CHAPTER IX

by Wilkie Collins

The doctor's pretty housemaid stood waiting for me, holding the street door open. As I turned to look at Mr. Candy's assistant, the bright morning light poured into the hall, illuminating his face.

It was hard to argue with Betteredge's observation that Ezra Jennings didn't make a great first impression. His gypsy complexion, sunken cheeks, sharp facial bones, dreamy eyes, and his unusual, mismatched hair all combined to create an image that could easily unsettle a stranger. The strange contrast between his youthful appearance and the weariness of his face made him seem both old and young at the same time. Despite all this, I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something about Ezra Jennings that quietly tugged at my sympathies, something I found impossible to ignore.

Even though my experience told me to acknowledge that Mr. Candy had indeed changed and then move on, my curiosity about Ezra Jennings kept me rooted in place. It gave him the chance to speak to me privately about his employer, which he had clearly been waiting to do.

“Are you heading my way, Mr. Jennings?” I asked, noticing he was holding his hat. “I’m going to visit my aunt, Mrs. Ablewhite.”

Ezra Jennings replied that he had a patient to see and that he was indeed walking in the same direction.

We stepped out of the house together. I noticed that the cheerful servant girl, all smiles when I greeted her, received a brief message from Ezra about when he might return. She pursed her lips and avoided looking him in the eye. It was clear he wasn’t a favorite in the house. Outside, I had Betteredge’s word that he was unpopular everywhere. “What a life!” I thought as we descended the doctor’s steps.

Having already mentioned Mr. Candy’s illness, Ezra Jennings seemed determined to let me bring it up again. His silence was a clear invitation: “It’s your turn now.” I had my own reasons for wanting to discuss the doctor’s condition, so I took the plunge.

“From what I can see, Mr. Candy’s illness must have been much more serious than I thought,” I began.

“It’s almost a miracle he survived it,” Ezra Jennings replied.

“Is his memory as poor as I found it today? He was trying to talk to me about something—”

“Something that happened before he got sick?” he asked, noticing my hesitation.

“Yes.”

“His memory of that time is hopelessly weak,” Ezra Jennings said. “It’s almost sad that even the remnants of it remain. He has vague recollections of plans he made—bits and pieces of things he wanted to say or do before he fell ill—but he can’t remember what those plans were or what he needed to say or do. He’s painfully aware of his shortcomings and anxious to hide them, as you must have noticed. If only he could have forgotten everything completely, he would be happier. Perhaps we all would be,” he added with a wistful smile, “if we could just forget!”

“There are surely some memories in everyone’s life that they wouldn’t want to lose entirely,” I replied.

“I hope that’s true for most people, Mr. Blake. Unfortunately, I can’t say it’s true for everyone. Do you think the memory Mr. Candy was trying to recover—while you were speaking to him just now—was something important for _you_ to know?”

His words struck right at the heart of what I wanted to discuss with him. My interest in this enigmatic man had led me to give him the chance to speak first, wanting to ensure he was someone I could trust with delicate matters regarding his employer. The little he had shared so far convinced me that I was speaking to a gentleman. He possessed a kind of effortless composure that signaled good breeding, not just in England but everywhere civilized. Whatever his reasons for asking the question, I felt justified in answering him openly.

“I believe I have a strong interest in uncovering the memory that Mr. Candy couldn’t recall. Can you suggest any way I might help jog his memory?”

Ezra Jennings looked at me, a spark of interest lighting up his dreamy brown eyes.

“Mr. Candy’s memory is beyond help,” he said. “I’ve tried to assist him enough since his recovery to be certain about that.”

I felt a wave of disappointment wash over me, and I didn’t hide it.

“I have to admit, you led me to hope for a more encouraging answer,” I replied.

Ezra Jennings smiled. “That might not be the final word, Mr. Blake. It’s possible to trace Mr. Candy’s lost memories without needing to ask him directly.”

“Really? Is it inappropriate for me to ask how?”

