In the first place, I am in a position to throw the necessary light on certain points of interest which have thus far been left in the dark. Miss Verinder had her own private reason for breaking her marriage engagement—and I was at the bottom of it. Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite had his own private reason for withdrawing all claim to the hand of his charming cousin—and I discovered what it was.
In the second place, it was my good or ill fortune, I hardly know which, to find myself personally involved—at the period of which I am now writing—in the mystery of the Indian Diamond. I had the honour of an interview, at my own office, with an Oriental stranger of distinguished1 manners, who was no other, unquestionably, than the chief of the three Indians. Add to this, that I met with the celebrated2 traveller, Mr. Murthwaite, the day afterwards, and that I held a conversation with him on the subject of the Moonstone, which has a very important bearing on later events. And there you have the statement of my claims to fill the position which I occupy in these pages.
The true story of the broken marriage engagement comes first in point of time, and must therefore take the first place in the present narrative3. Tracing my way back along the chain of events, from one end to the other, I find it necessary to open the scene, oddly enough as you will think, at the bedside of my excellent client and friend, the late Sir John Verinder.
Sir John had his share—perhaps rather a large share—of the more harmless and amiable4 of the weaknesses incidental to humanity. Among these, I may mention as applicable to the matter in hand, an invincible5 reluctance—so long as he enjoyed his usual good health—to face the responsibility of making his will. Lady Verinder exerted her influence to rouse him to a sense of duty in this matter; and I exerted my influence. He admitted the justice of our views—but he went no further than that, until he found himself afflicted6 with the illness which ultimately brought him to his grave. Then, I was sent for at last, to take my client’s instructions on the subject of his will. They proved to be the simplest instructions I had ever received in the whole of my professional career.
Sir John was dozing7, when I entered the room. He roused himself at the sight of me.
“How do you do, Mr. Bruff?” he said. “I sha’n’t be very long about this. And then I’ll go to sleep again.” He looked on with great interest while I collected pens, ink, and paper. “Are you ready?” he asked. I bowed and took a dip of ink, and waited for my instructions.
“I leave everything to my wife,” said Sir John. “That’s all.” He turned round on his pillow, and composed himself to sleep again.
I was obliged to disturb him.
“Am I to understand,” I asked, “that you leave the whole of the property, of every sort and description, of which you die possessed8, absolutely to Lady Verinder?”
“Yes,” said Sir John. “Only, I put it shorter. Why can’t you put it shorter, and let me go to sleep again? Everything to my wife. That’s my Will.”
His property was entirely9 at his own disposal, and was of two kinds. Property in land (I purposely abstain10 from using technical language), and property in money. In the majority of cases, I am afraid I should have felt it my duty to my client to ask him to reconsider his Will. In the case of Sir John, I knew Lady Verinder to be, not only worthy11 of the unreserved trust which her husband had placed in her (all good wives are worthy of that)—but to be also capable of properly administering a trust (which, in my experience of the fair sex, not one in a thousand of them is competent to do). In ten minutes, Sir John’s Will was drawn12, and executed, and Sir John himself, good man, was finishing his interrupted nap.
Lady Verinder amply justified13 the confidence which her husband had placed in her. In the first days of her widowhood, she sent for me, and made her Will. The view she took of her position was so thoroughly14 sound and sensible, that I was relieved of all necessity for advising her. My responsibility began and ended with shaping her instructions into the proper legal form. Before Sir John had been a fortnight in his grave, the future of his daughter had been most wisely and most affectionately provided for.
The Will remained in its fireproof box at my office, through more years than I like to reckon up. It was not till the summer of eighteen hundred and forty-eight that I found occasion to look at it again under very melancholy15 circumstances.
At the date I have mentioned, the doctors pronounced the sentence on poor Lady Verinder, which was literally16 a sentence of death. I was the first person whom she informed of her situation; and I found her anxious to go over her Will again with me.
It was impossible to improve the provisions relating to her daughter. But, in the lapse17 of time, her wishes in regard to certain minor18 legacies19, left to different relatives, had undergone some modification20; and it became necessary to add three or four Codicils21 to the original document. Having done this at once, for fear of accident, I obtained her ladyship’s permission to embody22 her recent instructions in a second Will. My object was to avoid certain inevitable23 confusions and repetitions which now disfigured the original document, and which, to own the truth, grated sadly on my professional sense of the fitness of things.
