FOURTH NARRATIVE (1/3)

by Wilkie Collins

**Extracted from the Journal of Ezra Jennings**

June 15, 1849

After a night filled with interruptions from patients and my own pain, I finally finished my letter to Miss Verinder just in time for today’s post. I couldn’t keep it as brief as I had hoped, but I believe I made my intentions clear. The letter leaves her entirely in control of her decision. If she agrees to assist with the experiment, it will be entirely her choice, not a favor to Mr. Franklin Blake or to me.

June 16

I woke up late after a terrible night, haunted by the effects of yesterday’s opium, which chased me through a series of horrifying dreams. At one point, I found myself spinning through empty space, surrounded by the phantoms of the dead—friends and enemies alike. In another moment, the one face I will never see again appeared at my bedside, glowing eerily in the darkness, grinning at me in a grotesque manner.

A slight return of my usual morning pain was almost welcome. It broke the spell of those visions, and I could tolerate it simply because it was a change.

My restless night made it late before I could visit Mr. Franklin Blake. I found him stretched out on the sofa, having breakfast with a glass of brandy and soda water and a dry biscuit.

“I’m starting off just as you could wish,” he said. “A miserable, restless night, and I have no appetite this morning. Just like last year when I quit smoking cigars. The sooner I can have my second dose of laudanum, the better.”

“You’ll have it as soon as possible,” I replied. “But we need to be careful about your health. If you exhaust yourself, we’ll fail. You need to work up an appetite for dinner. In other words, you should take a ride or a walk this morning to get some fresh air.”

“I’ll ride if they can find me a horse around here. By the way, I wrote to Mr. Bruff yesterday. Have you written to Miss Verinder?”

“Yes, I sent it off last night.”

“Great. We’ll have some news worth sharing tomorrow. But don’t leave yet! I need to talk to you about something. You seemed to think yesterday that our opium experiment might not be well-received by some of my friends. You were right. I consider old Gabriel Betteredge a friend, and you’ll find it amusing that he strongly protested when I saw him yesterday. ‘You’ve done a lot of foolish things in your life, Mr. Franklin, but this tops them all!’ That’s Betteredge’s opinion! I’m sure you’ll understand his prejudices if you happen to meet him.”

I left Mr. Blake to attend to my patients, feeling better and happier even after our brief conversation.

What is it about this man that draws me in? Is it simply the contrast between his open kindness and the harsh distrust I face from others? Or is there something in him that resonates with my deep longing for human connection—a longing that has survived years of solitude and persecution, growing stronger as I approach the end of my own journey? It seems pointless to ponder these questions. Mr. Blake has given me a new interest in life, and that should be enough without delving into what that interest truly is.

June 17

Before breakfast this morning, Mr. Candy informed me that he would be away for two weeks, visiting a friend in the south of England. He gave me an overwhelming number of instructions about the patients, as if he still had the large practice he once did before falling ill. That practice is worth little now. Other doctors have taken over, and no one who can avoid it will come to me.

Perhaps it’s fortunate he’s leaving at this time. He would have been upset if I had told him about the experiment I plan to conduct with Mr. Blake. I can only imagine the undesirable consequences that might have arisen if I had confided in him. It’s better this way. Undoubtedly, it’s better this way.

The post brought me Miss Verinder’s reply after Mr. Candy had left the house.

What a delightful letter! It really boosts my opinion of her. She doesn’t hide her interest in what’s happening. In the sweetest way, she tells me that my letter has convinced her of Mr. Blake’s innocence, without needing to verify my claim. She even scolds herself—poor thing, so unfairly!—for not realizing sooner what the true answer to the mystery might be.

Her motivation clearly goes beyond just wanting to make amends for a wrong she unintentionally caused. It’s obvious she has loved him all along, even during their time apart. In several places, her joy at discovering he deserves to be loved breaks through the formalities of her writing, defying even the stronger restraint of addressing a stranger.

As I read this lovely letter, I can’t help but wonder if I, of all people, am meant to help bring these two young people back together. My own happiness has been crushed; my own love has been ripped away. Will I live to see the happiness of others that I’ve helped create—a love rekindled that I’ve facilitated? Oh, merciful Death, let me witness it before you embrace me, before you whisper to me, “Rest at last!”

