The Moonstone

ere, for one moment, I find it necessary to call a halt.

On summoning up my own recollections—and on getting Penelope to help
me, by consulting her journal—I find that we may pass pretty rapidly
over the interval between Mr. Franklin Blake’s arrival and Miss
Rachel’s birthday. For the greater part of that time the days passed,
and brought nothing with them worth recording. With your good leave,
then, and with Penelope’s help, I shall notice certain dates only in
this place; reserving to myself to tell the story day by day, once
more, as soon as we get to the time when the business of the Moonstone
became the chief business of everybody in our house.

This said, we may now go on again—beginning, of course, with the bottle
of sweet-smelling ink which I found on the gravel walk at night.

On the next morning (the morning of the twenty-sixth) I showed Mr.
Franklin this article of jugglery, and told him what I have already
told you. His opinion was, not only that the Indians had been lurking
about after the Diamond, but also that they were actually foolish
enough to believe in their own magic—meaning thereby the making of
signs on a boy’s head, and the pouring of ink into a boy’s hand, and
then expecting him to see persons and things beyond the reach of human
vision. In our country, as well as in the East, Mr. Franklin informed
me, there are people who practise this curious hocus-pocus (without the
ink, however); and who call it by a French name, signifying something
like brightness of sight. “Depend upon it,” says Mr. Franklin, “the
Indians took it for granted that we should keep the Diamond here; and
they brought their clairvoyant boy to show them the way to it, if they
succeeded in getting into the house last night.”

“Do you think they’ll try again, sir?” I asked.

“It depends,” says Mr. Franklin, “on what the boy can really do. If he
can see the Diamond through the iron safe of the bank at Frizinghall,
we shall be troubled with no more visits from the Indians for the
present. If he can’t, we shall have another chance of catching them in
the shrubbery, before many more nights are over our heads.”

I waited pretty confidently for that latter chance; but, strange to
relate, it never came.

Whether the jugglers heard, in the town, of Mr. Franklin having been
seen at the bank, and drew their conclusions accordingly; or whether
the boy really did see the Diamond where the Diamond was now lodged
(which I, for one, flatly disbelieve); or whether, after all, it was a
mere effect of chance, this at any rate is the plain truth—not the
ghost of an Indian came near the house again, through the weeks that
passed before Miss Rachel’s birthday. The jugglers remained in and
about the town plying their trade; and Mr. Franklin and I remained
waiting to see what might happen, and resolute not to put the rogues on
their guard by showing our suspicions of them too soon. With this
report of the proceedings on either side, ends all that I have to say
about the Indians for the present.

On the twenty-ninth of the month, Miss Rachel and Mr. Franklin hit on a
new method of working their way together through the time which might
otherwise have hung heavy on their hands. There are reasons for taking
particular notice here of the occupation that amused them. You will
find it has a bearing on something that is still to come.

Gentlefolks in general have a very awkward rock ahead in life—the rock
ahead of their own idleness. Their lives being, for the most part,
passed in looking about them for something to do, it is curious to
see—especially when their tastes are of what is called the intellectual
sort—how often they drift blindfold into some nasty pursuit. Nine times
out of ten they take to torturing something, or to spoiling
something—and they firmly believe they are improving their minds, when
the plain truth is, they are only making a mess in the house. I have
seen them (ladies, I am sorry to say, as well as gentlemen) go out, day
after day, for example, with empty pill-boxes, and catch newts, and
beetles, and spiders, and frogs, and come home and stick pins through
the miserable wretches, or cut them up, without a pang of remorse, into
little pieces. You see my young master, or my young mistress, poring
over one of their spiders’ insides with a magnifying-glass; or you meet
one of their frogs walking downstairs without his head—and when you
wonder what this cruel nastiness means, you are told that it means a
taste in my young master or my young mistress for natural history.
Sometimes, again, you see them occupied for hours together in spoiling
a pretty flower with pointed instruments, out of a stupid curiosity to
know what the flower is made of. Is its colour any prettier, or its
scent any sweeter, when you do know? But there! the poor souls must
get through the time, you see—they must get through the time. You
dabbled in nasty mud, and made pies, when you were a child; and you
dabble in nasty science, and dissect spiders, and spoil flowers, when
you grow up. In the one case and in the other, the secret of it is,
that you have got nothing to think of in your poor empty head, and
nothing to do with your poor idle hands. And so it ends in your
spoiling canvas with paints, and making a smell in the house; or in
keeping tadpoles in a glass box full of dirty water, and turning
everybody’s stomach in the house; or in chipping off bits of stone
here, there, and everywhere, and dropping grit into all the victuals in
the house; or in staining your fingers in the pursuit of photography,
and doing justice without mercy on everybody’s face in the house. It
often falls heavy enough, no doubt, on people who are really obliged to
get their living, to be forced to work for the clothes that cover them,
the roof that shelters them, and the food that keeps them going. But
compare the hardest day’s work you ever did with the idleness that
splits flowers and pokes its way into spiders’ stomachs, and thank your
stars that your head has got something it must think of, and your
hands something that they must do.

