CHAPTER VII

von Wilkie Collins

The previous letters explain why I have no choice but to simply state that Lady Verinder has passed away, which brings me to the end of my fifth chapter.

From now on, I’ll stick to what I know personally. A month went by after my aunt's death before Rachel Verinder and I saw each other again. That meeting led to me spending a few days under the same roof as her. During my visit, something significant happened regarding her engagement to Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite, and it’s important enough to warrant special mention here. Once I share this last painful chapter of our family’s story, my account will be complete, as I will have shared everything I know as an unwilling witness to these events.

My aunt was laid to rest in the small cemetery next to the church in her park, far from London. The family invited me to the funeral, but I found it impossible to gather myself just days after the shock of her death. I also learned that the rector of Frizinghall would be conducting the service. Given that I had previously seen this man, who had fallen from grace, playing at Lady Verinder’s whist table, I doubted I would have felt comfortable attending, even if I had been well enough to travel.

With Lady Verinder gone, her daughter was left in the care of her brother-in-law, Mr. Ablewhite the elder. He was named guardian in her will until Rachel married or turned eighteen. I assume Mr. Godfrey informed his father about this new responsibility. In any case, within ten days of my aunt’s passing, the news of the engagement was no longer a secret among the family. The main concern for Mr. Ablewhite senior—another man who had seen better days—was how to win over the wealthy young woman who was set to marry his son.

Rachel made things difficult at first when it came to choosing a place to live. The house in Montagu Square reminded her of her mother’s death, while the Yorkshire house brought back memories of the scandal surrounding the lost Moonstone. Mr. Ablewhite’s own home in Frizinghall didn’t carry either of those associations, but having Rachel there after her recent loss would dampen the spirits of her cousins, the Miss Ablewhites. So, she asked to postpone her visit until a better time. Eventually, Mr. Ablewhite suggested they try renting a furnished house in Brighton. He planned for his wife, an ailing daughter, and Rachel to stay there together, with the intention of joining them later in the season. They would keep to themselves, only seeing a few old friends, and his son Godfrey would be available to travel back and forth from London as needed.

I mention this aimless moving from one place to another—this restless search for a new home alongside the heavy stagnation of the soul—only to highlight the outcome. The event that ultimately brought Rachel Verinder and me back together was the decision to rent the house in Brighton.

My Aunt Ablewhite is a large, quiet woman with a fair complexion, and there’s one thing that stands out about her character. From the moment she was born, she has never done anything for herself. She has navigated life by relying on everyone else’s help and adopting their opinions as her own. I’ve never encountered anyone so hopeless in a spiritual sense—there’s simply no substance to work with in her case. Aunt Ablewhite would listen to the Grand Lama of Tibet just as she listens to me, absorbing his views as readily as she does mine.

She found a furnished house in Brighton by staying at a hotel in London, lounging on a sofa, and calling for her son. She figured out how to hire the necessary servants by having breakfast in bed one morning (still at the hotel) and giving her maid a day off, on the condition that the girl would start her holiday by fetching Miss Clack. I found her calmly fanning herself in her dressing gown at eleven o’clock.

“Drusilla, dear, I need some servants. You’re so clever—please help me,” she said.

I glanced around the messy room. The church bells were ringing for a weekday service, and I felt a pang of affectionate disapproval. “Oh, Aunt!” I said sadly. “Is this how a Christian Englishwoman should live? Is this how we should transition from life to eternity?”

My aunt replied, “I’ll put on my gown, Drusilla, if you’ll be kind enough to help me.”

What could I say to that? I’ve managed to deal with murderesses, but I’ve never made any progress with Aunt Ablewhite. “Where’s the list of the servants you need?” I asked.

She shook her head, too drained to even keep a list. “Rachel has it, dear,” she said, “in the next room.”

I stepped into the next room and saw Rachel again for the first time since we parted in Montagu Square.

She looked small and fragile in her deep mourning. If I cared about such superficial things as appearance, I might have noted that her complexion was one of those unfortunate ones that always looks worse without a white border to soften it. But what do our looks matter? They’re just obstacles and traps that distract us from more important things.

To my surprise, Rachel stood up when I entered and came forward to greet me, extending her hand.

“I’m glad to see you,” she said. “Drusilla, I’ve been rude and foolish to you in the past. I’m sorry. I hope you can forgive me.”

I must have shown my surprise on my face, because she flushed for a moment before continuing.

