CHAPTER I

by Wilkie Collins

My dear friend, Miss Clack, has set down her pen, and now it’s my turn to pick it up for a couple of important reasons.

First, I can shed light on some intriguing matters that have remained unclear. Miss Verinder had her own private reasons for breaking off her engagement, and I was at the heart of it. Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite also had his reasons for stepping back from pursuing his charming cousin, and I uncovered what those were.

Second, it was either fortunate or unfortunate for me—I'm not quite sure—which led me to become personally involved in the mystery of the Indian Diamond during the time I’m writing about. I had the honor of meeting an elegantly mysterious stranger from the East, who was undoubtedly the leader of the three Indians. Plus, I encountered the renowned traveler, Mr. Murthwaite, the very next day, and we discussed the Moonstone, which would prove crucial to the events that followed. So, there you have it—my credentials for narrating this story.

The true tale of the broken engagement is where we should begin, as it unfolds first in time. As I trace back through the events, it seems fitting to start at the bedside of my esteemed client and friend, the late Sir John Verinder.

Sir John had his share—perhaps a rather large share—of the more innocent and endearing human weaknesses. Among these was a stubborn reluctance—especially when he was in good health—to face the responsibility of making his will. Lady Verinder tried to encourage him to fulfill this duty, and I did my part as well. He recognized the validity of our concerns but didn’t act on them until he fell ill, which ultimately led to his passing. It was then that I was finally called in to take his instructions regarding his will. What he had to say was the simplest directive I had ever received in my entire career.

When I entered the room, Sir John was dozing. He stirred at the sight of me.

“Hello, Mr. Bruff,” he said. “I won’t take long with this. Then I’ll go back to sleep.” He watched with keen interest as I gathered pens, ink, and paper. “Are you ready?” he asked. I nodded, dipped my pen in ink, and waited for his instructions.

“I leave everything to my wife,” Sir John stated. “That’s all.” He turned on his pillow, ready to drift off again.

I had to interrupt him.

“Just to clarify,” I said, “are you saying that you leave all your property, of every kind, absolutely to Lady Verinder?”

“Yes,” he replied. “But I’d prefer it if you could say it more succinctly so I can get back to sleep. Everything to my wife. That’s my will.”

His property was entirely his to give away, consisting of two types: land and money. In most cases, I would have felt it my duty to urge my client to reconsider his will. But in Sir John’s case, I knew Lady Verinder was not only deserving of his complete trust—like all good wives should be—but also capable of managing that trust properly, which, in my experience, is rare among women. Within ten minutes, Sir John’s will was drafted, signed, and he was back to finishing his interrupted nap.

Lady Verinder proved to be worthy of the trust her husband had placed in her. In the early days of her widowhood, she called for me to draft her will. Her perspective on her situation was so sound and sensible that I felt no need to advise her. My role was simply to put her instructions into the correct legal format. Before Sir John had even been gone for two weeks, his daughter’s future had been wisely and lovingly secured.

The will remained in its fireproof box at my office for more years than I care to count. It wasn’t until the summer of 1848 that I had to look at it again, under very sad circumstances.

At that time, the doctors delivered the devastating news to poor Lady Verinder—a literal death sentence. I was the first person she confided in about her condition, and she was eager to review her will with me once more.

It was impossible to make any changes to the provisions regarding her daughter. However, over time, Lady Verinder's wishes about some minor legacies to various relatives had shifted, and it became necessary to add a few codicils to the original Will. I took care of this promptly, wanting to avoid any potential mishaps. With her ladyship’s approval, I combined her recent instructions into a second Will. My goal was to eliminate the confusion and repetition that had crept into the original document, which, to be honest, really bothered my professional sensibilities.

Miss Clack, who kindly agreed to witness the execution of this second Will, has already described the process. As far as Rachel Verinder’s financial interests were concerned, it was identical to the first Will, word for word. The only changes involved the appointment of a guardian and some provisions related to that appointment, which I had advised. After Lady Verinder passed away, the Will was handed over to my proctor to be “proved” in the usual manner.

About three weeks later, I received my first hint that something unusual was happening beneath the surface. I was visiting my friend at the proctor’s office when he greeted me with an unusual level of interest.

