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- Author: Wilkie Collins
Book online «The Moonstone by Wilkie Collins (top 5 books to read .txt) 📖». Author Wilkie Collins
“This is how it stands,” he said. “I tell you fairly, I don’t trust your discretion, and I don’t trust your temper. But I do trust in Rachel’s still preserving, in some remote little corner of her heart, a certain perverse weakness for you. Touch that—and trust to the consequences for the fullest disclosures that can flow from a woman’s lips! The question is—how are you to see her?”
“She has been a guest of yours at this house,” I answered. “May I venture to suggest—if nothing was said about me beforehand—that I might see her here?”
“Cool!” said Mr. Bruff. With that one word of comment on the reply that I had made to him, he took another turn up and down the room.
“In plain English,” he said, “my house is to be turned into a trap to catch Rachel; with a bait to tempt her, in the shape of an invitation from my wife and daughters. If you were anybody else but Franklin Blake, and if this matter was one atom less serious than it really is, I should refuse point-blank. As things are, I firmly believe Rachel will live to thank me for turning traitor to her in my old age. Consider me your accomplice. Rachel shall be asked to spend the day here; and you shall receive due notice of it.”
“When? Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow won’t give us time enough to get her answer. Say the day after.”
“How shall I hear from you?”
“Stay at home all the morning and expect me to call on you.”
I thanked him for the inestimable assistance which he was rendering to me, with the gratitude that I really felt; and, declining a hospitable invitation to sleep that night at Hampstead, returned to my lodgings in London.
Of the day that followed, I have only to say that it was the longest day of my life. Innocent as I knew myself to be, certain as I was that the abominable imputation which rested on me must sooner or later be cleared off, there was nevertheless a sense of self-abasement in my mind which instinctively disinclined me to see any of my friends. We often hear (almost invariably, however, from superficial observers) that guilt can look like innocence. I believe it to be infinitely the truer axiom of the two that innocence can look like guilt. I caused myself to be denied all day, to every visitor who called; and I only ventured out under cover of the night.
The next morning, Mr. Bruff surprised me at the breakfast-table. He handed me a large key, and announced that he felt ashamed of himself for the first time in his life.
“Is she coming?”
“She is coming today, to lunch and spend the afternoon with my wife and my girls.”
“Are Mrs. Bruff, and your daughters, in the secret?”
“Inevitably. But women, as you may have observed, have no principles. My family don’t feel my pangs of conscience. The end being to bring you and Rachel together again, my wife and daughters pass over the means employed to gain it, as composedly as if they were Jesuits.”
“I am infinitely obliged to them. What is this key?”
“The key of the gate in my back-garden wall. Be there at three this afternoon. Let yourself into the garden, and make your way in by the conservatory door. Cross the small drawing-room, and open the door in front of you which leads into the music-room. There, you will find Rachel—and find her, alone.”
“How can I thank you!”
“I will tell you how. Don’t blame me for what happens afterwards.”
With those words, he went out.
I had many weary hours still to wait through. To while away the time, I looked at my letters. Among them was a letter from Betteredge.
I opened it eagerly. To my surprise and disappointment, it began with an apology warning me to expect no news of any importance. In the next sentence the everlasting Ezra Jennings appeared again! He had stopped Betteredge on the way out of the station, and had asked who I was. Informed on this point, he had mentioned having seen me to his master Mr. Candy. Mr. Candy hearing of this, had himself driven over to Betteredge, to express his regret at our having missed each other. He had a reason for wishing particularly to speak to me; and when I was next in the neighbourhood of Frizinghall, he begged I would let him know. Apart from a few characteristic utterances of the Betteredge philosophy, this was the sum and substance of my correspondent’s letter. The warm-hearted, faithful old man acknowledged that he had written “mainly for the pleasure of writing to me.”
I crumpled up the letter in my pocket, and forgot it the moment after, in the all-absorbing interest of my coming interview with Rachel.
As the clock of Hampstead church struck three, I put Mr. Bruff’s key into the lock of the door in the wall. When I first stepped into the garden, and while I was securing the door again on the inner side, I own to having felt a certain guilty doubtfulness about what might happen next. I looked furtively on either side of me; suspicious of the presence of some unexpected witness in some unknown corner of the garden. Nothing appeared, to justify my apprehensions. The walks were, one and all, solitudes; and the birds and the bees were the only witnesses.
I passed through the garden; entered the conservatory; and crossed the small drawing-room. As I laid my hand on the door opposite, I heard a few plaintive chords struck on the piano in the room within. She had often idled over the instrument in this way, when I was staying at her mother’s house. I was obliged to wait a little, to steady myself. The past and present rose side by side, at that supreme moment—and the contrast shook me.
After the lapse of a minute, I roused my manhood, and opened the door.
At the moment when I showed myself in the doorway, Rachel rose from the piano.