The letter contains two requests. One of them prevents me from sharing it with Mr. Franklin Blake. I’m allowed to tell him that Miss Verinder is happy to offer her house for our use, but beyond that, I’m instructed to say nothing more.

So far, it’s easy to comply with her wishes. However, the second request puts me in a difficult position.

Not only has she written to Mr. Betteredge, instructing him to follow my directions, but Miss Verinder also wants to help by personally overseeing the restoration of her sitting room. She’s just waiting for my reply to make the trip to Yorkshire and be present as one of the witnesses when the opium is tested again.

Once again, there’s a deeper motive here, and I think I can see it.

What she has asked me not to tell Mr. Franklin Blake, she seems eager to share with him herself, before he faces the test that will clear his name in the eyes of others. I understand and admire her desire to absolve him without waiting for the proof of his innocence. It’s her way of making amends, poor girl, for the innocent wrong she has done him. But this simply can’t happen. I’m certain that the emotions stirred by their meeting—reviving old feelings, calling forth memories, igniting new hopes—would be detrimental to Mr. Blake’s state of mind and could jeopardize our experiment.

It’s already challenging enough to recreate the conditions as they were last year. Introducing new feelings and emotions would make the attempt futile.

Yet, knowing this, I can’t bring myself to disappoint her. I need to find a way to respond positively to Miss Verinder before the post leaves, without compromising my duty to Mr. Franklin Blake.

Two o’clock. I’ve just returned from my medical rounds, starting, of course, at the hotel.

Mr. Blake’s report from last night remains unchanged. He’s had a few broken sleep intervals, nothing more. However, he feels a bit better today, having managed to sleep after dinner yesterday. I suspect that nap was due to the ride I suggested he take. I worry I’ll have to limit his restorative time outdoors. He can’t be too well; he can’t be too ill. It’s a delicate balance, as a sailor would say.

He hasn’t heard from Mr. Bruff yet. He was eager to know if I had received any response from Miss Verinder.

I told him exactly what I was allowed to share, and nothing more. There was no need to make excuses for not showing him the letter. He bitterly acknowledged the delicacy that kept me from revealing it. “She consents, of course, out of common courtesy and justice,” he said. “But she holds her own opinion of me and waits to see the outcome.” I was tempted to suggest that he was wronging her just as she had wronged him. But on reflection, I hesitated to spoil her chance to surprise him and forgive him.

My visit was brief. After the ordeal of the other night, I found myself forced to give up my dose of opium once again. As a result, the pain from my illness surged back, taking control. I sensed the attack coming on and left abruptly, not wanting to alarm or upset him. This episode lasted only about fifteen minutes, but it drained me enough to continue with my work.

Five o’clock. I’ve written my response to Miss Verinder.

The plan I proposed balances the interests of both parties, if she agrees to it. I first outlined the reasons against a meeting between Mr. Blake and her before we attempt the experiment. I suggested that she time her journey to arrive at the house discreetly on the evening we plan to proceed. If she takes the afternoon train from London, she would reach us by nine o’clock. At that time, I’ll ensure Mr. Blake is safely settled in his bedroom, allowing Miss Verinder to occupy her own rooms until it’s time to administer the laudanum. Once that’s done, she can join us in observing the results. The next morning, she can show Mr. Blake her correspondence with me, reassuring him that he was cleared in her eyes before we put his innocence to the test.

That’s what I wrote to her. It’s all I can manage today. Tomorrow, I need to meet with Mr. Betteredge and give the necessary instructions to reopen the house.

June 18th. I was late again in visiting Mr. Franklin Blake. I experienced more of that dreadful pain in the early morning, followed by complete exhaustion for several hours. Despite the toll it takes on me, I see that I’ll have to return to the opium for the hundredth time. If it were just me, I’d choose the sharp pains over the terrifying dreams. But the physical suffering wears me down. If I let myself fall apart, I might become useless to Mr. Blake when he needs me the most.

It was nearly one o’clock by the time I reached the hotel today. Even in my weakened state, the visit turned out to be quite entertaining—thanks entirely to Gabriel Betteredge’s presence.

When I entered the room, I found him looking out the window. I asked my usual first question to my patient. Mr. Blake had slept poorly again, and he felt the effects of his restless night more acutely than before.

Next, I asked if he had heard from Mr. Bruff.

