A Ring of Rubies

“The more I think over our interview to-day the better pleased I am at the arrangement we have arrived at. You know how particular I am about my wills. I regard them from a serious and even an artistic point of view. I look upon a will as the crowning stone of a man’s life, a crown to be placed on the shrine of his memory, a monument to hand down his name to the ages. My last will pleases me much. It is finished in all its details. It is, I may venture to say, truly original. I do not think it has a flaw in its construction, and, when carried into force, it will be a means of diffusing happiness and adding to the benefit of the human race.

“As you are well aware, Gray, I am a rich man; the rich have many trials: they are the envied of the poor, and that in itself is disagreeable; they are also much worried by relations. I have never married; there is, literally, not a soul in the world belonging to me who bears my name, and yet I have relatives – many relatives. All my relations are kind, and solicitous for my welfare. When I am dead they will one and all express sorrow at my departure. There will be a goodly gathering of them at my funeral, and they will congregate afterwards at my house to hear my will read. I don’t wish my will to be read. You, as my only trustee, are to take the necessary legal steps with regard to it, but I don’t wish it to be read aloud to my relatives. As, however, they will be naturally curious to know in what way I dispose of my property, you may mention to them, in any manner you think fit, the following particulars:

“I have appointed in my will heirs to all my worldly estates, my property in lands and houses, in stocks and shares. The names of my heirs I have not thought fit to disclose; they may turn up at any time between the date of my death and five years after, and whenever they do appear on the scene, prepared to fulfil a condition which I have named, my property goes to them as appointed in my will.

“If, five years having gone by, the true heirs do not come to claim the property, one-half of it is to go to different charities named at full length in my will, and the other half is to be divided in equal shares among all my blood relations.

“Until the end of the five years, or until the true heirs appear, my property is to accumulate; my furniture, plate, valuable china, and jewels are to remain unsold.

“I have, however, given directions in my will that a certain small legacy is to be given without any delay to a young girl, the daughter of a relative.

“This girl came to me a week ago with a request that I should give her sufficient money to enable her to attend a school of art. I hate art schools; the word art, as applied to them, is a misnomer. I have my own views with regard to art – she is a mistress who must be wooed in a very different manner. This girl, Rosamund Lindley is her name, trod severely on my most cherished prejudices when she made her daring request.

“To show, however, that I bear her good-will, I leave her, and request that it may be given to her at once, the valuable ruby ring which belonged to my mother, and which for many years I wore myself. You will find the ring in my mother’s jewel-case, in drawer fifty, room eight, in the second story of this house.

“Rosamund Lindley and her mother may possibly attend my funeral. I hope they will. In that case, please give Rosamund the ruby ring in the presence of my other relatives, and, although I lay no command upon her in the matter, tell her, if she values the memory of old Geoffrey Rutherford, not to sell the ring.

“I am, my dear Gray, —

“Yours faithfully, —

“Geoffrey Rutherford.”

Immediately after reading the letter Mr Gray put his hand into his waistcoat pocket, and drew out a small, old-fashioned morocco case.

“You will like, ladies and gentlemen, to see the ruby ring,” he said, in his blandest tones.

Chapter Three

The Octagon Room

There was immediately a great buzz and clatter in the room. All the relatives rose in a body, and pressed round the table near which Mr Gray stood. My mother and I, surely the most interested persons present, were thus pushed quite into the background.

We had not a chance of seeing the ring until the other relatives had first gazed at it.

It was taken out of its velvet bed, and handed solemnly from one to another. I don’t think an individual praised it. The comments which reached my ears were somewhat as follows:

“What an old-fashioned shape!”

“Dear, dear, how clumsy!”

“The centre stone is large, but is it real? – I doubt it.”

A very morose-looking Scotchman pronounced the ring “no canny.” A lady near immediately took up the sentiment, and said that the gem had an evil look about it, and she was truly thankful that the ring was not left to her.

A gentleman, who I was told afterwards was a poet and wrote verses for the magazines, said that the ruby itself had an eye of fire, and if it were his he feared it would haunt him.

In short, one and all of the relatives expressed their scorn of the ring, and their utter contempt for Cousin Geoffrey. Not a woman in the room now spoke of him as a poor dear, nor a man as an eccentric but decidedly jolly sort of old boy. There were several muttered exclamations with regard to Cousin Geoffrey’s sanity, but no expression of affection came from a single pair of lips.

At last Mr Gray’s voice was distinguished, rising above the general din.

“If you will permit me, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “I should be glad to show Miss Rosamund Lindley her property. Allow me, madam.” And he took the ring out of a sour-faced lady’s hand. Immediately all eyes were turned on me. I heard the stout person who had spoken of Cousin Geoffrey as a “poor dear,” pronounce me nothing but a chit of a girl. Notwithstanding this withering comment, I had, however, the strength of mind to come forward, and with outward calmness receive my property.