“Not at all. My only challenge in answering is finding the right way to explain. May I ask for your patience as I refer back to Mr. Candy’s illness? This time, I’d like to share some professional details.”

“Please, go ahead! I’m already intrigued by what you have to say.”

My enthusiasm seemed to amuse him—perhaps it pleased him. He smiled again. By this point, we had left the last houses of the town behind us. Ezra Jennings paused for a moment to pick some wildflowers from the hedge by the roadside. “Aren’t they beautiful?” he said simply, holding out his little bouquet. “And how few people in England seem to appreciate them as they should!”

“You haven’t always lived in England, have you?” I asked.

“No. I was born and partly raised in one of our colonies. My father was English, but my mother—Well, we’re straying from our topic, Mr. Blake; that’s my fault. The truth is, I have memories tied to these humble little flowers. But let’s return to Mr. Candy.”

As I connected the few words about himself that he had reluctantly shared with the somber view of life that seemed to shape his thoughts, I felt certain that his face revealed two truths: he had endured suffering unlike most, and there was a hint of foreign ancestry in his English blood.

“You’ve likely heard about the original cause of Mr. Candy’s illness?” he continued. “The night of Lady Verinder’s dinner party was marked by heavy rain. My employer drove home through it and arrived soaked to the skin. He found an urgent message from a patient waiting for him, and unfortunately, he went to see the sick person without changing his clothes. I was tied up that night with a case far from Frizinghall. When I returned the next morning, I found Mr. Candy’s groom waiting anxiously to take me to his master’s room. By then, the damage was done; the illness had already taken hold.”

“I’ve only heard the illness described to me in general terms, as a fever,” I said.

“I can’t add anything that would make the description more accurate,” Ezra Jennings replied. “From start to finish, the fever didn’t take on a specific form. I immediately called in two of Mr. Candy’s medical colleagues from the town, both reputable physicians, to get their take on the situation. They agreed with me that it looked serious, but they strongly disagreed with my approach to treatment. We completely differed in our interpretations of the patient’s pulse. The two doctors, looking at the rapid heartbeat, insisted that a lowering treatment was the only way to go. On my part, I acknowledged the rapidity of the pulse, but I also pointed out its alarming weakness, which indicated an exhausted system and a clear need for stimulants. The two doctors wanted to keep him on gruel, lemonade, barley water, and similar remedies. I was advocating for champagne, brandy, ammonia, and quinine. Quite a serious difference of opinion, wouldn’t you say? Here were two established local physicians against a mere assistant in the house.

For the first few days, I had no choice but to defer to my elders. The patient continued to decline steadily. I made a second attempt to appeal to the undeniable evidence of the pulse. Its rapidity was unrelenting, and its weakness had worsened. The two doctors took offense at my stubbornness. They said, ‘Mr. Jennings, either we manage this case, or you do. Which will it be?’ I replied, ‘Gentlemen, give me five minutes to think, and I’ll give you a straightforward answer.’ When the time was up, I was ready. I asked, ‘You absolutely refuse to try the stimulant treatment?’ They confirmed their refusal. ‘Then I’m going to try it immediately, gentlemen.’—‘Go ahead, Mr. Jennings, but we’re withdrawing from the case.’ I sent down to the cellar for a bottle of champagne and personally administered half a tumbler to the patient. The two physicians silently took their hats and left the house.”

“You took on a serious responsibility,” I said. “If I were in your position, I’m afraid I would have shied away from it.”

“In your place, Mr. Blake, you would have remembered that Mr. Candy had employed you under circumstances that made you indebted to him for life. In my position, you would have seen him deteriorating hour by hour, and you would have risked anything rather than let the one person who had helped you die before your eyes. Don’t think for a moment that I didn’t feel the weight of the terrible situation I had put myself in! There were moments when I felt the full extent of my isolation and the burden of my dreadful responsibility. If I had been a happy man, if I had lived a prosperous life, I believe I would have crumbled under the pressure I had taken on. But I had no happy memories to look back on, no past peace of mind to contrast with my current anxiety and suspense—and I held firm to my resolution through it all.

