The Moonstone
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