# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 3/Wanted—a diamond ring!

WANTED—A DIAMOND RING!
I saw it kicked by the careless Balmorals of a jaunty nurse; I saw a fat morsel of humanity make for it with a hey!—broken into divers hey-ey-eys by pudgy trotting—and I stooped and secured it, thereby causing the fat one to pull up short, stare at me with two black currants stuck in a dreary expanse of dough, insert a dumpy thumb in an orifice of the same expanse, and trot back again with that stolid resignation under disappointment which is the peculiar attribute of the London infant population.
Having ascertained the nature of my prize, I proceeded to meditate on the proper course to be taken, which meditation resulted in the following advertisement:
FOUND this evening, Wednesday, in the Regent’s Park, nearly opposite the New College, a valuable diamond ring. The owner may recover it by calling at No. 19, Wilton Place, &c.
Before noon on the following day I was making my most courteous bow to a venerable-looking old gentleman whose white hairs and benevolent smile added a double charm to the grace with which he stepped forward, and, waving ceremony, extended his hand, saying:
“You have taken a weight from my mind, my young friend, and must allow me to thank you.”
The insinuating delicacy of the adjective (I am not more than forty-five) was, perhaps, not ​without its effect. I accepted the offered pledge of amity in respectful silence.
“A young man,” continued the patriarch, “may possibly find it difficult to understand how the loss of a trinket can be a source of positive suffering to an old one, but—I am alluding to my lost ring—there are associations connected with it which—ahem! This is childish, you will excuse my emotion.”
I bowed profoundly in the presence of this natural agitation.
“I have passed some hours of sleeplessness and distress, from which you have been the means of relieving me—I feel deeply indebted to you. There remains nothing now but to reimburse you for—a—”
Here the old gentleman drew forth his purse, and proceeded to unclasp it.
“Excuse me, sir,” I stammered rather hurriedly, “but if the ring is yours, you can doubtless, describe the armorial bearings?”
“Armorial bearings, sir! It was a diamond ring.”
“Certainly.”
“A plain diamond ring!” repeated the old gentleman, sternly. “Do not attempt to play tricks with me, young man. I will point out to you directly—”
“I beg your pardon,” said I, drawing back from the outstretched hand, “but, as the ring in my possession is assuredly engraved with a crest and motto, I conclude it cannot be the one you are in search of.”
The old gentleman eyed me for a moment keenly.
“I am afraid you are right,” he sighed, in a tone of deep dejection; “I must seek farther. Alas! what a melancholy termination to my hopeful journey.”
“Speed the parting, welcome the coming guest,” is a very good motto. I made no attempt to detain my venerable friend; but, as he turned towards the door, I am certain I saw beneath the silver hairs a lock of dark and shining brown.
My next visitor was a lady extensively got up, of imposing height and carriage, rouged, scented, spectacled.
“We meet under singular circumstances,” began this lady, with condescending haughtiness. “I am the principal of a college for young ladies—”
With a deferential acknowledgment of the honour done me, I begged to know what had procured it.
“In the hours of recreation we are accustomed to promenade in the Park—a delightful spot, so suggestive of the blushing country!—during our ramble of yesterday, a young lady under my charge was unfortunate enough to lose her ring. You, sir, are the fortunate finder.”
“I certainly did, madam, pick up a ring; but—”
“Ah! how grateful my dear pupil will be at beholding it again!” exclaimed the teacher of youth, clasping her hands, ecstatically.
“May I trouble you to describe the ring?”
“Describe it! A diamond ring, sir—handsome and massive, but plain.”
“And the crest?”
“The crest! Ah! that my young charge were with me. Stupid! to have forgotten. The crest of the Deloraines. Is it a lion passant or? No; I am wrong. Unfortunate, that she should be too unwell to accompany me! But it is immaterial; I will take it for her inspection—she will be able to recognise it at once.”
“I fear, madam, that I should scarcely be justified—”
“Sir!!!”
“I feel it my duty,” I said, firmly, “under the circumstances, to take every precaution against mistakes. I trust the young lady is not too seriously indisposed to give you the necessary description.”
“Very well, sir! Exceedingly well! It is I who have been mistaken. I fancied—yes; actually fancied—that I was speaking to a gentleman! You will find, sir, to your cost, that the lady principal of a college is not to be insulted with impunity! I wish you a good morning.”
Very harrowing this. I am scarcely recovered from the lady principal when there is a dash of wheels to the door, and a young fellow, flinging the reins to a groom in livery, springs up the steps to the door-bell.
“Oh, dash it!” he begins, breathing out a volume of stale tobacco; “I beg your pardon, and that, but the old woman—dash it! I mean my mother—told me I should find my ring here, so I ordered out the vessel and the cats, and spun along like ninepence for it!”
“I shall be very glad to restore the ring I was unfortunate enough to find when I can discover its owner.”
“Discover! dash it! Didn’t I tell you it’s mine? I say, I wish you wouldn’t be so precious slow—I don’t want the cats to catch cold, I’ve just had ’em shampooed, you know, naphthaed and that.”
