CHAPTER II

by Wilkie Collins

Mr. Godfrey arrived just on cue, as he always did. He wasn’t so close behind the servant that he startled us, nor was he so far back that we had to deal with an awkward pause and an open door. His life was a perfect example of how a true gentleman conducts himself. This dear man was the epitome of completeness.

“Go tell Miss Verinder that Mr. Ablewhite is here,” my aunt instructed the servant.

We both asked about his health, concerned for him after his harrowing experience from the week before. With remarkable finesse, he managed to respond to us simultaneously. Lady Verinder received his words, while I was met with his charming smile.

“What have I done to deserve all this sympathy?” he exclaimed, his voice full of warmth. “My dear aunt! My dear Miss Clack! I’ve merely been mistaken for someone else. I’ve only been blindfolded, strangled, and thrown flat on my back onto a very thin carpet over a particularly hard floor. Just think how much worse it could have been! I could have been murdered or robbed. What have I lost? Nothing but a bit of Nervous Force—which the law doesn’t recognize as property. So, technically, I haven’t lost anything at all. If it were up to me, I would have kept my little adventure to myself; I shy away from all this fuss and attention. But Mr. Luker made his injuries public, and as a result, mine have been dragged into the spotlight too. I’ve become a topic for the newspapers until the readers grow tired of it. I’m quite sick of it myself. I hope the readers tire of it soon! And how is dear Rachel? Still enjoying London’s excitement? I’m so glad to hear that! Miss Clack, I need your understanding. I’m quite behind on my Committee Work and my dear Ladies. But I do hope to drop by the Mothers’-Small-Clothes next week. Did you make good progress at Monday’s Committee? Was the Board optimistic about future prospects? And are we well-stocked with trousers?”

His gentle smile made his apologies utterly charming. The richness of his deep voice added an indescribable allure to the mundane questions he directed at me. In truth, we were almost too well-stocked with trousers; we were overwhelmed by them. I was just about to say so when the door swung open again, bringing a new energy into the room in the form of Miss Verinder.

She rushed toward Mr. Godfrey at an unladylike speed, her hair a mess and her face, what I would call, unbecomingly flushed.

“I’m so glad to see you, Godfrey,” she said, addressing him in a casual manner, as if they were two young men chatting. “I wish you had brought Mr. Luker with you. You two are the most interesting men in all of London right now, at least while this excitement lasts. I know it’s morbid to say that; it’s unhealthy, and it’s exactly the sort of thing that would make someone like Miss Clack shudder. But never mind that. Tell me everything about the Northumberland Street incident. I know the newspapers left some details out.”

Even Mr. Godfrey, for all his charm, shared the flaws we all inherit from Adam—a small part of our human legacy, but still present. It pained me to see him take Rachel’s hand in both of his and gently place it against his waistcoat. It only encouraged her reckless chatter and her insolent remarks toward me.

“Dearest Rachel,” he said, using the same voice that had once thrilled me when he spoke of our future and our trousers, “the newspapers have told you everything—and they’ve done a much better job than I could.”

“Godfrey thinks we’re making too much of this,” my aunt interjected. “He just said he doesn’t want to talk about it.”

“Why not?”

She asked the question with a sudden spark in her eyes, looking up at Mr. Godfrey. He looked down at her with an indulgence that was both inappropriate and undeserved, prompting me to step in.

“Rachel, darling!” I gently protested. “True greatness and true courage are always modest.”

“You’re a good guy in your own way, Godfrey,” she said, ignoring me completely and still addressing her cousin as if they were two young men. “But I’m sure you’re not great; I don’t believe you have any extraordinary courage; and I’m convinced—if you ever had any modesty—that your admirers took that virtue away from you long ago. You must have some private reason for not discussing your Northumberland Street adventure, and I intend to find out what it is.”

“My reason is simple and easily acknowledged,” he replied, still tolerating her. “I’m just tired of the subject.”

“You’re tired of this conversation, aren’t you? Godfrey, I have something to say.”

“What is it?”

“You spend too much time around women. It’s led you to pick up two very bad habits. You’ve learned to take nonsense seriously, and you’ve developed a knack for telling lies just for the fun of it. You can’t be straightforward with your admirers. I’m going to make you be honest with me. Come, sit down. I have a lot of direct questions, and I expect you to give me direct answers.”

She pulled him across the room to a chair by the window, where the light would illuminate his face. I feel a bit uncomfortable reporting such language and behavior, but here I am, caught between Mr. Franklin Blake’s check on one side and my own commitment to the truth on the other. What choice do I have? I glanced at my aunt. She remained still, seemingly uninterested in intervening. I had never seen her so detached before. Perhaps it was just the aftereffects of her exhausting time in the country. It wasn’t a comforting sign to witness, especially at dear Lady Verinder’s age and with her robust presence.

