A Ring of Rubies

“Never mind. Nothing shall be done to hurt your pride. My part in the matter is simple enough. I give you and Tom Valentine an opportunity of becoming acquainted with each other. I have a place at Putney – a charming place. You shall pay me a visit there.”

“I won’t go,” I said.

“Yes, you will go – you will do what I tell you.”

“No,” I repeated; “you ask me to Putney for an object. You mean to conquer me – I won’t be conquered. I shall be very glad to visit you, if you will be kind enough to invite me on another occasion. But I am not going to meet Mr Valentine; I am not going to meet him, because at last I know the contents of Cousin Geoffrey’s will.”

Mr Gray rubbed his hands with impatience. “You are doing wrong,” he said stoutly. “You are offered a gift which will befriend you and yours, which will help your mother who is ill.”

“How do you know my mother is ill?” I asked testily.

The lawyer gave me a piercing glance, he turned away.

“Your mother is not well,” he said evasively. It was curious, but that tone in his voice broke me down. I said —

“A visit to you, after all, involves nothing. Say no more about it – I will come.”

I went home that day feeling uncommonly weak and small. My excitement had run its course – the re-action had set in; I felt dead tired and languid. I had a slight headache too, which I knew would get worse by and by. In short, I was more or less in a state of collapse, and I felt that tears were not far from my eyes.

It seemed to me that I had just been going through a very severe fight, and that I was in danger of being beaten. I knew this by the fact that in my collapsed condition I did not much care whether I was beaten or not.

I arrived home to find matters a little more dismal even than usual. My mother’s cough was so bad that the doctor had been sent for. He had prescribed (in those comfortable, unfaltering words which doctors are so fond of using) the Riviera as the sovereign remedy. My mother must leave the harsh east winds of our English spring, and go into the land of balmy breezes and colour and flowers.

“You must go without delay, Mrs Lindley,” the doctor said, and then he shook hands with her, and pocketed his fee, and went away.

His visit was over when I reached home, and my mother was seated, wrapped up in a white fleecy shawl, by the little fire in the drawing-room. That shawl became her wonderfully. Her beautiful face looked like the rarest old porcelain above it; her clear complexion, the faint winter roses on her cheeks, the soft light in her eyes, the sweetness of her lips, and the fine whiteness of her hair gave her as great a beauty as the loveliness of youth. In some way my mother’s picturesque loveliness exceeded that of the innocent freshness of childhood, for all the story, and all the sorrow, and all the love, the courage, the resignation which life rightly used can bring, was reflected on her beloved features.

I bent forward and kissed her, and the tears which were so near welled up in my own eyes.

“Well, Rose, I can’t go,” she said; “but I’ll tell you what we’ll do, we’ll bring the Riviera here. With a few flowers, and a nice book, and a little more fire in the grate, we can get these pleasant things around us; and I have no doubt, notwithstanding gloomy Dr Hudson, that I shall soon lose my cough, and be as well as ever.”

“Oh, yes, you will soon lose your cough, mother,” I said. I sat down at her feet, and took her thin hand and pressed it passionately to my lips. Over and over again I kissed it, and each moment a voice kept whispering to me:

“The battle is going against you – you know it – you know it well!”

We were very poor at our home; but I will say this for us, we did not make money the staple subject of conversation. When we met at meals we each of us pushed our penury away under a decent sort of cloak, and although we constantly fought and argued and disagreed, we did not mention our fears with regard to the possibility of meeting the next quarter’s rent, and paying the water rates, and filling the coal cellar with fuel.

It seemed to-night, however, as if all my family were in league to break this customary rule. George crossly declared that he could not exist any longer without a new suit of clothes. My father desired him to hush, and said that he might be thankful if he had a roof to cover him, as there were already two quarters owing for rent, and he had not the faintest idea where the necessary cheque was to come from. Then he began to scold about the expenses incurred during Jack’s illness, and my mother, weak and low already, put her handkerchief up to her eyes and wept.

In the midst of our tribulation a letter arrived from Hetty, in which she begged and implored me, for the love of Heaven, to send her a postal order for a couple of sovereigns by return of post.

