Betteredge truly describes it, she had
found me alone at the billiard-table. Her manner and
language suggested to me and would have suggested to any
man, under the circumstances—that she was about to confess a
guilty knowledge of the disappearance of the Diamond. For
her own sake, I had purposely shown no special interest in
what was coming; for her own sake, I had purposely looked at
the billiard-balls, instead of looking at HER—and what had
been the result? I had sent her away from me, wounded to the
heart! On the Saturday again—on the day when she must have
foreseen, after what Penelope had told her, that my
departure was close at hand—the same fatality still pursued
us. She had once more attempted to meet me in the shrubbery
walk, and she had found me there in company with Betteredge
and Sergeant Cuff. In her hearing, the Sergeant, with his
own underhand object in view, had appealed to my interest in
Rosanna Spearman. Again for the poor creature's own sake, I
had met the police-officer with a flat denial, and had
declared—loudly declared, so that she might hear me too—that
I felt "no interest whatever in Rosanna Spearman." At those
words, solely designed to warn her against attempting to
gain my private ear, she had turned away and left the place:
cautioned of her danger, as I then believed; self-doomed to
destruction, as I know now. From that point, I have already
traced the succession of events which led me to the
astounding discovery at the quicksand. The retrospect is now
complete. I may leave the miserable story of Rosanna
Spearman—to which, even at this distance of time, I cannot
revert without a pang of distress—to suggest for itself all
that is here purposely left unsaid. I may pass from the
suicide at the Shivering Sand, with its strange and terrible
influence on my present position and future prospects, to
interests which concern the living people of this narrative,
and to events which were already paving my way for the slow
and toilsome journey from the darkness to the light.
CHAPTER VI
I walked to the railway station accompanied, it is
needless to say, by Gabriel Betteredge. I had the letter in
my pocket, and the nightgown safely packed in a little
bag—both to be submitted, before I slept that night, to the
investigation of Mr. Bruff.
We left the house in silence. For the first time in my
experience of him, I found old Betteredge in my company
without a word to say to me. Having something to say on my
side, I opened the conversation as soon as we were clear of
the lodge gates.
"Before I go to London," I began, "I have two questions
to ask you. They relate to myself, and I believe they will
rather surprise you."
"If they will put that poor creature's letter out of my
head, Mr. Franklin, they may do anything else they like with
me. Please to begin surprising me, sir, as soon as you can."
"My first question, Betteredge, is this. Was I drunk on
the night of Rachel's Birthday?"
"YOU drunk!" exclaimed the old man. "Why it's the great
defect of your character, Mr. Franklin that you only drink
with your dinner, and never touch a drop of liquor
afterwards!"
"But the birthday was a special occasion. I might have
abandoned my regular habits, on that night of all others."
Betteredge considered for a moment.
"You did go out of your habits, sir," he said. "And I'll
tell you how. You looked wretchedly ill—and we persuaded you
to have a drop of brandy and water to cheer you up a
little."
"I am not used to brandy and water. It is quite
possible——"
"Wait a bit, Mr. Franklin. I knew you were not used, too.
I poured you out half a wineglass-full of our fifty year old
Cognac; and (more shame for me!) I drowned that noble liquor
in nigh on a tumbler-full of cold water. A child couldn't
have got drunk on it—let alone a grown man!"
I knew I could depend on his memory, in a matter of this
kind. It was plainly impossible that I could have been
intoxicated. I passed on to the second question.
"Before I was sent abroad, Betteredge, you saw a great
deal of me when I was a boy? Now tell me plainly, do you
remember anything strange of me, after I had gone to bed at
night? Did you ever discover me walking in my sleep?"
Betteredge stopped, looked at me for a moment, nodded his
head, and walked on again.
"I see your drift now, Mr. Franklin!" he said "You're
trying to account for how you got the paint on your
nightgown, without knowing it yourself. It won't do, sir.
You're miles away still from getting at the truth. Walk in
your sleep? You never did such a thing in your life!"
Here again, I felt that Betteredge must be right. Neither
at home nor abroad had my life ever been of the solitary
sort. If I had been a sleep-walker, there were hundreds on
hundreds of people who must have discovered me, and who, in
the interest of my own safety, would have warned me of the
habit, and have taken precautions to restrain it.
Still, admitting all this, I clung—with an obstinacy
which was surely natural and excusable, under the
circumstances—to one or other of the only two explanations
that I could see which accounted for the unendurable
position in which I then stood. Observing that I was not yet
satisfied, Betteredge shrewdly adverted to certain later
events in the history of the Moonstone; and scattered both
my theories to the wind at once and for ever.
"Let's try it another way, sir," he said. "Keep your own
opinion, and see how far it will take you towards finding
out the truth. If we are to believe the nightgown—which I
don't for one—you not only smeared off the paint from the
door, without knowing it, but you also took the Diamond
without knowing it. Is that right, so far?"
"Quite right. Go on."
"Very good, sir. We'll say you were drunk, or walking in
your sleep, when you took the jewel. That accounts for the
night and morning, after the birthday. But how does it
account for what has happened since that time? The Diamond
has been taken to London, since that time. The Diamond has
been pledged to Mr. Luker, since that time. Did you do those
two things, without knowing it, too? Were you drunk when I
saw you off in the pony-chaise on that Saturday evening? And
did you walk in your sleep to Mr. Luker's, when the train
had brought you to your journey's end? Excuse me for saying
it, Mr. Franklin, but this business has so upset you, that
you're not fit yet to judge for yourself. The sooner you lay
your head alongside Mr. Bruff's head, the sooner you will
see your way out of the dead-lock that has got you now."
We reached the station, with only a minute or two to
spare.
I hurriedly gave Betteredge my address in London, so that
he might write to me, if necessary; promising, on my side,
to inform him of any news which I might have to communicate.
This done, and just as I was bidding him farewell, I
happened to glance towards the book-and-newspaper stall.
There was Mr. Candy's remarkable-looking assistant again,
speaking to the keeper of the stall! Our eyes met at the
same moment. Ezra Jennings took off his hat to me. I
returned the salute, and got into a carriage just as the
train started. It was a relief to my mind, I suppose, to
dwell on any subject which appeared to be, personally, of no
sort of importance to me. At all events, I began the
momentous journey back which was to take me to Mr. Bruff,
wondering—absurdly enough, I admit—that I should have seen
the man with the piebald hair twice in one day!
The hour at which I arrived in London precluded all hope
of my finding Mr. Bruff at his place of business. I drove
from the railway to his private residence at Hampstead, and
disturbed the old lawyer dozing alone in his dining-room,
with his favourite pug-dog on his lap, and his bottle of
wine at his elbow.
I shall best describe the effect which my story produced
on the mind of Mr. Bruff by relating his proceedings when he
had heard it to the end. He ordered lights, and strong tea,
to be taken into his study; and he sent a message to the
ladies of his family, forbidding them to disturb us on any
pretence whatever. These preliminaries disposed of, he first
examined the nightgown, and then devoted himself to the
reading of Rosanna Spearman's letter.
The reading completed, Mr. Bruff addressed me for the
first time since we had been shut up together in the
seclusion of his own room.
"Franklin Blake," said the old gentleman, "this is a very
serious matter, in more respects than one. In my opinion, it
concerns Rachel quite as nearly as it concerns you. Her
extraordinary conduct is no mystery NOW. She believes you
have stolen the Diamond."
I had shrunk from reasoning my own way fairly to that
revolting conclusion. But it had forced itself on me,
nevertheless. My resolution to obtain a personal interview
with Rachel, rested really and truly on the ground just
stated by Mr. Bruff.
"The first step to take in this investigation," the
lawyer proceeded, "is to appeal to Rachel. She has been
silent all this time, from motives which I (who know her
character) can readily understand. It is impossible, after
what has happened, to submit to that silence any longer. She
must be persuaded to tell us, or she must be forced to tell
us, on what grounds she bases her belief that you took the
Moonstone. The chances are, that the whole of this case,
serious as it seems now, will tumble to pieces, if we can
only break through Rachel's inveterate reserve, and prevail
upon her to speak out."
"That is a very comforting opinion for me," I
said. "I own I should like to know."
"You would like to know how I can justify it,"
inter-posed Mr. Bruff. "I can tell you in two minutes.
Understand, in the first place, that I look at this matter
from a lawyer's point of view. It's a question of evidence,
with me. Very well. The evidence breaks down, at the outset,
on one important point."
"On what point?"
"You shall hear. I admit that the mark of the name proves
the nightgown to be yours. I admit that the mark of the
paint proves the nightgown to have made the smear on
Rachel's door. But what evidence is there to prove that you
are the person who wore it, on the night when the Diamond
was lost?"
The objection struck me, all the more forcibly that it
reflected an objection which I had felt myself.
"As to this," pursued the lawyer taking up Rosanna
Spearman's confession, "I can understand that the letter is
a distressing one to YOU. I can understand that you may
hesitate to analyse it from a purely impartial point of
view. But I am not in your position. I can bring my
professional experience to bear on this document, just as I
should bring it to bear on any other. Without alluding to
the woman's career as a thief, I will merely remark that her
letter proves her to have been an adept at deception, on her
own showing; and I argue from that, that I am justified in
suspecting her of not having told the whole truth. I won't
start any theory, at present, as to what she may or may not
have done. I will only say that, if Rachel has suspected you
ON THE EVIDENCE OF THE NIGHTGOWN ONLY, the chances are
ninety-nine to a hundred that Rosanna Spearman was the
person who showed it to her. In that case, there is the
woman's letter, confessing that she was jealous of Rachel,
confessing that she changed the roses, confessing that she
saw a glimpse of hope for herself, in the prospect of a
quarrel between Rachel and you. I don't stop to ask who took
the Moonstone (as a means to her end, Rosanna Spearman would
have taken fifty Moonstones)—I only say that the
disappearance of the jewel gave this reclaimed thief who was
in love with you, an opportunity of setting you and Rachel
at variance for the rest of your lives. She had not decided
on destroying herself, THEN, remember; and, having the
opportunity, I distinctly assert that it was in her
character, and in her position at the time, to take it. What
do you say to that?"
"Some such suspicion," I answered, "crossed my own mind,
as soon as I opened the letter."
"Exactly! And when you had read the letter, you pitied
the poor creature, and couldn't find it in your heart to
suspect her. Does you credit, my dear sir—does you credit!"
"But suppose it turns out that I did wear the nightgown?
What then?"
"I don't see how the fact can be proved," said Mr. Bruff.
"But assuming the proof to be possible, the vindication of
your innocence would be no easy matter. We won't go into
that, now. Let us wait and see whether Rachel hasn't
suspected you on the evidence of the nightgown only."
"Good God, how coolly you talk of Rachel suspecting me!"
I broke out. "What right has she to suspect Me, on any
evidence, of being a thief?"
"A very sensible question, my dear sir. Rather hotly
put—but well worth considering for all that. What puzzles
you, puzzles me too. Search your memory, and tell me this.
Did anything happen while you were staying at the house—not,
of course, to shake Rachel's belief in your honour—but, let
us say, to shake her belief (no matter with how little
reason) in your principles generally?"
I started, in ungovernable agitation, to my feet. The
lawyer's question reminded me, for the first time since I
had left England, that something HAD happened.
In the eighth chapter of Betteredge's Narrative, an
allusion will be found to the arrival of a foreigner and a
stranger at my aunt's house, who came to see me on business.
The nature of his business was this.
I had been foolish enough (being, as usual, straitened
for money at the time) to accept a loan from the keeper of a
small restaurant in Paris, to whom I was well known as a
customer. A time was settled between us for paying the money
back; and when the time came, I found it (as thousands of
other honest men have found it) impossible to keep my
engagement. I sent the man a bill. My name was unfortunately
too well known on such documents: he failed to negotiate it.
His affairs had fallen into disorder, in the interval since
I had borrowed of him; bankruptcy stared him in the face;
and a relative of his, a French lawyer, came to England to
find me, and to insist upon the payment of my debt. He was a
man of violent temper; and he took the wrong way with me.
High words passed on both sides; and my aunt and Rachel were
unfortunately in the next room, and heard us. Lady Verinder
came in, and insisted on knowing what was the matter. The
Frenchman produced his credentials, and declared me to be
responsible for the ruin of a poor man, who had trusted in
my honour. My aunt instantly paid him the money, and sent
him off. She knew me better of course than to take the
Frenchman's view of the transaction. But she was shocked at
my carelessness, and justly angry with me for placing myself
in a position, which, but for her interference, might have
become a very disgraceful one. Either her mother told her,
or Rachel heard what passed—I can't say which. She took her
own romantic, high-flown view of the matter. I was
"heartless"; I was "dishonourable"; I had "no principle";
there was "no knowing what I might do next"—in short, she
said some of the severest things to me which I had ever
heard from a young lady's lips. The breach between us lasted
for the whole of the next day. The day after, I succeeded in
making my peace, and thought no more of it. Had Rachel
reverted to this unlucky accident, at the critical moment
when my place in her estimation was again, and far more
seriously, assailed? Mr. Bruff, when I had mentioned the
circumstances to him, answered the question at once in the
affirmative.
"It would have its effect on her mind," he said gravely.
"And I wish, for your sake, the thing had not happened.
However, we have discovered that there WAS a predisposing
influence against you—and there is one uncertainty cleared
out of our way, at any rate. I see nothing more that we can
do now. Our next step in this inquiry must be the step that
takes us to Rachel."
He rose, and began walking thoughtfully up and down the
room. Twice, I was on the point of telling him that I had
determined on seeing Rachel personally; and twice, having
regard to his age and his character, I hesitated to take him
by surprise at an unfavourable moment.
"The grand difficulty is," he resumed, "how to make her
show her whole mind in this matter, without reserve. Have
you any suggestions to offer?"
"I have made up my mind, Mr. Bruff, to speak to Rachel
myself."
"You!" He suddenly stopped in his walk, and looked at me
as if he thought I had taken leave of my senses. "You, of
all the people in the world!" He abruptly checked himself,
and took another turn in the room. "Wait a little," he said.
"In cases of this extraordinary kind, the rash way is
sometimes the best way." He considered the question for a
moment or two, under that new light, and ended boldly by a
decision in my favour. "Nothing venture, nothing have," the
old gentleman resumed. "You have a chance in your favour
which I don't possess—and you shall be the first to try the
experiment."
"A chance in my favour?" I repeated, in the greatest
surprise.
Mr. Bruff's face softened, for the first time, into a
smile.
"This is how it stands," he said. "I tell you fairly, I
don't trust your discretion, and I don't trust your temper.
But I do trust in Rachel's still preserving, in some remote
little corner of her heart, a certain perverse weakness for
YOU. Touch that—and trust to the consequences for the
fullest disclosures that can flow from a woman's lips! The
question is—how are you to see her?"
"She has been a guest of yours at this house," I
answered. "May I venture to suggest—if nothing was said
about me beforehand—that I might see her here?"
"Cool!" said Mr. Bruff. With that one word of comment on
the reply that I had made to him, he took another turn up
and down the room.
"In plain English," he said, "my house is to be turned
into a trap to catch Rachel; with a bait to tempt her, in
the shape of an invitation from my wife and daughters. If
you were anybody else but Franklin Blake, and if this matter
was one atom less serious than it really is, I should refuse
point-blank. As things are, I firmly believe Rachel will
live to thank me for turning traitor to her in my old age.
Consider me your accomplice. Rachel shall be asked to spend
the day here; and you shall receive due notice of it."
"When? To-morrow?"
"To-morrow won't give us time enough to get her answer.
Say the day after."
"How shall I hear from you?"
"Stay at home all the morning and expect me to call on
you."
I thanked him for the inestimable assistance which he was
rendering to me, with the gratitude that I really felt; and,
declining a hospitable invitation to sleep that night at
Hampstead, returned to my lodgings in London.
Of the day that followed, I have only to say that it was
the longest day of my life. Innocent as I knew myself to be,
certain as I was that the abominable imputation which rested
on me must sooner or later be cleared off, there was
nevertheless a sense of self-abasement in my mind which
instinctively disinclined me to see any of my friends. We
often hear (almost invariably, however, from superficial
observers) that guilt can look like innocence. I believe it
to be infinitely the truer axiom of the two that innocence
can look like guilt. I caused myself to be denied all day,
to every visitor who called; and I only ventured out under
cover of the night.
The next morning, Mr. Bruff surprised me at the
breakfast-table. He handed me a large key, and announced
that he felt ashamed of himself for the first time in his
life.
"Is she coming?"
"She is coming to-day, to lunch and spend the afternoon
with my wife and my girls."
"Are Mrs. Bruff, and your daughters, in the secret?"
"Inevitably. But women, as you may have observed, have no
principles. My family don't feel my pangs of conscience. The
end being to bring you and Rachel together again, my wife
and daughters pass over the means employed to gain it, as
composedly as if they were Jesuits."
"I am infinitely obliged to them. What is this key?"
"The key of the gate in my back-garden wall. Be there at
three this afternoon. Let yourself into the garden, and make
your way in by the conservatory door. Cross the small
drawing-room, and open the door in front of you which leads
into the music-room. There, you will find Rachel—and find
her, alone."
"How can I thank you!"
"I will tell you how. Don't blame me for what happens
afterwards."
With those words, he went out.
I had many weary hours still to wait through. To while
away the time, I looked at my letters. Among them was a
letter from Betteredge.
I opened it eagerly. To my surprise and disappointment,
it began with an apology warning me to expect no news of any
importance. In the next sentence the everlasting Ezra
Jennings appeared again! He had stopped Betteredge on the
way out of the station, and had asked who I was. Informed on
this point, he had mentioned having seen me to his master
Mr. Candy. Mr. Candy hearing of this, had himself driven
over to Betteredge, to express his regret at our having
missed each other. He had a reason for wishing particularly
to speak to me; and when I was next in the neighbourhood of
Frizinghall, he begged I would let him know. Apart from a
few characteristic utterances of the Betteredge philosophy,
this was the sum and substance of my correspondent's letter.
The warm-hearted, faithful old man acknowledged that he had
written "mainly for the pleasure of writing to me."
I crumpled up the letter in my pocket, and forgot it the
moment after, in the all-absorbing interest of my coming
interview with Rachel.
As the clock of Hampstead church struck three, I put Mr.
Bruff's key into the lock of the door in the wall. When I
first stepped into the garden, and while I was securing the
door again on the inner side, I own to having felt a certain
guilty doubtfulness about what might happen next. I looked
furtively on either side of me; suspicious of the presence
of some unexpected witness in some unknown corner of the
garden. Nothing appeared, to justify my apprehensions. The
walks were, one and all, solitudes; and the birds and the
bees were the only witnesses.
I passed through the garden; entered the conservatory;
and crossed the small drawing-room. As I laid my hand on the
door opposite, I heard a few plaintive chords struck on the
piano in the room within. She had often idled over the
instrument in this way, when I was staying at her mother's
house. I was obliged to wait a little, to steady myself. The
past and present rose side by side, at that supreme
moment—and the contrast shook me.
After the lapse of a minute, I roused my manhood, and
opened the door.
CHAPTER VII
At the moment when I showed myself in the doorway, Rachel
rose from the piano.
I closed the door behind me. We confronted each other in
silence, with the full length of the room between us. The
movement she had made in rising appeared to be the one
exertion of which she was capable. All use of every other
faculty, bodily or mental, seemed to be merged in the mere
act of looking at me.
A fear crossed my mind that I had shown myself too
suddenly. I advanced a few steps towards her. I said gently,
"Rachel!"
The sound of my voice brought the life back to her limbs,
and the colour to her face. She advanced, on her side, still
without speaking. Slowly, as if acting under some influence
independent of her own will, she came nearer and nearer to
me; the warm dusky colour flushing her cheeks, the light of
reviving intelligence brightening every instant in her eyes.
I forgot the object that had brought me into her presence; I
forgot the vile suspicion that rested on my good name; I
forgot every consideration, past, present, and future, which
I was bound to remember. I saw nothing but the woman I loved
coming nearer and nearer to me. She trembled; she stood
irresolute. I could resist it no longer—I caught her in my
arms, and covered her face with kisses.
There was a moment when I thought the kisses were
returned; a moment when it seemed as if she, too might have
forgotten. Almost before the idea could shape itself in my
mind, her first voluntary action made me feel that she
remembered. With a cry which was like a cry of horror—with a
strength which I doubt if I could have resisted if I had
tried—she thrust me back from her. I saw merciless anger in
her eyes; I saw merciless contempt on her lips. She looked
me over, from head to foot, as she might have looked at a
stranger who had insulted her.
"You coward!" she said. "You mean, miserable, heartless
coward!"
Those were her first words! The most unendurable reproach
that a woman can address to a man, was the reproach that she
picked out to address to Me.
"I remember the time, Rachel," I said, "when you could
have told me that I had offended you, in a worthier way than
that. I beg your pardon."
Something of the bitterness that I felt may have
communicated itself to my voice. At the first words of my
reply, her eyes, which had been turned away the moment
before, looked back at me unwillingly. She answered in a low
tone, with a sullen submission of manner which was quite new
in my experience of her.
"Perhaps there is some excuse for me," she said. "After
what you have done, is it a manly action, on your part, to
find your way to me as you have found it to-day? It seems a
cowardly experiment, to try an experiment on my weakness for
you. It seems a cowardly surprise, to surprise me into
letting you kiss me. But that is only a woman's view. I
ought to have known it couldn't be your view. I should have
done better if I had controlled myself, and said nothing."
The apology was more unendurable than the insult. The
most degraded man living would have felt humiliated by it.
"If my honour was not in your hands," I said, "I would
leave you this instant, and never see you again. You have
spoken of what I have done. What have I done?"
"What have you done! YOU ask that question of ME?"
"I ask it."
"I have kept your infamy a secret," she answered. "And I
have suffered the consequences of concealing it. Have I no
claim to be spared the insult of your asking me what you
have done? Is ALL sense of gratitude dead in you? You were
once a gentleman. You were once dear to my mother, and
dearer still to me——"
Her voice failed her. She dropped into a chair, and
turned her back on me, and covered her face with her hands.
I waited a little before I trusted myself to say any
more. In that moment of silence, I hardly know which I felt
most keenly—the sting which her contempt had planted in me,
or the proud resolution which shut me out from all community
with her distress.
"If you will not speak first," I said, "I must. I have
come here with something serious to say to you. Will you do
me the common justice of listening while I say it?"
She neither moved, nor answered. I made no second appeal
to her; I never advanced an inch nearer to her chair. With a
pride which was as obstinate as her pride, I told her of my
discovery at the Shivering Sand, and of all that had led to
it. The narrative, of necessity, occupied some little time.
From beginning to end, she never looked round at me, and she
never uttered a word.
I kept my temper. My whole future depended, in all
probability, on my not losing possession of myself at that
moment. The time had come to put Mr. Bruff's theory to the
test. In the breathless interest of trying that experiment,
I moved round so as to place myself in front of her.
"I have a question to ask you," I said. "It obliges me to
refer again to a painful subject. Did Rosanna Spearman show
you the nightgown. Yes, or No?"
She started to her feet; and walked close up to me of her
own accord. Her eyes looked me searchingly in the face, as
if to read something there which they had never read yet.
"Are you mad?" she asked.
I still restrained myself. I said quietly, "Rachel, will
you answer my question?"
She went on, without heeding me.
"Have you some object to gain which I don't understand?
Some mean fear about the future, in which I am concerned?
They say your father's death has made you a rich man. Have
you come here to compensate me for the loss of my Diamond?
And have you heart enough left to feel ashamed of your
errand? Is THAT the secret of your pretence of innocence,
and your story about Rosanna Spearman? Is there a motive of
shame at the bottom of all the falsehood, this time?"
I stopped her there. I could control myself no longer.
"You have done me an infamous wrong!" I broke out hotly.
"You suspect me of stealing your Diamond. I have a right to
know, and I WILL know, the reason why!"
"Suspect you!" she exclaimed, her anger rising with mine.
"YOU VILLAIN, I SAW YOU TAKE THE DIAMOND WITH MY OWN EYES!"
The revelation which burst upon me in those words, the
overthrow which they instantly accomplished of the whole
view of the case on which Mr. Bruff had relied, struck me
helpless. Innocent as I was, I stood before her in silence.
To her eyes, to any eyes, I must have looked like a man
overwhelmed by the discovery of his own guilt.
She drew back from the spectacle of my humiliation and of
her triumph. The sudden silence that had fallen upon me
seemed to frighten her. "I spared you, at the time," she
said. "I would have spared you now, if you had not forced me
to speak." She moved away as if to leave the room—and
hesitated before she got to the door. "Why did you come here
to humiliate yourself?" she asked. "Why did you come here to
humiliate me?" She went on a few steps, and paused once
more. "For God's sake, say something!" she exclaimed,
passionately. "If you have any mercy left, don't let me
degrade myself in this way! Say something—and drive me out
of the room!"
I advanced towards her, hardly conscious of what I was
doing. I had possibly some confused idea of detaining her
until she had told me more. From the moment when I knew that
the evidence on which I stood condemned in Rachel's mind,
was the evidence of her own eyes, nothing—not even my
conviction of my own innocence—was clear to my mind. I took
her by the hand; I tried to speak firmly and to the purpose.
All I could say was, "Rachel, you once loved me."
She shuddered, and looked away from me. Her hand lay
powerless and trembling in mine. "Let go of it," she said
faintly.
My touch seemed to have the same effect on her which the
sound of my voice had produced when I first entered the
room. After she had said the word which called me a coward,
after she had made the avowal which branded me as a
thief—while her hand lay in mine I was her master still!
I drew her gently back into the middle of the room. I
seated her by the side of me. "Rachel," I said, "I can't
explain the contradiction in what I am going to tell you. I
can only speak the truth as you have spoken it. You saw
me—with your own eyes, you saw me take the Diamond. Before
God who hears us, I declare that I now know I took it for
the first time! Do you doubt me still?"
She had neither heeded nor heard me. "Let go of my hand,"
she repeated faintly. That was her only answer. Her head
sank on my shoulder; and her hand unconsciously closed on
mine, at the moment when she asked me to release it.
I refrained from pressing the question. But there my
forbearance stopped. My chance of ever holding up my head
again among honest men depended on my chance of inducing her
to make her disclosure complete. The one hope left for me
was the hope that she might have overlooked something in the
chain of evidence some mere trifle, perhaps, which might
nevertheless, under careful investigation, be made the means
of vindicating my innocence in the end. I own I kept
possession of her hand. I own I spoke to her with all that I
could summon back of the sympathy and confidence of the
bygone time.
"I want to ask you something," I said. "I want you to
tell me everything that happened, from the time when we
wished each other good night, to the time when you saw me
take the Diamond."
She lifted her head from my shoulder, and made an effort
to release her hand. "Oh, why go back to it!" she said. "Why
go back to it!"
"I will tell you why, Rachel. You are the victim, and I
am the victim, of some monstrous delusion which has worn the
mask of truth. If we look at what happened on the night of
your birthday together, we may end in understanding each
other yet."
Her head dropped back on my shoulder. The tears gathered
in her eyes, and fell slowly over her cheeks. "Oh!" she
said, "have I never had that hope? Have I not tried to see
it, as you are trying now?"
"You have tried by yourself," I answered. "You have not
tried with me to help you."
Those words seemed to awaken in her something of the hope
which I felt myself when I uttered them. She replied to my
questions with more than docility—she exerted her
intelligence; she willingly opened her whole mind to me.
"Let us begin," I said, "with what happened after we had
wished each other good night. Did you go to bed? or did you
sit up?"
"I went to bed."
"Did you notice the time? Was it late?"
"Not very. About twelve o'clock, I think."
"Did you fall asleep?"
"No. I couldn't sleep that night."
"You were restless?"
"I was thinking of you."
The answer almost unmanned me. Something in the tone,
even more than in the words, went straight to my heart. It
was only after pausing a little first that I was able to go
on.
"Had you any light in your room?" I asked.
"None—until I got up again, and lit my candle."
"How long was that, after you had gone to bed?"
"About an hour after, I think. About one o'clock."
"Did you leave your bedroom?"
"I was going to leave it. I had put on my dressing-gown;
and I was going into my sitting-room to get a book——"
"Had you opened your bedroom door?"
"I had just opened it."
"But you had not gone into the sitting-room?"
"No—I was stopped from going into it."
"What stopped you?
"I saw a light, under the door; and I heard footsteps
approaching it."
"Were you frightened?"
"Not then. I knew my poor mother was a bad sleeper; and I
remembered that she had tried hard, that evening, to
persuade me to let her take charge of my Diamond. She was
unreasonably anxious about it, as I thought; and I fancied
she was coming to me to see if I was in bed, and to speak to
me about the Diamond again, if she found that I was up."
"What did you do?"
"I blew out my candle, so that she might think I was in
bed. I was unreasonable, on my side—I was determined to keep
my Diamond in the place of my own choosing."
"After blowing out the candle, did you go back to bed?"
"I had no time to go back. At the moment when I blew the
candle out, the sitting-room door opened, and I saw——"
"You saw?"
"You."
"Dressed as usual?"
"No."
"In my nightgown?"
"In your nightgown—with your bedroom candle in your
hand."
"Alone?"
"Alone."
"Could you see my face?"
"Yes."
"Plainly?"
"Quite plainly. The candle in your hand showed it to me."
"Were my eyes open?"
"Yes."
"Did you notice anything strange in them? Anything like a
fixed, vacant expression?"
"Nothing of the sort. Your eyes were bright—brighter than
usual. You looked about in the room, as if you knew you were
where you ought not to be, and as if you were afraid of
being found out."
"Did you observe one thing when I came into the room—did
you observe how I walked?"
"You walked as you always do. You came in as far as the
middle of the room—and then you stopped and looked about
you."
"What did you do, on first seeing me?"
"I could do nothing. I was petrified. I couldn't speak, I
couldn't call out, I couldn't even move to shut my door."
"Could I see you, where you stood?"
"You might certainly have seen me. But you never looked
towards me. It's useless to ask the question. I am sure you
never saw me."
"How are you sure?"
"Would you have taken the Diamond? would you have acted
as you did afterwards? would you be here now—if you had seen
that I was awake and looking at you? Don't make me talk of
that part of it! I want to answer you quietly. Help me to
keep as calm as I can. Go on to something else."
She was right—in every way, right. I went on to other
things.
"What did I do, after I had got to the middle of the
room, and had stopped there?"
"You turned away, and went straight to the corner near
the window—where my Indian cabinet stands."
"When I was at the cabinet, my back must have been turned
towards you. How did you see what I was doing?"
"When you moved, I moved."
"So as to see what I was about with my hands?"
"There are three glasses in my sitting-room. As you stood
there, I saw all that you did, reflected in one of them."
"What did you see?"
"You put your candle on the top of the cabinet. You
opened, and shut, one drawer after another, until you came
to the drawer in which I had put my Diamond. You looked at
the open drawer for a moment. And then you put your hand in,
and took the Diamond out."
"How do you know I took the Diamond out?"
"I saw your hand go into the drawer. And I saw the gleam
of the stone between your finger and thumb, when you took
your hand out."
"Did my hand approach the drawer again—to close it, for
instance?"
"No. You had the Diamond in your right hand; and you took
the candle from the top of the cabinet with your left hand."
"Did I look about me again, after that?"
"No."
"Did I leave the room immediately?"
"No. You stood quite still, for what seemed a long time.
I saw your face sideways in the glass. You looked like a man
thinking, and dissatisfied with his own thoughts."
"What happened next?"
"You roused yourself on a sudden, and you went straight
out of the room."
"Did I close the door after me?"
"No. You passed out quickly into the passage, and left
the door open."
"And then?"
"Then, your light disappeared, and the sound of your
steps died away, and I was left alone in the dark."
"Did nothing happen—from that time, to the time when the
whole house knew that the Diamond was lost?"
"Nothing."
"Are you sure of that? Might you not have been asleep a
part of the time?"
"I never slept. I never went back to my bed. Nothing
happened until Penelope came in, at the usual time in the
morning."
I dropped her hand, and rose, and took a turn in the
room. Every question that I could put had been answered.
Every detail that I could desire to know had been placed
before me. I had even reverted to the idea of sleep-walking,
and the idea of intoxication; and, again, the worthlessness
of the one theory and the other had been proved—on the
authority, this time, of the witness who had seen me. What
was to be said next? what was to be done next? There rose
the horrible fact of the Theft—the one visible, tangible
object that confronted me, in the midst of the impenetrable
darkness which enveloped all besides! Not a glimpse of light
to guide me, when I had possessed myself of Rosanna
Spearman's secret at the Shivering Sand. And not a glimpse
of light now, when I had appealed to Rachel herself, and had
heard the hateful story of the night from her own lips.