I took a break in the middle of the day when my patient’s condition was at its best, to gather the strength I needed. For the rest of the twenty-four hours, as long as his life was at risk, I never left his bedside. Towards sunset, as often happens in such cases, the fever-induced delirium set in. It lasted through the night and then ebbed during those dreadful early morning hours—from two to five—when even the healthiest among us are at their weakest. That’s when Death gathers his harvest most abundantly. It was then that I battled with Death over the man lying in that bed. I never wavered in pursuing the treatment on which I had staked everything. When the wine didn’t work, I turned to brandy. When the other stimulants lost their effect, I doubled the dose. After a period of suspense—the likes of which I hope to never experience again—a day came when the rapid pulse slightly, but noticeably, slowed; and even better, there was a change in the rhythm—an unmistakable shift to steadiness and strength.

At that moment, I knew I had saved him, and I admit I broke down. I laid the poor fellow’s wasted hand back on the bed and burst into tears. It was a hysterical relief, Mr. Blake—nothing more! Physiology tells us that some men are born with female constitutions—and I am one of them!”

He offered that bitterly professional apology for his tears, speaking quietly and naturally, just as he had throughout. His tone and manner, from beginning to end, revealed a deep, almost morbid, desire not to present himself as an object of interest to me.

“You might be wondering why I’ve taken the time to share all these details,” he continued. “It’s the only way I can properly introduce what I need to say next. Now that you understand my position during Mr. Candy’s illness, you’ll see why I felt such a pressing need to ease my mind by finding some sort of relief. For the past few years, I’ve taken the liberty of writing a book aimed at my fellow professionals—a book about the complex and sensitive topic of the brain and nervous system. It’s unlikely that I’ll ever finish it, and it will certainly never be published. Still, it has been a companion during many lonely hours and helped me pass the anxious time spent waiting at Mr. Candy’s bedside. I believe I mentioned that he was delirious? And I told you when his delirium set in?”

“Yes.”

“Well, at that time, I was working on a section of my book that dealt with delirium itself. I won’t burden you with my entire theory; I’ll just share what’s relevant to our conversation. Throughout my medical practice, I’ve often questioned whether we can truly assume that a loss of coherent speech means a loss of coherent thought as well. Mr. Candy’s illness gave me a chance to test this theory. I know how to write in shorthand, so I was able to capture his ‘ramblings’ exactly as they came out. Do you see where I’m heading with this, Mr. Blake?”

I understood perfectly and leaned in, eager to hear more.

“During bits of free time,” Ezra Jennings continued, “I transcribed my shorthand notes into regular writing, leaving large gaps between the fragmented phrases and even single words, just as they had come from Mr. Candy’s lips. I then approached the resulting text like a puzzle. At first, it’s all jumbled, but it can be organized if you find the right way to do it. Following this method, I filled in the blanks with what the surrounding words suggested as the speaker’s meaning, revising repeatedly until my additions flowed naturally from the spoken words before them and fit seamlessly with those that followed. The outcome was that I not only occupied many anxious hours but also arrived at something that seemed to confirm my theory. In simpler terms, after piecing together the broken sentences, I found that Mr. Candy’s mind was still capable of coherent thought, even while his ability to express himself was nearly completely impaired.”

“One question!” I interrupted eagerly. “Did my name come up in any of his ramblings?”

“You’ll find out soon enough, Mr. Blake. Among the notes I’ve compiled to support my assertion—or, more accurately, to test it—there is indeed one instance where your name appears. For nearly an entire night, Mr. Candy’s thoughts were focused on something involving you. I have the fragmented words he spoke on one sheet of paper, and the connections I made to piece them together on another. The result, as the mathematicians would say, is a coherent statement—first, about something that happened in the past; second, about something Mr. Candy intended to do in the future, had his illness not intervened. The question is whether this represents the lost memory he struggled to recall when you visited him this morning.”

“Absolutely!” I replied. “Let’s go back right away and look at the papers!”