“I have some news for you,” he said. “Guess what I heard at Doctors’ Commons this morning? Lady Verinder’s Will has already been requested and examined!”

This was surprising news! There was nothing in the Will that could be contested, and I couldn’t think of anyone who would have any interest in looking at it. (For those who might not know, the law permits anyone to examine Wills at Doctors’ Commons for a small fee of a shilling.)

“Do you know who requested the Will?” I asked.

“Yes, the clerk was happy to tell me. It was Mr. Smalley from the firm of Skipp and Smalley. The Will hasn’t been copied into the official Folio Registers yet, so there was no choice but to let him see the original document. He examined it closely and made a note in his pocketbook. Do you have any idea what he wanted with it?”

I shook my head. “I’ll find out,” I replied, “before the day is over.” With that, I returned to my own office.

If any other law firm had been involved in this strange examination of my deceased client’s Will, I might have faced some difficulty uncovering the details. But I had a connection to Skipp and Smalley that made my task much easier. My common-law clerk, an excellent and capable man, was Mr. Smalley’s brother. Because of this indirect link, Skipp and Smalley had been picking up cases that I didn’t take on for various reasons. My professional support had been significant for their firm, and I intended to remind them of that if necessary.

As soon as I got back, I spoke to my clerk. After explaining what had happened, I sent him to his brother’s office with a message: “Mr. Bruff would like to know why Messrs. Skipp and Smalley found it necessary to examine Lady Verinder’s Will.”

This message brought Mr. Smalley back to my office, accompanied by his brother. He admitted that he had acted under instructions from a client. Then he asked whether it would be a breach of professional confidence for him to say more.

We had a lively discussion about that. He was right, of course, and I was wrong. The truth was, I was angry and suspicious, and I insisted on knowing more. Even worse, I refused to consider any additional information he offered as a secret entrusted to me; I insisted on my freedom to use my own judgment. I took an unfair advantage of my position. “Choose, sir,” I said to Mr. Smalley, “between the risk of losing your client’s business and the risk of losing mine.” It was indefensible—an act of tyranny, plain and simple. Like any tyrant, I got my way. Mr. Smalley made his choice without hesitation.

He smiled resignedly and revealed the name of his client: Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite.

That was all I needed to know—I didn’t want to hear more.

Now that I’ve reached this point in my story, it’s time to ensure that you, dear reader, have the same information about Lady Verinder’s Will that I do.

Let me be clear: Rachel Verinder only had a life interest in her inheritance. Thanks to her mother’s wise decisions and my own experience, she was shielded from any responsibility and protected from becoming a target for some needy, unscrupulous man in the future. Neither she nor her future husband—if she chose to marry—could borrow even a penny against the property, whether it was land or money. They would have the houses in London and Yorkshire to live in, along with a generous income, and that was all.

As I reflected on what I had uncovered, I found myself in a state of deep confusion about what to do next.

Barely a week had passed since I had learned, to my surprise and distress, about Miss Verinder’s engagement. I held her in the highest regard and felt an overwhelming sadness at the thought of her marrying Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite. Now, the man I had always suspected to be a smooth-talking fraud was proving my worst fears correct, revealing the mercenary motives behind his desire to marry her. And what of it? you might ask—this sort of thing happens all the time. True, but would you feel so indifferent if it were your own sister involved?

The first question that arose in my mind was whether Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite would still want to go through with the engagement after learning what his lawyer had discovered.

That depended entirely on his financial situation, which I knew nothing about. If he wasn’t in dire straits, marrying Miss Verinder for her income would be advantageous for him. On the other hand, if he urgently needed to secure a large sum of money by a certain date, then Lady Verinder’s Will would be the perfect solution, protecting her daughter from falling into the hands of a scoundrel.

In that case, I wouldn’t need to burden Miss Rachel with the truth during the early days of her mourning for her mother. However, if he was in a good position financially and I stayed silent, I would be complicit in a marriage that could lead to her lifelong misery.

After much deliberation, I decided to visit the hotel in London where Mrs. Ablewhite and Miss Verinder were staying. They informed me that they were heading to Brighton the next day, but an unexpected obstacle had prevented Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite from joining them. I immediately offered to take his place. While I had hesitated when only thinking of Rachel, seeing her in person solidified my resolve to tell her the truth, no matter the consequences.