Meanwhile, Rachel had settled herself by the window with our patient and overly accommodating Mr. Godfrey. She began the barrage of questions she had promised him, ignoring her mother and me as if we weren’t even in the room.

“Have the police made any progress, Godfrey?”

“Nothing at all.”

“It’s certain, isn’t it, that the three men who set the trap for you are the same ones who later set the trap for Mr. Luker?”

“Humanly speaking, my dear Rachel, there’s no doubt about it.”

“And not a single trace of them has been found?”

“Not a trace.”

“People think—don’t they?—that those three men are the same Indians who visited our house in the country.”

“Some people believe that.”

“What about you?”

“My dear Rachel, they blindfolded me before I could see their faces. I know nothing about it. How can I form an opinion?”

Even Mr. Godfrey’s usual gentleness was starting to crack under the relentless questioning. I won’t speculate whether Rachel’s questions stemmed from sheer curiosity or overwhelming fear. I’ll just report that when Mr. Godfrey tried to stand up after giving his answer, she grabbed him by the shoulders and pushed him back into his chair. Oh, please don’t call this improper! Don’t even suggest that only guilty fear could explain such behavior! We shouldn’t judge others. My dear friends, truly, we must not judge others!

She continued her questioning, undeterred. Those familiar with biblical tales might recall the unrepentant children of the devil who continued their revelries without shame before the Flood, much like Rachel now.

“I want to know more about Mr. Luker, Godfrey.”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you there, Rachel. No one knows less about Mr. Luker than I do.”

“You never met him before that chance encounter at the bank?”

“Never.”

“And you’ve seen him since?”

“Yes. We’ve both been questioned, together and separately, to assist the police.”

“Mr. Luker was robbed of a receipt from his bank, wasn’t he? What was that receipt for?”

“For a valuable gem he had placed in the bank’s safekeeping.”

“That’s what the newspapers say. It might satisfy the general public, but it’s not enough for me. The receipt must have specified what the gem was.”

“The receipt, as I’ve heard, didn’t mention that at all. It simply stated that a valuable gem, belonging to Mr. Luker, was deposited by him, sealed with his seal, and could only be released upon his personal request. That’s the extent of my knowledge.”

She paused after he spoke, looking at her mother with a sigh before turning back to Mr. Godfrey.

“Some of our private matters seem to have made their way into the newspapers,” she said.

“I regret to say that’s true.”

“And now some strangers, completely unrelated to us, are trying to connect what happened at our house in Yorkshire with the events that have unfolded here in London?”

“I’m afraid public curiosity is leaning in that direction.”

“Those who claim the three unknown men who attacked you and Mr. Luker are the three Indians also say that the valuable gem—”

She came to a sudden halt, her face growing paler by the second. The stark contrast of her jet-black hair against her white skin made her look almost ghostly, and we all feared she might faint when she abruptly paused in the middle of her question. Mr. Godfrey tried to rise from his chair again, but my aunt urged her to say no more. I followed my aunt’s lead, offering a small bottle of salts as a peace offering. None of our efforts seemed to have any effect on her.

“Godfrey, stay where you are. Mom, there’s no reason to worry about me. Clack, I know you’re dying to hear the end of this—I won’t faint just to make you happy.”

Those were her exact words, written down in my diary as soon as I got home. But let’s not judge! My dear friends, let’s not judge!

She turned back to Mr. Godfrey, her determination almost painful to witness. She returned to the point where she had paused and finished her question.

“I mentioned a moment ago what people are saying in certain circles. Tell me plainly, Godfrey, do any of them say that Mr. Luker’s valuable gem is—the Moonstone?”

As the name of the Indian diamond left her lips, I noticed a shift in my admirable friend. His complexion darkened, and the warm charm he usually exuded vanished. A noble indignation fueled his response.

“They do say it,” he replied. “There are people who don’t hesitate to accuse Mr. Luker of lying to serve his own interests. He has repeatedly sworn that, until this scandal arose, he had never even heard of the Moonstone. And these vile people respond, without a shred of evidence to back their claims, that he must have his reasons for hiding the truth; they refuse to believe him, even on his oath. It’s shameful! Absolutely shameful!”

Rachel looked at him in a way I can’t quite describe while he spoke. When he finished, she said, “Considering that Mr. Luker is just a casual acquaintance of yours, you’re defending him quite passionately, Godfrey.”

My gifted friend gave her one of the most heartfelt responses I’ve ever heard.

“I hope, Rachel, that I defend all oppressed people with equal passion,” he said.

The tone of his words could have melted stone. But oh, what is the hardness of stone compared to the unyielding human heart? She sneered at him, and I blush to admit it—she sneered right in his face.