“That’s not possible, Mr. Blake.”

“Why not?”

“Put yourself in my shoes for a moment,” Ezra Jennings said. “Would you reveal to someone else what your suffering patient and helpless friend had unconsciously let slip without first knowing there was a good reason to justify your words?”

I knew he had a point, but I still tried to argue my case.

“My approach in such a sensitive matter would depend largely on whether the information could compromise my friend,” I countered.

“I’ve long since set aside any need to consider that side of the issue,” Ezra Jennings said. “Wherever my notes contained anything Mr. Candy might have wanted to keep private, I’ve destroyed those notes. My manuscript experiments at my friend’s bedside now include nothing he would have hesitated to share with others if he had regained his memory. But in your case, I have every reason to believe my notes hold something he genuinely wanted to communicate to you.”

“And yet, you hesitate?”

“And yet, I hesitate. Remember the circumstances under which I acquired the information I have! Even though it’s harmless, I can’t bring myself to share it with you unless you first convince me there’s a valid reason for doing so. He was so desperately ill, Mr. Blake, and so completely dependent on me! Is it too much to ask that you give me a hint about your interest in his lost memory—or what you think that memory might be?”

To answer him with the honesty his words and demeanor demanded would mean openly admitting that I was suspected of stealing the Diamond. Despite how much Ezra Jennings had intensified my initial interest in him, I couldn’t shake my deep reluctance to reveal the humiliating position I was in. I fell back on the prepared explanations I had crafted to address the curiosity of strangers.

This time, I had no reason to complain about a lack of attention from the person I was speaking to. Ezra Jennings listened patiently, even anxiously, until I finished.

“I’m sorry to have raised your hopes, Mr. Blake, only to let you down,” he said. “Throughout Mr. Candy’s entire illness, he never once mentioned the Diamond. I assure you, the matter I heard him connect with your name has no discernible relation to the loss or recovery of Miss Verinder’s jewel.”

As he spoke those words, we reached a point where the road we had been walking split into two paths. One led to Mr. Ablewhite’s house, while the other headed toward a moorland village a couple of miles away. Ezra Jennings paused at the road leading to the village.

“My path lies this way,” he said. “I truly am sorry, Mr. Blake, that I can’t be of any help to you.”

His voice conveyed sincerity. His soft brown eyes lingered on me for a moment, filled with a melancholy interest. He bowed and continued on his way to the village without another word.

For a minute, I stood there, watching him walk further and further away, taking with him what I now firmly believed to be the clue I was searching for. After walking a short distance, he turned back and looked at me. Seeing me still standing where we had parted, he hesitated, as if unsure whether I wanted to speak to him again.

I didn’t have time to analyze my situation or remind myself that I was losing my chance at what could be a turning point in my life—all for the sake of my own pride! I only had time to call him back and think later. I suspect I’m one of the rashest people alive. I called him back, and then I told myself, “Now there’s no turning back. I have to tell him the truth!”

He retraced his steps immediately. I moved along the road to meet him.

“Mr. Jennings,” I said, “I haven’t been entirely fair with you. My interest in uncovering Mr. Candy’s lost memory isn’t about recovering the Moonstone. There’s a serious personal matter behind my visit to Yorkshire. I have only one excuse for not being straightforward with you: it’s more painful for me than I can express to reveal my true position to anyone.”

Ezra Jennings looked at me, and for the first time, I noticed a hint of embarrassment in him.

“I have no right, Mr. Blake, and no desire,” he said, “to intrude on your personal affairs. Please allow me to apologize for having (most innocently) put you in such a difficult position.”

“You have every right,” I replied, “to set the terms under which you feel comfortable revealing what you heard at Mr. Candy’s bedside. I understand and respect the delicacy that guides you in this matter. How can I expect you to trust me if I refuse to share my own situation with you? You deserve to know why I’m interested in discovering what Mr. Candy wanted to say to me. If I turn out to be wrong in my assumptions, and if you find yourself unable to help me once you truly understand what I’m after, I trust you to keep my secret—and something tells me I won’t be disappointed.”