This letter of Hetty’s was the last drop. What did it matter about me and my feelings, and my righteous pride, and all the holy instincts of my youth? There was my mother to be saved, my home to be relieved, my poor little new sister to be comforted and made happy. I rushed out of the room and wrote a frantic letter to Hetty. I could not send her the money, but I could send her hope. I did. I sent it flying to her on the wings of her Majesty’s post. Then I wrote to Lady Ursula, and apologised for not keeping my appointment at the Chamber of Myths that day. I said that Cousin Geoffrey’s letter was of a very startling character, and that it was impossible for me to disclose its contents to any one at present. I spoke to Lady Ursula affectionately and in a sisterly spirit, and I sent my kind regards to her intended husband, Captain Valentine. I paused and even blushed as I considered what message I could forward to my cousin Tom. After careful reflection I felt that I could say nothing about him. He was the thorn in my lot at present, and I felt that I owed him an enormous grudge, and that I should have liked very much to hate him. But when I remembered his extremely honest expression, his bluntness and downrightness, I could not quite manage to get up a feeling of hatred to a man who was really in himself quite innocent.

Finally I wrote to Mr Gray, and told him that I would present myself at his villa in Putney to-morrow.

Chapter Nineteen

My Mother’s Wedding-Dress

Never did a girl prepare for a gay visit with a sadder heart. I had not an idea what I was going to. Mr Gray was rich, and I felt certain that his villa was what my father would term “pretentious.” By this would be meant that he had large rooms instead of small, good furniture instead of shabby, good meals instead of bad, and in the place of loneliness and gloom, brightness and company.

This I was sure of, for Mr Gray’s eyes sparkled as if he lived well and cheerily, and the pleasant sunshine of hospitality shone all over his expressive features.

I was going to a gay house then – a “company” house.

I ran down-stairs early the next morning and told my mother of my invitation, and of my acceptance of it.

She seemed a little surprised, then, after a pause, she said she was pleased.

“Go, and have a good time, Rosamund,” she said; “it is quite right that girls should enjoy themselves; but oh! my love,” an anxious shadow coming across her face, “what have you got to wear?”

“Plenty of things, mother,” I retorted, “lashin’s and lavin’s, as they say in Ireland.”

“But you have no evening dress, Rose. At Mr Gray’s the girls are sure to dress for the evening.”

“Oh, I can manage,” I said.

“But you have not got an evening dress, my darling; all the girls will have evening dresses.”

“One girl must do without,” I retorted in a stout voice which concealed many qualms of the heart.

“One girl must not do without,” replied my mother. “Come with me, Rosamund. Rose, did I ever show you my wedding-dress?”

My mother laughed gaily; her eyes were bright.

“I did not know your wedding-dress was in existence, mother,” I said.

“Yes, it is, and well preserved,” she replied. “Come up-stairs with me, and you shall see it.”

I followed my mother into her bedroom. She unlocked a great square wooden trunk, which stood in one of the windows, and laying aside many folds of tissue paper, took from the depths of the trunk a brocaded silk dress of heavy make and rich texture. She laid the dress on the bed, and looked at me with pink spots on each of her cheeks.

“There!” she said; “there! Geoffrey gave me the dress, and he saw me in it. You may suppose that Geoffrey knew how to choose good things. You could not buy silk like that now. Geoffrey pinned a rosebud just here. Do you notice the tiny, yellow stain? And then he kissed me on my forehead. We were good friends that day, although Geoffrey, dear Geoffrey, had a strange look in his eyes. I remembered the look afterwards; but we were good friends, very great and affectionate friends. I never saw him again – never. Well, Rosamund, what do you think of your mother’s wedding-dress?”

I was examining it all over. It was quaint in make, and the silk had the faint yellow tinge which years of lying by always produces. The sleeves were high and puffed. There was a ruffle of very soft and exquisite lace round the V-shaped body. The waist was long, with a pointed stomacher, and the skirt below was full and wide.

Never was there a dress less like the mode in vogue at the time of which I write.

“The dress is out of date, perhaps, but it is very good in itself,” said my mother. “It will fit you, Rosamund, for your figure is small and dainty, like mine used to be. Will you wear your mother’s wedding-dress, even if it is a little out of the fashion?”

“Yes, I will wear it,” I said. “Give it to me, and I will take it away with me.”