“In my mother’s lifetime, her friends weren’t always my friends, too. Now that she’s gone, I find myself seeking comfort from the people she liked. She liked you. Please, let’s try to be friends, Drusilla.”

To anyone with a sound mind, her reasoning was shocking. Here in Christian England was a young woman, grieving, with so little understanding of where to find true comfort that she expected it from her mother’s friends! Here was a relative of mine, suddenly aware of her shortcomings toward others, not out of conviction or duty, but purely from sentiment and impulse. It was a disheartening thought, yet it hinted at something hopeful for someone like me, who was experienced in guiding others toward the good.

I decided it would be useful to see how much Rachel had changed since her mother’s death. As a test, I chose to bring up her engagement to Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite.

After greeting her warmly, I settled onto the sofa beside her, just as she had asked. We chatted about family matters and future plans, carefully avoiding the one topic that revolved around her marriage. No matter how hard I tried to steer the conversation in that direction, she skillfully sidestepped it. Bringing up the subject directly would have been too soon, given where we stood in our reconciliation. Still, I had learned everything I needed to know. She was no longer the wild, rebellious spirit I had encountered during my ordeal in Montagu Square. This change alone encouraged me to take on the task of guiding her towards a more thoughtful approach to her future—starting with a few sincere warnings about rushing into marriage and then moving on to loftier discussions.

As I looked at her with this new perspective, I couldn’t help but recall how impulsively she had responded to Mr. Godfrey’s marriage proposal. I felt a strong sense of duty to intervene, fueled by a conviction that I could achieve something significant. I believed that acting quickly was essential in this situation. So, I returned to the topic of the staff needed for the furnished house.

“Where’s the list, dear?” I asked.

Rachel handed it to me.

“Cook, kitchen-maid, housemaid, and footman,” I read aloud. “Rachel, these positions are only needed for a limited time—the duration of your guardian’s lease on the house. It’s going to be tough to find reliable people willing to take on temporary work like this, especially in London. Has the house in Brighton been secured yet?”

“Yes, Godfrey has taken it. The people in the house wanted him to hire them as staff, but he thought they wouldn’t be suitable for us and left without making any arrangements.”

“And you don’t have any experience with this kind of thing, do you, Rachel?”

“None at all.”

“And Aunt Ablewhite isn’t going to help?”

“No, poor dear. Don’t blame her, Drusilla. I think she’s the happiest woman I’ve ever met.”

“There are different levels of happiness, my dear. We should have a conversation about that someday. In the meantime, I’ll take care of the issue with the staff. Your aunt can write a letter to the people in the house—”

“She’ll sign a letter if I draft it for her, which is basically the same thing.”

“Exactly the same. I’ll get the letter, and I’ll head to Brighton tomorrow.”

“How incredibly kind of you! We’ll join you as soon as you’re ready for us. And I hope you’ll stay as my guest. Brighton is so lively; you’re sure to enjoy it.”

With those words, she extended her invitation, and the exciting possibility of intervening in her life opened up before me.

It was the middle of the week, and by Saturday afternoon, the house was prepared for their arrival. In that short time, I had not only assessed the characters of the available staff who applied but also their religious beliefs, ultimately selecting a group that I felt good about. I also reached out to two serious friends living in Brighton, knowing I could trust them with the noble purpose that had brought me there. One of them, a clergyman, kindly helped me secure seats for our little group in his church. The other, a single woman like myself, generously offered me access to her library, filled with valuable publications. I borrowed several carefully chosen books, all aimed at Rachel’s needs. Once I had placed them thoughtfully in the rooms she would likely use, I felt my preparations were complete. I had arranged for sound doctrine in the staff attending to her, in the minister preaching to her, and in the books on her table—this was the triple welcome my enthusiasm had crafted for the motherless girl.

On that Saturday afternoon, a serene satisfaction filled my mind as I sat by the window, waiting for my relatives to arrive. The bustling crowd flowed past me, but how many of them shared my sense of duty fulfilled? A troubling thought. Let’s not dwell on it.

Between six and seven, the travelers arrived. To my utter surprise, they were not accompanied by Mr. Godfrey, as I had expected, but by the lawyer, Mr. Bruff.

“How do you do, Miss Clack?” he said. “I plan to stay this time.”

His remark about the time I had made him postpone his business for mine during our visit to Montagu Square made it clear that he had come to Brighton with his own agenda. I had created a little paradise for my beloved Rachel, and here was the serpent already slithering in!