“Save your noble sentiments for your charity committees, Godfrey. I’m sure the scandal surrounding Mr. Luker hasn’t spared you either.”

Even my aunt, usually so placid, was stirred by her words.

“My dear Rachel,” she protested, “you have no right to say that!”

“I mean no harm, Mom—I mean good. Just give me a moment, and you’ll see.”

She turned back to Mr. Godfrey, her expression softening with what seemed like sudden pity. In a surprisingly unladylike gesture, she took his hand.

“I’m certain I’ve figured out the real reason you’re reluctant to discuss this matter in front of my mother and me. An unfortunate accident has linked you in people’s minds with Mr. Luker. You’ve told me what the gossip says about him. But what does it say about you?”

Even at this late hour, dear Mr. Godfrey—always ready to return kindness for cruelty—tried to protect her.

“Don’t ask me!” he said. “It’s better left forgotten, Rachel—it really is.”

“I will hear it!” she shouted fiercely, her voice rising.

“Tell her, Godfrey!” my aunt urged. “Nothing could harm her more than your silence is doing right now!”

Mr. Godfrey’s eyes filled with tears. He cast one last pleading glance at her, and then he spoke the fateful words.

“If you insist, Rachel—gossip says that the Moonstone is pledged to Mr. Luker, and that I’m the one who pawned it.”

She jumped to her feet with a scream, darting her gaze between Mr. Godfrey and my aunt in a frantic manner that made me fear she might lose her mind.

“Don’t talk to me! Don’t touch me!” she cried, backing away from all of us like a cornered animal. “This is my fault! I have to make it right. I sacrificed myself—I had the right to do that if I wanted. But to let an innocent man be ruined; to keep a secret that destroys his character for life—Oh, good God, it’s too horrible! I can’t bear it!”

My aunt half rose from her chair, then sank back down again. She called to me faintly, pointing to a small vial in her workbox.

“Quick!” she whispered. “Six drops in water. Don’t let Rachel see.”

In any other situation, I would have found this strange. But right now, there was no time for reflection—only time to administer the medicine. Mr. Godfrey, bless him, was unknowingly helping me keep my actions hidden from Rachel by speaking soothingly to her from across the room.

“Really, you’re exaggerating,” I heard him say. “My reputation is too solid to be tarnished by a fleeting scandal like this. In a week, it will all be forgotten. Let’s not discuss it again.” But Rachel was unreachable, even by such kind words. She continued to spiral deeper into distress.

“I must and will put an end to this,” she declared. “Mother! Listen to me. Miss Clack! Hear what I say. I know who took the Moonstone. I know—” she emphasized each word, stamping her foot in a fury that consumed her—“_I know that Godfrey Ablewhite is innocent!_ Take me to the magistrate, Godfrey! Take me to the magistrate, and I will swear it!”

My aunt grabbed my hand and whispered urgently, “Stand between us for a moment. Don’t let Rachel see me.” I noticed a bluish tint to her face that alarmed me. She noticed my concern. “The drops will help me in a minute,” she assured me, closing her eyes and waiting.

Meanwhile, I could still hear Mr. Godfrey gently trying to reason with Rachel.

“You can’t appear publicly in a situation like this,” he said. “_Your_ reputation, dear Rachel, is too pure and precious to be trifled with.”

“_My_ reputation!” She burst into laughter. “I’m accused just like you, Godfrey. The best detective in England claims I’ve stolen my own diamond. Ask him what he thinks, and he’ll tell you I’ve pawned the Moonstone to settle my debts!” She paused, then rushed across the room and fell to her knees at her mother’s feet. “Oh, Mama! Mama! I must be mad—mustn’t I?—not to admit the truth _now!_” She was too caught up in her own turmoil to notice her mother’s condition. In an instant, she was back with Mr. Godfrey. “I won’t let you—I won’t let any innocent man—be accused and shamed because of me. If you won’t take me to the magistrate, write a declaration of your innocence, and I’ll sign it. Do what I say, Godfrey, or I’ll take it to the newspapers—I’ll go out and shout it in the streets!”

We won’t call this the language of remorse; it was the language of hysteria. Kind-hearted Mr. Godfrey calmed her down by taking a sheet of paper and drafting the declaration. She signed it in a frantic rush. “Show it everywhere—don’t think of _me_,” she urged as she handed it to him. “I’m afraid, Godfrey, I haven’t given you the credit you deserve. You’re more selfless—you’re a better man than I thought. Come back when you can, and I’ll try to make up for the wrong I’ve done you.”

She offered him her hand. Alas for human nature! Alas for Mr. Godfrey! He not only forgot himself enough to kiss her hand, but he also adopted a tone that, in this context, was little better than a compromise with wrongdoing. “I will come, dearest,” he said, “on the condition that we don’t discuss this horrible subject again.” I had never seen our Christian hero in a less favorable light than at that moment.