“But you must have other things to match,” said my mother. “Wait a moment; you must have other things to suit the dress.”

She rushed again to her trunk; she looked like a girl in her excitement.

“These are my wedding – shoes,” she said, “and these white silk stockings go with the shoes. This petticoat, with the deep embroidery, will have to be worn under the full skirt of the dress. Oh, Rose, how glad I am now that I did not cut this petticoat up! Rose, I should like to see you dressed for your first dinner-party!”

I kissed my mother, gathered up the poor old-world mementoes of lost youth and love, and ran away to my own room. I took with me on my visit a larger trunk than I had at first intended, for my mother’s wedding silk must not be crushed or injured.

I arrived at the Grays’ house about an hour before dinner.

The villa was less of a villa and more of a mansion than even I had imagined. There was a wide entrance hall, and an open roof overhead, and a square well-staircase, which opened on to galleries which led to the bedrooms. The spring light had nearly faded when I arrived at the house, but the soft and cheerful blaze of coloured lamps gave the brightest and most picturesque effect. There were flowers everywhere, and vistas of pretty things from open doorways, and little peeps of wide conservatories, and a distant faint clatter of glasses and silver in the far-off dining-room.

Mr Gray came out himself to bid me welcome. He was followed by his wife and two daughters, Nettie and Tottie. Nettie and Tottie were round and fat and fair and insignificant-looking. Mrs Gray was also round and fat, but she had a matronly dignity about her, and a comfortable, homely manner which made me take to her at once.

After Mr Gray had shaken me warmly by both my hands, Mrs Gray kissed me, and Nettie and Tottie came up, each to one side of me, and in this manner I was conveyed across the hall, and into a cheerful little boudoir, where three anxious women’s voices pressed hot tea and buttered cakes on my notice.

I drank my tea and ate hot muffins, and felt that the pleasant and luxurious surroundings of my present habitation suited me uncommonly well. After staring at me for half a minute Tottie made an abrupt observation.

“Two or three people are coming to dinner,” she said; “only gentlemen, however, friends of papa’s.”

“Oh, Tottie!” exclaimed Nettie, giving her sister a knowing look. “Friends of papa’s indeed! What next? Are they all only papa’s friend’s?”

Tottie shrugged her shoulders – she looked pleased and conscious – perhaps she expected me to quiz her; but that was not at all the kind of thing I felt capable of doing.

“Some gentlemen are coming to dinner,” resumed Tottie, after an expectant pause, “so perhaps you would like to come up to your room in good time to dress, Miss Lindley?”

I assented at once.

“I shall be very glad to go to my room,” I said.

Tottie preceded me up the shallow stairs. She ushered me into a large bedroom supplied with every modern comfort. It was getting well on into April now, but a bright fire burnt in the grate, and the room was further rendered cheerful with electric light. I had the key of my old-fashioned trunk in my pocket, so it was not yet unpacked; but to my surprise two dinner dresses lay on the bed. One was of soft creamy silk; the other pink, a kind of almost transparent muslin. Both were simple in outline and graceful. Even a brief glance showed me that they were exquisitely finished, and must have cost a large sum. Beside the dresses lay gloves, a fan, small shoes, and delicate openwork stockings. In a box were some beautiful freshly-arranged flowers, a spray for the hair, and another for the front of the dress.

“Oh dear, dear!” exclaimed Tottie. She rushed to the bed and stood silent, the colour mounting high into her cheeks. “That accounts for it,” she said, when she could find her astonished breath. “That accounts for the mysterious box, and for papa’s manner. Does papa take you to the dressmaker, Miss Lindley? How very, very odd that he should superintend your toilet!”

Tottie looked at me with intense curiosity as she spoke. I knew that my cheeks were burning, and that a burst of angry words was crowding to my lips. With a violent effort I restrained them.

“Your father is very civil,” I said, after a pause. “He has evidently fetched this box home. I am much obliged to him for his trouble. Now perhaps, Miss Gray, you will let me get ready for dinner?”

Tottie blushed and stepped away from the bed as if my manner half frightened her.

“Of course,” she said. “I forgot how time was flying. But can I do nothing to help you? Shall I send Dawson, our maid, to you presently to help you to put on one of your pretty dresses?”