“Godfrey was really upset, Drusilla, that he couldn’t join us,” my Aunt Ablewhite said. “Something came up that kept him in town. Mr. Bruff kindly offered to take his place and enjoy a little holiday until Monday morning. By the way, Mr. Bruff, I’ve been told to get some exercise, and I really don’t like it. That,” Aunt Ablewhite added, pointing out the window at an invalid being pushed in a wheelchair, “is my idea of exercise. If you want fresh air, you can get it in that chair. And if it’s fatigue you’re after, just looking at the man is exhausting enough.”

Rachel stood quietly by the window, her gaze fixed on the sea.

“Tired, love?” I asked.

“No, just a bit down,” she replied. “I’ve seen the sea like this before, back on our Yorkshire coast. It made me think, Drusilla, of days that will never return.”

Mr. Bruff stayed for dinner and lingered through the evening. The more I observed him, the more I sensed he had some hidden agenda for being in Brighton. I watched him closely. He maintained a façade of ease, chatting about trivial matters hour after hour until it was time to leave. As he shook hands with Rachel, I noticed his sharp, calculating eyes lingering on her for a moment with unusual interest. She seemed to be involved in whatever he was after. He didn’t say anything out of the ordinary as he departed, except that he invited himself to lunch the following day before heading back to his hotel.

The next morning, it was impossible to get Aunt Ablewhite out of her dressing gown in time for church. Her daughter, who I believed was suffering from nothing more than a chronic laziness inherited from her mother, declared she would stay in bed all day. So, Rachel and I went to church alone. A magnificent sermon was delivered by my talented friend, addressing the world’s indifference to the sinfulness of minor sins. For over an hour, his powerful voice resonated through the sacred space. When we stepped outside, I asked Rachel, “Did it touch your heart, dear?” She replied, “No, it just gave me a headache.” Some might find that discouraging, but once I committed to a path of meaningful purpose, nothing could deter me.

We found Aunt Ablewhite and Mr. Bruff at lunch. When Rachel declined to eat, citing her headache as the reason, the lawyer’s cunning immediately recognized and seized the opportunity.

“There’s only one cure for a headache,” the dreadful old man said. “A walk, Miss Rachel, is just what you need. I’d be honored to offer you my arm.”

“With pleasure. A walk is exactly what I was hoping for.”

“It’s past two,” I gently reminded her. “And the afternoon service starts at three.”

“How can you expect me to go to church again,” she said, a bit petulantly, “with a headache like this?”

Mr. Bruff opened the door for her with exaggerated politeness. In no time, they were both out of the house. I felt an overwhelming sense of duty to intervene at that moment, but what could I do? All I could do was wait for the right opportunity later in the day.

When I returned from the afternoon service, I found they had just come back. One look at them told me that Mr. Bruff had said what he needed to say. I had never seen Rachel so quiet and contemplative. I had also never seen Mr. Bruff pay her such devoted attention, looking at her with marked respect. He claimed to have a dinner engagement that evening and took his leave early, planning to return to London on the first train the next morning.

“Are you sure of your decision?” he asked Rachel at the door.

“Absolutely,” she replied, and they parted ways.

The moment he turned his back, Rachel retreated to her room. She didn’t come down for dinner. Her maid, the one with the cap ribbons, was sent downstairs to announce that Rachel’s headache had returned. I rushed up to her door, offering all sorts of sisterly comforts through the locked door. It stayed shut, and she kept it locked. There was plenty of material to work with here! I felt a surge of encouragement and determination from her locking me out.

The next morning, when her cup of tea was brought to her, I followed it into the room. I settled myself by her bedside and spoke a few earnest words. She listened with a languid politeness that felt distant. My gaze fell on my serious friend’s treasured books, huddled together on a table in the corner. Had she taken a look at them? I asked. Yes, she had, but they hadn’t caught her interest. Would she let me read a few passages that might have escaped her notice? No, not now—she had other things on her mind. She answered while her attention was clearly focused on folding and refolding the frills of her nightgown. It was clear I needed to stir her with a mention of those worldly matters that still held her interest.

“Do you know, love,” I said, “I had a strange thought yesterday about Mr. Bruff. When I saw you after your walk with him, I felt he must have shared some bad news with you.”

Her fingers paused, and her fierce black eyes shot a glare in my direction.