“What sort of ring was yours?”
“What sort! Oh, come, as if you didn’t know—that’s good.”
I intimated that I should be glad to find out if he knew.
“Not know my own ring, eh! I know it’s worth a couple o’ ponies. Come, let’s hear the damages, and I’ll stump up,”
“You can describe the device?”
“Device, eh? What, the governor’s? Bless you, he has a device for every hour in the day, to do me out of my rightful allowance. Device! Oh, come, you don’t expect me to do the heraldic dodge, dash it!”
“I cannot give up the ring unless you describe it.”
“Oh, dash it, don’t chaff a fellow, now. I shouldn’t care a rap about the thing, only it belonged to some defunct party, and the governor ’d cut up so deuced rough. I’ve got heaps of ’em. Come, I’ll swop you any one of these for it, because of the governor.”
I respectfully declined the proposal.
“Well, dash it,” exclaimed the young fellow, as though struck with a sudden idea, “what a couple of muffs we are! Why don’t you turf the thing? I could tell in a minute if it’s mine, dash it!”
​I replied that I was sorry I could not oblige him, and adding that he had better obtain an exact description of the “thing” from his governor, I recommended him not to keep the cats any longer in the cold.
Mem. I am getting exceedingly tired of my treasure trove. I retire to my room with a view of dressing to go out. I am informed that a lady wishes to see me, and I am afraid my mental ejaculation was not complimentary to the lady in question.
A tall, graceful figure, draped in heavy mourning, rises at my entrance. She opens the negotiation in some confusion, turning away her face. She has come to me in the hope of regaining a ring, carelessly lost, the parting gift of a fond father to her brother and herself.
My eye rests on the crape about her dress, on her pale beautiful face, from which the blush of confusion and timidity has faded. Deferentially I request her to describe it.
“A large diamond, handsome,” she believed, “but valuable to her for far other reasons.”
“But,” I said, gently, “chased on the gold inside the ring there is—”
“A crest, I am aware of it,” she answered, sadly, “but I know nothing of heraldry, and have never given it more than a casual glance. My brother is dying, sir,” she said, lifting up her pale face to mine. “Only this morning he missed the ring from my finger uneasily; we are alone in the world: it is the only relic left of one so lately taken from us, how can I tell him it is lost?”
“I am sorry to pain you,” I said, striving to be firm; “but it would be more satisfactory for all parties, and cause but little delay if you could obtain the description from your brother.”
Without a word she turned away; the mournful resignation of her air and attitude touched me, and, as she turned, I saw a tear roll silently down and fall upon the hand stretched out to the door-handle. I couldn’t stand that.
“Stop!” I exclaimed, “one moment. I am sure—I feel certain—I may trust you. You will tell me—”
I take the ring from its security, I hold it out timidly for the blue eyes to examine.
I see yet the look of delight overspread her fine features—I see the expression of almost childish pleasure in her eyes as she looked up at me, as she clasped her hands, and cried out, “The ring, the ring! Oh, Alfred, my dear brother!”
Her hand was upon it; such a tremulous happy eagerness in her glance; such a caressing fondness in her way of fingering it. How pretty she was.
“My dear child” (I am forty-five) “it gives me sincere pleasure—” Then I stammer, then I spring after her. “At least, you will leave your address with me.”
What a look shades her face now! Wounded integrity mingled with pity for me.
“Ah, sir,” she says, sadly, handing me the card on which she has been pencilling, “some day you will be sorry for this. You do not trust me.”
Certainly, I am a brute. The accent of reproach in her voice haunts me; the sorrowful glance of her eye—how pretty she is! I sit down to my breakfast in the morning, half inclined to call at the address given, and apologise for my heathenish distrust. How delightful to see her in her own peculiar atmosphere, ministering to the sick brother who is all she has in the world, to look upon if one cannot enjoy the beautiful tenderness of a gentle sister to an afflicted brother. But my letters wait, and I toy with them. This is a hand I know. What does Fred want, I wonder? I tear it open: I read:
Dear Jack,—What a queer chance if you have stumbled upon my ring. I was obliged to run down to Romford late last evening, and never missed it till we slackened at Ilford. A pretty taking I’ve been in. If its mine, the crest is inside: you know it,—a mailed hand holding a lance, and the motto “Armed at all points.” Verily, truth is stranger than fiction. Keep it for me. Thine, Fred Vyning.
Idiot! Gull! It is quite useless to call myself names. It is almost superfluous to add, that when I called at a certain address in Eaton Square to inquire for Miss Lucy Hamilton, the lady was not found. Probably, the “dear Alfred” had required speedy change of air; probably, brother and sister were even now embracing in rapturous gratitude over the precious relic of that one lost to them so lately. Was that dear one not lost, but transformed? Had the silver-haired patriarch of the first visit changed to the dashing buck of the third? And was the virtuous teacher of youth only the tender sister in masquerade? On my word, I believe so. I dare say they are enjoying the joke. Possibly it is a dodge often repeated. But what am I to say to Fred?
Louis Sand.