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.