Kabanata Kabanata 50 · Chapter I（3）

The next event in your cousin’s life refers again to Miss Verinder. He

proposed marriage to her for the second time—and (after having being

accepted) he consented, at her request, to consider the marriage as

broken off. One of his reasons for making this concession has been

penetrated by Mr. Bruff. Miss Verinder had only a life interest in her

mother’s property—and there was no raising the twenty thousand pounds

on _that_.

But you will say, he might have saved the three thousand pounds, to

redeem the pledged Diamond, if he had married. He might have done so

certainly—supposing neither his wife, nor her guardians and trustees,

objected to his anticipating more than half of the income at his

disposal, for some unknown purpose, in the first year of his marriage.

But even if he got over this obstacle, there was another waiting for

him in the background. The lady at the Villa, had heard of his

contemplated marriage. A superb woman, Mr. Blake, of the sort that are

not to be trifled with—the sort with the light complexion and the Roman

nose. She felt the utmost contempt for Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite. It would

be silent contempt, if he made a handsome provision for her. Otherwise,

it would be contempt with a tongue to it. Miss Verinder’s life interest

allowed him no more hope of raising the “provision” than of raising the

twenty thousand pounds. He couldn’t marry—he really couldn’t marry,

under all the circumstances.

How he tried his luck again with another lady, and how _that_ marriage

also broke down on the question of money, you know already. You also

know of the legacy of five thousand pounds, left to him shortly

afterwards, by one of those many admirers among the soft sex whose good

graces this fascinating man had contrived to win. That legacy (as the

event has proved) led him to his death.

I have ascertained that when he went abroad, on getting his five

thousand pounds, he went to Amsterdam. There he made all the necessary

arrangements for having the Diamond cut into separate stones. He came

back (in disguise), and redeemed the Moonstone, on the appointed day. A

few days were allowed to elapse (as a precaution agreed to by both

parties) before the jewel was actually taken out of the bank. If he had

got safe with it to Amsterdam, there would have been just time between

July ’forty-nine, and February ’fifty (when the young gentleman came of

age) to cut the Diamond, and to make a marketable commodity (polished

or unpolished) of the separate stones. Judge from this, what motives he

had to run the risk which he actually ran. It was “neck or nothing”

with him—if ever it was “neck or nothing” with a man yet.

I have only to remind you, before closing this Report, that there is a

chance of laying hands on the Indians, and of recovering the Moonstone

yet. They are now (there is every reason to believe) on their passage

to Bombay, in an East Indiaman. The ship (barring accidents) will touch

at no other port on her way out; and the authorities at Bombay (already

communicated with by letter, overland) will be prepared to board the

vessel, the moment she enters the harbour.

I have the honour to remain, dear sir, your obedient servant, RICHARD

CUFF (late sergeant in the Detective Force, Scotland Yard, London).*

* NOTE.—Wherever the Report touches on the events of the birthday, or

of the three days that followed it, compare with Betteredge’s

Narrative, chapters viii. to xiii.

SEVENTH NARRATIVE.

_In a Letter from Mr. Candy._

Frizinghall, Wednesday, September 26th, 1849.—Dear Mr. Franklin Blake,

you will anticipate the sad news I have to tell you, on finding your

letter to Ezra Jennings returned to you, unopened, in this enclosure.

He died in my arms, at sunrise, on Wednesday last.

I am not to blame for having failed to warn you that his end was at

hand. He expressly forbade me to write to you. “I am indebted to Mr.

Franklin Blake,” he said, “for having seen some happy days. Don’t

distress him, Mr. Candy—don’t distress him.”

His sufferings, up to the last six hours of his life, were terrible to

see. In the intervals of remission, when his mind was clear, I

entreated him to tell me of any relatives of his to whom I might write.

He asked to be forgiven for refusing anything to _me_. And then he

said—not bitterly—that he would die as he had lived, forgotten and

unknown. He maintained that resolution to the last. There is no hope

now of making any discoveries concerning him. His story is a blank.

