CHAPTER II

von Wilkie Collins · 2026-03-31

I mentioned my lady a moment ago. The Diamond, which was lost, could never have been in our home if it hadn’t been given to my lady’s daughter. And my lady’s daughter wouldn’t have existed at all if it weren’t for my lady, who brought her into the world with great effort and pain. So, if we start with my lady, we’re definitely starting at the right point. And let me tell you, when you’re dealing with a task like mine, that’s a real relief.

If you’re familiar with the high society scene, you’ve likely heard of the three stunning Miss Herncastles: Miss Adelaide, Miss Caroline, and Miss Julia. In my opinion, the youngest, Miss Julia, was the best of the three, and I had plenty of chances to see that for myself. I began working for their father, the old lord, as a page-boy when I was just fifteen, serving the three honorable young ladies. I stayed in that position until Miss Julia married the late Sir John Verinder. He was a good man who just needed someone to manage him. And between you and me, he found that someone. He thrived on it, grew comfortable and happy, and passed away peacefully, from the day my lady took him to church until the day she closed his eyes for the last time.

I should mention that I went with the bride to her new home. “Sir John,” she said, “I can’t do without Gabriel Betteredge.” “My lady,” he replied, “I can’t do without him either.” That was how I ended up in his service. Honestly, I didn’t care where I went, as long as I was with my mistress.

Since my lady was interested in outdoor work and the farms, I became interested too, especially since I was the seventh son of a small farmer. My lady arranged for me to work under the bailiff, and I did my best, earning satisfaction and promotions along the way. A few years later, on a Monday, my lady said, “Sir John, your bailiff is a foolish old man. Give him a generous pension and let Gabriel Betteredge take his place.” The next day, Sir John said, “My lady, the bailiff has been generously pensioned, and Gabriel Betteredge has taken his place.” You often hear about married couples who are miserable together. Here’s an example of the opposite. Let this be a warning to some and encouragement to others. Now, let me continue my story.

So there I was, living the good life. I had a position of trust and honor, a little cottage to call my own, my rounds on the estate to keep me busy in the mornings, my accounts to manage in the afternoons, and my pipe and my copy of *Robinson Crusoe* to enjoy in the evenings. What more could I want to be happy? Think of what Adam wanted when he was alone in the Garden of Eden; if you don’t blame him, don’t blame me.

The woman I had my eye on was the one who kept house for me at my cottage. Her name was Selina Goby. I agreed with the late William Cobbett about choosing a wife: make sure she chews her food well and walks firmly on the ground, and you’re set. Selina met both those criteria, which was one reason I wanted to marry her. I had another reason, too, which was entirely my own discovery. As a single woman, Selina charged me for her board and services. But as my wife, she wouldn’t charge me for her board and would have to provide her services for free. That was how I saw it—practicality with a touch of love. I brought it up with my mistress, as I felt I should, just as I had considered it myself.

“I’ve been thinking about Selina Goby,” I said, “and I believe, my lady, it would be cheaper to marry her than to keep her.”

My lady burst out laughing and said she didn’t know what shocked her more—my language or my reasoning. I suppose something amused her, something that only a person of quality could appreciate. Not understanding it myself, I went ahead and proposed to Selina. And what did she say? Oh, how little you must know about women if you have to ask that. Of course, she said yes.

As the day of the ceremony approached and discussions of a new coat for the occasion began, I started to feel uneasy. I had spoken with other men who had been in my position, and they all admitted that about a week before their big day, they secretly wished they could escape it. I went a step further; I actually tried to get out of it. I knew better than to think Selina would let me off without some sort of compensation. It’s a rule in England that when a man backs out, he owes something to the woman. So, after giving it some serious thought, I offered Selina Goby a feather bed and fifty shillings to release me from our agreement. You probably won’t believe it, but she was foolish enough to refuse.

At that point, I knew I was stuck. I bought the new coat as cheaply as I could and went through the rest of the process trying to save every penny. We weren’t a happy couple, nor were we miserable. We were just stuck somewhere in between. I can’t quite explain it, but we always seemed to get in each other’s way, despite our best intentions. If I wanted to go upstairs, Selina would be coming down; if she wanted to go down, I’d be coming up. That’s what married life felt like to me.

After five years of navigating those misunderstandings, fate intervened, and my wife passed away. I was left with our little girl, Penelope, and no other children. Not long after, Sir John died, leaving my lady with her daughter, Miss Rachel, and no other child. If I haven’t made it clear, my little Penelope was well cared for under my lady’s watchful eye. She was sent to school, learned well, and eventually became Miss Rachel’s maid when she was old enough.

As for me, I continued my work as a bailiff year after year until Christmas 1847, when my life took a turn. On that day, my lady invited herself over for a cup of tea at my cottage. She mentioned that, counting from the year I started as a page-boy under the old lord, I had served her for over fifty years. Then she handed me a beautiful wool waistcoat she had made herself to keep me warm during the harsh winter.

I was at a loss for words to express my gratitude for such an honor. To my surprise, I soon realized that the waistcoat wasn’t a gift of honor but rather a bribe. My lady had noticed that I was aging before I had even realized it myself, and she had come to my cottage to persuade me—if I can put it that way—to give up my tough outdoor work as a bailiff and enjoy a more comfortable life as the steward of the house. I fought against the indignity of taking it easy as best as I could, but my mistress knew my weak spots. She framed it as a favor to her. In the end, I found myself wiping my eyes, like a sentimental old fool, with my new wool waistcoat, agreeing to think it over.

After she left, I was consumed with anxiety about my decision. To clear my mind, I turned to my usual remedy for doubt and uncertainty: I lit a pipe and picked up _Robinson Crusoe_. Within five minutes, I stumbled upon a comforting line (page one hundred and fifty-eight): “Today we love, what tomorrow we hate.” Suddenly, everything became clear. Today, I wanted to remain the farm bailiff; tomorrow, according to _Robinson Crusoe_, I could feel completely different. If I took myself into tomorrow’s mindset, the decision would be made. With that thought easing my mind, I went to bed that night as Lady Verinder’s farm bailiff and woke up the next morning as her house steward. All quite comfortable, and all thanks to _Robinson Crusoe_!

My daughter Penelope just peeked over my shoulder to see what I’ve written so far. She said it’s beautifully written and every word is true. But then she pointed out a flaw. She told me that what I’ve written isn’t at all what I intended to do. I was supposed to tell the story of the Diamond, but instead, I’ve been sharing my own story. It’s strange and I can’t quite explain it. I wonder if the writers who make a living from their craft ever find themselves getting in the way of their subjects, just like I have. If they do, I can empathize with them.

So here I am with another false start and yet more wasted paper. What should I do now? I don’t know, except that I need to keep my cool and start all over again for the third time.