CHAPTER VIII

von Wilkie Collins

“I’ve lost a beautiful girl, a great social standing, and a decent income,” Mr. Godfrey began, his voice heavy with resignation. “And I’ve accepted it all without putting up a fight. What could possibly explain such strange behavior? My dear friend, there’s no explanation.”

“No explanation?” I echoed, surprised.

“Let me appeal to your understanding of children, Miss Clack,” he continued. “A child behaves in a certain way, and you’re intrigued, trying to uncover the reason behind it. But the little one can’t articulate its motives. You might as well ask the grass why it grows or the birds why they sing. In this situation, I’m just like that child—like the grass—like the birds. I have no idea why I proposed to Miss Verinder. I don’t know why I’ve shamefully neglected my dear Ladies. I don’t know why I’ve turned my back on the Mothers’ Small-Clothes. You ask the child, ‘Why have you misbehaved?’ and the little angel just puts its finger in its mouth, clueless. That’s exactly my situation, Miss Clack! I couldn’t admit this to anyone else, but I feel compelled to confess it to you!”

I started to regain my composure. There was a mental puzzle here, and I’ve always been fascinated by such challenges. I’ve been told I have a knack for solving them.

“Best of friends, use your intellect and help me,” he urged. “Tell me—why does it feel like my marriage plans are becoming something out of a dream? Why does it suddenly dawn on me that my true happiness lies in helping my dear Ladies, in doing my modest bit of good work, in speaking my few heartfelt words when my Chairman calls on me? What do I need with a social position? I already have one! What do I need with an income? I can afford my bread and cheese, my cozy little place, and my two coats a year. And what do I need with Miss Verinder? She has told me herself (this is just between us, dear lady) that she loves another man, and her only reason for marrying me is to try to forget him. What a dreadful union this would be! Oh, what a dreadful union! Those are my thoughts, Miss Clack, as I head to Brighton. I approach Rachel feeling like a criminal waiting for sentencing. And when I find out she’s changed her mind too—when I hear her suggest breaking off the engagement—I feel an overwhelming sense of relief. Just a month ago, I was holding her close, and now the thought that I’ll never hold her again intoxicates me like strong liquor. It seems impossible—it can’t be true. And yet, here are the facts, just as I stated when we first sat down in these chairs. I’ve lost a beautiful girl, a great social standing, and a decent income; and I’ve accepted it all without a fight. Can you explain it, dear friend? It’s completely beyond me.”

His magnificent head drooped, and he surrendered to his mental struggle in despair.

I felt a deep sympathy for him. The situation (if I may speak as a spiritual advisor) was now clear to me. It’s not uncommon to see those with great abilities humbled to the level of the least gifted around them. Perhaps this is a reminder from Providence that greatness is mortal and that the power that grants it can just as easily take it away. To me, it was easy to see one of these humbling moments in Mr. Godfrey’s unfortunate actions, of which I had been an unseen witness. It was equally clear that his true nature was re-emerging in the horror he felt at the thought of marrying Rachel and in the eagerness he showed to return to his Ladies and the less fortunate.

I shared this perspective with him in a few simple, sisterly words. His joy was a beautiful sight. He compared himself to a lost man stepping back into the light. When I assured him of a warm welcome back at the Mothers’ Small-Clothes, his grateful heart overflowed. He pressed my hands to his lips in turn. Overwhelmed by the exquisite triumph of having him back among us, I let him do as he pleased with my hands. I closed my eyes, feeling my head sink onto his shoulder in a blissful moment of spiritual forgetfulness. Just as I was about to swoon in his arms, a loud clattering of knives and forks from outside the door jolted me back to reality, and the footman entered to set the table for lunch.

Mr. Godfrey sprang up and glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece.

“How time flies with you!” he exclaimed. “I’ll barely catch the train.”

I asked him why he was in such a rush to get back to town. His response brought to mind the family issues that still needed to be resolved and the disagreements that were likely to arise.

“I’ve heard from my father,” he said. “Business requires him to leave Frizinghall for London today, and he plans to come here either this evening or tomorrow. I need to tell him what’s happened between Rachel and me. He’s set on our marriage, and I worry it will be very difficult to convince him to accept the end of our engagement. I have to stop him from coming here until he’s reconciled to it. My best and dearest friend, we will meet again!”