The execution of this second Will has been described by Miss Clack, who was so obliging as to witness it. So far as regarded Rachel Verinder’s pecuniary24 interests, it was, word for word, the exact counterpart of the first Will. The only changes introduced related to the appointment of a guardian25, and to certain provisions concerning that appointment, which were made under my advice. On Lady Verinder’s death, the Will was placed in the hands of my proctor to be “proved” (as the phrase is) in the usual way.
In about three weeks from that time—as well as I can remember—the first warning reached me of something unusual going on under the surface. I happened to be looking in at my friend the proctor’s office, and I observed that he received me with an appearance of greater interest than usual.
“I have some news for you,” he said. “What do you think I heard at Doctors’ Commons this morning? Lady Verinder’s Will has been asked for, and examined, already!”
This was news indeed! There was absolutely nothing which could be contested in the Will; and there was nobody I could think of who had the slightest interest in examining it. (I shall perhaps do well if I explain in this place, for the benefit of the few people who don’t know it already, that the law allows all Wills to be examined at Doctors’ Commons by anybody who applies, on the payment of a shilling fee.)
“Did you hear who asked for the Will?” I asked.
“Yes; the clerk had no hesitation26 in telling me. Mr. Smalley, of the firm of Skipp and Smalley, asked for it. The Will has not been copied yet into the great Folio Registers. So there was no alternative but to depart from the usual course, and to let him see the original document. He looked it over carefully, and made a note in his pocket-book. Have you any idea of what he wanted with it?”
I shook my head. “I shall find out,” I answered, “before I am a day older.” With that I went back at once to my own office.
If any other firm of solicitors27 had been concerned in this unaccountable examination of my deceased client’s Will, I might have found some difficulty in making the necessary discovery. But I had a hold over Skipp and Smalley which made my course in this matter a comparatively easy one. My common-law clerk (a most competent and excellent man) was a brother of Mr. Smalley’s; and, owing to this sort of indirect connection with me, Skipp and Smalley had, for some years past, picked up the crumbs28 that fell from my table, in the shape of cases brought to my office, which, for various reasons, I did not think it worth while to undertake. My professional patronage29 was, in this way, of some importance to the firm. I intended, if necessary, to remind them of that patronage, on the present occasion.
The moment I got back I spoke30 to my clerk; and, after telling him what had happened, I sent him to his brother’s office, “with Mr. Bruff’s compliments, and he would be glad to know why Messrs. Skipp and Smalley had found it necessary to examine Lady Verinder’s will.”
This message brought Mr. Smalley back to my office in company with his brother. He acknowledged that he had acted under instructions received from a client. And then he put it to me, whether it would not be a breach31 of professional confidence on his part to say more.
We had a smart discussion upon that. He was right, no doubt; and I was wrong. The truth is, I was angry and suspicious—and I insisted on knowing more. Worse still, I declined to consider any additional information offered me, as a secret placed in my keeping: I claimed perfect freedom to use my own discretion32. Worse even than that, I took an unwarrantable 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.” Quite indefensible, I admit—an act of tyranny, and nothing less. Like other tyrants33, I carried my point. Mr. Smalley chose his alternative, without a moment’s hesitation.
He smiled resignedly, and gave up the name of his client:
Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite.
That was enough for me—I wanted to know no more.
Having reached this point in my narrative, it now becomes necessary to place the reader of these lines—so far as Lady Verinder’s Will is concerned—on a footing of perfect equality, in respect of information, with myself.
Let me state, then, in the fewest possible words, that Rachel Verinder had nothing but a life-interest in the property. Her mother’s excellent sense, and my long experience, had combined to relieve her of all responsibility, and to guard her from all danger of becoming the victim in the future of some needy34 and unscrupulous man. Neither she, nor her husband (if she married), could raise sixpence, either on the property in land, or on the property in money. They would have the houses in London and in Yorkshire to live in, and they would have the handsome income—and that was all.
