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    The Moonstone
    The Moonstone
    The Moonstone
    Ebook695 pages11 hours

    The Moonstone

    By Wilkie Collins

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    "The Moonstone" was originally published in 1868 by William Wilkie Collins. A 19th-century British epistolary novel, it is generally considered to be the first detective novel, and also established many of the ground rules of the modern detective novel. The story follows the theft of a sacred Indian diamond. Given to Rachel Verinder on her eighteenth birthday by her corrupt British army officer father, the gift sets the scene for a complex plot of turmoil, misunderstanding, cultural heritage and mystery. Serialised in Charles Dickens' magazine, 'All the Year Round', this early works is a fascinating novel of the period and still an interesting read today. Read & Co. Classics is republishing this classic work now complete with a specially-commissioned new biography of the author.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherRead Books Ltd.
    Release dateJul 2, 2015
    ISBN9781473376656
    Author

    Wilkie Collins

    Hijo del paisajista William Collins, nació en Londres en 1824. Fue aprendiz en una compañía de comercio de té, estudió Derecho, hizo sus pinitos como pintor y actor y, antes de conocer a Charles Dickens en 1851, había publicado ya una bio­grafía de su padre, Memoirs of the Life of William Collins, Esq., R. A. (1848), una novela histórica, Antonina (1850), y un libro de viajes, Rambles Beyond Railways (1851). Pero el encuentro con Dickens fue decisivo para la trayectoria literaria de ambos. Ba­sil (ALBA CLÁSICA núm. VI; Alba Minus núm. 10) inició en 1852 una serie de novelas «sensacionales», llenas de misterio y violencia pero siempre dentro de un entorno de cla­se media, que, con su técnica brillante y su compleja estruc­tu­ra, obtu­vie­ron enseguida una gran repercusión: La mujer de blanco (1860), Arma­da­le (1862; ALBA CLÁSICA MAIOR núm. LXXXIV) o La Piedra Lunar (1868; ALBA CLÁSICA MAIOR núm. L), que sentó las bases del moderno relato detectivesco, fueron tan aplaudidas como imitadas. En Sin nombre (1862; ALBA CLÁSICA MAIOR núm. XI; Alba Minus núm. 19) y Marido y mujer (1870; ALBA CLÁSICA MAIOR núm. XVI; Alba Minus núm. 6), las heroínas son mujeres dramáticamente condicionadas por una arbitraria situación legal. Otras novelas suyas son La pobre señorita Finch (1871-1872; ALBA CLÁSICA núm. XXVI; Alba Minus núm. 6) y La hija de Jezabel (1880; ALBA CLÁSICA núm. CXL). Collins murió en Londres en 1889, sin haberse casado nunca pero cabeza de dos familias distintas y rigurosamente secretas.

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    Reviews for The Moonstone

    4/5

    2,253 ratings110 reviews

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    • 5/5
      Given my awkward history with Collins, I must attribute my success with The Moonstone with the mystique of the Medina. It was frightfully hot in Morocco and I slipped into this novel as an escape and enjoyed its serial protagonists, its clumsy racism, its outrageous plot. Along with Stendhal's Charterhouse of Parma this novel fit the definition of transportive in an airtight manner.

      The Moonstone has been regarded as the first detective movel. Its disparate perspectives don't quite overlap and there is a lack of torque about the affair. The lingering gray ambiguity suits the novel's mood, which unsettles. The Moonstone does yield a fertile field of suspects. The representation of opium is a curious bend to the whole process.
    • 5/5
      What can i say that hasnt already been said at some point regarding this book? Pleasantly surprised that it has survived the test of time so well and found it to be an excellent read .
    • 4/5
      This is one of the first modern mystery stories, and it's fascinating. You absolutely cannot put it down. Plus, it has the soothing cadences that we all love in Victorian novels. Mystery readers will notice that, for a Victorian novel, the plot is not overly contrived. The story feels fairly authentic. Modern and Victorian all at once--the best of both worlds.
    • 4/5
      The one word which comes to mind when I think of this novel is mesmerising. Slow and steady in its pace, the suspense builds almost inperceptibly until it becomes a page turner. I love the technique of using different narrators and I love how my perception of characters underwent shifts as those characters in turn becamse narrators and got to tell their own part of the story. This is a novel of mystery, romance, comedy, drama and tragedy. It's not a novel for a reader who wants instant gratification. Still less is it a novel for a reader whose idea of a good novel is one involving non-stop action. But I found it truly one to savour.
    • 4/5
      Well after being a mystery aficionado for years it was about time I read the seminal piece. It was well worth it. It just flowed. It was not at all hard to read like much of the literature written at that time by Collins' contemporaries like Dickens.
    • 5/5
      My first Arion Press "experience" and I'm really enjoying it -- the story itself, the feel of the book in my hands, the paper's texture, the crisp letterpress, the illustrations.
    • 4/5
      This is the perfect combination of Victorian lit combined with a good mystery. The story is based on a valuable moonstone that was part of the headpiece of a Hindu idol. A British soldier steals it from India and brings it, and its associated curse, back to England. He bequeaths it to his niece on her 18th birthday. After the elaborate birthday dinner, the jewel is stolen. There is a large and diverse cast of characters - which become a large and diverse cast of potential suspects. The book is told through journals written by different characters ranging from an old faithful servant to an evangelical spinster. The personality of the narrators added by not only putting a bit of prejudice on each witness but also created some very good humor. Very fun read!
    • 3/5
      Good. Because it was written at the end of the 19th Century it did bog down in minutiae and archaic language, but was quite entertaining and of historic value.
    • 5/5
      I tend to be slightly sceptical toward books that are considered classics, especially the ones written ages ago. I was therefore somewhat sceptical toward The Moonstone, a classic which is almost 150 years old. My scepticism was put well and truly to shame. The Moonstone is an original mystery, in every sense of the word, which is centred around a valuable diamond said to be cursed. The story is told in the form of statements written after the fact by some of the people involved in the story, recounting events as they observed them. This works extremely well. The differences in perspective adds an additional level to a story which is already great. The personality of the writers shines through in the narratives written by them, and some of the more personal observations and musings of the characters made me laugh out loud to the extent at which I got looks, on both an airplane and a train. I could go on about how great this book is, and how much I enjoyed it, but I won't. I'd just encourage you to read it. Unless you really don't like the mystery-genre, I think you'll enjoy this book. If you're lucky, you'll enjoy it as much as I did.
    • 5/5
      God, I love Wilkie Collins. As with Woman in White, there is mystery, complicated and well-developed characters, and strong female characters. It is obvious from his writing that Collins thought much differently than his counterparts about the abilities of women. In many ways this work could be compared to Woman in White, which is one of my favorite books of all time. The tempo and narration of Moonstone is just about perfect. I definitely recommend this for anyone who likes mysteries or novels of this time period.
    • 5/5
      A great book by Wilkie Collins. I read everywhere that this book is the first detective story ever written. Well, true or not, it is a good one, especially if one realizes that Collins apparently did not have any example to follow.
      The book is written as if it is being told by several of the main characters in the story, in succession. This way of writing has been used again by Collins and I find it a very interesting way to tell a story.
      Of course this book is slow at times, given the time of its origin. One never looses attention, however, and therefore the only "score" it can receive from me is 5 stars.
    • 3/5
      Truly a delightful tale, I restrict it to three stars only because the easy, meandering pace tested the limits of my impatience. In all other respects I enjoyed the book, loved and hated characters as intended, and savoured the complex interaction of differing narrative viewpoints.
    • 5/5
      The Moonstone is considered to be the first English detective novel. The story is told in a series of narratives by various characters. It also has some social statements on the life of servants and on the imperialism of the British nation. The Moonstone is a large flawed yellow diamond sacred to Hindus in India. It happens to cause trouble to the possessor since it was taken in the battle at Seringapatam. Rachel Verinder receives it as an inheritance on her eighteenth birthday. Three Hindu men have dedicated their lives to capturing and returning the Moonstone to India. The three Indian men show up as jugglers during the birthday celebration. that night Rachel puts the Moonstone in her cabinet and the next day it is found to be stolen. At first it is thought the Indians have taken it but soon the reader knows that someone who was in the house that night is responsible. Rachel will not cooperate with the investigation. The mystery is not solved.

