The Moonstone
asleep.
Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite went back, with the Diamond, into his own room.
His statement is, that he came to no conclusion, at that time—except
that he would wait, and see what happened in the morning.
When the morning came, your language and conduct showed that you were
absolutely ignorant of what you had said and done overnight. At the
same time, Miss Verinder’s language and conduct showed that she was
resolved to say nothing (in mercy to you) on her side. If Mr. Godfrey
Ablewhite chose to keep the Diamond, he might do so with perfect
impunity. The Moonstone stood between him and ruin. He put the
Moonstone into his pocket.
V
This was the story told by your cousin (under pressure of necessity) to
Mr. Luker.
Mr. Luker believed the story to be, as to all main essentials, true—on
this ground, that Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite was too great a fool to have
invented it. Mr. Bruff and I agree with Mr. Luker, in considering this
test of the truth of the story to be a perfectly reliable one.
The next question, was the question of what Mr. Luker would do in the
matter of the Moonstone. He proposed the following terms, as the only
terms on which he would consent to mix himself up with, what was (even
in _his_ line of business) a doubtful and dangerous transaction.
Mr. Luker would consent to lend Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite the sum of two
thousand pounds, on condition that the Moonstone was to be deposited
with him as a pledge. If, at the expiration of one year from that date,
Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite paid three thousand pounds to Mr. Luker, he was
to receive back the Diamond, as a pledge redeemed. If he failed to
produce the money at the expiration of the year, the pledge (otherwise
the Moonstone) was to be considered as forfeited to Mr. Luker—who
would, in this latter case, generously make Mr. Godfrey a present of
certain promissory notes of his (relating to former dealings) which
were then in the money-lender’s possession.
It is needless to say, that Mr. Godfrey indignantly refused to listen
to these monstrous terms. Mr. Luker thereupon, handed him back the
Diamond, and wished him good-night.
Your cousin went to the door, and came back again. How was he to be
sure that the conversation of that evening would be kept strictly
secret between his friend and himself?
Mr. Luker didn’t profess to know how. If Mr. Godfrey had accepted his
terms, Mr. Godfrey would have made him an accomplice, and might have
counted on his silence as on a certainty. As things were, Mr. Luker
must be guided by his own interests. If awkward inquiries were made,
how could he be expected to compromise himself, for the sake of a man
who had declined to deal with him?
Receiving this reply, Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite did, what all animals
(human and otherwise) do, when they find themselves caught in a trap.
He looked about him in a state of helpless despair. The day of the
month, recorded on a neat little card in a box on the money-lender’s
chimney-piece, happened to attract his eye. It was the twenty-third of
June. On the twenty-fourth he had three hundred pounds to pay to the
young gentleman for whom he was trustee, and no chance of raising the
money, except the chance that Mr. Luker had offered to him. But for
this miserable obstacle, he might have taken the Diamond to Amsterdam,
and have made a marketable commodity of it, by having it cut up into
separate stones. As matters stood, he had no choice but to accept Mr.
Luker’s terms. After all, he had a year at his disposal, in which to
raise the three thousand pounds—and a year is a long time.
Mr. Luker drew out the necessary documents on the spot. When they were
signed, he gave Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite two cheques. One, dated June
23rd, for three hundred pounds. Another, dated a week on, for the
remaining balance—seventeen hundred pounds.
How the Moonstone was trusted to the keeping of Mr. Luker’s bankers, and
how the Indians treated Mr. Luker and Mr. Godfrey (after that had been
done) you know already.
The next event in your cousin’s life refers again to Miss Verinder. He
proposed marriage to her for the second time—and (after having being
accepted) he consented, at her request, to consider the marriage as
broken off. One of his reasons for making this concession has been
penetrated by Mr. Bruff. Miss Verinder had only a life interest in her
mother’s property—and there was no raising the twenty thousand pounds
on _that_.
But you will say, he might have saved the three thousand pounds, to
redeem the pledged Diamond, if he had married. He might have done so
certainly—supposing neither his wife, nor her guardians and trustees,
objected to his anticipating more than half of the income at his
disposal, for some unknown purpose, in the first year of his marriage.
But even if he got over this obstacle, there was another waiting for
him in the background. The lady at the Villa, had heard of his
contemplated marriage. A superb woman, Mr. Blake, of the sort that are
not to be trifled with—the sort with the light complexion and the Roman
nose. She felt the utmost contempt for Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite. It would
be silent contempt, if he made a handsome provision for her. Otherwise,
it would be contempt with a tongue to it. Miss Verinder’s life interest
allowed him no more hope of raising the “provision” than of raising the
twenty thousand pounds. He couldn’t marry—he really couldn’t marry,
under all the circumstances.
How he tried his luck again with another lady, and how _that_ marriage
also broke down on the question of money, you know already. You also
know of the legacy of five thousand pounds, left to him shortly
afterwards, by one of those many admirers among the soft sex whose good
graces this fascinating man had contrived to win. That legacy (as the
event has proved) led him to his death.