As for Mr. Franklin and Miss Rachel, they tortured nothing, I am glad
to say. They simply confined themselves to making a mess; and all they
spoilt, to do them justice, was the panelling of a door.

Mr. Franklin’s universal genius, dabbling in everything, dabbled in
what he called “decorative painting.” He had invented, he informed us,
a new mixture to moisten paint with, which he described as a “vehicle.”
What it was made of, I don’t know. What it did, I can tell you in two
words—it stank. Miss Rachel being wild to try her hand at the new
process, Mr. Franklin sent to London for the materials; mixed them up,
with accompaniment of a smell which made the very dogs sneeze when they
came into the room; put an apron and a bib over Miss Rachel’s gown, and
set her to work decorating her own little sitting-room—called, for want
of English to name it in, her “boudoir.” They began with the inside of
the door. Mr. Franklin scraped off all the nice varnish with
pumice-stone, and made what he described as a surface to work on. Miss
Rachel then covered the surface, under his directions and with his
help, with patterns and devices—griffins, birds, flowers, cupids, and
such like—copied from designs made by a famous Italian painter, whose
name escapes me: the one, I mean, who stocked the world with Virgin
Maries, and had a sweetheart at the baker’s. Viewed as work, this
decoration was slow to do, and dirty to deal with. But our young lady
and gentleman never seemed to tire of it. When they were not riding, or
seeing company, or taking their meals, or piping their songs, there
they were with their heads together, as busy as bees, spoiling the
door. Who was the poet who said that Satan finds some mischief still
for idle hands to do? If he had occupied my place in the family, and
had seen Miss Rachel with her brush, and Mr. Franklin with his vehicle,
he could have written nothing truer of either of them than that.

The next date worthy of notice is Sunday the fourth of June.

On that evening we, in the servants’ hall, debated a domestic question
for the first time, which, like the decoration of the door, has its
bearing on something that is still to come.

Seeing the pleasure which Mr. Franklin and Miss Rachel took in each
other’s society, and noting what a pretty match they were in all
personal respects, we naturally speculated on the chance of their
putting their heads together with other objects in view besides the
ornamenting of a door. Some of us said there would be a wedding in the
house before the summer was over. Others (led by me) admitted it was
likely enough Miss Rachel might be married; but we doubted (for reasons
which will presently appear) whether her bridegroom would be Mr.
Franklin Blake.

That Mr. Franklin was in love, on his side, nobody who saw and heard
him could doubt. The difficulty was to fathom Miss Rachel. Let me do
myself the honour of making you acquainted with her; after which, I
will leave you to fathom for yourself—if you can.

My young lady’s eighteenth birthday was the birthday now coming, on the
twenty-first of June. If you happen to like dark women (who, I am
informed, have gone out of fashion latterly in the gay world), and if
you have no particular prejudice in favour of size, I answer for Miss
Rachel as one of the prettiest girls your eyes ever looked on. She was
small and slim, but all in fine proportion from top to toe. To see her
sit down, to see her get up, and specially to see her walk, was enough
to satisfy any man in his senses that the graces of her figure (if you
will pardon me the expression) were in her flesh and not in her
clothes. Her hair was the blackest I ever saw. Her eyes matched her
hair. Her nose was not quite large enough, I admit. Her mouth and chin
were (to quote Mr. Franklin) morsels for the gods; and her complexion
(on the same undeniable authority) was as warm as the sun itself, with
this great advantage over the sun, that it was always in nice order to
look at. Add to the foregoing that she carried her head as upright as a
dart, in a dashing, spirited, thoroughbred way—that she had a clear
voice, with a ring of the right metal in it, and a smile that began
very prettily in her eyes before it got to her lips—and there behold
the portrait of her, to the best of my painting, as large as life!