She was the first, this time, to break the silence.
"Well?" she said, "you have asked, and I have answered.
You have made me hope something from all this, because you
hoped something from it. What have you to say now?"
The tone in which she spoke warned me that my influence
over her was a lost influence once more.
"We were to look at what happened on my birthday night,
together," she went on; "and we were then to understand each
other. Have we done that?"
She waited pitilessly for my reply. In answering her I
committed a fatal error—I let the exasperating helplessness
of my situation get the better of my self-control. Rashly
and uselessly, I reproached her for the silence which had
kept me until that moment in ignorance of the truth.
"If you had spoken when you ought to have spoken," I
began; "if you had done me the common justice to explain
yourself——"
She broke in on me with a cry of fury. The few words I
had said seemed to have lashed her on the instant into a
frenzy of rage.
"Explain myself!" she repeated. "Oh! is there another man
like this in the world? I spare him, when my heart is
breaking; I screen him when my own character is at stake;
and HE—of all human beings, HE—turns on me now, and tells me
that I ought to have explained myself! After believing in
him as I did, after loving him as I did, after thinking of
him by day, and dreaming of him by night—he wonders I didn't
charge him with his disgrace the first time we met: 'My
heart's darling, you are a Thief! My hero whom I love and
honour, you have crept into my room under cover of the
night, and stolen my Diamond!' That is what I ought to have
said. You villain, you mean, mean, mean villain, I would
have lost fifty diamonds, rather than see your face lying to
me, as I see it lying now!"
I took up my hat. In mercy to HER—yes! I can honestly say
it—in mercy to HER, I turned away without a word, and opened
the door by which I had entered the room.
She followed, and snatched the door out of my hand; she
closed it, and pointed back to the place that I had left.
"No!" she said. "Not yet! It seems that I owe a
justification of my conduct to you. You shall stay and hear
it. Or you shall stoop to the lowest infamy of all, and
force your way out."
It wrung my heart to see her; it wrung my heart to hear
her. I answered by a sign—it was all I could do—that I
submitted myself to her will.
The crimson flush of anger began to fade out of her face,
as I went back, and took my chair in silence. She waited a
little, and steadied herself. When she went on, but one sign
of feeling was discernible in her. She spoke without looking
at me. Her hands were fast clasped in her lap, and her eyes
were fixed on the ground.
"I ought to have done you the common justice to explain
myself," she said, repeating my own words. "You shall see
whether I did try to do you justice, or not. I told you just
now that I never slept, and never returned to my bed, after
you had left my sitting-room. It's useless to trouble you by
dwelling on what I thought—you would not understand my
thoughts—I will only tell you what I did, when time enough
had passed to help me to recover myself. I refrained from
alarming the house, and telling everybody what had
happened—as I ought to have done. In spite of what I had
seen, I was fond enough of you to believe—no matter
what!—any impossibility, rather than admit it to my own mind
that you were deliberately a thief. I thought and
thought—and I ended in writing to you."
"I never received the letter."
"I know you never received it. Wait a little, and you
shall hear why. My letter would have told you nothing
openly. It would not have ruined you for life, if it had
fallen into some other person's hands. It would only have
said—in a manner which you yourself could not possibly have
mistaken—that I had reason to know you were in debt, and
that it was in my experience and in my mother's experience
of you, that you were not very discreet, or very scrupulous
about how you got money when you wanted it. You would have
remembered the visit of the French lawyer, and you would
have known what I referred to. If you had read on with some
interest after that, you would have come to an offer I had
to make to you—the offer, privately (not a word, mind, to be
said openly about it between us!), of the loan of as large a
sum of money as I could get.—And I would have got it!" she
exclaimed, her colour beginning to rise again, and her eyes
looking up at me once more. "I would have pledged the
Diamond myself, if I could have got the money in no other
way! In those words I wrote to you. Wait! I did more than
that. I arranged with Penelope to give you the letter when
nobody was near. I planned to shut myself into my bedroom,
and to have the sitting-room left open and empty all the
morning. And I hoped—with all my heart and soul I
hoped!—that you would take the opportunity, and put the
Diamond back secretly in the drawer."
I attempted to speak. She lifted her hand impatiently,
and stopped me. In the rapid alternations of her temper, her
anger was beginning to rise again. She got up from her
chair, and approached me.
"I know what you are going to say," she went on. "You are
going to remind me again that you never received my letter.
I can tell you why. I tore it up.
"For what reason?" I asked.
"For the best of reasons. I preferred tearing it up to
throwing it away upon such a man as you! What was the first
news that reached me in the morning? Just as my little plan
was complete, what did I hear? I heard that you—you!!!—were
the foremost person in the house in fetching the police. You
were the active man; you were the leader; you were working
harder than any of them to recover the jewel! You even
carried your audacity far enough to ask to speak to ME about
the loss of the Diamond—the Diamond which you yourself had
stolen; the Diamond which was all the time in your own
hands! After that proof of your horrible falseness and
cunning, I tore up my letter. But even then—even when I was
maddened by the searching and questioning of the policeman,
whom you had sent in—even then, there was some infatuation
in my mind which wouldn't let me give you up. I said to
myself, 'He has played his vile farce before everybody else
in the house. Let me try if he can play it before me.'
Somebody told me you were on the terrace. I went down to the
terrace. I forced myself to look at you; I forced myself to
speak to you. Have you forgotten what I said?"
I might have answered that I remembered every word of it.
But what purpose, at that moment, would the answer have
served?
How could I tell her that what she had said had
astonished me, had distressed me, had suggested to me that
she was in a state of dangerous nervous excitement, had even
roused a moment's doubt in my mind whether the loss of the
jewel was as much a mystery to her as to the rest of us—but
had never once given me so much as a glimpse at the truth?
Without the shadow of a proof to produce in vindication of
my innocence, how could I persuade her that I knew no more
than the veriest stranger could have known of what was
really in her thoughts when she spoke to me on the terrace?
"It may suit your convenience to forget; it suits my
convenience to remember," she went on. "I know what I
said—for I considered it with myself, before I said it. I
gave you one opportunity after another of owning the truth.
I left nothing unsaid that I COULD say—short of actually
telling you that I knew you had committed the theft. And all
the return you made, was to look at me with your vile
pretence of astonishment, and your false face of
innocence—just as you have looked at me to-day; just as you
are looking at me now! I left you, that morning, knowing you
at last for what you were—for what you are—as base a wretch
as ever walked the earth!"
"If you had spoken out at the time, you might have left
me, Rachel, knowing that you had cruelly wronged an innocent
man."
"If I had spoken out before other people," she retorted,
with another burst of indignation, "you would have been
disgraced for life! If I had spoken out to no ears but
yours, you would have denied it, as you are denying it now!
Do you think I should have believed you? Would a man
hesitate at a lie, who had done what I saw YOU do—who had
behaved about it afterwards, as I saw YOU behave? I tell you
again, I shrank from the horror of hearing you lie, after
the horror of seeing you thieve. You talk as if this was a
misunderstanding which a few words might have set right!
Well! the misunderstanding is at an end. Is the thing set
right? No! the thing is just where it was. I don't believe
you NOW! I don't believe you found the nightgown, I don't
believe in Rosanna Spearman's letter, I don't believe a word
you have said. You stole it—I saw you! You affected to help
the police—I saw you! You pledged the Diamond to the
money-lender in London—I am sure of it! You cast the
suspicion of your disgrace (thanks to my base silence!) on
an innocent man! You fled to the Continent with your plunder
the next morning! After all that vileness, there was but one
thing more you COULD do. You could come here with a last
falsehood on your lips—you could come here, and tell me that
I have wronged you!"
If I had stayed a moment more, I know not what words
might have escaped me which I should have remembered with
vain repentance and regret. I passed by her, and opened the
door for the second time. For the second time—with the
frantic perversity of a roused woman—she caught me by the
arm, and barred my way out.
"Let me go, Rachel" I said. "It will be better for both
of us. Let me go."
The hysterical passion swelled in her bosom—her quickened
convulsive breathing almost beat on my face, as she held me
back at the door.
"Why did you come here?" she persisted, desperately. "I
ask you again—why did you come here? Are you afraid I shall
expose you? Now you are a rich man, now you have got a place
in the world, now you may marry the best lady in the
land—are you afraid I shall say the words which I have never
said yet to anybody but you? I can't say the words! I can't
expose you! I am worse, if worse can be, than you are
yourself." Sobs and tears burst from her. She struggled with
them fiercely; she held me more and more firmly. "I can't
tear you out of my heart," she said, "even now! You may
trust in the shameful, shameful weakness which can only
struggle against you in this way!" She suddenly let go of
me—she threw up her hands, and wrung them frantically in the
air. "Any other woman living would shrink from the disgrace
of touching him!" she exclaimed. "Oh, God! I despise myself
even more heartily than I despise HIM!"
The tears were forcing their way into my eyes in spite of
me—the horror of it was to be endured no longer.
"You shall know that you have wronged me, yet," I said.
"Or you shall never see me again!"
With those words, I left her. She started up from the
chair on which she had dropped the moment before: she
started up—the noble creature!—and followed me across the
outer room, with a last merciful word at parting.
"Franklin!" she said, "I forgive you! Oh, Franklin,
Franklin! we shall never meet again. Say you forgive ME!"
I turned, so as to let my face show her that I was past
speaking—I turned, and waved my hand, and saw her dimly, as
in a vision, through the tears that had conquered me at
last.
The next moment, the worst bitterness of it was over. I
was out in the garden again. I saw her, and heard her, no
more.
CHAPTER VIII
Late that evening, I was surprised at my lodgings by a
visit from Mr. Bruff.
There was a noticeable change in the lawyer's manner. It
had lost its usual confidence and spirit. He shook hands
with me, for the first time in his life, in silence.
"Are you going back to Hampstead?" I asked, by way of
saying something.
"I have just left Hampstead," he answered. "I know, Mr.
Franklin, that you have got at the truth at last. But, I
tell you plainly, if I could have foreseen the price that
was to be paid for it, I should have preferred leaving you
in the dark."
"You have seen Rachel?"
"I have come here after taking her back to Portland
Place; it was impossible to let her return in the carriage
by herself. I can hardly hold you responsible—considering
that you saw her in my house and by my permission—for the
shock that this unlucky interview has inflicted on her. All
I can do is to provide against a repetition of the mischief.
She is young—she has a resolute spirit—she will get over
this, with time and rest to help her. I want to be assured
that you will do nothing to hinder her recovery. May I
depend on your making no second attempt to see her—except
with my sanction and approval?"
"After what she has suffered, and after what I have
suffered," I said, "you may rely on me."
"I have your promise?"
"You have my promise."
Mr. Bruff looked relieved. He put down his hat, and drew
his chair nearer to mine.
"That's settled!" he said. "Now, about the future—your
future, I mean. To my mind, the result of the extraordinary
turn which the matter has now taken is briefly this. In the
first place, we are sure that Rachel has told you the whole
truth, as plainly as words can tell it. In the second
place—though we know that there must be some dreadful
mistake somewhere—we can hardly blame her for believing you
to be guilty, on the evidence of her own senses; backed, as
that evidence has been, by circumstances which appear, on
the face of them, to tell dead against you."
There I interposed. "I don't blame Rachel," I said. "I
only regret that she could not prevail on herself to speak
more plainly to me at the time."
"You might as well regret that Rachel is not somebody
else," rejoined Mr. Bruff. "And even then, I doubt if a girl
of any delicacy, whose heart had been set on marrying you,
could have brought herself to charge you to your face with
being a thief. Anyhow, it was not in Rachel's nature to do
it. In a very different matter to this matter of yours—which
placed her, however, in a position not altogether unlike her
position towards you—I happen to know that she was
influenced by a similar motive to the motive which actuated
her conduct in your case. Besides, as she told me herself,
on our way to town this evening, if she had spoken plainly,
she would no more have believed your denial then than she
believes it now. What answer can you make to that? There is
no answer to be made to it. Come, come, Mr. Franklin! my
view of the case has been proved to be all wrong, I
admit—but, as things are now, my advice may be worth having
for all that. I tell you plainly, we shall be wasting our
time, and cudgelling our brains to no purpose, if we attempt
to try back, and unravel this frightful complication from
the beginning. Let us close our minds resolutely to all that
happened last year at Lady Verinder's country house; and let
us look to what we CAN discover in the future, instead of to
what we can NOT discover in the past."
"Surely you forget," I said, "that the whole thing is
essentially a matter of the past—so far as I am concerned?"
"Answer me this," retorted Mr. Bruff. "Is the Moonstone
at the bottom of all the mischief—or is it not?"
"It is—of course."
"Very good. What do we believe was done with the
Moonstone, when it was taken to London?"
"It was pledged to Mr. Luker."
"We know that you are not the person who pledged it. Do
we know who did?"
"No."
"Where do we believe the Moonstone to be now?"
"Deposited in the keeping of Mr. Luker's bankers."
"Exactly. Now observe. We are already in the month of
June. Towards the end of the month (I can't be particular to
a day) a year will have elapsed from the time when we
believe the jewel to have been pledged. There is a chance—to
say the least—that the person who pawned it, may be prepared
to redeem it when the year's time has expired. If he redeems
it, Mr. Luker must himself—according to the terms of his own
arrangement—take the Diamond out of his banker's hands.
Under these circumstances, I propose setting a watch at the
bank, as the present month draws to an end, and discovering
who the person is to whom Mr. Luker restores the Moonstone.
Do you see it now?"
I admitted (a little unwillingly) that the idea was a new
one, at any rate.
"It's Mr. Murthwaite's idea quite as much as mine," said
Mr. Bruff. "It might have never entered my head, but for a
conversation we had together some time since. If Mr.
Murthwaite is right, the Indians are likely to be on the
lookout at the bank, towards the end of the month too—and
something serious may come of it. What comes of it doesn't
matter to you and me except as it may help us to lay our
hands on the mysterious Somebody who pawned the Diamond.
That person, you may rely on it, is responsible (I don't
pretend to know how) for the position in which you stand at
this moment; and that person alone can set you right in
Rachel's estimation."
"I can't deny," I said, "that the plan you propose meets
the difficulty in a way that is very daring, and very
ingenious, and very new. But——"
"But you have an objection to make?"
"Yes. My objection is, that your proposal obliges us to
wait."
"Granted. As I reckon the time, it requires you to wait
about a fortnight—more or less. Is that so very long?"
"It's a life-time, Mr. Bruff, in such a situation as
mine. My existence will be simply unendurable to me, unless
I do something towards clearing my character at once."
"Well, well, I understand that. Have you thought yet of
what you can do?"
"I have thought of consulting Sergeant Cuff."
"He has retired from the police. It's useless to expect
the Sergeant to help you."
"I know where to find him; and I can but try."
"Try," said Mr. Bruff, after a moment's consideration.
"The case has assumed such an extraordinary aspect since
Sergeant Cuff's time, that you may revive his interest in
the inquiry. Try, and let me hear the result. In the
meanwhile," he continued, rising, "if you make no
discoveries between this, and the end of the month, am I
free to try, on my side, what can be done by keeping a
lookout at the bank?"
"Certainly," I answered—"unless I relieve you of all
necessity for trying the experiment in the interval."
Mr. Bruff smiled, and took up his hat.
"Tell Sergeant Cuff," he rejoined, "that I say the
discovery of the truth depends on the discovery of the
person who pawned the Diamond. And let me hear what the
Sergeant's experience says to that."
So we parted.
Early the next morning, I set forth for the little town
of Dorking—the place of Sergeant Cuff's retirement, as
indicated to me by Betteredge.
Inquiring at the hotel, I received the necessary
directions for finding the Sergeant's cottage. It was
approached by a quiet bye-road, a little way out of the
town, and it stood snugly in the middle of its own plot of
garden ground, protected by a good brick wall at the back
and the sides, and by a high quickset hedge in front. The
gate, ornamented at the upper part by smartly-painted
trellis-work, was locked. After ringing at the bell, I
peered through the trellis-work, and saw the great Cuff's
favourite flower everywhere; blooming in his garden,
clustering over his door, looking in at his windows. Far
from the crimes and the mysteries of the great city, the
illustrious thief-taker was placidly living out the last
Sybarite years of his life, smothered in roses!
A decent elderly woman opened the gate to me, and at once
annihilated all the hopes I had built on securing the
assistance of Sergeant Cuff. He had started, only the day
before, on a journey to Ireland.
"Has he gone there on business?" I asked.
The woman smiled. "He has only one business now, sir,"
she said; "and that's roses. Some great man's gardener in
Ireland has found out something new in the growing of
roses—and Mr. Cuff's away to inquire into it."
"Do you know when he will be back?"
"It's quite uncertain, sir. Mr. Cuff said he should come
back directly, or be away some time, just according as he
found the new discovery worth nothing, or worth looking
into. If you have any message to leave for him, I'll take
care, sir, that he gets it."
I gave her my card, having first written on it in pencil:
"I have something to say about the Moonstone. Let me hear
from you as soon as you get back." That done, there was
nothing left but to submit to circumstances, and return to
London.
In the irritable condition of my mind, at the time of
which I am now writing, the abortive result of my journey to
the Sergeant's cottage simply aggravated the restless
impulse in me to be doing something. On the day of my return
from Dorking, I determined that the next morning should find
me bent on a new effort at forcing my way, through all
obstacles, from the darkness to the light.
What form was my next experiment to take?
If the excellent Betteredge had been present while I was
considering that question, and if he had been let into the
secret of my thoughts, he would, no doubt, have declared
that the German side of me was, on this occasion, my
uppermost side. To speak seriously, it is perhaps possible
that my German training was in some degree responsible for
the labyrinth of useless speculations in which I now
involved myself. For the greater part of the night, I sat
smoking, and building up theories, one more profoundly
improbable than another. When I did get to sleep, my waking
fancies pursued me in dreams. I rose the next morning, with
Objective-Subjective and Subjective-Objective inextricably
entangled together in my mind; and I began the day which was
to witness my next effort at practical action of some kind,
by doubting whether I had any sort of right (on purely
philosophical grounds) to consider any sort of thing (the
Diamond included) as existing at all.
How long I might have remained lost in the mist of my own
metaphysics, if I had been left to extricate myself, it is
impossible for me to say. As the event proved, accident came
to my rescue, and happily delivered me. I happened to wear,
that morning, the same coat which I had worn on the day of
my interview with Rachel. Searching for something else in
one of the pockets, I came upon a crumpled piece of paper,
and, taking it out, found Betteredge's forgotten letter in
my hand.
It seemed hard on my good old friend to leave him without
a reply. I went to my writing-table, and read his letter
again.
A letter which has nothing of the slightest importance in
it, is not always an easy letter to answer. Betteredge's
present effort at corresponding with me came within this
category. Mr. Candy's assistant, otherwise Ezra Jennings,
had told his master that he had seen me; and Mr. Candy, in
his turn, wanted to see me and say something to me, when I
was next in the neighbourhood of Frizinghall. What was to be
said in answer to that, which would be worth the paper it
was written on? I sat idly drawing likenesses from memory of
Mr. Candy's remarkable-looking assistant, on the sheet of
paper which I had vowed to dedicate to Betteredge—until it
suddenly occurred to me that here was the irrepressible Ezra
Jennings getting in my way again! I threw a dozen portraits,
at least, of the man with the piebald hair (the hair in
every case, remarkably like), into the waste-paper
basket—and then and there, wrote my answer to Betteredge. It
was a perfectly commonplace letter—but it had one excellent
effect on me. The effort of writing a few sentences, in
plain English, completely cleared my mind of the cloudy
nonsense which had filled it since the previous day.
Devoting myself once more to the elucidation of the
impenetrable puzzle which my own position presented to me, I
now tried to meet the difficulty by investigating it from a
plainly practical point of view. The events of the memorable
night being still unintelligible to me, I looked a little
farther back, and searched my memory of the earlier hours of
the birthday for any incident which might prove of some
assistance to me in finding the clue.
Had anything happened while Rachel and I were finishing
the painted door? or, later, when I rode over to
Frizinghall? or afterwards, when I went back with Godfrey
Ablewhite and his sisters? or, later again, when I put the
Moonstone into Rachel's hands? or, later still, when the
company came, and we all assembled round the dinner-table?
My memory disposed of that string of questions readily
enough, until I came to the last. Looking back at the social
event of the birthday dinner, I found myself brought to a
standstill at the outset of the inquiry. I was not even
capable of accurately remembering the number of the guests
who had sat at the same table with me.
To feel myself completely at fault here, and to conclude,
thereupon, that the incidents of the dinner might especially
repay the trouble of investigating them, formed parts of the
same mental process, in my case. I believe other people, in
a similar situation, would have reasoned as I did. When the
pursuit of our own interests causes us to become objects of
inquiry to ourselves, we are naturally suspicious of what we
don't know. Once in possession of the names of the persons
who had been present at the dinner, I resolved—as a means of
enriching the deficient resources of my own memory—to appeal
to the memory of the rest of the guests; to write down all
that they could recollect of the social events of the
birthday; and to test the result, thus obtained, by the
light of what had happened afterwards, when the company had
left the house.
This last and newest of my many contemplated experiments
in the art of inquiry—which Betteredge would probably have
attributed to the clear-headed, or French, side of me being
uppermost for the moment—may fairly claim record here, on
its own merits. Unlikely as it may seem, I had now actually
groped my way to the root of the matter at last. All I
wanted was a hint to guide me in the right direction at
starting. Before another day had passed over my head, that
hint was given me by one of the company who had been present
at the birthday feast!
With the plan of proceeding which I now had in view, it
was first necessary to possess the complete list of the
guests. This I could easily obtain from Gabriel Betteredge.
I determined to go back to Yorkshire on that day, and to
begin my contemplated investigation the next morning.
It was just too late to start by the train which left
London before noon. There was no alternative but to wait,
nearly three hours, for the departure of the next train. Was
there anything I could do in London, which might usefully
occupy this interval of time?
My thoughts went back again obstinately to the birthday
dinner.
Though I had forgotten the numbers, and, in many cases,
the names of the guests, I remembered readily enough that by
far the larger proportion of them came from Frizinghall, or
from its neighbourhood. But the larger proportion was not
all. Some few of us were not regular residents in the
country. I myself was one of the few. Mr. Murthwaite was
another. Godfrey Ablewhite was a third. Mr. Bruff—no: I
called to mind that business had prevented Mr. Bruff from
making one of the party. Had any ladies been present, whose
usual residence was in London? I could only remember Miss
Clack as coming within this latter category. However, here
were three of the guests, at any rate, whom it was clearly
advisable for me to see before I left town. I drove off at
once to Mr. Bruff's office; not knowing the addresses of the
persons of whom I was in search, and thinking it probable
that he might put me in the way of finding them.
Mr. Bruff proved to be too busy to give me more than a
minute of his valuable time. In that minute, however, he
contrived to dispose—in the most discouraging manner—of all
the questions I had to put to him.
In the first place, he considered my newly-discovered
method of finding a clue to the mystery as something too
purely fanciful to be seriously discussed. In the second,
third, and fourth places, Mr. Murthwaite was now on his way
back to the scene of his past adventures; Miss Clack had
suffered losses, and had settled, from motives of economy,
in France; Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite might, or might not, be
discoverable somewhere in London. Suppose I inquired at his
club? And suppose I excused Mr. Bruff, if he went back to
his business and wished me good morning?
The field of inquiry in London, being now so narrowed as
only to include the one necessity of discovering Godfrey's
address, I took the lawyer's hint, and drove to his club.
In the hall, I met with one of the members, who was an
old friend of my cousin's, and who was also an acquaintance
of my own. This gentleman, after enlightening me on the
subject of Godfrey's address, told me of two recent events
in his life, which were of some importance in themselves,
and which had not previously reached my ears.
It appeared that Godfrey, far from being discouraged by
Rachel's withdrawal from her engagement to him had made
matrimonial advances soon afterwards to another young lady,
reputed to be a great heiress. His suit had prospered, and
his marriage had been considered as a settled and certain
thing. But, here again, the engagement had been suddenly and
unexpectedly broken off—owing, it was said, on this
occasion, to a serious difference of opinion between the
bridegroom and the lady's father, on the question of
settlements.
As some compensation for this second matrimonial
disaster, Godfrey had soon afterwards found himself the
object of fond pecuniary remembrance, on the part of one of
his many admirers. A rich old lady—highly respected at the
Mothers' Small-Clothes-Conversion-Society, and a great
friend of Miss Clack's (to whom she left nothing but a
mourning ring)—had bequeathed to the admirable and
meritorious Godfrey a legacy of five thousand pounds. After
receiving this handsome addition to his own modest pecuniary
resources, he had been heard to say that he felt the
necessity of getting a little respite from his charitable
labours, and that his doctor prescribed "a run on the
Continent, as likely to be productive of much future benefit
to his health." If I wanted to see him, it would be
advisable to lose no time in paying my contemplated visit.
I went, then and there, to pay my visit.
The same fatality which had made me just one day too late
in calling on Sergeant Cuff, made me again one day too late
in calling on Godfrey. He had left London, on the previous
morning, by the tidal train, for Dover. He was to cross to
Ostend; and his servant believed he was going on to
Brussels. The time of his return was rather uncertain; but I
might be sure he would be away at least three months.
I went back to my lodgings a little depressed in spirits.
Three of the guests at the birthday dinner—and those three
all exceptionally intelligent people—were out of my reach,
at the very time when it was most important to be able to
communicate with them. My last hopes now rested on
Betteredge, and on the friends of the late Lady Verinder
whom I might still find living in the neighbourhood of
Rachel's country house.
On this occasion, I travelled straight to Frizinghall—the
town being now the central point in my field of inquiry. I
arrived too late in the evening to be able to communicate
with Betteredge. The next morning, I sent a messenger with a
letter, requesting him to join me at the hotel, at his
earliest convenience.
Having taken the precaution—partly to save time, partly
to accommodate Betteredge—of sending my messenger in a fly,
I had a reasonable prospect, if no delays occurred, of
seeing the old man within less than two hours from the time
when I had sent for him. During this interval, I arranged to
employ myself in opening my contemplated inquiry, among the
guests present at the birthday dinner who were personally
known to me, and who were easily within my reach. These were
my relatives, the Ablewhites, and Mr. Candy. The doctor had
expressed a special wish to see me, and the doctor lived in
the next street. So to Mr. Candy I went first.
After what Betteredge had told me, I naturally
anticipated finding traces in the doctor's face of the
severe illness from which he had suffered. But I was utterly
unprepared for such a change as I saw in him when he entered
the room and shook hands with me. His eyes were dim; his
hair had turned completely grey; his face was wizen; his
figure had shrunk. I looked at the once lively, rattlepated,
humorous little doctor—associated in my remembrance with the
perpetration of incorrigible social indiscretions and
innumerable boyish jokes—and I saw nothing left of his
former self, but the old tendency to vulgar smartness in his
dress. The man was a wreck; but his clothes and his
jewellery—in cruel mockery of the change in him—were as gay
and as gaudy as ever.
"I have often thought of you, Mr. Blake," he said; "and I
am heartily glad to see you again at last. If there is
anything I can do for you, pray command my services,
sir—pray command my services!"
He said those few commonplace words with needless hurry
and eagerness, and with a curiosity to know what had brought
me to Yorkshire, which he was perfectly—I might say
childishly—incapable of concealing from notice.
With the object that I had in view, I had of course
foreseen the necessity of entering into some sort of
personal explanation, before I could hope to interest
people, mostly strangers to me, in doing their best to
assist my inquiry. On the journey to Frizinghall I had
arranged what my explanation was to be—and I seized the
opportunity now offered to me of trying the effect of it on
Mr. Candy.
"I was in Yorkshire, the other day, and I am in Yorkshire
again now, on rather a romantic errand," I said. "It is a
matter, Mr. Candy, in which the late Lady Verinder's friends
all took some interest. You remember the mysterious loss of
the Indian Diamond, now nearly a year since? Circumstances
have lately happened which lead to the hope that it may yet
be found—and I am interesting myself, as one of the family,
in recovering it. Among the obstacles in my way, there is
the necessity of collecting again all the evidence which was
discovered at the time, and more if possible. There are
peculiarities in this case which make it desirable to revive
my recollection of everything that happened in the house, on
the evening of Miss Verinder's birthday. And I venture to
appeal to her late mother's friends who were present on that
occasion, to lend me the assistance of their memories——"
I had got as far as that in rehearsing my explanatory
phrases, when I was suddenly checked by seeing plainly in
Mr. Candy's face that my experiment on him was a total
failure.
The little doctor sat restlessly picking at the points of
his fingers all the time I was speaking. His dim watery eyes
were fixed on my face with an expression of vacant and
wistful inquiry very painful to see. What he was thinking
of, it was impossible to divine. The one thing clearly
visible was that I had failed, after the first two or three
words, in fixing his attention. The only chance of recalling
him to himself appeared to lie in changing the subject. I
tried a new topic immediately.
"So much," I said, gaily, "for what brings me to
Frizinghall! Now, Mr. Candy, it's your turn. You sent me a
message by Gabriel Betteredge——"
He left off picking at his fingers, and suddenly
brightened up.
"Yes! yes! yes!" he exclaimed eagerly. "That's it! I sent
you a message!"
"And Betteredge duly communicated it by letter," I went
on. "You had something to say to me, the next time I was in
your neighbourhood. Well, Mr. Candy, here I am!"
"Here you are!" echoed the doctor. "And Betteredge was
quite right. I had something to say to you. That was my
message. Betteredge is a wonderful man. What a memory! At
his age, what a memory!"
He dropped back into silence, and began picking at his
fingers again. Recollecting what I had heard from Betteredge
about the effect of the fever on his memory, I went on with
the conversation, in the hope that I might help him at
starting.
"It's a long time since we met," I said. "We last saw
each other at the last birthday dinner my poor aunt was ever
to give."
"That's it!" cried Mr. Candy. "The birthday dinner!" He
started impulsively to his feet, and looked at me. A deep
flush suddenly overspread his faded face, and he abruptly
sat down again, as if conscious of having betrayed a
weakness which he would fain have concealed. It was plain,
pitiably plain, that he was aware of his own defect of
memory, and that he was bent on hiding it from the
observation of his friends.
Thus far he had appealed to my compassion only. But the
words he had just said—few as they were—roused my curiosity
instantly to the highest pitch. The birthday dinner had
already become the one event in the past, at which I looked
back with strangely-mixed feelings of hope and distrust. And
here was the birthday dinner unmistakably proclaiming itself
as the subject on which Mr. Candy had something important to
say to me!
I attempted to help him out once more. But, this time, my
own interests were at the bottom of my compassionate motive,
and they hurried me on a little too abruptly, to the end I
had in view.
"It's nearly a year now," I said, "since we sat at that
pleasant table. Have you made any memorandum—in your diary,
or otherwise—of what you wanted to say to me?"
Mr. Candy understood the suggestion, and showed me that
he understood it, as an insult.
"I require no memorandum, Mr. Blake," he said, stiffly
enough. "I am not such a very old man, yet—and my memory
(thank God) is to be thoroughly depended on!"
It is needless to say that I declined to understand that
he was offended with me.
"I wish I could say the same of my memory," I answered.
"When I try to think of matters that are a year old, I
seldom find my remembrance as vivid as I could wish it to
be. Take the dinner at Lady Verinder's, for instance——"
Mr. Candy brightened up again, the moment the allusion
passed my lips.
"Ah! the dinner, the dinner at Lady Verinder's!" he
exclaimed, more eagerly than ever. "I have got something to
say to you about that."
His eyes looked at me again with the painful expression
of inquiry, so wistful, so vacant, so miserably helpless to
see. He was evidently trying hard, and trying in vain, to
recover the lost recollection. "It was a very pleasant
dinner," he burst out suddenly, with an air of saying
exactly what he wanted to say. "A very pleasant dinner, Mr.
Blake, wasn't it?" He nodded and smiled, and appeared to
think, poor fellow, that he had succeeded in concealing the
total failure of his memory, by a well-timed exertion of his
own presence of mind.
It was so distressing that I at once shifted the
talk—deeply as I was interested in his recovering the lost
remembrance—to topics of local interest.
