*
3
Julia spent the morning dreaming the wildest dreams about the mysterious letter. It seemed a very long morning, but at last it was one o’clock, the establishment was closed for an hour, and she was free. She hurried round to the little restaurant as usual.
Jacques was busy to-day, there was no time for him to linger and chat with his favourite customer, so she made her way to the table which was always reserved for her and, because by this time she was exceedingly hungry, she ordered beef-steak-pie and vegetables.
There was now time to read the letter, so Julia took it out of her bag. For some reason or other she was reluctant to open it . . . perhaps because the opening of it had been so long delayed and she had entertained so many absurd and extravagant ideas about it. She held it in her hand, looking at it and wondering. May had said the writing was ‘spidery,’ but to Julia it looked shaky and uncertain. Perhaps the person who had written it was ill.
I’m just being silly! thought Julia, and with that she seized a teaspoon, inserted the handle in the flap of the envelope and opened the letter.
The Square House,
Leddiesford,
Scotland
My dear Julia,
Perhaps you will wonder who is writing to you. I am your father’s elder brother. You may not have heard about me before because I had a serious quarrel with your parents. We were young and hot-blooded in those days. Now that I am old and ill I regret my part in the quarrel deeply and sincerely. It distresses me to feel that I am at loggerheads with anybody—especially with my nearest relations—so I should like to put an end to the stupid feud. I have written to your father several times but I have had no reply so now I am writing to ask you if you will be kind enough to come and see me. I was obliged to sell Harburn House which belonged to our family for generations so I am living in a small house in the town with a housekeeper to look after me.
I hope you will come—even if it were only for a short visit. I would like to see your mother’s daughter before I die.
Yours sincerely,
Randal Harburn
Julia had thought of half a dozen different explanations but never of anything like this. She had never heard of her father’s brother—never knew that he existed.
Randal, thought Julia. Somehow the name seemed familiar; she began to have a feeling that she had heard it before; she began to have a vague recollection of hearing her parents mention the name, but it was so long ago that she could not remember what they had said. The impression left on her mind was somehow rather unpleasant.
Yes, definitely unpleasant, but that was natural if there had been a ‘serious quarrel.’
Julia had nothing to do with the quarrel, had never heard of it, did not know what it was about . . . and most certainly she did not want to go to this unknown place and stay with this unknown uncle.
I can’t go, of course, thought Julia with a sigh of relief. It’s quite impossible. I shall have to write and explain that I’ve got a job and I can’t get away.
Then she read the letter again and thought, but I must go!
Yes, she would have to go . . . there was no getting out of it. When a man is old and ill and writes to say he wants to see you before he dies you have no choice in the matter. If Julia refused to go and the man died she would have it on her conscience for the rest of her life!
Julia sat and stared at the letter in dismay.
It was not until the waiter brought her bill that she suddenly came to her senses and realised it was nearly two o’clock.
*
4
What an awful day! thought Julia, as she hastened back to Madame Claire’s. Late all the time, rushing hither and thither and never catching up with the clock!
Madame was in her establishment when Julia arrived hot and breathless.
‘I’m sorry,’ began Julia. ‘I’m terribly sorry. Everything seems to have gone wrong to-day!’
‘Some days are like that,’ said Madame quite kindly. ‘To-day is not a good day for me either. I was a little cross this morning because you were late, but you must not be upset about it. Some of my shares have gone down a little; that was the reason.’
‘Madame!’ exclaimed Julia. ‘I’ve had a letter. I’m terribly worried about it.’
‘It is bad news?’
‘No—at least I mean yes,’ said Julia breathlessly. ‘It’s from my uncle who lives in Scotland. He’s very ill. He says he wants to see me before he dies.’
‘Mais ce sont de mauvaises nouvelles!’ exclaimed Madame in dismay. ‘My poor Julie, no wonder you are distressed!’
‘I don’t know what to do. I’m afraid I shall have to go and see him.’