With that, he hurried out. I rushed upstairs to gather myself before facing Aunt Ablewhite and Rachel at the lunch table.

I’m aware—just to touch on Mr. Godfrey for a moment—that people have accused him of having his own reasons for wanting to release Rachel from their engagement at the first chance he got. I’ve also heard that his eagerness to regain my favor has been interpreted by some as a greedy attempt to make peace (through me) with a wealthy committee member at the Mothers’ Small-Clothes, who happens to be a dear friend of mine. I mention these nasty rumors only to clarify that they never influenced me for a second. Following my own instructions, I’ve recorded my changing opinions of our Christian Hero exactly as they appeared in my diary. To be fair to myself, I should add that once he regained his place in my esteem, he never lost it again. I write this with tears in my eyes, desperate to express more. But no—I’m limited to my actual experiences with people and events. Less than a month after the time I’m writing about, events in the financial market (which even affected my meager income) forced me into exile abroad, leaving me with nothing but fond memories of Mr. Godfrey, memories that the world’s slander has tried, and failed, to tarnish.

Let me wipe my eyes and return to my story.

I went downstairs for lunch, eager to see how Rachel was handling her newfound freedom from her engagement.

It seemed to me—but I admit I’m not the best judge of such things—that her release had her thinking again about the other man she loved, and she was furious with herself for not being able to suppress feelings she was secretly ashamed of. Who was this man? I had my suspicions, but it was pointless to waste time speculating. Once I got her to open up, she would have no secrets from me. I would learn all about the man and the Moonstone. Even if my only goal in encouraging her to reflect on spiritual matters was to relieve her of her guilty secrets, that alone would be enough to motivate me.

Aunt Ablewhite took her afternoon exercise in an invalid chair, with Rachel accompanying her. “I wish I could pull the chair,” she exclaimed recklessly. “I wish I could tire myself out until I’m ready to drop.”

She was in the same mood that evening. I found a passage in one of my friend’s treasured publications—the *Life, Letters, and Labors of Miss Jane Ann Stamper*, forty-fourth edition—that seemed remarkably relevant to Rachel’s situation. When I suggested reading it, she went to the piano. Can you imagine how little she must have understood serious people if she thought my patience would be worn out that easily? I kept Miss Jane Ann Stamper close and waited for events to unfold, trusting the future without a doubt.

Old Mr. Ablewhite didn’t show up that night. But I knew how much his greed valued his son’s marriage to Miss Verinder, and I was convinced—no matter what Mr. Godfrey did to prevent it—that we would see him the next day. With his involvement, the storm I had anticipated would surely come, and Rachel’s resistance would inevitably wear thin. I’m aware that old Mr. Ablewhite is generally regarded (especially by those beneath him) as a remarkably good-natured man. From my observations, he deserves that reputation only as long as he gets his way, and not a moment longer.

The next day, just as I had predicted, Aunt Ablewhite was as close to being astonished as her nature would allow when her husband suddenly appeared. He had barely been in the house for a minute when, to my surprise, he was followed by an unexpected complication in the form of Mr. Bruff.

I had never felt the lawyer’s presence to be more unwelcome than I did at that moment. He seemed ready for anything that might obstruct our conversation—even capable of keeping the peace between Rachel and Mr. Ablewhite, if it came to that.

“This is a pleasant surprise, sir,” Mr. Ablewhite said, addressing Mr. Bruff with a false warmth. “When I left your office yesterday, I didn’t expect to see you here in Brighton today.”

“I thought over our conversation after you left,” Mr. Bruff replied. “It occurred to me that I might be of some help today. I just managed to catch the train, and I didn’t have a chance to find out which carriage you were in.”

With that, he took a seat next to Rachel. I quietly retreated to a corner, holding Miss Jane Ann Stamper on my lap, just in case. My aunt sat by the window, calmly fanning herself as usual. Mr. Ablewhite stood in the middle of the room, his bald head noticeably pinker than I had ever seen, and turned to his niece with an affectionate tone.

“Rachel, my dear,” he said, “I’ve heard some rather extraordinary news from Godfrey, and I’m here to ask you about it. You have a sitting room in this house. Will you do me the honor of showing me the way to it?”