He had received a letter that morning. Mr. Bruff expressed strong disapproval of the course his friend and client was taking under my advice. He considered it reckless, raising hopes that might never materialize. To him, it seemed like a form of trickery, akin to mesmerism or clairvoyance. It unsettled Miss Verinder’s household and would ultimately unsettle her as well. He had presented the situation (without naming names) to a respected physician, who had merely smiled, shaken his head, and said nothing. On these grounds, Mr. Bruff lodged his protest and left it at that.

I then inquired about the Diamond. Had the lawyer provided any evidence that the jewel was in London?

No, the lawyer had simply refused to discuss it. He was convinced that the Moonstone had been pledged to Mr. Luker. His esteemed absent friend, Mr. Murthwaite—whose deep understanding of Indian character was beyond question—was also convinced. Given the many demands already placed on him, he declined to engage in any disputes about evidence. Time would tell, and Mr. Bruff was willing to wait.

It was clear—even without Mr. Blake explicitly stating it—that there was a fundamental distrust of me underlying all this. I had anticipated this outcome, so I was neither hurt nor surprised. I asked Mr. Blake if his friend’s protest had affected him. He firmly stated that it hadn’t influenced him at all. With that, I felt free to dismiss Mr. Bruff from my thoughts—and I did just that.

A pause followed in our conversation, and Gabriel Betteredge stepped away from the window.

“Could you spare me a moment of your attention, sir?” he asked, directing his inquiry at me.

“I’m all yours,” I replied.

Betteredge took a seat at the table, pulling out a large, old-fashioned leather pocketbook and a pencil that matched its size. After putting on his spectacles, he opened the pocketbook to a blank page and addressed me once more.

“I’ve been around for nearly fifty years,” Betteredge said, fixing me with a serious look. “I served my late lady all that time. Before that, I was a page-boy for her father, the old lord. Now, I’m somewhere between seventy and eighty—let’s not get hung up on the details! I’ve seen and learned a lot about the world, probably more than most. And what does it all come down to? It comes down to a magic trick being pulled on Mr. Franklin Blake by a doctor’s assistant with a bottle of laudanum. And here I am, in my old age, playing the role of the magician’s assistant!”

Mr. Blake burst into laughter. I opened my mouth to respond, but Betteredge raised his hand, signaling that he wasn’t finished.

“Not a word from you, Mr. Jennings!” he said firmly. “This isn’t about what you think. I have my principles, thank God. If I get an order that’s as crazy as something from Bedlam, it doesn’t matter. As long as it comes from my master or mistress, I follow it. I might have my own opinion, which, by the way, aligns with Mr. Bruff’s—the Great Mr. Bruff!” Betteredge raised his voice, shaking his head at me with a serious expression. “But that doesn’t matter; I’ll set my opinion aside. My young lady says, ‘Do it.’ So I say, ‘Miss, it shall be done.’ Here I am, with my notebook and pencil—though the pencil isn’t as sharp as I’d like. But when people lose their minds, who can expect pencils to stay sharp? Give me your orders, Mr. Jennings. I’ll write them down. I’m determined not to stray from them, not by a hair’s breadth. I’m a blind agent—that’s what I am. A blind agent!” Betteredge repeated this last part with great satisfaction.

“I’m really sorry,” I began, “that we don’t see eye to eye—”

“Don’t drag me into this!” Betteredge interrupted. “This isn’t about agreement; it’s about obedience. Just give your orders, sir—issue your directions!”

Mr. Blake gestured for me to take him seriously. I “issued my directions” as clearly and seriously as I could.

“I want certain parts of the house reopened,” I said, “and furnished just like they were this time last year.”

Betteredge licked his pencil tip, preparing to write. “Name the parts, Mr. Jennings!” he said with a sense of importance.

“First, the inner hall that leads to the main staircase.”

“‘First, the inner hall,’” Betteredge wrote. “That can’t be done, sir, as it was furnished last year—not to start with.”

“Why not?”

“Because there was a stuffed buzzard in the hall last year, Mr. Jennings. When the family left, the buzzard was put away with the other things. And when the buzzard was put away, it burst.”

“Then we’ll just leave out the buzzard.”

Betteredge noted that down. “‘The inner hall to be furnished again, as it was last year. A burst buzzard excluded.’ Please continue, Mr. Jennings.”

“The carpet needs to be laid down on the stairs, just like before.”