Before anyone could say another word, a loud knock at the front door startled us all. I glanced out the window and saw the embodiment of the World, the Flesh, and the Devil waiting outside, represented by a carriage and horses, a powdered footman, and three of the most audaciously dressed women I had ever seen.

Rachel jumped, then composed herself. She crossed the room to her mother.

“They’ve come to take me to the flower show,” she said. “One word, Mama, before I go. I haven’t upset you, have I?”

(Should we pity or condemn the bluntness of moral feeling that could ask such a question after everything that had just happened? I prefer to lean toward mercy. Let’s show some compassion.)

The drops had taken effect. My poor aunt’s complexion was returning to normal. “No, no, my dear,” she said. “Go with our friends and enjoy yourself.”

Rachel leaned down and kissed her. I had stepped away from the window and was near the door when Rachel approached it to leave. Another change had come over her—she was in tears. I watched with interest as her hardened heart softened for a moment. I felt compelled to say something earnest. Alas! My well-meaning sympathy only offended her. “What do you mean by pitying me?” she whispered bitterly as she reached the door. “Don’t you see how happy I am? I’m going to the flower show, Clack, and I have the prettiest bonnet in London.” She completed the hollow mockery of her words by blowing me a kiss—and then she left the room.

I wish I could fully express the compassion I felt for that miserable, misguided girl. But I struggled as much to find the right words as I did to find money. Let me just say—my heart ached for her.

As I returned to my aunt’s chair, I noticed dear Mr. Godfrey searching the room quietly, looking for something in various corners. Before I could offer my help, he had already found what he needed. He approached my aunt and me, holding a declaration of innocence in one hand and a box of matches in the other.

“Dear aunt, a little conspiracy!” he exclaimed. “And dear Miss Clack, a pious fraud that even your high moral standards will excuse! Will you allow Rachel to think that I accept the generous self-sacrifice that this paper represents? And will you kindly witness me destroying it in your presence before I leave?” He struck a match, lit the paper, and placed it in a plate on the table to burn. “Any minor inconvenience I might face is nothing,” he said, “compared to the importance of protecting that pure name from the corrupting influence of the world. There! We’ve turned it into a harmless little pile of ashes, and our dear impulsive Rachel will never know what we’ve done! How do you feel? My precious friends, how do you feel? As for me, I’m as light-hearted as a boy!”

He beamed at us with his radiant smile, extending a hand to my aunt and one to me. I was so moved by his noble actions that I couldn’t find my voice. I closed my eyes and, in a moment of spiritual forgetfulness, pressed his hand to my lips. He murmured a gentle protest. Oh, the ecstasy, the pure, unearthly joy of that moment! I sat there—lost in my own exalted feelings, hardly aware of my surroundings. When I opened my eyes again, it felt like coming back down to earth. My aunt was the only one left in the room. He had gone.

I would love to end my story here, to conclude with the account of Mr. Godfrey’s noble conduct. Unfortunately, I have more to share, compelled by the relentless financial pressure of Mr. Blake’s check. The painful revelations that were to unfold during that Tuesday visit to Montagu Square were far from over.

Once alone with Lady Verinder, I naturally turned to her health, gently probing the strange anxiety she had shown in hiding her illness and the treatment she had sought from her daughter’s notice.

My aunt’s response surprised me greatly.

“Drusilla,” she said (if I haven’t mentioned that my name is Drusilla, let me do so now), “you’re touching on a very distressing subject—quite innocently, I know.”

I stood up immediately. My sense of delicacy left me with only one choice—the choice, after offering my apologies, to take my leave. But Lady Verinder stopped me, insisting I sit back down.

“You’ve stumbled upon a secret,” she said, “which I had only confided to my sister, Mrs. Ablewhite, and my lawyer, Mr. Bruff. No one else knows. I trust their discretion, and I’m sure that when I share the details, I can trust you too. Do you have any pressing engagements, Drusilla? Or is your afternoon free?”

It goes without saying that my time was entirely at my aunt’s disposal.

“Then keep me company for another hour,” she said. “I have something to tell you that I believe you’ll regret hearing. And afterwards, I’ll have a favor to ask of you, if you don’t mind helping me.”

Needless to say, I was eager to assist her.

“You can wait here,” she continued, “until Mr. Bruff arrives at five. And you can be one of the witnesses, Drusilla, when I sign my Will.”

Her Will! I recalled the drops I had seen in her workbox and the bluish tinge I had noticed in her complexion. A light that felt otherworldly—a light shining prophetically from an unmade grave—dawned in my mind. My aunt’s secret was no longer a secret.