A Ring of Rubies

Chapter One

Storming the Citadel

I have often been asked to tell the story of the Ruby Ring, and I now do so for the sake of my children. It may instruct them a little; it will certainly amuse and interest them.

I am nearly thirty now, but when the story of the ring happened, I was between nineteen and twenty. It is not so long ago, therefore, and all the events stand out quite clear and strong in my memory.

We lived in the country, about thirty miles away from London. There were plenty of quick trains, even ten years ago, and my father and brothers used to go to town every morning, and return in time for a sort of mixed meal between dinner and supper, at night.

My mother and I had rather a dull life; the only event of any moment in the twenty-four hours being the evening meal when the men of the family were at home.

I was the only girl, and the youngest of the family. I was not petted nor made much of in any way; ten years ago girls were not fussed over as they are now. My father had none of the advanced ideas with regard to women; he thought the less girls were heard of outside their homes, the better. He was a very good, honourable man, but a great autocrat. What he said and thought was echoed both by my mother and brothers. They all preached to me from morning till night the doctrine of staying quietly at home, of doing nothing, and of waiting until your fortune dropped into your lap.

Of course, we were horribly poor; not in the exciting sort of way of wanting food, and a covering for our heads, or anything dramatic of that sort; but poor in the way which takes the courage out of a young life more than anything else – a penny had always to be looked at twice, a dress had always to be turned twice, meals had to be scanty, fires small, and my mother’s whole time was spent contriving and planning how to make two ends meet, consequently life was very narrow and dull.

One day, on a certain sunshiny morning, a few months after I was nineteen, I awoke early, lay for an hour thinking hard, then jumped up and dressed myself. As I arranged my thick hair before the glass, I looked attentively at my face. I had a rather square face; the lower part of it in particular was somewhat heavily moulded; my mouth had very firm lines; my eyes were dark and deeply set. Certainly I was not beautiful, but my face had lots of character; I could see that for myself.

“The present state of things cannot go on any longer,” I mentally soliloquised. “I’ll make a break in the dulness this very day. The fact of my being born a woman shall not shut me out from all joy in life; I’ll have the whole subject out with mother after breakfast.”

“Rosamund,” said my mother that morning, when my father and the boys had gone to London, “will you put on your hat, and come with me into the orchard to pick the late damsons? I want to preserve them this afternoon.”

“Oh, wait until to-morrow, mother. I have something important to talk about; the damsons can keep.”

My mother was very gentle. Now she raised her brows a little, and looked at me anxiously.

“It seems a pity to waste the time,” she said. “I know what you are going to say, and I can’t grant it. I spoke to your father last night. He says he cannot raise your quarter’s allowance, so the new trimmings must be dispensed with, poor Rose.”

These were for my winter dress. I was turning it, and mother and I had planned how some new velvet would improve it.

“My dear mother,” I said, going over to her, “yesterday I should have been fretted about a trifle like this, but to-day it does not even seem like a pin-prick. I made a resolve this morning, mother, and I want to talk it out with you now.”

Every one in the house knew that my resolves were not to be trifled with. I did not often make them, but when I did, I metaphorically put down my foot, and kept it down. Even my father listened good-humouredly when I had one of my great determinations on.

Now my mother gently sighed, gave up the damson jam on the spot, and began to unroll her knitting.

“Be as quick as you can, Rosamund,” she said, in a rather weary voice.

“I can say what I want to say in a very few words, mother, only please don’t interrupt me. I am tired of my present life. I want to do something. I want to go to town every morning, and come back at night.”

My mother held up her hands.

“I want to earn money.”

A look of agony came into my mother’s gentle blue eyes. I turned slightly away.

“I have one talent, and I wish to cultivate it.” Here my mother would interrupt.

“You have many gifts, my dear child,” she said proudly. “In particular you have a great faculty for turning and contriving. Most invaluable under our circumstances.”

“I hate turning and contriving,” I burst out, “and I have only got one real talent, and that is, for art. I could be an artist.”

“You are an artist, Rosamund; you paint beautifully.”

“Dreadfully, you mean, mother. I have no knowledge of perspective. I have no true ideas of colour; but I could paint.”