“‘The carpet to be laid down on the stairs, as before.’ I’m sorry to disappoint you, sir, but that can’t be done either.”

“Why not?”

“Because the man who laid that carpet is dead, Mr. Jennings. You won’t find anyone like him in all of England who can match a carpet to a corner.”

“Very well. We’ll have to try the next best man in England.”

Betteredge made another note, and I continued with my instructions.

“Miss Verinder’s sitting room needs to be restored exactly as it was last year. Also, the corridor leading from the sitting room to the first landing. And the second corridor, leading from the second landing to the best bedrooms. Lastly, the bedroom that Mr. Franklin Blake occupied last June.”

Betteredge’s pencil diligently followed my words. “Go on, sir,” he said with a mock seriousness. “There’s still plenty of writing left in this pencil.”

I told him I had no more directions to give. “In that case,” Betteredge said, “I have a couple of points I’d like to make.” He opened his notebook to a fresh page and gave his pencil another lick.

“I’d like to know,” he began, “if I may, or may not, wash my hands—”

“You can definitely wash your hands,” Mr. Blake interrupted. “I’ll ring for the waiter.”

“—of certain responsibilities,” Betteredge continued, ignoring Mr. Blake and focusing solely on me. “Starting with Miss Verinder’s sitting room. When we lifted the carpet last year, Mr. Jennings, we found an astonishing number of pins. Am I responsible for putting those pins back?”

“Absolutely not.”

Betteredge noted that down immediately.

“Let’s talk about the first corridor,” he said, picking up where he left off. “When we moved the decorations in that area, we had to shift a statue of a chubby, naked child—rather irreverently labeled in the house catalog as ‘Cupid, god of Love.’ Last year, he had two wings sprouting from his shoulders. I took my eyes off him for just a moment, and now he’s missing one. Am I responsible for Cupid’s wing?”

I conceded again, and Betteredge jotted down another note.

“Now, regarding the second corridor,” he continued. “Last year, it only had the doors to the rooms, and I can vouch for that if needed. So, I feel secure about that part of the house. But when it comes to Mr. Franklin’s bedroom—if it’s going back to how it was before—I need to know who’s responsible for keeping it in a constant state of chaos. His trousers here, his towels there, and his French novels scattered everywhere. So, who’s to blame for the mess in Mr. Franklin’s room, him or me?”

Mr. Blake promptly declared he would take full responsibility with pleasure. But Betteredge stubbornly refused to accept any resolution without first getting my approval. I agreed to Mr. Blake’s offer, and Betteredge made one final entry in his notebook to confirm it.

“Feel free to check in whenever you want, Mr. Jennings, starting tomorrow,” he said, standing up. “I’ll be hard at work, with the necessary help. I sincerely thank you for overlooking the matter of the stuffed buzzard and Cupid’s wing, as well as for letting me wash my hands of any responsibility regarding the pins on the carpet and the mess in Mr. Franklin’s room. As a servant, I’m truly grateful. But as a man, I think you’re a bit misguided, and I’ll stand against your experiment as a delusion and a trap. Don’t worry, though; my feelings as a man won’t interfere with my duties as a servant! You’ll have my obedience. Maggots or not, sir, you’ll be obeyed. And if it ends with you setting the house on fire, I swear I won’t call for the fire department unless you ring the bell and order it!”

With that, he bowed and left the room.

“Can we really count on him?” I asked.

“Absolutely,” Mr. Blake replied. “When we go to the house, we’ll find everything in order.”

June 19th.—Another protest against our planned activities! This time, it’s from a lady.

In the morning mail, I received two letters. One was from Miss Verinder, kindly agreeing to the arrangement I proposed. The other was from the woman looking after her—Mrs. Merridew.

Mrs. Merridew sends her regards and admits she doesn’t quite grasp the scientific details of my correspondence with Miss Verinder. However, she feels free to share her opinion on the social implications. She believes I might not realize that Miss Verinder is barely nineteen. Allowing a young lady of her age to be present (without a chaperone) in a house full of men while a medical experiment is underway is, in Mrs. Merridew’s view, a serious breach of propriety that she cannot allow. If this goes ahead, she feels it’s her duty—at a considerable personal inconvenience—to accompany Miss Verinder to Yorkshire. Given these circumstances, she kindly asks me to reconsider, as Miss Verinder insists on following my guidance. Her presence isn’t necessary, and a word from me would relieve both Mrs. Merridew and myself of an uncomfortable responsibility.

