CHAPTER IV

by Wilkie Collins · 2026-03-31

I apologize for keeping you waiting while I settle into my beehive chair. I know a sleepy old man lounging in a sunny backyard isn’t the most riveting sight. But some things need to be laid out as they happened, and I hope you’ll bear with me a little longer as we await Mr. Franklin Blake’s arrival later today.

Just as I was about to doze off again after my daughter Penelope had left, I was jolted by the clattering of plates and dishes in the servants’ hall, signaling that dinner was ready. Since I preferred to have my meals in my own sitting room, I had little to do with the servants’ dinner except to wish them a hearty appetite before settling back into my chair. I was just stretching my legs when another woman bounced into my path. It wasn’t my daughter this time, but Nancy, the kitchen maid. She looked sulky as she asked me to let her pass, and as head of the household staff, I couldn’t let that go without questioning her.

“Why are you turning your back on dinner?” I asked. “What’s the matter, Nancy?”

Nancy tried to push past me without answering, so I stood up and took her by the ear. She was a plump young woman, and I had a habit of showing my approval in that way.

“What’s wrong?” I asked again.

“Rosanna’s late for dinner again,” Nancy replied. “I’ve been sent to fetch her. All the hard work falls on me in this house. Just let me be, Mr. Betteredge!”

Rosanna was our second housemaid. I felt a bit sorry for her—though I’ll explain why in a moment—and I could see from Nancy’s expression that she would bring Rosanna back with more harsh words than necessary. I figured I had nothing pressing to do, so I might as well fetch Rosanna myself and give her a gentle reminder to be on time in the future, which I knew she would appreciate coming from me.

“Where is Rosanna?” I asked.

“At the sands, of course!” Nancy replied, tossing her head. “She had another fainting fit this morning and asked to go out for some fresh air. I can’t stand her!”

“Go back to your dinner, my girl,” I said. “I have patience with her, and I’ll bring her in.”

Nancy, who had a healthy appetite, looked pleased. When she’s pleased, she looks nice. And when she looks nice, I can’t help but give her a playful nudge under the chin. It’s not improper—it’s just a habit.

So, I grabbed my stick and set off for the sands.

Wait! I can’t leave just yet. I’m sorry to keep you, but you really need to hear the story of the sands and Rosanna, because both are closely tied to the matter of the Diamond. I’m trying my best to get through this without interruptions, but life has a way of throwing people and things in your path that demand attention. Let’s take it slow and easy; I promise we’ll get to the heart of the mystery soon enough!

Rosanna—let’s put the person before the thing, as is polite—was the newest servant in our house. About four months before this moment, my lady had visited a Reformatory in London, designed to help lost women avoid falling back into bad habits after their release from prison. The matron, noticing my lady’s interest, pointed out a girl named Rosanna Spearman and shared a heartbreaking story that I won’t repeat here; it’s too painful, and I know you wouldn’t want to hear it either.

In short, Rosanna had been a thief. Unlike those who orchestrate grand schemes to rob from many, she had stolen from one and paid the price. The law caught up with her, leading her to prison and then to the reformatory. The matron believed that, despite her past, Rosanna was a rare gem who just needed a chance to prove herself worthy of compassion. My lady, being the kind-hearted woman she is, declared, “Rosanna Spearman shall have her chance in my service.” A week later, Rosanna joined us as our second housemaid.

Only Miss Rachel and I were aware of Rosanna’s past. My lady, who often sought my opinion on various matters, consulted me about Rosanna. Having recently fallen into the habit of always agreeing with my lady, I wholeheartedly supported her decision regarding Rosanna Spearman.

No girl could have had a fairer chance than the one given to Rosanna. The servants couldn’t hold her past against her because none of them knew what it had been. She received her wages and privileges just like everyone else, and now and then, my lady would offer a kind word in private to encourage her. In return, Rosanna proved herself deserving of the kindness shown to her. Though she wasn’t strong and sometimes suffered from fainting spells, she went about her work quietly and diligently, doing it well. Yet, for some reason, she struggled to connect with the other women in the household, except for my daughter Penelope, who was always kind to Rosanna, though they never grew close.

I’m not sure what Rosanna did to offend them. There was nothing about her that would spark envy; she was the plainest woman in the house, with the unfortunate trait of having one shoulder higher than the other. What the other servants seemed to resent most was her silence and her tendency to keep to herself. While they gossiped during their free time, she would read or work. When it was her turn to go out, she often slipped on her bonnet and took her walk alone. She never argued or took offense; she simply maintained a polite distance from the others. Despite her plainness, there was something about her—perhaps in her voice or her expression—that hinted at a background different from that of a housemaid, something that felt more refined. The other women picked up on this immediately when she first arrived and unjustly accused Rosanna of acting superior.