      This book was very enjoyable and was a quick enjoyable read for a book of nearly 500 pages. Many people enjoy the author’s The Woman in White but I preferred this one. The mystery is interesting, the characters are well developed and I can recommend this one to just about anyone who likes a good story. I have this in dead tree, kindle and audio and read it with whispersync. The narrator did a good job of trying to create a voice for each character.
    • 5/5
      A compelling and unusual mystery. Slow-paced like all Victorian literature, but that suits its moodiness. Despite the decades of detective fiction since, this book is still clever and unpredictable.
    • 5/5
      What an excellent book. It held me to the last with its different perspectives and the linking character of the inimitable Sergeant Cusk. The only thing I'm wondering is why it's taken my so many decades to come to it.
    • 4/5
      A great absorbing book, more so for its brilliant and wry portraits than for the mystery itself. While I did not find the mystery as spine-tingling and mysterious as Woman in White, I loved this book nearly as much as that. The character studies are really well done, and at time poignant,Ezra Jennings; and often amusing, Miss Clack; and sometimes both, Gabriel Betteredge. While tackling a well crafted mystery, Collins attempts to analyze the problems of prejudice and imperialism. His treatment of those outside of the class system or on the lower ends of it is intelligent and rarely stoops to the pathos of Dickens.
    • 5/5
      So much better than I would have expected. You got the Victorian novel mojo, plus what amounts to a really good mystery story. Read it serially (like it was published, albeit on an accelerated schedule), which definitely added to the experience.
    • 2/5
      I had to read this for a course I was doing on detective fiction and I'm really glad that I did. Yes it is old fashioned and all the letters and different viewpoints are a little confusing but it is still the basis of a lot of later detective fiction and is still very readable today. Don't just put it off as a classic that you should read someday - give it a go!
    • 4/5
      This book was very interesting and rather suspenseful. I enjoyed it somewhat more than "The Woman in White", however, this, too, dragged on a bit.
    • 4/5
      This is better than No Name and The Lady in White (by the same author). Very entertaining.
    • 4/5
      Very enjoyable detective story.
    • 3/5
      It is very interesting to see the difference in this Victorian mystery - one of the first straight mystery novels - and detective fiction today. The shifting perspectives keeps the story from bogging down. But, there is still way too much detail for modern day readers. It is understandable that Collins had to lay things out much plainer for his audience - they hadn't been raised on detective fiction and CSI.

      I would recommend this book, though, to readers that love detective fiction (if only because it was one of the very first in the genre) and to anyone that loves Victorian fiction. To readers that are trying to read 1001 Books To Read Before You Die, it is worth the read. I can't say that about all of them.
    • 3/5
      Not near as good as Woman in White - supposedly a mystery involving a gem stolen by three Indian men, the theft of which breaks apart a potential love affair.
    • 5/5
      This book has lived with me since forever. No way I can be objective about it. I've been re-reading a few old books which were favourites in my late teens and it is interesting to see which come out best (or worst) in the class/gender/race teeth gnashing stakes. Wilkie Collins comes out quite well (born 1824), John Buchan not so well (b. 1875), Kipling (b. 1865) not too bad except for women! Shall try some Rider Haggard next (b. 1856).
    • 5/5
      A terrific read, not just for the mystery but for its deft treatment of class in Victorian England. Characters remark on the primitive caste system in India while seemingly oblivous to their own rigid social order. The character of the pious Druscilla Clack is as entertaining as anything Dickens ever dreamed up. The names of her beloved religious tracts made me laugh out loud, especially "A Word With You on Your Cap Ribbons."
    • 4/5
      19th century epistolary novel about the theft and subsequent search of a alleged cursed diamond. The story and its mystery is very engaging, but, like most serialized novels, it is very long and has numerous side-tracks and false starts.
    • 3/5
      An enjoyable read, although the solution to the mystery is only barely believable. The ending is strangely satisfying if a bit unexpected in that it seems anti-imperialistic in the time of the British empire.
    • 4/5
      Wilkie Collins uses a variety of narrators to tell the mystery of a beautiful diamond called "The Moonstone." Collins does a good job of relating the appropriate details at the appropriate times, and while the ultimate solution wasn't a complete surprise, it was still enjoyable to witness the unfolding of the tale. Collins' characters are nearly as full as his friend, Charles Dickens, was able to create. He is particularly hard on the religious characters in this book, but the hardness makes the characters more flat rather than interesting objects of satire. Overall, though, it's still an enjoyable read.
    • 4/5
      This Victorian bestseller is a joy on many counts. The challenges of gripping the mystery and enjoying the twists and turns of the plot are highly complemented by the lush English facilitating them.
    • 5/5
      I was prepared for how funny this book is! Miss Clack is a hoot!

    Book preview

    The Moonstone - Wilkie Collins

    Wilkie Collins

    William Wilkie Collins was born in Marylebone, London in 1824. His family enrolled him at the Maida Hill Academy in 1835, but then took him to France and Italy with them between 1836 and 1838. Collins later recalled that in Italy he learned more which has been of use to me, among the scenery, the pictures, and the people, than I ever learned at school. Returning to England, Collins attended Cole's boarding school, and completed his education in 1841, after which he was apprenticed to the tea merchants Antrobus & Co. in the Strand.

    In 1846, Collins became a law student at Lincoln's Inn, and was called to the bar in 1851, although he never practiced. It was in 1848, a year after the death of his father, that he published his first book, The Memoirs of the Life of William Collins, Esq., R.A., to good reviews. This was followed by an historical novel, Antonina (1850) and three contemporary novels, Basil (1852), Hide and Seek (1854) and The Dead Secret (1857). During the 1850s, however, Collins' main source of income came through journalism. Primarily, he wrote for Household Words, a publication owned and ran by Charles Dickens, with whom Collins had a close friendship. It was also during this decade that Collins began to take large amounts of opium to combat 'rheumatic gout', a form of arthritis he suffered from.

