‘Well, perhaps,’ said the honourable client doubtfully. ‘The line is quite good but it’s a little severe.’
‘An eye-veil?’ suggested Madame Claire.
‘No, no. They’re quite out.’
‘Just a wisp of veiling would soften the line,’ said Madame Claire. She seized another hat and pressed it into Julia’s hand. ‘You have your scissors?’ she asked.
Of course Julia had her scissors. She snipped the veil from the hat and smoothed it out. Madame took it and pinned it onto the little black straw, gathering it into a soft fold at the back.
‘Not bad,’ said the Honourable Mrs. de Courcy. She added, ‘I’ll try it on.’
It was Madame Claire’s habit to place her creations upon the heads of her clients with her own hands, but to-day she merely watched anxiously while the Honourable Mrs. de Courcy took the little black straw and put it on. Julia watched too, not anxiously but with eager interest.
The whole affair was interesting to Julia. Usually Madame talked incessantly to her clients, praising their style and taste (in fact she behaved more or less like the vendor of chapeaux in Miss Martineau’s sketch), but that sort of nonsense would not have gone down with the Honourable Mrs. de Courcy; it would have annoyed her and put her off completely, and Madame Claire knew this perfectly well. To-day Madame was serious and businesslike, she accepted this client as her equal and deferred to her judgment.
The little black straw suited the client admirably; it was most becoming . . . but Madame Claire remained silent.
The client turned this way and that. She adjusted the spray of gardenias and considered the matter.
‘Où est la glâce à main, Julie?’ whispered Madame Claire.
Julie had the mirror ready. As the lady took it from her, their eyes met for a moment and Julia was aware that she had been seen quite clearly and—if seen again—would be remembered.
‘The back is really quite good,’ said the Honourable Mrs. de Courcy.
‘It is not finished,’ said Madame Claire. ‘I intended a little twist of velvet——’
‘No, too heavy.’
‘Yes, perhaps. May I arrange the veil?’
‘Don’t spoil it. I like the informal effect.’
‘It is very good.’
‘I suppose you’re going to charge me the earth.’
‘No, no, not to you, Madame!’ exclaimed Madame Claire in horrified tones. ‘To you, ten guineas.’
‘You’re a robber,’ said the client casually. ‘You ought to let me have it for nothing.’
Madame Claire rolled her eyes heavenwards. ‘Oh, Madame! How delightful to make you a little present! But, alas, one must eat. There is the bread and butter. . . .’
‘And sometimes a little jam,’ suggested the Honourable Mrs. de Courcy, smiling wickedly. ‘Sometimes just a little, little smear of jam.’
Madame Claire dismissed ‘Julie’ from the conference with a sidelong glance and the tweak of an eyebrow, so Julia left them to it; but as she went into the cloakroom to brush and comb her hair (which was absolutely necessary after she had been used by Madame as a model) she overheard the following little exchange:
‘I haven’t seen her before. She’s French, I suppose.’
‘Julie is Parisienne, like me, Madame. She has been with me two short weeks; but already, as you see, she is worth her salt.’
Julia smiled to herself; so she was Parisienne, was she?—and worth her salt? In that case perhaps a little more salt might be extracted from Madame’s well-stocked cellar. She had discovered that the other girls were receiving a good deal more salt than herself.
The joke was that Jeanne Kessell was definitely not a Parisienne but hailed from the neighbourhood of Strasbourg. You could tell by her accent, or at least Julia could tell . . . not that she would have told, not even to May. If Jeanne Kessell liked to pretend she hailed from Paris she could go on pretending as long as she liked. Her guilty secret was perfectly safe with ‘Julie.’
*
2
Miss Martineau (or May, as Julia must remember) was in the dining-room as usual when Julia returned from work. There was a lot to tell her to-day: first about the Honourable Mrs. de Courcy; Julia remembered every word that had been said and gave a little sketch of the affair, playing the parts of Madame Claire and the Honourable Mrs. de Courcy in turn. May laughed till the tears streamed down her face making furrows in the powder.
‘Oh dear,’ she said as she repaired the damage. ‘You only want a little training and you could make a hit on the boards. . . . But better not,’ she added hastily. ‘It’s too chancy and there isn’t any future in it.’
After that, Julia told May about the remark she had overheard, and May agreed that something must be done about that. Perhaps it might be a good plan to pop along after supper and have a chat with Jeanne.
Lastly Julia disclosed to May the difficulties of her position. It was becoming more and more unpleasant; the jealousy of the two girls, caused by Madame’s favouritism, had been augmented by her derogatory remarks about their new frocks.
‘Jeanne is a fool,’ declared May. ‘I mean, of course I know she’s clever—much cleverer than I am—but she’s a fool all the same. I’m not a bit clever but I can see that much.’
‘You’re wise,’ said Julia. ‘That’s the difference.’
‘Wise? Well, nobody’s ever told me that before, dulling,’ said May in astonishment.
Chapter Twelve
The next few days were very exciting. Coribundas went up and then went down a little; then they went up again. Julia had a letter from Mr. Silver saying Coribundas were standing at five and sixpence so Miss Harburn had more than doubled her capital and it would be advisable to take her profit. Julia phoned to him at once from a call-box at the corner and said he was not to sell them.