Here, he got on glibly enough. Trumpery little scandals
and quarrels in the town, some of them as much as a month
old, appeared to recur to his memory readily. He chattered
on, with something of the smooth gossiping fluency of former
times. But there were moments, even in the full flow of his
talkativeness, when he suddenly hesitated—looked at me for a
moment with the vacant inquiry once more in his
eyes—controlled himself—and went on again. I submitted
patiently to my martyrdom (it is surely nothing less than
martyrdom to a man of cosmopolitan sympathies, to absorb in
silent resignation the news of a country town?) until the
clock on the chimney-piece told me that my visit had been
prolonged beyond half an hour. Having now some right to
consider the sacrifice as complete, I rose to take leave. As
we shook hands, Mr. Candy reverted to the birthday festival
of his own accord.
"I am so glad we have met again," he said. "I had it on
my mind—I really had it on my mind, Mr. Blake, to speak to
you. About the dinner at Lady Verinder's, you know? A
pleasant dinner—really a pleasant dinner now, wasn't it?"
On repeating the phrase, he seemed to feel hardly as
certain of having prevented me from suspecting his lapse of
memory, as he had felt on the first occasion. The wistful
look clouded his face again: and, after apparently designing
to accompany me to the street door, he suddenly changed his
mind, rang the bell for the servant, and remained in the
drawing-room.
I went slowly down the doctor's stairs, feeling the
disheartening conviction that he really had something to say
which it was vitally important to me to hear, and that he
was morally incapable of saying it. The effort of
remembering that he wanted to speak to me was, but too
evidently, the only effort that his enfeebled memory was now
able to achieve.
Just as I reached the bottom of the stairs, and had
turned a corner on my way to the outer hall, a door opened
softly somewhere on the ground floor of the house, and a
gentle voice said behind me:—
"I am afraid, sir, you find Mr. Candy sadly changed?"
I turned round, and found myself face to face with Ezra
Jennings.
CHAPTER IX
The doctor's pretty housemaid stood waiting for me, with
the street door open in her hand. Pouring brightly into the
hall, the morning light fell full on the face of Mr. Candy's
assistant when I turned, and looked at him.
It was impossible to dispute Betteredge's assertion that
the appearance of Ezra Jennings, speaking from a popular
point of view, was against him. His gipsy-complexion, his
fleshless cheeks, his gaunt facial bones, his dreamy eyes,
his extraordinary parti-coloured hair, the puzzling
contradiction between his face and figure which made him
look old and young both together—were all more or less
calculated to produce an unfavourable impression of him on a
stranger's mind. And yet—feeling this as I certainly did—it
is not to be denied that Ezra Jennings made some inscrutable
appeal to my sympathies, which I found it impossible to
resist. While my knowledge of the world warned me to answer
the question which he had put, acknowledging that I did
indeed find Mr. Candy sadly changed, and then to proceed on
my way out of the house—my interest in Ezra Jennings held me
rooted to the place, and gave him the opportunity of
speaking to me in private about his employer, for which he
had been evidently on the watch.
"Are you walking my way, Mr. Jennings?" I said, observing
that he held his hat in his hand. "I am going to call on my
aunt, Mrs. Ablewhite."
Ezra Jennings replied that he had a patient to see, and
that he was walking my way.
We left the house together. I observed that the pretty
servant girl—who was all smiles and amiability, when I
wished her good morning on my way out—received a modest
little message from Ezra Jennings, relating to the time at
which he might be expected to return, with pursed-up lips,
and with eyes which ostentatiously looked anywhere rather
than look in his face. The poor wretch was evidently no
favourite in the house. Out of the house, I had Betteredge's
word for it that he was unpopular everywhere. "What a life!"
I thought to myself, as we descended the doctor's doorsteps.
Having already referred to Mr. Candy's illness on his
side, Ezra Jennings now appeared determined to leave it to
me to resume the subject. His silence said significantly,
"It's your turn now." I, too, had my reasons for referring
to the doctor's illness: and I readily accepted the
responsibility of speaking first.
"Judging by the change I see in him," I began, "Mr.
Candy's illness must have been far more serious that I had
supposed?"
"It is almost a miracle," said Ezra Jennings, "that he
lived through it."
"Is his memory never any better than I have found it
to-day? He has been trying to speak to me——"
"Of something which happened before he was taken ill?"
asked the assistant, observing that I hesitated.
"Yes."
"His memory of events, at that past time, is hopelessly
enfeebled," said Ezra Jennings. "It is almost to be
deplored, poor fellow, that even the wreck of it remains.
While he remembers dimly plans that he formed—things, here
and there, that he had to say or do before his illness—he is
perfectly incapable of recalling what the plans were, or
what the thing was that he had to say or do. He is painfully
conscious of his own deficiency, and painfully anxious, as
you must have seen, to hide it from observation. If he could
only have recovered in a complete state of oblivion as to
the past, he would have been a happier man. Perhaps we
should all be happier," he added, with a sad smile, "if we
could but completely forget!"
"There are some events surely in all men's lives," I
replied, "the memory of which they would be unwilling
entirely to lose?"
"That is, I hope, to be said of most men, Mr. Blake. I am
afraid it cannot truly be said of ALL. Have you any reason
to suppose that the lost remembrance which Mr. Candy tried
to recover—while you were speaking to him just now—was a
remembrance which it was important to YOU that he should
recall?"
In saying those words, he had touched, of his own accord,
on the very point upon which I was anxious to consult him.
The interest I felt in this strange man had impelled me, in
the first instance, to give him the opportunity of speaking
to me; reserving what I might have to say, on my side, in
relation to his employer, until I was first satisfied that
he was a person in whose delicacy and discretion I could
trust. The little that he had said, thus far, had been
sufficient to convince me that I was speaking to a
gentleman. He had what I may venture to describe as the
UNSOUGHT SELF-POSSESSION, which is a sure sign of good
breeding, not in England only, but everywhere else in the
civilised world. Whatever the object which he had in view,
in putting the question that he had just addressed to me, I
felt no doubt that I was justified—so far—in answering him
without reserve.
"I believe I have a strong interest," I said, "in tracing
the lost remembrance which Mr. Candy was unable to recall.
May I ask whether you can suggest to me any method by which
I might assist his memory?"
Ezra Jennings looked at me, with a sudden flash of
interest in his dreamy brown eyes.
"Mr. Candy's memory is beyond the reach of assistance,"
he said. "I have tried to help it often enough since his
recovery, to be able to speak positively on that point."
This disappointed me; and I owned it.
"I confess you led me to hope for a less discouraging
answer than that," I said.
Ezra Jennings smiled. "It may not, perhaps, be a final
answer, Mr. Blake. It may be possible to trace Mr. Candy's
lost recollection, without the necessity of appealing to Mr.
Candy himself."
"Indeed? Is it an indiscretion, on my part, to ask how?"
"By no means. My only difficulty in answering your
question, is the difficulty of explaining myself. May I
trust to your patience, if I refer once more to Mr. Candy's
illness: and if I speak of it this time without sparing you
certain professional details?"
"Pray go on! You have interested me already in hearing
the details."
My eagerness seemed to amuse—perhaps, I might rather say,
to please him. He smiled again. We had by this time left the
last houses in the town behind us. Ezra Jennings stopped for
a moment, and picked some wild flowers from the hedge by the
roadside. "How beautiful they are!" he said, simply, showing
his little nosegay to me. "And how few people in England
seem to admire them as they deserve!"
"You have not always been in England?" I said.
"No. I was born, and partly brought up, in one of our
colonies. My father was an Englishman; but my mother—We are
straying away from our subject, Mr. Blake; and it is my
fault. The truth is, I have associations with these modest
little hedgeside flowers—It doesn't matter; we were speaking
of Mr. Candy. To Mr. Candy let us return."
Connecting the few words about himself which thus
reluctantly escaped him, with the melancholy view of life
which led him to place the conditions of human happiness in
complete oblivion of the past, I felt satisfied that the
story which I had read in his face was, in two particulars
at least, the story that it really told. He had suffered as
few men suffer; and there was the mixture of some foreign
race in his English blood.
"You have heard, I dare say, of the original cause of Mr.
Candy's illness?" he resumed. "The night of Lady Verinder's
dinner-party was a night of heavy rain. My employer drove
home through it in his gig, and reached the house wetted to
the skin. He found an urgent message from a patient, waiting
for him; and he most unfortunately went at once to visit the
sick person, without stopping to change his clothes. I was
myself professionally detained, that night, by a case at
some distance from Frizinghall. When I got back the next
morning, I found Mr. Candy's groom waiting in great alarm to
take me to his master's room. By that time the mischief was
done; the illness had set in."
"The illness has only been described to me, in general
terms, as a fever," I said.
"I can add nothing which will make the description more
accurate," answered Ezra Jennings. "From first to last the
fever assumed no specific form. I sent at once to two of Mr.
Candy's medical friends in the town, both physicians, to
come and give me their opinion of the case. They agreed with
me that it looked serious; but they both strongly dissented
from the view I took of the treatment. We differed entirely
in the conclusions which we drew from the patient's pulse.
The two doctors, arguing from the rapidity of the beat,
declared that a lowering treatment was the only treatment to
be adopted. On my side, I admitted the rapidity of the
pulse, but I also pointed to its alarming feebleness as
indicating an exhausted condition of the system, and as
showing a plain necessity for the administration of
stimulants. The two doctors were for keeping him on gruel,
lemonade, barley-water, and so on. I was for giving him
champagne, or brandy, ammonia, and quinine. A serious
difference of opinion, as you see! a difference between two
physicians of established local repute, and a stranger who
was only an assistant in the house. For the first few days,
I had no choice but to give way to my elders and betters;
the patient steadily sinking all the time. I made a second
attempt to appeal to the plain, undeniably plain, evidence
of the pulse. Its rapidity was unchecked, and its feebleness
had increased. The two doctors took offence at my obstinacy.
They said, 'Mr. Jennings, either we manage this case, or you
manage it. Which is it to be?' I said, 'Gentlemen, give me
five minutes to consider, and that plain question shall have
a plain reply.' When the time expired, I was ready with my
answer. I said, 'You positively refuse to try the stimulant
treatment?' They refused in so many words. 'I mean to try it
at once, gentlemen.'—'Try it, Mr. Jennings, and we withdraw
from the case.' I sent down to the cellar for a bottle of
champagne; and I administered half a tumbler-full of it to
the patient with my own hand. The two physicians took up
their hats in silence, and left the house."
"You had assumed a serious responsibility," I said. "In
your place, I am afraid I should have shrunk from it."
"In my place, Mr. Blake, you would have remembered that
Mr. Candy had taken you into his employment, under
circumstances which made you his debtor for life. In my
place, you would have seen him sinking, hour by hour; and
you would have risked anything, rather than let the one man
on earth who had befriended you, die before your eyes. Don't
suppose that I had no sense of the terrible position in
which I had placed myself! There were moments when I felt
all the misery of my friendlessness, all the peril of my
dreadful responsibility. If I had been a happy man, if I had
led a prosperous life, I believe I should have sunk under
the task I had imposed on myself. But I had no happy time to
look back at, no past peace of mind to force itself into
contrast with my present anxiety and suspense—and I held
firm to my resolution through it all. I took an interval in
the middle of the day, when my patient's condition was at
its best, for the repose I needed. For the rest of the
four-and-twenty hours, as long as his life was in danger, I
never left his bedside. Towards sunset, as usual in such
cases, the delirium incidental to the fever came on. It
lasted more or less through the night; and then intermitted,
at that terrible time in the early morning—from two o'clock
to five—when the vital energies even of the healthiest of us
are at their lowest. It is then that Death gathers in his
human harvest most abundantly. It was then that Death and I
fought our fight over the bed, which should have the man who
lay on it. I never hesitated in pursuing the treatment on
which I had staked everything. When wine failed, I tried
brandy. When the other stimulants lost their influence, I
doubled the dose. After an interval of suspense—the like of
which I hope to God I shall never feel again—there came a
day when the rapidity of the pulse slightly, but
appreciably, diminished; and, better still, there came also
a change in the beat—an unmistakable change to steadiness
and strength. THEN, I knew that I had saved him; and then I
own I broke down. I laid the poor fellow's wasted hand back
on the bed, and burst out crying. An hysterical relief, Mr.
Blake—nothing more! Physiology says, and says truly, that
some men are born with female constitutions—and I am one of
them!"
He made that bitterly professional apology for his tears,
speaking quietly and unaffectedly, as he had spoken
throughout. His tone and manner, from beginning to end,
showed him to be especially, almost morbidly, anxious not to
set himself up as an object of interest to me.
"You may well ask, why I have wearied you with all these
details?" he went on. "It is the only way I can see, Mr.
Blake, of properly introducing to you what I have to say
next. Now you know exactly what my position was, at the time
of Mr. Candy's illness, you will the more readily understand
the sore need I had of lightening the burden on my mind by
giving it, at intervals, some sort of relief. I have had the
presumption to occupy my leisure, for some years past, in
writing a book, addressed to the members of my profession—a
book on the intricate and delicate subject of the brain and
the nervous system. My work will probably never be finished;
and it will certainly never be published. It has none the
less been the friend of many lonely hours; and it helped me
to while away the anxious time—the time of waiting, and
nothing else—at Mr. Candy's bedside. I told you he was
delirious, I think? And I mentioned the time at which his
delirium came on?"
"Yes."
"Well, I had reached a section of my book, at that time,
which touched on this same question of delirium. I won't
trouble you at any length with my theory on the subject—I
will confine myself to telling you only what it is your
present interest to know. It has often occurred to me in the
course of my medical practice, to doubt whether we can
justifiably infer—in cases of delirium—that the loss of the
faculty of speaking connectedly, implies of necessity the
loss of the faculty of thinking connectedly as well. Poor
Mr. Candy's illness gave me an opportunity of putting this
doubt to the test. I understand the art of writing in
shorthand; and I was able to take down the patient's
'wanderings', exactly as they fell from his lips.—Do you
see, Mr. Blake, what I am coming to at last?"
I saw it clearly, and waited with breathless interest to
hear more.
"At odds and ends of time," Ezra Jennings went on, "I
reproduced my shorthand notes, in the ordinary form of
writing—leaving large spaces between the broken phrases, and
even the single words, as they had fallen disconnectedly
from Mr. Candy's lips. I then treated the result thus
obtained, on something like the principle which one adopts
in putting together a child's 'puzzle.' It is all confusion
to begin with; but it may be all brought into order and
shape, if you can only find the right way. Acting on this
plan, I filled in each blank space on the paper, with what
the words or phrases on either side of it suggested to me as
the speaker's meaning; altering over and over again, until
my additions followed naturally on the spoken words which
came before them, and fitted naturally into the spoken words
which came after them. The result was, that I not only
occupied in this way many vacant and anxious hours, but that
I arrived at something which was (as it seemed to me) a
confirmation of the theory that I held. In plainer words,
after putting the broken sentences together I found the
superior faculty of thinking going on, more or less
connectedly, in my patient's mind, while the inferior
faculty of expression was in a state of almost complete
incapacity and confusion."
"One word!" I interposed eagerly. "Did my name occur in
any of his wanderings?"
"You shall hear, Mr. Blake. Among my written proofs of
the assertion which I have just advanced—or, I ought to say,
among the written experiments, tending to put my assertion
to the proof—there IS one, in which your name occurs. For
nearly the whole of one night, Mr. Candy's mind was occupied
with SOMETHING between himself and you. I have got the
broken words, as they dropped from his lips, on one sheet of
paper. And I have got the links of my own discovering which
connect those words together, on another sheet of paper. The
product (as the arithmeticians would say) is an intelligible
statement—first, of something actually done in the past;
secondly, of something which Mr. Candy contemplated doing in
the future, if his illness had not got in the way, and
stopped him. The question is whether this does, or does not,
represent the lost recollection which he vainly attempted to
find when you called on him this morning?"
"Not a doubt of it!" I answered. "Let us go back
directly, and look at the papers!"
"Quite impossible, Mr. Blake."
"Why?"
"Put yourself in my position for a moment," said Ezra
Jennings. "Would you disclose to another person what had
dropped unconsciously from the lips of your suffering
patient and your helpless friend, without first knowing that
there was a necessity to justify you in opening your lips?"
I felt that he was unanswerable, here; but I tried to
argue the question, nevertheless.
"My conduct in such a delicate matter as you describe," I
replied, "would depend greatly on whether the disclosure was
of a nature to compromise my friend or not."
"I have disposed of all necessity for considering that
side of the question, long since," said Ezra Jennings.
"Wherever my notes included anything which Mr. Candy might
have wished to keep secret, those notes have been destroyed.
My manuscript experiments at my friend's bedside, include
nothing, now, which he would have hesitated to communicate
to others, if he had recovered the use of his memory. In
your case, I have every reason to suppose that my notes
contain something which he actually wished to say to you."
"And yet, you hesitate?"
"And yet, I hesitate. Remember the circumstances under
which I obtained the information which I possess! Harmless
as it is, I cannot prevail upon myself to give it up to you,
unless you first satisfy me that there is a reason for doing
so. He was so miserably ill, Mr. Blake! and he was so
helplessly dependent upon Me! Is it too much to ask, if I
request you only to hint to me what your interest is in the
lost recollection—or what you believe that lost recollection
to be?"
To have answered him with the frankness which his
language and his manner both claimed from me, would have
been to commit myself to openly acknowledging that I was
suspected of the theft of the Diamond. Strongly as Ezra
Jennings had intensified the first impulsive interest which
I had felt in him, he had not overcome my unconquerable
reluctance to disclose the degrading position in which I
stood. I took refuge once more in the explanatory phrases
with which I had prepared myself to meet the curiosity of
strangers.
This time I had no reason to complain of a want of
attention on the part of the person to whom I addressed
myself. Ezra Jennings listened patiently, even anxiously,
until I had done.
"I am sorry to have raised your expectations, Mr. Blake,
only to disappoint them," he said. "Throughout the whole
period of Mr. Candy's illness, from first to last, not one
word about the Diamond escaped his lips. The matter with
which I heard him connect your name has, I can assure you,
no discoverable relation whatever with the loss or the
recovery of Miss Verinder's jewel."
We arrived, as he said those words, at a place where the
highway along which we had been walking branched off into
two roads. One led to Mr. Ablewhite's house, and the other
to a moorland village some two or three miles off. Ezra
Jennings stopped at the road which led to the village.
"My way lies in this direction," he said. "I am really
and truly sorry, Mr. Blake, that I can be of no use to you."
His voice told me that he spoke sincerely. His soft brown
eyes rested on me for a moment with a look of melancholy
interest. He bowed, and went, without another word, on his
way to the village.
For a minute or more I stood and watched him, walking
farther and farther away from me; carrying farther and
farther away with him what I now firmly believed to be the
clue of which I was in search. He turned, after walking on a
little way, and looked back. Seeing me still standing at the
place where we had parted, he stopped, as if doubting
whether I might not wish to speak to him again. There was no
time for me to reason out my own situation—to remind myself
that I was losing my opportunity, at what might be the
turning point of my life, and all to flatter nothing more
important than my own self-esteem! There was only time to
call him back first, and to think afterwards. I suspect I am
one of the rashest of existing men. I called him back—and
then I said to myself, "Now there is no help for it. I must
tell him the truth!"
He retraced his steps directly. I advanced along the road
to meet him.
"Mr. Jennings," I said. "I have not treated you quite
fairly. My interest in tracing Mr. Candy's lost recollection
is not the interest of recovering the Moonstone. A serious
personal matter is at the bottom of my visit to Yorkshire. I
have but one excuse for not having dealt frankly with you in
this matter. It is more painful to me than I can say, to
mention to anybody what my position really is."
Ezra Jennings looked at me with the first appearance of
embarrassment which I had seen in him yet.
"I have no right, Mr. Blake, and no wish," he said, "to
intrude myself into your private affairs. Allow me to ask
your pardon, on my side, for having (most innocently) put
you to a painful test."
"You have a perfect right," I rejoined, "to fix the terms
on which you feel justified in revealing what you heard at
Mr. Candy's bedside. I understand and respect the delicacy
which influences you in this matter. How can I expect to be
taken into your confidence if I decline to admit you into
mine? You ought to know, and you shall know, why I am
interested in discovering what Mr. Candy wanted to say to
me. If I turn out to be mistaken in my anticipations, and if
you prove unable to help me when you are really aware of
what I want, I shall trust to your honour to keep my
secret—and something tells me that I shall not trust in
vain."
"Stop, Mr. Blake. I have a word to say, which must be
said before you go any farther." I looked at him in
astonishment. The grip of some terrible emotion seemed to
have seized him, and shaken him to the soul. His gipsy
complexion had altered to a livid greyish paleness; his eyes
had suddenly become wild and glittering; his voice had
dropped to a tone—low, stern, and resolute—which I now heard
for the first time. The latent resources in the man, for
good or for evil—it was hard, at that moment, to say
which—leapt up in him and showed themselves to me, with the
suddenness of a flash of light.
"Before you place any confidence in me," he went on, "you
ought to know, and you MUST know, under what circumstances I
have been received into Mr. Candy's house. It won't take
long. I don't profess, sir, to tell my story (as the phrase
is) to any man. My story will die with me. All I ask, is to
be permitted to tell you, what I have told Mr. Candy. If you
are still in the mind, when you have heard that, to say what
you have proposed to say, you will command my attention and
command my services. Shall we walk on?"
The suppressed misery in his face silenced me. I answered
his question by a sign. We walked on.
After advancing a few hundred yards, Ezra Jennings
stopped at a gap in the rough stone wall which shut off the
moor from the road, at this part of it.
"Do you mind resting a little, Mr. Blake?" he asked. "I
am not what I was—and some things shake me."
I agreed of course. He led the way through the gap to a
patch of turf on the heathy ground, screened by bushes and
dwarf trees on the side nearest to the road, and commanding
in the opposite direction a grandly desolate view over the
broad brown wilderness of the moor. The clouds had gathered,
within the last half hour. The light was dull; the distance
was dim. The lovely face of Nature met us, soft and still
colourless—met us without a smile.
We sat down in silence. Ezra Jennings laid aside his hat,
and passed his hand wearily over his forehead, wearily
through his startling white and black hair. He tossed his
little nosegay of wild flowers away from him, as if the
remembrances which it recalled were remembrances which hurt
him now.
"Mr. Blake!" he said, suddenly. "You are in bad company.
The cloud of a horrible accusation has rested on me for
years. I tell you the worst at once. I am a man whose life
is a wreck, and whose character is gone."
I attempted to speak. He stopped me.
"No," he said. "Pardon me; not yet. Don't commit yourself
to expressions of sympathy which you may afterwards wish to
recall. I have mentioned an accusation which has rested on
me for years. There are circumstances in connexion with it
that tell against me. I cannot bring myself to acknowledge
what the accusation is. And I am incapable, perfectly
incapable, of proving my innocence. I can only assert my
innocence. I assert it, sir, on my oath, as a Christian. It
is useless to appeal to my honour as a man."
He paused again. I looked round at him. He never looked
at me in return. His whole being seemed to be absorbed in
the agony of recollecting, and in the effort to speak.
"There is much that I might say," he went on, "about the
merciless treatment of me by my own family, and the
merciless enmity to which I have fallen a victim. But the
harm is done; the wrong is beyond all remedy. I decline to
weary or distress you, sir, if I can help it. At the outset
of my career in this country, the vile slander to which I
have referred struck me down at once and for ever. I
resigned my aspirations in my profession—obscurity was the
only hope left for me. I parted with the woman I loved—how
could I condemn her to share my disgrace? A medical
assistant's place offered itself, in a remote corner of
England. I got the place. It promised me peace; it promised
me obscurity, as I thought. I was wrong. Evil report, with
time and chance to help it, travels patiently, and travels
far. The accusation from which I had fled followed me. I got
warning of its approach. I was able to leave my situation
voluntarily, with the testimonials that I had earned. They
got me another situation in another remote district. Time
passed again; and again the slander that was death to my
character found me out. On this occasion I had no warning.
My employer said, 'Mr. Jennings, I have no complaint to make
against you; but you must set yourself right, or leave me.'
I had but one choice—I left him. It's useless to dwell on
what I suffered after that. I am only forty years old now.
Look at my face, and let it tell for me the story of some
miserable years. It ended in my drifting to this place, and
meeting with Mr. Candy. He wanted an assistant. I referred
him, on the question of capacity, to my last employer. The
question of character remained. I told him what I have told
you—and more. I warned him that there were difficulties in
the way, even if he believed me. 'Here, as elsewhere,' I
said 'I scorn the guilty evasion of living under an assumed
name: I am no safer at Frizinghall than at other places from
the cloud that follows me, go where I may.' He answered, 'I
don't do things by halves—I believe you, and I pity you. If
you will risk what may happen, I will risk it too.' God
Almighty bless him! He has given me shelter, he has given me
employment, he has given me rest of mind—and I have the
certain conviction (I have had it for some months past) that
nothing will happen now to make him regret it."
"The slander has died out?" I said.
"The slander is as active as ever. But when it follows me
here, it will come too late."
"You will have left the place?"
"No, Mr. Blake—I shall be dead. For ten years past I have
suffered from an incurable internal complaint. I don't
disguise from you that I should have let the agony of it
kill me long since, but for one last interest in life, which
makes my existence of some importance to me still. I want to
provide for a person—very dear to me—whom I shall never see
again. My own little patrimony is hardly sufficient to make
her independent of the world. The hope, if I could only live
long enough, of increasing it to a certain sum, has impelled
me to resist the disease by such palliative means as I could
devise. The one effectual palliative in my case, is—opium.
To that all-potent and all-merciful drug I am indebted for a
respite of many years from my sentence of death. But even
the virtues of opium have their limit. The progress of the
disease has gradually forced me from the use of opium to the
abuse of it. I am feeling the penalty at last. My nervous
system is shattered; my nights are nights of horror. The end
is not far off now. Let it come—I have not lived and worked
in vain. The little sum is nearly made up; and I have the
means of completing it, if my last reserves of life fail me
sooner than I expect. I hardly know how I have wandered into
telling you this. I don't think I am mean enough to appeal
to your pity. Perhaps, I fancy you may be all the readier to
believe me, if you know that what I have said to you, I have
said with the certain knowledge in me that I am a dying man.
There is no disguising, Mr. Blake, that you interest me. I
have attempted to make my poor friend's loss of memory the
means of bettering my acquaintance with you. I have
speculated on the chance of your feeling a passing curiosity
about what he wanted to say, and of my being able to satisfy
it. Is there no excuse for my intruding myself on you?
Perhaps there is some excuse. A man who has lived as I have
lived has his bitter moments when he ponders over human
destiny. You have youth, health, riches, a place in the
world, a prospect before you. You, and such as you, show me
the sunny side of human life, and reconcile me with the
world that I am leaving, before I go. However this talk
between us may end, I shall not forget that you have done me
a kindness in doing that. It rests with you, sir, to say
what you proposed saying, or to wish me good morning."
I had but one answer to make to that appeal. Without a
moment's hesitation I told him the truth, as unreservedly as
I have told it in these pages.
He started to his feet, and looked at me with breathless
eagerness as I approached the leading incident of my story.
"It is certain that I went into the room," I said; "it is
certain that I took the Diamond. I can only meet those two
plain facts by declaring that, do what I might, I did it
without my own knowledge——"
Ezra Jennings caught me excitedly by the arm.
"Stop!" he said. "You have suggested more to me than you
suppose. Have you ever been accustomed to the use of opium?"
"I never tasted it in my life."
"Were your nerves out of order, at this time last year?
Were you unusually restless and irritable?"
"Yes."
"Did you sleep badly?"
"Wretchedly. Many nights I never slept at all."
"Was the birthday night an exception? Try, and remember.
Did you sleep well on that one occasion?"
"I do remember! I slept soundly."
He dropped my arm as suddenly as he had taken it—and
looked at me with the air of a man whose mind was relieved
of the last doubt that rested on it.
"This is a marked day in your life, and in mine," he
said, gravely. "I am absolutely certain, Mr. Blake, of one
thing—I have got what Mr. Candy wanted to say to you this
morning, in the notes that I took at my patient's bedside.
Wait! that is not all. I am firmly persuaded that I can
prove you to have been unconscious of what you were about,
when you entered the room and took the Diamond. Give me time
to think, and time to question you. I believe the
vindication of your innocence is in my hands!"
"Explain yourself, for God's sake! What do you mean?"
In the excitement of our colloquy, we had walked on a few
steps, beyond the clump of dwarf trees which had hitherto
screened us from view. Before Ezra Jennings could answer me,
he was hailed from the high road by a man, in great
agitation, who had been evidently on the look-out for him.
"I am coming," he called back; "I am coming as fast as I
can!" He turned to me. "There is an urgent case waiting for
me at the village yonder; I ought to have been there half an
hour since—I must attend to it at once. Give me two hours
from this time, and call at Mr. Candy's again—and I will
engage to be ready for you."
"How am I to wait!" I exclaimed, impatiently. "Can't you
quiet my mind by a word of explanation before we part?"
"This is far too serious a matter to be explained in a
hurry, Mr. Blake. I am not wilfully trying your patience—I
should only be adding to your suspense, if I attempted to
relieve it as things are now. At Frizinghall, sir, in two
hours' time!"
The man on the high road hailed him again. He hurried
away, and left me.
CHAPTER X
How the interval of suspense in which I was now condemned
might have affected other men in my position, I cannot
pretend to say. The influence of the two hours' probation
upon my temperament was simply this. I felt physically
incapable of remaining still in any one place, and morally
incapable of speaking to any one human being, until I had
first heard all that Ezra Jennings had to say to me.
In this frame of mind, I not only abandoned my
contemplated visit to Mrs. Ablewhite—I even shrank from
encountering Gabriel Betteredge himself.
Returning to Frizinghall, I left a note for Betteredge,
telling him that I had been unexpectedly called away for a
few hours, but that he might certainly expect me to return
towards three o'clock in the afternoon. I requested him, in
the interval, to order his dinner at the usual hour, and to
amuse himself as he pleased. He had, as I well knew, hosts
of friends in Frizinghall; and he would be at no loss how to
fill up his time until I returned to the hotel.
This done, I made the best of my way out of the town
again, and roamed the lonely moorland country which
surrounds Frizinghall, until my watch told me that it was
time, at last, to return to Mr. Candy's house.
I found Ezra Jennings ready and waiting for me.
He was sitting alone in a bare little room, which
communicated by a glazed door with a surgery. Hideous
coloured diagrams of the ravages of hideous diseases
decorated the barren buff-coloured walls. A book-case filled
with dingy medical works, and ornamented at the top with a
skull, in place of the customary bust; a large deal table
copiously splashed with ink; wooden chairs of the sort that
are seen in kitchens and cottages; a threadbare drugget in
the middle of the floor; a sink of water, with a basin and
waste-pipe roughly let into the wall, horribly suggestive of
its connection with surgical operations—comprised the entire
furniture of the room. The bees were humming among a few
flowers placed in pots outside the window; the birds were
singing in the garden, and the faint intermittent jingle of
a tuneless piano in some neighbouring house forced itself
now and again on the ear. In any other place, these everyday
sounds might have spoken pleasantly of the everyday world
outside. Here, they came in as intruders on a silence which
nothing but human suffering had the privilege to disturb. I
looked at the mahogany instrument case, and at the huge roll
of lint, occupying places of their own on the book-shelves,
and shuddered inwardly as I thought of the sounds, familiar
and appropriate to the everyday use of Ezra Jennings' room.
"I make no apology, Mr. Blake, for the place in which I
am receiving you," he said. "It is the only room in the
house, at this hour of the day, in which we can feel quite
sure of being left undisturbed. Here are my papers ready for
you; and here are two books to which we may have occasion to
refer, before we have done. Bring your chair to the table,
and we shall be able to consult them together."
I drew up to the table; and Ezra Jennings handed me his
manuscript notes. They consisted of two large folio leaves
of paper. One leaf contained writing which only covered the
surface at intervals. The other presented writing, in red
and black ink, which completely filled the page from top to
bottom. In the irritated state of my curiosity, at that
moment, I laid aside the second sheet of paper in despair.
"Have some mercy on me!" I said. "Tell me what I am to
expect, before I attempt to read this."
"Willingly, Mr. Blake! Do you mind my asking you one or
two more questions?"
"Ask me anything you like!"
He looked at me with the sad smile on his lips, and the
kindly interest in his soft brown eyes.
"You have already told me," he said, "that you have
never—to your knowledge—tasted opium in your life."
"To my knowledge," I repeated.
"You will understand directly why I speak with that
reservation. Let us go on. You are not aware of ever having
taken opium. At this time, last year, you were suffering
from nervous irritation, and you slept wretchedly at night.
On the night of the birthday, however, there was an
exception to the rule—you slept soundly. Am I right, so
far?"
"Quite right!"
"Can you assign any cause for the nervous suffering, and
your want of sleep?"