I have ascertained that when he went abroad, on getting his five
thousand pounds, he went to Amsterdam. There he made all the necessary
arrangements for having the Diamond cut into separate stones. He came
back (in disguise), and redeemed the Moonstone, on the appointed day. A
few days were allowed to elapse (as a precaution agreed to by both
parties) before the jewel was actually taken out of the bank. If he had
got safe with it to Amsterdam, there would have been just time between
July ’forty-nine, and February ’fifty (when the young gentleman came of
age) to cut the Diamond, and to make a marketable commodity (polished
or unpolished) of the separate stones. Judge from this, what motives he
had to run the risk which he actually ran. It was “neck or nothing”
with him—if ever it was “neck or nothing” with a man yet.
I have only to remind you, before closing this Report, that there is a
chance of laying hands on the Indians, and of recovering the Moonstone
yet. They are now (there is every reason to believe) on their passage
to Bombay, in an East Indiaman. The ship (barring accidents) will touch
at no other port on her way out; and the authorities at Bombay (already
communicated with by letter, overland) will be prepared to board the
vessel, the moment she enters the harbour.
I have the honour to remain, dear sir, your obedient servant, RICHARD
CUFF (late sergeant in the Detective Force, Scotland Yard, London).*
* NOTE.—Wherever the Report touches on the events of the birthday, or
of the three days that followed it, compare with Betteredge’s
Narrative, chapters viii. to xiii.
SEVENTH NARRATIVE.
_In a Letter from Mr. Candy._
Frizinghall, Wednesday, September 26th, 1849.—Dear Mr. Franklin Blake,
you will anticipate the sad news I have to tell you, on finding your
letter to Ezra Jennings returned to you, unopened, in this enclosure.
He died in my arms, at sunrise, on Wednesday last.
I am not to blame for having failed to warn you that his end was at
hand. He expressly forbade me to write to you. “I am indebted to Mr.
Franklin Blake,” he said, “for having seen some happy days. Don’t
distress him, Mr. Candy—don’t distress him.”
His sufferings, up to the last six hours of his life, were terrible to
see. In the intervals of remission, when his mind was clear, I
entreated him to tell me of any relatives of his to whom I might write.
He asked to be forgiven for refusing anything to _me_. And then he
said—not bitterly—that he would die as he had lived, forgotten and
unknown. He maintained that resolution to the last. There is no hope
now of making any discoveries concerning him. His story is a blank.
The day before he died, he told me where to find all his papers. I
brought them to him on his bed. There was a little bundle of old
letters which he put aside. There was his unfinished book. There was
his Diary—in many locked volumes. He opened the volume for this year,
and tore out, one by one, the pages relating to the time when you and
he were together. “Give those,” he said, “to Mr. Franklin Blake. In
years to come, he may feel an interest in looking back at what is
written there.” Then he clasped his hands, and prayed God fervently to
bless you, and those dear to you. He said he should like to see you
again. But the next moment he altered his mind. “No,” he answered when
I offered to write. “I won’t distress him! I won’t distress him!”
At his request I next collected the other papers—that is to say, the
bundle of letters, the unfinished book and the volumes of the Diary—and
enclosed them all in one wrapper, sealed with my own seal. “Promise,”
he said, “that you will put this into my coffin with your own hand; and
that you will see that no other hand touches it afterwards.”
I gave him my promise. And the promise has been performed.
He asked me to do one other thing for him—which it cost me a hard
struggle to comply with. He said, “Let my grave be forgotten. Give me
your word of honour that you will allow no monument of any sort—not
even the commonest tombstone—to mark the place of my burial. Let me
sleep, nameless. Let me rest, unknown.” When I tried to plead with him
to alter his resolution, he became for the first, and only time,
violently agitated. I could not bear to see it; and I gave way. Nothing
but a little grass mound marks the place of his rest. In time, the
tombstones will rise round it. And the people who come after us will
look and wonder at the nameless grave.
As I have told you, for six hours before his death his sufferings
ceased. He dozed a little. I think he dreamed. Once or twice he smiled.
A woman’s name, as I suppose—the name of “Ella”—was often on his lips
at this time. A few minutes before the end he asked me to lift him on
his pillow, to see the sun rise through the window. He was very weak.
His head fell on my shoulder. He whispered, “It’s coming!” Then he
said, “Kiss me!” I kissed his forehead. On a sudden he lifted his head.
The sunlight touched his face. A beautiful expression, an angelic
expression, came over it. He cried out three times, “Peace! peace!
peace!” His head sank back again on my shoulder, and the long trouble
of his life was at an end.
So he has gone from us. This was, as I think, a great man—though the
world never knew him. He had the sweetest temper I have ever met with.
The loss of him makes me feel very lonely. Perhaps I have never been
quite myself since my illness. Sometimes, I think of giving up my
practice, and going away, and trying what some of the foreign baths and
waters will do for me.
It is reported here, that you and Miss Verinder are to be married next
month. Please to accept my best congratulations.
The pages of my poor friend’s Journal are waiting for you at my
house—sealed up, with your name on the wrapper. I was afraid to trust
them to the post.
My best respects and good wishes attend Miss Verinder. I remain, dear
Mr. Franklin Blake, truly yours,
THOMAS CANDY.
EIGHTH NARRATIVE.