I felt sparkles of hope coming into my eyes, and I knew my cheeks were flaming.

My mother glanced up at me admiringly. “You look quite handsome, dear,” she said. “Oh, if I could dress you properly! Rose, when I was your age I had nice clothes.”

“Never mind that, mother dear; I shall have money to buy nice clothes presently. I want to cultivate what I feel is within me, I want to cultivate the love which ought to become a power. I love pictures; I love dabbling with paints; my brush ought to be able to tell stories, and it shall when once I have mastered the technical difficulties. I want to go to a school of art in London, to begin at the beginning, and work my way up. I should like best to go to the Slade School.”

My mother opened her lips to speak. I interrupted her.

“I know what you are going to say. There is no money. I have thought that part out very carefully. Mother, you must consent! Just for a little bit of pride my whole life must not be spoiled. Mother dear, it is dull at home, and I do so long for this. Let me go and see Cousin Geoffrey.”

My mother started when I said this. I knew she would, for Cousin Geoffrey’s name had always a potent, curious charm in our home. It was a name both of awe and admiration, and I felt quite sure when I spoke it that I should secure immediate and profound attention. Not that I had ever seen Cousin Geoffrey. I had heard of him all my life, but I had never yet laid eyes on him.

No one who was at all intimate with my mother could be long in her presence without hearing about Cousin Geoffrey.

She had the sweetest, most contented face in the world, but it generally took an expression of melancholy mixed with envy and profound awe when she spoke of this relative.

“Talk of riches!” she would say. “Ah, you ought to know Geoffrey! My dears,” she would constantly remark, “if I were your Cousin Geoffrey I could give you so-and-so, but as it is, – ” then she would sigh, and her eyes would sometimes fill with tears.

Of course, my brothers and I were intensely curious about Cousin Geoffrey; all the more so because we had never seen him – beyond knowing that he lived somewhere in London, we were not even aware of his address. We never dared speak of him in my father’s presence. Once I, impelled by an irresistible longing to break the overpowering dulness, had whispered his name. My mother had turned pale, my brothers had instantly kicked me violently under the table, and my father left the room, not to return again that night.

Of course, I did not mention Cousin Geoffrey’s name any more when my father was present, but not the less did I think of him. He began to assume to me more and more the character of a deliverer, and when I made my resolution I decided that he should be my weapon with which I would fight my way to success.

We never do know how our dreams are going to be fulfilled. Certainly nothing happened as I expected it.

It took me exactly a week to talk my mother round. I may mention, in passing, that there was no damson jam that year. We spent all our mornings in the little parlour; I talked very hard, my mother listened very sorrowfully.

At the end of the third day she revealed to me the name of the street in which Cousin Geoffrey lived, but a whole week passed before I had sufficient particulars to act upon. These were all I wanted. I would do the rest myself.

On a certain bright morning early in October, the beginning of a lovely day, I kissed my mother, and accompanied my father and brothers to town. They were under the impression that I wanted to buy a new winter hat. They thought me extravagant to come so far for the purpose; they expressed disapproval by their looks, if not by their words. They were all three of them men who thought it waste of breath to argue with a woman.

I offered no explanations. They read their papers and took no notice of me. When we got to Paddington, George, my youngest brother, offered to put me in an omnibus which would, he said, set me down at Whiteley’s door.

“I am not going to Whiteley’s,” I said.

George stared.

“It is quite the cheapest place for what you want,” he replied. “But as you are so absolutely demoralised, here is another omnibus which will take you to Regent Circus.”

I got into this omnibus, bade George good-bye, and, as I drove away, felt that I had now really my fate in my own hands.

I had never been in London alone before, but I was glad to feel that my heart beat quite evenly, and that I was in no way unduly excited.

“It is quite plain to my mind, Rosamund Lindley,” I said, addressing myself, “that you were meant to be a man. You have the nerve, the calm which is generally reserved for the male sex. Here you are in great London, and your pulse doesn’t even flutter. Keep up your courage, Rosamund, and you will build the fortunes of your family.”

We reached the Circus; the omnibus conductor gave me some directions, and I walked up Oxford Street, stepping lightly, as the young and hopeful should.