‘Cela va sans dire! Naturellement vous devez aller le voir . . . it would be very wrong to refuse such a request.’
‘That’s what I thought. I don’t want to go, but——’
‘But you must, my child. You must certainly go, but I hope you will return to me when he is better.’
‘Yes, of course,’ agreed Julia with a sigh of relief.
‘That is settled, then.’
‘Oh, Madame, comme vous êtes bonne!’
‘It is good to be kind to those who are in trouble. Naturally it will be very inconvenient for me to do without you, I shall miss you greatly, but I hope it need not be for long.’
‘Not more than a week,’ declared Julia. ‘It’s just to see him, that’s all.’
‘Pauvre vieillard,’ said Madame sadly. ‘Has he no family? Has he no wife, no children?’
‘No, he lives alone with a housekeeper to look after him.’
Madame shook her head. ‘How lonely he must be! How natural that he should want to see his little niece! Yes, Julie, you must go and comfort him; it would be very wicked of me to prevent you from doing your duty. When will you go, my child?’
Julia thought for a moment. To-day was Thursday, Morland was coming home on Sunday, and she must see Morland before she went. ‘Perhaps I had better go on Tuesday,’ said Julia reluctantly. ‘He’s ill, you see.’
‘Yes, let it be Tuesday,’ Madame agreed. ‘You will come here to-morrow and on Saturday morning. On Monday you can pack and make all your arrangements.’
‘Oh, how kind you are!’ repeated Julia. ‘It is such a relief to my mind. I was afraid you would say . . .’
‘You were afraid I would say you must not go?’ asked Madame, smiling. ‘Am I such a gorgon?’
Julia was still thanking Madame and assuring her that never for a moment had she thought her a gorgon, when the entry of a client cut short the conversation.
As usual, May was awaiting Julia’s return. She was waiting more eagerly than usual because she wanted to hear about the mysterious letter; it had intrigued her so much that she had been thinking about it all day . . . and, as Julia was feeling remorseful over her bad temper, she produced the letter and gave it to May to read.
‘Poor old man!’ exclaimed May. ‘You’ll have to go, won’t you, dulling?’
‘Yes, I’ll have to go, but I needn’t stay long, of course.’
‘A feud,’ said May, reading the letter again more carefully. ‘It’s very romantic, isn’t it? I once read a book about Scotland; there was a lot in it about feuds . . . Scotch clans having feuds with each other and shooting each other and burning down each other’s houses.’
Julia smiled. ‘I don’t think it’s that kind of feud.’
‘Well, I hope not,’ declared May looking somewhat apprehensive. ‘You don’t want to get mixed up in that kind of thing, do you? What about your young man, dulling? He won’t like you going off to Scotland, will he?’
‘Morland will understand. I’m glad he’s coming on Sunday because he’ll be able to find out about trains and make the arrangements for me. He’s very good at all that sort of thing.’
‘Good,’ nodded May. ‘I like a man to be efficient and practical. Norman was like that, very good at arranging things.’
Julia nodded.
‘Oh, May, how kind of you!’
‘It’s nothing—I’d like to do it,’ declared May. ‘I like doing things for people.’
It was true that May liked doing things for people—Julia knew it. She said very seriously, ‘You’ve done a lot for me. I don’t mean just washing nylons, I mean you’ve helped me to see life in a different way. You’ve given me confidence in myself.’
‘I believe you are different,’ said May looking at her in surprise. ‘But it isn’t me—not really. It’s being on your own. There’s nothing like being on your own and earning money, for giving a girl confidence in herself.’
‘It’s you,’ declared Julia, giving May a hug and laughing. ‘It’s because I can say anything I like to you without thinking. That’s the reason I’m different.’
Chapter Eighteen
Morland had written to say that they were returning home on Sunday and he would call and see Julia on Sunday evening; he was longing to tell her all his news. On hearing this, May said they must sit in the parlour; she would light the fire so that they would be nice and cosy, and perhaps Mr. Beverley would like a glass of beer.
