CHAPTER VIII

von Wilkie Collins

At this point, I need to pause for a moment.

Reflecting on my memories—and with a little help from Penelope and her journal—I realize we can quickly move past the time between Mr. Franklin Blake’s arrival and Miss Rachel’s birthday. Most of those days went by without anything significant to mention. So, with your permission and Penelope’s assistance, I’ll only highlight a few key dates here, planning to recount the story day by day later, once the events surrounding the Moonstone take center stage in our household.

With that settled, let’s continue—starting with the bottle of sweet-smelling ink I discovered on the gravel path that night.

The next morning, on the twenty-sixth, I showed Mr. Franklin this curious item and shared what I had already told you. He believed not only that the Indians had been lurking around in search of the Diamond, but also that they were foolish enough to trust in their own magic. This included making signs on a boy’s head and pouring ink into his hand, expecting him to see things beyond normal human perception. Mr. Franklin explained that there are people in our country, just like in the East, who practice this strange hocus-pocus (though without the ink) and refer to it by a French term that means something like “brightness of sight.” “I’m sure,” he said, “the Indians assumed we would keep the Diamond here, and they brought their clairvoyant boy to guide them to it if they managed to get into the house last night.”

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

“It depends,” Mr. Franklin replied, “on what the boy can actually do. If he can see the Diamond through the iron safe at the bank in Frizinghall, we won’t have to worry about any more visits from the Indians for now. If he can’t, we might get another chance to catch them in the shrubbery before too many more nights pass.”

I was fairly confident we’d get that chance, but strangely enough, it never came.

Whether the jugglers heard about Mr. Franklin being seen at the bank and drew their own conclusions, or whether the boy truly could see the Diamond where it was now kept (which I personally doubt), or if it was just a matter of chance, the fact remains—no Indian ever approached the house again in the weeks leading up to Miss Rachel’s birthday. The jugglers stayed in and around the town, continuing their trade, while Mr. Franklin and I waited to see what might happen, determined not to alert the rogues by showing our suspicions too early. With that summary of events on both sides, I’ll pause my account of the Indians for now.

On the twenty-ninth of the month, Miss Rachel and Mr. Franklin discovered a new way to pass the time together, which might have otherwise felt tedious. It’s worth noting this activity, as it will play a role in what’s to come.

People with too much time on their hands often find themselves in a tricky situation—one that stems from their own idleness. Most of their days are spent searching for something to occupy themselves, and it’s fascinating, especially when their interests lean toward the intellectual, to see how frequently they stumble into some rather unpleasant activities. More often than not, they end up torturing or ruining something, all while believing they’re expanding their minds. The reality, however, is that they’re just creating chaos around them.

I’ve watched them—ladies and gentlemen alike—head out day after day with empty pillboxes, capturing newts, beetles, spiders, and frogs, only to return home and stick pins through these poor creatures or dissect them without a hint of remorse. You might catch my young master or young mistress examining a spider’s insides with a magnifying glass, or you might see one of their frogs walking down the stairs without its head. When you question this cruel behavior, they’ll tell you it’s just their passion for natural history.

Sometimes, they spend hours ruining a beautiful flower with sharp tools, driven by a mindless curiosity about its composition. Does knowing what makes it colorful or fragrant make it any more beautiful? But there you have it—the poor souls need something to fill their time. As children, they played in the mud and made pies; as adults, they dive into messy science, dissecting spiders and ruining flowers. In both cases, the underlying issue is the same: they have nothing substantial to think about and nothing meaningful to do with their idle hands. This leads to them ruining canvases with paint, creating unpleasant odors in the house, keeping tadpoles in dirty water, dropping grit into food, or staining their fingers in photography, all while mercilessly critiquing everyone’s appearance.

It’s undoubtedly a heavy burden for those who truly have to work for their living—earning the clothes they wear, the roof over their heads, and the food that sustains them. But when you compare the hardest day’s work you’ve ever done with the idleness that dissects flowers and pokes into spiders’ insides, you can be grateful that your mind has something it must engage with, and your hands have something they must accomplish.

As for Mr. Franklin and Miss Rachel, I’m relieved to say they didn’t torture anything. They simply made a mess, and to be fair, the only thing they ruined was the paneling of a door.

