Mrs. Gainsborough's Diamonds, Chapters I-IV [pp. 430-442]

APPLETONS' JO URNAL.
MRS. GA INSBOR 0 UGH'S DIAMONDS.1
I.
S UPERB! I don't know when I have seen
finer, Tom, really!"
"Ah!" said Tom, complacently handling his
left whisker. "And," he added, after a moment or
two-" and thereby hangs a tale!"
It was after dinner-after one of Tom Gainsborough's snug, inimitable little dinners: only we
three-Tom, his wife, and myself, and a couple of
negro attendants, as well trained and less overpowering than the best of the native English stock; and
that charming dining-room, just big enough, just
cool enough, soft-carpeted, clear-walled, and the
steady, white radiance of the Argand burners descending upon the damask table-cloth, crowned with
fruits and flowers; and an agreeable shadow over
the rest of the room, so that those sable servitors
could perform their noiseless evolutions unseen; and
a pervading sense of unconscious good-breeding and
unobtrusive wealth; and-but I will not speak of
the china; I will not descant upon Tom's wines; I
don't wish to make other people envious. Only it
was all inexpressibly good, from fascinating Mrs.
Gainsborough and her diamonds, down.
I felt a peculiar interest in Mrs. Gainsborough,
because, in addition to her other attractions, she was
a countrywoman of mine-that is to say, an American. She was brunette, slender, graceful, with a
weird expression of the eyes under straight, black
eyebrows, an expression which somehow suggested
mesmerism-or perhaps a liability on her part to be
mesmerized; faultless throat and shoulders, and hands
and wrists that she could talk with, almost. Where
had Tom found her? I never had thought of asking
him; she was a Virginian, very likely-an "F. F.
V."-.-and they had doubtless met upon the Continent. This was the first occasion on which I had
seen her in her diamonds. Indeed, Tom and she
had only been married a year or two, and had been
settled in that bijou residence of theirs scarcely six
months, and this was but my third or fourth dinner
there. Well, her diamonds became her, and she
them; they somehow matched that weird light in
her eyes, and I told Tom as much when, after dinner, she withdrew and left us over our wine.
"And thereby hangs a tale," repeated he, thoughtfully reaching his hand toward the decanter and filling my glass and his own.
Now, it seemed to me entirely in accordance with
young Mrs. Gainsborough's "style" that there should
have been something odd and romantic in the circumstances of her first acquaintance with Tom, apd
that diamonds should be mixed up with it. Therefore, I was more than willing to give ear to the
strange story which he proceeded to relate to me.
Imagine the servants dismissed, a fresh lump of coal
in the grate, the decanter between us, and our legs
1 Copyright by Julian Hawthorne.
and elbows disposed in the most comfortable manner
possible. Then, this is the story.
II.
THE diamonds, you must know, have been ever
so long in our family. It is said they were brought
from India, in the time of Marco Polo, by an ancestor of mine. But that is neither here nor there;
and sure enough, they were only put into their present shape quite recently. I can remember when
half of them were uncut, or cut in some barbarous,
Oriental manner, picturesque enough, but not fashionable. And some were mounted as nose-rings,
some as clasps, some in the hilts of daggers, and in
all sorts of other ways. When I was a child, I was
sometimes allowed to play with some of the loose
ones, as a treat; until, at last, I contrived to lose
one of the biggest. You may not believe it, but the
governor actually horsed me and gave me a birching; and the diamonds were locked up from that
day. It was only a few years ago that my dear
mother, now no more, got them out, and insisted
upon their being made up into a regular set by some
skillful jeweler. We were thinking of going to
Rome at the time, to spend six or eight months,
and the first idea was to give the job to Castellani.
But then it appeared that my mother had got her
eye fixed upon a certain man in Paris, who she had
been told was the first lapidary in Europe. He, and
none but he, should set our diamonds. You know
my mother generally had her way, and she had it in
this case. The fellow certainly did understand his
business; his work was well done, as you may have
noticed this evening. A queer, pale, nervous little
chap he was; not a Frenchman at all, but a Saxon,
born in Dresden, I believe, or some village in that
neighborhood. His name was Rudolph-Heinrich
Rudolph. He lived and worked in a little dark
shop in the Latin Quarter.
He and I became quite intimate. You see, I had
been commissioned to attend to this diamond business, and to remain in Paris until it was done. I
was to watch it through all its stages, and be sure
that my mother's directions regarding the style of
the setting were accyrately followed. When all was
finished, I was to pay the bill and bring the diamonds on to Rome, where the family would by that
time be established. Well, I was a young fellow,
just feeling my oats, and probably I was not much
cast down at the prospect of spending a month or
two alone in Paris, as you might suppose. But I
doubt whether I should have attended to my ostensible business so faithfully as I actually did, had I
not been so greatly taken with my little friend Rudolph. He and I twigged one another, as boys say,
from the first. I used to sit and watch him work
for hours at a time; and as he worked he would
talk, and very queer, captivating talk a good deal of
it was. He was a thorough artist and enthusiast,
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