“Quite the opposite!” she replied. “It was news I was eager to hear—and I owe Mr. Bruff a great deal for telling me.”

“Yes?” I said, adopting a tone of gentle curiosity.

Her fingers returned to the frills, and she turned her head away from me, sulking. I had encountered this kind of response countless times while trying to help her. It only fueled my determination to try again. With unwavering zeal for her well-being, I took a bold risk and brought up her engagement.

“News you were eager to hear?” I echoed. “I assume, my dear Rachel, that must be news about Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite?”

She shot up in bed, her face draining of color. It was clear she wanted to retort with the same unrestrained insolence she had shown in the past. But she held back, laid her head back on the pillow, considered for a moment, and then delivered her striking declaration:

“I will never marry Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite.”

I was taken aback.

“What do you mean?” I exclaimed. “The whole family considers the marriage a done deal!”

“Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite is expected here today,” she said stubbornly. “Just wait until he arrives—and you’ll see.”

“But my dear Rachel—”

She rang the bell at the head of her bed, and a maid appeared, her cap ribbons bobbing.

“Penelope! My bath.”

I had to give her credit. In that moment, I genuinely believed she had found the only way to force me to leave the room.

From a worldly perspective, my situation with Rachel could have been seen as quite complicated. I had hoped to guide her toward higher ideals through some earnest discussion about her marriage. Now, if she was to be believed, there would be no marriage at all. But ah, my friends! A working Christian like me, with a mission ahead, tends to see things more broadly. If Rachel truly broke off the engagement that the Ablewhites, both father and son, considered settled, what would happen? It could only lead to a clash of harsh words and bitter accusations on both sides. And what would Rachel feel after such a stormy confrontation? A heavy moral depression would surely follow. Her pride would be drained, her stubbornness worn down by the fierce resistance that was her nature. She would seek comfort from the nearest person who could offer it. And I was that person—full of sympathy, ready with words of encouragement. Never had my mission seemed more promising in my eyes than it did now.

She came down for breakfast but barely touched her food and hardly spoke a word.

After breakfast, she wandered aimlessly from room to room, then suddenly snapped to attention and opened the piano. The music she chose to play was shockingly inappropriate, linked to performances on stage that made one’s blood run cold. It would have been premature to intervene at that moment. I discreetly checked the time Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite was expected and then slipped out of the house to escape the music.

Being alone outside, I seized the chance to visit my two resident friends. It was an indescribable pleasure to engage in serious conversation with them. Feeling infinitely encouraged and refreshed, I made my way back to the house just in time to await our anticipated visitor. I entered the dining room, usually empty at that hour, and found myself face to face with Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite!

He made no attempt to leave. On the contrary, he approached me with eager enthusiasm.

“Dear Miss Clack, I’ve been waiting to see you! Chance freed me from my London commitments earlier than I expected, so I arrived here ahead of schedule.”

There was no hint of embarrassment in his voice, despite this being our first meeting since that incident in Montagu Square. He didn’t know I had witnessed it, but he was aware that my involvement with the Mothers’ Small-Clothes and my connections with other charities must have revealed his blatant disregard for both his Ladies and the Poor. Yet here he stood, effortlessly charming, his voice smooth and his smile captivating.

“Have you seen Rachel yet?” I asked.

He sighed softly and took my hand. I would have pulled away, but the calmness in his response left me momentarily stunned.

“I’ve seen Rachel,” he said, his tone steady. “You know she was engaged to me, right? Well, she’s suddenly decided to break off the engagement. After some reflection, she believes it’s best for both of us if she retracts her promise and allows me the freedom to find someone happier. That’s the only reason she’ll give, and it’s the only answer she’ll provide to any questions I might ask.”

“What have you done about it?” I pressed. “Have you just accepted it?”

“Yes,” he replied, his composure unshaken. “I have accepted it.”

His reaction was so utterly unexpected that I stood there, bewildered, still holding his hand. It’s considered rude to stare at anyone, and even more so at a gentleman. I committed both offenses. In a daze, I asked, “What does this mean?”

“Let me explain,” he said. “Shall we sit down?”

He guided me to a chair. I vaguely remember him being quite affectionate. I’m not sure if he wrapped his arm around my waist for support, but I felt completely helpless, and his manner with women was undeniably endearing. Regardless, we sat down. I can confirm that much, even if I can’t recall anything else clearly.