I found the right moment during a walk with her the day after my arrival.

“Can I talk to you about your engagement?” I asked.

“Yes,” she replied, sounding indifferent. “Unless you have something more interesting to discuss.”

“Will you forgive an old friend and servant of your family if I ask whether your heart is truly in this marriage?”

“I’m marrying out of despair, Mr. Bruff—hoping to find some kind of stagnant happiness that might make me accept my life.”

That was strong language, hinting at something deeper, perhaps a hidden romance. But I had my own agenda and chose not to delve into those side issues.

“Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite must feel differently,” I said. “Surely his heart is set on the marriage?”

“He says so, and I suppose I should believe him. He wouldn’t propose if he didn’t care for me, especially after what I’ve confessed to him.”

Poor thing! The idea that a man might marry her for selfish, mercenary reasons had never crossed her mind. The task I had set for myself was proving to be more challenging than I had anticipated.

“It sounds strange,” I continued, “to my old-fashioned ears—”

“What sounds strange?” she asked.

“To hear you speak of your future husband as if you’re unsure of his sincerity. Do you have any reason to doubt him?”

Her keen perception picked up on the shift in my tone, alerting her that I had an ulterior motive. She stopped, pulled her arm away from mine, and looked me in the eye.

“Mr. Bruff,” she said, “you have something to tell me about Godfrey Ablewhite. Just say it.”

Knowing her well enough to take her at her word, I did just that.

She slipped her arm back into mine, and we walked slowly together. I felt her grip tightening on my arm, and I noticed her growing paler as we continued, yet she didn’t say a word while I spoke. When I finished, she remained silent. Her head hung slightly, and she walked beside me, lost in her own thoughts, completely unaware of my presence or anything around her—almost as if she were buried in her mind.

I didn’t try to interrupt her. My past experiences with her had taught me to give her time.

Typically, when girls hear something that interests them, their first instinct is to ask a million questions and then rush off to discuss it with a close friend. But Rachel Verinder’s instinct was different. In similar situations, she would retreat into her own mind, thinking things over alone. This kind of self-reliance is often seen as a virtue in a man, but in a woman, it can create a serious distance from her peers, leaving her vulnerable to misunderstanding by others. I often found myself agreeing with the general view on this, except when it came to Rachel. Her independence was one of her strengths in my eyes, partly because I genuinely admired her, and partly because my understanding of her character shaped my perspective on her involvement with the Moonstone’s disappearance. Despite how things appeared—how shocking it was to think she was connected to an unresolved theft—I was convinced she hadn’t acted unworthily. I believed she would have considered her actions carefully before making any move.

We had walked nearly a mile when Rachel finally stirred. She looked up at me, her expression faintly echoing the smile she used to wear during happier times—the most captivating smile I had ever seen on a woman.

“I owe you so much already,” she said. “And I feel more indebted to you now than ever. If you hear any rumors about my marriage when you return to London, please contradict them on my authority.”

“Have you decided to break off your engagement?” I asked.

“Can you really doubt it?” she replied, her pride evident in her voice. “After what you’ve told me!”

“Miss Rachel, you’re still very young, and you might find it harder to withdraw from your current situation than you expect. Is there no one—another woman, I mean—that you could consult?”

“No one,” she said.

Hearing that distressed me. She was so young and so alone, yet she handled it all with such grace. The urge to help her overpowered any feelings of inadequacy I might have had in that moment, and I shared my thoughts on the matter as best as I could. I had advised countless clients and navigated some tricky situations in my time, but this was the first time I found myself guiding a young woman on how to free herself from a marriage engagement.

My suggestion was straightforward. I recommended that she speak to Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite privately and tell him that she knew he had acted out of a mercenary motive. She should then explain that, given what she had discovered, their marriage was impossible. I advised her to ask him whether he thought it wiser to agree with her and secure her silence or to oppose her, which would force her to reveal his motives to everyone. If he tried to defend himself or deny the truth, she should refer him to me.

Rachel listened carefully until I finished. She thanked me graciously for my advice but then told me it was impossible for her to follow it.