I closed the door behind me. We confronted each other in silence, with the full length of the room between us. The movement she had made in rising appeared to be the one exertion of which she was capable. All use of every other faculty, bodily or mental, seemed to be merged in the mere act of looking at me.
A fear crossed my mind that I had shown myself too suddenly. I advanced a few steps towards her. I said gently, “Rachel!”
The sound of my voice brought the life back to her limbs, and the colour to her face. She advanced, on her side, still without speaking. Slowly, as if acting under some influence independent of her own will, she came nearer and nearer to me; the warm dusky colour flushing her cheeks, the light of reviving intelligence brightening every instant in her eyes. I forgot the object that had brought me into her presence; I forgot the vile suspicion that rested on my good name; I forgot every consideration, past, present, and future, which I was bound to remember. I saw nothing but the woman I loved coming nearer and nearer to me. She trembled; she stood irresolute. I could resist it no longer—I caught her in my arms, and covered her face with kisses.
There was a moment when I thought the kisses were returned; a moment when it seemed as if she, too might have forgotten. Almost before the idea could shape itself in my mind, her first voluntary action made me feel that she remembered. With a cry which was like a cry of horror—with a strength which I doubt if I could have resisted if I had tried—she thrust me back from her. I saw merciless anger in her eyes; I saw merciless contempt on her lips. She looked me over, from head to foot, as she might have looked at a stranger who had insulted her.
“You coward!” she said. “You mean, miserable, heartless coward!”
Those were her first words! The most unendurable reproach that a woman can address to a man, was the reproach that she picked out to address to Me.
“I remember the time, Rachel,” I said, “when you could have told me that I had offended you, in a worthier way than that. I beg your pardon.”
Something of the bitterness that I felt may have communicated itself to my voice. At the first words of my reply, her eyes, which had been turned away the moment before, looked back at me unwillingly. She answered in a low tone, with a sullen submission of manner which was quite new in my experience of her.
“Perhaps there is some excuse for me,” she said. “After what you have done, is it a manly action, on your part, to find your way to me as you have found it today? It seems a cowardly experiment, to try an experiment on my weakness for you. It seems a cowardly surprise, to surprise me into letting you kiss me. But that is only a woman’s view. I ought to have known it couldn’t be your view. I should have done better if I had controlled myself, and said nothing.”
The apology was more unendurable than the insult. The most degraded man living would have felt humiliated by it.
“If my honour was not in your hands,” I said, “I would leave you this instant, and never see you again. You have spoken of what I have done. What have I done?”
“What have you done! You ask that question of me?”
“I ask it.”
“I have kept your infamy a secret,” she answered. “And I have suffered the consequences of concealing it. Have I no claim to be spared the insult of your asking me what you have done? Is all sense of gratitude dead in you? You were once a gentleman. You were once dear to my mother, and dearer still to me——”
Her voice failed her. She dropped into a chair, and turned her back on me, and covered her face with her hands.
I waited a little before I trusted myself to say any more. In that moment of silence, I hardly know which I felt most keenly—the sting which her contempt had planted in me, or the proud resolution which shut me out from all community with her distress.
“If you will not speak first,” I said, “I must. I have come here with something serious to say to you. Will you do me the common justice of listening while I say it?”
She neither moved, nor answered. I made no second appeal to her; I never advanced an inch nearer to her chair. With a pride which was as obstinate as her pride, I told her of my discovery at the Shivering Sand, and of all that had led to it. The narrative, of necessity, occupied some little time. From beginning to end, she never looked round at me, and she never uttered a word.
I kept my temper. My whole future depended, in all probability, on my not losing possession of myself at that moment. The time had come to put Mr. Bruff’s theory to the test. In the breathless interest of trying that experiment, I moved round so as to place myself in front of her.
“I have a question to ask you,” I said. “It obliges me to refer again to a painful subject. Did Rosanna Spearman show you the nightgown. Yes, or No?”
She started to her feet; and walked close up to me of her own accord. Her eyes looked me searchingly in the face, as if to read something there which they had never read yet.
“Are you mad?” she asked.
I still restrained myself. I said quietly, “Rachel, will you answer my question?”
She went on, without heeding me.
“Have you some object to gain which I don’t understand? Some mean fear about the future, in which I am concerned? They say your father’s death has made you a rich man. Have you come here to compensate me for the loss of my Diamond? And have you heart enough left to feel ashamed of your errand? Is that the secret of your pretence of innocence, and your story about Rosanna Spearman? Is there a motive of shame at the bottom of all the falsehood, this time?”
I stopped her there. I could control myself no longer.
“You have done me an infamous wrong!” I broke out hotly. “You suspect me of stealing your Diamond. I have a right to know, and I will know, the reason why!”
“Suspect you!” she exclaimed, her anger rising with mine. “You villain, I saw you take the Diamond with my own eyes!”
The revelation which burst upon me in those words, the overthrow which they instantly accomplished of the whole view of the case on which
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