The Blue Sapphire

by D. E. Stevenson

  ‘Julia, I don’t want you to go.’

  ‘But it’s settled. I’ve written and told him——’

  ‘You must send a wire and say you can’t.’

  ‘But, why? What’s the reason?’

  ‘Because I don’t want you to go. That’s enough reason, isn’t it?’

  She looked at him in despair. ‘Don’t you understand?’ she said pleadingly. ‘Oh, Morland, I was sure you would understand.’

  ‘It is you who doesn’t understand,’ declared Morland. ‘Listen to me, Julia. I don’t want you to go because I’ve just come home and I’ve been looking forward to seeing you and because I want to take you to Sandwich next week-end and introduce you to my friends, but chiefly because it would be the height of folly to offend your father. He might stop your allowance and where would you be then? You hadn’t thought of that, had you?’

  ‘Yes, I thought of that, but I could manage all right without it. I’m making enough money to live on.’

  ‘Julia, you must be mad! Think of the future.’

  ‘The future?’

  ‘Yes, you are your father’s only child, so it’s only reasonable to suppose that he has made suitable provision for your future. It would be madness to offend him.’

  ‘I don’t want to offend him, but I can’t refuse to go.’

  ‘Not even if I ask you?’

  ‘Morland!’ she cried. ‘I’m sorry—frightfully sorry—but I must go and see him. I must, really.’

  ‘Why?’ demanded Morland. ‘Why must you go?’

  ‘I’ve told you! He’s ill——’

  ‘Why must you go?’ repeated Morland.

  ‘Because—because I’m a Christian!’ exclaimed Julia in desperation.

  ‘Do you mean that I’m not a Christian?’

  ‘No, of course I didn’t mean that! I only meant . . .’ But what had she meant?

  ‘I should be interested to know that you meant,’ said Morland coldly.

  ‘I can’t—explain,’ declared Julia breathlessly. ‘It’s because he’s ill. He might die. If I didn’t go—and he died—I should never be happy again.’

  ‘What an absurd thing to say! You would forget all about him in a month.’

  ‘I should never, never forget him! Oh, Morland, don’t you understand?’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ replied Morland angrily. ‘I can’t see any sense in quarrelling with your father for the sake of an old man you’ve never even heard of.’

  ‘I don’t want to quarrel with Father, but—but——’

  ‘And what about me? Do you want to quarrel with me?’

  She looked at him in dismay. ‘Morland!’

  ‘That’s what you’re doing, isn’t it? You’re quarrelling with me.’

  ‘Oh, no!’ she cried.

  ‘Yes, you are. You won’t take my advice; you say I’m not a Christian; that’s quarrelling, isn’t it?’

  ‘I didn’t mean——’

  ‘And all because of this mad idea that you’ve got into your head. It’s a mad idea,’ he repeated furiously. ‘You must give it up and be sensible. I don’t want to hear any more about it.’

  ‘It isn’t mad,’ she said in a low voice. ‘It’s a feeling; deep down inside me. I can’t give way to you in this.’

  ‘You mean you won’t,’ said Morland, rising from the sofa. ‘You won’t take my advice. Well, Julia, all I can say is, if you won’t take my advice in a small matter like this I don’t see much prospect of our happiness in the future.’

  It was not a small matter to Julia. It was a deep-down feeling—a matter of principle—but she had explained this already. She, too, rose from the sofa, so that they stood face to face. She took off the ring and held it out to him in the palm of her hand.

  ‘Do you mean this?’ he asked incredulously.

  ‘I thought that was what you meant.’

  ‘I just meant——’

  Julia was angry now. She interrupted him. ‘You just meant that I must do exactly what you say whether I think it right or not. You’re right, Morland. There isn’t any prospect of our happiness in the future. Take it, please.’

  He took it. There was nothing else for him to do . . . except climb down and grovel. He certainly did not intend to do that! Besides, she was so stubborn. He had never before found her stubborn. What would she be like when they were married? In his own home his father was the arbiter; his father said what was to be done and it was done as a matter of course. His mother would no more have thought of voicing her own ideas than of flying to the moon. That was the right thing, thought Morland. It was in the Bible: ‘Wives submit yourselves unto your husbands.’ He might not be a Christian, thought Morland bitterly, but he knew that much. It was a pity Julia did not read her Bible more carefully.