    The 1860s saw Collins' creative high-point, and it was during this decade that he achieved fame and critical acclaim, with his four major novels, The Woman in White (1860), No Name (1862), Armadale (1866) and The Moonstone (1868). These were all hugely popular; The Woman in White, for example, ran to seven editions in the first year of publication, and is now regarded as the archetypal sensation novel. The Moonstone, meanwhile is seen by many as the first true detective novel – T. S. Eliot called it the first, the longest, and the best of modern English detective novels...in a genre invented by Collins and not by Poe.

    During the last two decades of his life, Collins' popularity waned. This was due in part to the death of Dickens, and in part to his increasing dependence on opium. It also had a lot to do with his stylistic shift away from the sensational thrillers that his made his name onto works more centred on social commentary; Jezebel's Daughter (1880), for example, advocated humane treatment of lunatics, whilst Heart and Science (1883) condemned vivisection. During the 1880s, Collins' health declined rapidly. In June of 1889, Collins suffered a stroke, and died as a result of further complications three months later, aged 65.

    PROLOGUE

    THE STORMING OF SERINGAPATAM (1799)

    (Extracted from a Family Paper)

    I

    I address these lines—written in India—to my relatives in England.

    My object is to explain the motive which has induced me to refuse the right hand of friendship to my cousin, John Herncastle. The reserve which I have hitherto maintained in this matter has been misinterpreted by members of my family whose good opinion I cannot consent to forfeit. I request them to suspend their decision until they have read my narrative. And I declare, on my word of honour, that what I am now about to write is, strictly and literally, the truth.

    The private difference between my cousin and me took its rise in a great public event in which we were both concerned—the storming of Seringapatam, under General Baird, on the 4th of May, 1799.

    In order that the circumstances may be clearly understood, I must revert for a moment to the period before the assault, and to the stories current in our camp of the treasure in jewels and gold stored up in the Palace of Seringapatam.

    II

    One of the wildest of these stories related to a Yellow Diamond—a famous gem in the native annals of India.

    The earliest known traditions describe the stone as having been set in the forehead of the four-handed Indian god who typifies the Moon. Partly from its peculiar colour, partly from a superstition which represented it as feeling the influence of the deity whom it adorned, and growing and lessening in lustre with the waxing and waning of the moon, it first gained the name by which it continues to be known in India to this day—the name of THE MOONSTONE. A similar superstition was once prevalent, as I have heard, in ancient Greece and Rome; not applying, however (as in India), to a diamond devoted to the service of a god, but to a semi-transparent stone of the inferior order of gems, supposed to be affected by the lunar influences—the moon, in this latter case also, giving the name by which the stone is still known to collectors in our own time.

    The adventures of the Yellow Diamond begin with the eleventh century of the Christian era.

    At that date, the Mohammedan conqueror, Mahmoud of Ghizni, crossed India; seized on the holy city of Somnauth; and stripped of its treasures the famous temple, which had stood for centuries—the shrine of Hindoo pilgrimage, and the wonder of the Eastern world.

    Of all the deities worshipped in the temple, the moon-god alone escaped the rapacity of the conquering Mohammedans. Preserved by three Brahmins, the inviolate deity, bearing the Yellow Diamond in its forehead, was removed by night, and was transported to the second of the sacred cities of India—the city of Benares.

    Here, in a new shrine—in a hall inlaid with precious stones, under a roof supported by pillars of gold—the moon-god was set up and worshipped.

    Here, on the night when the shrine was completed, Vishnu the Preserver appeared to the three Brahmins in a dream.

    The deity breathed the breath of his divinity on the Diamond in the forehead of the god. And the Brahmins knelt and hid their faces in their robes. The deity commanded that the Moonstone should be watched, from that time forth, by three priests in turn, night and day, to the end of the generations of men. And the Brahmins heard, and bowed before his will. The deity predicted certain disaster to the presumptuous mortal who laid hands on the sacred gem, and to all of his house and name who received it after him. And the Brahmins caused the prophecy to be written over the gates of the shrine in letters of gold.

    One age followed another—and still, generation after generation, the successors of the three Brahmins watched their priceless Moonstone, night and day. One age followed another until the first years of the eighteenth Christian century saw the reign of Aurungzebe, Emperor of the Moguls. At his command havoc and rapine were let loose once more among the temples of the worship of Brahmah. The shrine of the four-handed god was polluted by the slaughter of sacred animals; the images of the deities were broken in pieces; and the Moonstone was seized by an officer of rank in the army of Aurungzebe.

    Powerless to recover their lost treasure by open force, the three guardian priests followed and watched it in disguise. The generations succeeded each other; the warrior who had committed the sacrilege perished miserably; the Moonstone passed (carrying its curse with it) from one lawless Mohammedan hand to another; and still, through all chances and changes, the successors of the three guardian priests kept their watch, waiting the day when the will of Vishnu the Preserver should restore to them their sacred gem. Time rolled on from the first to the last years of the eighteenth Christian century. The Diamond fell into the possession of Tippoo, Sultan of Seringapatam, who caused it to be placed as an ornament in the handle of a dagger, and who commanded it to be kept among the choicest treasures of his armoury. Even then—in the palace of the Sultan himself—the three guardian priests still kept their watch in secret. There were three officers of Tippoo’s household, strangers to the rest, who had won their master’s confidence by conforming, or appearing to conform, to the Mussulman faith; and to those three men report pointed as the three priests in disguise.

    III

    So, as told in our camp, ran the fanciful story of the Moonstone. It made no serious impression on any of us except my cousin—whose love of the marvellous induced him to believe it. On the night before the assault on Seringapatam, he was absurdly angry with me, and with others, for treating the whole thing as a fable. A foolish wrangle followed; and Herncastle’s unlucky temper got the better of him. He declared, in his boastful way, that we should see the Diamond on his finger, if the English army took Seringapatam. The sally was saluted by a roar of laughter, and there, as we all thought that night, the thing ended.

    Let me now take you on to the day of the assault.

    My cousin and I were separated at the outset. I never saw him when we forded the river; when we planted the English flag in the first breach; when we crossed the ditch beyond; and, fighting every inch of our way, entered the town. It was only at dusk, when the place was ours, and after General Baird himself had found the dead body of Tippoo under a heap of the slain, that Herncastle and I met.

    We were each attached to a party sent out by the general’s orders to prevent the plunder and confusion which followed our conquest. The camp-followers committed deplorable excesses; and, worse still, the soldiers found their way, by a guarded door, into the treasury of the Palace, and loaded themselves with gold and jewels. It was in the court outside the treasury that my cousin and I met, to enforce the laws of discipline on our own soldiers. Herncastle’s fiery temper had been, as I could plainly see, exasperated to a kind of frenzy by the terrible slaughter through which we had passed. He was very unfit, in my opinion, to perform the duty that had been entrusted to him.