"I can assign no cause. Old Betteredge made a guess at
the cause, I remember. But that is hardly worth mentioning."
"Pardon me. Anything is worth mentioning in such a case
as this. Betteredge attributed your sleeplessness to
something. To what?"
"To my leaving off smoking."
"Had you been an habitual smoker?"
"Yes."
"Did you leave off the habit suddenly?"
"Yes."
"Betteredge was perfectly right, Mr. Blake. When smoking
is a habit a man must have no common constitution who can
leave it off suddenly without some temporary damage to his
nervous system. Your sleepless nights are accounted for, to
my mind. My next question refers to Mr. Candy. Do you
remember having entered into anything like a dispute with
him—at the birthday dinner, or afterwards—on the subject of
his profession?"
The question instantly awakened one of my dormant
remembrances in connection with the birthday festival. The
foolish wrangle which took place, on that occasion, between
Mr. Candy and myself, will be found described at much
greater length than it deserves in the tenth chapter of
Betteredge's Narrative. The details there presented of the
dispute—so little had I thought of it afterwards—entirely
failed to recur to my memory. All that I could now recall,
and all that I could tell Ezra Jennings was, that I had
attacked the art of medicine at the dinner-table with
sufficient rashness and sufficient pertinacity to put even
Mr. Candy out of temper for the moment. I also remembered
that Lady Verinder had interfered to stop the dispute, and
that the little doctor and I had "made it up again," as the
children say, and had become as good friends as ever, before
we shook hands that night.
"There is one thing more," said Ezra Jennings, "which it
is very important I should know. Had you any reason for
feeling any special anxiety about the Diamond, at this time
last year?"
"I had the strongest reasons for feeling anxiety about
the Diamond. I knew it to be the object of a conspiracy; and
I was warned to take measures for Miss Verinder's
protection, as the possessor of the stone."
"Was the safety of the Diamond the subject of
conversation between you and any other person, immediately
before you retired to rest on the birthday night?"
"It was the subject of a conversation between Lady
Verinder and her daughter——"
"Which took place in your hearing?"
"Yes."
Ezra Jennings took up his notes from the table, and
placed them in my hands.
"Mr. Blake," he said, "if you read those notes now, by
the light which my questions and your answers have thrown on
them, you will make two astounding discoveries concerning
yourself. You will find—First, that you entered Miss
Verinder's sitting-room and took the Diamond, in a state of
trance, produced by opium. Secondly, that the opium was
given to you by Mr. Candy—without your own knowledge—as a
practical refutation of the opinions which you had expressed
to him at the birthday dinner."
I sat with the papers in my hand completely stupefied.
"Try and forgive poor Mr. Candy," said the assistant
gently. "He has done dreadful mischief, I own; but he has
done it innocently. If you will look at the notes, you will
see that—but for his illness—he would have returned to Lady
Verinder's the morning after the party, and would have
acknowledged the trick that he had played you. Miss Verinder
would have heard of it, and Miss Verinder would have
questioned him—and the truth which has laid hidden for a
year would have been discovered in a day."
I began to regain my self-possession. "Mr. Candy is
beyond the reach of my resentment," I said angrily. "But the
trick that he played me is not the less an act of treachery,
for all that. I may forgive, but I shall not forget it."
"Every medical man commits that act of treachery, Mr.
Blake, in the course of his practice. The ignorant distrust
of opium (in England) is by no means confined to the lower
and less cultivated classes. Every doctor in large practice
finds himself, every now and then, obliged to deceive his
patients, as Mr. Candy deceived you. I don't defend the
folly of playing you a trick under the circumstances. I only
plead with you for a more accurate and more merciful
construction of motives."
"How was it done?" I asked. "Who gave me the laudanum,
without my knowing it myself?"
"I am not able to tell you. Nothing relating to that part
of the matter dropped from Mr. Candy's lips, all through his
illness. Perhaps your own memory may point to the person to
be suspected."
"No."
"It is useless, in that case, to pursue the inquiry. The
laudanum was secretly given to you in some way. Let us leave
it there, and go on to matters of more immediate importance.
Read my notes, if you can. Familiarise your mind with what
has happened in the past. I have something very bold and
very startling to propose to you, which relates to the
future."
Those last words roused me.
I looked at the papers, in the order in which Ezra
Jennings had placed them in my hands. The paper which
contained the smaller quantity of writing was the uppermost
of the two. On this, the disconnected words, and fragments
of sentences, which had dropped from Mr. Candy in his
delirium, appeared as follows:
"... Mr. Franklin Blake ... and agreeable ... down a peg
... medicine ... confesses ... sleep at night ... tell him
... out of order ... medicine ... he tells me ... and
groping in the dark mean one and the same thing ... all the
company at the dinner-table ... I say ... groping after
sleep ... nothing but medicine ... he says ... leading the
blind ... know what it means ... witty ... a night's rest in
spite of his teeth ... wants sleep ... Lady Verinder's
medicine chest ... five-and-twenty minims ... without his
knowing it ... to-morrow morning ... Well, Mr. Blake ...
medicine to-day ... never ... without it ... out, Mr. Candy
... excellent ... without it ... down on him ... truth ...
something besides ... excellent ... dose of laudanum, sir
... bed ... what ... medicine now."
There, the first of the two sheets of paper came to an
end. I handed it back to Ezra Jennings.
"That is what you heard at his bedside?" I said.
"Literally and exactly what I heard," he answered—"except
that the repetitions are not transferred here from my
short-hand notes. He reiterated certain words and phrases a
dozen times over, fifty times over, just as he attached more
or less importance to the idea which they represented. The
repetitions, in this sense, were of some assistance to me in
putting together those fragments. Don't suppose," he added,
pointing to the second sheet of paper, "that I claim to have
reproduced the expressions which Mr. Candy himself would
have used if he had been capable of speaking connectedly. I
only say that I have penetrated through the obstacle of the
disconnected expression, to the thought which was underlying
it connectedly all the time. Judge for yourself."
I turned to the second sheet of paper, which I now knew
to be the key to the first.
Once more, Mr. Candy's wanderings appeared, copied in
black ink; the intervals between the phrases being filled up
by Ezra Jennings in red ink. I reproduce the result here, in
one plain form; the original language and the interpretation
of it coming close enough together in these pages to be
easily compared and verified.
"... Mr. Franklin Blake is clever and agreeable, but he
wants taking down a peg when he talks of medicine. He
confesses that he has been suffering from want of sleep at
night. I tell him that his nerves are out of order, and that
he ought to take medicine. He tells me that taking medicine
and groping in the dark mean one and the same thing. This
before all the company at the dinner-table. I say to him,
you are groping after sleep, and nothing but medicine can
help you to find it. He says to me, I have heard of the
blind leading the blind, and now I know what it means.
Witty—but I can give him a night's rest in spite of his
teeth. He really wants sleep; and Lady Verinder's medicine
chest is at my disposal. Give him five-and-twenty minims of
laudanum to-night, without his knowing it; and then call
to-morrow morning. 'Well, Mr. Blake, will you try a little
medicine to-day? You will never sleep without it.'—'There
you are out, Mr. Candy: I have had an excellent night's rest
without it.' Then, come down on him with the truth! 'You
have had something besides an excellent night's rest; you
had a dose of laudanum, sir, before you went to bed. What do
you say to the art of medicine, now?'"
Admiration of the ingenuity which had woven this smooth
and finished texture out of the ravelled skein was naturally
the first impression that I felt, on handing the manuscript
back to Ezra Jennings. He modestly interrupted the first few
words in which my sense of surprise expressed itself, by
asking me if the conclusion which he had drawn from his
notes was also the conclusion at which my own mind had
arrived.
"Do you believe as I believe," he said, "that you were
acting under the influence of the laudanum in doing all that
you did, on the night of Miss Verinder's birthday, in Lady
Verinder's house?"
"I am too ignorant of the influence of laudanum to have
an opinion of my own," I answered. "I can only follow your
opinion, and feel convinced that you are right."
"Very well. The next question is this. You are convinced;
and I am convinced—how are we to carry our conviction to the
minds of other people?"
I pointed to the two manuscripts, lying on the table
between us. Ezra Jennings shook his head.
"Useless, Mr. Blake! Quite useless, as they stand now for
three unanswerable reasons. In the first place, those notes
have been taken under circumstances entirely out of the
experience of the mass of mankind. Against them, to begin
with! In the second place, those notes represent a medical
and metaphysical theory. Against them, once more! In the
third place, those notes are of my making; there is nothing
but my assertion to the contrary, to guarantee that they are
not fabrications. Remember what I told you on the moor—and
ask yourself what my assertion is worth. No! my notes have
but one value, looking to the verdict of the world outside.
Your innocence is to be vindicated; and they show how it can
be done. We must put our conviction to the proof—and You are
the man to prove it!"
"How?" I asked.
He leaned eagerly nearer to me across the table that
divided us.
"Are you willing to try a bold experiment?"
"I will do anything to clear myself of the suspicion that
rests on me now."
"Will you submit to some personal inconvenience for a
time?"
"To any inconvenience, no matter what it may be."
"Will you be guided implicitly by my advice? It may
expose you to the ridicule of fools; it may subject you to
the remonstrances of friends whose opinions you are bound to
respect."
"Tell me what to do!" I broke out impatiently. "And, come
what may, I'll do it."
"You shall do this, Mr. Blake," he answered. "You shall
steal the Diamond, unconsciously, for the second time, in
the presence of witnesses whose testimony is beyond
dispute."
I started to my feet. I tried to speak. I could only look
at him.
"I believe it CAN be done," he went on. "And it shall be
done—if you will only help me. Try to compose yourself—sit
down, and hear what I have to say to you. You have resumed
the habit of smoking; I have seen that for myself. How long
have you resumed it."
"For nearly a year."
"Do you smoke more or less than you did?"
"More."
"Will you give up the habit again? Suddenly, mind!—as you
gave it up before."
I began dimly to see his drift. "I will give it up, from
this moment," I answered.
"If the same consequences follow, which followed last
June," said Ezra Jennings—"if you suffer once more as you
suffered then, from sleepless nights, we shall have gained
our first step. We shall have put you back again into
something assimilating to your nervous condition on the
birthday night. If we can next revive, or nearly revive, the
domestic circumstances which surrounded you; and if we can
occupy your mind again with the various questions concerning
the Diamond which formerly agitated it, we shall have
replaced you, as nearly as possible in the same position,
physically and morally, in which the opium found you last
year. In that case we may fairly hope that a repetition of
the dose will lead, in a greater or lesser degree, to a
repetition of the result. There is my proposal, expressed in
a few hasty words. You shall now see what reasons I have to
justify me in making it."
He turned to one of the books at his side, and opened it
at a place marked by a small slip of paper.
"Don't suppose that I am going to weary you with a
lecture on physiology," he said. "I think myself bound to
prove, in justice to both of us, that I am not asking you to
try this experiment in deference to any theory of my own
devising. Admitted principles, and recognised authorities,
justify me in the view that I take. Give me five minutes of
your attention; and I will undertake to show you that
Science sanctions my proposal, fanciful as it may seem.
Here, in the first place, is the physiological principle on
which I am acting, stated by no less a person than Dr.
Carpenter. Read it for yourself."
He handed me the slip of paper which had marked the place
in the book. It contained a few lines of writing, as
follows:—
"There seems much ground for the belief, that every
sensory impression which has once been recognised by the
perceptive consciousness, is registered (so to speak) in the
brain, and may be reproduced at some subsequent time,
although there may be no consciousness of its existence in
the mind during the whole intermediate period." "Is that
plain, so far?" asked Ezra Jennings.
"Perfectly plain."
He pushed the open book across the table to me, and
pointed to a passage, marked by pencil lines.
"Now," he said, "read that account of a case, which
has—as I believe—a direct bearing on your own position, and
on the experiment which I am tempting you to try. Observe,
Mr. Blake, before you begin, that I am now referring you to
one of the greatest of English physiologists. The book in
your hand is Doctor Elliotson's HUMAN PHYSIOLOGY; and the
case which the doctor cites rests on the well-known
authority of Mr. Combe."
The passage pointed out to me was expressed in these
terms:—
"Dr. Abel informed me," says Mr. Combe, "of an Irish
porter to a warehouse, who forgot, when sober, what he had
done when drunk; but, being drunk, again recollected the
transactions of his former state of intoxication. On one
occasion, being drunk, he had lost a parcel of some value,
and in his sober moments could give no account of it. Next
time he was intoxicated, he recollected that he had left the
parcel at a certain house, and there being no address on it,
it had remained there safely, and was got on his calling for
it."
"Plain again?" asked Ezra Jennings.
"As plain as need be."
He put back the slip of paper in its place, and closed
the book.
"Are you satisfied that I have not spoken without good
authority to support me?" he asked. "If not, I have only to
go to those bookshelves, and you have only to read the
passages which I can point out to you."
"I am quite satisfied," I said, "without reading a word
more."
"In that case, we may return to your own personal
interest in this matter. I am bound to tell you that there
is something to be said against the experiment as well as
for it. If we could, this year, exactly reproduce, in your
case, the conditions as they existed last year, it is
physiologically certain that we should arrive at exactly the
same result. But this—there is no denying it—is simply
impossible. We can only hope to approximate to the
conditions; and if we don't succeed in getting you nearly
enough back to what you were, this venture of ours will
fail. If we do succeed—and I am myself hopeful of
success—you may at least so far repeat your proceedings on
the birthday night, as to satisfy any reasonable person that
you are guiltless, morally speaking, of the theft of the
Diamond. I believe, Mr. Blake, I have now stated the
question, on both sides of it, as fairly as I can, within
the limits that I have imposed on myself. If there is
anything that I have not made clear to you, tell me what it
is—and if I can enlighten you, I will."
"All that you have explained to me," I said, "I
understand perfectly. But I own I am puzzled on one point,
which you have not made clear to me yet."
"What is the point?"
"I don't understand the effect of the laudanum on me. I
don't understand my walking down-stairs, and along
corridors, and my opening and shutting the drawers of a
cabinet, and my going back again to my own room. All these
are active proceedings. I thought the influence of opium was
first to stupefy you, and then to send you to sleep."
"The common error about opium, Mr. Blake! I am, at this
moment, exerting my intelligence (such as it is) in your
service, under the influence of a dose of laudanum, some ten
times larger than the dose Mr. Candy administered to you.
But don't trust to my authority—even on a question which
comes within my own personal experience. I anticipated the
objection you have just made: and I have again provided
myself with independent testimony which will carry its due
weight with it in your own mind, and in the minds of your
friends."
He handed me the second of the two books which he had by
him on the table.
"There," he said, "are the far-famed CONFESSIONS OF AN
ENGLISH OPIUM EATER! Take the book away with you, and read
it. At the passage which I have marked, you will find that
when De Quincey had committed what he calls 'a debauch of
opium,' he either went to the gallery at the Opera to enjoy
the music, or he wandered about the London markets on
Saturday night, and interested himself in observing all the
little shifts and bargainings of the poor in providing their
Sunday's dinner. So much for the capacity of a man to occupy
himself actively, and to move about from place to place
under the influence of opium."
"I am answered so far," I said; "but I am not answered
yet as to the effect produced by the opium on myself."
"I will try to answer you in a few words," said Ezra
Jennings. "The action of opium is comprised, in the majority
of cases, in two influences—a stimulating influence first,
and a sedative influence afterwards. Under the stimulating
influence, the latest and most vivid impressions left on
your mind—namely, the impressions relating to the
Diamond—would be likely, in your morbidly sensitive nervous
condition, to become intensified in your brain, and would
subordinate to themselves your judgment and your will
exactly as an ordinary dream subordinates to itself your
judgment and your will. Little by little, under this action,
any apprehensions about the safety of the Diamond which you
might have felt during the day would be liable to develop
themselves from the state of doubt to the state of
certainty—would impel you into practical action to preserve
the jewel—would direct your steps, with that motive in view,
into the room which you entered—and would guide your hand to
the drawers of the cabinet, until you had found the drawer
which held the stone. In the spiritualised intoxication of
opium, you would do all that. Later, as the sedative action
began to gain on the stimulant action, you would slowly
become inert and stupefied. Later still you would fall into
a deep sleep. When the morning came, and the effect of the
opium had been all slept off, you would wake as absolutely
ignorant of what you had done in the night as if you had
been living at the Antipodes. Have I made it tolerably clear
to you so far?"
"You have made it so clear," I said, "that I want you to
go farther. You have shown me how I entered the room, and
how I came to take the Diamond. But Miss Verinder saw me
leave the room again, with the jewel in my hand. Can you
trace my proceedings from that moment? Can you guess what I
did next?"
"That is the very point I was coming to," he rejoined.
"It is a question with me whether the experiment which I
propose as a means of vindicating your innocence, may not
also be made a means of recovering the lost Diamond as well.
When you left Miss Verinder's sitting-room, with the jewel
in your hand, you went back in all probability to your own
room——"
"Yes? and what then?"
"It is possible, Mr. Blake—I dare not say more—that your
idea of preserving the Diamond led, by a natural sequence,
to the idea of hiding the Diamond, and that the place in
which you hid it was somewhere in your bedroom. In that
event, the case of the Irish porter may be your case. You
may remember, under the influence of the second dose of
opium, the place in which you hid the Diamond under the
influence of the first."
It was my turn, now, to enlighten Ezra Jennings. I
stopped him, before he could say any more.
"You are speculating," I said, "on a result which cannot
possibly take place. The Diamond is, at this moment, in
London."
He started, and looked at me in great surprise.
"In London?" he repeated. "How did it get to London from
Lady Verinder's house?"
"Nobody knows."
"You removed it with your own hand from Miss Verinder's
room. How was it taken out of your keeping?"
"I have no idea how it was taken out of my keeping."
"Did you see it, when you woke in the morning?"
"No."
"Has Miss Verinder recovered possession of it?"
"No."
"Mr. Blake! there seems to be something here which wants
clearing up. May I ask how you know that the Diamond is, at
this moment, in London?"
I had put precisely the same question to Mr. Bruff when I
made my first inquiries about the Moonstone, on my return to
England. In answering Ezra Jennings, I accordingly repeated
what I had myself heard from the lawyer's own lips—and what
is already familiar to the readers of these pages.
He showed plainly that he was not satisfied with my
reply.
"With all deference to you," he said, "and with all
deference to your legal adviser, I maintain the opinion
which I expressed just now. It rests, I am well aware, on a
mere assumption. Pardon me for reminding you, that your
opinion also rests on a mere assumption as well."
The view he took of the matter was entirely new to me. I
waited anxiously to hear how he would defend it.
"I assume," pursued Ezra Jennings, "that the influence of
the opium—after impelling you to possess yourself of the
Diamond, with the purpose of securing its safety—might also
impel you, acting under the same influence and the same
motive, to hide it somewhere in your own room. YOU assume
that the Hindoo conspirators could by no possibility commit
a mistake. The Indians went to Mr. Luker's house after the
Diamond—and, therefore, in Mr. Luker's possession the
Diamond must be! Have you any evidence to prove that the
Moonstone was taken to London at all? You can't even guess
how, or by whom, it was removed from Lady Verinder's house!
Have you any evidence that the jewel was pledged to Mr.
Luker? He declares that he never heard of the Moonstone; and
his bankers' receipt acknowledges nothing but the deposit of
a valuable of great price. The Indians assume that Mr. Luker
is lying—and you assume again that the Indians are right.
All I say, in differing with you, is—that my view is
possible. What more, Mr. Blake, either logically, or
legally, can be said for yours?"
It was put strongly; but there was no denying that it was
put truly as well.
"I confess you stagger me," I replied. "Do you object to
my writing to Mr. Bruff, and telling him what you have
said?"
"On the contrary, I shall be glad if you will write to
Mr. Bruff. If we consult his experience, we may see the
matter under a new light. For the present, let us return to
our experiment with the opium. We have decided that you
leave off the habit of smoking from this moment."
"From this moment?"
"That is the first step. The next step is to reproduce,
as nearly as we can, the domestic circumstances which
surrounded you last year."
How was this to be done? Lady Verinder was dead. Rachel
and I, so long as the suspicion of theft rested on me, were
parted irrevocably. Godfrey Ablewhite was away travelling on
the Continent. It was simply impossible to reassemble the
people who had inhabited the house, when I had slept in it
last. The statement of this objection did not appear to
embarrass Ezra Jennings. He attached very little importance,
he said, to reassembling the same people—seeing that it
would be vain to expect them to reassume the various
positions which they had occupied towards me in the past
times. On the other hand, he considered it essential to the
success of the experiment, that I should see the same
objects about me which had surrounded me when I was last in
the house.
"Above all things," he said, "you must sleep in the room
which you slept in, on the birthday night, and it must be
furnished in the same way. The stairs, the corridors, and
Miss Verinder's sitting-room, must also be restored to what
they were when you saw them last. It is absolutely
necessary, Mr. Blake, to replace every article of furniture
in that part of the house which may now be put away. The
sacrifice of your cigars will be useless, unless we can get
Miss Verinder's permission to do that."
"Who is to apply to her for permission?" I asked.
"Is it not possible for you to apply?"
"Quite out of the question. After what has passed between
us on the subject of the lost Diamond, I can neither see
her, nor write to her, as things are now."
Ezra Jennings paused, and considered for a moment.
"May I ask you a delicate question?" he said.
I signed to him to go on.
"Am I right, Mr. Blake, in fancying (from one or two
things which have dropped from you) that you felt no common
interest in Miss Verinder, in former times?"
"Quite right."
"Was the feeling returned?"
"It was."
"Do you think Miss Verinder would be likely to feel a
strong interest in the attempt to prove your innocence?"
"I am certain of it."
"In that case, I will write to Miss Verinder—if you will
give me leave."
"Telling her of the proposal that you have made to me?"
"Telling her of everything that has passed between us
to-day."
It is needless to say that I eagerly accepted the service
which he had offered to me.
"I shall have time to write by to-day's post," he said,
looking at his watch. "Don't forget to lock up your cigars,
when you get back to the hotel! I will call to-morrow
morning and hear how you have passed the night."
I rose to take leave of him; and attempted to express the
grateful sense of his kindness which I really felt.
He pressed my hand gently. "Remember what I told you on
the moor," he answered. "If I can do you this little
service, Mr. Blake, I shall feel it like a last gleam of
sunshine, falling on the evening of a long and clouded day."
We parted. It was then the fifteenth of June. The events
of the next ten days—every one of them more or less directly
connected with the experiment of which I was the passive
object—are all placed on record, exactly as they happened,
in the Journal habitually kept by Mr. Candy's assistant. In
the pages of Ezra Jennings nothing is concealed, and nothing
is forgotten. Let Ezra Jennings tell how the venture with
the opium was tried, and how it ended.

FOURTH NARRATIVE
Extracted from the Journal of EZRA JENNINGS
1849.—June 15.... With some interruption from patients,
and some interruption from pain, I finished my letter to
Miss Verinder in time for to-day's post. I failed to make it
as short a letter as I could have wished. But I think I have
made it plain. It leaves her entirely mistress of her own
decision. If she consents to assist the experiment, she
consents of her own free will, and not as a favour to Mr.
Franklin Blake or to me.
June 16th.—Rose late, after a dreadful night; the
vengeance of yesterday's opium, pursuing me through a series
of frightful dreams. At one time I was whirling through
empty space with the phantoms of the dead, friends and
enemies together. At another, the one beloved face which I
shall never see again, rose at my bedside, hideously
phosphorescent in the black darkness, and glared and grinned
at me. A slight return of the old pain, at the usual time in
the early morning, was welcome as a change. It dispelled the
visions—and it was bearable because it did that.
My bad night made it late in the morning, before I could
get to Mr. Franklin Blake. I found him stretched on the
sofa, breakfasting on brandy and soda-water, and a dry
biscuit.
"I am beginning, as well as you could possibly wish," he
said. "A miserable, restless night; and a total failure of
appetite this morning. Exactly what happened last year, when
I gave up my cigars. The sooner I am ready for my second
dose of laudanum, the better I shall be pleased."
"You shall have it on the earliest possible day," I
answered. "In the meantime, we must be as careful of your
health as we can. If we allow you to become exhausted, we
shall fail in that way. You must get an appetite for your
dinner. In other words, you must get a ride or a walk this
morning, in the fresh air."
"I will ride, if they can find me a horse here.
By-the-by, I wrote to Mr. Bruff, yesterday. Have you written
to Miss Verinder?"
"Yes—by last night's post."
"Very good. We shall have some news worth hearing, to
tell each other to-morrow. Don't go yet! I have a word to
say to you. You appeared to think, yesterday, that our
experiment with the opium was not likely to be viewed very
favourably by some of my friends. You were quite right. I
call old Gabriel Betteredge one of my friends; and you will
be amused to hear that he protested strongly when I saw him
yesterday. 'You have done a wonderful number of foolish
things in the course of your life, Mr. Franklin, but this
tops them all!' There is Betteredge's opinion! You will make
allowance for his prejudices, I am sure, if you and he
happen to meet?"
I left Mr. Blake, to go my rounds among my patients;
feeling the better and the happier even for the short
interview that I had had with him.
What is the secret of the attraction that there is for me
in this man? Does it only mean that I feel the contrast
between the frankly kind manner in which he has allowed me
to become acquainted with him, and the merciless dislike and
distrust with which I am met by other people? Or is there
really something in him which answers to the yearning that I
have for a little human sympathy—the yearning, which has
survived the solitude and persecution of many years; which
seems to grow keener and keener, as the time comes nearer
and nearer when I shall endure and feel no more? How useless
to ask these questions! Mr. Blake has given me a new
interest in life. Let that be enough, without seeking to
know what the new interest is.
June 17th.—Before breakfast, this morning, Mr. Candy
informed me that he was going away for a fortnight, on a
visit to a friend in the south of England. He gave me as
many special directions, poor fellow, about the patients, as
if he still had the large practice which he possessed before
he was taken ill. The practice is worth little enough now!
Other doctors have superseded HIM; and nobody who can help
it will employ me.
It is perhaps fortunate that he is to be away just at
this time. He would have been mortified if I had not
informed him of the experiment which I am going to try with
Mr. Blake. And I hardly know what undesirable results might
not have happened, if I had taken him into my confidence.
Better as it is. Unquestionably, better as it is.
The post brought me Miss Verinder's answer, after Mr.
Candy had left the house.
A charming letter! It gives me the highest opinion of
her. There is no attempt to conceal the interest that she
feels in our proceedings. She tells me, in the prettiest
manner, that my letter has satisfied her of Mr. Blake's
innocence, without the slightest need (so far as she is
concerned) of putting my assertion to the proof. She even
upbraids herself—most undeservedly, poor thing!—for not
having divined at the time what the true solution of the
mystery might really be. The motive underlying all this
proceeds evidently from something more than a generous
eagerness to make atonement for a wrong which she has
innocently inflicted on another person. It is plain that she
has loved him, throughout the estrangement between them. In
more than one place the rapture of discovering that he has
deserved to be loved, breaks its way innocently through the
stoutest formalities of pen and ink, and even defies the
stronger restraint still of writing to a stranger. Is it
possible (I ask myself, in reading this delightful letter)
that I, of all men in the world, am chosen to be the means
of bringing these two young people together again? My own
happiness has been trampled under foot; my own love has been
torn from me. Shall I live to see a happiness of others,
which is of my making—a love renewed, which is of my
bringing back? Oh merciful Death, let me see it before your
arms enfold me, before your voice whispers to me, "Rest at
last!"
There are two requests contained in the letter. One of
them prevents me from showing it to Mr. Franklin Blake. I am
authorised to tell him that Miss Verinder willingly consents
to place her house at our disposal; and, that said, I am
desired to add no more.
So far, it is easy to comply with her wishes. But the
second request embarrasses me seriously.
Not content with having written to Mr. Betteredge,
instructing him to carry out whatever directions I may have
to give, Miss Verinder asks leave to assist me, by
personally superintending the restoration of her own
sitting-room. She only waits a word of reply from me to make
the journey to Yorkshire, and to be present as one of the
witnesses on the night when the opium is tried for the
second time.
Here, again, there is a motive under the surface; and,
here again, I fancy that I can find it out.
What she has forbidden me to tell Mr. Franklin Blake, she
is (as I interpret it) eager to tell him with her own lips,
BEFORE he is put to the test which is to vindicate his
character in the eyes of other people. I understand and
admire this generous anxiety to acquit him, without waiting
until his innocence may, or may not, be proved. It is the
atonement that she is longing to make, poor girl, after
having innocently and inevitably wronged him. But the thing
cannot be done. I have no sort of doubt that the agitation
which a meeting between them would produce on both
sides—reviving dormant feelings, appealing to old memories,
awakening new hopes—would, in their effect on the mind of
Mr. Blake, be almost certainly fatal to the success of our
experiment. It is hard enough, as things are, to reproduce
in him the conditions as they existed, or nearly as they
existed, last year. With new interests and new emotions to
agitate him, the attempt would be simply useless.
And yet, knowing this, I cannot find it in my heart to
disappoint her. I must try if I can discover some new
arrangement, before post-time, which will allow me to say
Yes to Miss Verinder, without damage to the service which I
have bound myself to render to Mr. Franklin Blake.
Two o'clock.—I have just returned from my round of
medical visits; having begun, of course, by calling at the
hotel.
Mr. Blake's report of the night is the same as before. He
has had some intervals of broken sleep, and no more. But he
feels it less to-day, having slept after yesterday's dinner.
This after-dinner sleep is the result, no doubt, of the ride
which I advised him to take. I fear I shall have to curtail
his restorative exercise in the fresh air. He must not be
too well; he must not be too ill. It is a case (as a sailor
would say) of very fine steering.
He has not heard yet from Mr. Bruff. I found him eager to
know if I had received any answer from Miss Verinder.
I told him exactly what I was permitted to tell, and no
more. It was quite needless to invent excuses for not
showing him the letter. He told me bitterly enough, poor
fellow, that he understood the delicacy which disinclined me
to produce it. "She consents, of course, as a matter of
common courtesy and common justice," he said. "But she keeps
her own opinion of me, and waits to see the result." I was
sorely tempted to hint that he was now wronging her as she
had wronged him. On reflection, I shrank from forestalling
her in the double luxury of surprising and forgiving him.
My visit was a very short one. After the experience of
the other night, I have been compelled once more to give up
my dose of opium. As a necessary result, the agony of the
disease that is in me has got the upper hand again. I felt
the attack coming on, and left abruptly, so as not to alarm
or distress him. It only lasted a quarter of an hour this
time, and it left me strength enough to go on with my work.
Five o'clock.—I have written my reply to Miss Verinder.
The arrangement I have proposed reconciles the interests
on both sides, if she will only consent to it. After first
stating the objections that there are to a meeting between
Mr. Blake and herself, before the experiment is tried, I
have suggested that she should so time her journey as to
arrive at the house privately, on the evening when we make
the attempt. Travelling by the afternoon train from London,
she would delay her arrival until nine o'clock. At that
hour, I have undertaken to see Mr. Blake safely into his
bedchamber; and so to leave Miss Verinder free to occupy her
own rooms until the time comes for administering the
laudanum. When that has been done, there can be no objection
to her watching the result, with the rest of us. On the next
morning, she shall show Mr. Blake (if she likes) her
correspondence with me, and shall satisfy him in that way
that he was acquitted in her estimation, before the question
of his innocence was put to the proof.
In that sense, I have written to her. This is all that I
can do to-day. To-morrow I must see Mr. Betteredge, and give
the necessary directions for reopening the house.
June 18th.—Late again, in calling on Mr. Franklin Blake.
More of that horrible pain in the early morning; followed,
this time, by complete prostration, for some hours. I
foresee, in spite of the penalties which it exacts from me,
that I shall have to return to the opium for the hundredth
time. If I had only myself to think of, I should prefer the
sharp pains to the frightful dreams. But the physical
suffering exhausts me. If I let myself sink, it may end in
my becoming useless to Mr. Blake at the time when he wants
me most.
It was nearly one o'clock before I could get to the hotel
to-day. The visit, even in my shattered condition, proved to
be a most amusing one—thanks entirely to the presence on the
scene of Gabriel Betteredge.
I found him in the room, when I went in. He withdrew to
the window and looked out, while I put my first customary
question to my patient. Mr. Blake had slept badly again, and
he felt the loss of rest this morning more than he had felt
it yet.
I asked next if he had heard from Mr. Bruff.