Julia accepted the offer of the parlour gratefully but refused the other amenities; Morland did not like beer, and objected to fires during the summer. At the Beverleys’ flat, fires were never to be seen from May until September. The flat was centrally-heated, of course.
‘Well, just as you like, dulling,’ said May in doubtful tones. ‘I always say there’s nothing so nice as a fire in the evening if you want to have a cosy chat.’
Julia was inclined to agree—like May she was a fire-worshipper—but she knew that Morland did not share this weakness.
From eight o’clock onwards Julia sat in the dining-room with her eyes glued to the window, but it was nearly nine when Morland’s car drew up at the door. She rushed out and met him on the steps.
‘Oh, Morland, how lovely!’ she cried.
‘Julia, darling!’ exclaimed Morland. ‘It seems ages since I saw you!’
‘Yes, ages! How well you look! You’re frightfully brown!’
‘Of course I’m brown; I’ve been out all day and every day. It has been a splendid holiday. I wish you could have been with us. I’m afraid you must have felt very lonely and dull.’
‘Not really,’ replied Julia. ‘I’ve had a lot to do. For one thing I’ve been very busy learning my new job. I’ve made a lot of money—I must tell you about that—but first of all I want to tell you about a letter I got on Thursday; it has been worrying me a lot.’
By this time they had climbed the stairs and Julia opened the door of the parlour.
‘What an extraordinary room!’ Morland exclaimed. ‘I never saw anything like it in all my life!’
Julia giggled. ‘That’s because you weren’t alive in eighteen-sixty—or thereabouts,’ she told him. ‘If you had been alive in those days you would have lived in a room exactly like this.’
‘I doubt it,’ said Morland, looking round disdainfully. ‘It’s too full of furniture . . . and what ugly furniture! So garish! No, I don’t like it at all.’
Julia could not really blame him for his first reaction to the Victorian parlour (hers had been much the same), so she just smiled and said, ‘It grows on you, Morland. There’s something rather comfortable and cosy about it.’
‘Well, never mind that,’ he replied. ‘Let’s sit down together on the sofa and talk. I’ve got such a lot to tell you.’
‘So have I!’ Julia exclaimed. ‘There are all sorts of things I couldn’t tell you in my letters. It’s so difficult to explain things properly in a letter. First of all I want to tell you——’
‘Yes, I know,’ he agreed. ‘I couldn’t possibly tell you all we did in my letters. I had a wonderful time. We had several wet days, but rain doesn’t matter if you’re really keen, so we played every single day. The Fosters were keen too—you remember I told you about them, Julia?’
‘Yes,’ said Julia.
‘Mona and I played in the mixed foursomes together; we were the runners-up. She drives a nice straight ball and her short game is simply marvellous. If we had had any luck at all we should have won quite easily.’
‘How nice!’ said Julia. ‘It must have been fun.’
‘Tremendous fun . . . and of course it was very good for my game, playing with the Fosters. Nothing improves one’s game so much as playing with people better than oneself. The Fosters said I only needed regular practice to be a really fine player.’
‘How nice!’ said Julia. ‘I’m so glad you enjoyed it.’
‘I must tell you about one game we had,’ continued Morland eagerly. ‘It was a four-ball match; I played with Bob Foster against Jack and Mona. For the first few holes Bob was completely off his game, which was most unusual. He sliced into a bunker at the third and he lost his ball at the fourth. Poor old Bob couldn’t do anything right! They were four up at the tenth, but after that his game improved and we stuck to it. . . .’
Unfortunately Julia was not a golfer, so she ceased to listen and never heard what happened. She was waiting for Morland to stop talking, so that she could tell him her news.
‘Well, it’s over,’ said Morland at last. ‘It was the best holiday I ever had, but all the same it’s delightful to come home. We must arrange to do some things together. You must take up golf, Julia; it would be nice if you could play with me occasionally. We must arrange for you to have lessons. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’
‘I don’t think I should be much good—’ began Julia doubtfully.