Mr. Franklin, with his boundless enthusiasm for everything, decided to try his hand at what he called “decorative painting.” He claimed to have invented a new mixture to thin paint, which he referred to as a “vehicle.” What it was made of, I couldn’t tell you, but I can summarize its effect in two words—it stank. Eager to try out this new method, Miss Rachel convinced Mr. Franklin to order the materials from London. He mixed them up, creating a smell that even made the dogs sneeze when they entered the room. He then put an apron and a bib over Miss Rachel’s dress and set her to work decorating her little sitting room—what she called her “boudoir.”

They started with the inside of the door. Mr. Franklin scraped off the lovely varnish with pumice stone to create a surface to work on. Under his guidance, Miss Rachel covered this surface with patterns and designs—griffins, birds, flowers, cupids, and the like—copied from the work of a famous Italian painter whose name escapes me; the one known for his Virgin Marys and who had a sweetheart at the bakery.

As a project, this decoration was slow and messy. Yet, our young lady and gentleman never seemed to tire of it. When they weren’t riding, entertaining guests, eating, or singing, they were huddled together, as busy as bees, ruining the door. Who was the poet who said that Satan finds mischief for idle hands? If he had been in my position and seen Miss Rachel with her brush and Mr. Franklin with his vehicle, he could have written nothing truer about either of them.

The next significant date to note is Sunday, June fourth.

That evening, we in the servants’ hall engaged in our first debate over a domestic issue, which, like the decoration of the door, would have implications for what was to come.

Watching Mr. Franklin and Miss Rachel enjoy each other's company, it was hard not to speculate about their chemistry. They made quite the attractive pair, and it was only natural for us to wonder if they might be considering more than just decorating a door together. Some of us joked that a wedding would happen before summer ended. Others, including myself, thought it was quite possible that Miss Rachel would marry, but we had our doubts about whether Mr. Franklin would be the one.

It was clear to anyone who observed Mr. Franklin that he was in love. The real puzzle was Miss Rachel. Allow me to introduce her to you, and then you can decide for yourself what to make of her.

Miss Rachel was about to turn eighteen on June 21st. If you happen to prefer dark-haired women (who, I’ve heard, have fallen out of favor lately), and if you’re not overly concerned with height, I can confidently say that Miss Rachel was one of the prettiest girls you’d ever laid eyes on. She was petite and slender, perfectly proportioned from head to toe. Watching her sit, stand, and especially walk was enough to convince any sensible man that her beauty came from within, not just from her clothes. Her hair was the blackest I had ever seen, and her eyes were just as dark. Her nose might have been a touch small, but her mouth and chin—if I may borrow Mr. Franklin’s words—were divine. Her complexion, according to him, was as warm as the sun, with the added benefit of always looking radiant. Add to that her upright posture, her lively spirit, her clear voice with a lovely ring to it, and a smile that lit up her eyes before reaching her lips, and you have a vivid portrait of her.

But what about her personality? Did this enchanting girl have no flaws? She had just as many as you do, madam—no more, no less.

To be fair, my dear Miss Rachel, while she possessed countless charms, had one significant flaw that I must acknowledge. Unlike most girls her age, she had her own ideas and was stubborn enough to defy trends that didn’t align with her views. This independence was fine in trivial matters, but in more serious situations, it often led her to extremes, as both my lady and I believed. She made her own judgments, something few women twice her age could claim, never sought advice, never shared her plans, and never confided in anyone, not even her mother. In both small matters and significant ones, with those she loved and those she didn’t (and she felt both intensely), Miss Rachel always followed her own path, finding her own way through the joys and sorrows of life. I’ve heard my lady say more than once, “Rachel’s best friend and her worst enemy are both—Rachel herself.”

And there’s one more thing to mention.

Despite her secrecy and stubbornness, there was nothing false about her. I can’t recall a time when she broke her word or said no while meaning yes. I remember instances from her childhood when she took the blame and accepted punishment for a mistake made by a friend she cared for. When the truth came out, and she was confronted, she never confessed. But she never lied about it, either. She would look you straight in the eye, shake her little head, and say, “I won’t tell you!” Even when punished for this defiance, she would express regret for saying “won’t,” but she never revealed the truth. Stubborn—devilishly stubborn at times, I admit—but still the most remarkable person to ever walk this earth. If you think there’s a contradiction in that, let me offer you a piece of advice: observe your wife closely for the next twenty-four hours. If she doesn’t show some form of contradiction during that time, then Heaven help you—you’ve married a monster.

