<p><SPAN name="link2H_4_0061" id="link2H_4_0061"></SPAN></p>
<h2> SEVENTH NARRATIVE </h2>
<h3> In a Letter from MR. CANDY </h3>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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."</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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!"</p>
<p>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."</p>
<p>I gave him my promise. And the promise has been performed.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>It is reported here, that you and Miss Verinder are to be married next
month. Please to accept my best congratulations.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>My best respects and good wishes attend Miss Verinder. I remain, dear Mr.
Franklin Blake, truly yours,</p>
<p>THOMAS CANDY. <SPAN name="link2H_4_0062" id="link2H_4_0062"></SPAN></p>
<h2> EIGHTH NARRATIVE </h2>
<h3> Contributed by GABRIEL BETTEREDGE </h3>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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:</p>
<p>"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!"</p>
<p>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."</p>
<p>"Does it concern the family, sir?" I asked.</p>
<p>"It decidedly concerns the family," says Mr. Franklin.</p>
<p>"Has your good lady anything to do with it, if you please, sir?"</p>
<p>"She has a great deal to do with it," says Mr. Franklin, beginning to look
a little surprised.</p>
<p>"You needn't say a word more, sir," I answered. "God bless you both! I'm
heartily glad to hear it."</p>
<p>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."</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"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.</p>
<p>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!</p>
<p>When this is said, all is said. Ladies and gentlemen, I make my bow, and
shut up the story.</p>
<p><SPAN name="link2H_EPIL" id="link2H_EPIL"></SPAN></p>
<h2> EPILOGUE </h2>
<h3> THE FINDING OF THE DIAMOND </h3>
<p><SPAN name="link2H_4_0064" id="link2H_4_0064"></SPAN></p>
<h2> I </h2>
<h3> The Statement of SERGEANT CUFF'S MAN (1849) </h3>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p><SPAN name="link2H_4_0065" id="link2H_4_0065"></SPAN></p>
<h2> II </h2>
<h3> The Statement of THE CAPTAIN (1849) </h3>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p><SPAN name="link2H_4_0066" id="link2H_4_0066"></SPAN></p>
<h2> III </h2>
<h3> The Statement of MR. MURTHWAITE (1850) </h3>
<p>(In a letter to MR. BRUFF)</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>Here an adventure befell me, in which (incredible as it may appear) you
are personally interested.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>A strain of plaintive music, played on stringed instruments, and flutes,
recalled my attention to the hidden shrine.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>A new strain of music, loud and jubilant, rose from the hidden shrine. The
crowd around me shuddered, and pressed together.</p>
<p>The curtain between the trees was drawn aside, and the shrine was
disclosed to view.</p>
<p>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!</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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?</p>
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