The day before he died, he told me where to find all his papers. I

brought them to him on his bed. There was a little bundle of old

letters which he put aside. There was his unfinished book. There was

his Diary—in many locked volumes. He opened the volume for this year,

and tore out, one by one, the pages relating to the time when you and

he were together. “Give those,” he said, “to Mr. Franklin Blake. In

years to come, he may feel an interest in looking back at what is

written there.” Then he clasped his hands, and prayed God fervently to

bless you, and those dear to you. He said he should like to see you

again. But the next moment he altered his mind. “No,” he answered when

I offered to write. “I won’t distress him! I won’t distress him!”

At his request I next collected the other papers—that is to say, the

bundle of letters, the unfinished book and the volumes of the Diary—and

enclosed them all in one wrapper, sealed with my own seal. “Promise,”

he said, “that you will put this into my coffin with your own hand; and

that you will see that no other hand touches it afterwards.”

I gave him my promise. And the promise has been performed.

He asked me to do one other thing for him—which it cost me a hard

struggle to comply with. He said, “Let my grave be forgotten. Give me

your word of honour that you will allow no monument of any sort—not

even the commonest tombstone—to mark the place of my burial. Let me

sleep, nameless. Let me rest, unknown.” When I tried to plead with him

to alter his resolution, he became for the first, and only time,

violently agitated. I could not bear to see it; and I gave way. Nothing

but a little grass mound marks the place of his rest. In time, the

tombstones will rise round it. And the people who come after us will

look and wonder at the nameless grave.

As I have told you, for six hours before his death his sufferings

ceased. He dozed a little. I think he dreamed. Once or twice he smiled.

A woman’s name, as I suppose—the name of “Ella”—was often on his lips

at this time. A few minutes before the end he asked me to lift him on

his pillow, to see the sun rise through the window. He was very weak.

His head fell on my shoulder. He whispered, “It’s coming!” Then he

said, “Kiss me!” I kissed his forehead. On a sudden he lifted his head.

The sunlight touched his face. A beautiful expression, an angelic

expression, came over it. He cried out three times, “Peace! peace!

peace!” His head sank back again on my shoulder, and the long trouble

of his life was at an end.

So he has gone from us. This was, as I think, a great man—though the

world never knew him. He had the sweetest temper I have ever met with.

The loss of him makes me feel very lonely. Perhaps I have never been

quite myself since my illness. Sometimes, I think of giving up my

practice, and going away, and trying what some of the foreign baths and

waters will do for me.

It is reported here, that you and Miss Verinder are to be married next

month. Please to accept my best congratulations.

The pages of my poor friend’s Journal are waiting for you at my

house—sealed up, with your name on the wrapper. I was afraid to trust

them to the post.

My best respects and good wishes attend Miss Verinder. I remain, dear

Mr. Franklin Blake, truly yours,

THOMAS CANDY.

EIGHTH NARRATIVE.

_Contributed by Gabriel Betteredge._

I am the person (as you remember no doubt) who led the way in these

pages, and opened the story. I am also the person who is left behind,

as it were, to close the story up.

Let nobody suppose that I have any last words to say here concerning

the Indian Diamond. I hold that unlucky jewel in abhorrence—and I refer

you to other authority than mine, for such news of the Moonstone as you

may, at the present time, be expected to receive. My purpose, in this

place, is to state a fact in the history of the family, which has been

passed over by everybody, and which I won’t allow to be disrespectfully

smothered up in that way. The fact to which I allude is—the marriage of

Miss Rachel and Mr. Franklin Blake. This interesting event took place

at our house in Yorkshire, on Tuesday, October ninth, eighteen hundred

and forty-nine. I had a new suit of clothes on the occasion. And the

married couple went to spend the honeymoon in Scotland.

Family festivals having been rare enough at our house, since my poor

mistress’s death, I own—on this occasion of the wedding—to having

(towards the latter part of the day) taken a drop too much on the

strength of it.

If you have ever done the same sort of thing yourself you will

understand and feel for me. If you have not, you will very likely say,

“Disgusting old man! why does he tell us this?” The reason why is now

to come.

Having, then, taken my drop (bless you! you have got your favourite

vice, too; only your vice isn’t mine, and mine isn’t yours), I next

applied the one infallible remedy—that remedy being, as you know,

_Robinson Crusoe_. Where I opened that unrivalled book, I can’t say.