Rachel remained still. Whether she was determined to confront him or simply responding to some unspoken cue from Mr. Bruff, I couldn’t say. She refused to escort old Mr. Ablewhite to her sitting room.

“Whatever you wish to say to me,” she replied, “can be said here—in front of my family, and in the presence” (she glanced at Mr. Bruff) “of my mother’s trusted old friend.”

“Just as you please, my dear,” Mr. Ablewhite said, taking a seat. The others looked at his face, as if they expected it, after seventy years of worldly experience, to finally reveal the truth. I focused on the top of his bald head, having noticed before that his true temperament often showed itself there.

“Some weeks ago,” the old gentleman continued, “my son informed me that Miss Verinder had honored him by agreeing to marry him. Is it possible, Rachel, that he misinterpreted—or took liberties with—what you really said?”

“Certainly not,” she replied. “I did agree to marry him.”

“Very straightforward answer!” Mr. Ablewhite exclaimed. “And quite satisfactory, my dear, so far. Regarding what happened a few weeks ago, Godfrey has made no mistake. The error lies in what he told me yesterday. I see it now. You and he have had a lovers’ quarrel—and my foolish son has taken it too seriously. Ah! I should have known better than that at his age.”

Rachel’s frustration began to show.

“Let’s clarify things, Mr. Ablewhite,” she said. “Nothing resembling a quarrel occurred yesterday between your son and me. If he told you that I intended to break off our engagement, and that he agreed to it—he told you the truth.”

The self-registering thermometer on Mr. Ablewhite’s bald head began to rise. His expression remained amiable, but the pink on his forehead deepened.

“Come now, my dear!” he said in his most soothing tone. “Don’t be angry, and don’t be hard on poor Godfrey! He must have said something unfortunate. He’s always been a bit clumsy, but he means well, Rachel, he really does!”

“Mr. Ablewhite, I must have expressed myself very poorly, or you are deliberately misunderstanding me. Let me be clear: it is settled between your son and me that we will remain cousins for the rest of our lives, and nothing more. Is that clear enough?”

The tone in which she spoke made it impossible for even Mr. Ablewhite to misinterpret her any longer. His temper rose another notch, and when he spoke again, the voice that came out was no longer that of a notoriously good-natured man.

“So, I am to understand that your engagement is broken off?” he asked.

“You are to understand that, Mr. Ablewhite, if you please.”

“I also take it that the proposal to withdraw from the engagement came, initially, from you?”

“It did come from me, initially. And, as I mentioned, it was met with your son’s consent and approval.”

The thermometer reached its peak. The pink on his head turned to scarlet.

“My son is a coward!” the furious old man shouted. “In justice to myself as his father—not in justice to him—I must ask you, Miss Verinder, what complaint you have against Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite?”

At that moment, Mr. Bruff intervened for the first time.

“You are not obligated to answer that question,” he said to Rachel.

Old Mr. Ablewhite turned his attention to him right away.

“Don’t forget, sir,” he said, “that you’re a self-invited guest here. Your interference would have been more appropriate if you had waited until it was asked for.”

Mr. Bruff didn’t respond. The smooth facade of his wicked old face remained unbroken. Rachel thanked him for the advice he had given her, then turned to old Mr. Ablewhite, maintaining her composure in a way that was almost painful to witness, considering her age and gender.

“Your son asked me the same question you just did,” she said. “I had only one answer for him, and I have only one answer for you. I suggested we release each other because I’ve come to realize that retracting a hasty promise is in both our best interests, allowing him the freedom to make his own choices.”

“What has my son done?” Mr. Ablewhite pressed. “I have a right to know that. What has my son done?”

She stood her ground just as firmly.

“You’ve received the only explanation I think is necessary to give you or him,” she replied.

“In plain English, you intend to jilt my son, Miss Verinder?”

Rachel fell silent for a moment. I sat close behind her and heard her sigh. Mr. Bruff took her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. She regained her composure and faced Mr. Ablewhite with renewed boldness.

“I’ve faced worse misunderstandings than that,” she said. “And I’ve endured them patiently. The time has passed when you could humiliate me by calling me a jilt.”

Her tone was laced with bitterness, revealing that the scandal of the Moonstone had resurfaced in her mind. “I have nothing more to say,” she added wearily, not directing her words at anyone in particular, her gaze drifting out the nearest window.