    There was riot and confusion enough in the treasury, but no violence that I saw. The men (if I may use such an expression) disgraced themselves good-humouredly. All sorts of rough jests and catchwords were bandied about among them; and the story of the Diamond turned up again unexpectedly, in the form of a mischievous joke. Who’s got the Moonstone? was the rallying cry which perpetually caused the plundering, as soon as it was stopped in one place, to break out in another. While I was still vainly trying to establish order, I heard a frightful yelling on the other side of the courtyard, and at once ran towards the cries, in dread of finding some new outbreak of the pillage in that direction.

    I got to an open door, and saw the bodies of two Indians (by their dress, as I guessed, officers of the palace) lying across the entrance, dead.

    A cry inside hurried me into a room, which appeared to serve as an armoury. A third Indian, mortally wounded, was sinking at the feet of a man whose back was towards me. The man turned at the instant when I came in, and I saw John Herncastle, with a torch in one hand, and a dagger dripping with blood in the other. A stone, set like a pommel, in the end of the dagger’s handle, flashed in the torchlight, as he turned on me, like a gleam of fire. The dying Indian sank to his knees, pointed to the dagger in Herncastle’s hand, and said, in his native language—The Moonstone will have its vengeance yet on you and yours! He spoke those words, and fell dead on the floor.

    Before I could stir in the matter, the men who had followed me across the courtyard crowded in. My cousin rushed to meet them, like a madman. Clear the room! he shouted to me, and set a guard on the door! The men fell back as he threw himself on them with his torch and his dagger. I put two sentinels of my own company, on whom I could rely, to keep the door. Through the remainder of the night, I saw no more of my cousin.

    Early in the morning, the plunder still going on, General Baird announced publicly by beat of drum, that any thief detected in the fact, be he whom he might, should be hung. The provost-marshal was in attendance, to prove that the General was in earnest; and in the throng that followed the proclamation, Herncastle and I met again.

    He held out his hand, as usual, and said, Good morning.

    I waited before I gave him my hand in return.

    Tell me first, I said, how the Indian in the armoury met his death, and what those last words meant, when he pointed to the dagger in your hand.

    The Indian met his death, as I suppose, by a mortal wound, said Herncastle. What his last words meant I know no more than you do.

    I looked at him narrowly. His frenzy of the previous day had all calmed down. I determined to give him another chance.

    Is that all you have to tell me? I asked.

    He answered, That is all.

    I turned my back on him; and we have not spoken since.

    IV

    I beg it to be understood that what I write here about my cousin (unless some necessity should arise for making it public) is for the information of the family only. Herncastle has said nothing that can justify me in speaking to our commanding officer. He has been taunted more than once about the Diamond, by those who recollect his angry outbreak before the assault; but, as may easily be imagined, his own remembrance of the circumstances under which I surprised him in the armoury has been enough to keep him silent. It is reported that he means to exchange into another regiment, avowedly for the purpose of separating himself from me.

    Whether this be true or not, I cannot prevail upon myself to become his accuser—and I think with good reason. If I made the matter public, I have no evidence but moral evidence to bring forward. I have not only no proof that he killed the two men at the door; I cannot even declare that he killed the third man inside—for I cannot say that my own eyes saw the deed committed. It is true that I heard the dying Indian’s words; but if those words were pronounced to be the ravings of delirium, how could I contradict the assertion from my own knowledge? Let our relatives, on either side, form their own opinion on what I have written, and decide for themselves whether the aversion I now feel towards this man is well or ill founded.

    Although I attach no sort of credit to the fantastic Indian legend of the gem, I must acknowledge, before I conclude, that I am influenced by a certain superstition of my own in this matter. It is my conviction, or my delusion, no matter which, that crime brings its own fatality with it. I am not only persuaded of Herncastle’s guilt; I am even fanciful enough to believe that he will live to regret it, if he keeps the Diamond; and that others will live to regret taking it from him, if he gives the Diamond away.

    THE STORY

    FIRST PERIOD

    THE LOSS OF THE DIAMOND (1848)

    The Events related by Gabriel Betteredge,

    house-steward in the service of Julia, Lady Verinder.

    CHAPTER I

    In the first part of Robinson Crusoe, at page one hundred and twenty-nine, you will find it thus written:

    Now I saw, though too late, the Folly of beginning a Work before we count the Cost, and before we judge rightly of our own Strength to go through with it.

    Only yesterday, I opened my Robinson Crusoe at that place. Only this morning (May twenty-first, eighteen hundred and fifty), came my lady’s nephew, Mr. Franklin Blake, and held a short conversation with me, as follows:—

    Betteredge, says Mr. Franklin, I have been to the lawyer’s about some family matters; and, among other things, we have been talking of the loss of the Indian Diamond, in my aunt’s house in Yorkshire, two years since. Mr. Bruff thinks as I think, that the whole story ought, in the interests of truth, to be placed on record in writing—and the sooner the better.

    Not perceiving his drift yet, and thinking it always desirable for the sake of peace and quietness to be on the lawyer’s side, I said I thought so too. Mr. Franklin went on.

    In this matter of the Diamond, he said, the characters of innocent people have suffered under suspicion already—as you know. The memories of innocent people may suffer, hereafter, for want of a record of the facts to which those who come after us can appeal. There can be no doubt that this strange family story of ours ought to be told. And I think, Betteredge, Mr. Bruff and I together have hit on the right way of telling it.

    Very satisfactory to both of them, no doubt. But I failed to see what I myself had to do with it, so far.

    We have certain events to relate, Mr. Franklin proceeded; and we have certain persons concerned in those events who are capable of relating them. Starting from these plain facts, the idea is that we should all write the story of the Moonstone in turn—as far as our own personal experience extends, and no farther. We must begin by showing how the Diamond first fell into the hands of my uncle Herncastle, when he was serving in India fifty years since. This prefatory narrative I have already got by me in the form of an old family paper, which relates the necessary particulars on the authority of an eye-witness. The next thing to do is to tell how the Diamond found its way into my aunt’s house in Yorkshire, two years ago, and how it came to be lost in little more than twelve hours afterwards. Nobody knows as much as you do, Betteredge, about what went on in the house at that time. So you must take the pen in hand, and start the story.

    In those terms I was informed of what my personal concern was with the matter of the Diamond. If you are curious to know what course I took under the circumstances, I beg to inform you that I did what you would probably have done in my place. I modestly declared myself to be quite unequal to the task imposed upon me—and I privately felt, all the time, that I was quite clever enough to perform it, if I only gave my own abilities a fair chance. Mr. Franklin, I imagine, must have seen my private sentiments in my face. He declined to believe in my modesty; and he insisted on giving my abilities a fair chance.

    Two hours have passed since Mr. Franklin left me. As soon as his back was turned, I went to my writing-desk to start the story. There I have sat helpless (in spite of my abilities) ever since; seeing what Robinson Crusoe saw, as quoted above—namely, the folly of beginning a work before we count the cost, and before we judge rightly of our own strength to go through with it. Please to remember, I opened the book by accident, at that bit, only the day before I rashly undertook the business now in hand; and, allow me to ask—if that isn’t prophecy, what is?