A letter had reached him that morning. Mr. Bruff
expressed the strongest disapproval of the course which his
friend and client was taking under my advice. It was
mischievous—for it excited hopes that might never be
realised. It was quite unintelligible to HIS mind, except
that it looked like a piece of trickery, akin to the
trickery of mesmerism, clairvoyance, and the like. It
unsettled Miss Verinder's house, and it would end in
unsettling Miss Verinder herself. He had put the case
(without mentioning names) to an eminent physician; and the
eminent physician had smiled, had shaken his head, and had
said—nothing. On these grounds, Mr. Bruff entered his
protest, and left it there.
My next inquiry related to the subject of the Diamond.
Had the lawyer produced any evidence to prove that the jewel
was in London?
No, the lawyer had simply declined to discuss the
question. He was himself satisfied that the Moonstone had
been pledged to Mr. Luker. His eminent absent friend, Mr.
Murthwaite (whose consummate knowledge of the Indian
character no one could deny), was satisfied also. Under
these circumstances, and with the many demands already made
on him, he must decline entering into any disputes on the
subject of evidence. Time would show; and Mr. Bruff was
willing to wait for time.
It was quite plain—even if Mr. Blake had not made it
plainer still by reporting the substance of the letter,
instead of reading what was actually written—that distrust
of me was at the bottom of all this. Having myself foreseen
that result, I was neither mortified nor surprised. I asked
Mr. Blake if his friend's protest had shaken him. He
answered emphatically, that it had not produced the
slightest effect on his mind. I was free after that to
dismiss Mr. Bruff from consideration—and I did dismiss him
accordingly.
A pause in the talk between us, followed—and Gabriel
Betteredge came out from his retirement at the window.
"Can you favour me with your attention, sir?" he
inquired, addressing himself to me.
"I am quite at your service," I answered.
Betteredge took a chair and seated himself at the table.
He produced a huge old-fashioned leather pocket-book, with a
pencil of dimensions to match. Having put on his spectacles,
he opened the pocket-book, at a blank page, and addressed
himself to me once more.
"I have lived," said Betteredge, looking at me sternly,
"nigh on fifty years in the service of my late lady. I was
page-boy before that, in the service of the old lord, her
father. I am now somewhere between seventy and eighty years
of age—never mind exactly where! I am reckoned to have got
as pretty a knowledge and experience of the world as most
men. And what does it all end in? It ends, Mr. Ezra
Jennings, in a conjuring trick being performed on Mr.
Franklin Blake, by a doctor's assistant with a bottle of
laudanum—and by the living jingo, I'm appointed, in my old
age, to be conjurer's boy!"
Mr. Blake burst out laughing. I attempted to speak.
Betteredge held up his hand, in token that he had not done
yet.
"Not a word, Mr. Jennings!" he said, "It don't want a
word, sir, from you. I have got my principles, thank God. If
an order comes to me, which is own brother to an order come
from Bedlam, it don't matter. So long as I get it from my
master or mistress, as the case may be, I obey it. I may
have my own opinion, which is also, you will please to
remember, the opinion of Mr. Bruff—the Great Mr. Bruff!"
said Betteredge, raising his voice, and shaking his head at
me solemnly. "It don't matter; I withdraw my opinion, for
all that. My young lady says, 'Do it.' And I say, 'Miss, it
shall be done.' Here I am, with my book and my pencil—the
latter not pointed so well as I could wish, but when
Christians take leave of their senses, who is to expect that
pencils will keep their points? Give me your orders, Mr.
Jennings. I'll have them in writing, sir. I'm determined not
to be behind 'em, or before 'em, by so much as a hair's
breadth. I'm a blind agent—that's what I am. A blind agent!"
repeated Betteredge, with infinite relish of his own
description of himself.
"I am very sorry," I began, "that you and I don't
agree——"
"Don't bring ME, into it!" interposed Betteredge. "This
is not a matter of agreement, it's a matter of obedience.
Issue your directions, sir—issue your directions!"
Mr. Blake made me a sign to take him at his word. I
"issued my directions" as plainly and as gravely as I could.
"I wish certain parts of the house to be reopened," I
said, "and to be furnished, exactly as they were furnished
at this time last year."
Betteredge gave his imperfectly-pointed pencil a
preliminary lick with his tongue. "Name the parts, Mr.
Jennings!" he said loftily.
"First, the inner hall, leading to the chief staircase."
"'First, the inner hall,'" Betteredge wrote. "Impossible
to furnish that, sir, as it was furnished last year—to begin
with."
"Why?"
"Because there was a stuffed buzzard, Mr. Jennings, in
the hall last year. When the family left, the buzzard was
put away with the other things. When the buzzard was put
away—he burst."
"We will except the buzzard then."
Betteredge took a note of the exception. "'The inner hall
to be furnished again, as furnished last year. A burst
buzzard alone excepted.' Please to go on, Mr. Jennings."
"The carpet to be laid down on the stairs, as before."
"'The carpet to be laid down on the stairs, as before.'
Sorry to disappoint you, sir. But that can't be done
either."
"Why not?"
"Because the man who laid that carpet down is dead, Mr.
Jennings—and the like of him for reconciling together a
carpet and a corner, is not to be found in all England, look
where you may."
"Very well. We must try the next best man in England."
Betteredge took another note; and I went on issuing my
directions.
"Miss Verinder's sitting-room to be restored exactly to
what it was last year. Also, the corridor leading from the
sitting-room to the first landing. Also, the second
corridor, leading from the second landing to the best
bedrooms. Also, the bedroom occupied last June by Mr.
Franklin Blake."
Betteredge's blunt pencil followed me conscientiously,
word by word. "Go on, sir," he said, with sardonic gravity.
"There's a deal of writing left in the point of this pencil
yet."
I told him that I had no more directions to give. "Sir,"
said Betteredge, "in that case, I have a point or two to put
on my own behalf." He opened the pocket-book at a new page,
and gave the inexhaustible pencil another preliminary lick.
"I wish to know," he began, "whether I may, or may not,
wash my hands——"
"You may decidedly," said Mr. Blake. "I'll ring for the
waiter."
"——of certain responsibilities," pursued Betteredge,
impenetrably declining to see anybody in the room but
himself and me. "As to Miss Verinder's sitting-room, to
begin with. When we took up the carpet last year, Mr.
Jennings, we found a surprising quantity of pins. Am I
responsible for putting back the pins?"
"Certainly not."
Betteredge made a note of that concession, on the spot.
"As to the first corridor next," he resumed. "When we
moved the ornaments in that part, we moved a statue of a fat
naked child—profanely described in the catalogue of the
house as 'Cupid, god of Love.' He had two wings last year,
in the fleshy part of his shoulders. My eye being off him,
for the moment, he lost one of them. Am I responsible for
Cupid's wing?"
I made another concession, and Betteredge made another
note.
"As to the second corridor," he went on. "There having
been nothing in it, last year, but the doors of the rooms
(to every one of which I can swear, if necessary), my mind
is easy, I admit, respecting that part of the house only.
But, as to Mr. Franklin's bedroom (if THAT is to be put back
to what it was before), I want to know who is responsible
for keeping it in a perpetual state of litter, no matter how
often it may be set right—his trousers here, his towels
there, and his French novels everywhere. I say, who is
responsible for untidying the tidiness of Mr. Franklin's
room, him or me?"
Mr. Blake declared that he would assume the whole
responsibility with the greatest pleasure. Betteredge
obstinately declined to listen to any solution of the
difficulty, without first referring it to my sanction and
approval. I accepted Mr. Blake's proposal; and Betteredge
made a last entry in the pocket-book to that effect.
"Look in when you like, Mr. Jennings, beginning from
to-morrow," he said, getting on his legs. "You will find me
at work, with the necessary persons to assist me. I
respectfully beg to thank you, sir, for overlooking the case
of the stuffed buzzard, and the other case of the Cupid's
wing—as also for permitting me to wash my hands of all
responsibility in respect of the pins on the carpet, and the
litter in Mr. Franklin's room. Speaking as a servant, I am
deeply indebted to you. Speaking as a man, I consider you to
be a person whose head is full of maggots, and I take up my
testimony against your experiment as a delusion and a snare.
Don't be afraid, on that account, of my feelings as a man
getting in the way of my duty as a servant! You shall be
obeyed. The maggots notwithstanding, sir, you shall be
obeyed. If it ends in your setting the house on fire, Damme
if I send for the engines, unless you ring the bell and
order them first!"
With that farewell assurance, he made me a bow, and
walked out of the room.
"Do you think we can depend on him?" I asked.
"Implicitly," answered Mr. Blake. "When we go to the
house, we shall find nothing neglected, and nothing
forgotten."
June 19th.—Another protest against our contemplated
proceedings! From a lady this time.
The morning's post brought me two letters. One from Miss
Verinder, consenting, in the kindest manner, to the
arrangement that I have proposed. The other from the lady
under whose care she is living—one Mrs. Merridew.
Mrs. Merridew presents her compliments, and does not
pretend to understand the subject on which I have been
corresponding with Miss Verinder, in its scientific
bearings. Viewed in its social bearings, however, she feels
free to pronounce an opinion. I am probably, Mrs. Merridew
thinks, not aware that Miss Verinder is barely nineteen
years of age. To allow a young lady, at her time of life, to
be present (without a "chaperone") in a house full of men
among whom a medical experiment is being carried on, is an
outrage on propriety which Mrs. Merridew cannot possibly
permit. If the matter is allowed to proceed, she will feel
it to be her duty—at a serious sacrifice of her own personal
convenience—to accompany Miss Verinder to Yorkshire. Under
these circumstances, she ventures to request that I will
kindly reconsider the subject; seeing that Miss Verinder
declines to be guided by any opinion but mine. Her presence
cannot possibly be necessary; and a word from me, to that
effect, would relieve both Mrs. Merridew and myself of a
very unpleasant responsibility.
Translated from polite commonplace into plain English,
the meaning of this is, as I take it, that Mrs. Merridew
stands in mortal fear of the opinion of the world. She has
unfortunately appealed to the very last man in existence who
has any reason to regard that opinion with respect. I won't
disappoint Miss Verinder; and I won't delay a reconciliation
between two young people who love each other, and who have
been parted too long already. Translated from plain English
into polite commonplace, this means that Mr. Jennings
presents his compliments to Mrs. Merridew, and regrets that
he cannot feel justified in interfering any farther in the
matter.
Mr. Blake's report of himself, this morning, was the same
as before. We determined not to disturb Betteredge by
overlooking him at the house to-day. To-morrow will be time
enough for our first visit of inspection.
June 20th.—Mr. Blake is beginning to feel his continued
restlessness at night. The sooner the rooms are refurnished,
now, the better.
On our way to the house, this morning, he consulted me,
with some nervous impatience and irresolution, about a
letter (forwarded to him from London) which he had received
from Sergeant Cuff.
The Sergeant writes from Ireland. He acknowledges the
receipt (through his housekeeper) of a card and message
which Mr. Blake left at his residence near Dorking, and
announces his return to England as likely to take place in a
week or less. In the meantime, he requests to be favoured
with Mr. Blake's reasons for wishing to speak to him (as
stated in the message) on the subject of the Moonstone. If
Mr. Blake can convict him of having made any serious
mistake, in the course of his last year's inquiry concerning
the Diamond, he will consider it a duty (after the liberal
manner in which he was treated by the late Lady Verinder) to
place himself at that gentleman's disposal. If not, he begs
permission to remain in his retirement, surrounded by the
peaceful horticultural attractions of a country life.
After reading the letter, I had no hesitation in advising
Mr. Blake to inform Sergeant Cuff, in reply, of all that had
happened since the inquiry was suspended last year, and to
leave him to draw his own conclusions from the plain facts.
On second thoughts I also suggested inviting the Sergeant
to be present at the experiment, in the event of his
returning to England in time to join us. He would be a
valuable witness to have, in any case; and, if I proved to
be wrong in believing the Diamond to be hidden in Mr.
Blake's room, his advice might be of great importance, at a
future stage of the proceedings over which I could exercise
no control. This last consideration appeared to decide Mr.
Blake. He promised to follow my advice.
The sound of the hammer informed us that the work of
re-furnishing was in full progress, as we entered the drive
that led to the house.
Betteredge, attired for the occasion in a fisherman's red
cap, and an apron of green baize, met us in the outer hall.
The moment he saw me, he pulled out the pocket-book and
pencil, and obstinately insisted on taking notes of
everything that I said to him. Look where we might, we
found, as Mr. Blake had foretold that the work was advancing
as rapidly and as intelligently as it was possible to
desire. But there was still much to be done in the inner
hall, and in Miss Verinder's room. It seemed doubtful
whether the house would be ready for us before the end of
the week.
Having congratulated Betteredge on the progress that he
had made (he persisted in taking notes every time I opened
my lips; declining, at the same time, to pay the slightest
attention to anything said by Mr. Blake); and having
promised to return for a second visit of inspection in a day
or two, we prepared to leave the house, going out by the
back way. Before we were clear of the passages downstairs, I
was stopped by Betteredge, just as I was passing the door
which led into his own room.
"Could I say two words to you in private?" he asked, in a
mysterious whisper.
I consented of course. Mr. Blake walked on to wait for me
in the garden, while I accompanied Betteredge into his room.
I fully anticipated a demand for certain new concessions,
following the precedent already established in the cases of
the stuffed buzzard, and the Cupid's wing. To my great
surprise, Betteredge laid his hand confidentially on my arm,
and put this extraordinary question to me:
"Mr. Jennings, do you happen to be acquainted with
ROBINSON CRUSOE?"
I answered that I had read ROBINSON CRUSOE when I was a
child.
"Not since then?" inquired Betteredge.
"Not since then."
He fell back a few steps, and looked at me with an
expression of compassionate curiosity, tempered by
superstitious awe.
"He has not read ROBINSON CRUSOE since he was a child,"
said Betteredge, speaking to himself—not to me. "Let's try
how ROBINSON CRUSOE strikes him now!"
He unlocked a cupboard in a corner, and produced a dirty
and dog's-eared book, which exhaled a strong odour of stale
tobacco as he turned over the leaves. Having found a passage
of which he was apparently in search, he requested me to
join him in the corner; still mysteriously confidential, and
still speaking under his breath.
"In respect to this hocus-pocus of yours, sir, with the
laudanum and Mr. Franklin Blake," he began. "While the
workpeople are in the house, my duty as a servant gets the
better of my feelings as a man. When the workpeople are
gone, my feelings as a man get the better of my duty as a
servant. Very good. Last night, Mr. Jennings, it was borne
in powerfully on my mind that this new medical enterprise of
yours would end badly. If I had yielded to that secret
Dictate, I should have put all the furniture away again with
my own hand, and have warned the workmen off the premises
when they came the next morning."
"I am glad to find, from what I have seen up-stairs," I
said, "that you resisted the secret Dictate."
"Resisted isn't the word," answered Betteredge. "Wrostled
is the word. I wrostled, sir, between the silent orders in
my bosom pulling me one way, and the written orders in my
pocket-book pushing me the other, until (saving your
presence) I was in a cold sweat. In that dreadful
perturbation of mind and laxity of body, to what remedy did
I apply? To the remedy, sir, which has never failed me yet
for the last thirty years and more—to This Book!"
He hit the book a sounding blow with his open hand, and
struck out of it a stronger smell of stale tobacco than
ever.
"What did I find here," pursued Betteredge, "at the first
page I opened? This awful bit, sir, page one hundred and
seventy-eight, as follows.—'Upon these, and many like
Reflections, I afterwards made it a certain rule with me,
That whenever I found those secret Hints or Pressings of my
Mind, to doing, or not doing any Thing that presented; or to
going this Way, or that Way, I never failed to obey the
secret Dictate.' As I live by bread, Mr. Jennings, those
were the first words that met my eye, exactly at the time
when I myself was setting the secret Dictate at defiance!
You don't see anything at all out of the common in that, do
you, sir?"
"I see a coincidence—nothing more."
"You don't feel at all shaken, Mr. Jennings, in respect
to this medical enterprise of yours?
"Not the least in the world."
Betteredge stared hard at me, in dead silence. He closed
the book with great deliberation; he locked it up again in
the cupboard with extraordinary care; he wheeled round, and
stared hard at me once more. Then he spoke.
"Sir," he said gravely, "there are great allowances to be
made for a man who has not read ROBINSON CRUSOE since he was
a child. I wish you good morning."
He opened his door with a low bow, and left me at liberty
to find my own way into the garden. I met Mr. Blake
returning to the house.
"You needn't tell me what has happened," he said.
"Betteredge has played his last card: he has made another
prophetic discovery in ROBINSON CRUSOE. Have you humoured
his favourite delusion? No? You have let him see that you
don't believe in ROBINSON CRUSOE? Mr. Jennings! you have
fallen to the lowest possible place in Betteredge's
estimation. Say what you like, and do what you like, for the
future. You will find that he won't waste another word on
you now."
June 21st.—A short entry must suffice in my journal
to-day.
Mr. Blake has had the worst night that he has passed yet.
I have been obliged, greatly against my will, to prescribe
for him. Men of his sensitive organisation are fortunately
quick in feeling the effect of remedial measures. Otherwise,
I should be inclined to fear that he will be totally unfit
for the experiment when the time comes to try it.
As for myself, after some little remission of my pains
for the last two days I had an attack this morning, of which
I shall say nothing but that it has decided me to return to
the opium. I shall close this book, and take my full
dose—five hundred drops.
June 22nd.—Our prospects look better to-day. Mr. Blake's
nervous suffering is greatly allayed. He slept a little last
night. MY night, thanks to the opium, was the night of a man
who is stunned. I can't say that I woke this morning; the
fitter expression would be, that I recovered my senses.
We drove to the house to see if the refurnishing was
done. It will be completed to-morrow—Saturday. As Mr. Blake
foretold, Betteredge raised no further obstacles. From first
to last, he was ominously polite, and ominously silent.
My medical enterprise (as Betteredge calls it) must now,
inevitably, be delayed until Monday next. Tomorrow evening
the workmen will be late in the house. On the next day, the
established Sunday tyranny which is one of the institutions
of this free country, so times the trains as to make it
impossible to ask anybody to travel to us from London. Until
Monday comes, there is nothing to be done but to watch Mr.
Blake carefully, and to keep him, if possible, in the same
state in which I find him to-day.
In the meanwhile, I have prevailed on him to write to Mr.
Bruff, making a point of it that he shall be present as one
of the witnesses. I especially choose the lawyer, because he
is strongly prejudiced against us. If we convince HIM, we
place our victory beyond the possibility of dispute.
Mr. Blake has also written to Sergeant Cuff; and I have
sent a line to Miss Verinder. With these, and with old
Betteredge (who is really a person of importance in the
family) we shall have witnesses enough for the
purpose—without including Mrs. Merridew, if Mrs. Merridew
persists in sacrificing herself to the opinion of the world.
June 23rd.—The vengeance of the opium overtook me again
last night. No matter; I must go on with it now till Monday
is past and gone.
Mr. Blake is not so well again to-day. At two this
morning, he confesses that he opened the drawer in which his
cigars are put away. He only succeeded in locking it up
again by a violent effort. His next proceeding, in case of
temptation, was to throw the key out of window. The waiter
brought it in this morning, discovered at the bottom of an
empty cistern—such is Fate! I have taken possession of the
key until Tuesday next.
June 24th.—Mr. Blake and I took a long drive in an open
carriage. We both felt beneficially the blessed influence of
the soft summer air. I dined with him at the hotel. To my
great relief—for I found him in an over-wrought,
over-excited state this morning—he had two hours' sound
sleep on the sofa after dinner. If he has another bad night,
now—I am not afraid of the consequence.
June 25th, Monday.—The day of the experiment! It is five
o'clock in the afternoon. We have just arrived at the house.
The first and foremost question, is the question of Mr.
Blake's health.
So far as it is possible for me to judge, he promises
(physically speaking) to be quite as susceptible to the
action of the opium to-night as he was at this time last
year. He is, this afternoon, in a state of nervous
sensitiveness which just stops short of nervous irritation.
He changes colour readily; his hand is not quite steady; and
he starts at chance noises, and at unexpected appearances of
persons and things.
These results have all been produced by deprivation of
sleep, which is in its turn the nervous consequence of a
sudden cessation in the habit of smoking, after that habit
has been carried to an extreme. Here are the same causes at
work again, which operated last year; and here are,
apparently, the same effects. Will the parallel still hold
good, when the final test has been tried? The events of the
night must decide.
While I write these lines, Mr. Blake is amusing himself
at the billiard table in the inner hall, practising
different strokes in the game, as he was accustomed to
practise them when he was a guest in this house in June
last. I have brought my journal here, partly with a view to
occupying the idle hours which I am sure to have on my hands
between this and to-morrow morning; partly in the hope that
something may happen which it may be worth my while to place
on record at the time.
Have I omitted anything, thus far? A glance at
yesterday's entry shows me that I have forgotten to note the
arrival of the morning's post. Let me set this right before
I close these leaves for the present, and join Mr. Blake.
I received a few lines then, yesterday, from Miss
Verinder. She has arranged to travel by the afternoon train,
as I recommended. Mrs. Merridew has insisted on accompanying
her. The note hints that the old lady's generally excellent
temper is a little ruffled, and requests all due indulgence
for her, in consideration of her age and her habits. I will
endeavour, in my relations with Mrs. Merridew, to emulate
the moderation which Betteredge displays in his relations
with me. He received us to-day, portentously arrayed in his
best black suit, and his stiffest white cravat. Whenever he
looks my way, he remembers that I have not read ROBINSON
CRUSOE since I was a child, and he respectfully pities me.
Yesterday, also, Mr. Blake had the lawyer's answer. Mr.
Bruff accepts the invitation—under protest. It is, he
thinks, clearly necessary that a gentleman possessed of the
average allowance of common sense, should accompany Miss
Verinder to the scene of, what we will venture to call, the
proposed exhibition. For want of a better escort, Mr. Bruff
himself will be that gentleman.—So here is poor Miss
Verinder provided with two "chaperones." It is a relief to
think that the opinion of the world must surely be satisfied
with this!
Nothing has been heard of Sergeant Cuff. He is no doubt
still in Ireland. We must not expect to see him to-night.
Betteredge has just come in, to say that Mr. Blake has
asked for me. I must lay down my pen for the present.
Seven o'clock.—We have been all over the refurnished
rooms and staircases again; and we have had a pleasant
stroll in the shrubbery, which was Mr. Blake's favourite
walk when he was here last. In this way, I hope to revive
the old impressions of places and things as vividly as
possible in his mind.
We are now going to dine, exactly at the hour at which
the birthday dinner was given last year. My object, of
course, is a purely medical one in this case. The laudanum
must find the process of digestion, as nearly as may be,
where the laudanum found it last year.
At a reasonable time after dinner I propose to lead the
conversation back again—as inartificially as I can—to the
subject of the Diamond, and of the Indian conspiracy to
steal it. When I have filled his mind with these topics, I
shall have done all that it is in my power to do, before the
time comes for giving him the second dose.
Half-past eight.—I have only this moment found an
opportunity of attending to the most important duty of all;
the duty of looking in the family medicine chest, for the
laudanum which Mr. Candy used last year.
Ten minutes since, I caught Betteredge at an unoccupied
moment, and told him what I wanted. Without a word of
objection, without so much as an attempt to produce his
pocket-book, he led the way (making allowances for me at
every step) to the store-room in which the medicine chest is
kept.
I discovered the bottle, carefully guarded by a glass
stopper tied over with leather. The preparation which it
contained was, as I had anticipated, the common Tincture of
Opium. Finding the bottle still well filled, I have resolved
to use it, in preference to employing either of the two
preparations with which I had taken care to provide myself,
in case of emergency.
The question of the quantity which I am to administer
presents certain difficulties. I have thought it over, and
have decided on increasing the dose.
My notes inform me that Mr. Candy only administered
twenty-five minims. This is a small dose to have produced
the results which followed—even in the case of a person so
sensitive as Mr. Blake. I think it highly probable that Mr.
Candy gave more than he supposed himself to have
given—knowing, as I do, that he has a keen relish of the
pleasures of the table, and that he measured out the
laudanum on the birthday, after dinner. In any case, I shall
run the risk of enlarging the dose to forty minims. On this
occasion, Mr. Blake knows beforehand that he is going to
take the laudanum—which is equivalent, physiologically
speaking, to his having (unconsciously to himself) a certain
capacity in him to resist the effects. If my view is right,
a larger quantity is therefore imperatively required, this
time, to repeat the results which the smaller quantity
produced, last year.
Ten o'clock.—The witnesses, or the company (which shall I
call them?) reached the house an hour since.
A little before nine o'clock, I prevailed on Mr. Blake to
accompany me to his bedroom; stating, as a reason, that I
wished him to look round it, for the last time, in order to
make quite sure that nothing had been forgotten in the
refurnishing of the room. I had previously arranged with
Betteredge, that the bedchamber prepared for Mr. Bruff
should be the next room to Mr. Blake's, and that I should be
informed of the lawyer's arrival by a knock at the door.
Five minutes after the clock in the hall had struck nine, I
heard the knock; and, going out immediately, met Mr. Bruff
in the corridor.
My personal appearance (as usual) told against me. Mr.
Bruff's distrust looked at me plainly enough out of Mr.
Bruff's eyes. Being well used to producing this effect on
strangers, I did not hesitate a moment in saying what I
wanted to say, before the lawyer found his way into Mr.
Blake's room.
"You have travelled here, I believe, in company with Mrs.
Merridew and Miss Verinder?" I said.
"Yes," answered Mr. Bruff, as drily as might be.
"Miss Verinder has probably told you, that I wish her
presence in the house (and Mrs. Merridew's presence of
course) to be kept a secret from Mr. Blake, until my
experiment on him has been tried first?"
"I know that I am to hold my tongue, sir!" said Mr.
Bruff, impatiently. "Being habitually silent on the subject
of human folly, I am all the readier to keep my lips closed
on this occasion. Does that satisfy you?"
I bowed, and left Betteredge to show him to his room.
Betteredge gave me one look at parting, which said, as if in
so many words, "You have caught a Tartar, Mr. Jennings—and
the name of him is Bruff."
It was next necessary to get the meeting over with the
two ladies. I descended the stairs—a little nervously, I
confess—on my way to Miss Verinder's sitting-room.
The gardener's wife (charged with looking after the
accommodation of the ladies) met me in the first-floor
corridor. This excellent woman treats me with an excessive
civility which is plainly the offspring of down-right
terror. She stares, trembles, and curtseys, whenever I speak
to her. On my asking for Miss Verinder, she stared,
trembled, and would no doubt have curtseyed next, if Miss
Verinder herself had not cut that ceremony short, by
suddenly opening her sitting-room door.
"Is that Mr. Jennings?" she asked.
Before I could answer, she came out eagerly to speak to
me in the corridor. We met under the light of a lamp on a
bracket. At the first sight of me, Miss Verinder stopped,
and hesitated. She recovered herself instantly, coloured for
a moment—and then, with a charming frankness, offered me her
hand.
"I can't treat you like a stranger, Mr. Jennings," she
said. "Oh, if you only knew how happy your letters have made
me!"
She looked at my ugly wrinkled face, with a bright
gratitude so new to me in my experience of my
fellow-creatures, that I was at a loss how to answer her.
Nothing had prepared me for her kindness and her beauty. The
misery of many years has not hardened my heart, thank God. I
was as awkward and as shy with her, as if I had been a lad
in my teens.
"Where is he now?" she asked, giving free expression to
her one dominant interest—the interest in Mr. Blake. "What
is he doing? Has he spoken of me? Is he in good spirits? How
does he bear the sight of the house, after what happened in
it last year? When are you going to give him the laudanum?
May I see you pour it out? I am so interested; I am so
excited—I have ten thousand things to say to you, and they
all crowd together so that I don't know what to say first.
Do you wonder at the interest I take in this?"
"No," I said. "I venture to think that I thoroughly
understand it."
She was far above the paltry affectation of being
confused. She answered me as she might have answered a
brother or a father.
"You have relieved me of indescribable wretchedness; you
have given me a new life. How can I be ungrateful enough to
have any concealment from you? I love him," she said simply,
"I have loved him from first to last—even when I was
wronging him in my own thoughts; even when I was saying the
hardest and the cruellest words to him. Is there any excuse
for me, in that? I hope there is—I am afraid it is the only
excuse I have. When to-morrow comes, and he knows that I am
in the house, do you think——"
She stopped again, and looked at me very earnestly.
"When to-morrow comes," I said, "I think you have only to
tell him what you have just told me."
Her face brightened; she came a step nearer to me. Her
fingers trifled nervously with a flower which I had picked
in the garden, and which I had put into the button-hole of
my coat.
"You have seen a great deal of him lately," she said.
"Have you, really and truly, seen THAT?"
"Really and truly," I answered. "I am quite certain of
what will happen to-morrow. I wish I could feel as certain
of what will happen to-night."
At that point in the conversation, we were interrupted by
the appearance of Betteredge with the tea-tray. He gave me
another significant look as he passed on into the
sitting-room. "Aye! aye! make your hay while the sun shines.
The Tartar's upstairs, Mr. Jennings—the Tartar's upstairs!"
We followed him into the room. A little old lady, in a
corner, very nicely dressed, and very deeply absorbed over a
smart piece of embroidery, dropped her work in her lap, and
uttered a faint little scream at the first sight of my gipsy
complexion and my piebald hair.
"Mrs. Merridew," said Miss Verinder, "this is Mr.
Jennings."
"I beg Mr. Jennings's pardon," said the old lady, looking
at Miss Verinder, and speaking at me. "Railway travelling
always makes me nervous. I am endeavouring to quiet my mind
by occupying myself as usual. I don't know whether my
embroidery is out of place, on this extraordinary occasion.
If it interferes with Mr. Jennings's medical views, I shall
be happy to put it away of course."
I hastened to sanction the presence of the embroidery,
exactly as I had sanctioned the absence of the burst buzzard
and the Cupid's wing. Mrs. Merridew made an effort—a
grateful effort—to look at my hair. No! it was not to be
done. Mrs. Merridew looked back again at Miss Verinder.
"If Mr. Jennings will permit me," pursued the old lady,
"I should like to ask a favour. Mr. Jennings is about to try
a scientific experiment to-night. I used to attend
scientific experiments when I was a girl at school. They
invariably ended in an explosion. If Mr. Jennings will be so
very kind, I should like to be warned of the explosion this
time. With a view to getting it over, if possible, before I
go to bed."
I attempted to assure Mrs. Merridew that an explosion was
not included in the programme on this occasion.
"No," said the old lady. "I am much obliged to Mr.
Jennings—I am aware that he is only deceiving me for my own
good. I prefer plain dealing. I am quite resigned to the
explosion—but I DO want to get it over, if possible, before
I go to bed."
Here the door opened, and Mrs. Merridew uttered another
little scream. The advent of the explosion? No: only the
advent of Betteredge.
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Jennings," said Betteredge, in
his most elaborately confidential manner. "Mr. Franklin
wishes to know where you are. Being under your orders to
deceive him, in respect to the presence of my young lady in
the house, I have said I don't know. That you will please to
observe, was a lie. Having one foot already in the grave,
sir, the fewer lies you expect me to tell, the more I shall
be indebted to you, when my conscience pricks me and my time
comes."
There was not a moment to be wasted on the purely
speculative question of Betteredge's conscience. Mr. Blake
might make his appearance in search of me, unless I went to
him at once in his own room. Miss Verinder followed me out
into the corridor.
"They seem to be in a conspiracy to persecute you," she
said. "What does it mean?"
"Only the protest of the world, Miss Verinder—on a very
small scale—against anything that is new."
"What are we to do with Mrs. Merridew?"
"Tell her the explosion will take place at nine to-morrow
morning."
"So as to send her to bed?"
"Yes—so as to send her to bed."
Miss Verinder went back to the sitting-room, and I went
upstairs to Mr. Blake.
To my surprise I found him alone; restlessly pacing his
room, and a little irritated at being left by himself.
"Where is Mr. Bruff?" I asked.
He pointed to the closed door of communication between
the two rooms. Mr. Bruff had looked in on him, for a moment;
had attempted to renew his protest against our proceedings;
and had once more failed to produce the smallest impression
on Mr. Blake. Upon this, the lawyer had taken refuge in a
black leather bag, filled to bursting with professional
papers. "The serious business of life," he admitted, "was
sadly out of place on such an occasion as the present. But
the serious business of life must be carried on, for all
that. Mr. Blake would perhaps kindly make allowance for the
old-fashioned habits of a practical man. Time was money—and,
as for Mr. Jennings, he might depend on it that Mr. Bruff
would be forthcoming when called upon." With that apology,
the lawyer had gone back to his own room, and had immersed
himself obstinately in his black bag.