Now that you’re acquainted with Miss Rachel, we must confront the question of her thoughts on marriage.

On June 12th, my mistress sent an invitation to a gentleman in London, asking him to help celebrate Miss Rachel’s birthday. This was the lucky man I believed had captured her heart—Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite, a cousin of hers, just like Mr. Franklin.

Now, my lady’s second sister—don’t worry, I won’t delve too deeply into family matters—had once faced a romantic disappointment. Afterward, she married a man who was considered beneath her station, which caused quite a stir in the family. The Honourable Caroline insisted on marrying plain Mr. Ablewhite, a banker from Frizinghall. He was wealthy and respectable, and he had a large family, which should have been in his favor. But he had the audacity to rise from humble beginnings, and that was held against him.

However, time and a shift in social attitudes eventually smoothed things over. The so-called misalliance became acceptable. We’re all becoming more open-minded these days; as long as you scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours. Who cares if you’re a dustman or a duke? That’s the modern perspective, and I keep up with it. The Ablewhites lived in a lovely house with expansive grounds just outside Frizinghall. They were good people, well-respected in the community. We won’t be troubled by them much in this story—except for Mr. Godfrey, who was Mr. Ablewhite’s second son and deserves a mention for Miss Rachel’s sake.

Despite Mr. Franklin’s charm, intelligence, and overall good qualities, I thought his chances of winning Miss Rachel’s favor were slim compared to Mr. Godfrey.

For starters, Mr. Godfrey was the taller and more striking of the two. He stood over six feet tall, with a handsome complexion, a smooth, shaven face, and a head of long, flaxen hair that fell casually over the back of his neck. But why am I detailing his appearance? If you’ve ever contributed to a charity in London, you know Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite as well as I do. He was a barrister by profession, a ladies’ man by nature, and a good Samaritan by choice. He was indispensable to any cause involving women in need—whether it was maternal societies for helping expectant mothers, Magdalen societies for rescuing fallen women, or groups advocating for women’s rights. He was vice-president, manager, and referee for them all. Wherever there was a committee of women gathered, you could find Mr. Godfrey at the head of the table, guiding them through the complexities of their work, always polite and accommodating.

I believe he was the most skilled philanthropist England has ever seen, working on a modest income. As a speaker at charity events, he had a rare talent for drawing both tears and donations. He was quite a public figure. The last time I was in London, my mistress treated me to two experiences: a night at the theater to see a popular dancer and a visit to Exeter Hall to hear Mr. Godfrey speak. The dancer captivated the audience with her performance, while Mr. Godfrey moved them with his words. Both events drew large crowds. And through it all, Mr. Godfrey was the sweetest, most easygoing person you could meet. He loved everyone, and everyone loved him. What chance did Mr. Franklin—or anyone of average standing—have against such a man?

On June 14th, Mr. Godfrey replied.

He accepted my mistress’s invitation, agreeing to stay from the Wednesday of the birthday until Friday evening, when he would need to return to London for his charity work. He also included a poem he had written for what he charmingly referred to as his cousin’s “natal day.” I learned that Miss Rachel and Mr. Franklin made fun of the poem at dinner, and Penelope, who was firmly on Mr. Franklin’s side, triumphantly asked me what I thought of that.

“Miss Rachel has led you off on a false trail, my dear,” I replied. “But my instincts are sharper. Just wait until Mr. Ablewhite himself arrives after his verses.”

My daughter suggested that Mr. Franklin might seize the moment and try his luck before the poet showed up. I must admit, Mr. Franklin left no stone unturned in his efforts to win Miss Rachel’s affection.

Despite being one of the most dedicated smokers I had ever known, he gave up his cigars after she mentioned one day that she couldn’t stand the stale smell lingering in his clothes. The withdrawal hit him hard; he struggled to sleep without the calming effect of tobacco he had relied on for so long. Each morning, he came down looking more haggard and worn, prompting Miss Rachel to urge him to pick up his cigars again.

But no. He refused to do anything that might cause her even a moment of discomfort. He was determined to fight through this, convinced he would reclaim his sleep eventually, relying solely on patience. Some might say, as a few did downstairs, that such devotion would surely win Miss Rachel over—especially with the daily decorating of the door as a testament to his feelings.