When I came to think over what I had discovered, I was sorely perplexed35 what to do next.
Hardly a week had passed since I had heard (to my surprise and distress36) of Miss Verinder’s proposed marriage. I had the sincerest admiration37 and affection for her; and I had been inexpressibly grieved when I heard that she was about to throw herself away on Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite. And now, here was the man—whom I had always believed to be a smooth-tongued impostor—justifying the very worst that I had thought of him, and plainly revealing the mercenary object of the marriage, on his side! And what of that?—you may reply—the thing is done every day. Granted, my dear sir. But would you think of it quite as lightly as you do, if the thing was done (let us say) with your own sister?
The first consideration which now naturally occurred to me was this. Would Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite hold to his engagement, after what his lawyer had discovered for him?
It depended entirely on his pecuniary position, of which I knew nothing. If that position was not a desperate one, it would be well worth his while to marry Miss Verinder for her income alone. If, on the other hand, he stood in urgent need of realising a large sum by a given time, then Lady Verinder’s Will would exactly meet the case, and would preserve her daughter from falling into a scoundrel’s hands.
In the latter event, there would be no need for me to distress Miss Rachel, in the first days of her mourning for her mother, by an immediate38 revelation of the truth. In the former event, if I remained silent, I should be conniving39 at a marriage which would make her miserable40 for life.
My doubts ended in my calling at the hotel in London, at which I knew Mrs. Ablewhite and Miss Verinder to be staying. They informed me that they were going to Brighton the next day, and that an unexpected obstacle prevented Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite from accompanying them. I at once proposed to take his place. While I was only thinking of Rachel Verinder, it was possible to hesitate. When I actually saw her, my mind was made up directly, come what might of it, to tell her the truth.
I found my opportunity, when I was out walking with her, on the day after my arrival.
“May I speak to you,” I asked, “about your marriage engagement?”
“Yes,” she said, indifferently, “if you have nothing more interesting to talk about.”
“Will you forgive an old friend and servant of your family, Miss Rachel, if I venture on asking whether your heart is set on this marriage?”
“I am marrying in despair, Mr. Bruff—on the chance of dropping into some sort of stagnant41 happiness which may reconcile me to my life.”
Strong language! and suggestive of something below the surface, in the shape of a romance. But I had my own object in view, and I declined (as we lawyers say) to pursue the question into its side issues.
“Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite can hardly be of your way of thinking,” I said. “His heart must be set on the marriage at any rate?”
“He says so, and I suppose I ought to believe him. He would hardly marry me, after what I have owned to him, unless he was fond of me.”
Poor thing! the bare idea of a man marrying her for his own selfish and mercenary ends had never entered her head. The task I had set myself began to look like a harder task than I had bargained for.
“It sounds strangely,” I went on, “in my old-fashioned ears——”
“What sounds strangely?” she asked.
“To hear you speak of your future husband as if you were not quite sure of the sincerity42 of his attachment43. Are you conscious of any reason in your own mind for doubting him?”
Her astonishing quickness of perception, detected a change in my voice, or my manner, when I put that question, which warned her that I had been speaking all along with some ulterior object in view. She stopped, and taking her arm out of mine, looked me searchingly in the face.
“Mr. Bruff,” she said, “you have something to tell me about Godfrey Ablewhite. Tell it.”
I knew her well enough to take her at her word. I told it.
She put her arm again into mine, and walked on with me slowly. I felt her hand tightening44 its grasp mechanically on my arm, and I saw her getting paler and paler as I went on—but, not a word passed her lips while I was speaking. When I had done, she still kept silence. Her head drooped45 a little, and she walked by my side, unconscious of my presence, unconscious of everything about her; lost—buried, I might almost say—in her own thoughts.
I made no attempt to disturb her. My experience of her disposition46 warned me, on this, as on former occasions, to give her time.