“No, thank you,” I replied. “I always prefer to dress myself.”

With some difficulty I saw Tottie out of the room. Then I locked the door, and with a violent effort kept my hands from tearing those pretty and dainty robes. My heart was full of the most ungovernable anger. I felt that kind-hearted Mr Gray had offered me an insult. I must be sacrificed, and Mr Gray must deck me for the altar. No, no, not quite that; not this lowest depth of all. How thankful I was that I had my mother’s wedding-dress in my trunk.

I dressed myself slowly and with care. I was determined to look well. I was determined to show Mr Gray that Rosamund Lindley was not altogether dependent on him for her chance of looking nice – for looking what she was, on her mother’s side at least, a lady of old family and proud descent.

Remembering Hetty’s advice, I piled my dark hair high on my head; then I put on the dainty silk stockings and shoes with their funny pointed toes; the rich embroidered petticoat came next; over all, the dress. The skirt was very full, but the silk was so soft and rich that it fell gracefully. It showed a peep of my shoes, with their seed pearl ornaments, as I walked. Behind, it was cut away in a pointed train. My mother’s wedding-dress fitted me to perfection. The old ruffles of lovely lace lay softly against my young throat. More ruffles of lace half concealed half showed my arms. I did not need bracelets, and I clasped no ornament of any kind round my neck.

As I was completing my toilet the dinner gong sounded solemn and loud through the house. I had heard the hall-door bell ring two or three times. I knew that the guests had arrived. Still I lingered, putting final touches. At the last moment I pinned a bunch of the softest blush roses, which must have come straight from the Riviera, in the front of my dress. There was no need to add anything further. A glance in the mirror revealed to me that the roses which lay near my heart matched in hue those which tinted my cheeks. For the time being I was beautiful – I was a picture, a walking picture out of long ago. I was glad to be the last to enter the drawing-room. I wanted to startle Mr Gray; to show him that he had presumed. I had no thought to give to any one else at that moment.

Chapter Twenty

Like an Old Picture

Tottie was right when she said that several young men were coming to dinner. They were all more or less at home however; they were accustomed to the house and its ways. I saw when I entered the drawing-room that I was the greatest stranger present. Captain Valentine and his brother were both in the room, but Lady Ursula Redmayne was not one of Mr Gray’s guests. I had thought to startle Mr Gray by the magnificence and quaintness of my toilet; but I must own that I forgot all about him when I glanced up and encountered an earnest, puzzled, respectful look from the wide-open eyes of my cousin Tom. Like a flash my mind reverted to a memory which a moment ago I had forgotten. I was back again in my room reading Cousin Geoffrey’s will. I blushed all over as the hateful remembrance of the conditions of that will filled my brain.

“I cannot see this visit out,” I said, under my breath; “I cannot even spend a second night under this roof. I must go away, I must return home, for never, never can I fulfil the conditions of Cousin Geoffrey’s will.”

At this moment Captain Valentine came up and offered me his arm. I was relieved to find that my other cousin was not to take me in to dinner; but matters were scarcely improved for me when I discovered that he sat exactly at the opposite side of the table, and that I could scarcely raise my eyes without encountering his.

“We were greatly disappointed not to meet you in the Chamber of Myths,” said Captain Valentine. “I think Lady Ursula very nearly cried. The fact is, you have roused her profoundest interest, Miss Lindley.”

“I am very much obliged to Lady Ursula,” I answered.

“It was cruel to disappoint us all,” pursued Captain Valentine, “particularly when you gave no adequate reason.”

“That was just it,” I retorted. “Had I come I should not have been entertaining. I had no news to bring – I had nothing to say.”

“But you promised to tell us something of the contents of the letter.”

“I found I could not keep my promise. That letter, as far as we, any of us, are concerned, might as well never have been written.”

“Indeed!” Captain Valentine looked at me long and curiously. I kept my eyes fixed on my plate.

When he spoke next it was on matters of indifference.

Presently there fell a silence over most of the company. Captain Valentine bent towards me, and said in a low voice, almost a whisper:

“No one can tell a better story than my brother Tom; you must listen to him.”