That was all well and good, but there was a photograph of Mr. Godfrey in her bedroom. It captured him speaking at a public meeting, his hair dramatically tousled by the fervor of his own eloquence, his charming eyes seemingly coaxing money right out of your pockets. What did that say about her affections? Every morning, as Penelope herself admitted to me, there was Mr. Godfrey—an image of the man who seemed indispensable to the women—watching over Miss Rachel as she combed her hair. Soon enough, I believed, he would be watching in person.

Then came June sixteenth, a day that made Mr. Franklin’s chances appear worse than ever.

A strange man, speaking English with a foreign accent, arrived that morning, asking to see Mr. Franklin Blake on business. I was certain this business had nothing to do with the Diamond for two reasons: first, Mr. Franklin didn’t mention it to me; second, he later communicated it to my lady, likely after the man had left. I suspected she hinted at it to her daughter. Whatever was said, Miss Rachel reportedly confronted Mr. Franklin that evening at the piano, criticizing the company he had kept and the principles he had adopted abroad.

The next day, for the first time, there was no decorating of the door. I suspected some misstep of Mr. Franklin’s on the Continent—perhaps a woman or a debt had followed him back to England. But that was pure speculation. In this case, both Mr. Franklin and my lady left me completely in the dark.

By the seventeenth, it seemed the storm had passed. They resumed their decorating work on the door and appeared to be on good terms again. If Penelope was to be believed, Mr. Franklin had taken the opportunity of their reconciliation to propose to Miss Rachel, but she neither accepted nor rejected him. My daughter was convinced—based on signs I won’t trouble you with—that Miss Rachel had brushed him off, doubting his sincerity, only to regret her reaction later.

Though Penelope enjoyed a closer relationship with her mistress than most maids do, having grown up together, I knew Miss Rachel’s reserved nature too well to think she would openly share her feelings. What my daughter told me was more about her own wishes than any real insight into Miss Rachel’s mind.

On the nineteenth, another event unfolded. We had the doctor in the house, called to attend to our second housemaid, Rosanna Spearman.

This poor girl—who had already puzzled me at the Shivering Sand—continued to baffle me during this time. Penelope’s theory that Rosanna was in love with Mr. Franklin, which I had instructed my daughter to keep quiet, still seemed absurd. Yet I had to admit that both Penelope and I began to notice some odd behavior from our second housemaid.

For instance, Rosanna often positioned herself in Mr. Franklin’s path—quietly and discreetly, but she did it. He hardly acknowledged her presence, as if she were no more significant than the cat. It never seemed to cross his mind to spare a glance for Rosanna’s plain face. The poor girl’s appetite, already slight, dwindled further, and her eyes showed the signs of sleepless nights filled with tears.

One day, Penelope stumbled upon an awkward situation that we quickly hushed up. She caught Rosanna at Mr. Franklin’s dressing table, secretly removing a rose that Miss Rachel had given him to wear in his buttonhole, replacing it with one she had picked herself. After that, she became a bit cheeky with me when I offered her a well-meaning reminder to be careful in her behavior. Even worse, she was less respectful during the few times Miss Rachel spoke to her.

My lady noticed the change in Rosanna and asked me what I thought. I tried to deflect her concern by saying I believed Rosanna was just unwell. This led to the doctor being called, as I mentioned before, on the nineteenth. He diagnosed her with nerve issues and expressed doubt about her being fit for work. My lady suggested moving her to one of our inland farms for a change of air. Rosanna pleaded with tears in her eyes to stay, and in a moment of poor judgment, I advised my lady to give her a little more time. As events unfolded, as you will soon see, this was the worst advice I could have given. If I had only been able to glimpse the future, I would have taken Rosanna Spearman out of the house myself, right then and there.

On the twentieth, I received a note from Mr. Godfrey. He planned to stay at Frizinghall that night to discuss some business with his father. The following afternoon, he and his two eldest sisters would ride over to visit us before dinner. Along with the note, he sent a beautiful little china casket for Miss Rachel, with his love and best wishes. Mr. Franklin had only given her a simple locket worth far less. Yet my daughter Penelope, in her usual stubbornness, continued to root for him.

At last, we’ve reached the eve of the birthday! I think you’ll agree that I’ve moved us along without much delay. So, cheer up! I’ll treat you to a new chapter here—and even better, this chapter will plunge you straight into the heart of the story.