And what about her disposition next? Had this charming creature no
faults? She had just as many faults as you have, ma’am—neither more nor
less.

To put it seriously, my dear pretty Miss Rachel, possessing a host of
graces and attractions, had one defect, which strict impartiality
compels me to acknowledge. She was unlike most other girls of her age,
in this—that she had ideas of her own, and was stiff-necked enough to
set the fashions themselves at defiance, if the fashions didn’t suit
her views. In trifles, this independence of hers was all well enough;
but in matters of importance, it carried her (as my lady thought, and
as I thought) too far. She judged for herself, as few women of twice
her age judge in general; never asked your advice; never told you
beforehand what she was going to do; never came with secrets and
confidences to anybody, from her mother downwards. In little things and
great, with people she loved, and people she hated (and she did both
with equal heartiness), Miss Rachel always went on a way of her own,
sufficient for herself in the joys and sorrows of her life. Over and
over again I have heard my lady say, “Rachel’s best friend and Rachel’s
worst enemy are, one and the other—Rachel herself.”

Add one thing more to this, and I have done.

With all her secrecy, and self-will, there was not so much as the
shadow of anything false in her. I never remember her breaking her
word; I never remember her saying No, and meaning Yes. I can call to
mind, in her childhood, more than one occasion when the good little
soul took the blame, and suffered the punishment, for some fault
committed by a playfellow whom she loved. Nobody ever knew her to
confess to it, when the thing was found out, and she was charged with
it afterwards. But nobody ever knew her to lie about it, either. She
looked you straight in the face, and shook her little saucy head, and
said plainly, “I won’t tell you!” Punished again for this, she would
own to being sorry for saying “won’t;” but, bread and water
notwithstanding, she never told you. Self-willed—devilish self-willed
sometimes—I grant; but the finest creature, nevertheless, that ever
walked the ways of this lower world. Perhaps you think you see a
certain contradiction here? In that case, a word in your ear. Study
your wife closely, for the next four-and-twenty hours. If your good
lady doesn’t exhibit something in the shape of a contradiction in that
time, Heaven help you!—you have married a monster.

I have now brought you acquainted with Miss Rachel, which you will find
puts us face to face, next, with the question of that young lady’s
matrimonial views.

On June the twelfth, an invitation from my mistress was sent to a
gentleman in London, to come and help to keep Miss Rachel’s birthday.
This was the fortunate individual on whom I believed her heart to be
privately set! Like Mr. Franklin, he was a cousin of hers. His name was
Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite.

My lady’s second sister (don’t be alarmed; we are not going very deep
into family matters this time)—my lady’s second sister, I say, had a
disappointment in love; and taking a husband afterwards, on the neck or
nothing principle, made what they call a misalliance. There was
terrible work in the family when the Honourable Caroline insisted on
marrying plain Mr. Ablewhite, the banker at Frizinghall. He was very
rich and very respectable, and he begot a prodigious large family—all
in his favour, so far. But he had presumed to raise himself from a low
station in the world—and that was against him. However, Time and the
progress of modern enlightenment put things right; and the misalliance
passed muster very well. We are all getting liberal now; and (provided
you can scratch me, if I scratch you) what do I care, in or out of
Parliament, whether you are a Dustman or a Duke? That’s the modern way
of looking at it—and I keep up with the modern way. The Ablewhites
lived in a fine house and grounds, a little out of Frizinghall. Very
worthy people, and greatly respected in the neighbourhood. We shall not
be much troubled with them in these pages—excepting Mr. Godfrey, who
was Mr. Ablewhite’s second son, and who must take his proper place
here, if you please, for Miss Rachel’s sake.

With all his brightness and cleverness and general good qualities, Mr.
Franklin’s chance of topping Mr. Godfrey in our young lady’s estimation
was, in my opinion, a very poor chance indeed.