I did not know my way beyond a certain point, but policemen directed me, and presently I found myself in an old square, and standing on the steps of a house whose windows were grimy with dust, and the old knocker of the ponderous hall-door rusty from want of use.

“My mother must be mistaken – Cousin Geoffrey must have moved from this house,” I said to myself.

Nevertheless, I raised the knocker, and made it sound sharply. In the course of a minute footsteps were heard in the tiled hall within. Some chains were withdrawn from the door, and a dreary-looking old man put his head out.

“Is Mr Rutherford at home?”

The old man opened the door an inch wider.

“Eh? What? I’m a trifle deaf,” he said.

I repeated my question more distinctly.

“Is Mr Rutherford within?”

“And what may you want with him?”

“My name is Rosamund Lindley. I am his relative. I want to see him.”

“Eh, my dear,” said the old man; “Geoffrey Rutherford has many relatives, many, and they all want to see him. It’s wonderful how he’s appreciated! Quite extraordinary, for he does nothing to deserve it. I’ll inquire if you can be admitted, Miss – Miss Lindley.”

The old man shambled away. He was so inhospitable that he absolutely left the chain on the door.

He was absent for nearly ten minutes. I thought he had forgotten all about me, and was about to knock again, when he reappeared. Without saying a word he removed the chain from the hall-door and flung it wide open.

He was about the shabbiest-looking servant I ever saw.

“Come this way,” he said, when I had stepped into the hall.

He took me down a long passage, and into a room which was only lighted from the roof. The furniture of the room was handsome, but covered everywhere with dust. The leather of the high-backed chairs was worm-eaten.

“Sit down, Miss Lindley,” he said, motioning to one of them.

And then, to my astonishment, he placed himself before a high desk, and began to write.

I am sure I must always have had a quick temper. I thought this old servant’s manners intolerable.

“Go and tell your master, at once, that his relative, Rosamund Lindley, is here,” I said. “Go, I am in a hurry.”

He dropped his pen, and looked at me with the dawning of a smile playing round his thin lips.

“And pray, who is my master?”

“My cousin, Mr Geoffrey Rutherford.”

“I happen to be that individual myself.”

I was really startled into jumping out of my seat. I flopped back again with a very red face, said “Oh!” and felt extremely foolish.

“What is your candid opinion of your Cousin Geoffrey, young lady?” said the little man, jumping up and walking over to the fireplace. “He is the ideal sort of rich cousin, is he not?”

I laughed. My laugh seemed to please the owner of the dirty house. He smiled again faintly, looking hard into my face, and said: – “I forget your name, tell it to me again.”

“Rosamund Lindley.”

“Ah, Lindley!” He started slightly. “I have put down no Lindleys in my list of relatives. Rosamund Lindley! Are you my seventh, eighth, or tenth cousin, child? I have cousins, I assure you, twenty degrees removed, most affectionate people. Extraordinary! I can’t make out what they see in me.”

“My mother was your first cousin,” I said boldly. “Her name was the same as yours – Rutherford. Before she was married she was known to her friends as Mary Rutherford.”

I expected this remark to make a sensation. It did. The little man turned his back on me, gazed for a couple of minutes into the empty grate, then flashed round, and pointed to one of the worm-eaten chairs.

“Sit down, Rosamund Lindley, you – you have astonished me. You have given me a shock. In short you have mentioned the only relative who is not – not very affectionate. So you are Mary Rutherford’s daughter? You are not like her. I can’t compliment you by saying that you are. Did – did Mary Rutherford send you to me?”

“Most assuredly she did not. I have come entirely of my own free will. I had to coax my mother for a whole week before she would even give me your address.”

“But she gave it at last?”

“I made her.”

“She knows you have come then.”

“It is impossible for her not to know that I have come. But she is angry – grieved – even frightened. You could not have been at all kind to my mother long ago, Cousin Geoffrey.”

“Hush – chit! Let your mother’s name drop out of our conversation. Now, I will sit down near you, and we can talk. You have come to see me of your own free will? Granted. You are my relative – not twenty degrees removed? Granted. Now, what can I do for you. Rosamund Lindley?”