“Stop, Mr. Blake. I need to say something before you go any further.”

I stared at him in shock. He was gripped by a powerful emotion that seemed to shake him to his core. His usually warm complexion had turned a sickly gray, his eyes were wild and bright, and his voice had dropped to a low, serious tone I had never heard before. In that moment, I could see the depths of his character, both good and bad, rising to the surface like a sudden flash of lightning.

“Before you trust me,” he continued, “you need to understand the circumstances that brought me into Mr. Candy’s home. It won’t take long. I’m not one to share my story with just anyone. My story will die with me. All I ask is to tell you what I’ve already told Mr. Candy. If, after hearing that, you still want to say what you intended, I will listen and offer my help. Shall we walk?”

The pain etched on his face silenced me. I nodded in response, and we continued on our way.

After walking a few hundred yards, Ezra Jennings stopped at a gap in the rough stone wall that separated the moor from the road.

“Do you mind if we take a break, Mr. Blake?” he asked. “I’m not what I used to be, and some things unsettle me.”

I readily agreed. He led me through the gap to a patch of grass on the heath, sheltered by bushes and small trees on one side, while offering a breathtaking yet desolate view of the vast, brown expanse of the moor on the other. The clouds had rolled in over the last half hour, casting a dull light over everything. Nature’s beauty met us, soft and colorless, devoid of any smile.

We sat in silence. Ezra removed his hat and ran a weary hand over his forehead and through his striking black and white hair. He tossed aside a small bouquet of wildflowers as if the memories they stirred were too painful to bear.

“Mr. Blake!” he said suddenly. “You’re in bad company. A terrible accusation has hung over me for years. I’ll tell you the worst right away. I’m a man whose life is a wreck, and my reputation is ruined.”

I opened my mouth to respond, but he cut me off.

“No,” he said. “Please, not yet. Don’t say anything that you might regret later. I’ve mentioned an accusation that has followed me for years. There are circumstances related to it that work against me. I can’t bring myself to say what the accusation is. And I’m utterly incapable of proving my innocence. I can only claim my innocence. I swear it, as a Christian. It’s pointless to appeal to my honor as a man.”

He paused again. I glanced at him, but he wouldn’t meet my gaze. He seemed lost in the torment of his memories, struggling to find the words to express his pain.

“I could say a lot about how my family has treated me and the relentless hostility I’ve faced,” he continued. “But what’s done is done; the damage is irreversible. I don’t want to burden you, sir, if I can help it. When I first started my career here, the vile rumors I mentioned crushed me completely. I gave up on my dreams—obscurity was all I had left. I had to let go of the woman I loved; how could I let her suffer alongside me in my disgrace?

I took a job as a medical assistant in a remote part of England. It seemed like a chance for peace and anonymity. I was wrong. Bad news travels slowly but surely, and it eventually caught up with me. I sensed it coming and managed to leave my position voluntarily, with good references. They found me another job in another isolated area. Time passed, but once again, the slander that ruined my reputation found me. This time, I had no warning. My employer said, ‘Mr. Jennings, I have no complaints about your work, but you need to clear your name or leave.’ I had no choice—I left.

It’s pointless to dwell on my suffering after that. I’m only forty now, but just look at my face; it tells the story of years filled with misery. Eventually, I ended up here and met Mr. Candy. He needed an assistant. I directed him to my last employer for a reference on my skills, but the question of my character remained. I shared my story with him, and more. I warned him that even if he believed me, there would be challenges ahead. ‘Here, like everywhere else,’ I said, ‘I refuse to live under an assumed name. I’m not any safer in Frizinghall than anywhere else from the shadow that follows me.’

He replied, ‘I don’t do things halfway—I believe you, and I feel for you. If you’re willing to take the risk, so am I.’ God bless him! He has given me shelter, a job, and peace of mind. I’ve been certain for months that nothing will happen to make him regret his decision.”

“The rumors have died down?” I asked.

