The Moonstone
appropriate words on this solemn occasion. But Mr. Bruff’s manner
convinced me that it was wisest to check the impulse while he was in
the room. In less than two minutes it was all over—and Samuel
(unbenefited by what I might have said) had gone downstairs again.
Mr. Bruff folded up the Will, and then looked my way; apparently
wondering whether I did or did not mean to leave him alone with my
aunt. I had my mission of mercy to fulfil, and my bag of precious
publications ready on my lap. He might as well have expected to move
St. Paul’s Cathedral by looking at it, as to move Me. There was one
merit about him (due no doubt to his worldly training) which I have no
wish to deny. He was quick at seeing things. I appeared to produce
almost the same impression on him which I had produced on the cabman.
_He_ too uttered a profane expression, and withdrew in a violent hurry,
and left me mistress of the field.
As soon as we were alone, my aunt reclined on the sofa, and then
alluded, with some appearance of confusion, to the subject of her Will.
“I hope you won’t think yourself neglected, Drusilla,” she said. “I
mean to _give_ you your little legacy, my dear, with my own hand.”
Here was a golden opportunity! I seized it on the spot. In other words,
I instantly opened my bag, and took out the top publication. It proved
to be an early edition—only the twenty-fifth—of the famous anonymous
work (believed to be by precious Miss Bellows), entitled _The Serpent
at Home_. The design of the book—with which the worldly reader may not
be acquainted—is to show how the Evil One lies in wait for us in all
the most apparently innocent actions of our daily lives. The chapters
best adapted to female perusal are “Satan in the Hair Brush;” “Satan
behind the Looking Glass;” “Satan under the Tea Table;” “Satan out of
the Window”—and many others.
“Give your attention, dear aunt, to this precious book—and you will
give me all I ask.” With those words, I handed it to her open, at a
marked passage—one continuous burst of burning eloquence! Subject:
Satan among the Sofa Cushions.
Poor Lady Verinder (reclining thoughtlessly on her own sofa cushions)
glanced at the book, and handed it back to me looking more confused
than ever.
“I’m afraid, Drusilla,” she said, “I must wait till I am a little
better, before I can read that. The doctor——”
The moment she mentioned the doctor’s name, I knew what was coming.
Over and over again in my past experience among my perishing
fellow-creatures, the members of the notoriously infidel profession of
Medicine had stepped between me and my mission of mercy—on the
miserable pretence that the patient wanted quiet, and that the
disturbing influence of all others which they most dreaded, was the
influence of Miss Clack and her Books. Precisely the same blinded
materialism (working treacherously behind my back) now sought to rob me
of the only right of property that my poverty could claim—my right of
spiritual property in my perishing aunt.
“The doctor tells me,” my poor misguided relative went on, “that I am
not so well today. He forbids me to see any strangers; and he orders
me, if I read at all, only to read the lightest and the most amusing
books. ‘Do nothing, Lady Verinder, to weary your head, or to quicken
your pulse’—those were his last words, Drusilla, when he left me
today.”
There was no help for it but to yield again—for the moment only, as
before. Any open assertion of the infinitely superior importance of
such a ministry as mine, compared with the ministry of the medical man,
would only have provoked the doctor to practise on the human weakness
of his patient, and to threaten to throw up the case. Happily, there
are more ways than one of sowing the good seed, and few persons are
better versed in those ways than myself.
“You might feel stronger, dear, in an hour or two,” I said. “Or you
might wake, tomorrow morning, with a sense of something wanting, and
even this unpretending volume might be able to supply it. You will let
me leave the book, aunt? The doctor can hardly object to that!”
I slipped it under the sofa cushions, half in, and half out, close by
her handkerchief, and her smelling-bottle. Every time her hand searched
for either of these, it would touch the book; and, sooner or later (who
knows?) the book might touch _her_. After making this arrangement, I
thought it wise to withdraw. “Let me leave you to repose, dear aunt; I
will call again tomorrow.” I looked accidentally towards the window as
I said that. It was full of flowers, in boxes and pots. Lady Verinder
was extravagantly fond of these perishable treasures, and had a habit
of rising every now and then, and going to look at them and smell them.
A new idea flashed across my mind. “Oh! may I take a flower?” I
said—and got to the window unsuspected, in that way. Instead of taking
away a flower, I added one, in the shape of another book from my bag,
which I left, to surprise my aunt, among the geraniums and roses. The
happy thought followed, “Why not do the same for her, poor dear, in
every other room that she enters?” I immediately said good-bye; and,
crossing the hall, slipped into the library. Samuel, coming up to let
me out, and supposing I had gone, went downstairs again. On the library
table I noticed two of the “amusing books” which the infidel doctor had
recommended. I instantly covered them from sight with two of my own
precious publications. In the breakfast-room I found my aunt’s
favourite canary singing in his cage. She was always in the habit of
feeding the bird herself. Some groundsel was strewed on a table which
stood immediately under the cage. I put a book among the groundsel. In
the drawing-room I found more cheering opportunities of emptying my
bag. My aunt’s favourite musical pieces were on the piano. I slipped in
two more books among the music. I disposed of another in the back
drawing-room, under some unfinished embroidery, which I knew to be of
Lady Verinder’s working. A third little room opened out of the back
drawing-room, from which it was shut off by curtains instead of a door.