  ‘I think you had better go now,’ said Julia.

  He turned and went to the door—and paused—and looked back. She was still standing there, gazing down at the carpet. There was something pathetic in her attitude; she was like a drooping flower. He very nearly ran back and took her in his arms . . . but it was no good giving in like that. If he gave in now he would always have to give in.

  ‘Julia,’ he began. ‘If you change your mind——’

  ‘I can’t,’ she said in a low voice. ‘I’ve told you. I can’t do something I know to be wrong, not even to please you.’

  ‘Julia, listen——’

  ‘Good-bye, Morland.’

  He went out and shut the door.

  Chapter Nineteen

  When Morland had gone Julia remained standing quite still in the middle of the room. She stood there until she heard his car drive away and then sat down and hid her face in her hands; she was not crying, she just felt dazed. Presently she heard the door open and looked up quickly . . . perhaps he had come back! But it was May, her round pink face wearing a look of consternation.

  ‘Julia, what happened?’ she exclaimed.

  Julia could not speak. She held out her left hand.

  ‘Yes, I saw,’ said May. (Of course she had seen. It was the first thing she had looked at when she came into the room and found ‘the poor dulling’ in a limp heap in the corner of the sofa.) ‘Yes, I saw,’ she babbled. ‘But it’s all right, dulling. There isn’t any need to take on about it. You mustn’t be upset. I always say there’s as good fish in the sea. . . . And anyhow you can have him back to-morrow if you hold up your little finger. He was as pale as death and he couldn’t find the keyhole of his car. People often have little tiffs and it all comes right in the end. Just lie down on the sofa for a minute and I’ll get something that’ll do you good.’

  May hastened away and presently returned with a large red-rubber hot-water bottle and a medicine glass full of white cloudy liquid.

  Julia drank the liquid, which was exceedingly nasty, and hugged the hot-water bottle.

  ‘There now,’ said May, sitting down beside her on a little stool and holding her hand. ‘You’ll feel better soon. There’s nothing like sal volatile to buck you up when you’re a bit upset; I always keep a bottle handy. Peta says it’s old-fashioned, but what does that matter? Why, only the other day there was a dog-fight just outside the dining-room window—it was Miss Winkler’s little terrier and another dog—and poor Miss Winkler was so upset I made her come into the dining-room and sit down. “Just you wait a minute, dear,” I said. “I’ll get you something that’ll do you good.” And it did,’ added May triumphantly. ‘She felt better in half no time.’

  Julia smiled a wan smile at the idea of her disagreement with Morland being compared with a dog-fight.

  ‘There, you’re better already!’ declared May. ‘Sal volatile is wonderful. If we just had a fire we’d be nice and cosy—but you wouldn’t let me, would you?’

  ‘You’re just as cosy as a fire.’

  ‘That’s nice, dulling,’ said May, smiling, and patting her hand. ‘I suppose he was cross when you said you were going to Scotland. I was afraid he might be a little cross.’

  �
�But I couldn’t put it off, could I? You can see from the letter that he’s very ill. . . . Supposing he died!’

  May nodded. ‘You’d never forgive yourself, would you?’

  ‘Never! But Morland didn’t understand. He didn’t even try to understand what I felt about it.’

  ‘Oh dear, what a pity! But men are like that—at least some men are—they only understand what they want to understand. That’s the trouble.’

  ‘I thought I could rely on Morland.’

  ‘Yes, I know you did,’ said May, soothingly. ‘Never mind, dulling. You can have him back whenever you like.’

  ‘But it wouldn’t be any good! He expected me to do exactly what he wanted whether I thought it right or not . . . and of course it would be worse if we were married because I should have to promise to obey him. . . . I couldn’t do it, May!’

  May nodded in a thoughtful manner.

  ‘I shall never marry anyone,’ declared Julia hysterically. ‘I shall never give up my freedom to do what I think right.’

