I was punctual to the luncheon hour on Tuesday.  Reference to my diary shows this to have been a chequered day—­much in it to be devoutly regretted, much in it to be devoutly thankful for.

Dear Aunt Verinder received me with her usual grace and kindness.  But I noticed, after a little while, that something was wrong.  Certain anxious looks escaped my aunt, all of which took the direction of her daughter.  I never see Rachel myself without wondering how it can be that so insignificant-looking a person should be the child of such distinguished parents as Sir John and Lady Verinder.  On this occasion, however, she not only disappointed—­she really shocked me.  There was an absence of all lady-like restraint in her language and manner most painful to see.  She was possessed by some feverish excitement which made her distressingly loud when she laughed, and sinfully wasteful and capricious in what she ate and drank at lunch.  I felt deeply for her poor mother, even before the true state of the case had been confidentially made known to me.

Luncheon over, my aunt said:  “Remember what the doctor told you, Rachel, about quieting yourself with a book after taking your meals.”

“I’ll go into the library, mamma,” she answered.  “But if Godfrey calls, mind I am told of it.  I am dying for more news of him, after his adventure in Northumberland Street.”  She kissed her mother on the forehead, and looked my way.  “Good-bye, Clack,” she said, carelessly.  Her insolence roused no angry feeling in me; I only made a private memorandum to pray for her.

When we were left by ourselves, my aunt told me the whole horrible story of the Indian Diamond, which, I am happy to know, it is not necessary to repeat here.  She did not conceal from me that she would have preferred keeping silence on the subject.  But when her own servants all knew of the loss of the Moonstone, and when some of the circumstances had actually found their way into the newspapers—­when strangers were speculating whether there was any connection between what had happened at Lady Verinder’s country-house, and what had happened in Northumberland Street and Alfred Place—­concealment was not to be thought of; and perfect frankness became a necessity as well as a virtue.

Some persons, hearing what I now heard, would have been probably overwhelmed with astonishment.  For my own part, knowing Rachel’s spirit to have been essentially unregenerate from her childhood upwards, I was prepared for whatever my aunt could tell me on the subject of her daughter.  It might have gone on from bad to worse till it ended in Murder; and I should still have said to myself, The natural result! oh, dear, dear, the natural result!  The one thing that did shock me was the course my aunt had taken under the circumstances.  Here surely was a case for a clergyman, if ever there was one yet!  Lady Verinder had thought it a case for a physician.  All my poor aunt’s early life had been passed in her father’s godless household.  The natural result again!  Oh, dear, dear, the natural result again!