After this whisper there was a kind of hush, and then the one voice, deep and musical, began to speak. It held every one under its spell. I forget the story now, but I shall always remember how the voice of the speaker affected me; how the turmoil and irritation in my breast first subsided, then vanished; how Cousin Geoffrey’s will sank out of sight; how his odious conditions ceased to be. By degrees the enthusiasm of the narrator communicated itself to at least one of his listeners. Tom Valentine was relating a personal experience, and step by step in that journey of peril which he so ably described I went with him. I shared his physical hunger and thirst; I surmounted his difficulties; I lived in the brave spirit which animated his breast. In the end his triumph was mine.

I suppose there was something in my face which showed a certain amount of the feeling within me, for by degrees Tom Valentine ceased to look at any one but me.

There was quite a little applause in the room when his story came to an end, but I think he sought and found his reward in the flashing and enthusiastic verdict which came from my eyes, although my lips said nothing.

After dinner, in the conservatory, my cousin came up and spoke to me.

“You liked my story?” he asked.

“I did not tell you so,” I answered.

“Not with your lips. Sit down here. I have another adventure to relate, and it is not often that a man’s vanity is soothed by such a listener as you are.”

He began to speak at once, and again I forgot Cousin Geoffrey under the spell of my cousin’s voice. He told me two or three more of his adventures that evening. I made very few comments, but the hours flew on wings as I listened. No one interrupted us as we sat together in the conservatory; but although I remembered this fact with burning cheeks, later on, it passed unnoticed by me at the time. Suddenly my cousin stopped speaking.

“You have been a very kind listener,” he said. “I did not know a girl could care so much just for a man’s mere adventures. I’m going back to Africa next week. I shall think of you in my next moments of peril.”

Then I remembered Cousin Geoffrey’s will, and all that Tom Valentine’s going away meant to my family and me.

“Must you go in a week? must you really go in a week?” I said excitedly.

“I have made my arrangements to go in about a week,” he replied, starting back a little and looking at me in astonishment. I knew why he looked like that. The regret in my tone had been unmistakable.

Before I could reply Tottie rushed in.

“You two,” she exclaimed; “you really must come to make up the number we want in our round game.”

Laughter filled her eyes and bubbled round her lips.

“Come, come,” she said; “we can’t do without you, or rather the game can’t.”

Chapter Twenty One

She was Everything

Notwithstanding the ardent vow which I had made before dinner, I did spend that night under the Grays’ roof. I not only spent it there, but I slept profoundly in the luxurious bed in my large and luxurious chamber. In my sleep I dreamt of Tom Valentine. I was with him in Africa; I was going through adventures by his side. After the extraordinary fashion of dreams, there seemed nothing at all remarkable to me in the fact that Tom and I were going through peril together. It seemed to me, in my dream, that we were following a somewhat forlorn hope, and that the same spirit animated us both. I dreamt nothing at all about Cousin Geoffrey’s will.

When the morning broke I thought over the visions of the night and determined to banish them. Tom Valentine was going to Africa in a week. I should probably never see him more. Well, never mind, he was a brave and interesting man. I was glad to think he liked to talk to me; that he, the hero of many an adventure, thought me a good listener – thought it worth his while to thrill my ears and heart with stories both of peril and of sadness. I was glad to know that in a very distant degree I could claim cousinship with Tom Valentine. I determined not to associate him with Cousin Geoffrey’s odious will. This will degraded my cousin. I would think of him apart from it in future. I believed myself quite strong enough to carry out the resolve.

Soon after breakfast that day a pretty little victoria, drawn by a pair of ponies, stopped at the Grays’ house. I was in my room at the moment and had a good view of the carriage sweep. I bent from my window to see who had arrived. Lady Ursula Redmayne sat in the victoria.

A moment or two later I was summoned to see this capricious young woman. I felt certain that she was devoured with curiosity, but I was determined to parry all her questions.

Lady Ursula was alone in the drawing-room when I entered.

“How do you do, Rosamund?” she said. “You did not expect me to find you out here: but of course Rupert and Tom told me all about you. Sit down there, where I can take a good look at you. Rosamund, what a remarkably wicked young woman you are.”

“I don’t understand you, Lady Ursula.”

“Please call me Ursula. We shall be cousins when I am Rupert Valentine’s wife. Do you know, Rosamund, that I have taken an immense fancy to you!”