The Moonstone

by Wilkie Collins

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.

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.

When you get a sudden alarm, of the sort that I had got now, nine times out of ten the place you feel it in is your stomach. When you feel it in your stomach your attention wanders, and you begin to fidget.

Sometimes, again, you see them occupied for hours together in spoiling a pretty flower with pointed instruments, out of a stupid curiosity to know what the flower is made of. Is its color any prettier, or its scent any sweeter, when you do know? But there! the poor souls must get through the time, you see—they must get through the time.

The only one of us who kept his senses was Mr. Godfrey. He put an arm round each of his sisters’ waists, and, looking compassionately backward and forward between the Diamond and me, said, “Carbon, Betteredge! mere carbon, my good friend, after all!”

There is such a thing, Sergeant, as making a mountain out of a mole-hill. Good-morning.” “There is also such a thing as making nothing out of a mole-hill, in consequence of your head being too high to see it.”

[For, nota bene, a drop of tea is, to a woman’s tongue, what a drop of oil is to a wasting lamp.]

Your tears come easy, when you’re young, and beginning the world. Your tears come easy, when you’re old, and leaving it.

“When I came here from London with that horrible Diamond,” he said, “I don’t believe there was a happier household in England than this. Look at the household now! Scattered, disunited—the very air of the place poisoned with mystery and suspicion! Do you remember that morning at the Shivering Sand, when we talked about my uncle Herncastle, and his birthday gift? The Moonstone has served the Colonel’s vengeance, Betteredge, by means which the Colonel himself never dreamed of!”

A letter which has nothing of the slightest importance in it is not always an easy letter to answer.

“Mr. Bruff, you have no more imagination than a cow!” “A cow is a very useful animal, Mr. Blake,”