“Take all possible care of this ring, Miss Lindley,” said the lawyer. “If it has no other value, it is worth something as a curiosity. The setting of the gem is most uncommon.” Then he put the case containing the ring into my hand.

One by one the relatives now left the room, and my mother, the lawyer, and I found ourselves alone.

“If you will permit me,” said my mother in her gentle, charming sort of manner to Mr Gray, “I should like to go over Cousin Geoffrey’s house, and to look once again at the old furniture. You are not perhaps aware of the fact that I lived here for many years when I was a young girl.”

Mr Gray smiled slightly.

“I happen to know some of Mr Rutherford’s history,” he said.

My mother blushed quite prettily, as if she were a young girl. She turned aside and took my hand in hers.

“We may go, then,” she said.

“Undoubtedly you may go, Mrs Lindley, and pray do not hurry; take your own time. I am going to put a caretaker into this house, and until he arrives shall stay in charge myself, so you and Miss Rosamund need not hasten away.”

My mother thanked Mr Gray, and then she and I began our pilgrimage. I don’t think I ever before spent such an interesting afternoon. Cousin Geoffrey’s death had cast me down and destroyed all the hopes on which I had been building, still – perhaps it was the effect of the ring – I felt a curious sense of elation. The task of looking over the old house was the reverse of depressing to me. I never had been in such an antique, curious, rambling old mansion before. It was not like an ordinary London house; it had unexpected nooks, and queer alcoves, and marvellously carved and painted ceilings, and quaint balustrades and galleries. It must have been built a long time ago, and when the precious London ground was comparatively cheap, for the building went back a long way, and was added to here and there, so that it presented quite an irregular pile, and I don’t believe another house in London in the least resembled it. It towered above all its fellows in the square, and looked something like a great king who owned but a shabby kingdom. For the neighbouring houses were fifth-rate, and most of them let out in tenements.

But Cousin Geoffrey’s house was not only curious in itself – its contents were even more wonderful. I never saw a house so packed with furniture, and I don’t believe there was an article in it which had not seen at least a hundred years. The quaintest bureaus and chests of drawers inlaid with brass and ivory and mother-of-pearl were to be found in all directions. There were great heavy glass cupboards full of rare and wonderful china; there were spindle-legged tables and chairs of the most approved last-century pattern; there were Chippendale book-cases, and Queen Anne furniture of all shapes and sizes. At the time I was not a connoisseur of old furniture, but my mother was. She told me the date of the furniture of each room, and said that the house was so full of valuables, that it would make in itself quite an interesting museum. I never saw my mother look younger or prettier.

“Ah, I remember this,” she exclaimed, “and this – and this. It was by this mirror I stood when I was dressed for my first ball, and as a little child I used often to climb on to this carved window-sill.”

We came to a room presently which seemed to have been taken more care of than the rest of the house. Its approach was up a little turret stair, and the room, when we entered it, was an octagon. Each of the octagon windows contained a picture in richly-coloured glass; the pictures represented the same child in various attitudes.

“Oh, how lovely!” I exclaimed. “Even the dirt and the neglect can’t spoil these windows.”

“No,” said my mother, but she turned a little white, and for the first time showed signs of fatigue. “I did not know Geoffrey kept the room in such order,” she said. “Why, look, Rosamund, look, it is fairly clean, and the glass in this great mirror shines. I believe Geoffrey took care of this octagon room himself.”

“This was your room, mother,” I said, flashing round upon her, “and I do believe this was your face when you were a child. Oh, what lovely, quaint, uncomfortable chairs, and what a brass fender to the old grate, and what a wonderful bit of tapestry hangs across that alcove! This was your room, your own, wasn’t it, mother dear?”

“I used to sit here a good deal,” answered my mother. “And Geoffrey’s father had the windows representing childhood put in specially for me. Poor Geoffrey! I think he drew all the designs himself.”

“Then Cousin Geoffrey was an artist?”

“Oh, my dear, did I never mention that?”

“No. How could you have kept such an interesting secret to yourself? And I talked art to him, and fancied myself so wise?”

“Rosamund dear, I am glad you have got the ruby ring. From a man like Geoffrey it means much. Cousin Geoffrey must have taken a great fancy to you, Rosamund.”

“Well, mother, I wish he had left me some of his money.”

My mother’s face turned still paler. She made no reply, but, walking across the octagon room, she spent some little time examining the old furniture, and touching it with reverent fingers.

“Rosamund,” she said suddenly, “I am tired. This day has been too much for me. We will go home now.”