The Moonstone

he 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 today. 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
today.”

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, tomorrow 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 tomorrow.” 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 downstairs 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 bedroom 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 out. 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 bedroom. 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 tomorrow, 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 go to 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 today!” And the voice that spoke
them was Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite’s.