In the first place, Mr. Godfrey was, in point of size, the finest man
by far of the two. He stood over six feet high; he had a beautiful red
and white colour; a smooth round face, shaved as bare as your hand; and
a head of lovely long flaxen hair, falling negligently over the poll of
his neck. But why do I try to give you this personal description of
him? If you ever subscribed to a Ladies’ Charity in London, you know
Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite as well as I do. He was a barrister by
profession; a ladies’ man by temperament; and a good Samaritan by
choice. Female benevolence and female destitution could do nothing
without him. Maternal societies for confining poor women; Magdalen
societies for rescuing poor women; strong-minded societies for putting
poor women into poor men’s places, and leaving the men to shift for
themselves;—he was vice-president, manager, referee to them all.
Wherever there was a table with a committee of ladies sitting round it
in council there was Mr. Godfrey at the bottom of the board, keeping
the temper of the committee, and leading the dear creatures along the
thorny ways of business, hat in hand. I do suppose this was the most
accomplished philanthropist (on a small independence) that England ever
produced. As a speaker at charitable meetings the like of him for
drawing your tears and your money was not easy to find. He was quite a
public character. The last time I was in London, my mistress gave me
two treats. She sent me to the theatre to see a dancing woman who was
all the rage; and she sent me to Exeter Hall to hear Mr. Godfrey. The
lady did it, with a band of music. The gentleman did it, with a
handkerchief and a glass of water. Crowds at the performance with the
legs. Ditto at the performance with the tongue. And with all this, the
sweetest tempered person (I allude to Mr. Godfrey)—the simplest and
pleasantest and easiest to please—you ever met with. He loved
everybody. And everybody loved him. What chance had Mr. Franklin—what
chance had anybody of average reputation and capacities—against such a
man as this?

On the fourteenth, came Mr. Godfrey’s answer.

He accepted my mistress’s invitation, from the Wednesday of the
birthday to the evening of Friday—when his duties to the Ladies’
Charities would oblige him to return to town. He also enclosed a copy
of verses on what he elegantly called his cousin’s “natal day.” Miss
Rachel, I was informed, joined Mr. Franklin in making fun of the verses
at dinner; and Penelope, who was all on Mr. Franklin’s side, asked me,
in great triumph, what I thought of that. “Miss Rachel has led you
off on a false scent, my dear,” I replied; “but my nose is not so
easily mystified. Wait till Mr. Ablewhite’s verses are followed by Mr.
Ablewhite himself.”

My daughter replied, that Mr. Franklin might strike in, and try his
luck, before the verses were followed by the poet. In favour of this
view, I must acknowledge that Mr. Franklin left no chance untried of
winning Miss Rachel’s good graces.

Though one of the most inveterate smokers I ever met with, he gave up
his cigar, because she said, one day, she hated the stale smell of it
in his clothes. He slept so badly, after this effort of self-denial,
for want of the composing effect of the tobacco to which he was used,
and came down morning after morning looking so haggard and worn, that
Miss Rachel herself begged him to take to his cigars again. No! he
would take to nothing again that could cause her a moment’s annoyance;
he would fight it out resolutely, and get back his sleep, sooner or
later, by main force of patience in waiting for it. Such devotion as
this, you may say (as some of them said downstairs), could never fail
of producing the right effect on Miss Rachel—backed up, too, as it was,
by the decorating work every day on the door. All very well—but she had
a photograph of Mr. Godfrey in her bedroom; represented speaking at a
public meeting, with all his hair blown out by the breath of his own
eloquence, and his eyes, most lovely, charming the money out of your
pockets. What do you say to that? Every morning—as Penelope herself
owned to me—there was the man whom the women couldn’t do without,
looking on, in effigy, while Miss Rachel was having her hair combed. He
would be looking on, in reality, before long—that was my opinion of it.

June the sixteenth brought an event which made Mr. Franklin’s chance
look, to my mind, a worse chance than ever.