Having shared Rosanna’s story, I now want to mention one of her many peculiar habits before moving on to the tale of the sands.

Our house sits high on the Yorkshire coast, close to the sea, surrounded by beautiful walks in every direction except one. That one is a dreadful path that leads through a dismal fir plantation for a quarter of a mile, eventually bringing you out between low cliffs at the loneliest and ugliest little bay along our coast.

The sandhills here slope down to the sea, ending in two rocky points that jut out into the water, known as the North Spit and the South Spit. Between them lies a treacherous quicksand that shifts with the seasons. At low tide, something stirs in the depths below, causing the quicksand to tremble and shake in a way that’s quite remarkable, earning it the local name of the Shivering Sand. A large bank, half a mile out near the bay's mouth, breaks the force of the ocean waves. Whether it’s winter or summer, when the tide flows over the quicksand, the sea seems to leave its waves behind on the bank, rolling in smoothly and silently to cover the sand. It’s a lonely and eerie place, I assure you. No boat dares to venture into this bay, and no children from our nearby fishing village, Cobb’s Hole, come here to play. Even the birds seem to avoid the Shivering Sand. It’s hard to believe that a young woman, with so many lovely walks available and company to join her if she just asked, would choose this desolate spot to sit and read or work alone during her free time. Yet, incredibly, this was Rosanna Spearman’s favorite place, aside from the occasional visit to Cobb’s Hole to see her only friend in the area, about whom I’ll share more later.

It’s also true that I was heading to this same spot to bring her in for dinner, which brings us back to where we started and sets us on our way to the sands.

I saw no sign of her in the plantation. But when I emerged from the sandhills onto the beach, there she was—her little straw bonnet perched on her head, wearing the plain grey cloak she always donned to conceal her uneven shoulder. There she stood, all alone, gazing out at the quicksand and the sea.

She jumped when I approached her, quickly turning her head away. Not looking me in the eye was something I, as the head of the household staff, never let slide without questioning. I gently turned her to face me and saw that she was crying. I reached into my pocket for my bandanna handkerchief—one of six lovely ones given to me by my lady. “Come sit with me on the beach,” I said to Rosanna. “I’ll dry your tears first, and then I’ll be bold enough to ask what’s troubling you.”

At my age, sitting down on a beach takes longer than you might expect. By the time I got comfortable, Rosanna had already dried her eyes with a much less impressive handkerchief—cheap cambric. She looked quiet and miserable, but she sat beside me obediently when I asked her to. I remembered a golden rule about comforting a woman: take her on your knee. But Rosanna wasn’t Nancy, and that was the truth.

“Now, tell me, my dear,” I said, “what’s making you cry?”

“About the years that are gone, Mr. Betteredge,” Rosanna replied softly. “My past life still haunts me sometimes.”

“Come now, my girl,” I said. “Your past is all behind you. Why can’t you forget it?”

She took hold of one of the lappets of my coat. I’m a messy old man, and I often spill food and drink on my clothes. Sometimes one of the women cleans me up, and just the day before, Rosanna had removed a stain from my coat with a new solution that promised to get rid of anything. The grease was gone, but there was still a dull spot where it had been. She pointed to that spot and shook her head.

“The stain is gone,” she said, “but the mark remains, Mr. Betteredge—the mark remains!”

It’s not easy to respond to a remark that catches you off guard, especially when it’s about your own coat. Something about her made me feel particularly sorry for her at that moment. She had lovely brown eyes, and despite her plainness in other respects, she looked at me with a kind of respect for my happy old age and good character—things that seemed forever out of her reach. It made my heart ache for our second housemaid. Not knowing how to comfort her, I decided to do the only other thing I could think of: take her to dinner.

“Help me up,” I said. “You’re late for dinner, Rosanna, and I’ve come to fetch you.”

“You, Mr. Betteredge?” she asked, surprised.

“They told Nancy to get you,” I replied. “But I thought you might prefer a scolding from me.”

Instead of helping me up, the poor girl slipped her hand into mine and gave it a gentle squeeze. She fought hard to hold back her tears and succeeded, which I admired. “You’re very kind, Mr. Betteredge,” she said. “I don’t want any dinner today—let me stay here a little longer.”