    I am not superstitious; I have read a heap of books in my time; I am a scholar in my own way. Though turned seventy, I possess an active memory, and legs to correspond. You are not to take it, if you please, as the saying of an ignorant man, when I express my opinion that such a book as Robinson Crusoe never was written, and never will be written again. I have tried that book for years—generally in combination with a pipe of tobacco—and I have found it my friend in need in all the necessities of this mortal life. When my spirits are bad—Robinson Crusoe. When I want advice—Robinson Crusoe. In past times when my wife plagued me; in present times when I have had a drop too much—Robinson Crusoe. I have worn out six stout Robinson Crusoes with hard work in my service. On my lady’s last birthday she gave me a seventh. I took a drop too much on the strength of it; and Robinson Crusoe put me right again. Price four shillings and sixpence, bound in blue, with a picture into the bargain.

    Still, this don’t look much like starting the story of the Diamond—does it? I seem to be wandering off in search of Lord knows what, Lord knows where. We will take a new sheet of paper, if you please, and begin over again, with my best respects to you.

    CHAPTER II

    I spoke of my lady a line or two back. Now the Diamond could never have been in our house, where it was lost, if it had not been made a present of to my lady’s daughter; and my lady’s daughter would never have been in existence to have the present, if it had not been for my lady who (with pain and travail) produced her into the world. Consequently, if we begin with my lady, we are pretty sure of beginning far enough back. And that, let me tell you, when you have got such a job as mine in hand, is a real comfort at starting.

    If you know anything of the fashionable world, you have heard tell of the three beautiful Miss Herncastles. Miss Adelaide; Miss Caroline; and Miss Julia—this last being the youngest and the best of the three sisters, in my opinion; and I had opportunities of judging, as you shall presently see. I went into the service of the old lord, their father (thank God, we have got nothing to do with him, in this business of the Diamond; he had the longest tongue and the shortest temper of any man, high or low, I ever met with)—I say, I went into the service of the old lord, as page-boy in waiting on the three honourable young ladies, at the age of fifteen years. There I lived till Miss Julia married the late Sir John Verinder. An excellent man, who only wanted somebody to manage him; and, between ourselves, he found somebody to do it; and what is more, he throve on it and grew fat on it, and lived happy and died easy on it, dating from the day when my lady took him to church to be married, to the day when she relieved him of his last breath, and closed his eyes for ever.

    I have omitted to state that I went with the bride to the bride’s husband’s house and lands down here. Sir John, she says, I can’t do without Gabriel Betteredge. My lady, says Sir John, I can’t do without him, either. That was his way with her—and that was how I went into his service. It was all one to me where I went, so long as my mistress and I were together.

    Seeing that my lady took an interest in the out-of-door work, and the farms, and such like, I took an interest in them too—with all the more reason that I was a small farmer’s seventh son myself. My lady got me put under the bailiff, and I did my best, and gave satisfaction, and got promotion accordingly. Some years later, on the Monday as it might be, my lady says, Sir John, your bailiff is a stupid old man. Pension him liberally, and let Gabriel Betteredge have his place. On the Tuesday as it might be, Sir John says, My lady, the bailiff is pensioned liberally; and Gabriel Betteredge has got his place. You hear more than enough of married people living together miserably. Here is an example to the contrary. Let it be a warning to some of you, and an encouragement to others. In the meantime, I will go on with my story.

    Well, there I was in clover, you will say. Placed in a position of trust and honour, with a little cottage of my own to live in, with my rounds on the estate to occupy me in the morning, and my accounts in the afternoon, and my pipe and my Robinson Crusoe in the evening—what more could I possibly want to make me happy? Remember what Adam wanted when he was alone in the Garden of Eden; and if you don’t blame it in Adam, don’t blame it in me.

    The woman I fixed my eye on, was the woman who kept house for me at my cottage. Her name was Selina Goby. I agree with the late William Cobbett about picking a wife. See that she chews her food well and sets her foot down firmly on the ground when she walks, and you’re all right. Selina Goby was all right in both these respects, which was one reason for marrying her. I had another reason, likewise, entirely of my own discovering. Selina, being a single woman, made me pay so much a week for her board and services. Selina, being my wife, couldn’t charge for her board, and would have to give me her services for nothing. That was the point of view I looked at it from. Economy—with a dash of love. I put it to my mistress, as in duty bound, just as I had put it to myself.

    I have been turning Selina Goby over in my mind, I said, and I think, my lady, it will be cheaper to marry her than to keep her.

    My lady burst out laughing, and said she didn’t know which to be most shocked at—my language or my principles. Some joke tickled her, I suppose, of the sort that you can’t take unless you are a person of quality. Understanding nothing myself but that I was free to put it next to Selina, I went and put it accordingly. And what did Selina say? Lord! how little you must know of women, if you ask that. Of course she said, Yes.

    As my time drew nearer, and there got to be talk of my having a new coat for the ceremony, my mind began to misgive me. I have compared notes with other men as to what they felt while they were in my interesting situation; and they have all acknowledged that, about a week before it happened, they privately wished themselves out of it. I went a trifle further than that myself; I actually rose up, as it were, and tried to get out of it. Not for nothing! I was too just a man to expect she would let me off for nothing. Compensation to the woman when the man gets out of it, is one of the laws of England. In obedience to the laws, and after turning it over carefully in my mind, I offered Selina Goby a feather-bed and fifty shillings to be off the bargain. You will hardly believe it, but it is nevertheless true—she was fool enough to refuse.

    After that it was all over with me, of course. I got the new coat as cheap as I could, and I went through all the rest of it as cheap as I could. We were not a happy couple, and not a miserable couple. We were six of one and half-a-dozen of the other. How it was I don’t understand, but we always seemed to be getting, with the best of motives, in one another’s way. When I wanted to go upstairs, there was my wife coming down; or when my wife wanted to go down, there was I coming up. That is married life, according to my experience of it.

    After five years of misunderstandings on the stairs, it pleased an all-wise Providence to relieve us of each other by taking my wife. I was left with my little girl Penelope, and with no other child. Shortly afterwards Sir John died, and my lady was left with her little girl, Miss Rachel, and no other child. I have written to very poor purpose of my lady, if you require to be told that my little Penelope was taken care of, under my good mistress’s own eye, and was sent to school and taught, and made a sharp girl, and promoted, when old enough, to be Miss Rachel’s own maid.

    As for me, I went on with my business as bailiff year after year up to Christmas 1847, when there came a change in my life. On that day, my lady invited herself to a cup of tea alone with me in my cottage. She remarked that, reckoning from the year when I started as page-boy in the time of the old lord, I had been more than fifty years in her service, and she put into my hands a beautiful waistcoat of wool that she had worked herself, to keep me warm in the bitter winter weather.