I thought of Mrs. Merridew and her embroidery, and of
Betteredge and his conscience. There is a wonderful sameness
in the solid side of the English character—just as there is
a wonderful sameness in the solid expression of the English
face.
"When are you going to give me the laudanum?" asked Mr.
Blake impatiently.
"You must wait a little longer," I said. "I will stay and
keep you company till the time comes."
It was then not ten o'clock. Inquiries which I had made,
at various times, of Betteredge and Mr. Blake, had led me to
the conclusion that the dose of laudanum given by Mr. Candy
could not possibly have been administered before eleven. I
had accordingly determined not to try the second dose until
that time.
We talked a little; but both our minds were preoccupied
by the coming ordeal. The conversation soon flagged—then
dropped altogether. Mr. Blake idly turned over the books on
his bedroom table. I had taken the precaution of looking at
them, when we first entered the room. THE GUARDIAN; THE
TATLER; Richardson's PAMELA; Mackenzie's MAN OF FEELING;
Roscoe's LORENZO DE MEDICI; and Robertson's CHARLES THE
FIFTH—all classical works; all (of course) immeasurably
superior to anything produced in later times; and all (from
my present point of view) possessing the one great merit of
enchaining nobody's interest, and exciting nobody's brain. I
left Mr. Blake to the composing influence of Standard
Literature, and occupied myself in making this entry in my
journal.
My watch informs me that it is close on eleven o'clock. I
must shut up these leaves once more.
Two o'clock A.M.—The experiment has been tried. With what
result, I am now to describe.
At eleven o'clock, I rang the bell for Betteredge, and
told Mr. Blake that he might at last prepare himself for
bed.
I looked out of the window at the night. It was mild and
rainy, resembling, in this respect, the night of the
birthday—the twenty-first of June, last year. Without
professing to believe in omens, it was at least encouraging
to find no direct nervous influences—no stormy or electric
perturbations—in the atmosphere. Betteredge joined me at the
window, and mysteriously put a little slip of paper into my
hand. It contained these lines:
"Mrs. Merridew has gone to bed, on the distinct
understanding that the explosion is to take place at nine
to-morrow morning, and that I am not to stir out of this
part of the house until she comes and sets me free. She has
no idea that the chief scene of the experiment is my
sitting-room—or she would have remained in it for the whole
night! I am alone, and very anxious. Pray let me see you
measure out the laudanum; I want to have something to do
with it, even in the unimportant character of a mere
looker-on.—R.V."
I followed Betteredge out of the room, and told him to
remove the medicine-chest into Miss Verinder's sitting-room.
The order appeared to take him completely by surprise. He
looked as if he suspected me of some occult medical design
on Miss Verinder! "Might I presume to ask," he said, "what
my young lady and the medicine-chest have got to do with
each other?"
"Stay in the sitting-room, and you will see."
Betteredge appeared to doubt his own unaided capacity to
superintend me effectually, on an occasion when a
medicine-chest was included in the proceedings.
"Is there any objection, sir" he asked, "to taking Mr.
Bruff into this part of the business?"
"Quite the contrary! I am now going to ask Mr. Bruff to
accompany me down-stairs."
Betteredge withdrew to fetch the medicine-chest, without
another word. I went back into Mr. Blake's room, and knocked
at the door of communication. Mr. Bruff opened it, with his
papers in his hand—immersed in Law; impenetrable to
Medicine.
"I am sorry to disturb you," I said. "But I am going to
prepare the laudanum for Mr. Blake; and I must request you
to be present, and to see what I do."
"Yes?" said Mr. Bruff, with nine-tenths of his attention
riveted on his papers, and with one-tenth unwillingly
accorded to me. "Anything else?"
"I must trouble you to return here with me, and to see me
administer the dose."
"Anything else?"
"One thing more. I must put you to the inconvenience of
remaining in Mr. Blake's room, and of waiting to see what
happens."
"Oh, very good!" said Mr. Bruff. "My room, or Mr. Blake's
room—it doesn't matter which; I can go on with my papers
anywhere. Unless you object, Mr. Jennings, to my importing
THAT amount of common sense into the proceedings?"
Before I could answer, Mr. Blake addressed himself to the
lawyer, speaking from his bed.
"Do you really mean to say that you don't feel any
interest in what we are going to do?" he asked. "Mr. Bruff,
you have no more imagination than a cow!"
"A cow is a very useful animal, Mr. Blake," said the
lawyer. With that reply he followed me out of the room,
still keeping his papers in his hand.
We found Miss Verinder, pale and agitated, restlessly
pacing her sitting-room from end to end. At a table in a
corner stood Betteredge, on guard over the medicine-chest.
Mr. Bruff sat down on the first chair that he could find,
and (emulating the usefulness of the cow) plunged back again
into his papers on the spot.
Miss Verinder drew me aside, and reverted instantly to
her one all-absorbing interest—her interest in Mr. Blake.
"How is he now?" she asked. "Is he nervous? is he out of
temper? Do you think it will succeed? Are you sure it will
do no harm?"
"Quite sure. Come, and see me measure it out."
"One moment! It is past eleven now. How long will it be
before anything happens?"
"It is not easy to say. An hour perhaps."
"I suppose the room must be dark, as it was last year?"
"Certainly."
"I shall wait in my bedroom—just as I did before. I shall
keep the door a little way open. It was a little way open
last year. I will watch the sitting-room door; and the
moment it moves, I will blow out my light. It all happened
in that way, on my birthday night. And it must all happen
again in the same way, musn't it?"
"Are you sure you can control yourself, Miss Verinder?"
"In HIS interests, I can do anything!" she answered
fervently.
One look at her face told me that I could trust her. I
addressed myself again to Mr. Bruff.
"I must trouble you to put your papers aside for a
moment," I said.
"Oh, certainly!" He got up with a start—as if I had
disturbed him at a particularly interesting place—and
followed me to the medicine-chest. There, deprived of the
breathless excitement incidental to the practice of his
profession, he looked at Betteredge—and yawned wearily.
Miss Verinder joined me with a glass jug of cold water,
which she had taken from a side-table. "Let me pour out the
water," she whispered. "I must have a hand in it!"
I measured out the forty minims from the bottle, and
poured the laudanum into a medicine glass. "Fill it till it
is three parts full," I said, and handed the glass to Miss
Verinder. I then directed Betteredge to lock up the medicine
chest; informing him that I had done with it now. A look of
unutterable relief overspread the old servant's countenance.
He had evidently suspected me of a medical design on his
young lady!
After adding the water as I had directed, Miss Verinder
seized a moment—while Betteredge was locking the chest, and
while Mr. Bruff was looking back to his papers—and slyly
kissed the rim of the medicine glass. "When you give it to
him," said the charming girl, "give it to him on that side!"
I took the piece of crystal which was to represent the
Diamond from my pocket, and gave it to her.
"You must have a hand in this, too," I said. "You must
put it where you put the Moonstone last year."
She led the way to the Indian cabinet, and put the mock
Diamond into the drawer which the real Diamond had occupied
on the birthday night. Mr. Bruff witnessed this proceeding,
under protest, as he had witnessed everything else. But the
strong dramatic interest which the experiment was now
assuming, proved (to my great amusement) to be too much for
Betteredge's capacity of self restraint. His hand trembled
as he held the candle, and he whispered anxiously, "Are you
sure, miss, it's the right drawer?"
I led the way out again, with the laudanum and water in
my hand. At the door, I stopped to address a last word to
Miss Verinder.
"Don't be long in putting out the lights," I said.
"I will put them out at once," she answered. "And I will
wait in my bedroom, with only one candle alight."
She closed the sitting-room door behind us. Followed by
Mr. Bruff and Betteredge, I went back to Mr. Blake's room.
We found him moving restlessly from side to side of the
bed, and wondering irritably whether he was to have the
laudanum that night. In the presence of the two witnesses, I
gave him the dose, and shook up his pillows, and told him to
lie down again quietly and wait.
His bed, provided with light chintz curtains, was placed,
with the head against the wall of the room, so as to leave a
good open space on either side of it. On one side, I drew
the curtains completely—and in the part of the room thus
screened from his view, I placed Mr. Bruff and Betteredge,
to wait for the result. At the bottom of the bed I half drew
the curtains—and placed my own chair at a little distance,
so that I might let him see me or not see me, speak to me or
not speak to me, just as the circumstances might direct.
Having already been informed that he always slept with a
light in the room, I placed one of the two lighted candles
on a little table at the head of the bed, where the glare of
the light would not strike on his eyes. The other candle I
gave to Mr. Bruff; the light, in this instance, being
subdued by the screen of the chintz curtains. The window was
open at the top, so as to ventilate the room. The rain fell
softly, the house was quiet. It was twenty minutes past
eleven, by my watch, when the preparations were completed,
and I took my place on the chair set apart at the bottom of
the bed.
Mr. Bruff resumed his papers, with every appearance of
being as deeply interested in them as ever. But looking
towards him now, I saw certain signs and tokens which told
me that the Law was beginning to lose its hold on him at
last. The suspended interest of the situation in which we
were now placed was slowly asserting its influence even on
HIS unimaginative mind. As for Betteredge, consistency of
principle and dignity of conduct had become, in his case,
mere empty words. He forgot that I was performing a
conjuring trick on Mr. Franklin Blake; he forgot that I had
upset the house from top to bottom; he forgot that I had not
read ROBINSON CRUSOE since I was a child. "For the Lord's
sake, sir," he whispered to me, "tell us when it will begin
to work."
"Not before midnight," I whispered back. "Say nothing,
and sit still."
Betteredge dropped to the lowest depth of familiarity
with me, without a struggle to save himself. He answered by
a wink!
Looking next towards Mr. Blake, I found him as restless
as ever in his bed; fretfully wondering why the influence of
the laudanum had not begun to assert itself yet. To tell
him, in his present humour, that the more he fidgeted and
wondered, the longer he would delay the result for which we
were now waiting, would have been simply useless. The wiser
course to take was to dismiss the idea of the opium from his
mind, by leading him insensibly to think of something else.
With this view, I encouraged him to talk to me;
contriving so to direct the conversation, on my side, as to
lead it back again to the subject which had engaged us
earlier in the evening—the subject of the Diamond. I took
care to revert to those portions of the story of the
Moonstone, which related to the transport of it from London
to Yorkshire; to the risk which Mr. Blake had run in
removing it from the bank at Frizinghall: and to the
unexpected appearance of the Indians at the house, on the
evening of the birthday. And I purposely assumed, in
referring to these events, to have misunderstood much of
what Mr. Blake himself had told me a few hours since. In
this way, I set him talking on the subject with which it was
now vitally important to fill his mind—without allowing him
to suspect that I was making him talk for a purpose. Little
by little, he became so interested in putting me right that
he forgot to fidget in the bed. His mind was far away from
the question of the opium, at the all-important time when
his eyes first told me that the opium was beginning to lay
its hold on his brain.
I looked at my watch. It wanted five minutes to twelve,
when the premonitory symptoms of the working of the laudanum
first showed themselves to me.
At this time, no unpractised eyes would have detected any
change in him. But, as the minutes of the new morning wore
away, the swiftly-subtle progress of the influence began to
show itself more plainly. The sublime intoxication of opium
gleamed in his eyes; the dew of a stealthy perspiration
began to glisten on his face. In five minutes more, the talk
which he still kept up with me, failed in coherence. He held
steadily to the subject of the Diamond; but he ceased to
complete his sentences. A little later, the sentences
dropped to single words. Then, there was an interval of
silence. Then, he sat up in bed. Then, still busy with the
subject of the Diamond, he began to talk again—not to me,
but to himself. That change told me that the first stage in
the experiment was reached. The stimulant influence of the
opium had got him.
The time, now, was twenty-three minutes past twelve. The
next half hour, at most, would decide the question of
whether he would, or would not, get up from his bed, and
leave the room.
In the breathless interest of watching him—in the
unutterable triumph of seeing the first result of the
experiment declare itself in the manner, and nearly at the
time, which I had anticipated—I had utterly forgotten the
two companions of my night vigil. Looking towards them now,
I saw the Law (as represented by Mr. Bruff's papers) lying
unheeded on the floor. Mr. Bruff himself was looking eagerly
through a crevice left in the imperfectly-drawn curtains of
the bed. And Betteredge, oblivious of all respect for social
distinctions, was peeping over Mr. Bruff's shoulder.
They both started back, on finding that I was looking at
them, like two boys caught out by their schoolmaster in a
fault. I signed to them to take off their boots quietly, as
I was taking off mine. If Mr. Blake gave us the chance of
following him, it was vitally necessary to follow him
without noise.
Ten minutes passed—and nothing happened. Then, he
suddenly threw the bed-clothes off him. He put one leg out
of bed. He waited.
"I wish I had never taken it out of the bank," he said to
himself. "It was safe in the bank."
My heart throbbed fast; the pulses at my temples beat
furiously. The doubt about the safety of the Diamond was,
once more, the dominant impression in his brain! On that one
pivot, the whole success of the experiment turned. The
prospect thus suddenly opened before me was too much for my
shattered nerves. I was obliged to look away from him—or I
should have lost my self-control.
There was another interval of silence.
When I could trust myself to look back at him he was out
of his bed, standing erect at the side of it. The pupils of
his eyes were now contracted; his eyeballs gleamed in the
light of the candle as he moved his head slowly to and fro.
He was thinking; he was doubting—he spoke again.
"How do I know?" he said. "The Indians may be hidden in
the house."
He stopped, and walked slowly to the other end of the
room. He turned—waited—came back to the bed.
"It's not even locked up," he went on. "It's in the
drawer of her cabinet. And the drawer doesn't lock."
He sat down on the side of the bed. "Anybody might take
it," he said.
He rose again restlessly, and reiterated his first words.
"How do I know? The Indians may be hidden in the house."
He waited again. I drew back behind the half curtain of
the bed. He looked about the room, with a vacant glitter in
his eyes. It was a breathless moment. There was a pause of
some sort. A pause in the action of the opium? a pause in
the action of the brain? Who could tell? Everything
depended, now, on what he did next.
He laid himself down again on the bed!
A horrible doubt crossed my mind. Was it possible that
the sedative action of the opium was making itself felt
already? It was not in my experience that it should do this.
But what is experience, where opium is concerned? There are
probably no two men in existence on whom the drug acts in
exactly the same manner. Was some constitutional peculiarity
in him, feeling the influence in some new way? Were we to
fail on the very brink of success?
No! He got up again abruptly. "How the devil am I to
sleep," he said, "with THIS on my mind?"
He looked at the light, burning on the table at the head
of his bed. After a moment, he took the candle in his hand.
I blew out the second candle, burning behind the closed
curtains. I drew back, with Mr. Bruff and Betteredge, into
the farthest corner by the bed. I signed to them to be
silent, as if their lives had depended on it.
We waited—seeing and hearing nothing. We waited, hidden
from him by the curtains.
The light which he was holding on the other side of us
moved suddenly. The next moment he passed us, swift and
noiseless, with the candle in his hand.
He opened the bedroom door, and went out.
We followed him along the corridor. We followed him down
the stairs. We followed him along the second corridor. He
never looked back; he never hesitated.
He opened the sitting-room door, and went in, leaving it
open behind him.
The door was hung (like all the other doors in the house)
on large old-fashioned hinges. When it was opened, a crevice
was opened between the door and the post. I signed to my two
companions to look through this, so as to keep them from
showing themselves. I placed myself—outside the door also—on
the opposite side. A recess in the wall was at my left hand,
in which I could instantly hide myself, if he showed any
signs of looking back into the corridor.
He advanced to the middle of the room, with the candle
still in his hand: he looked about him—but he never looked
back.
I saw the door of Miss Verinder's bedroom, standing ajar.
She had put out her light. She controlled herself nobly. The
dim white outline of her summer dress was all that I could
see. Nobody who had not known it beforehand would have
suspected that there was a living creature in the room. She
kept back, in the dark: not a word, not a movement escaped
her.
It was now ten minutes past one. I heard, through the
dead silence, the soft drip of the rain and the tremulous
passage of the night air through the trees.
After waiting irresolute, for a minute or more, in the
middle of the room, he moved to the corner near the window,
where the Indian cabinet stood.
He put his candle on the top of the cabinet. He opened,
and shut, one drawer after another, until he came to the
drawer in which the mock Diamond was put. He looked into the
drawer for a moment. Then he took the mock Diamond out with
his right hand. With the other hand, he took the candle from
the top of the cabinet.
He walked back a few steps towards the middle of the
room, and stood still again.
Thus far, he had exactly repeated what he had done on the
birthday night. Would his next proceeding be the same as the
proceeding of last year? Would he leave the room? Would he
go back now, as I believed he had gone back then, to his
bed-chamber? Would he show us what he had done with the
Diamond, when he had returned to his own room?
His first action, when he moved once more, proved to be
an action which he had not performed, when he was under the
influence of the opium for the first time. He put the candle
down on a table, and wandered on a little towards the
farther end of the room. There was a sofa there. He leaned
heavily on the back of it, with his left hand—then roused
himself, and returned to the middle of the room. I could now
see his eyes. They were getting dull and heavy; the glitter
in them was fast dying out.
The suspense of the moment proved too much for Miss
Verinder's self-control. She advanced a few steps—then
stopped again. Mr. Bruff and Betteredge looked across the
open doorway at me for the first time. The prevision of a
coming disappointment was impressing itself on their minds
as well as on mine.
Still, so long as he stood where he was, there was hope.
We waited, in unutterable expectation, to see what would
happen next.
The next event was decisive. He let the mock Diamond drop
out of his hand.
It fell on the floor, before the doorway—plainly visible
to him, and to everyone. He made no effort to pick it up: he
looked down at it vacantly, and, as he looked, his head sank
on his breast. He staggered—roused himself for an
instant—walked back unsteadily to the sofa—and sat down on
it. He made a last effort; he tried to rise, and sank back.
His head fell on the sofa cushions. It was then twenty-five
minutes past one o'clock. Before I had put my watch back in
my pocket, he was asleep.
It was all over now. The sedative influence had got him;
the experiment was at an end.
I entered the room, telling Mr. Bruff and Betteredge that
they might follow me. There was no fear of disturbing him.
We were free to move and speak.
"The first thing to settle," I said, "is the question of
what we are to do with him. He will probably sleep for the
next six or seven hours, at least. It is some distance to
carry him back to his own room. When I was younger, I could
have done it alone. But my health and strength are not what
they were—I am afraid I must ask you to help me."
Before they could answer, Miss Verinder called to me
softly. She met me at the door of her room, with a light
shawl, and with the counterpane from her own bed.
"Do you mean to watch him while he sleeps?" she asked.
"Yes, I am not sure enough of the action of the opium in
his case to be willing to leave him alone."
She handed me the shawl and the counterpane.
"Why should you disturb him?" she whispered. "Make his
bed on the sofa. I can shut my door, and keep in my room."
It was infinitely the simplest and the safest way of
disposing of him for the night. I mentioned the suggestion
to Mr. Bruff and Betteredge—who both approved of my adopting
it. In five minutes I had laid him comfortably on the sofa,
and had covered him lightly with the counterpane and the
shawl. Miss Verinder wished us good night, and closed the
door. At my request, we three then drew round the table in
the middle of the room, on which the candle was still
burning, and on which writing materials were placed.
"Before we separate," I began, "I have a word to say
about the experiment which has been tried to-night. Two
distinct objects were to be gained by it. The first of these
objects was to prove, that Mr. Blake entered this room, and
took the Diamond, last year, acting unconsciously and
irresponsibly, under the influence of opium. After what you
have both seen, are you both satisfied, so far?"
They answered me in the affirmative, without a moment's
hesitation.
"The second object," I went on, "was to discover what he
did with the Diamond, after he was seen by Miss Verinder to
leave her sitting-room with the jewel in his hand, on the
birthday night. The gaining of this object depended, of
course, on his still continuing exactly to repeat his
proceedings of last year. He has failed to do that; and the
purpose of the experiment is defeated accordingly. I can't
assert that I am not disappointed at the result—but I can
honestly say that I am not surprised by it. I told Mr. Blake
from the first, that our complete success in this matter
depended on our completely reproducing in him the physical
and moral conditions of last year—and I warned him that this
was the next thing to a downright impossibility. We have
only partially reproduced the conditions, and the experiment
has been only partially successful in consequence. It is
also possible that I may have administered too large a dose
of laudanum. But I myself look upon the first reason that I
have given, as the true reason why we have to lament a
failure, as well as to rejoice over a success."
After saying those words, I put the writing materials
before Mr. Bruff, and asked him if he had any
objection—before we separated for the night—to draw out, and
sign, a plain statement of what he had seen. He at once took
the pen, and produced the statement with the fluent
readiness of a practised hand.
"I owe you this," he said, signing the paper, "as some
atonement for what passed between us earlier in the evening.
I beg your pardon, Mr. Jennings, for having doubted you. You
have done Franklin Blake an inestimable service. In our
legal phrase, you have proved your case."
Betteredge's apology was characteristic of the man.
"Mr. Jennings," he said, "when you read ROBINSON CRUSOE
again (which I strongly recommend you to do), you will find
that he never scruples to acknowledge it, when he turns out
to have been in the wrong. Please to consider me, sir, as
doing what Robinson Crusoe did, on the present occasion."
With those words he signed the paper in his turn.
Mr. Bruff took me aside, as we rose from the table.
"One word about the Diamond," he said. "Your theory is
that Franklin Blake hid the Moonstone in his room. My theory
is, that the Moonstone is in the possession of Mr. Luker's
bankers in London. We won't dispute which of us is right. We
will only ask, which of us is in a position to put his
theory to the test?"
"The test, in my case," I answered, "has been tried
to-night, and has failed."
"The test, in my case," rejoined Mr. Bruff, "is still in
process of trial. For the last two days I have had a watch
set for Mr. Luker at the bank; and I shall cause that watch
to be continued until the last day of the month. I know that
he must take the Diamond himself out of his bankers'
hands—and I am acting on the chance that the person who has
pledged the Diamond may force him to do this by redeeming
the pledge. In that case I may be able to lay my hand on the
person. If I succeed, I clear up the mystery, exactly at the
point where the mystery baffles us now! Do you admit that,
so far?"
I admitted it readily.
"I am going back to town by the morning train," pursued
the lawyer. "I may hear, when I return, that a discovery has
been made—and it may be of the greatest importance that I
should have Franklin Blake at hand to appeal to, if
necessary. I intend to tell him, as soon as he wakes, that
he must return with me to London. After all that has
happened, may I trust to your influence to back me?"
"Certainly!" I said.
Mr. Bruff shook hands with me, and left the room.
Betteredge followed him out; I went to the sofa to look at
Mr. Blake. He had not moved since I had laid him down and
made his bed—he lay locked in a deep and quiet sleep.
While I was still looking at him, I heard the bedroom
door softly opened. Once more, Miss Verinder appeared on the
threshold, in her pretty summer dress.
"Do me a last favour?" she whispered. "Let me watch him
with you."
I hesitated—not in the interests of propriety; only in
the interest of her night's rest. She came close to me, and
took my hand.
"I can't sleep; I can't even sit still, in my own room,"
she said. "Oh, Mr. Jennings, if you were me, only think how
you would long to sit and look at him. Say, yes! Do!"
Is it necessary to mention that I gave way? Surely not!
She drew a chair to the foot of the sofa. She looked at
him in a silent ecstasy of happiness, till the tears rose in
her eyes. She dried her eyes, and said she would fetch her
work. She fetched her work, and never did a single stitch of
it. It lay in her lap—she was not even able to look away
from him long enough to thread her needle. I thought of my
own youth; I thought of the gentle eyes which had once
looked love at me. In the heaviness of my heart I turned to
my Journal for relief, and wrote in it what is written here.
So we kept our watch together in silence. One of us
absorbed in his writing; the other absorbed in her love.
Hour after hour he lay in his deep sleep. The light of
the new day grew and grew in the room, and still he never
moved.
Towards six o'clock, I felt the warning which told me
that my pains were coming back. I was obliged to leave her
alone with him for a little while. I said I would go
up-stairs, and fetch another pillow for him out of his room.
It was not a long attack, this time. In a little while I was
able to venture back, and let her see me again.
I found her at the head of the sofa, when I returned. She
was just touching his forehead with her lips. I shook my
head as soberly as I could, and pointed to her chair. She
looked back at me with a bright smile, and a charming colour
in her face. "You would have done it," she whispered, "in my
place!"
It is just eight o'clock. He is beginning to move for the
first time.
Miss Verinder is kneeling by the side of the sofa. She
has so placed herself that when his eyes first open, they
must open on her face.
Shall I leave them together?
Yes!
Eleven o'clock.—The house is empty again. They have
arranged it among themselves; they have all gone to London
by the ten o'clock train. My brief dream of happiness is
over. I have awakened again to the realities of my
friendless and lonely life.
I dare not trust myself to write down, the kind words
that have been said to me especially by Miss Verinder and
Mr. Blake. Besides, it is needless. Those words will come
back to me in my solitary hours, and will help me through
what is left of the end of my life. Mr. Blake is to write,
and tell me what happens in London. Miss Verinder is to
return to Yorkshire in the autumn (for her marriage, no
doubt); and I am to take a holiday, and be a guest in the
house. Oh me, how I felt, as the grateful happiness looked
at me out of her eyes, and the warm pressure of her hand
said, "This is your doing!"
My poor patients are waiting for me. Back again, this
morning, to the old routine! Back again, to-night, to the
dreadful alternative between the opium and the pain!
God be praised for His mercy! I have seen a little
sunshine—I have had a happy time.

FIFTH NARRATIVE
The Story Resumed by FRANKLIN BLAKE
CHAPTER I
But few words are needed, on my part, to complete the
narrative that has been presented in the Journal of Ezra
Jennings.
Of myself, I have only to say that I awoke on the morning
of the twenty-sixth, perfectly ignorant of all that I had
said and done under the influence of the opium—from the time
when the drug first laid its hold on me, to the time when I
opened my eyes, in Rachel's sitting-room.
Of what happened after my waking, I do not feel called
upon to render an account in detail. Confining myself merely
to results, I have to report that Rachel and I thoroughly
understood each other, before a single word of explanation
had passed on either side. I decline to account, and Rachel
declines to account, for the extraordinary rapidity of our
reconciliation. Sir and Madam, look back at the time when
you were passionately attached to each other—and you will
know what happened, after Ezra Jennings had shut the door of
the sitting-room, as well as I know it myself.
I have, however, no objection to add, that we should have
been certainly discovered by Mrs. Merridew, but for Rachel's
presence of mind. She heard the sound of the old lady's
dress in the corridor, and instantly ran out to meet her; I
heard Mrs. Merridew say, "What is the matter?" and I heard
Rachel answer, "The explosion!" Mrs. Merridew instantly
permitted herself to be taken by the arm, and led into the
garden, out of the way of the impending shock. On her return
to the house, she met me in the hall, and expressed herself
as greatly struck by the vast improvement in Science, since
the time when she was a girl at school. "Explosions, Mr.
Blake, are infinitely milder than they were. I assure you, I
barely heard Mr. Jennings's explosion from the garden. And
no smell afterwards, that I can detect, now we have come
back to the house! I must really apologise to your medical
friend. It is only due to him to say that he has managed it
beautifully!"
So, after vanquishing Betteredge and Mr. Bruff, Ezra
Jennings vanquished Mrs. Merridew herself. There is a great
deal of undeveloped liberal feeling in the world, after all!
At breakfast, Mr. Bruff made no secret of his reasons for
wishing that I should accompany him to London by the morning
train. The watch kept at the bank, and the result which
might yet come of it, appealed so irresistibly to Rachel's
curiosity, that she at once decided (if Mrs. Merridew had no
objection) on accompanying us back to town—so as to be
within reach of the earliest news of our proceedings.
Mrs. Merridew proved to be all pliability and indulgence,
after the truly considerate manner in which the explosion
had conducted itself; and Betteredge was accordingly
informed that we were all four to travel back together by
the morning train. I fully expected that he would have asked
leave to accompany us. But Rachel had wisely provided her
faithful old servant with an occupation that interested him.
He was charged with completing the refurnishing of the
house, and was too full of his domestic responsibilities to
feel the "detective-fever" as he might have felt it under
other circumstances.
Our one subject of regret, in going to London, was the
necessity of parting, more abruptly than we could have
wished, with Ezra Jennings. It was impossible to persuade
him to accompany us. I could only promise to write to
him—and Rachel could only insist on his coming to see her
when she returned to Yorkshire. There was every prospect of
our meeting again in a few months—and yet there was
something very sad in seeing our best and dearest friend
left standing alone on the platform, as the train moved out
of the station.
On our arrival in London, Mr. Bruff was accosted at the
terminus by a small boy, dressed in a jacket and trousers of
threadbare black cloth, and personally remarkable in virtue
of the extraordinary prominence of his eyes. They projected
so far, and they rolled about so loosely, that you wondered
uneasily why they remained in their sockets. After listening
to the boy, Mr. Bruff asked the ladies whether they would
excuse our accompanying them back to Portland Place. I had
barely time to promise Rachel that I would return, and tell
her everything that had happened, before Mr. Bruff seized me
by the arm, and hurried me into a cab. The boy with the
ill-secured eyes took his place on the box by the driver,
and the driver was directed to go to Lombard Street.
"News from the bank?" I asked, as we started.
"News of Mr. Luker," said Mr. Bruff. "An hour ago, he was
seen to leave his house at Lambeth, in a cab, accompanied by
two men, who were recognised by my men as police officers in
plain clothes. If Mr. Luker's dread of the Indians is at the
bottom of this precaution, the inference is plain enough. He
is going to take the Diamond out of the bank."
"And we are going to the bank to see what comes of it?"
"Yes—or to hear what has come of it, if it is all over by
this time. Did you notice my boy—on the box, there?"
"I noticed his eyes."
Mr. Bruff laughed. "They call the poor little wretch
'Gooseberry' at the office," he said. "I employ him to go on
errands—and I only wish my clerks who have nick-named him
were as thoroughly to be depended on as he is. Gooseberry is
one of the sharpest boys in London, Mr. Blake, in spite of
his eyes."
It was twenty minutes to five when we drew up before the
bank in Lombard Street. Gooseberry looked longingly at his
master, as he opened the cab door.
"Do you want to come in too?" asked Mr. Bruff kindly.
"Come in then, and keep at my heels till further orders.
He's as quick as lightning," pursued Mr. Bruff, addressing
me in a whisper. "Two words will do with Gooseberry, where
twenty would be wanted with another boy."
We entered the bank. The outer office—with the long
counter, behind which the cashiers sat—was crowded with
people; all waiting their turn to take money out, or to pay
money in, before the bank closed at five o'clock.
Two men among the crowd approached Mr. Bruff, as soon as
he showed himself.
"Well," asked the lawyer. "Have you seen him?"
"He passed us here half an hour since, sir, and went on
into the inner office."
"Has he not come out again yet?"
"No, sir."
Mr. Bruff turned to me. "Let us wait," he said.
I looked round among the people about me for the three
Indians. Not a sign of them was to be seen anywhere. The
only person present with a noticeably dark complexion was a
tall man in a pilot coat, and a round hat, who looked like a
sailor. Could this be one of them in disguise? Impossible!
The man was taller than any of the Indians; and his face,
where it was not hidden by a bushy black beard, was twice
the breadth of any of their faces at least.
"They must have their spy somewhere," said Mr. Bruff,
looking at the dark sailor in his turn. "And he may be the
man."
Before he could say more, his coat-tail was respectfully
pulled by his attendant sprite with the gooseberry eyes. Mr.
Bruff looked where the boy was looking. "Hush!" he said.
"Here is Mr. Luker!"
The money-lender came out from the inner regions of the
bank, followed by his two guardian policemen in plain
clothes.
"Keep your eye on him," whispered Mr. Bruff. "If he
passes the Diamond to anybody, he will pass it here."
Without noticing either of us, Mr. Luker slowly made his
way to the door—now in the thickest, now in the thinnest
part of the crowd. I distinctly saw his hand move, as he
passed a short, stout man, respectably dressed in a suit of
sober grey. The man started a little, and looked after him.
Mr. Luker moved on slowly through the crowd. At the door his
guard placed themselves on either side of him. They were all
three followed by one of Mr. Bruff's men—and I saw them no
more.
I looked round at the lawyer, and then looked
significantly towards the man in the suit of sober grey.
"Yes!" whispered Mr. Bruff, "I saw it too!" He turned about,
in search of his second man. The second man was nowhere to
be seen. He looked behind him for his attendant sprite.
Gooseberry had disappeared.
"What the devil does it mean?" said Mr. Bruff angrily.