Mr. Ablewhite stood up, pushing his chair away with such force that it toppled over and crashed to the floor.

“I have more to say on my side,” he declared, slamming his hand down on the table. “I have to say that if my son doesn’t feel this insult, I certainly do!”

Rachel jumped, looking at him in sudden disbelief.

“Insult?” she echoed. “What do you mean?”

“Insult!” Mr. Ablewhite repeated. “I know your reason for breaking your promise to my son! I know it as surely as if you had confessed it outright. Your cursed family pride is insulting Godfrey, just as it insulted me when I married your aunt. Her family—her pathetic family—turned their backs on her for marrying an honest man who made his own way and earned his own fortune. I had no ancestors. I wasn’t descended from a line of scoundrels who lived by robbery and murder. I couldn’t point to a time when the Ablewhites didn’t have a shirt to their backs or couldn’t sign their own names. Ha! ha! I wasn’t good enough for the Herncastles when I married. And now, when it comes down to it, my son isn’t good enough for you. I suspected it all along. You’ve got the Herncastle blood in you, young lady! I suspected it all along.”

“A very unworthy suspicion,” Mr. Bruff interjected. “I’m amazed you have the gall to admit it.”

Before Mr. Ablewhite could respond, Rachel spoke with a tone of the utmost contempt.

“Surely,” she said to the lawyer, “this is beneath us. If he wants to think that way, let’s leave him to his own delusions.”

From red, Mr. Ablewhite was now turning purple. He gasped for breath, his eyes darting between Rachel and Mr. Bruff in a frenzy of rage, unsure of whom to attack first. His wife, who had been fanning herself silently until now, began to look worried and tried, in vain, to calm him down. Throughout this distressing exchange, I had felt multiple urges to step in with a few earnest words, but I had held back, fearing the potential fallout—a reaction unworthy of a Christian Englishwoman who seeks not just what is prudent but what is morally right. But at this point, I rose above all considerations of mere expediency. If I had thought of interjecting my own humble remonstrance, I might have hesitated. Yet the domestic crisis unfolding before me was astonishingly and beautifully addressed in the Correspondence of Miss Jane Ann Stamper—Letter one thousand and one, on “Peace in Families.” I stood in my modest corner and opened my treasured book.

“Dear Mr. Ablewhite,” I said, “just one word!”

When I first drew the attention of the room by standing, I could see he was about to say something rude to me. My sisterly tone stopped him. He stared at me in stunned disbelief.

“As a caring friend and well-wisher,” I continued, “and someone who has always been there to inspire, persuade, prepare, enlighten, and strengthen others, allow me to take the most forgivable liberty of all—the liberty to calm your mind.”

He began to regain his composure, on the verge of erupting—he definitely would have lost it with anyone else. But my voice, usually soft, has a way of rising in intensity during emergencies. In this moment, I felt it was crucial for me to be the louder of the two.

I held up my treasured book in front of him, tapping the open page with my finger for emphasis. “These aren’t my words!” I exclaimed, interrupting fervently. “Oh, don’t think for a second that I’m asking for attention for my humble words! They’re like manna in the wilderness, Mr. Ablewhite! Dew on parched earth! Words of comfort, wisdom, and love—the blessed, blessed words of Miss Jane Ann Stamper!”

I was momentarily halted by a catch in my breath. Before I could regain my composure, this monstrous figure shouted furiously,

“Miss Jane Ann Stamper be ——!”

I can’t bring myself to write the terrible word that was represented by a blank. I gasped as it left his lips, rushing to my little bag on the side table. I pulled out all my tracts, seized the one specifically about swearing, titled “Hush, for Heaven’s Sake!” and handed it to him with a look of desperate pleading. He ripped it in half and tossed it back at me across the table. The others in the room stood up in alarm, unsure of what might happen next. I quickly sat back down in my corner. There had been a time, under somewhat similar circumstances, when Miss Jane Ann Stamper had been taken by the shoulders and thrown out of a room. I waited, inspired by her spirit, hoping for a repeat of her martyrdom.

But no—it wasn’t meant to be. His next words were directed at his wife. “Who—who—who,” he stammered, seething with rage, “who invited this impudent fanatic into the house? Was it you?”