“What makes you want to be here?” I asked. “What draws you to this miserable place?”

“Something pulls me to it,” she said, tracing shapes in the sand with her finger. “I try to stay away, but I can’t. Sometimes,” she added in a low voice, as if afraid of her own thoughts, “sometimes, Mr. Betteredge, I think my grave is waiting for me here.”

“There’s roast mutton and suet pudding waiting for you!” I said firmly. “Go in for dinner right away. This is what happens, Rosanna, when you think too much on an empty stomach!” I spoke sternly, feeling indignant (at my age) to hear a young woman of twenty-five talking about her end!

She didn’t seem to hear me; she placed her hand on my shoulder and kept me where I was, sitting beside her.

“I think this place has cast a spell on me,” she said. “I dream of it night after night; I think of it while I’m stitching at my work. You know I’m grateful, Mr. Betteredge—you know I try to earn your kindness and my lady’s trust. But sometimes I wonder if this quiet life is too good for someone like me, after everything I’ve been through. It’s lonelier to be among the other servants, knowing I’m not like them, than it is to be here. My lady doesn’t know, and the matron at the reformatory doesn’t know, how much honest people can make a woman like me feel like a failure. Don’t scold me, please. I do my work, don’t I? Just don’t tell my lady I’m discontented—I’m not. Sometimes my mind is just restless, that’s all.” She suddenly pulled her hand away from my shoulder and pointed down to the quicksand. “Look!” she exclaimed. “Isn’t it wonderful? Isn’t it terrible? I’ve seen it dozens of times, and it always feels as new to me as if I’d never seen it before!”

I turned to where she was pointing. The tide was shifting, and the sand began to tremble. Its broad, brown surface heaved slowly, then dimpled and quivered all over.

“Do you know what it looks like to me?” Rosanna said, grabbing my shoulder again. “It looks like there are hundreds of people trapped beneath it—struggling to break free, but sinking deeper into the dreadful depths! Throw a stone in, Mr. Betteredge! Throw a stone in, and let’s see the sand swallow it!”

That was unsettling talk! It was like an empty stomach feeding on a restless mind. I had a sharp response ready, one that would have been in the poor girl’s best interest, when suddenly a voice called for me from among the sandhills.

“Betteredge!” the voice shouted. “Where are you?”

“Here!” I called back, not even thinking about who it might be. Rosanna jumped to her feet, looking toward the voice. I was about to get up myself when I noticed a sudden change in her expression.

Her complexion flushed a beautiful red, one I had never seen before; she lit up with a kind of speechless, breathless surprise. “Who is it?” I asked. Rosanna echoed my question. “Oh! Who is it?” she said softly, more to herself than to me. I turned around on the sand and looked back. Emerging from the hills was a bright-eyed young man, dressed in a lovely fawn-colored suit, complete with matching gloves and hat, a rose in his buttonhole, and a smile that could have made even the Shivering Sand smile back at him.

Before I could stand up, he plopped down beside me, threw his arm around my neck in a foreign fashion, and gave me a hug that nearly knocked the breath out of me. “Dear old Betteredge!” he exclaimed. “I owe you seven-and-sixpence. Now do you know who I am?”

Goodness! Here—four hours earlier than we expected—was Mr. Franklin Blake!

Before I could say anything, I noticed Mr. Franklin looking up from me to Rosanna, a bit surprised. Following his gaze, I looked at her too. She was blushing an even deeper red, seemingly caught off guard by Mr. Franklin’s attention. Then, without a word to either of us, she turned and hurried away, her behavior completely out of character. Usually, she was the most polite and well-mannered servant you could meet.

“That’s an odd girl,” Mr. Franklin remarked. “I wonder what she sees in me that surprises her?”

“I suppose, sir,” I replied, teasing about our young gentleman’s Continental upbringing, “it’s the foreign charm.”

I noted Mr. Franklin’s casual question and my foolish answer as a little comfort for all those who feel less clever—it’s a relief to know that even those we think of as superior can sometimes be just as clueless as we are. Neither Mr. Franklin, with his impressive foreign education, nor I, with my age, experience, and common sense, had the slightest idea of what Rosanna Spearman’s strange behavior really meant. We had forgotten about her, poor girl, before we even saw the last flutter of her little gray cloak among the sandhills.

And what of that, you might wonder. Read on, dear friend, as patiently as you can, and perhaps you will feel as sorry for Rosanna Spearman as I did when I finally discovered the truth.