‘Are you sure, Miss Harburn?’ he asked.
Miss Harburn was absolutely certain. ‘I’ll tell you when to sell them,’ she said firmly.
Mr. Silver had been on the point of instructing his brokers to sell his own holding, but now he hesitated. There was someone behind Miss Harburn, that was evident, and who could it be but her father? He decided to hang on a bit.
Madame Claire was interested too. She had been following the fluctuations of ‘Julie’s small investment’ and was generous enough to admit that Coribundas might not be such rubbish.
‘It is good that they go up,’ she said. ‘But sometimes it is what you call a ramp. Yes, a ramp. Then in a little while they go down with a bang and you are in the soup, so it is better to sell before that happens, Julie.’
‘What is a ramp, Madame?’ asked Julia doubtfully. She was beginning to suspect that Madame Claire did not know quite as much about business matters as she pretended.
‘If somebody says there are sapphires and it is not true, then it is a ramp.’
‘But they would know!’
‘Not always. There was one time when I invested some money in a diamond mine and it was a ramp. They had put salt in it.’
‘Salt?’
‘Yes, alas, I lost my money.’
‘But if there really are sapphires?’
‘It may be salt, Julie.’
Julia did not understand, but she knew quite definitely that there were sapphires at Coribunda—not salt. Had she not actually seen a most beautiful sapphire with her own eyes?
She held her peace.
*
2
Coribundas went back to four and ninepence and then soared to ten and a penny. Several times that day Mr. Silver put out his hand to the telephone which stood upon his desk . . . and drew it back. But when the shares reached twelve and sixpence he could delay no longer; the anxiety was getting him down and interfering with his sleep, so he sold his holding.
Mr. Silver had made a very good profit on his Coribunda shares and was pleased about it—very pleased indeed; he was not quite so pleased when Coribundas rocketed to eighteen and threepence.
Julia had
been following the reports with delight. Unlike Mr. Silver she had no qualms at all. She watched her horse galloping along, taking the hurdles in his stride; she dreamt about sapphires at night and thought about them frequently during the day. It was tremendous fun.
Julia was surprised and distressed when she received a telegram from Devonshire which bore one word and one word only. The word was sell.
Sell? thought Julia. Sell her beautiful sapphire horse which was galloping along so bravely! Why should she? It seemed silly. Coribunda was full of perfectly lovely sapphires, so surely it would be a good thing to have shares in it and keep them. She went to bed determined not to sell her sapphire horse, but when she got up in the morning she had changed her mind (I suppose I had better do what Stephen says, she thought). Very reluctantly she rang up Mr. Silver and gave the order to sell.
‘Sell them at once,’ said Julia. ‘Sell them this morning. It’s very important. I’ve just heard from—from the person who told me to buy them.’
‘Very well, Miss Harburn.’
What a fool I’ve been! thought Mr. Silver as he put down the receiver.
Coribundas had dropped back a little, so Julia’s shares in the Coribunda Sapphire Company were sold for seventeen and sixpence. She did not know how much she had made, but obviously it was a lot. That night when she was alone in her bedroom she took pencil and paper and tried to figure it out, but as she had never been good at arithmetic and had not done this sort of sum for years she found it difficult.
At first she could not believe the answer but when she had repeated her calculations several times she came to the conclusion that it must be right; the hundred pounds which she had invested had become seven hundred pounds.
It really was staggering. What an easy way to make money! And what fun it had been! But of course it was not every day that a thing like this happened . . . and of course someone must lose. For instance what about the people who sold their shares for half a crown? Worse still, what about the people who had bought shares at seventeen and sixpence? Julia wondered who they were, she felt extremely worried about the poor things. She hoped they were all very wealthy, in which case it would not matter so much.
Although Julia had sold her sapphire horse she still continued to take an interest in its fortunes and still continued to come down a few minutes early for breakfast in order to have a quick glance at May’s Daily Telegraph. The day after she had sold her shares Coribundas dropped to fifteen and tenpence; the next day, with a bump, to eight and five.
Julia’s horse seemed to have gone lame; she felt very sorry about it.
Chapter Thirteen
Contrary to her usual custom Madame Claire was not in her establishment when Julia went in. She came running down the stairs with the morning paper in her hand.
‘Julie!’ she cried. ‘What did I tell you! The Coribunda is rubbish! It was a ramp. Many people will have got their fingers pinched. You must sell your small investment at once——’
‘I sold my shares when they were seventeen and sixpence,’ said Julia smugly.
‘Vraiment?’
‘Oui, Madame, vraiment,’ replied Julia as she began to open the cupboards and take the hats from the shelves.
Madame was almost incredulous. ‘Ma foi!’ she exclaimed. ‘Vous êtes une bonne femme d’affaires, sans aucun doute!’
‘A friend told me to sell, so I sold. I don’t understand it in the very least,’ said Julia frankly.
‘What do you not understand, Julie?’
‘I don’t understand why the shares are going down.’
‘It was a ramp,’ declared Madame.
