A Ring of Rubies

“May I have the key?” I inquired in a gentle voice.

“Oh, of course, of course! But stay, you won’t want it. You don’t suppose a valuable house like that is left without caretakers. Two policemen take care of it, and one of them is always on the premises. I will give you my card, and whichever of them is in will show you over the place.”

“Oh, please, may I not go over it by myself.”

“Well, child, well! I don’t suppose it makes much matter what you do. I’ll have to write a special letter to Dawson or Drake, whichever of them happens to be in. I’ll write the letter, and you shall take it, and then you can moon about the old place as much as you please. By the way, my dear Miss Rosamund, I hope you have got my client’s valuable ring safe?” For answer I pulled off my shabby silk glove, and flashed the gem in the old lawyer’s face.

“Good gracious, you don’t mean to say you wear that valuable ring every day?”

“Not every day – by any means.”

“But it is very unsafe to wear a ring like that on your finger when you are out alone. My dear child, you have not the faintest idea what that centre ruby is worth.”

“I have some little idea,” I said.

“You had much better leave it at home. Look at it constantly of course, but leave it in a safe place at home.”

“Oh no, I like to wear it on my finger.”

“Well, well!” The lawyer sighed, then sat down and wrote his letter.

Chapter Nine

A Telegram

I took the letter in my hand, and walked to Cousin Geoffrey’s house. Drake was the name of the policeman who replied to my summons. He read the contents of Mr Gray’s letter with almost lightning speed, then moved aside to let me pass in.

“You would rather I did not show you round, Miss Lindley?” said Drake.

“Yes,” I answered, “I know the old house, I have been here before; I should just like to walk quietly over it by myself.”

“Very well, miss; but you’ll allow the wife to prepare you a cup of tea? We can get it quite handy, in the housekeeper’s room next the kitchen, if so be as you object to taking it in the kitchen itself, miss.”

“I don’t object at all,” I answered. “Thank you very much, Mr Drake, I should like to have a cup of tea, and I would prefer having it in the kitchen.”

A pleased smile stole slowly over the man’s face. He walked down-stairs in the deliberate fashion of a person who has remarkably little to do, and I commenced my tour of investigation. I said to myself – “Drake need not hurry with that tea; I shall not want it for some time.” It was delightful to me to be alone in this treasure-house. I could explore, I could examine, I could pause, I could think. The furniture, the carpets, the curtains were all full of story, and alive with associations. I walked from room to room. My mother, had she been with me, could have put speech into all these rare treasures, could have hung a lovely legend or charm over each of those antiquated chairs and tables. Her stories would have been founded on fact, but I, too, helped perhaps by my magical ruby ring, could weave romances as I walked along.

The rooms of the house had one peculiarity, which I had not noticed the last time I walked over it. Set into a panel of the door of each was a kind of sliding slab, which could be pushed aside with the finger, and which, when opened, revealed a name. I found that each room in the house had its own special name. This discovery excited me very much. It was not discernible to the ordinary visitor, for the little white slab was well hidden in the heavy oak door. But a touch, the twist of a button would reveal it. I wondered when Cousin Geoffrey had perpetrated this strange freak. I imagined the queer pleasure he took in naming the different apartments of his lonely mansion.

After I had made this little discovery I ceased to take such a deep interest in the furniture. My desire was, if possible, to read the title of each chamber. I thought what a delightful story I would have to tell my mother by and by. I knew that she was unacquainted with this vagary of her kinsman’s.

I began at the attics, and turning slab after slab concealed so cleverly in the doors, read the names rapidly off. Some were commonplace, some fantastic; most of the rooms were called after the colour of the decoration, or the style of the furniture. Thus there was the Oak room, the Walnut room, the Blue room, the Gray room, the Rose room; there were also the North room and the South room. At last I reached the beautiful octagon room which contained the painted windows, and which had so excited my mother’s emotions.

The title of this room gave me a good deal to ponder over. It was called the Chamber of Myths. I stayed for a long time here. I examined all the furniture. I studied the subjects of the painted windows. I stood on the raised dais, and leant against the old four-poster, and pressed my hand against the moth-eaten counterpane. How dusty, and dreary, and haunty it looked!

