The Moonstone Page #2

The Moonstone by Wilkie Collins is a 19th-century British epistolary novel. It is an early example of the modern detective novel, and established many of the ground rules of the modern genre. The story was serialised in Charles Dickens's magazine All the Year Round. Collins adapted The Moonstone for the stage in 1877.

• Mystery

								

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
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