Where the lines of print at last left off running into each other, I

know, however, perfectly well. It was at page three hundred and

eighteen—a domestic bit concerning Robinson Crusoe’s marriage, as

follows:

“With those Thoughts, I considered my new Engagement, that I had a

Wife”—(Observe! so had Mr. Franklin!)—“one Child born”—(Observe again!

that might yet be Mr. Franklin’s case, too!)—“and my Wife then”—What

Robinson Crusoe’s wife did, or did not do, “then,” I felt no desire to

discover. I scored the bit about the Child with my pencil, and put a

morsel of paper for a mark to keep the place; “Lie you there,” I said,

“till the marriage of Mr. Franklin and Miss Rachel is some months

older—and then we’ll see!”

The months passed (more than I had bargained for), and no occasion

presented itself for disturbing that mark in the book. It was not till

this present month of November, eighteen hundred and fifty, that Mr.

Franklin came into my room, in high good spirits, and said,

“Betteredge! I have got some news for you! Something is going to happen

in the house, before we are many months older.”

“Does it concern the family, sir?” I asked.

“It decidedly concerns the family,” says Mr. Franklin.

“Has your good lady anything to do with it, if you please, sir?”

“She has a great deal to do with it,” says Mr. Franklin, beginning to

look a little surprised.

“You needn’t say a word more, sir,” I answered. “God bless you both!

I’m heartily glad to hear it.”

Mr. Franklin stared like a person thunderstruck. “May I venture to

inquire where you got your information?” he asked. “I only got mine

(imparted in the strictest secrecy) five minutes since.”

Here was an opportunity of producing _Robinson Crusoe_! Here was a

chance of reading that domestic bit about the child which I had marked

on the day of Mr. Franklin’s marriage! I read those miraculous words

with an emphasis which did them justice, and then I looked him severely

in the face. “_Now_, sir, do you believe in _Robinson Crusoe_?” I

asked, with a solemnity suitable to the occasion.

“Betteredge!” says Mr. Franklin, with equal solemnity, “I’m convinced

at last.” He shook hands with me—and I felt that I had converted him.

With the relation of this extraordinary circumstance, my reappearance

in these pages comes to an end. Let nobody laugh at the unique anecdote

here related. You are welcome to be as merry as you please over

everything else I have written. But when I write of _Robinson Crusoe_,

by the Lord it’s serious—and I request you to take it accordingly!

When this is said, all is said. Ladies and gentlemen, I make my bow,

and shut up the story.

EPILOGUE.

THE FINDING OF THE DIAMOND.

I

THE STATEMENT OF SERGEANT CUFF’S MAN. (1849.)

On the twenty-seventh of June last, I received instructions from

Sergeant Cuff to follow three men; suspected of murder, and described

as Indians. They had been seen on the Tower Wharf that morning,

embarking on board the steamer bound for Rotterdam.

I left London by a steamer belonging to another company, which sailed

on the morning of Thursday the twenty-eighth. Arriving at Rotterdam, I

succeeded in finding the commander of the Wednesday’s steamer. He

informed me that the Indians had certainly been passengers on board his

vessel—but as far as Gravesend only. Off that place, one of the three

had inquired at what time they would reach Calais. On being informed

that the steamer was bound to Rotterdam, the spokesman of the party

expressed the greatest surprise and distress at the mistake which he

and his two friends had made. They were all willing (he said) to

sacrifice their passage money, if the commander of the steamer would

only put them ashore. Commiserating their position, as foreigners in a

strange land, and knowing no reason for detaining them, the commander

signalled for a shore boat, and the three men left the vessel.

This proceeding of the Indians having been plainly resolved on

beforehand, as a means of preventing their being traced, I lost no time

in returning to England. I left the steamer at Gravesend, and

discovered that the Indians had gone from that place to London. Thence,

I again traced them as having left for Plymouth. Inquiries made at

Plymouth proved that they had sailed, forty-eight hours previously, in

the _Bewley Castle_, East Indiaman, bound direct to Bombay.

On receiving this intelligence, Sergeant Cuff caused the authorities at

Bombay to be communicated with, overland—so that the vessel might be

boarded by the police immediately on her entering the port. This step

having been taken, my connection with the matter came to an end. I have

heard nothing more of it since that time.

II

THE STATEMENT OF THE CAPTAIN. (1849.)

I am requested by Sergeant Cuff to set in writing certain facts,

concerning three men (believed to be Hindoos) who were passengers, last

summer, in the ship _Bewley Castle_, bound for Bombay direct, under my

command.