Translated from polite language into straightforward terms, this means that Mrs. Merridew is terrified of public opinion. Unfortunately, she has turned to the last person who would care about that opinion. I won’t let Miss Verinder down, and I won’t delay a reunion between two people who love each other and have already been apart for too long. In more polite terms, this means that Mr. Jennings sends his regards to Mrs. Merridew and regrets that he cannot justify further involvement in the matter.

Mr. Blake’s update this morning was the same as before. We decided not to disturb Betteredge by checking in on him at the house today. Tomorrow will be soon enough for our first inspection.

June 20th.—Mr. Blake is starting to feel restless at night again. The sooner we refurnish the rooms, the better.

As we made our way to the house this morning, Mr. Blake turned to me, a hint of nervousness in his voice, and asked for my thoughts on a letter he had received from Sergeant Cuff, forwarded from London.

The Sergeant, writing from Ireland, acknowledged a card and message that Mr. Blake had left at his home near Dorking. He mentioned that he would likely return to England within a week. In the meantime, he requested that Mr. Blake share his reasons for wanting to speak with him about the Moonstone. If Mr. Blake could prove that the Sergeant had made any significant errors during his investigation of the Diamond last year, he would feel it was his duty—given the generous treatment he received from the late Lady Verinder—to make himself available. If not, he preferred to remain in his peaceful retirement, enjoying the simple pleasures of country life.

After reading the letter, I had no doubts in advising Mr. Blake to reply to Sergeant Cuff, detailing everything that had transpired since the inquiry was put on hold last year, allowing him to draw his own conclusions from the facts.

Then, on second thought, I suggested inviting the Sergeant to witness the experiment if he returned to England in time. Having him there would be invaluable; and if I turned out to be wrong about the Diamond being hidden in Mr. Blake’s room, his insights could prove crucial later on in the process, which I wouldn’t be able to control. This last point seemed to sway Mr. Blake, and he agreed to follow my suggestion.

As we drove up to the house, the sound of hammering greeted us, signaling that the refurbishment was well underway.

Betteredge, dressed for the occasion in a bright red fisherman’s cap and a green apron, met us in the outer hall. The moment he spotted me, he pulled out his pocketbook and pencil, insisting on jotting down everything I said. No matter where we looked, we found, just as Mr. Blake had predicted, that the work was progressing quickly and efficiently. However, there was still a lot to be done in the inner hall and in Miss Verinder’s room. It seemed unlikely that the house would be ready for us before the end of the week.

After congratulating Betteredge on the progress he had made—he continued to take notes every time I spoke, ignoring Mr. Blake entirely—and promising to return for another inspection in a couple of days, we prepared to leave through the back. Just before we exited the downstairs passages, Betteredge stopped me as I was passing the door to his room.

“Could I have a word with you in private?” he asked, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

I agreed, of course. Mr. Blake went ahead to wait for me in the garden while I followed Betteredge into his room. I expected him to ask for some new favor, following the precedent set by the stuffed buzzard and Cupid’s wing. To my surprise, Betteredge placed a hand on my arm and asked me an unexpected question.

“Mr. Jennings, do you know _Robinson Crusoe_?”

I replied that I had read it as a child.

“Not since then?” he pressed.

“Not since then.”

He stepped back, looking at me with a mix of pity and curiosity, tinged with a touch of superstition.

“He hasn’t read _Robinson Crusoe_ since he was a child,” Betteredge murmured to himself, not to me. “Let’s see how _Robinson Crusoe_ strikes him now!”

He opened a cupboard in the corner and pulled out a worn, dog-eared copy of the book that smelled strongly of stale tobacco as he flipped through the pages. Finding a passage he seemed to be looking for, he beckoned me to join him in the corner, still speaking in hushed tones.

“Regarding this hocus-pocus of yours, sir, with the laudanum and Mr. Franklin Blake,” he began. “While the workers are in the house, my duties as a servant take precedence over my feelings as a man. But when they leave, my feelings as a man take over my duties as a servant. Last night, Mr. Jennings, I had a strong feeling that this new medical venture of yours would end badly. If I had given in to that instinct, I would have put all the furniture back myself and sent the workers away when they arrived this morning.”