The light was fading fast, now, and the room displeased me. I left the Chamber of Myths in a hurry, and went down to the kitchen to have tea with Drake and his wife. I said nothing to them about the discovery I had made, but when I left the house I was firmly convinced that Cousin Geoffrey’s eccentricity must have bordered on madness. What did he mean by the “Chamber of Myths”? What were the myths? Perhaps my mother could tell me. I would question her the first moment I had an opportunity.

It was rather late when I went back to Hetty. I thought how pleased she would be to see the ruby ring, how pretty she would look when she opened her eyes wide to gaze at it. How charmed and bewildered she would be if I let her wear it for a moment on her slim third finger. Hetty had lovely little hands. Her wedding finger would look dainty, circled with this ruby ring. I too had small hands, but I could only get it on my smallest finger.

The moment I got in Hetty pointed with excitement to a telegram which lay upon the little table at her side.

“It has been here for two hours, Rose,” she said. “Do open it quickly. I am so anxious to know what is in it. Perhaps it is about Jack. Perhaps he is worse.”

“You poor little thing,” I replied. “Why did you not open the envelope yourself, if you are so upset with nervous terrors? Now let me see what this precious yellow envelope contains.”

“Well?” said Hetty.

I was reading the telegram to myself. My face showed heightened colour and annoyance.

“Well?” she said again. “Do speak, please, Rose.”

“It is nothing about Jack,” I said then.

“Nothing at all?”

“Nothing at all; the telegram is from my home, but it is about – about another matter.”

This was the other matter – these were the contents of the telegram.

“Lady Ursula Redmayne and Captain Rupert Valentine have just been here, asking to see you. Will call at your lodgings in Putney, to-morrow, before eleven. Lady U. in great distress. Gave your address under pressure.”

This long telegram from my mother showed most reckless extravagance. I could imagine how Lady Ursula had worked upon her feelings.

“But I am not going to give you up, little ring,” I said, kissing it.

Chapter Ten

Relations

I parried Hetty’s curious remarks with regard to the telegram, putting her off at first with vague replies, then speaking decidedly.

“I have had a message from my mother, dear Hetty,” I said; “nothing at all about Jack, nothing that will interest you.”

“Oh, of course, Rosamund – ” Hetty’s pale face flushed vividly. She took up some knitting she was trying to get through, a sock for Jack, of course. I saw her poor little fingers trembling. She was the most sensitive little creature. A touch, a word, sent her into herself. She felt so unsure of her position, so unsure of everything, except that she had a great hungry wealth of love to give away to those who would receive it of her.

As I saw her making these futile, pathetic little attempts to get on with her knitting, I felt some of the experiences one might feel if one had set one’s foot on a little wild-flower and crushed it. I watched her timid, downcast eyes for a moment, then I spoke.

“After all, Hetty,” I said, “I should not be in the least surprised if the contents of my mother’s telegram interested you amazingly. I don’t see why you shouldn’t know. It is a most exciting story. We’ll have tea together, and then I’ll tell it to you.”

Hetty’s little face came quickly out of the shadow in which it had looked so pathetic. She was all smiles and sunshine once more. She even laughed with glee when I arranged our evening meal. Her impatience to know the mystery was absolutely childish, but I was determined not to be cross with her, nor to blame her in any way again.

After we had finished eating, I drew a chair up to her sofa, and began my story. I told everything from the beginning – I mean from the time of my visit to Cousin Geoffrey. Really, Hetty was a most delightful listener; she was all sympathy, her interest was absorbing, she interrupted the narrative with no questions, but her beautiful eyes spoke volumes for her. They expressed wonder, sorrow, joy. I had quite a pleasant time as I told my little romance. I could not have desired a prettier sight than Hetty’s eyes with the soul looking out of them as they gazed at me.

What a benefit to the possessor those speaking eyes are! In some cases I could imagine them to be the best of all good fairies’ gifts, for what can they not do? Wheedle, coax, command, subdue. Hetty was not a particularly brilliant personage in any way. She was a very loving, dear, true little creature, but she was neither clever, nor particularly heroic. Yet with her eyes she could command a kingdom. Now some people speak of me as clever, and I know I have plenty of presence of mind, but I can do nothing at all with my eyes.

Well, Hetty heard the story, and then she examined the ring, and then we had a long consultation over Lady Ursula’s visit of the morrow.

“Won’t you write and tell her not to come?” said Hetty.