“I want you to help me,” I said.

I spoke out quite boldly.

“You are rich, and I am poor. It is more blessed to give than to receive.”

“Ha, ha! You want me to be one of the blessed ones? Very neatly put. Upon my word, you’re a brave girl. You quite entertain me. Go on.”

My cheeks were very red now, but I was not going to be beaten.

“Cousin Geoffrey,” I said, “we are all very poor at home, and I hate being poor. We have all to pinch and contrive, and I loathe pinching and contriving. I have a talent, and I want to cultivate it. I want to be an artist. I can’t be an artist without money. I wish to go to one of the good schools of art, here in London, and study hard, and work my way up from the very beginning. I have no money to do this, but you have lots of money. As you are my cousin, I think you ought to give me enough money to learn art at one of the great schools here. I think you ought. You are my relative – you ought to help me.”

I had flung my words out almost defiantly, but now something seemed to catch my voice; it broke.

“Oh, Cousin Geoffrey, this means so much to me,” I said, half sobbing. “How happy you can make me, and I will love you for it. There, I will love you!”

I knew I was offering him something greater than he could give me. I felt we were equals. I ceased to sob, I stood up, and looked him full in the face.

He returned my gaze with great solemnity. A queer change came over his very old face; his eyes were lit by an inward fire. It was impossible for me to tell whether he was pleased or not, but unquestionably he was moved, even agitated. After a brief pause he came up and took my hand in his.

“You are a brave girl, Rosamund Lindley,” he said. “You are like your mother, but you have more spirit than she ever had. You are very young – very, very young, or you would not offer an old man like me – an old miser, a person whose own heart is withered – such a gift as love. What can a withered heart want with love? You are very young, Rosamund, so I forgive your rash words. I will talk to you, however. Sit near me. You may open that fresh heart to me if you feel inclined.”

Cousin Geoffrey and I talked together for over an hour. At the end of that time he told me he was hungry, and that if I had no objection he would go out and bring in some lunch for us both.

He was now quite confidential and friendly. I made him laugh several times, and although he had apparently turned a deaf ear to my request, I fancied that I was getting on very well with him.

He made me chain the hall-door after him when he went out, and he promised that he would not be longer away than he could help. He brought in two mutton-chops for our lunch, which he fried himself in the most perfect manner, over a gas-jet in his sitting-room. We had bread with our chops, and some very rare wine, which was poured into tall Venetian glasses of great beauty.

“I don’t open this wine for my distant relatives,” he said, with a chuckle. “But you, Rosamund – your courage deserves the best I can do for you.”

After lunch he took me all over his large house. It was full of the most valuable and costly furniture, but all worm-eaten and going to decay from dirt and neglect.

He had some paintings of immense value in his drawing-rooms, and in his library were several rare editions of costly books.

“I refused three thousand pounds for that Paul Veronese,” he said, pointing to a picture which I was too ignorant to appreciate.

“Then you, too, love art,” I said. “Of course you will help me.”

“I love the great in art,” he answered. “But I despise the little. And of all things, what I most despise is the wild talk of the aspirant. Rosamund, you are a good girl, a plucky honest girl, but you will never be an artist. Tut, tut! There have not been more than a dozen real artists in the world, and is it likely that you will be the thirteenth? Go and darn your stockings quietly at home, Rosamund, and forget this silly little dream.”

I stamped my foot.

“If there have hitherto been only twelve artists I will make the thirteenth,” I said. “There! I am not afraid. I go and darn stockings! No, I won’t, not while you are alive, Cousin Geoffrey.”

I was angry, and I knew my eyes flashed angrily. I had often been told that my eyes could flash in a very brilliant and even alarming manner, and I was well aware that they had now bestowed a lightning glance of scorn on Cousin Geoffrey.

He was not displeased.

“Oh, what utter nonsense you talk!” he said. “But you are a brave girl, very brave. Why, you are not a bit afraid of me!”

“Afraid?” I said. “What do you mean?”