"They have both left us at the very time when we want them
most."
It came to the turn of the man in the grey suit to
transact his business at the counter. He paid in a
cheque—received a receipt for it—and turned to go out.
"What is to be done?" asked Mr. Bruff. "We can't degrade
ourselves by following him."
"I can!" I said. "I wouldn't lose sight of that man for
ten thousand pounds!"
"In that case," rejoined Mr. Bruff, "I wouldn't lose
sight of you, for twice the money. A nice occupation for a
man in my position," he muttered to himself, as we followed
the stranger out of the bank. "For Heaven's sake don't
mention it. I should be ruined if it was known."
The man in the grey suit got into an omnibus, going
westward. We got in after him. There were latent reserves of
youth still left in Mr. Bruff. I assert it positively—when
he took his seat in the omnibus, he blushed!
The man in the grey suit stopped the omnibus, and got out
in Oxford Street. We followed him again. He went into a
chemist's shop.
Mr. Bruff started. "My chemist!" he exclaimed. "I am
afraid we have made a mistake."
We entered the shop. Mr. Bruff and the proprietor
exchanged a few words in private. The lawyer joined me
again, with a very crestfallen face.
"It's greatly to our credit," he said, as he took my arm,
and led me out—"that's one comfort!"
"What is to our credit?" I asked.
"Mr. Blake! you and I are the two worst amateur
detectives that ever tried their hands at the trade. The man
in the grey suit has been thirty years in the chemist's
service. He was sent to the bank to pay money to his
master's account—and he knows no more of the Moonstone than
the babe unborn."
I asked what was to be done next.
"Come back to my office," said Mr. Bruff. "Gooseberry,
and my second man, have evidently followed somebody else.
Let us hope that THEY had their eyes about them at any
rate!"
When we reached Gray's Inn Square, the second man had
arrived there before us. He had been waiting for more than a
quarter of an hour.
"Well!" asked Mr. Bruff. "What's your news?"
"I am sorry to say, sir," replied the man, "that I have
made a mistake. I could have taken my oath that I saw Mr.
Luker pass something to an elderly gentleman, in a
light-coloured paletot. The elderly gentleman turns out,
sir, to be a most respectable master iron-monger in
Eastcheap."
"Where is Gooseberry?" asked Mr. Bruff resignedly.
The man stared. "I don't know, sir. I have seen nothing
of him since I left the bank."
Mr. Bruff dismissed the man. "One of two things," he said
to me. "Either Gooseberry has run away, or he is hunting on
his own account. What do you say to dining here, on the
chance that the boy may come back in an hour or two? I have
got some good wine in the cellar, and we can get a chop from
the coffee-house."
We dined at Mr. Bruff's chambers. Before the cloth was
removed, "a person" was announced as wanting to speak to the
lawyer. Was the person Gooseberry? No: only the man who had
been employed to follow Mr. Luker when he left the bank.
The report, in this case, presented no feature of the
slightest interest. Mr. Luker had gone back to his own
house, and had there dismissed his guard. He had not gone
out again afterwards. Towards dusk, the shutters had been
put up, and the doors had been bolted. The street before the
house, and the alley behind the house, had been carefully
watched. No signs of the Indians had been visible. No person
whatever had been seen loitering about the premises. Having
stated these facts, the man waited to know whether there
were any further orders. Mr. Bruff dismissed him for the
night.
"Do you think Mr. Luker has taken the Moonstone home with
him?" I asked.
"Not he," said Mr. Bruff. "He would never have dismissed
his two policemen, if he had run the risk of keeping the
Diamond in his own house again."
We waited another half-hour for the boy, and waited in
vain. It was then time for Mr. Bruff to go to Hampstead, and
for me to return to Rachel in Portland Place. I left my
card, in charge of the porter at the chambers, with a line
written on it to say that I should be at my lodgings at half
past ten, that night. The card was to be given to the boy,
if the boy came back.
Some men have a knack of keeping appointments; and other
men have a knack of missing them. I am one of the other men.
Add to this, that I passed the evening at Portland Place, on
the same seat with Rachel, in a room forty feet long, with
Mrs. Merridew at the further end of it. Does anybody wonder
that I got home at half past twelve instead of half past
ten? How thoroughly heartless that person must be! And how
earnestly I hope I may never make that person's
acquaintance!
My servant handed me a morsel of paper when he let me in.
I read, in a neat legal handwriting, these words—"If you
please, sir, I am getting sleepy. I will come back to-morrow
morning, between nine and ten." Inquiry proved that a boy,
with very extraordinary-looking eyes, had called, and
presented my card and message, had waited an hour, had done
nothing but fall asleep and wake up again, had written a
line for me, and had gone home—after gravely informing the
servant that "he was fit for nothing unless he got his
night's rest."
At nine, the next morning, I was ready for my visitor. At
half past nine, I heard steps outside my door. "Come in,
Gooseberry!" I called out. "Thank you, sir," answered a
grave and melancholy voice. The door opened. I started to my
feet, and confronted—Sergeant Cuff.
"I thought I would look in here, Mr. Blake, on the chance
of your being in town, before I wrote to Yorkshire," said
the Sergeant.
He was as dreary and as lean as ever. His eyes had not
lost their old trick (so subtly noticed in Betteredge's
NARRATIVE) of "looking as if they expected something more
from you than you were aware of yourself." But, so far as
dress can alter a man, the great Cuff was changed beyond all
recognition. He wore a broad-brimmed white hat, a light
shooting jacket, white trousers, and drab gaiters. He
carried a stout oak stick. His whole aim and object seemed
to be to look as if he had lived in the country all his
life. When I complimented him on his Metamorphosis, he
declined to take it as a joke. He complained, quite gravely,
of the noises and the smells of London. I declare I am far
from sure that he did not speak with a slightly rustic
accent! I offered him breakfast. The innocent countryman was
quite shocked. HIS breakfast hour was half-past six—and HE
went to bed with the cocks and hens!
"I only got back from Ireland last night," said the
Sergeant, coming round to the practical object of his visit,
in his own impenetrable manner. "Before I went to bed, I
read your letter, telling me what has happened since my
inquiry after the Diamond was suspended last year. There's
only one thing to be said about the matter on my side. I
completely mistook my case. How any man living was to have
seen things in their true light, in such a situation as mine
was at the time, I don't profess to know. But that doesn't
alter the facts as they stand. I own that I made a mess of
it. Not the first mess, Mr. Blake, which has distinguished
my professional career! It's only in books that the officers
of the detective force are superior to the weakness of
making a mistake."
"You have come in the nick of time to recover your
reputation," I said.
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Blake," rejoined the Sergeant.
"Now I have retired from business, I don't care a straw
about my reputation. I have done with my reputation, thank
God! I am here, sir, in grateful remembrance of the late
Lady Verinder's liberality to me. I will go back to my old
work—if you want me, and if you will trust me—on that
consideration, and on no other. Not a farthing of money is
to pass, if you please, from you to me. This is on honour.
Now tell me, Mr. Blake, how the case stands since you wrote
to me last."
I told him of the experiment with the opium, and of what
had occurred afterwards at the bank in Lombard Street. He
was greatly struck by the experiment—it was something
entirely new in his experience. And he was particularly
interested in the theory of Ezra Jennings, relating to what
I had done with the Diamond, after I had left Rachel's
sitting-room, on the birthday night.
"I don't hold with Mr. Jennings that you hid the
Moonstone," said Sergeant Cuff. "But I agree with him, that
you must certainly have taken it back to your own room."
"Well?" I asked. "And what happened then?"
"Have you no suspicion yourself of what happened, sir?"
"None whatever."
"Has Mr. Bruff no suspicion?"
"No more than I have."
Sergeant Cuff rose, and went to my writing-table. He came
back with a sealed envelope. It was marked "Private;" it was
addressed to me; and it had the Sergeant's signature in the
corner.
"I suspected the wrong person, last year," he said: "and
I may be suspecting the wrong person now. Wait to open the
envelope, Mr. Blake, till you have got at the truth. And
then compare the name of the guilty person, with the name
that I have written in that sealed letter."
I put the letter into my pocket—and then asked for the
Sergeant's opinion of the measures which we had taken at the
bank.
"Very well intended, sir," he answered, "and quite the
right thing to do. But there was another person who ought to
have been looked after besides Mr. Luker."
"The person named in the letter you have just given to
me?"
"Yes, Mr. Blake, the person named in the letter. It can't
be helped now. I shall have something to propose to you and
Mr. Bruff, sir, when the time comes. Let's wait, first, and
see if the boy has anything to tell us that is worth
hearing."
It was close on ten o'clock, and the boy had not made his
appearance. Sergeant Cuff talked of other matters. He asked
after his old friend Betteredge, and his old enemy the
gardener. In a minute more, he would no doubt have got from
this, to the subject of his favourite roses, if my servant
had not interrupted us by announcing that the boy was below.
On being brought into the room, Gooseberry stopped at the
threshold of the door, and looked distrustfully at the
stranger who was in my company. I told the boy to come to
me.
"You may speak before this gentleman," I said. "He is
here to assist me; and he knows all that has happened.
Sergeant Cuff," I added, "this is the boy from Mr. Bruff's
office."
In our modern system of civilisation, celebrity (no
matter of what kind) is the lever that will move anything.
The fame of the great Cuff had even reached the ears of the
small Gooseberry. The boy's ill-fixed eyes rolled, when I
mentioned the illustrious name, till I thought they really
must have dropped on the carpet.
"Come here, my lad," said the Sergeant, "and let's hear
what you have got to tell us."
The notice of the great man—the hero of many a famous
story in every lawyer's office in London—appeared to
fascinate the boy. He placed himself in front of Sergeant
Cuff, and put his hands behind him, after the approved
fashion of a neophyte who is examined in his catechism.
"What is your name?" said the Sergeant, beginning with
the first question in the catechism.
"Octavius Guy," answered the boy. "They call me
Gooseberry at the office because of my eyes."
"Octavius Guy, otherwise Gooseberry," pursued the
Sergeant, with the utmost gravity, "you were missed at the
bank yesterday. What were you about?"
"If you please, sir, I was following a man."
"Who was he?"
"A tall man, sir, with a big black beard, dressed like a
sailor."
"I remember the man!" I broke in. "Mr. Bruff and I
thought he was a spy employed by the Indians."
Sergeant Cuff did not appear to be much impressed by what
Mr. Bruff and I had thought. He went on catechising
Gooseberry.
"Well?" he said—"and why did you follow the sailor?"
"If you please, sir, Mr. Bruff wanted to know whether Mr.
Luker passed anything to anybody on his way out of the bank.
I saw Mr. Luker pass something to the sailor with the black
beard."
"Why didn't you tell Mr. Bruff what you saw?"
"I hadn't time to tell anybody, sir, the sailor went out
in such a hurry."
"And you ran out after him—eh?"
"Yes, sir."
"Gooseberry," said the Sergeant, patting his head, "you
have got something in that small skull of yours—and it isn't
cotton-wool. I am greatly pleased with you, so far."
The boy blushed with pleasure. Sergeant Cuff went on.
"Well? and what did the sailor do, when he got into the
street?"
"He called a cab, sir."
"And what did you do?"
"Held on behind, and run after it."
Before the Sergeant could put his next question, another
visitor was announced—the head clerk from Mr. Bruff's
office.
Feeling the importance of not interrupting Sergeant
Cuff's examination of the boy, I received the clerk in
another room. He came with bad news of his employer. The
agitation and excitement of the last two days had proved too
much for Mr. Bruff. He had awoke that morning with an attack
of gout; he was confined to his room at Hampstead; and, in
the present critical condition of our affairs, he was very
uneasy at being compelled to leave me without the advice and
assistance of an experienced person. The chief clerk had
received orders to hold himself at my disposal, and was
willing to do his best to replace Mr. Bruff.
I wrote at once to quiet the old gentleman's mind, by
telling him of Sergeant Cuff's visit: adding that Gooseberry
was at that moment under examination; and promising to
inform Mr. Bruff, either personally, or by letter, of
whatever might occur later in the day. Having despatched the
clerk to Hampstead with my note, I returned to the room
which I had left, and found Sergeant Cuff at the fireplace,
in the act of ringing the bell.
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Blake," said the Sergeant. "I was
just going to send word by your servant that I wanted to
speak to you. There isn't a doubt on my mind that this
boy—this most meritorious boy," added the Sergeant, patting
Gooseberry on the head, "has followed the right man.
Precious time has been lost, sir, through your unfortunately
not being at home at half past ten last night. The only
thing to do, now, is to send for a cab immediately."
In five minutes more, Sergeant Cuff and I (with
Gooseberry on the box to guide the driver) were on our way
eastward, towards the City.
"One of these days," said the Sergeant, pointing through
the front window of the cab, "that boy will do great things
in my late profession. He is the brightest and cleverest
little chap I have met with, for many a long year past. You
shall hear the substance, Mr. Blake, of what he told me
while you were out of the room. You were present, I think,
when he mentioned that he held on behind the cab, and ran
after it?"
"Yes."
"Well, sir, the cab went from Lombard Street to the Tower
Wharf. The sailor with the black beard got out, and spoke to
the steward of the Rotterdam steamboat, which was to start
next morning. He asked if he could be allowed to go on board
at once, and sleep in his berth over-night. The steward
said, No. The cabins, and berths, and bedding were all to
have a thorough cleaning that evening, and no passenger
could be allowed to come on board, before the morning. The
sailor turned round, and left the wharf. When he got into
the street again, the boy noticed for the first time, a man
dressed like a respectable mechanic, walking on the opposite
side of the road, and apparently keeping the sailor in view.
The sailor stopped at an eating-house in the neighbourhood,
and went in. The boy—not being able to make up his mind, at
the moment—hung about among some other boys, staring at the
good things in the eating-house window. He noticed the
mechanic waiting, as he himself was waiting—but still on the
opposite side of the street. After a minute, a cab came by
slowly, and stopped where the mechanic was standing. The boy
could only see plainly one person in the cab, who leaned
forward at the window to speak to the mechanic. He described
that person, Mr. Blake, without any prompting from me, as
having a dark face, like the face of an Indian."
It was plain, by this time, that Mr. Bruff and I had made
another mistake. The sailor with the black beard was clearly
not a spy in the service of the Indian conspiracy. Was he,
by any possibility, the man who had got the Diamond?
"After a little," pursued the Sergeant, "the cab moved on
slowly down the street. The mechanic crossed the road, and
went into the eating-house. The boy waited outside till he
was hungry and tired—and then went into the eating-house, in
his turn. He had a shilling in his pocket; and he dined
sumptuously, he tells me, on a black-pudding, an eel-pie,
and a bottle of ginger-beer. What can a boy not digest? The
substance in question has never been found yet."
"What did he see in the eating-house?" I asked.
"Well, Mr. Blake, he saw the sailor reading the newspaper
at one table, and the mechanic reading the newspaper at
another. It was dusk before the sailor got up, and left the
place. He looked about him suspiciously when he got out into
the street. The boy—BEING a boy—passed unnoticed. The
mechanic had not come out yet. The sailor walked on, looking
about him, and apparently not very certain of where he was
going next. The mechanic appeared once more, on the opposite
side of the road. The sailor went on, till he got to Shore
Lane, leading into Lower Thames Street. There he stopped
before a public-house, under the sign of 'The Wheel of
Fortune,' and, after examining the place outside, went in.
Gooseberry went in too. There were a great many people,
mostly of the decent sort, at the bar. 'The Wheel of
Fortune' is a very respectable house, Mr. Blake; famous for
its porter and pork-pies."
The Sergeant's digressions irritated me. He saw it; and
confined himself more strictly to Gooseberry's evidence when
he went on.
"The sailor," he resumed, "asked if he could have a bed.
The landlord said 'No; they were full.' The barmaid
corrected him, and said 'Number Ten was empty.' A waiter was
sent for to show the sailor to Number Ten. Just before that,
Gooseberry had noticed the mechanic among the people at the
bar. Before the waiter had answered the call, the mechanic
had vanished. The sailor was taken off to his room. Not
knowing what to do next, Gooseberry had the wisdom to wait
and see if anything happened. Something did happen. The
landlord was called for. Angry voices were heard up-stairs.
The mechanic suddenly made his appearance again, collared by
the landlord, and exhibiting, to Gooseberry's great
surprise, all the signs and tokens of being drunk. The
landlord thrust him out at the door, and threatened him with
the police if he came back. From the altercation between
them, while this was going on, it appeared that the man had
been discovered in Number Ten, and had declared with drunken
obstinacy that he had taken the room. Gooseberry was so
struck by this sudden intoxication of a previously sober
person, that he couldn't resist running out after the
mechanic into the street. As long as he was in sight of the
public-house, the man reeled about in the most disgraceful
manner. The moment he turned the corner of the street, he
recovered his balance instantly, and became as sober a
member of society as you could wish to see. Gooseberry went
back to 'The Wheel of Fortune' in a very bewildered state of
mind. He waited about again, on the chance of something
happening. Nothing happened; and nothing more was to be
heard, or seen, of the sailor. Gooseberry decided on going
back to the office. Just as he came to this conclusion, who
should appear, on the opposite side of the street as usual,
but the mechanic again! He looked up at one particular
window at the top of the public-house, which was the only
one that had a light in it. The light seemed to relieve his
mind. He left the place directly. The boy made his way back
to Gray's Inn—got your card and message—called—and failed to
find you. There you have the state of the case, Mr. Blake,
as it stands at the present time."
"What is your own opinion of the case, Sergeant?"
"I think it's serious, sir. Judging by what the boy saw,
the Indians are in it, to begin with."
"Yes. And the sailor is evidently the person to whom Mr.
Luker passed the Diamond. It seems odd that Mr. Bruff, and
I, and the man in Mr. Bruff's employment, should all have
been mistaken about who the person was."
"Not at all, Mr. Blake. Considering the risk that person
ran, it's likely enough that Mr. Luker purposely misled you,
by previous arrangement between them."
"Do you understand the proceedings at the public-house?"
I asked. "The man dressed like a mechanic was acting of
course in the employment of the Indians. But I am as much
puzzled to account for his sudden assumption of drunkenness
as Gooseberry himself."
"I think I can give a guess at what it means, sir," said
the Sergeant. "If you will reflect, you will see that the
man must have had some pretty strict instructions from the
Indians. They were far too noticeable themselves to risk
being seen at the bank, or in the public-house—they were
obliged to trust everything to their deputy. Very good.
Their deputy hears a certain number named in the
public-house, as the number of the room which the sailor is
to have for the night—that being also the room (unless our
notion is all wrong) which the Diamond is to have for the
night, too. Under those circumstances, the Indians, you may
rely on it, would insist on having a description of the
room—of its position in the house, of its capability of
being approached from the outside, and so on. What was the
man to do, with such orders as these? Just what he did! He
ran up-stairs to get a look at the room, before the sailor
was taken into it. He was found there, making his
observations—and he shammed drunk, as the easiest way of
getting out of the difficulty. That's how I read the riddle.
After he was turned out of the public-house, he probably
went with his report to the place where his employers were
waiting for him. And his employers, no doubt, sent him back
to make sure that the sailor was really settled at the
public-house till the next morning. As for what happened at
'The Wheel of Fortune,' after the boy left—we ought to have
discovered that last night. It's eleven in the morning, now.
We must hope for the best, and find out what we can."
In a quarter of an hour more, the cab stopped in Shore
Lane, and Gooseberry opened the door for us to get out.
"All right?" asked the Sergeant.
"All right," answered the boy.
The moment we entered "The Wheel of Fortune" it was plain
even to my inexperienced eyes that there was something wrong
in the house.
The only person behind the counter at which the liquors
were served, was a bewildered servant girl, perfectly
ignorant of the business. One or two customers, waiting for
their morning drink, were tapping impatiently on the counter
with their money. The bar-maid appeared from the inner
regions of the parlour, excited and preoccupied. She
answered Sergeant Cuff's inquiry for the landlord, by
telling him sharply that her master was up-stairs, and was
not to be bothered by anybody.
"Come along with me, sir," said Sergeant Cuff, coolly
leading the way up-stairs, and beckoning to the boy to
follow him.
The barmaid called to her master, and warned him that
strangers were intruding themselves into the house. On the
first floor we were encountered by the Landlord, hurrying
down, in a highly irritated state, to see what was the
matter.
"Who the devil are you? and what do you want here?" he
asked.
"Keep your temper," said the Sergeant, quietly. "I'll
tell you who I am to begin with. I am Sergeant Cuff."
The illustrious name instantly produced its effect. The
angry landlord threw open the door of a sitting-room, and
asked the Sergeant's pardon.
"I am annoyed and out of sorts, sir—that's the truth," he
said. "Something unpleasant has happened in the house this
morning. A man in my way of business has a deal to upset his
temper, Sergeant Cuff."
"Not a doubt of it," said the Sergeant. "I'll come at
once, if you will allow me, to what brings us here. This
gentleman and I want to trouble you with a few inquiries, on
a matter of some interest to both of us."
"Relating to what, sir?" asked the landlord.
"Relating to a dark man, dressed like a sailor, who slept
here last night."
"Good God! that's the man who is upsetting the whole
house at this moment!" exclaimed the landlord. "Do you, or
does this gentleman know anything about him?"
"We can't be certain till we see him," answered the
Sergeant.
"See him?" echoed the landlord. "That's the one thing
that nobody has been able to do since seven o'clock this
morning. That was the time when he left word, last night,
that he was to be called. He WAS called—and there was no
getting an answer from him, and no opening his door to see
what was the matter. They tried again at eight, and they
tried again at nine. No use! There was the door still
locked—and not a sound to be heard in the room! I have been
out this morning—and I only got back a quarter of an hour
ago. I have hammered at the door myself—and all to no
purpose. The potboy has gone to fetch a carpenter. If you
can wait a few minutes, gentlemen, we will have the door
opened, and see what it means."
"Was the man drunk last night?" asked Sergeant Cuff.
"Perfectly sober, sir—or I would never have let him sleep
in my house."
"Did he pay for his bed beforehand?"
"No."
"Could he leave the room in any way, without going out by
the door?"
"The room is a garret," said the landlord. "But there's a
trap-door in the ceiling, leading out on to the roof—and a
little lower down the street, there's an empty house under
repair. Do you think, Sergeant, the blackguard has got off
in that way, without paying?"
"A sailor," said Sergeant Cuff, "might have done it—early
in the morning, before the street was astir. He would be
used to climbing, and his head wouldn't fail him on the
roofs of the houses."
As he spoke, the arrival of the carpenter was announced.
We all went up-stairs, at once, to the top story. I noticed
that the Sergeant was unusually grave, even for him. It also
struck me as odd that he told the boy (after having
previously encouraged him to follow us), to wait in the room
below till we came down again.
The carpenter's hammer and chisel disposed of the
resistance of the door in a few minutes. But some article of
furniture had been placed against it inside, as a barricade.
By pushing at the door, we thrust this obstacle aside, and
so got admission to the room. The landlord entered first;
the Sergeant second; and I third. The other persons present
followed us.
We all looked towards the bed, and all started.
The man had not left the room. He lay, dressed, on the
bed—with a white pillow over his face, which completely hid
it from view.
"What does that mean?" said the landlord, pointing to the
pillow.
Sergeant Cuff led the way to the bed, without answering,
and removed the pillow.
The man's swarthy face was placid and still; his black
hair and beard were slightly, very slightly, discomposed.
His eyes stared wide-open, glassy and vacant, at the
ceiling. The filmy look and the fixed expression of them
horrified me. I turned away, and went to the open window.
The rest of them remained, where Sergeant Cuff remained, at
the bed.
"He's in a fit!" I heard the landlord say.
"He's dead," the Sergeant answered. "Send for the nearest
doctor, and send for the police."
The waiter was despatched on both errands. Some strange
fascination seemed to hold Sergeant Cuff to the bed. Some
strange curiosity seemed to keep the rest of them waiting,
to see what the Sergeant would do next.
I turned again to the window. The moment afterwards, I
felt a soft pull at my coat-tails, and a small voice
whispered, "Look here, sir!"
Gooseberry had followed us into the room. His loose eyes
rolled frightfully—not in terror, but in exultation. He had
made a detective-discovery on his own account. "Look here,
sir," he repeated—and led me to a table in the corner of the
room.
On the table stood a little wooden box, open, and empty.
On one side of the box lay some jewellers' cotton. On the
other side, was a torn sheet of white paper, with a seal on
it, partly destroyed, and with an inscription in writing,
which was still perfectly legible. The inscription was in
these words:
"Deposited with Messrs. Bushe, Lysaught, and Bushe, by
Mr. Septimus Luker, of Middlesex Place, Lambeth, a small
wooden box, sealed up in this envelope, and containing a
valuable of great price. The box, when claimed, to be only
given up by Messrs. Bushe and Co. on the personal
application of Mr. Luker."
Those lines removed all further doubt, on one point at
least. The sailor had been in possession of the Moonstone,
when he had left the bank on the previous day.
I felt another pull at my coat-tails. Gooseberry had not
done with me yet.
"Robbery!" whispered the boy, pointing, in high delight,
to the empty box.
"You were told to wait down-stairs," I said. "Go away!"
"And Murder!" added Gooseberry, pointing, with a keener
relish still, to the man on the bed.
There was something so hideous in the boy's enjoyment of
the horror of the scene, that I took him by the two
shoulders and put him out of the room.
At the moment when I crossed the threshold of the door, I
heard Sergeant Cuff's voice, asking where I was. He met me,
as I returned into the room, and forced me to go back with
him to the bedside.
"Mr. Blake!" he said. "Look at the man's face. It is a
face disguised—and here's a proof of it!"
He traced with his finger a thin line of livid white,
running backward from the dead man's forehead, between the
swarthy complexion, and the slightly-disturbed black hair.
"Let's see what is under this," said the Sergeant, suddenly
seizing the black hair, with a firm grip of his hand.
My nerves were not strong enough to bear it. I turned
away again from the bed.
The first sight that met my eyes, at the other end of the
room, was the irrepressible Gooseberry, perched on a chair,
and looking with breathless interest, over the heads of his
elders, at the Sergeant's proceedings.
"He's pulling off his wig!" whispered Gooseberry,
compassionating my position, as the only person in the room
who could see nothing.
There was a pause—and then a cry of astonishment among
the people round the bed.
"He's pulled off his beard!" cried Gooseberry.
There was another pause—Sergeant Cuff asked for
something. The landlord went to the wash-hand-stand, and
returned to the bed with a basin of water and a towel.
Gooseberry danced with excitement on the chair. "Come up
here, along with me, sir! He's washing off his complexion
now!"
The Sergeant suddenly burst his way through the people
about him, and came, with horror in his face, straight to
the place where I was standing.
"Come back to the bed, sir!" he began. He looked at me
closer, and checked himself "No!" he resumed. "Open the
sealed letter first—the letter I gave you this morning."
I opened the letter.
"Read the name, Mr. Blake, that I have written inside."
I read the name that he had written. It was GODFREY
ABLEWHITE.
"Now," said the Sergeant, "come with me, and look at the
man on the bed."
I went with him, and looked at the man on the bed.
GODFREY ABLEWHITE!

SIXTH NARRATIVE
Contributed by SERGEANT CUFF
I
Dorking, Surrey, July 30th, 1849. To Franklin Blake, Esq.
Sir,—I beg to apologise for the delay that has occurred in
the production of the Report, with which I engaged to
furnish you. I have waited to make it a complete Report; and
I have been met, here and there, by obstacles which it was
only possible to remove by some little expenditure of
patience and time.
The object which I proposed to myself has now, I hope,
been attained. You will find, in these pages, answers to the
greater part—if not all—of the questions, concerning the
late Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite, which occurred to your mind when
I last had the honour of seeing you.
I propose to tell you—in the first place—what is known of
the manner in which your cousin met his death; appending to
the statement such inferences and conclusions as we are
justified (according to my opinion) in drawing from the
facts.
I shall then endeavour—in the second place—to put you in
possession of such discoveries as I have made, respecting
the proceedings of Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite, before, during and
after the time, when you and he met as guests at the late
Lady Verinder's country-house.
II
As to your cousin's death, then, first.
It appears to be established, beyond any reasonable
doubt, that he was killed (while he was asleep, or
immediately on his waking) by being smothered with a pillow
from his bed—that the persons guilty of murdering him are
the three Indians—and that the object contemplated (and
achieved) by the crime, was to obtain possession of the
diamond, called the Moonstone.
The facts from which this conclusion is drawn, are
derived partly from an examination of the room at the
tavern; and partly from the evidence obtained at the
Coroner's Inquest.
On forcing the door of the room, the deceased gentleman
was discovered, dead, with the pillow of the bed over his
face. The medical man who examined him, being informed of
this circumstance, considered the post-mortem appearances as
being perfectly compatible with murder by smothering—that is
to say, with murder committed by some person, or persons,
pressing the pillow over the nose and mouth of the deceased,
until death resulted from congestion of the lungs.
Next, as to the motive for the crime.
A small box, with a sealed paper torn off from it (the
paper containing an inscription) was found open, and empty,
on a table in the room. Mr. Luker has himself personally
identified the box, the seal, and the inscription. He has
declared that the box did actually contain the diamond,
called the Moonstone; and he has admitted having given the
box (thus sealed up) to Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite (then
concealed under a disguise), on the afternoon of the
twenty-sixth of June last. The fair inference from all this
is, that the stealing of the Moonstone was the motive of the
crime.
Next, as to the manner in which the crime was committed.
On examination of the room (which is only seven feet
high), a trap-door in the ceiling, leading out on to the
roof of the house, was discovered open. The short ladder,
used for obtaining access to the trap-door (and kept under
the bed), was found placed at the opening, so as to enable
any person or persons, in the room, to leave it again
easily. In the trap-door itself was found a square aperture
cut in the wood, apparently with some exceedingly sharp
instrument, just behind the bolt which fastened the door on
the inner side. In this way, any person from the outside
could have drawn back the bolt, and opened the door, and
have dropped (or have been noiselessly lowered by an
accomplice) into the room—its height, as already observed,
being only seven feet. That some person, or persons, must
have got admission in this way, appears evident from the
fact of the aperture being there. As to the manner in which
he (or they) obtained access to the roof of the tavern, it
is to be remarked that the third house, lower down in the
street, was empty, and under repair—that a long ladder was
left by the workmen, leading from the pavement to the top of
the house—and that, on returning to their work, on the
morning of the 27th, the men found the plank which they had
tied to the ladder, to prevent anyone from using it in their
absence, removed, and lying on the ground. As to the
possibility of ascending by this ladder, passing over the
roofs of the houses, passing back, and descending again,
unobserved—it is discovered, on the evidence of the night
policeman, that he only passes through Shore Lane twice in
an hour, when out on his beat. The testimony of the
inhabitants also declares, that Shore Lane, after midnight,
is one of the quietest and loneliest streets in London. Here
again, therefore, it seems fair to infer that—with ordinary
caution, and presence of mind—any man, or men, might have
ascended by the ladder, and might have descended again,
unobserved. Once on the roof of the tavern, it has been
proved, by experiment, that a man might cut through the
trap-door, while lying down on it, and that in such a
position, the parapet in front of the house would conceal
him from the view of anyone passing in the street.
Lastly, as to the person, or persons, by whom the crime
was committed.
It is known (1) that the Indians had an interest in
possessing themselves of the Diamond. (2) It is at least
probable that the man looking like an Indian, whom Octavius
Guy saw at the window of the cab, speaking to the man
dressed like a mechanic, was one of the three Hindoo
conspirators. (3) It is certain that this same man dressed
like a mechanic, was seen keeping Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite in
view, all through the evening of the 26th, and was found in
the bedroom (before Mr. Ablewhite was shown into it) under
circumstances which lead to the suspicion that he was
examining the room. (4) A morsel of torn gold thread was
picked up in the bedroom, which persons expert in such
matters, declare to be of Indian manufacture, and to be a
species of gold thread not known in England. (5) On the
morning of the 27th, three men, answering to the description
of the three Indians, were observed in Lower Thames Street,
were traced to the Tower Wharf, and were seen to leave
London by the steamer bound for Rotterdam.
There is here, moral, if not legal, evidence, that the
murder was committed by the Indians.
Whether the man personating a mechanic was, or was not,
an accomplice in the crime, it is impossible to say. That he
could have committed the murder alone, seems beyond the
limits of probability. Acting by himself, he could hardly
have smothered Mr. Ablewhite—who was the taller and stronger
man of the two—without a struggle taking place, or a cry
being heard. A servant girl, sleeping in the next room,
heard nothing. The landlord, sleeping in the room below,
heard nothing. The whole evidence points to the inference
that more than one man was concerned in this crime—and the
circumstances, I repeat, morally justify the conclusion that
the Indians committed it.