My aunt’s plain old-fashioned fan was on the chimney-piece. I opened my
ninth book at a very special passage, and put the fan in as a marker,
to keep the place. The question then came, whether I should go higher
still, and try the bedroom floor—at the risk, undoubtedly, of being
insulted, if the person with the cap-ribbons happened to be in the
upper regions of the house, and to find me out. But oh, what of that?
It is a poor Christian that is afraid of being insulted. I went
upstairs, prepared to bear anything. All was silent and solitary—it was
the servants’ tea-time, I suppose. My aunt’s room was in front. The
miniature of my late dear uncle, Sir John, hung on the wall opposite
the bed. It seemed to smile at me; it seemed to say, “Drusilla! deposit
a book.” There were tables on either side of my aunt’s bed. She was a
bad sleeper, and wanted, or thought she wanted, many things at night. I
put a book near the matches on one side, and a book under the box of
chocolate drops on the other. Whether she wanted a light, or whether
she wanted a drop, there was a precious publication to meet her eye, or
to meet her hand, and to say with silent eloquence, in either case,
“Come, try me! try me!” But one book was now left at the bottom of my
bag, and but one apartment was still unexplored—the bath-room, which
opened out of the bedroom. I peeped in; and the holy inner voice that
never deceives, whispered to me, “You have met her, Drusilla,
everywhere else; meet her at the bath, and the work is done.” I
observed a dressing-gown thrown across a chair. It had a pocket in it,
and in that pocket I put my last book. Can words express my exquisite
sense of duty done, when I had slipped out of the house, unsuspected by
any of them, and when I found myself in the street with my empty bag
under my arm? Oh, my worldly friends, pursuing the phantom, Pleasure,
through the guilty mazes of Dissipation, how easy it is to be happy, if
you will only be good!
When I folded up my things that night—when I reflected on the _true_
riches which I had scattered with such a lavish hand, from top to
bottom of the house of my wealthy aunt—I declare I felt as free from
all anxiety as if I had been a child again. I was so light-hearted that
I sang a verse of the Evening Hymn. I was so light-hearted that I fell
asleep before I could sing another. Quite like a child again! quite
like a child again!
So I passed that blissful night. On rising the next morning, how young
I felt! I might add, how young I looked, if I were capable of dwelling
on the concerns of my own perishable body. But I am not capable—and I
add nothing.
Towards luncheon time—not for the sake of the creature-comforts, but
for the certainty of finding dear aunt—I put on my bonnet to go to
Montagu Square. Just as I was ready, the maid at the lodgings in which
I then lived looked in at the door, and said, “Lady Verinder’s servant,
to see Miss Clack.”
I occupied the parlour-floor, at that period of my residence in London.
The front parlour was my sitting-room. Very small, very low in the
ceiling, very poorly furnished—but, oh, so neat! I looked into the
passage to see which of Lady Verinder’s servants had asked for me. It
was the young footman, Samuel—a civil fresh-coloured person, with a
teachable look and a very obliging manner. I had always felt a
spiritual interest in Samuel, and a wish to try him with a few serious
words. On this occasion, I invited him into my sitting-room.
He came in, with a large parcel under his arm. When he put the parcel
down, it appeared to frighten him. “My lady’s love, Miss; and I was to
say that you would find a letter inside.” Having given that message,
the fresh-coloured young footman surprised me by looking as if he would
have liked to run away.
I detained him to make a few kind inquiries. Could I see my aunt, if I
called in Montagu Square? No; she had gone out for a drive. Miss Rachel
had gone with her, and Mr. Ablewhite had taken a seat in the carriage,
too. Knowing how sadly dear Mr. Godfrey’s charitable work was in
arrear, I thought it odd that he should be going out driving, like an
idle man. I stopped Samuel at the door, and made a few more kind
inquiries. Miss Rachel was going to a ball that night, and Mr.
Ablewhite had arranged to come to coffee, and go with her. There was a
morning concert advertised for tomorrow, and Samuel was ordered to take
places for a large party, including a place for Mr. Ablewhite. “All the
tickets may be gone, Miss,” said this innocent youth, “if I don’t run
and get them at once!” He ran as he said the words—and I found myself
alone again, with some anxious thoughts to occupy me.
We had a special meeting of the Mothers’-Small-Clothes-Conversion
Society that night, summoned expressly with a view to obtaining Mr.
Godfrey’s advice and assistance. Instead of sustaining our sisterhood,
under an overwhelming flow of Trousers which quite prostrated our
little community, he had arranged to take coffee in Montagu Square, and
to go to a ball afterwards! The afternoon of the next day had been
selected for the Festival of the
British-Ladies’-Servants’-Sunday-Sweetheart-Supervision Society.
Instead of being present, the life and soul of that struggling
Institution, he had engaged to make one of a party of worldlings at a
morning concert! I asked myself what did it mean? Alas! it meant that
our Christian Hero was to reveal himself to me in a new character, and
to become associated in my mind with one of the most awful backslidings
of modern times.
To return, however, to the history of the passing day. On finding
myself alone in my room, I naturally turned my attention to the parcel