“The rumors are as alive as ever. But if they come for me here, it will be too late.”

“You’ll have left the place?”

“No, Mr. Blake—I’ll be dead. For the past ten years, I’ve been suffering from an incurable illness. I won’t hide it from you; I would have let the pain kill me long ago if it weren’t for one last reason to live, which still makes my life feel significant. I want to provide for someone very dear to me, someone I’ll never see again. My small inheritance isn’t enough to make her independent. The hope of increasing it to a certain amount has driven me to fight against this disease with whatever means I could find. The only effective remedy for me has been opium. That powerful and merciful drug has given me years of respite from my death sentence. But even opium has its limits. The disease has pushed me from using it to abusing it. I’m finally feeling the consequences. My nervous system is shattered; my nights are filled with terror. The end is near. Let it come—I haven’t lived and worked in vain. I’m almost at my goal, and I have the means to finish it, even if my life runs out sooner than I expect.

I’m not sure how I ended up sharing all this with you. I don’t think I’m low enough to ask for your pity. Perhaps you’ll be more inclined to believe me knowing that I speak with the certainty of a dying man. There’s no denying, Mr. Blake, that you intrigue me. I’ve tried to use my friend’s memory loss to get closer to you. I wondered if you might be curious about what he wanted to say and if I could satisfy that curiosity. Is there any excuse for my intrusion? Maybe there is. A man like me, who has lived as I have, has his bitter moments when he reflects on life. You have youth, health, wealth, a place in the world, and a future ahead of you. People like you show me the bright side of life and help me find peace with the world I’m leaving behind. No matter how this conversation ends, I won’t forget the kindness you’ve shown me. It’s up to you, sir, to share what you intended to say or to wish me good morning.”

I had only one response to his appeal. Without hesitation, I told him the truth, as openly as I have shared it here.

He sprang to his feet, looking at me with a mix of excitement and urgency as I approached the pivotal moment of my story.

“I definitely went into that room,” I said. “I definitely took the Diamond. The only way I can make sense of those two facts is to say that, no matter what I did, I was completely unaware of it.”

Ezra Jennings grabbed my arm, his eyes wide with intensity.

“Wait!” he exclaimed. “You’ve hinted at something more than you realize. Have you ever used opium?”

“I’ve never touched it in my life.”

“Were your nerves unsettled around this time last year? Were you feeling unusually restless or irritable?”

“Yes.”

“Did you sleep poorly?”

“Terribly. There were nights when I didn’t sleep at all.”

“Was the night of your birthday different? Think carefully. Did you sleep well that night?”

“I remember! I slept deeply.”

He released my arm as abruptly as he had seized it, looking at me as if he had just dispelled the last shadow of doubt from his mind.

“This is a significant day for both of us,” he said solemnly. “I’m absolutely certain of one thing, Mr. Blake—I have what Mr. Candy wanted to tell you this morning, from the notes I took at my patient’s bedside. But that’s not all. I truly believe I can prove that you were unaware of your actions when you entered the room and took the Diamond. Give me time to think and to ask you questions. I believe I hold the key to proving your innocence!”

“Please, explain! What do you mean?”

In our excitement, we had walked a few steps beyond the cluster of small trees that had kept us hidden from view. Before Ezra Jennings could respond, a man called out to him from the main road, clearly agitated and looking for him.

“I’m coming!” he shouted back. “I’ll be there as fast as I can!” He turned to me. “There’s an urgent case waiting for me in the village over there; I should have been there half an hour ago. I need to take care of it right away. Give me two hours, and then come back to Mr. Candy’s—I promise I’ll be ready for you.”

“How can I wait?” I said, my impatience growing. “Can’t you ease my mind with a word of explanation before we part?”

“This is far too serious to rush through, Mr. Blake. I’m not trying to frustrate you on purpose—I’d only add to your anxiety if I tried to explain things in this moment. Meet me at Frizinghall in two hours!”

The man on the road called for him again. He hurried off, leaving me standing there, alone.