الفصل الفصل 35 · Chapter I

In the spring of the year eighteen hundred and forty-nine I was

wandering in the East, and had then recently altered the travelling

plans which I had laid out some months before, and which I had

communicated to my lawyer and my banker in London.

This change made it necessary for me to send one of my servants to

obtain my letters and remittances from the English consul in a certain

city, which was no longer included as one of my resting-places in my

new travelling scheme. The man was to join me again at an appointed

place and time. An accident, for which he was not responsible, delayed

him on his errand. For a week I and my people waited, encamped on the

borders of a desert. At the end of that time the missing man made his

appearance, with the money and the letters, at the entrance of my tent.

“I am afraid I bring you bad news, sir,” he said, and pointed to one of

the letters, which had a mourning border round it, and the address on

which was in the handwriting of Mr. Bruff.

I know nothing, in a case of this kind, so unendurable as suspense. The

letter with the mourning border was the letter that I opened first.

It informed me that my father was dead, and that I was heir to his

great fortune. The wealth which had thus fallen into my hands brought

its responsibilities with it, and Mr. Bruff entreated me to lose no

time in returning to England.

By daybreak the next morning, I was on my way back to my own country.

The picture presented of me, by my old friend Betteredge, at the time

of my departure from England, is (as I think) a little overdrawn. He

has, in his own quaint way, interpreted seriously one of his young

mistress’s many satirical references to my foreign education; and has

persuaded himself that he actually saw those French, German, and

Italian sides to my character, which my lively cousin only professed to

discover in jest, and which never had any real existence, except in our

good Betteredge’s own brain. But, barring this drawback, I am bound to

own that he has stated no more than the truth in representing me as

wounded to the heart by Rachel’s treatment, and as leaving England in

the first keenness of suffering caused by the bitterest disappointment

of my life.

I went abroad, resolved—if change and absence could help me—to forget

her. It is, I am persuaded, no true view of human nature which denies

that change and absence _do_ help a man under these circumstances; they

force his attention away from the exclusive contemplation of his own

sorrow. I never forgot her; but the pang of remembrance lost its worst

bitterness, little by little, as time, distance, and novelty interposed

themselves more and more effectually between Rachel and me.

On the other hand, it is no less certain that, with the act of turning

homeward, the remedy which had gained its ground so steadily, began

now, just as steadily, to drop back. The nearer I drew to the country

which she inhabited, and to the prospect of seeing her again, the more

irresistibly her influence began to recover its hold on me. On leaving

England she was the last person in the world whose name I would have

suffered to pass my lips. On returning to England, she was the first

person I inquired after, when Mr. Bruff and I met again.

I was informed, of course, of all that had happened in my absence; in

other words, of all that has been related here in continuation of

Betteredge’s narrative—one circumstance only being excepted. Mr. Bruff

did not, at that time, feel himself at liberty to inform me of the

motives which had privately influenced Rachel and Godfrey Ablewhite in

recalling the marriage promise, on either side. I troubled him with no

embarrassing questions on this delicate subject. It was relief enough

to me, after the jealous disappointment caused by hearing that she had

ever contemplated being Godfrey’s wife, to know that reflection had

convinced her of acting rashly, and that she had effected her own

release from her marriage engagement.

Having heard the story of the past, my next inquiries (still inquiries

after Rachel!) advanced naturally to the present time. Under whose care

had she been placed after leaving Mr. Bruff’s house? and where was she

living now?

She was living under the care of a widowed sister of the late Sir John

Verinder—one Mrs. Merridew—whom her mother’s executors had requested to

act as guardian, and who had accepted the proposal. They were reported

to me as getting on together admirably well, and as being now

established, for the season, in Mrs. Merridew’s house in Portland

Place.

Half an hour after receiving this information, I was on my way to

Portland Place—without having had the courage to own it to Mr. Bruff!

The man who answered the door was not sure whether Miss Verinder was at

home or not. I sent him upstairs with my card, as the speediest way of

setting the question at rest. The man came down again with an

impenetrable face, and informed me that Miss Verinder was out.

I might have suspected other people of purposely denying themselves to

me. But it was impossible to suspect Rachel. I left word that I would

call again at six o’clock that evening.

At six o’clock I was informed for the second time that Miss Verinder

was not at home. Had any message been left for me? No message had been

left for me. Had Miss Verinder not received my card? The servant begged

my pardon—Miss Verinder _had_ received it.