  May did not know what to say to this declaration of independence, so very wisely she said nothing, but continued to pat Julia’s hand.

  *

  2

  In spite of May’s endeavours to console her, Julia went up to bed feeling tired and miserable. It was not so much the breaking off of her engagement that upset her, it was the discovery that Morland was quite different from what she had thought. She had known him for years, she had been engaged to him for months, but now she felt that she had never really known him at all. She had been so sure that he would understand; she had imagined him saying, ‘Oh poor darling, what a nuisance having to go! Never mind, it’s only for a week.’ But instead of being loving and sympathetic he had been selfish and dictatorial. He had said, ‘I don’t want you to go; that’s enough reason, isn’t it?’

  By this time Julia was in bed; she lay there feeling rather forlorn . . . and there was a queer kind of blankness in her heart when she thought of the future. For months and months her future had been full of Morland, so naturally the space he had occupied was empty. It was a dreary prospect to face the future alone but she must summon up her courage and face it. Morland had said that there was no prospect of happiness for them if they were married—or at least that was what he had meant—and Julia had seen at once that this was true.

  What Morland wanted was a wife exactly like his mother; a wife who would say ‘Yes, dear.’ Julia had often smiled to herself when she heard Mrs. Beverley say ‘Yes, dear’ and had despised her just a little for having no mind of her own . . . but perhaps poor Mrs. Beverley had become a ‘Yes, dear’ sort of wife because it was the only way to live comfortably with a ‘Do this’ sort of husband!

  I might have got like that! thought Julia.

  Yes, it was true, Julia might have got like that (in fact, now that she came to think of it she realised that she had been saying ‘Yes, dear’ to Morland for months), because Julia loved peace and would go to almost any lengths to preserve it—almost any lengths—but there came a time when it would be wrong to say, ‘Yes, dear’ . . . and that time had come.

  Julia tried to think why she had been so certain that she must not give way. She had said, when pressed for her reason, ‘Because I’m a Christian.’ She had been pushed beyond the limit of her endurance and the words had burst out without thinking . . . but of course it was true. That really was the answer; for if you were a Christian you had to forgive people who showed contrition, no matter what they had done. She had no idea what ‘Uncle Randal’ had done, but he was sorry and wanted to end the feud. If you did not forgive other people you could not expect forgiveness from God . . . awful thought! Awful in the real meaning of the word.

  Of course the feud had nothing to do with Julia; she was concerned merely with the fact that ‘Uncle Randal’ was ill and had asked her to go and see him. Could any woman calling herself a Christian refuse such a request?

  ‘I was sick and ye visited me’ . . . there you had a perfectly clear definition of Christian behaviour.

  Julia heaved a sigh of relief. Yes, she had been right not to give in to Morland; and, if her father were angry with her, she could not help that either. She had known she was right but there had been a nagging little doubt at the back of her mind. The doubt was banished now—quite gone—so she turned over in bed, snuggled down and went to sleep.

  On Monday Julia was busy all day, making her arrangements, packing and writing letters. She wrote to Stephen, telling him that she was going to Scotland to pay a short visit to her uncle, who was very ill and wanted to see her; she did not mention Morland. She wrote to Ellen; there was no time to go and see her. Finally she wrote to her father. He and Retta had left Rome and were now cruising in the Mediterranean; they were due at Athens in a few days. This letter was by far the most difficult to compose. Julia spent a long time wondering what she should say, but eventually she got down to it. She explained that she had received a letter from Uncle Randal; he was very ill and wanted to see her, so she felt it her duty to go. She did not expect to be away for more than a week. (Should she say more? But what more could she say? Better leave it at that, she thought.) There was still some space left upon the air-mail letter so she filled it by expressing her hopes that they were both enjoying the cruise.

  When Julia read the letter over she was dissatisfied with it, for she felt it to be insincere; but she did not see how insincerity could be avoided. Besides, she could not rewrite it, because she had not got another air-mail letter and it must be posted to-night. In fact it must be posted at once or it would not reach Athens in time. She ran out to the pillar-box and posted it.

