A Ring of Rubies

by L. T. Meade

“What a secret I could put in here!” I said to myself. “Some hairs from a beloved head might be buried here along with thousands of brilliant hopes. Love itself could lie hidden here to leap into life and fulness when the right moment came.” I wondered if love, with his thousand hopes and fears, could ever in such a sense come to me. Scarcely likely. I was one of the women who, in all probability, would never marry. I should have a strong life and plenty to do. I should have a courageous life and many battles to fight; but it was scarcely likely that my portion in the book of fate could also include the passionate lover, the tender and devoted husband, and the clinging, soft love which would come from baby lips, and enter into my heart through sweet child voices.

I expected none of these things, and yet the trembling desire to grasp them all, to claim them all, to cry to fortune, “Give, give, give fully, give abundantly; don’t starve me, but feed me until my whole nature is satisfied,” swept over me as I looked into the heart of the ruby ring.

As I did so I noticed for the first time that the little recess, which appeared at the first glance to be quite empty, contained a tiny piece of paper, which might have been placed there as a bed on which to lay a treasure. The paper was white, of the finest texture, exquisitely cut to fit the exact shape of the chamber. There was nothing whatever written on the paper. I touched it with the point of my small finger, it did not move; I pressed it, it did not stir.

I was about to close the ring, but something induced me to look again more narrowly at the paper. Why was it put there? Why did it take up space so minute, so valuable?

I put my hand into my pocket, and taking out a penknife, opened the smallest blade and inserted the point delicately under the paper. After a very slight resistance, I detached it from the base of the little secret chamber. I took it out of the ring, and laid it on the palm of my hand. There was no writing on the upper surface of the paper. I looked underneath and saw, to my amazement, that something was faintly ciphered there. The writing was perfect, but so minute that I could not possibly read it with my naked eye. My mother possessed amongst her treasures an old microscope.

I guessed shrewdly, although she never told me so, that this microscope had been given to her by Cousin Geoffrey. My mother kept her microscope on her own little work-table in the drawing-room.

The house was quiet now; all its inhabitants, with the exception of myself, asleep and in bed. I knew there was little chance of sleep for me that night.

Placing the treasured morsel of paper under a glass on my dressing-table, I slipped off my shoes, softly unlocked my door, and ran down-stairs. I felt provoked with the small and poor cottage stairs for creaking so desperately. I reached the drawing-room, however, without disturbing any one, found the microscope, and brought it back in triumph to my room.

Again I locked my door, and opening the microscope, took out the strongest lens it possessed. I arranged the lens as I had seen my mother do; steadied the candles until I managed to secure a powerful ray of direct light; placed the morsel of paper under the magnifier, and applied my eye to the glass.

The minute writing was now magnified some hundreds of times. So largely was it increased that I could not see the whole of the writing at once. In large type I read, however, the following words: