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.