    I received this magnificent present quite at a loss to find words to thank my mistress with for the honour she had done me. To my great astonishment, it turned out, however, that the waistcoat was not an honour, but a bribe. My lady had discovered that I was getting old before I had discovered it myself, and she had come to my cottage to wheedle me (if I may use such an expression) into giving up my hard out-of-door work as bailiff, and taking my ease for the rest of my days as steward in the house. I made as good a fight of it against the indignity of taking my ease as I could. But my mistress knew the weak side of me; she put it as a favour to herself. The dispute between us ended, after that, in my wiping my eyes, like an old fool, with my new woollen waistcoat, and saying I would think about it.

    The perturbation in my mind, in regard to thinking about it, being truly dreadful after my lady had gone away, I applied the remedy which I have never yet found to fail me in cases of doubt and emergency. I smoked a pipe and took a turn at Robinson Crusoe. Before I had occupied myself with that extraordinary book five minutes, I came on a comforting bit (page one hundred and fifty-eight), as follows: Today we love, what tomorrow we hate. I saw my way clear directly. Today I was all for continuing to be farm-bailiff; tomorrow, on the authority of Robinson Crusoe, I should be all the other way. Take myself tomorrow while in tomorrow’s humour, and the thing was done. My mind being relieved in this manner, I went to sleep that night in the character of Lady Verinder’s farm-bailiff, and I woke up the next morning in the character of Lady Verinder’s house-steward. All quite comfortable, and all through Robinson Crusoe!

    My daughter Penelope has just looked over my shoulder to see what I have done so far. She remarks that it is beautifully written, and every word of it true. But she points out one objection. She says what I have done so far isn’t in the least what I was wanted to do. I am asked to tell the story of the Diamond and, instead of that, I have been telling the story of my own self. Curious, and quite beyond me to account for. I wonder whether the gentlemen who make a business and a living out of writing books, ever find their own selves getting in the way of their subjects, like me? If they do, I can feel for them. In the meantime, here is another false start, and more waste of good writing-paper. What’s to be done now? Nothing that I know of, except for you to keep your temper, and for me to begin it all over again for the third time.

    CHAPTER III

    The question of how I am to start the story properly I have tried to settle in two ways. First, by scratching my head, which led to nothing. Second, by consulting my daughter Penelope, which has resulted in an entirely new idea.

    Penelope’s notion is that I should set down what happened, regularly day by day, beginning with the day when we got the news that Mr. Franklin Blake was expected on a visit to the house. When you come to fix your memory with a date in this way, it is wonderful what your memory will pick up for you upon that compulsion. The only difficulty is to fetch out the dates, in the first place. This Penelope offers to do for me by looking into her own diary, which she was taught to keep when she was at school, and which she has gone on keeping ever since. In answer to an improvement on this notion, devised by myself, namely, that she should tell the story instead of me, out of her own diary, Penelope observes, with a fierce look and a red face, that her journal is for her own private eye, and that no living creature shall ever know what is in it but herself. When I inquire what this means, Penelope says, Fiddlesticks! I say, Sweethearts.

    Beginning, then, on Penelope’s plan, I beg to mention that I was specially called one Wednesday morning into my lady’s own sitting-room, the date being the twenty-fourth of May, eighteen hundred and forty-eight.

    Gabriel, says my lady, here is news that will surprise you. Franklin Blake has come back from abroad. He has been staying with his father in London, and he is coming to us tomorrow to stop till next month, and keep Rachel’s birthday.

    If I had had a hat in my hand, nothing but respect would have prevented me from throwing that hat up to the ceiling. I had not seen Mr. Franklin since he was a boy, living along with us in this house. He was, out of all sight (as I remember him), the nicest boy that ever spun a top or broke a window. Miss Rachel, who was present, and to whom I made that remark, observed, in return, that she remembered him as the most atrocious tyrant that ever tortured a doll, and the hardest driver of an exhausted little girl in string harness that England could produce. I burn with indignation, and I ache with fatigue, was the way Miss Rachel summed it up, when I think of Franklin Blake.

    Hearing what I now tell you, you will naturally ask how it was that Mr. Franklin should have passed all the years, from the time when he was a boy to the time when he was a man, out of his own country. I answer, because his father had the misfortune to be next heir to a Dukedom, and not to be able to prove it.

    In two words, this was how the thing happened:

    My lady’s eldest sister married the celebrated Mr. Blake—equally famous for his great riches, and his great suit at law. How many years he went on worrying the tribunals of his country to turn out the Duke in possession, and to put himself in the Duke’s place—how many lawyer’s purses he filled to bursting, and how many otherwise harmless people he set by the ears together disputing whether he was right or wrong—is more by a great deal than I can reckon up. His wife died, and two of his three children died, before the tribunals could make up their minds to show him the door and take no more of his money. When it was all over, and the Duke in possession was left in possession, Mr. Blake discovered that the only way of being even with his country for the manner in which it had treated him, was not to let his country have the honour of educating his son. How can I trust my native institutions, was the form in which he put it, "after the way in which my native institutions have behaved to me?" Add to this, that Mr. Blake disliked all boys, his own included, and you will admit that it could only end in one way. Master Franklin was taken from us in England, and was sent to institutions which his father could trust, in that superior country, Germany; Mr. Blake himself, you will observe, remaining snug in England, to improve his fellow-countrymen in the Parliament House, and to publish a statement on the subject of the Duke in possession, which has remained an unfinished statement from that day to this.

    There! thank God, that’s told! Neither you nor I need trouble our heads any more about Mr. Blake, senior. Leave him to the Dukedom; and let you and I stick to the Diamond.

    The Diamond takes us back to Mr. Franklin, who was the innocent means of bringing that unlucky jewel into the house.

    Our nice boy didn’t forget us after he went abroad. He wrote every now and then; sometimes to my lady, sometimes to Miss Rachel, and sometimes to me. We had had a transaction together, before he left, which consisted in his borrowing of me a ball of string, a four-bladed knife, and seven-and-sixpence in money—the colour of which last I have not seen, and never expect to see again. His letters to me chiefly related to borrowing more. I heard, however, from my lady, how he got on abroad, as he grew in years and stature. After he had learnt what the institutions of Germany could teach him, he gave the French a turn next, and the Italians a turn after that. They made him among them a sort of universal genius, as well as I could understand it. He wrote a little; he painted a little; he sang and played and composed a little—borrowing, as I suspect, in all these cases, just as he had borrowed from me. His mother’s fortune (seven hundred a year) fell to him when he came of age, and ran through him, as it might be through a sieve. The more money he had, the more he wanted; there was a hole in Mr. Franklin’s pocket that nothing would sew up. Wherever he went, the lively, easy way of him made him welcome. He lived here, there, and everywhere; his address (as he used to put it himself) being Post Office, Europe—to be left till called for. Twice over, he made up his mind to come back to England and see us; and twice over (saving your presence), some unmentionable woman stood in the way and stopped him. His third attempt succeeded, as you know already from what my lady told me. On Thursday the twenty-fifth of May, we were to see for the first time what our nice boy had grown to be as a man. He came of good blood; he had a high courage; and he was five-and-twenty years of age, by our reckoning. Now you know as much of Mr. Franklin Blake as I did—before Mr. Franklin Blake came down to our house.