The first instinct of girls in general, on being told of anything which interests them, is to ask a multitude of questions, and then to run off, and talk it all over with some favourite friend. Rachel Verinder’s first instinct, under similar circumstances, was to shut herself up in her own mind, and to think it over by herself. This absolute self-dependence is a great virtue47 in a man. In a woman it has a serious drawback of morally separating her from the mass of her sex, and so exposing her to misconstruction by the general opinion. I strongly suspect myself of thinking as the rest of the world think in this matter—except in the case of Rachel Verinder. The self-dependence in her character, was one of its virtues48 in my estimation; partly, no doubt, because I sincerely admired and liked her; partly, because the view I took of her connexion with the loss of the Moonstone was based on my own special knowledge of her disposition. Badly as appearances might look, in the matter of the Diamond—shocking as it undoubtedly49 was to know that she was associated in any way with the mystery of an undiscovered theft—I was satisfied nevertheless that she had done nothing unworthy of her, because I was also satisfied that she had not stirred a step in the business, without shutting herself up in her own mind, and thinking it over first.
We had walked on, for nearly a mile I should say, before Rachel roused herself. She suddenly looked up at me with a faint reflection of her smile of happier times—the most irresistible50 smile I have ever seen on a woman’s face.
“I owe much already to your kindness,” she said. “And I feel more deeply indebted to it now than ever. If you hear any rumours51 of my marriage when you get back to London contradict them at once, on my authority.”
“Have you resolved to break your engagement?” I asked.
“Can you doubt it?” she returned proudly, “after what you have told me!”
“My dear Miss Rachel, you are very young—and you may find more difficulty in withdrawing from your present position than you anticipate. Have you no one—I mean a lady, of course—whom you could consult?”
“No one,” she answered.
It distressed52 me, it did indeed distress me, to hear her say that. She was so young and so lonely—and she bore it so well! The impulse to help her got the better of any sense of my own unfitness which I might have felt under the circumstances; and I stated such ideas on the subject as occurred to me on the spur of the moment, to the best of my ability. I have advised a prodigious53 number of clients, and have dealt with some exceedingly awkward difficulties, in my time. But this was the first occasion on which I had ever found myself advising a young lady how to obtain her release from a marriage engagement. The suggestion I offered amounted briefly54 to this. I recommended her to tell Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite—at a private interview, of course—that he had, to her certain knowledge, betrayed the mercenary nature of the motive55 on his side. She was then to add that their marriage, after what she had discovered, was a simple impossibility—and she was to put it to him, whether he thought it wisest to secure her silence by falling in with her views, or to force her, by opposing them, to make the motive under which she was acting56 generally known. If he attempted to defend himself, or to deny the facts, she was, in that event, to refer him to me.
Miss Verinder listened attentively57 till I had done. She then thanked me very prettily58 for my advice, but informed me at the same time that it was impossible for her to follow it.
“May I ask,” I said, “what objection you see to following it?”
She hesitated—and then met me with a question on her side.
“Suppose you were asked to express your opinion of Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite’s conduct?” she began.
“Yes?”
“What would you call it?”
“I should call it the conduct of a meanly deceitful man.”
“Mr. Bruff! I have believed in that man. I have promised to marry that man. How can I tell him he is mean, how can I tell him he has deceived me, how can I disgrace him in the eyes of the world after that? I have degraded myself by ever thinking of him as my husband. If I say what you tell me to say to him—I am owning that I have degraded myself to his face. I can’t do that. After what has passed between us, I can’t do that! The shame of it would be nothing to him. But the shame of it would be unendurable to me.”
Here was another of the marked peculiarities59 in her character disclosing itself to me without reserve. Here was her sensitive horror of the bare contact with anything mean, blinding her to every consideration of what she owed to herself, hurrying her into a false position which might compromise her in the estimation of all her friends! Up to this time, I had been a little diffident about the propriety60 of the advice I had given to her. But, after what she had just said, I had no sort of doubt that it was the best advice that could have been offered; and I felt no sort of hesitation in pressing it on her again.
She only shook her head, and repeated her objection in other words.
“He has been intimate enough with me to ask me to be his wife. He has stood high enough in my estimation to obtain my consent. I can’t tell him to his face that he is the most contemptible61 of living creatures, after that!”
“But, my dear Miss Rachel,” I remonstrated62, “it’s equally impossible for you to tell him that you withdraw from your engagement without giving some reason for it.”
“I shall say that I have thought it over, and that I am satisfied it will be best for both of us if we part.