Before Aunt Ablewhite could respond, Rachel spoke up for her.

“Miss Clack is here,” she said, “as my guest.”

Those words had a striking effect on Mr. Ablewhite. They transformed him from a man consumed by fiery anger to one filled with icy contempt. It was clear to everyone that Rachel had said something—short and straightforward as her response was—that had given him the upper hand over her at last.

“Oh?” he replied. “Miss Clack is here as _your_ guest—in _my_ house?”

Rachel’s temper flared in response. Her face flushed, and her eyes sparkled with intensity. She turned to the lawyer and pointed at Mr. Ablewhite, asking haughtily, “What does he mean?”

Mr. Bruff intervened for the third time.

“You seem to forget,” he said, addressing Mr. Ablewhite, “that you took this house as Miss Verinder’s guardian, for Miss Verinder’s use.”

“Not so fast,” Mr. Ablewhite interrupted. “I have one last thing to say, which I should have mentioned earlier if this—” he glanced my way, contemplating what insulting name to call me—“if this Rampant Spinster hadn’t interrupted us. I must inform you, sir, that if my son isn’t good enough to be Miss Verinder’s husband, I can’t consider his father good enough to be her guardian. Understand, if you please, that I refuse to accept the position offered to me by Lady Verinder’s will. In legal terms, I decline to act. This house has been rented in my name, and I take full responsibility for it. It’s my house. I can keep it or rent it out as I see fit. I have no intention of rushing Miss Verinder. On the contrary, I ask her to remove her guest and her belongings at her own convenience.” He bowed slightly and walked out of the room.

That was Mr. Ablewhite’s revenge on Rachel for refusing to marry his son.

As soon as the door closed, Aunt Ablewhite displayed an unexpected burst of energy that silenced us all. She crossed the room with surprising vigor.

“My dear,” she said, taking Rachel’s hand, “I would be ashamed of my husband if I didn’t know that it’s his temper speaking, not his true self. You,” she continued, turning to me in my corner with a renewed intensity in her gaze, “are the troublesome person who provoked him. I hope I never have to see you or your tracts again.” She returned to Rachel and kissed her. “I apologize on my husband’s behalf, my dear. What can I do for you?”

Consistently unpredictable and unreasonable in all her actions, Rachel melted into tears at those simple words and silently returned her aunt’s kiss.

“If I may speak on Miss Verinder’s behalf,” Mr. Bruff said, “could you please send Penelope down with her mistress’s bonnet and shawl, Mrs. Ablewhite? Just give us ten minutes alone,” he added in a lower voice, “and I assure you, I’ll handle this situation to your satisfaction and Rachel’s.”

The family’s trust in him was remarkable. Without another word, Aunt Ablewhite exited the room.

“Ah!” Mr. Bruff remarked, watching her leave. “The Herncastle blood has its flaws, I’ll admit. But good breeding does count for something!”

After that comment, he turned his gaze toward me, as if expecting me to leave. But my concern for Rachel—an interest far deeper than his—kept me firmly in my seat.

Mr. Bruff soon gave up on me, just as he had at Aunt Verinder’s in Montagu Square. He guided Rachel to a chair by the window and began to speak to her.

“My dear young lady,” he said, “Mr. Ablewhite’s behavior must have shocked and surprised you. If it were worth the effort, we could easily show him that he can’t have everything his own way. But honestly, it’s not worth it. You were right in what you said earlier; he’s not worth our time.”

He paused and glanced at me. I remained still, my tracts beside me and Miss Jane Ann Stamper on my lap.

“You know,” he continued, turning back to Rachel, “your mother always had a remarkable ability to see the best in people, never the worst. She chose your uncle as your guardian because she believed in him and thought it would please her sister. I never liked Mr. Ablewhite myself, and I persuaded your mother to include a clause in her will allowing her executors to consult with me about appointing a new guardian if certain circumstances arose. One of those circumstances has occurred today, and I find myself in a position to resolve these dry business matters, hopefully in a pleasant way, with a message from my wife. Will you honor Mrs. Bruff by becoming her guest? Will you stay under my roof and be part of my family until we wise folks can figure out what to do next?”