  PART TWO

  Chapter Twenty

  The journey north seemed very long, especially the last part, when Julia was obliged to change from the comfortable express into a small old-fashioned train which dawdled along and stopped at every station. She might have enjoyed it and been interested in the unfamiliar aspect of the country if her heart had not been so heavy. The distant future still seemed bleak; the near future was alarming—and became more alarming every minute—for Julia had no idea what sort of place lay at the end of her journey, nor what ‘Uncle Randal’ would be like. Perhaps he would be a disagreeable old man! Perhaps he would be lying in bed, at his last gasp! Perhaps he would be queer and terrifying! . . . but no, that was silly, thought Julia, trying to summon up her courage.

  Julia found his letter in her bag and read it again for perhaps the twentieth time. She almost knew it by heart, but all the same she read it again carefully and it comforted her—for it was kind. In fact it was very kind indeed and, although written in a shaky hand, it was perfectly sensible.

  The journey had gone on for so long that Julia was surprised when the train stopped again at another little station and she heard a man shouting, ‘Leddiesford! Leddiesford!’ She had to collect her things and scrambled out in a hurry.

  The train trailed away and vanished. Julia stood on the platform feeling tired and dirty and very lonely and miserable. What next? she wondered . . . but the question had scarcely crossed her mind when her arm was seized in a firm grasp and a voice said, ‘You’ll be Miss Julia?’

  Julia turned and saw an elderly woman with pink cheeks and brown eyes and curly grey hair; she was dressed in a black cloth coat with a brown fur collar and a black straw hat (which would have given Madame Claire a migraine).

  ‘You’ll be tired to death!’ declared the woman compassionately. ‘Poor lassie, coming all that long way on your own. Oh, I’m that glad to see you! He’d have come to meet you himself but he’s not so well. He’ll have told you in his letter.’

  ‘Oh, I never expected him to meet me!’

  ‘He’d have come if he could. I’m Mrs. Walker that looks after him—or tries to—but when folks are ill they need their own flesh and blood. Never heed the luggage, Miss Julia. Andrew’ll bring it. I’ve got a taxi waiting in the yard.’

  ‘How is Uncle Randal?’ asked Julia when she
could get a word in.

  ‘Off and on,’ was the reply. ‘He had an awful bad turn last week—that was when he wrote you—but he’s keeping better the last few days. When he got your letter to say you were coming he was that excited you would scarcely believe it—neether to haud nor to bind!’ She laughed, ‘But you’ll not know what that means, Miss Julia. Och, and I’d made up my mind to speak proper English to you! I can do it fine when I remember.

  ‘Andra!’ she cried loudly. ‘Will ye tell me what ye’re daein’ wi’ yon luggage! We’re not wantin’ tae staun’ here waitin’ on ye the hale nicht!’ She turned back to Julia and added, ‘That’ll sort him. You get into the taxi, Miss Julia. It’s too cold standing about.’

  Julia felt quite dazed by the flow of talk, but she no longer felt like a very small mouse that had ventured too far from its hole and did not know how to get back.

  Meanwhile Andrew had appeared with the zip-bag and the suitcase, and having stowed them into the taxi appeared to be arguing with Mrs. Walker about the inadequacy of his tip; but as Julia could not understand a word they were saying she could not be certain of this.

  *

  2

  ‘Well, that’s that,’ declared Mrs. Walker as she climbed into the taxi. ‘Saxpence was quite enough for all he did, the idle loon! The train was a wee bit late but it’s not far. I’m just hoping he’ll not have climbed up the stair again while I was away. You could have knocked me down with a feather when I found him in your room this morning; he’s not been up the stair for months. “Maggie,” he says. “You’re to put two bottles in the bed and she’ll need another blanket. It’s colder here than London. You’ve put clean paper in the drawers, I hope.” Him, to say that!’ exclaimed Mrs. Walker with a fat chuckle. ‘Him that has taken no interest in anything except his books the whole live-long winter!’

  ‘How kind,’ murmured Julia. ‘But, oh dear, I hope it wasn’t too much for him!’

  ‘It did him good, Miss Julia, and that’s the truth; but when he rose from his chair after his dinner and said he was away to the garden to pick a few roses for a vase there was nothing for it but to put my foot down.’