with it. I think I should buy new dresses for Jessie, who wants them about as much as anybody else in the village—that is to say, not at all.’ There’s a parson for you, Sey, my boy. Only wish we had one of his sort at Seldon.”
“He certainly doesn’t want to get anything out of you,” I answered.
That evening at dinner a queer little episode happened. The man with the eyebrows began talking to me across the table in his usual fashion, full of his wearisome concession on the Upper Amazons. I was trying to squash him as politely as possible, when I caught Amelia’s eye. Her look amused me. She was engaged in making signals to Charles at her side to observe the little curate’s curious sleeve-links. I glanced at them, and saw at once they were a singular possession for so unobtrusive a person. They consisted each of a short gold bar for one arm of the link, fastened by a tiny chain of the same material to what seemed to my tolerably experienced eye—a first-rate diamond. Pretty big diamonds, too, and of remarkable shape, brilliancy, and cutting. In a moment I knew what Amelia meant. She owned a diamond rivière, said to be of Indian origin, but short by two stones for the circumference of her tolerably ample neck. Now, she had long been wanting two diamonds like these to match her set; but owing to the unusual shape and antiquated cutting of her own gems, she had never been able to complete the necklet, at least without removing an extravagant amount from a much larger stone of the first water.
The Scotch lassie’s eyes caught Amelia’s at the same time, and she broke into a pretty smile of good-humoured amusement. “Taken in another person, Dick, dear!” she exclaimed, in her breezy way, turning to her husband. “Lady Vandrift is observing your diamond sleeve-links.”
“They’re very fine gems,” Amelia observed incautiously. (A most unwise admission if she desired to buy them.)
But the pleasant little curate was too transparently simple a soul to take advantage of her slip of judgment. “They are good stones,” he replied; “very good stones—considering. They’re not diamonds at all, to tell you the truth. They’re best old-fashioned Oriental paste. My great-grandfather bought them, after the siege of Seringapatam, for a few rupees, from a Sepoy who had looted them from Tippoo Sultan’s palace. He thought, like you, he had got a good thing. But it turned out, when they came to be examined by experts, they were only paste—very wonderful paste; it is supposed they had even imposed upon Tippoo himself, so fine is the imitation. But they are worth—well, say, fifty shillings at the utmost.”
While he spoke Charles looked at Amelia, and Amelia looked at Charles. Their eyes spoke volumes. The rivière was also supposed to have come from Tippoo’s collection. Both drew at once an identical conclusion. These were two of the same stones, very likely torn apart and disengaged from the rest in the mêlée at the capture of the Indian palace.
“Can you take them off?” Sir Charles asked blandly. He spoke in the tone that indicates business.
“Certainly,” the little curate answered, smiling. “I’m accustomed to taking them off. They’re always noticed. They’ve been kept in the family ever since the siege, as a sort of valueless heirloom, for the sake of the picturesqueness of the story, you know; and nobody ever sees them without asking, as you do, to examine them closely. They deceive even experts at first. But they’re paste, all the same; unmitigated Oriental paste, for all that.”
He took them both off, and handed them to Charles. No man in England is a finer judge of gems than my brother-in-law. I watched him narrowly. He examined them close, first with the naked eye, then with the little pocket-lens which he always carries. “Admirable imitation,” he muttered, passing them on to Amelia. “I’m not surprised they should impose upon inexperienced observers.”
But from the tone in which he said it, I could see at once he had satisfied himself they were real gems of unusual value. I know Charles’s way of doing business so well. His glance to Amelia meant, “These are the very stones you have so long been in search of.”
The Scotch lassie laughed a merry laugh. “He sees through them now, Dick,” she cried. “I felt sure Sir Charles would be a judge of diamonds.”
Amelia turned them over. I know Amelia, too; and I knew from the way Amelia looked at them that she meant to have them. And when Amelia means to have anything, people who stand in the way may just as well spare themselves the trouble of opposing her.
They were beautiful diamonds. We found out afterwards the little curate’s account was quite correct: these stones had come from the same necklet as Amelia’s rivière, made for a favourite wife of Tippoo’s, who had presumably as expansive personal charms as our beloved sister-in-law’s. More perfect diamonds have seldom been seen. They have excited the universal admiration of thieves and connoisseurs. Amelia told me afterwards that, according to legend, a Sepoy stole the necklet at the sack of the palace, and then fought with another for it. It was believed that two stones got spilt in the scuffle, and were picked up and sold by a third person—a looker-on—who had no idea of the value of his booty. Amelia had been hunting for them for several years to complete her necklet.
“They are excellent paste,” Sir Charles observed, handing them back. “It takes a first-rate judge to detect them from the reality. Lady Vandrift has a necklet much the same in character, but composed of genuine stones; and as these are so much like them, and would complete her set, to all outer appearance, I wouldn’t mind giving you, say, 10 pounds for the pair of them.”
Mrs. Brabazon looked delighted. “Oh, sell them to him, Dick,” she cried, “and buy me a brooch with the money! A pair of common links would do for you just as well. Ten pounds for two paste stones! It’s quite a lot of money.”
She said it so sweetly, with her pretty Scotch accent, that I couldn’t imagine how Dick had the heart to refuse her. But he did, all the same.
“No, Jess, darling,” he answered. “They’re worthless, I know; but they have for me a certain sentimental value, as I’ve often told you. My dear mother wore them, while she lived, as ear-rings; and as soon as she died I had them set as links in order that I might always keep them about me. Besides, they have historical and family interest. Even a worthless heirloom, after all, is an heirloom.”
Dr. Hector Macpherson looked across and intervened. “There is a part of my concession,” he said, “where we have reason to believe a perfect new Kimberley will soon be discovered. If at any time you would care, Sir Charles, to look at my diamonds—when I get them—it would afford me the greatest pleasure in life to submit them to your consideration.”
Sir Charles could stand it no longer. “Sir,” he said, gazing across at him with his sternest air, “if your concession were as full of diamonds as Sindbad the Sailor’s valley, I would not care to turn my head to look at them. I am acquainted with the nature and practice of salting.” And he glared at the man with the overhanging eyebrows as if he would devour him raw. Poor Dr. Hector Macpherson subsided instantly. We learnt a little later that he was a harmless lunatic, who went about the world with successive concessions for ruby mines and platinum reefs, because he had been ruined and driven mad by speculations in the two, and now recouped himself by imaginary grants in Burmah and Brazil, or anywhere else that turned up handy. And his eyebrows, after all, were of Nature’s handicraft. We were sorry for the incident; but a man in Sir Charles’s position is such a mark for rogues that, if he did not take means to protect himself promptly, he would be for ever overrun by them.
When we went up to our salon that evening, Amelia flung herself on the sofa. “Charles,” she broke out in the voice of a tragedy queen, “those are real diamonds, and I shall never be happy again till I get them.”
“They are real diamonds,” Charles echoed. “And you shall have them, Amelia. They’re worth not less than three thousand pounds. But I shall bid them up gently.”
So, next day, Charles set to work to higgle with the curate. Brabazon, however, didn’t care to part with them. He was no money-grubber, he said. He cared more for his mother’s gift and a family tradition than for a hundred pounds, if Sir Charles were to offer it. Charles’s eye gleamed. “But if I give you two hundred!” he said insinuatingly. “What opportunities for good!