At those words, I stood up, ready to intervene. Mr. Bruff had done exactly what I feared he would do by asking Mrs. Ablewhite for Rachel’s bonnet and shawl.

Before I could say anything, Rachel had accepted his invitation enthusiastically. If I allowed this arrangement to proceed—if she crossed the threshold of Mr. Bruff’s home—then my dearest hope of bringing my lost sheep back to the fold would be lost! The mere thought of such a disaster overwhelmed me. I cast aside the constraints of worldly caution and spoke with the passion that filled me.

“Wait!” I said. “Stop! I need to be heard. Mr. Bruff! You’re not related to her, but I am. I invite her—I demand that the executors appoint me as her guardian. Rachel, my dearest Rachel, I offer you my modest home; come to London on the next train and share it with me!”

Mr. Bruff remained silent. Rachel looked at me with a shocked expression that she didn’t bother to hide.

“You’re very kind, Drusilla,” she said. “I hope to visit you whenever I’m in London. But I’ve accepted Mr. Bruff’s invitation, and I think it’s best for now if I stay under his care.”

“Oh, please don’t say that!” I pleaded. “I can’t bear to part with you, Rachel—I can’t!”

I tried to embrace her, but she stepped back. My fervor didn’t resonate with her; it only seemed to frighten her.

“Surely,” she said, “this is an unnecessary display of emotion? I don’t understand it.”

“Neither do I,” Mr. Bruff added.

Their coldness—their awful, worldly indifference—made me feel sick.

“Oh, Rachel! Rachel!” I exclaimed. “Haven’t you realized yet that my heart longs to help you? Hasn’t some inner voice told you that I’m trying to do for you what I wished I could have done for your dear mother before death took her from me?”

Rachel took a step closer, looking at me with a strange expression.

“I don’t understand your reference to my mother,” she said. “Miss Clack, could you please explain?”

Before I could respond, Mr. Bruff stepped forward, offering his arm to Rachel and attempting to lead her out of the room.

“You’d better not pursue this topic, my dear,” he said. “And Miss Clack should refrain from explaining herself.”

If I had been made of stone, such interference would have compelled me to speak out. I pushed Mr. Bruff aside with indignation and, in a serious tone, expressed how sound doctrine views the terrible fate of dying unprepared.

Rachel recoiled from me—I’m embarrassed to admit—screaming in horror.

“Come on!” she urged Mr. Bruff, her voice trembling with urgency. “Please, let’s go before that woman can say anything else! Think of my poor mother’s gentle, meaningful life! You were at the funeral, Mr. Bruff; you saw how everyone loved her. You witnessed the helpless people weeping at her grave, mourning the loss of their best friend. And that wretched woman stands there, trying to make me doubt that my mother, who was an angel on earth, is now an angel in heaven! Don’t waste time talking! Let’s get out of here! I can’t breathe the same air as her! It terrifies me to know we’re in the same room!”

Ignoring all objections, she dashed toward the door.

At that moment, her maid entered with her bonnet and shawl. She threw them on haphazardly. “Pack my things,” she instructed, “and take them to Mr. Bruff’s.” I tried to approach her—shocked and saddened, but not offended. All I wanted to say was, “May your hard heart be softened! I forgive you!” She pulled down her veil and yanked her shawl from my grasp, hurrying out and slamming the door in my face. I accepted the insult with my usual resilience. Even now, I recall it with my typical indifference to any feelings of offense.

Mr. Bruff had one last mocking remark for me before he too rushed out.

“You really shouldn’t have tried to explain yourself, Miss Clack,” he said, bowing slightly as he left the room.

The woman with the cap ribbons followed him.

“It’s clear who’s stirred up all this trouble,” she said. “I’m just a poor servant, but I’m ashamed of you!” With that, she too exited, slamming the door behind her.

I was left alone in the room. Reviled and abandoned by them all, I stood there, utterly alone.

Is there more to add to this straightforward account of events—this poignant image of a Christian persecuted by the world? No! My diary reminds me that yet another tumultuous chapter in my life closes here. From that day on, I never saw Rachel Verinder again. I had already forgiven her when she insulted me. Since then, she has had my heartfelt good wishes. And when I die—to fulfill my part of returning good for evil—she will inherit the *Life, Letters, and Labours of Miss Jane Ann Stamper* as a legacy in my will.