I have only to add, that the verdict at the Coroner's
Inquest was Wilful Murder against some person, or persons,
unknown. Mr. Ablewhite's family have offered a reward, and
no effort has been left untried to discover the guilty
persons. The man dressed like a mechanic has eluded all
inquiries. The Indians have been traced. As to the prospect
of ultimately capturing these last, I shall have a word to
say to you on that head, when I reach the end of the present
Report.
In the meanwhile, having now written all that is needful
on the subject of Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite's death, I may pass
next to the narrative of his proceedings before, during, and
after the time, when you and he met at the late Lady
Verinder's house.
III
With regard to the subject now in hand, I may state, at
the outset, that Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite's life had two sides
to it.
The side turned up to the public view, presented the
spectacle of a gentleman, possessed of considerable
reputation as a speaker at charitable meetings, and endowed
with administrative abilities, which he placed at the
disposal of various Benevolent Societies, mostly of the
female sort. The side kept hidden from the general notice,
exhibited this same gentleman in the totally different
character of a man of pleasure, with a villa in the suburbs
which was not taken in his own name, and with a lady in the
villa, who was not taken in his own name, either.
My investigations in the villa have shown me several fine
pictures and statues; furniture tastefully selected, and
admirably made; and a conservatory of the rarest flowers,
the match of which it would not be easy to find in all
London. My investigation of the lady has resulted in the
discovery of jewels which are worthy to take rank with the
flowers, and of carriages and horses which have (deservedly)
produced a sensation in the Park, among persons well
qualified to judge of the build of the one, and the breed of
the others.
All this is, so far, common enough. The villa and the
lady are such familiar objects in London life, that I ought
to apologise for introducing them to notice. But what is not
common and not familiar (in my experience), is that all
these fine things were not only ordered, but paid for. The
pictures, the statues, the flowers, the jewels, the
carriages, and the horses—inquiry proved, to my
indescribable astonishment, that not a sixpence of debt was
owing on any of them. As to the villa, it had been bought,
out and out, and settled on the lady.
I might have tried to find the right reading of this
riddle, and tried in vain—but for Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite's
death, which caused an inquiry to be made into the state of
his affairs.
The inquiry elicited these facts:—
That Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite was entrusted with the care of
a sum of twenty thousand pounds—as one of two Trustees for a
young gentleman, who was still a minor in the year eighteen
hundred and forty-eight. That the Trust was to lapse, and
that the young gentleman was to receive the twenty thousand
pounds on the day when he came of age, in the month of
February, eighteen hundred and fifty. That, pending the
arrival of this period, an income of six hundred pounds was
to be paid to him by his two Trustees, half-yearly—at
Christmas and Midsummer Day. That this income was regularly
paid by the active Trustee, Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite. That the
twenty thousand pounds (from which the income was supposed
to be derived) had every farthing of it been sold out of the
Funds, at different periods, ending with the end of the year
eighteen hundred and forty-seven. That the power of
attorney, authorising the bankers to sell out the stock, and
the various written orders telling them what amounts to sell
out, were formally signed by both the Trustees. That the
signature of the second Trustee (a retired army officer,
living in the country) was a signature forged, in every
case, by the active Trustee—otherwise Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite.
In these facts lies the explanation of Mr. Godfrey's
honourable conduct, in paying the debts incurred for the
lady and the villa—and (as you will presently see) of more
besides.
We may now advance to the date of Miss Verinder's
birthday (in the year eighteen hundred and forty-eight)—the
twenty-first of June.
On the day before, Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite arrived at his
father's house, and asked (as I know from Mr. Ablewhite,
senior, himself) for a loan of three hundred pounds. Mark
the sum; and remember at the same time, that the half-yearly
payment to the young gentleman was due on the twenty-fourth
of the month. Also, that the whole of the young gentleman's
fortune had been spent by his Trustee, by the end of the
year 'forty-seven.
Mr. Ablewhite, senior, refused to lend his son a
farthing.
The next day Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite rode over, with you,
to Lady Verinder's house. A few hours afterwards, Mr.
Godfrey (as you yourself have told me) made a proposal of
marriage to Miss Verinder. Here, he saw his way no doubt—if
accepted—to the end of all his money anxieties, present and
future. But, as events actually turned out, what happened?
Miss Verinder refused him.
On the night of the birthday, therefore, Mr. Godfrey
Ablewhite's pecuniary position was this. He had three
hundred pounds to find on the twenty-fourth of the month,
and twenty thousand pounds to find in February eighteen
hundred and fifty. Failing to raise these sums, at these
times, he was a ruined man.
Under those circumstances, what takes place next?
You exasperate Mr. Candy, the doctor, on the sore subject
of his profession; and he plays you a practical joke, in
return, with a dose of laudanum. He trusts the
administration of the dose, prepared in a little phial, to
Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite—who has himself confessed the share he
had in the matter, under circumstances which shall presently
be related to you. Mr. Godfrey is all the readier to enter
into the conspiracy, having himself suffered from your sharp
tongue in the course of the evening. He joins Betteredge in
persuading you to drink a little brandy and water before you
go to bed. He privately drops the dose of laudanum into your
cold grog. And you drink the mixture.
Let us now shift the scene, if you please to Mr. Luker's
house at Lambeth. And allow me to remark, by way of preface,
that Mr. Bruff and I, together, have found a means of
forcing the money-lender to make a clean breast of it. We
have carefully sifted the statement he has addressed to us;
and here it is at your service.
IV
Late on the evening of Friday, the twenty-third of June
('forty-eight), Mr. Luker was surprised by a visit from Mr.
Godfrey Ablewhite. He was more than surprised, when Mr.
Godfrey produced the Moonstone. No such Diamond (according
to Mr. Luker's experience) was in the possession of any
private person in Europe.
Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite had two modest proposals to make,
in relation to this magnificent gem. First, Would Mr. Luker
be so good as to buy it? Secondly, Would Mr. Luker (in
default of seeing his way to the purchase) undertake to sell
it on commission, and to pay a sum down, on the anticipated
result?
Mr. Luker tested the Diamond, weighed the Diamond and
estimated the value of the Diamond, before he answered a
word. HIS estimate (allowing for the flaw in the stone) was
thirty thousand pounds.
Having reached that result, Mr. Luker opened his lips,
and put a question: "How did you come by this?" Only six
words! But what volumes of meaning in them!
Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite began a story. Mr. Luker opened his
lips again, and only said three words, this time. "That
won't do!"
Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite began another story. Mr. Luker
wasted no more words on him. He got up, and rang the bell
for the servant to show the gentleman out.
Upon this compulsion, Mr. Godfrey made an effort, and
came out with a new and amended version of the affair, to
the following effect.
After privately slipping the laudanum into your brandy
and water, he wished you good night, and went into his own
room. It was the next room to yours; and the two had a door
of communication between them. On entering his own room Mr.
Godfrey (as he supposed) closed his door. His money troubles
kept him awake. He sat, in his dressing-gown and slippers,
for nearly an hour, thinking over his position. Just as he
was preparing to get into bed, he heard you, talking to
yourself, in your own room, and going to the door of
communication, found that he had not shut it as he supposed.
He looked into your room to see what was the matter. He
discovered you with the candle in your hand, just leaving
your bed-chamber. He heard you say to yourself, in a voice
quite unlike your own voice, "How do I know? The Indians may
be hidden in the house."
Up to that time, he had simply supposed himself (in
giving you the laudanum) to be helping to make you the
victim of a harmless practical joke. It now occurred to him,
that the laudanum had taken some effect on you, which had
not been foreseen by the doctor, any more than by himself.
In the fear of an accident happening he followed you softly
to see what you would do.
He followed you to Miss Verinder's sitting-room, and saw
you go in. You left the door open. He looked through the
crevice thus produced, between the door and the post, before
he ventured into the room himself.
In that position, he not only detected you in taking the
Diamond out of the drawer—he also detected Miss Verinder,
silently watching you from her bedroom, through her open
door. His own eyes satisfied him that SHE saw you take the
Diamond, too.
Before you left the sitting-room again, you hesitated a
little. Mr. Godfrey took advantage of this hesitation to get
back again to his bedroom before you came out, and
discovered him. He had barely got back, before you got back
too. You saw him (as he supposes) just as he was passing
through the door of communication. At any rate, you called
to him in a strange, drowsy voice.
He came back to you. You looked at him in a dull sleepy
way. You put the Diamond into his hand. You said to him,
"Take it back, Godfrey, to your father's bank. It's safe
there—it's not safe here." You turned away unsteadily, and
put on your dressing-gown. You sat down in the large
arm-chair in your room. You said, "I can't take it back to
the bank. My head's like lead—and I can't feel my feet under
me." Your head sank on the back of the chair—you heaved a
heavy sigh—and you fell asleep.
Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite went back, with the Diamond, into
his own room. His statement is, that he came to no
conclusion, at that time—except that he would wait, and see
what happened in the morning.
When the morning came, your language and conduct showed
that you were absolutely ignorant of what you had said and
done overnight. At the same time, Miss Verinder's language
and conduct showed that she was resolved to say nothing (in
mercy to you) on her side. If Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite chose to
keep the Diamond, he might do so with perfect impunity. The
Moonstone stood between him and ruin. He put the Moonstone
into his pocket.
V
This was the story told by your cousin (under pressure of
necessity) to Mr. Luker.
Mr. Luker believed the story to be, as to all main
essentials, true—on this ground, that Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite
was too great a fool to have invented it. Mr. Bruff and I
agree with Mr. Luker, in considering this test of the truth
of the story to be a perfectly reliable one.
The next question, was the question of what Mr. Luker
would do in the matter of the Moonstone. He proposed the
following terms, as the only terms on which he would consent
to mix himself up with, what was (even in HIS line of
business) a doubtful and dangerous transaction.
Mr. Luker would consent to lend Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite the
sum of two thousand pounds, on condition that the Moonstone
was to be deposited with him as a pledge. If, at the
expiration of one year from that date, Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite
paid three thousand pounds to Mr. Luker, he was to receive
back the Diamond, as a pledge redeemed. If he failed to
produce the money at the expiration of the year, the pledge
(otherwise the Moonstone) was to be considered as forfeited
to Mr. Luker—who would, in this latter case, generously make
Mr. Godfrey a present of certain promissory notes of his
(relating to former dealings) which were then in the
money-lender's possession.
It is needless to say, that Mr. Godfrey indignantly
refused to listen to these monstrous terms. Mr. Luker
thereupon, handed him back the Diamond, and wished him good
night.
Your cousin went to the door, and came back again. How
was he to be sure that the conversation of that evening
would be kept strictly secret between his friend and
himself?
Mr. Luker didn't profess to know how. If Mr. Godfrey had
accepted his terms, Mr. Godfrey would have made him an
accomplice, and might have counted on his silence as on a
certainty. As things were, Mr. Luker must be guided by his
own interests. If awkward inquiries were made, how could he
be expected to compromise himself, for the sake of a man who
had declined to deal with him?
Receiving this reply, Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite did, what all
animals (human and otherwise) do, when they find themselves
caught in a trap. He looked about him in a state of helpless
despair. The day of the month, recorded on a neat little
card in a box on the money-lender's chimney-piece, happened
to attract his eye. It was the twenty-third of June. On the
twenty-fourth he had three hundred pounds to pay to the
young gentleman for whom he was trustee, and no chance of
raising the money, except the chance that Mr. Luker had
offered to him. But for this miserable obstacle, he might
have taken the Diamond to Amsterdam, and have made a
marketable commodity of it, by having it cut up into
separate stones. As matters stood, he had no choice but to
accept Mr. Luker's terms. After all, he had a year at his
disposal, in which to raise the three thousand pounds—and a
year is a long time.
Mr. Luker drew out the necessary documents on the spot.
When they were signed, he gave Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite two
cheques. One, dated June 23rd, for three hundred pounds.
Another, dated a week on, for the remaining balance
seventeen hundred pounds.
How the Moonstone was trusted to the keeping of Mr
Luker's bankers, and how the Indians treated Mr. Luker and
Mr. Godfrey (after that had been done) you know already.
The next event in your cousin's life refers again to Miss
Verinder. He proposed marriage to her for the second
time—and (after having being accepted) he consented, at her
request, to consider the marriage as broken off. One of his
reasons for making this concession has been penetrated by
Mr. Bruff. Miss Verinder had only a life interest in her
mother's property—and there was no raising the twenty
thousand pounds on THAT.
But you will say, he might have saved the three thousand
pounds, to redeem the pledged Diamond, if he had married. He
might have done so certainly—supposing neither his wife, nor
her guardians and trustees, objected to his anticipating
more than half of the income at his disposal, for some
unknown purpose, in the first year of his marriage. But even
if he got over this obstacle, there was another waiting for
him in the background. The lady at the Villa, had heard of
his contemplated marriage. A superb woman, Mr. Blake, of the
sort that are not to be triffled with—the sort with the
light complexion and the Roman nose. She felt the utmost
contempt for Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite. It would be silent
contempt, if he made a handsome provision for her.
Otherwise, it would be contempt with a tongue to it. Miss
Verinder's life interest allowed him no more hope of raising
the "provision" than of raising the twenty thousand pounds.
He couldn't marry—he really couldn't marry, under all the
circumstances.
How he tried his luck again with another lady, and how
THAT marriage also broke down on the question of money, you
know already. You also know of the legacy of five thousand
pounds, left to him shortly afterwards, by one of those many
admirers among the soft sex whose good graces this
fascinating man had contrived to win. That legacy (as the
event has proved) led him to his death.
I have ascertained that when he went abroad, on getting
his five thousand pounds, he went to Amsterdam. There he
made all the necessary arrangements for having the Diamond
cut into separate stones. He came back (in disguise), and
redeemed the Moonstone, on the appointed day. A few days
were allowed to elapse (as a precaution agreed to by both
parties) before the jewel was actually taken out of the
bank. If he had got safe with it to Amsterdam, there would
have been just time between July 'forty-nine, and February
'fifty (when the young gentleman came of age) to cut the
Diamond, and to make a marketable commodity (polished or
unpolished) of the separate stones. Judge from this, what
motives he had to run the risk which he actually ran. It was
"neck or nothing" with him—if ever it was "neck or nothing"
with a man yet.
I have only to remind you, before closing this Report,
that there is a chance of laying hands on the Indians, and
of recovering the Moonstone yet. They are now (there is
every reason to believe) on their passage to Bombay, in an
East Indiaman. The ship (barring accidents) will touch at no
other port on her way out; and the authorities at Bombay
(already communicated with by letter, overland) will be
prepared to board the vessel, the moment she enters the
harbour.
I have the honour to remain, dear sir, your obedient
servant, RICHARD CUFF (late sergeant in the Detective Force,
Scotland Yard, London).*
* NOTE.
—Wherever the Report touches on the events of the
birthday, or of the three days that followed it, compare
with Betteredge's Narrative, chapters viii. to xiii.

SEVENTH NARRATIVE
In a Letter from MR. CANDY
Frizinghall, Wednesday, September 26th, 1849.—Dear Mr.
Franklin Blake, you will anticipate the sad news I have to
tell you, on finding your letter to Ezra Jennings returned
to you, unopened, in this enclosure. He died in my arms, at
sunrise, on Wednesday last.
I am not to blame for having failed to warn you that his
end was at hand. He expressly forbade me to write to you. "I
am indebted to Mr. Franklin Blake," he said, "for having
seen some happy days. Don't distress him, Mr. Candy—don't
distress him."
His sufferings, up to the last six hours of his life,
were terrible to see. In the intervals of remission, when
his mind was clear, I entreated him to tell me of any
relatives of his to whom I might write. He asked to be
forgiven for refusing anything to me. And then he said—not
bitterly—that he would die as he had lived, forgotten and
unknown. He maintained that resolution to the last. There is
no hope now of making any discoveries concerning him. His
story is a blank.
The day before he died, he told me where to find all his
papers. I brought them to him on his bed. There was a little
bundle of old letters which he put aside. There was his
unfinished book. There was his Diary—in many locked volumes.
He opened the volume for this year, and tore out, one by
one, the pages relating to the time when you and he were
together. "Give those," he said, "to Mr. Franklin Blake. In
years to come, he may feel an interest in looking back at
what is written there." Then he clasped his hands, and
prayed God fervently to bless you, and those dear to you. He
said he should like to see you again. But the next moment he
altered his mind. "No," he answered when I offered to write.
"I won't distress him! I won't distress him!"
At his request I next collected the other papers—that is
to say, the bundle of letters, the unfinished book and the
volumes of the Diary—and enclosed them all in one wrapper,
sealed with my own seal. "Promise," he said, "that you will
put this into my coffin with your own hand; and that you
will see that no other hand touches it afterwards."
I gave him my promise. And the promise has been
performed.
He asked me to do one other thing for him—which it cost
me a hard struggle to comply with. He said, "Let my grave be
forgotten. Give me your word of honour that you will allow
no monument of any sort—not even the commonest tombstone—to
mark the place of my burial. Let me sleep, nameless. Let me
rest, unknown." When I tried to plead with him to alter his
resolution, he became for the first, and only time,
violently agitated. I could not bear to see it; and I gave
way. Nothing but a little grass mound marks the place of his
rest. In time, the tombstones will rise round it. And the
people who come after us will look and wonder at the
nameless grave.
As I have told you, for six hours before his death his
sufferings ceased. He dozed a little. I think he dreamed.
Once or twice he smiled. A woman's name, as I suppose—the
name of "Ella"—was often on his lips at this time. A few
minutes before the end he asked me to lift him on his
pillow, to see the sun rise through the window. He was very
weak. His head fell on my shoulder. He whispered, "It's
coming!" Then he said, "Kiss me!" I kissed his forehead. On
a sudden he lifted his head. The sunlight touched his face.
A beautiful expression, an angelic expression, came over it.
He cried out three times, "Peace! peace! peace!" His head
sank back again on my shoulder, and the long trouble of his
life was at an end.
So he has gone from us. This was, as I think, a great
man—though the world never knew him. He had the sweetest
temper I have ever met with. The loss of him makes me feel
very lonely. Perhaps I have never been quite myself since my
illness. Sometimes, I think of giving up my practice, and
going away, and trying what some of the foreign baths and
waters will do for me.
It is reported here, that you and Miss Verinder are to be
married next month. Please to accept my best
congratulations.
The pages of my poor friend's Journal are waiting for you
at my house—sealed up, with your name on the wrapper. I was
afraid to trust them to the post.
My best respects and good wishes attend Miss Verinder. I
remain, dear Mr. Franklin Blake, truly yours,
THOMAS CANDY.

EIGHTH NARRATIVE
Contributed by GABRIEL BETTEREDGE
I am the person (as you remember no doubt) who led the
way in these pages, and opened the story. I am also the
person who is left behind, as it were, to close the story
up.
Let nobody suppose that I have any last words to say here
concerning the Indian Diamond. I hold that unlucky jewel in
abhorrence—and I refer you to other authority than mine, for
such news of the Moonstone as you may, at the present time,
be expected to receive. My purpose, in this place, is to
state a fact in the history of the family, which has been
passed over by everybody, and which I won't allow to be
disrespectfully smothered up in that way. The fact to which
I allude is—the marriage of Miss Rachel and Mr. Franklin
Blake. This interesting event took place at our house in
Yorkshire, on Tuesday, October ninth, eighteen hundred and
forty-nine. I had a new suit of clothes on the occasion. And
the married couple went to spend the honeymoon in Scotland.
Family festivals having been rare enough at our house,
since my poor mistress's death, I own—on this occasion of
the wedding—to having (towards the latter part of the day)
taken a drop too much on the strength of it.
If you have ever done the same sort of thing yourself you
will understand and feel for me. If you have not, you will
very likely say, "Disgusting old man! why does he tell us
this?" The reason why is now to come.
Having, then, taken my drop (bless you! you have got your
favourite vice, too; only your vice isn't mine, and mine
isn't yours), I next applied the one infallible remedy—that
remedy being, as you know, ROBINSON CRUSOE. Where I opened
that unrivalled book, I can't say. Where the lines of print
at last left off running into each other, I know, however,
perfectly well. It was at page three hundred and eighteen—a
domestic bit concerning Robinson Crusoe's marriage, as
follows:
"With those Thoughts, I considered my new Engagement,
that I had a Wife "—(Observe! so had Mr. Franklin!)—"one
Child born"—(Observe again! that might yet be Mr. Franklin's
case, too!)—"and my Wife then"—What Robinson Crusoe's wife
did, or did not do, "then," I felt no desire to discover. I
scored the bit about the Child with my pencil, and put a
morsel of paper for a mark to keep the place; "Lie you
there," I said, "till the marriage of Mr. Franklin and Miss
Rachel is some months older—and then we'll see!"
The months passed (more than I had bargained for), and no
occasion presented itself for disturbing that mark in the
book. It was not till this present month of November,
eighteen hundred and fifty, that Mr. Franklin came into my
room, in high good spirits, and said, "Betteredge! I have
got some news for you! Something is going to happen in the
house, before we are many months older."
"Does it concern the family, sir?" I asked.
"It decidedly concerns the family," says Mr. Franklin.
"Has your good lady anything to do with it, if you please,
sir?"
"She has a great deal to do with it," says Mr. Franklin,
beginning to look a little surprised.
"You needn't say a word more, sir," I answered. "God
bless you both! I'm heartily glad to hear it."
Mr. Franklin stared like a person thunderstruck. "May I
venture to inquire where you got your information?" he
asked. "I only got mine (imparted in the strictest secrecy)
five minutes since."
Here was an opportunity of producing ROBINSON CRUSOE!
Here was a chance of reading that domestic bit about the
child which I had marked on the day of Mr. Franklin's
marriage! I read those miraculous words with an emphasis
which did them justice, and then I looked him severely in
the face. "NOW, sir, do you believe in ROBINSON CRUSOE?" I
asked, with a solemnity, suitable to the occasion.
"Betteredge!" says Mr. Franklin, with equal solemnity,
"I'm convinced at last." He shook hands with me—and I felt
that I had converted him.
With the relation of this extraordinary circumstance, my
reappearance in these pages comes to an end. Let nobody
laugh at the unique anecdote here related. You are welcome
to be as merry as you please over everything else I have
written. But when I write of ROBINSON CRUSOE, by the Lord
it's serious—and I request you to take it accordingly!
When this is said, all is said. Ladies and gentlemen, I
make my bow, and shut up the story.

EPILOGUE
THE FINDING OF THE DIAMOND
I
The Statement of SERGEANT CLIFF'S MAN (1849)
On the twenty-seventh of June last, I received
instructions from Sergeant Cuff to follow three men;
suspected of murder, and described as Indians. They had been
seen on the Tower Wharf that morning, embarking on board the
steamer bound for Rotterdam.
I left London by a steamer belonging to another company,
which sailed on the morning of Thursday the twenty-eighth.
Arriving at Rotterdam, I succeeded in finding the commander
of the Wednesday's steamer. He informed me that the Indians
had certainly been passengers on board his vessel—but as far
as Gravesend only. Off that place, one of the three had
inquired at what time they would reach Calais. On being
informed that the steamer was bound to Rotterdam, the
spokesman of the party expressed the greatest surprise and
distress at the mistake which he and his two friends had
made. They were all willing (he said) to sacrifice their
passage money, if the commander of the steamer would only
put them ashore. Commiserating their position, as foreigners
in a strange land, and knowing no reason for detaining them,
the commander signalled for a shore boat, and the three men
left the vessel.
This proceeding of the Indians having been plainly
resolved on beforehand, as a means of preventing their being
traced, I lost no time in returning to England. I left the
steamer at Gravesend, and discovered that the Indians had
gone from that place to London. Thence, I again traced them
as having left for Plymouth. Inquiries made at Plymouth
proved that they had sailed, forty-eight hours previously,
in the BEWLEY CASTLE, East Indiaman, bound direct to Bombay.
On receiving this intelligence, Sergeant Cuff caused the
authorities at Bombay to be communicated with, overland—so
that the vessel might be boarded by the police immediately
on her entering the port. This step having been taken, my
connection with the matter came to an end. I have heard
nothing more of it since that time.
II
The Statement of THE CAPTAIN (1849)
I am requested by Sergeant Cuff to set in writing certain
facts, concerning three men (believed to be Hindoos) who
were passengers, last summer, in the ship BEWLEY CASTLE,
bound for Bombay direct, under my command.
The Hindoos joined us at Plymouth. On the passage out I
heard no complaint of their conduct. They were berthed in
the forward part of the vessel. I had but few occasions
myself of personally noticing them.
In the latter part of the voyage, we had the misfortune
to be becalmed for three days and nights, off the coast of
India. I have not got the ship's journal to refer to, and I
cannot now call to mind the latitude and longitude. As to
our position, therefore, I am only able to state generally
that the currents drifted us in towards the land, and that
when the wind found us again, we reached our port in
twenty-four hours afterwards.
The discipline of a ship (as all seafaring persons know)
becomes relaxed in a long calm. The discipline of my ship
became relaxed. Certain gentlemen among the passengers got
some of the smaller boats lowered, and amused themselves by
rowing about, and swimming, when the sun at evening time was
cool enough to let them divert themselves in that way. The
boats when done with ought to have been slung up again in
their places. Instead of this they were left moored to the
ship's side. What with the heat, and what with the vexation
of the weather, neither officers nor men seemed to be in
heart for their duty while the calm lasted.
On the third night, nothing unusual was heard or seen by
the watch on deck. When the morning came, the smallest of
the boats was missing—and the three Hindoos were next
reported to be missing, too.
If these men had stolen the boat shortly after dark
(which I have no doubt they did), we were near enough to the
land to make it vain to send in pursuit of them, when the
discovery was made in the morning. I have no doubt they got
ashore, in that calm weather (making all due allowance for
fatigue and clumsy rowing), before day-break.
On reaching our port I there learnt, for the first time,
the reason these passengers had for seizing their
opportunity of escaping from the ship. I could only make the
same statement to the authorities which I have made here.
They considered me to blame for allowing the discipline of
the vessel to be relaxed. I have expressed my regret on this
score to them, and to my owners.
Since that time, nothing has been heard to my knowledge
of the three Hindoos. I have no more to add to what is here
written.
III
The Statement of MR. MURTHWAITE (1850)
(In a letter to MR. BRUFF)
Have you any recollection, my dear sir, of a semi-savage
person whom you met out at dinner, in London, in the autumn
of 'forty-eight? Permit me to remind you that the person's
name was Murthwaite, and that you and he had a long
conversation together after dinner. The talk related to an
Indian Diamond, called the Moonstone, and to a conspiracy
then in existence to get possession of the gem.
Since that time, I have been wandering in Central Asia.
Thence I have drifted back to the scene of some of my past
adventures in the north and north-west of India. About a
fortnight since, I found myself in a certain district or
province (but little known to Europeans) called Kattiawar.
Here an adventure befell me, in which (incredible as it
may appear) you are personally interested.
In the wild regions of Kattiawar (and how wild they are,
you will understand, when I tell you that even the
husbandmen plough the land, armed to the teeth), the
population is fanatically devoted to the old Hindoo
religion—to the ancient worship of Bramah and Vishnu. The
few Mahometan families, thinly scattered about the villages
in the interior, are afraid to taste meat of any kind. A
Mahometan even suspected of killing that sacred animal, the
cow, is, as a matter of course, put to death without mercy
in these parts by the pious Hindoo neighbours who surround
him. To strengthen the religious enthusiasm of the people,
two of the most famous shrines of Hindoo pilgrimage are
contained within the boundaries of Kattiawar. One of them is
Dwarka, the birthplace of the god Krishna. The other is the
sacred city of Somnauth—sacked, and destroyed as long since
as the eleventh century, by the Mahometan conqueror, Mahmoud
of Ghizni.
Finding myself, for the second time, in these romantic
regions, I resolved not to leave Kattiawar, without looking
once more on the magnificent desolation of Somnauth. At the
place where I planned to do this, I was (as nearly as I
could calculate it) some three days distant, journeying on
foot, from the sacred city.
I had not been long on the road, before I noticed that
other people—by twos and threes—appeared to be travelling in
the same direction as myself.
To such of these as spoke to me, I gave myself out as a
Hindoo-Boodhist, from a distant province, bound on a
pilgrimage. It is needless to say that my dress was of the
sort to carry out this description. Add, that I know the
language as well as I know my own, and that I am lean enough
and brown enough to make it no easy matter to detect my
European origin—and you will understand that I passed muster
with the people readily: not as one of themselves, but as a
stranger from a distant part of their own country.
On the second day, the number of Hindoos travelling in my
direction had increased to fifties and hundreds. On the
third day, the throng had swollen to thousands; all slowly
converging to one point—the city of Somnauth.
A trifling service which I was able to render to one of
my fellow-pilgrims, during the third day's journey, proved
the means of introducing me to certain Hindoos of the higher
caste. From these men I learnt that the multitude was on its
way to a great religious ceremony, which was to take place
on a hill at a little distance from Somnauth. The ceremony
was in honour of the god of the Moon; and it was to be held
at night.
The crowd detained us as we drew near to the place of
celebration. By the time we reached the hill the moon was
high in the heaven. My Hindoo friends possessed some special
privileges which enabled them to gain access to the shrine.
They kindly allowed me to accompany them. When we arrived at
the place, we found the shrine hidden from our view by a
curtain hung between two magnificent trees. Beneath the
trees a flat projection of rock jutted out, and formed a
species of natural platform. Below this, I stood, in company
with my Hindoo friends.
Looking back down the hill, the view presented the
grandest spectacle of Nature and Man, in combination, that I
have ever seen. The lower slopes of the eminence melted
imperceptibly into a grassy plain, the place of the meeting
of three rivers. On one side, the graceful winding of the
waters stretched away, now visible, now hidden by trees, as
far as the eye could see. On the other, the waveless ocean
slept in the calm of the night. People this lovely scene
with tens of thousands of human creatures, all dressed in
white, stretching down the sides of the hill, overflowing
into the plain, and fringing the nearer banks of the winding
rivers. Light this halt of the pilgrims by the wild red
flames of cressets and torches, streaming up at intervals
from every part of the innumerable throng. Imagine the
moonlight of the East, pouring in unclouded glory over
all—and you will form some idea of the view that met me when
I looked forth from the summit of the hill.
A strain of plaintive music, played on stringed
instruments, and flutes, recalled my attention to the hidden
shrine.
I turned, and saw on the rocky platform the figures of
three men. In the central figure of the three I recognised
the man to whom I had spoken in England, when the Indians
appeared on the terrace at Lady Verinder's house. The other
two who had been his companions on that occasion were no
doubt his companions also on this.
One of the spectators, near whom I was standing, saw me
start. In a whisper, he explained to me the apparition of
the three figures on the platform of rock.
They were Brahmins (he said) who had forfeited their
caste in the service of the god. The god had commanded that
their purification should be the purification by pilgrimage.
On that night, the three men were to part. In three separate
directions, they were to set forth as pilgrims to the
shrines of India. Never more were they to look on each
other's faces. Never more were they to rest on their
wanderings, from the day which witnessed their separation,
to the day which witnessed their death.
As those words were whispered to me, the plaintive music
ceased. The three men prostrated themselves on the rock,
before the curtain which hid the shrine. They rose—they
looked on one another—they embraced. Then they descended
separately among the people. The people made way for them in
dead silence. In three different directions I saw the crowd
part, at one and the same moment. Slowly the grand white
mass of the people closed together again. The track of the
doomed men through the ranks of their fellow mortals was
obliterated. We saw them no more.
A new strain of music, loud and jubilant, rose from the
hidden shrine. The crowd around me shuddered, and pressed
together.
The curtain between the trees was drawn aside, and the
shrine was disclosed to view.
There, raised high on a throne—seated on his typical
antelope, with his four arms stretching towards the four
corners of the earth—there, soared above us, dark and awful
in the mystic light of heaven, the god of the Moon. And
there, in the forehead of the deity, gleamed the yellow
Diamond, whose splendour had last shone on me in England,
from the bosom of a woman's dress!
Yes! after the lapse of eight centuries, the Moonstone
looks forth once more, over the walls of the sacred city in
which its story first began. How it has found its way back
to its wild native land—by what accident, or by what crime,
the Indians regained possession of their sacred gem, may be
in your knowledge, but is not in mine. You have lost sight
of it in England, and (if I know anything of this people)
you have lost sight of it for ever.
So the years pass, and repeat each other; so the same
events revolve in the cycles of time. What will be the next
adventures of the Moonstone? Who can tell?