The inference was too plain to be resisted. Rachel declined to see me.

On my side, I declined to be treated in this way, without making an

attempt, at least, to discover a reason for it. I sent up my name to

Mrs. Merridew, and requested her to favour me with a personal interview

at any hour which it might be most convenient to her to name.

Mrs. Merridew made no difficulty about receiving me at once. I was

shown into a comfortable little sitting-room, and found myself in the

presence of a comfortable little elderly lady. She was so good as to

feel great regret and much surprise, entirely on my account. She was at

the same time, however, not in a position to offer me any explanation,

or to press Rachel on a matter which appeared to relate to a question

of private feeling alone. This was said over and over again, with a

polite patience that nothing could tire; and this was all I gained by

applying to Mrs. Merridew.

My last chance was to write to Rachel. My servant took a letter to her

the next day, with strict instructions to wait for an answer.

The answer came back, literally in one sentence.

“Miss Verinder begs to decline entering into any correspondence with

Mr. Franklin Blake.”

Fond as I was of her, I felt indignantly the insult offered to me in

that reply. Mr. Bruff came in to speak to me on business, before I had

recovered possession of myself. I dismissed the business on the spot,

and laid the whole case before him. He proved to be as incapable of

enlightening me as Mrs. Merridew herself. I asked him if any slander

had been spoken of me in Rachel’s hearing. Mr. Bruff was not aware of

any slander of which I was the object. Had she referred to me in any

way while she was staying under Mr. Bruff’s roof? Never. Had she not so

much as asked, during all my long absence, whether I was living or

dead? No such question had ever passed her lips. I took out of my

pocket-book the letter which poor Lady Verinder had written to me from

Frizinghall, on the day when I left her house in Yorkshire. And I

pointed Mr. Bruff’s attention to these two sentences in it:

“The valuable assistance which you rendered to the inquiry after the

lost jewel is still an unpardoned offence, in the present dreadful

state of Rachel’s mind. Moving blindfold in this matter, you have added

to the burden of anxiety which she has had to bear, by innocently

threatening her secret with discovery through your exertions.”

“Is it possible,” I asked, “that the feeling towards me which is there

described, is as bitter as ever against me now?”

Mr. Bruff looked unaffectedly distressed.

“If you insist on an answer,” he said, “I own I can place no other

interpretation on her conduct than that.”

I rang the bell, and directed my servant to pack my portmanteau, and to

send out for a railway guide. Mr. Bruff asked, in astonishment, what I

was going to do.

“I am going to Yorkshire,” I answered, “by the next train.”

“May I ask for what purpose?”

“Mr. Bruff, the assistance I innocently rendered to the inquiry after

the Diamond was an unpardoned offence, in Rachel’s mind, nearly a year

since; and it remains an unpardoned offence still. I won’t accept that

position! I am determined to find out the secret of her silence towards

her mother, and her enmity towards _me_. If time, pains, and money can

do it, I will lay my hand on the thief who took the Moonstone!”

The worthy old gentleman attempted to remonstrate—to induce me to

listen to reason—to do his duty towards me, in short. I was deaf to

everything that he could urge. No earthly consideration would, at that

moment, have shaken the resolution that was in me.

“I shall take up the inquiry again,” I went on, “at the point where I

dropped it; and I shall follow it onwards, step by step, till I come to

the present time. There are missing links in the evidence, as _I_ left

it, which Gabriel Betteredge can supply, and to Gabriel Betteredge I

go!”

Towards sunset that evening I stood again on the well-remembered

terrace, and looked once more at the peaceful old country house. The

gardener was the first person whom I saw in the deserted grounds. He

had left Betteredge, an hour since, sunning himself in the customary

corner of the back yard. I knew it well; and I said I would go and seek

him myself.

I walked round by the familiar paths and passages, and looked in at the

open gate of the yard.

There he was—the dear old friend of the happy days that were never to

come again—there he was in the old corner, on the old beehive chair,

with his pipe in his mouth, and his _Robinson Crusoe_ on his lap, and

his two friends, the dogs, dozing on either side of him! In the

position in which I stood, my shadow was projected in front of me by

the last slanting rays of the sun. Either the dogs saw it, or their

keen scent informed them of my approach; they started up with a growl.

Starting in his turn, the old man quieted them by a word, and then

shaded his failing eyes with his hand, and looked inquiringly at the

figure at the gate.

My own eyes were full of tears. I was obliged to wait a moment before I

could trust myself to speak to him.