A strange gentleman, speaking English with a foreign accent, came that
morning to the house, and asked to see Mr. Franklin Blake on business.
The business could not possibly have been connected with the Diamond,
for these two reasons—first, that Mr. Franklin told me nothing about
it; secondly, that he communicated it (when the gentleman had gone, as
I suppose) to my lady. She probably hinted something about it next to
her daughter. At any rate, Miss Rachel was reported to have said some
severe things to Mr. Franklin, at the piano that evening, about the
people he had lived among, and the principles he had adopted in foreign
parts. The next day, for the first time, nothing was done towards the
decoration of the door. I suspect some imprudence of Mr. Franklin’s on
the Continent—with a woman or a debt at the bottom of it—had followed
him to England. But that is all guesswork. In this case, not only Mr.
Franklin, but my lady too, for a wonder, left me in the dark.

On the seventeenth, to all appearance, the cloud passed away again.
They returned to their decorating work on the door, and seemed to be as
good friends as ever. If Penelope was to be believed, Mr. Franklin had
seized the opportunity of the reconciliation to make an offer to Miss
Rachel, and had neither been accepted nor refused. My girl was sure
(from signs and tokens which I need not trouble you with) that her
young mistress had fought Mr. Franklin off by declining to believe that
he was in earnest, and had then secretly regretted treating him in that
way afterwards. Though Penelope was admitted to more familiarity with
her young mistress than maids generally are—for the two had been almost
brought up together as children—still I knew Miss Rachel’s reserved
character too well to believe that she would show her mind to anybody
in this way. What my daughter told me, on the present occasion, was, as
I suspected, more what she wished than what she really knew.

On the nineteenth another event happened. We had the doctor in the
house professionally. He was summoned to prescribe for a person whom I
have had occasion to present to you in these pages—our second
housemaid, Rosanna Spearman.

This poor girl—who had puzzled me, as you know already, at the
Shivering Sand—puzzled me more than once again, in the interval time of
which I am now writing. Penelope’s notion that her fellow-servant was
in love with Mr. Franklin (which my daughter, by my orders, kept
strictly secret) seemed to be just as absurd as ever. But I must own
that what I myself saw, and what my daughter saw also, of our second
housemaid’s conduct, began to look mysterious, to say the least of it.

For example, the girl constantly put herself in Mr. Franklin’s way—very
slyly and quietly, but she did it. He took about as much notice of her
as he took of the cat; it never seemed to occur to him to waste a look
on Rosanna’s plain face. The poor thing’s appetite, never much, fell
away dreadfully; and her eyes in the morning showed plain signs of
waking and crying at night. One day Penelope made an awkward discovery,
which we hushed up on the spot. She caught Rosanna at Mr. Franklin’s
dressing-table, secretly removing a rose which Miss Rachel had given
him to wear in his button-hole, and putting another rose like it, of
her own picking, in its place. She was, after that, once or twice
impudent to me, when I gave her a well-meant general hint to be careful
in her conduct; and, worse still, she was not over-respectful now, on
the few occasions when Miss Rachel accidentally spoke to her.

My lady noticed the change, and asked me what I thought about it. I
tried to screen the girl by answering that I thought she was out of
health; and it ended in the doctor being sent for, as already
mentioned, on the nineteenth. He said it was her nerves, and doubted if
she was fit for service. My lady offered to remove her for change of
air to one of our farms, inland. She begged and prayed, with the tears
in her eyes, to be let to stop; and, in an evil hour, I advised my lady
to try her for a little longer. As the event proved, and as you will
soon see, this was the worst advice I could have given. If I could only
have looked a little way into the future, I would have taken Rosanna
Spearman out of the house, then and there, with my own hand.

On the twentieth, there came a note from Mr. Godfrey. He had arranged
to stop at Frizinghall that night, having occasion to consult his
father on business. On the afternoon of the next day, he and his two
eldest sisters would ride over to us on horseback, in good time before
dinner. An elegant little casket in china accompanied the note,
presented to Miss Rachel, with her cousin’s love and best wishes. Mr.
Franklin had only given her a plain locket not worth half the money. My
daughter Penelope, nevertheless—such is the obstinacy of women—still
backed him to win.

Thanks be to Heaven, we have arrived at the eve of the birthday at
last! You will own, I think, that I have got you over the ground this
time, without much loitering by the way. Cheer up! I’ll ease you with
another new chapter here—and, what is more, that chapter shall take you
straight into the thick of the story.