‘You would soon learn,’ Morland told her. ‘The Fosters have asked us to go to Sandwich next week-end. I told them about you and they’re very anxious to meet you. That will be fun, won’t it? Perhaps it would be a good plan for you to get a set of clubs and Mona could give you some lessons to start you off. Her style is perfect.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t go next week-end, Morland. You see——’
‘You can’t go!’ he exclaimed. ‘But I said we would go!’
‘I’m terribly sorry, but you see——’
‘Why can’t you go?’
‘Well, that’s what I wanted to tell you. I’m going to Scotland on Tuesday. I had a letter from——’
‘You’re what? You don’t mean to say you’re going away for a holiday the moment I’ve come home?’
‘Not a holiday—I don’t want to go—but I’m afraid I must—only for a week, of course,’ said Julia incoherently.
Morland’s arm had been round her shoulders but now he removed it. ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ he said. ‘I’ve been looking forward to seeing you. I thought you were looking forward to seeing me.’
‘Yes, of course I was!’ she cried. ‘I’ve told you I don’t want to go to Scotland, I’d much rather not, but——’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘It’s this letter,’ she told him, trying to speak calmly. ‘I just got it on Thursday so I couldn’t tell you about it before. You’ll see why I’ve got to go if you read it. The letter explains everything. Read it, Morland.’
He took the letter and read it carefully; then he looked up and frowned. ‘Who is this man? I never heard of him before.’
‘Neither had I. At least I just have a vague recollection of hearing Mother and Father mention his name . . . but the letter explains that, doesn’t it? He says they had a serious quarrel.’
‘What did they quarrel about? It must have been something pretty bad; your father didn’t answer his letters.’
‘I know,’ agreed Julia. ‘But he’s sorry. He says he regrets it deeply. He can’t say more than that. If people are sorry you have to forgive them no matter what they’ve done.’
‘Your father hasn’t forgiven him.’
‘I’m afraid it looks like that.’
‘Of course it looks like
that,’ said Morland impatiently. ‘Your father will be very angry if you go to Scotland and stay with the man.’
Julia was silent. She had thought of this herself (her father’s reaction was one of the first things she had thought of), but she had decided that this was her own affair and she must do what she believed to be right.
‘Never mind,’ said Morland, patting her hand comfortingly. ‘You hadn’t considered the matter carefully; so like a woman to rush into things without careful consideration! This man sits down and writes you a pathetic letter and you decide you must dash off and see him at once. You’re just being sentimental, that’s all.’
‘No, Morland—honestly! I’ve thought about it a lot. I don’t want to go but I feel I ought to.’
‘You don’t want to go and there is no reason for you to go. In fact there is every reason why you should not. You can put it out of your head and think no more about it.’
‘I can’t do that.’
‘Well, write to him, then. You can write and say you’re very sorry to hear he is ill but you can’t get away at present. That’s perfectly true, isn’t it? You can hardly ask for a holiday when you’ve only just started work. It wouldn’t be the right thing. I wasn’t in favour of your taking a job—you know that, Julia—but if you take a job you ought to stick into it and do it properly.’
‘Oh, I know,’ agreed Julia. ‘Of course I wouldn’t ask for a holiday in ordinary circumstances. It’s because he’s ill. Madame was very kind when I told her about it; she’s quite willing to give me a week’s holiday.’
‘But I am not willing to give you a week’s holiday,’ said Morland, smiling at her. ‘I want you to come to the Fosters’ with me on Saturday.’
‘Morland, this is serious,’ declared Julia very seriously. She took up the letter and read aloud, ‘“I would like to see your mother’s daughter before I die.” I can’t refuse, can I?’
‘Sentimental nonsense! And why does he say “your mother’s daughter”? He’s your father’s brother isn’t he?’
‘I don’t know why he says that,’ admitted Julia. ‘All I know is that I can’t possibly refuse to go and see him.’
The Blue Sapphire Page 13
