The Moonstone Page #3

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

								

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.
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