“Most of my relatives are afraid of me, child. They choose their words carefully; they always call me ‘dear Geoffrey,’ or ‘dear Cousin Geoffrey,’ and they agree with every word I say. It’s awfully monotonous being agreed with, I can tell you. A daring chit like you is a wonderful change for the better. Now, come down-stairs with me. You and I will have tea together. Rosamund, I wish you had a contented soul.”

By this time we had returned to the ugly sitting-room with the sky-light. Cousin Geoffrey had lit a fire with his own hands. He was now on his knees toasting some bread. He would not allow me to help him in the smallest particular.

“Rosamund,” he repeated, “I wish you were contented. Your ambition will undo you; your pride will have a fall.”

“Very well, Cousin Geoffrey, let it. I would rather ride my high-horse for a day, and have a fall in the evening, than never mount it at all.”

“Oh, folly, child, stuff and folly! There, the kettle boils. No, you need not help me, I don’t want young misses with grand ideas like you to touch my china. Rosamund, do you know – that I am looking out for an heir, or an heiress, to inherit my riches?”

“All right, Cousin Geoffrey, only pray don’t choose me!”

“You, you saucy chit! I want some one who’s contented, who won’t squander my gold. You! – really, Rosamund, your words are a little too bold to be always agreeable.”

“Please forgive me, Cousin Geoffrey. I just came here to-day to ask you for a little help – just a trifle out of all your wealth, and I don’t want you to think to think.”

“That you have come prying round like the other relatives? Why, child, your eyes have got tears in them. They look soft now – they were fierce enough a few moments ago. I don’t think anything bad of you, Rosamund; you are a brave girl. You shall come and see me again.”

“I will, with pleasure, when I come to London, to study art.”

“Oh – pooh! – Now drink your tea.”

After the meal was over, Cousin Geoffrey rose, and held out his hand.

“Good-bye, Rosamund,” he said. “I am glad you came to see me. You are your mother’s daughter, although you have not got her face. You may tell her so if you like, and and – But no; I won’t send any other message. Good-bye, Rosamund.”

“Cousin Geoffrey, you have not told me – Cousin Geoffrey – you won’t, oh, you won’t disappoint me?”

“Child, if I grant your request it will be against my will. As a rule, I never do anything against my will. I disapprove of your scheme. You are just a nice girl, but you are no artist, Rosamund.”

“Cousin Geoffrey, let me prove to you that I am.”

“I don’t want you to prove it to me. There, if I think twice of this matter you shall hear from me in a week.”

“And if I don’t hear?”

“Take my silence for what it means. I respect art – only true votaries must approach her shrine.”

Chapter Two

Cousin Geoffrey

I went home and waited for the week. I was excited, I even felt nervous. I was not a particularly pleasant companion for my mother during these days of waiting. I felt irritable, and the merest trifle made me speak crossly. The boys (we always called my big grown-up brothers “the boys”) twitted me on my London visit. They said my new hat had not improved my temper, and, by the way, where was my new hat?

I said, if it came home it would be in a week. I threw great mystery into my voice when I made this remark, but the boys were essentially matter-of-fact, and did not pursue the inquiry.

During this week my mother talked a great deal about Cousin Geoffrey.

At first she seemed almost afraid to ask me what had taken place during the time I spent with him, but soon she got over her reluctance, and then she was only too desirous to learn even the most remote particulars that I could give her.

She both laughed and cried over my account of my interview.

“Just like Geoffrey!” she exclaimed, when I quoted his remarks about art and artists. “Just like Geoffrey,” she said again, when I told her about the mutton-chop cooked by his own hands, and the delicate and rare wine served in the tall Venetian glasses.

My mother seemed to know his home well; she asked about the position of certain pieces of furniture, and in particular she spoke about the Paul Veronese. She knew its value well enough – she was no artist, but she could appreciate its merits. Her cheeks glowed, and her eyes grew bright as she spoke of it.

“Ah, Rosamund,” she said, “I helped him to unpack it – long ago – long, long ago.”

When I told my mother how Cousin Geoffrey said she was the only relative who was not kind, she turned her head away.

I knew why she did this – she did not want me to see the tears in her eyes.

The week passed.

I got up early on the morning which saw its completion, and went down-stairs myself to answer the postman’s ring.