“May I ask why you think that?” I inquired.

She hesitated before turning the question back to me.

“Suppose you were asked to give your opinion on Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite’s conduct?” she began.

“Yes?”

“What would you say?”

“I would call it the behavior of a deceitful man.”

“Mr. Bruff! I believed in that man. I promised to marry him. How can I tell him he’s mean? How can I accuse him of deceiving me? How can I disgrace him in the eyes of the world after that? I have already degraded myself by even considering him as my husband. If I say what you suggest, I’m admitting that I’ve degraded myself right to his face. I can’t do that. After everything that has happened between us, I can’t do that! The shame of it wouldn’t matter to him, but it would be unbearable for me.”

I noticed another of Rachel's unique traits revealing itself to me without any pretense. She had a deep-seated aversion to anything she considered beneath her, which blinded her to what she owed herself. This was pushing her into a situation that could tarnish her reputation among her friends. Until that moment, I had felt a bit unsure about the advice I had given her. But after hearing her thoughts, I was convinced it was the best guidance I could offer, and I felt no hesitation in urging her to reconsider.

She simply shook her head and rephrased her objection.

“He has been close enough to me to propose marriage. He has earned my respect to the point where I agreed to it. I can’t just tell him to his face that he’s the most despicable person alive after that!”

“But, my dear Miss Rachel,” I countered, “you can’t just tell him you’re breaking off the engagement without giving him a reason.”

“I’ll say I’ve thought it over and believe it’s best for both of us if we part ways.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all.”

“Have you considered what he might say in response?”

“He can say whatever he wants.”

It was impossible not to admire her sensitivity and determination, yet it was equally clear that she was putting herself in a difficult position. I urged her to think about her own situation. I reminded her that she would be opening herself up to the most unpleasant misinterpretations of her motives. “You can’t defy public opinion,” I said, “just because of your personal feelings.”

“I can,” she replied. “I’ve already done it.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve forgotten about the Moonstone, Mr. Bruff. Haven’t I defied public opinion there, for my own private reasons?”

Her response left me momentarily speechless. It made me reflect on her behavior during the Moonstone incident, trying to understand her motivations based on her recent admission. Perhaps I could have figured it out when I was younger, but now it felt beyond me.

I made one last attempt to persuade her before we went back inside. She remained as resolute as ever. My feelings about her were in turmoil as I left that day. She was stubborn; she was wrong. She was fascinating; she was admirable; she was deserving of pity. I made her promise to write to me as soon as she had any news. Then I returned to my work in London, feeling very uneasy.

That evening, before I could receive her promised letter, I was taken aback by a visit from Mr. Ablewhite Sr. He informed me that Mr. Godfrey had been dismissed—and had accepted it—earlier that day.

Given my perspective on the situation, the fact that I had underlined revealed Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite’s motive for acquiescence as clearly as if he had admitted it himself. He needed a substantial amount of money, and he needed it by a specific deadline. Rachel’s income, which could have supported him in other ways, wouldn’t help him here; thus, Rachel had freed herself without any serious opposition from him. If anyone claims this is mere speculation, I would ask what other explanation accounts for his giving up a marriage that would have ensured his financial security for life.

Any excitement I might have felt about the fortunate turn of events was quickly dampened by my conversation with old Mr. Ablewhite.

He came to see if I could explain Miss Verinder’s unusual behavior. It goes without saying that I was unable to provide the information he sought. The frustration I caused him, following his irritation from a recent meeting with his son, caused Mr. Ablewhite to lose his composure. His demeanor and words made it clear to me that Miss Verinder would find him a relentless adversary when he joined the ladies in Brighton the next day.

I spent a restless night contemplating my next steps. How my thoughts concluded, and how right my suspicions about Mr. Ablewhite turned out to be, are details that, as I’ve been told, have already been neatly organized by the diligent Miss Clack. I can only add, to complete her narrative, that Miss Verinder found the peace she desperately needed in my home at Hampstead. She honored us with a lengthy stay. My wife and daughters were enchanted by her, and when the executors decided to appoint a new guardian, I take genuine pride in noting that my guest and my family parted like old friends.