A Ring of Rubies

“Good gracious, young lady, what do you mean by that?” said Mr Chillingfleet.

“Those four five-pound notes are yours,” I said. “I have brought them back to you.”

“Miss Lindley, you must explain yourself.”

Mr Chillingfleet’s tone was no longer languid in its interest.

Then I gulped down a great lump in my throat, and told the story. It does not matter how I told it. I cannot recall the words I used. I don’t know whether I spoke eloquently or badly. I know I did not cry, but I am firmly convinced that my face was ashy pale, for it felt so queer and stiff and cold.

At last I had finished. The story of the young clerk’s temptation and disgrace was known to his chief. Now I waited for the fiat to go forth. Suppose Mr Chillingfleet refused to receive back the twenty pounds I brought him? Suppose he thought it good for the interests of business that the young thief – the wicked, brazen young thief – should be made an example of?

I gazed into the kind and honourable eyes. I watched with agony the firm, the hard, the almost cruel mouth.

“Oh, sir,” I said, suddenly, “take back the money! Jack’s mother is alive, and perhaps your mother, too, lives, sir. Take back the money, and be merciful, for her sake.”

Mr Chillingfleet shut his eyes twice, very quickly. Then he spoke.

“You must not try to come over me with sentiment,” he said. “This is not the time. A principle is involved, and I must be guided by a sense of duty. I am particularly busy at this moment, but I will give you my decision before you go. Can you wait for half an hour?”

“Yes, sir.”

Mr Chillingfleet sounded an office gong by his side.

“Dawson,” he said, when the boy appeared, “show this lady into the waiting-room.”

The boy preceded me into a dismal little back room, furnished me with a copy of the day’s Times, and left me. I could not read a word. I felt more and more hopeless as the moments went by.

It was nearly one o’clock before I was summoned back into Mr Chillingfleet’s presence.

“Sit down,” he said, in a much more kind tone than he had used when I left him. “You are a good girl, Miss Lindley,” he began. “You have acted in a very straightforward and honourable manner. Your mother must be a good woman, for she has brought up a worthy daughter. However, to the point. I will accept the notes you have just brought me in lieu of those stolen by your brother. I will not prosecute him for theft.”

“Oh, sir, God bless you?”

“Stay, you must hear me out. I don’t forgive absolutely; I should not think it right. Lindley has proved himself unworthy of trust, and he no longer holds a situation in this house. He may redeem his character some day, but the uphill path will be difficult for him, for the simple reason that I shall find it impossible to give him a recommendation which will enable him to obtain another situation.”

“Oh, sir – Mr Chillingfleet – his young wife!”

“Precisely so, Miss Lindley, but society must be protected. When a man does something which destroys his character, he must bear the consequences. There, I am sorry for you, but I can do no more. I must be just. Good-morning.”

Mr Chillingfleet touched my fingers, bowed to me, and I withdrew.

I pulled my veil down over my face; I did not look to right or left as I walked out of the office.

Chapter Eight

I cannot part with my Ring

Jack was going on well, and I spent most of the time with his wife. One day a letter from home was forwarded to me. I opened it, and saw to my astonishment that the signature was Albert Chillingfleet.

“My dear Miss Lindley,” the good man wrote, “your face has made a tolerably strong impression on me. I wish you were a lad; I would give you a berth in my business-house directly. But in the case of your brother, justice must be done, you know. He ought never to be a clerk in a business-house again. Still, there are other openings. When he has quite recovered, ask him to call to see me at my private address – Princes’ Gate. I am generally disengaged and at home between nine and ten in the evening. I enclose a trifle for that young wife.

“Yours sincerely, —

“Albert Chillingfleet.”

The trifle was a ten-pound note. My fingers trembled as I unfolded it. I looked across the room at Hetty. She was better now, and was able to spend a certain portion of each day on a sofa which the landlady had brought into the room for her.

Hetty’s face wore the bright, innocent expression of a child. Her illness seemed to have brought back a kind of pathetic lost youth to her. She was young, undoubtedly, in years, very young, but I felt convinced that before she had been so ill she had not worn this child-expression – her lips could not have been so reposeful in the old days, nor her eyes so unanxious.

She was lying now gazing calmly out of the window. Her hands were folded on her lap. The knitting she had been trying to accomplish had tumbled unheeded to the floor. When the bank-note rustled in my hand Hetty turned and looked at me. I got up and gave it to her.

“This is for you,” I said. “I have had a letter from a friend of ours, and he has sent you this.”

“Oh!” she exclaimed. She clasped the note in both her hands. “Ten pounds!” she repeated. “Rosamund,” she continued, “I never had so much money as this in all my life before.”

“Well, make good use of it, dear child,” I said. “Put it away safely now. You’ll be sure to want it.”

“But ought not I to thank your friend?”

“I’ll do that for you. I’ll be sure to say something very pretty.”

Hetty looked at the ten-pound note as if she loved it. Then she stretched out her hand, and proffered it back to me.

“You had better have it, Rosamund. You buy everything that we want. Take it, and spend it, won’t you? You must need it very badly.”

“No, no, no! This is your own nest-egg, and no one else shall touch it. See, I will put it into your purse; I know where your little empty purse is, Hetty. I will put this nice crisp note into it. Is it not jolly to have so much laid by?”

“Yes,” said Hetty, “I feel delightfully rich.” She closed her eyes, smiling, wearied, happy. In the sleep which followed she smiled again, more than once. She was thinking of Jack, and of the good things she could buy for him out of this purse of Fortunatus.

On the following day I was to go back to Lady Ursula to receive my ruby ring. As I sat and worked by Hetty’s side, I planned how I would take the little excursion in the morning, bring back the ring, and amuse my sister in the afternoon by telling her the story of it.

I carried out the early part of this programme exactly as I had mapped it before my eyes on this peaceful afternoon. The next morning found me at an early hour ringing the ponderous bell under the heavy portico of the great house in Grosvenor Street. The liveried footman once more put in his appearance, and I was taken once again to Lady Ursula’s pretty rose-coloured bower.

It was empty when I entered.

“Her ladyship will be with you in a minute or two,” said the man, as he closed the door behind the tapestry.

I sat back in an easy-chair, and waited. It was very nice to wait in this pretty room. I felt quite easy in my mind, and not at all anxious. Circumstances had improved for me during the last fortnight. Hetty was getting well. Jack was better. Exposure and disgrace were averted. In short, the heavy pressure of expectant calamity was withdrawn, and life smiled at me with its every-day face. I thought how glad I should be to have my little ring again – my pretty romantic treasure should be more prized than ever. Nothing should induce me to part with it again.

As I lay back and reflected peacefully, footsteps approached. The tapestry was pushed aside, and a man entered.

He was tall, with a dark complexion. His appearance was aristocratic. I glanced at him, and recognised him in a flash. I knew him by his likeness to the excellent photograph Lady Ursula possessed – he was her lover.

I was seated rather in the shadow. At first when he came in he did not notice me. He went straight up to Lady Ursula’s table, and laid a small morocco case on it. He took up a photograph of the young lady, looked at it steadily – a half smile played round his somewhat austere mouth, his eyes softened. He held the photograph close to his lips, but he did not kiss it; with an almost reverent gesture he replaced it, then turned to leave the room. As he did so he caught sight of me. I had been looking on with a very red face. It was now Captain Valentine’s turn to get red. He grew scarlet; he looked intensely angry. I saw at a glance that he was the last man who could bear to be caught in a sentimental attitude, he was the last man who could bear even a shade of ridicule.

He bowed very stiffly to me and vanished.

The next instant Lady Ursula came in.