The Hindoos joined us at Plymouth. On the passage out I heard no

complaint of their conduct. They were berthed in the forward part of

the vessel. I had but few occasions myself of personally noticing them.

In the latter part of the voyage, we had the misfortune to be becalmed

for three days and nights, off the coast of India. I have not got the

ship’s journal to refer to, and I cannot now call to mind the latitude

and longitude. As to our position, therefore, I am only able to state

generally that the currents drifted us in towards the land, and that

when the wind found us again, we reached our port in twenty-four hours

afterwards.

The discipline of a ship (as all seafaring persons know) becomes

relaxed in a long calm. The discipline of my ship became relaxed.

Certain gentlemen among the passengers got some of the smaller boats

lowered, and amused themselves by rowing about, and swimming, when the

sun at evening time was cool enough to let them divert themselves in

that way. The boats when done with ought to have been slung up again in

their places. Instead of this they were left moored to the ship’s side.

What with the heat, and what with the vexation of the weather, neither

officers nor men seemed to be in heart for their duty while the calm

lasted.

On the third night, nothing unusual was heard or seen by the watch on

deck. When the morning came, the smallest of the boats was missing—and

the three Hindoos were next reported to be missing, too.

If these men had stolen the boat shortly after dark (which I have no

doubt they did), we were near enough to the land to make it vain to

send in pursuit of them, when the discovery was made in the morning. I

have no doubt they got ashore, in that calm weather (making all due

allowance for fatigue and clumsy rowing), before day-break.

On reaching our port, I there learnt, for the first time, the reason

these passengers had for seizing their opportunity of escaping from the

ship. I could only make the same statement to the authorities which I

have made here. They considered me to blame for allowing the discipline

of the vessel to be relaxed. I have expressed my regret on this score

to them, and to my owners.

Since that time, nothing has been heard to my knowledge of the three

Hindoos. I have no more to add to what is here written.

III

THE STATEMENT OF MR. MURTHWAITE. (1850.)

_(In a letter to Mr. Bruff.)_

Have you any recollection, my dear sir, of a semi-savage person whom

you met out at dinner, in London, in the autumn of ’forty-eight? Permit

me to remind you that the person’s name was Murthwaite, and that you

and he had a long conversation together after dinner. The talk related

to an Indian Diamond, called the Moonstone, and to a conspiracy then in

existence to get possession of the gem.

Since that time, I have been wandering in Central Asia. Thence I have

drifted back to the scene of some of my past adventures in the north

and north-west of India. About a fortnight since, I found myself in a

certain district or province (but little known to Europeans) called

Kattiawar.

Here an adventure befell me, in which (incredible as it may appear) you

are personally interested.

In the wild regions of Kattiawar (and how wild they are, you will

understand, when I tell you that even the husbandmen plough the land,

armed to the teeth), the population is fanatically devoted to the old

Hindoo religion—to the ancient worship of Bramah and Vishnu. The few

Mahometan families, thinly scattered about the villages in the

interior, are afraid to taste meat of any kind. A Mahometan even

suspected of killing that sacred animal, the cow, is, as a matter of

course, put to death without mercy in these parts by the pious Hindoo

neighbours who surround him. To strengthen the religious enthusiasm of

the people, two of the most famous shrines of Hindoo pilgrimage are

contained within the boundaries of Kattiawar. One of them is Dwarka,

the birthplace of the god Krishna. The other is the sacred city of

Somnauth—sacked, and destroyed as long since as the eleventh century,

by the Mahometan conqueror, Mahmoud of Ghizni.

Finding myself, for the second time, in these romantic regions, I

resolved not to leave Kattiawar, without looking once more on the

magnificent desolation of Somnauth. At the place where I planned to do

this, I was (as nearly as I could calculate it) some three days

distant, journeying on foot, from the sacred city.

I had not been long on the road, before I noticed that other people—by

twos and threes—appeared to be travelling in the same direction as

myself.

To such of these as spoke to me, I gave myself out as a

Hindoo-Boodhist, from a distant province, bound on a pilgrimage. It is

needless to say that my dress was of the sort to carry out this

description. Add, that I know the language as well as I know my own,

and that I am lean enough and brown enough to make it no easy matter to

detect my European origin—and you will understand that I passed muster

with the people readily: not as one of themselves, but as a stranger

from a distant part of their own country.

