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."
I took the ring home in my pocket. This was a dangerous thing to do,
and Mr Gray looked somewhat grave as he saw me slip such a precious
relic into so insecure a hiding-place.
"_Do_ keep out of crowds," he said. "Beware of pickpockets when you get
to Paddington, and, above all, keep your pocket side next your mother
when you get into the train."
I don't think I attended to any of these directions, but the little old
brown morocco case containing Cousin Geoffrey's legacy arrived safely at
Ivy Lodge, the name of our humble abode.
My mother and I got back in time for supper. My father and the boys
arrived home as usual, and we sat down together to our supper.