“No more than that?”
“No more.”
“Have you thought of what he may say, on his side?”
“He may say what he pleases.”
It was impossible not to admire her delicacy63 and her resolution, and it was equally impossible not to feel that she was putting herself in the wrong. I entreated64 her to consider her own position. I reminded her that she would be exposing herself to the most odious65 misconstruction of her motives66. “You can’t brave public opinion,” I said, “at the command of private feeling.”
“I can,” she answered. “I have done it already.”
“What do you mean?”
“You have forgotten the Moonstone, Mr. Bruff. Have I not braved public opinion, there, with my own private reasons for it?”
Her answer silenced me for the moment. It set me trying to trace the explanation of her conduct, at the time of the loss of the Moonstone, out of the strange avowal67 which had just escaped her. I might perhaps have done it when I was younger. I certainly couldn’t do it now.
I tried a last remonstrance68 before we returned to the house. She was just as immovable as ever. My mind was in a strange conflict of feelings about her when I left her that day. She was obstinate69; she was wrong. She was interesting; she was admirable; she was deeply to be pitied. I made her promise to write to me the moment she had any news to send. And I went back to my business in London, with a mind exceedingly ill at ease.
On the evening of my return, before it was possible for me to receive my promised letter, I was surprised by a visit from Mr. Ablewhite the elder, and was informed that Mr. Godfrey had got his dismissal—and had accepted it—that very day.
With the view I already took of the case, the bare fact stated in the words that I have underlined, revealed Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite’s motive for submission70 as plainly as if he had acknowledged it himself. He needed a large sum of money; and he needed it by a given time. Rachel’s income, which would have helped him to anything else, would not help him here; and Rachel had accordingly released herself, without encountering a moment’s serious opposition71 on his part. If I am told that this is a mere72 speculation73, I ask, in my turn, what other theory will account for his giving up a marriage which would have maintained him in splendour for the rest of his life?
Any exultation74 I might otherwise have felt at the lucky turn which things had now taken, was effectually checked by what passed at my interview with old Mr. Ablewhite.
He came, of course, to know whether I could give him any explanation of Miss Verinder’s extraordinary conduct. It is needless to say that I was quite unable to afford him the information he wanted. The annoyance75 which I thus inflicted76, following on the irritation77 produced by a recent interview with his son, threw Mr. Ablewhite off his guard. Both his looks and his language convinced me that Miss Verinder would find him a merciless man to deal with, when he joined the ladies at Brighton the next day.
I had a restless night, considering what I ought to do next. How my reflections ended, and how thoroughly well founded my distrust of Mr. Ablewhite proved to be, are items of information which (as I am told) have already been put tidily in their proper places, by that exemplary person, Miss Clack. I have only to add—in completion of her narrative—that Miss Verinder found the quiet and repose78 which she sadly needed, poor thing, in my house at Hampstead. She honoured us by making a long stay. My wife and daughters were charmed with her; and, when the executors decided79 on the appointment of a new guardian, I feel sincere pride and pleasure in recording80 that my guest and my family parted like old friends, on either side.
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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invincible
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afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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dozing
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| v.打瞌睡,假寐 n.瞌睡 | |
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possessed
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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abstain
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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drawn
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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thoroughly
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melancholy
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literally
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lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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minor
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legacies
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| n.遗产( legacy的名词复数 )；遗留之物；遗留问题；后遗症 | |
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modification
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codicils
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embody
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inevitable
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pecuniary
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guardian
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hesitation
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solicitors
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crumbs
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patronage
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spoke
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breach
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discretion
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tyrants
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| 专制统治者( tyrant的名词复数 )； 暴君似的人； （古希腊的）僭主； 严酷的事物 | |
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needy
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perplexed
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distress
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admiration
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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conniving
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| v.密谋 ( connive的现在分词 )；搞阴谋；默许；纵容 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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stagnant
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| adj.不流动的，停滞的，不景气的 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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tightening
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| 上紧，固定，紧密 | |
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drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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prettily
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| adv.优美地；可爱地 | |
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peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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remonstrated
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 )；告诫 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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recording
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| n.录音，记录 | |
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