    The Thursday was as fine a summer’s day as ever you saw: and my lady and Miss Rachel (not expecting Mr. Franklin till dinner-time) drove out to lunch with some friends in the neighbourhood.

    When they were gone, I went and had a look at the bedroom which had been got ready for our guest, and saw that all was straight. Then, being butler in my lady’s establishment, as well as steward (at my own particular request, mind, and because it vexed me to see anybody but myself in possession of the key of the late Sir John’s cellar)—then, I say, I fetched up some of our famous Latour claret, and set it in the warm summer air to take off the chill before dinner. Concluding to set myself in the warm summer air next—seeing that what is good for old claret is equally good for old age—I took up my beehive chair to go out into the back court, when I was stopped by hearing a sound like the soft beating of a drum, on the terrace in front of my lady’s residence.

    Going round to the terrace, I found three mahogany-coloured Indians, in white linen frocks and trousers, looking up at the house.

    The Indians, as I saw on looking closer, had small hand-drums slung in front of them. Behind them stood a little delicate-looking light-haired English boy carrying a bag. I judged the fellows to be strolling conjurors, and the boy with the bag to be carrying the tools of their trade. One of the three, who spoke English and who exhibited, I must own, the most elegant manners, presently informed me that my judgment was right. He requested permission to show his tricks in the presence of the lady of the house.

    Now I am not a sour old man. I am generally all for amusement, and the last person in the world to distrust another person because he happens to be a few shades darker than myself. But the best of us have our weaknesses—and my weakness, when I know a family plate-basket to be out on a pantry-table, is to be instantly reminded of that basket by the sight of a strolling stranger whose manners are superior to my own. I accordingly informed the Indian that the lady of the house was out; and I warned him and his party off the premises. He made me a beautiful bow in return; and he and his party went off the premises. On my side, I returned to my beehive chair, and set myself down on the sunny side of the court, and fell (if the truth must be owned), not exactly into a sleep, but into the next best thing to it.

    I was roused up by my daughter Penelope running out at me as if the house was on fire. What do you think she wanted? She wanted to have the three Indian jugglers instantly taken up; for this reason, namely, that they knew who was coming from London to visit us, and that they meant some mischief to Mr. Franklin Blake.

    Mr. Franklin’s name roused me. I opened my eyes, and made my girl explain herself.

    It appeared that Penelope had just come from our lodge, where she had been having a gossip with the lodge-keeper’s daughter. The two girls had seen the Indians pass out, after I had warned them off, followed by their little boy. Taking it into their heads that the boy was ill-used by the foreigners—for no reason that I could discover, except that he was pretty and delicate-looking—the two girls had stolen along the inner side of the hedge between us and the road, and had watched the proceedings of the foreigners on the outer side. Those proceedings resulted in the performance of the following extraordinary tricks.

    They first looked up the road, and down the road, and made sure that they were alone. Then they all three faced about, and stared hard in the direction of our house. Then they jabbered and disputed in their own language, and looked at each other like men in doubt. Then they all turned to their little English boy, as if they expected him to help them. And then the chief Indian, who spoke English, said to the boy, Hold out your hand.

    On hearing those dreadful words, my daughter Penelope said she didn’t know what prevented her heart from flying straight out of her. I thought privately that it might have been her stays. All I said, however, was, You make my flesh creep. (Nota bene: Women like these little compliments.)

    Well, when the Indian said, Hold out your hand, the boy shrunk back, and shook his head, and said he didn’t like it. The Indian, thereupon, asked him (not at all unkindly), whether he would like to be sent back to London, and left where they had found him, sleeping in an empty basket in a market—a hungry, ragged, and forsaken little boy. This, it seems, ended the difficulty. The little chap unwillingly held out his hand. Upon that, the Indian took a bottle from his bosom, and poured out of it some black stuff, like ink, into the palm of the boy’s hand. The Indian—first touching the boy’s head, and making signs over it in the air—then said, Look. The boy became quite stiff, and stood like a statue, looking into the ink in the hollow of his hand.

    (So far, it seemed to me to be juggling, accompanied by a foolish waste of ink. I was beginning to feel sleepy again, when Penelope’s next words stirred me up.)

    The Indians looked up the road and down the road once more—and then the chief Indian said these words to the boy; See the English gentleman from foreign parts.

    The boy said, I see him.

    The Indian said, Is it on the road to this house, and on no other, that the English gentleman will travel today?

    The boy said, It is on the road to this house, and on no other, that the English gentleman will travel today.

    The Indian put a second question—after waiting a little first. He said: Has the English gentleman got It about him?

    The boy answered—also, after waiting a little first—Yes.

    The Indian put a third and last question: Will the English gentleman come here, as he has promised to come, at the close of day?

    The boy said, I can’t tell.

    The Indian asked why.

    The boy said, I am tired. The mist rises in my head, and puzzles me. I can see no more today.

    With that the catechism ended. The chief Indian said something in his own language to the other two, pointing to the boy, and pointing towards the town, in which (as we afterwards discovered) they were lodged. He then, after making more signs on the boy’s head, blew on his forehead, and so woke him up with a start. After that, they all went on their way towards the town, and the girls saw them no more.

    Most things they say have a moral, if you only look for it. What was the moral of this?

    The moral was, as I thought: First, that the chief juggler had heard Mr. Franklin’s arrival talked of among the servants out-of-doors, and saw his way to making a little money by it. Second, that he and his men and boy (with a view to making the said money) meant to hang about till they saw my lady drive home, and then to come back, and foretell Mr. Franklin’s arrival by magic. Third, that Penelope had heard them rehearsing their hocus-pocus, like actors rehearsing a play. Fourth, that I should do well to have an eye, that evening, on the plate-basket. Fifth, that Penelope would do well to cool down, and leave me, her father, to doze off again in the sun.

    That appeared to me to be the sensible view. If you know anything of the ways of young women, you won’t be surprised to hear that Penelope wouldn’t take it. The moral of the thing was serious, according to my daughter. She particularly reminded me of the Indian’s third question, Has the English gentleman got It about him? Oh, father! says Penelope, clasping her hands, don’t joke about this. What does ‘It’ mean?

    We’ll ask Mr. Franklin, my dear, I said, if you can wait till Mr. Franklin comes. I winked to show I meant that in joke. Penelope took it quite seriously. My girl’s earnestness tickled me. What on earth should Mr. Franklin know about it? I inquired. Ask him, says Penelope. "And see whether he thinks it a laughing matter, too." With that parting shot, my daughter left me.

    I settled it with myself, when she was gone, that I really would ask Mr. Franklin—mainly to set Penelope’s mind at rest. What was said between us, when I did ask him, later on that same day, you will find set out fully in its proper place. But as I don’t wish to raise your expectations and then disappoint them, I will take leave to warn you here—before we go any further—that you won’t find the ghost of a joke in our conversation on the subject of the jugglers. To my great surprise, Mr. Franklin, like Penelope, took the thing seriously. How seriously, you will understand, when I tell you that, in his opinion, It meant the Moonstone.