On the second day, the number of Hindoos travelling in my direction had

increased to fifties and hundreds. On the third day, the throng had

swollen to thousands; all slowly converging to one point—the city of

Somnauth.

A trifling service which I was able to render to one of my

fellow-pilgrims, during the third day’s journey, proved the means of

introducing me to certain Hindoos of the higher caste. From these men I

learnt that the multitude was on its way to a great religious ceremony,

which was to take place on a hill at a little distance from Somnauth.

The ceremony was in honour of the god of the Moon; and it was to be

held at night.

The crowd detained us as we drew near to the place of celebration. By

the time we reached the hill the moon was high in the heaven. My Hindoo

friends possessed some special privileges which enabled them to gain

access to the shrine. They kindly allowed me to accompany them. When we

arrived at the place, we found the shrine hidden from our view by a

curtain hung between two magnificent trees. Beneath the trees a flat

projection of rock jutted out, and formed a species of natural

platform. Below this, I stood, in company with my Hindoo friends.

Looking back down the hill, the view presented the grandest spectacle

of Nature and Man, in combination, that I have ever seen. The lower

slopes of the eminence melted imperceptibly into a grassy plain, the

place of the meeting of three rivers. On one side, the graceful winding

of the waters stretched away, now visible, now hidden by trees, as far

as the eye could see. On the other, the waveless ocean slept in the

calm of the night. People this lovely scene with tens of thousands of

human creatures, all dressed in white, stretching down the sides of the

hill, overflowing into the plain, and fringing the nearer banks of the

winding rivers. Light this halt of the pilgrims by the wild red flames

of cressets and torches, streaming up at intervals from every part of

the innumerable throng. Imagine the moonlight of the East, pouring in

unclouded glory over all—and you will form some idea of the view that

met me when I looked forth from the summit of the hill.

A strain of plaintive music, played on stringed instruments and flutes,

recalled my attention to the hidden shrine.

I turned, and saw on the rocky platform the figures of three men. In

the central figure of the three I recognised the man to whom I had

spoken in England, when the Indians appeared on the terrace at Lady

Verinder’s house. The other two who had been his companions on that

occasion were no doubt his companions also on this.

One of the spectators, near whom I was standing, saw me start. In a

whisper, he explained to me the apparition of the three figures on the

platform of rock.

They were Brahmins (he said) who had forfeited their caste in the

service of the god. The god had commanded that their purification

should be the purification by pilgrimage. On that night, the three men

were to part. In three separate directions, they were to set forth as

pilgrims to the shrines of India. Never more were they to look on each

other’s faces. Never more were they to rest on their wanderings, from

the day which witnessed their separation, to the day which witnessed

their death.

As those words were whispered to me, the plaintive music ceased. The

three men prostrated themselves on the rock, before the curtain which

hid the shrine. They rose—they looked on one another—they embraced.

Then they descended separately among the people. The people made way

for them in dead silence. In three different directions I saw the crowd

part, at one and the same moment. Slowly the grand white mass of the

people closed together again. The track of the doomed men through the

ranks of their fellow mortals was obliterated. We saw them no more.

A new strain of music, loud and jubilant, rose from the hidden shrine.

The crowd around me shuddered, and pressed together.

The curtain between the trees was drawn aside, and the shrine was

disclosed to view.

There, raised high on a throne—seated on his typical antelope, with his

four arms stretching towards the four corners of the earth—there,

soared above us, dark and awful in the mystic light of heaven, the god

of the Moon. And there, in the forehead of the deity, gleamed the

yellow Diamond, whose splendour had last shone on me in England, from

the bosom of a woman’s dress!

Yes! after the lapse of eight centuries, the Moonstone looks forth once

more, over the walls of the sacred city in which its story first began.

How it has found its way back to its wild native land—by what accident,

or by what crime, the Indians regained possession of their sacred gem,

may be in your knowledge, but is not in mine. You have lost sight of it

in England, and (if I know anything of this people) you have lost sight

of it for ever.

So the years pass, and repeat each other; so the same events revolve in

the cycles of time. What will be the next adventures of the Moonstone?

Who can tell?

FINIS