    CHAPTER IV

    I am truly sorry to detain you over me and my beehive chair. A sleepy old man, in a sunny back yard, is not an interesting object, I am well aware. But things must be put down in their places, as things actually happened—and you must please to jog on a little while longer with me, in expectation of Mr. Franklin Blake’s arrival later in the day.

    Before I had time to doze off again, after my daughter Penelope had left me, I was disturbed by a rattling of plates and dishes in the servants’ hall, which meant that dinner was ready. Taking my own meals in my own sitting-room, I had nothing to do with the servants’ dinner, except to wish them a good stomach to it all round, previous to composing myself once more in my chair. I was just stretching my legs, when out bounced another woman on me. Not my daughter again; only Nancy, the kitchen-maid, this time. I was straight in her way out; and I observed, as she asked me to let her by, that she had a sulky face—a thing which, as head of the servants, I never allow, on principle, to pass me without inquiry.

    What are you turning your back on your dinner for? I asked. What’s wrong now, Nancy?

    Nancy tried to push by, without answering; upon which I rose up, and took her by the ear. She is a nice plump young lass, and it is customary with me to adopt that manner of showing that I personally approve of a girl.

    What’s wrong now? I said once more.

    Rosanna’s late again for dinner, says Nancy. And I’m sent to fetch her in. All the hard work falls on my shoulders in this house. Let me alone, Mr. Betteredge!

    The person here mentioned as Rosanna was our second housemaid. Having a kind of pity for our second housemaid (why, you shall presently know), and seeing in Nancy’s face, that she would fetch her fellow-servant in with more hard words than might be needful under the circumstances, it struck me that I had nothing particular to do, and that I might as well fetch Rosanna myself; giving her a hint to be punctual in future, which I knew she would take kindly from me.

    Where is Rosanna? I inquired.

    At the sands, of course! says Nancy, with a toss of her head. She had another of her fainting fits this morning, and she asked to go out and get a breath of fresh air. I have no patience with her!

    Go back to your dinner, my girl, I said. I have patience with her, and I’ll fetch her in.

    Nancy (who has a fine appetite) looked pleased. When she looks pleased, she looks nice. When she looks nice, I chuck her under the chin. It isn’t immorality—it’s only habit.

    Well, I took my stick, and set off for the sands.

    No! it won’t do to set off yet. I am sorry again to detain you; but you really must hear the story of the sands, and the story of Rosanna—for this reason, that the matter of the Diamond touches them both nearly. How hard I try to get on with my statement without stopping by the way, and how badly I succeed! But, there!—Persons and Things do turn up so vexatiously in this life, and will in a manner insist on being noticed. Let us take it easy, and let us take it short; we shall be in the thick of the mystery soon, I promise you!

    Rosanna (to put the Person before the Thing, which is but common politeness) was the only new servant in our house. About four months before the time I am writing of, my lady had been in London, and had gone over a Reformatory, intended to save forlorn women from drifting back into bad ways, after they had got released from prison. The matron, seeing my lady took an interest in the place, pointed out a girl to her, named Rosanna Spearman, and told her a most miserable story, which I haven’t the heart to repeat here; for I don’t like to be made wretched without any use, and no more do you. The upshot of it was, that Rosanna Spearman had been a thief, and not being of the sort that get up Companies in the City, and rob from thousands, instead of only robbing from one, the law laid hold of her, and the prison and the reformatory followed the lead of the law. The matron’s opinion of Rosanna was (in spite of what she had done) that the girl was one in a thousand, and that she only wanted a chance to prove herself worthy of any Christian woman’s interest in her. My lady (being a Christian woman, if ever there was one yet) said to the matron, upon that, Rosanna Spearman shall have her chance, in my service. In a week afterwards, Rosanna Spearman entered this establishment as our second housemaid.

    Not a soul was told the girl’s story, excepting Miss Rachel and me. My lady, doing me the honour to consult me about most things, consulted me about Rosanna. Having fallen a good deal latterly into the late Sir John’s way of always agreeing with my lady, I agreed with her heartily about Rosanna Spearman.

    A fairer chance no girl could have had than was given to this poor girl of ours. None of the servants could cast her past life in her teeth, for none of the servants knew what it had been. She had her wages and her privileges, like the rest of them; and every now and then a friendly word from my lady, in private, to encourage her. In return, she showed herself, I am bound to say, well worthy of the kind treatment bestowed upon her. Though far from strong, and troubled occasionally with those fainting-fits already mentioned, she went about her work modestly and uncomplainingly, doing it carefully, and doing it well. But, somehow, she failed to make friends among the other women servants, excepting my daughter Penelope, who was always kind to Rosanna, though never intimate with her.

    I hardly know what the girl did to offend them. There was certainly no beauty about her to make the others envious; she was the plainest woman in the house, with the additional misfortune of having one shoulder bigger than the other. What the servants chiefly resented, I think, was her silent tongue and her solitary ways. She read or worked in leisure hours when the rest gossiped. And when it came to her turn to go out, nine times out of ten she quietly put on her bonnet, and had her turn by herself. She never quarrelled, she never took offence; she only kept a certain distance, obstinately and civilly, between the rest of them and herself. Add to this that, plain as she was, there was just a dash of something that wasn’t like a housemaid, and that was like a lady, about her. It might have been in her voice, or it might have been in her face. All I can say is, that the other women pounced on it like lightning the first day she came into the house, and said (which was most unjust) that Rosanna Spearman gave herself airs.

    Having now told the story of Rosanna, I have only to notice one of the many queer ways of this strange girl to get on next to the story of the sands.

    Our house is high up on the Yorkshire coast, and close by the sea. We have got beautiful walks all round us, in every direction but one. That one I acknowledge to be a horrid walk. It leads, for a quarter of a mile, through a melancholy plantation of firs, and brings you out between low cliffs on the loneliest and ugliest little bay on all our coast.

    The sandhills here run down to the sea, and end in two spits of rock jutting out opposite each other, till you lose sight of them in the water. One is called the North Spit, and one the South. Between the two, shifting backwards and forwards at certain seasons of the year, lies the most horrible quicksand on the shores of Yorkshire. At the turn of the tide, something goes on in the unknown deeps below, which sets the whole face of the quicksand shivering and trembling in a manner most remarkable to see, and which has given to it, among the people in our parts, the name of the Shivering Sand. A great bank, half a mile out, nigh the mouth of the bay, breaks the force of the main ocean coming in from the offing. Winter and summer, when the tide flows over the quicksand, the sea seems to leave the waves behind it on the bank, and rolls its waters in smoothly with a heave, and covers the sand in silence. A lonesome and a horrid retreat, I can tell you! No boat ever ventures into this bay. No children from our fishing-village, called Cobb’s Hole, ever come here to play. The very birds of the air, as it seems to me, give the Shivering Sand a wide berth. That a young woman, with dozens of nice walks to choose from, and company to go with her, if she only said Come!, should prefer this place, and should sit and work or read in it, all alone, when it’s

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