The conversation was cut short by the arrival of a client—not an important client, of course (important clients did not arrive at nine o’clock in the morning), but merely a young woman who wished to buy a hat. Naturally Madame did not concern herself with such small fry so it was left to Julia to deal with her.
Several times that day Julia thought of Stephen. She wondered if she should write and thank him . . . but perhaps she had better not. She was still debating the matter as she walked home and he was so much in her thoughts that she was not surprised when May rushed out and met her in the hall to tell her that he had called.
‘He’s here!’ cried May excitedly. ‘He’s taking you out to dinner. He’s all togged up like the Duke of Edinburgh with a flower in his button-hole. Oh dear, he does look beautiful! I put him in the parlour. You had better pop up, dulling. I’ll come and help you change; we don’t want to keep him waiting too long, do we?’
Julia popped up and there was Stephen! Her first thought was that May had not exaggerated in the slightest; her second was to hold out her hands and say thank you.
‘I’ve been longing to thank you,’ she declared. ‘I wanted to write, and then I thought perhaps I shouldn’t.’
‘Why not?’ asked Stephen, taking her hands and smiling down into her upturned face.
‘Because it’s such a dead secret, of course.’
‘It isn’t a secret any more.’
‘Oh, I see.’
‘You sold all right?’
‘Yes, I’ve got seven hundred pounds! Isn’t it marvellous? And it has been such fun—so exciting!’
‘Has it?’
‘Yes, watching them go up and down and then up and up and up.’
‘You’ve been following them, have you?’
‘Every day,’ nodded Julia. ‘I’ve learnt quite a lot. What an easy way of making money, isn’t it?’
‘But, look here! You mustn’t try speculating on your own. It’s frightfully risky. The thing to do is to put your pile into something safe.’
‘Oh, I know,’ she agreed. ‘I’ve learnt enough about business to know that I don’t know much.’
‘Some people never learn as much as that.’
‘Stephen, tell me, what did it mean? Was it a ramp?’
‘A ramp? No, of course not.’
‘Someone said they put salt in it.’
‘Salt!’ cried Stephen. ‘You mean the workings were salted? Goodness no, what a frightful idea! Who said so?’
‘It was Madame Claire—but I don’t think she knew what it meant. Neither do I. What does it mean, Stephen? Why did the shares go up and down like that?’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Julia! What a girl you are! Sometimes you seem extraordinarily clever and other times you seem practically half-witted.’
‘Thanks awfully,’ said Julia, laughing. ‘As a matter of fact I’m neither the one nor the other. I’m just a reasonably intelligent person. I’ve learnt a little about business but not enough. Stephen, did you make a lot of money?’
‘Enough to stand you a slap-up dinner,’ declared Stephen, laughing. ‘It was a promise, wasn’t it? Cut along, you reasonably intelligent person, and make yourself beautiful.’
She went to the door and paused. ‘I shall wear my new frock,’ she said. ‘I got it yesterday. Madame came and helped me to choose it so I got it at trade price. It really is rather nice, so I shan’t disgrace you.’
‘Disgrace me?’
‘May said you were togged up like the Duke of Edinburgh!’
Julia heard him chuckling as she ran upstairs to change.
*
2
While Stephen was waiting he had time to think. He was not usually introspective—nor retrospective—his habit of mind was to live in the present rather than to dwell upon the past. But it so happened that when Stephen was dressing in the room at his club, getting ready to take Julia out to dinner, he looked at his engagement book to make certain of the exact hour at which he was trysted to meet the directors of the Coribunda Sapphire Company the following morning (an engagement which he was so loath to fulfil that an attack of chicken-pox or some such highly infectious complaint would have been a welcome alternative). Stephen had noticed the date and suddenly had thought, ‘By Jove, if this isn’t the very day a year ago when I found that poor old blighter!’
So while he was dress
ing, Stephen’s thoughts had gone back to that ghastly vigil with the dying man. He remembered the bright moon shining down on the tumbled heaps of rock and the half-delirious jumble of words which fell disjointedly from the poor cracked lips . . . mostly about devils. Naturally Stephen did not believe that the workings at Coribunda were infested with devils, but all the same . . . Gosh, how frightened I was! he thought.
He had found himself starting and looking round suddenly; thinking he had heard a queer noise; almost expecting to see a ghostly shape rising from a hole in the ground . . . or a hideous face peering at him from the ruins of a hut.
What a long night it had seemed! The longest night he had ever spent in all his life! Having missed the war, by being too young, he had never seen a man die—and he did not want to. Obviously this man was going to die and Stephen felt inadequate to cope with the situation. If he could have done something to help, if he could have given the poor creature some sort of dope to ease his pain, it would not have been so frightful. But he had nothing except water, and not too much of that, so he was obliged to deal it out sparingly. His own throat was parched by this time, but that did not matter.
He had expected Jim to return in a few hours, but time passed and Jim did not come. He began to wonder what could have happened—some accident, perhaps. Jim’s pony might have stumbled and thrown him. Even at this very moment Jim might be lying somewhere unconscious, having been unable to reach the camp. What then? thought Stephen. What indeed? The idea was too ghastly to bear thinking about . . . too ghastly to bear thinking about. . . .
All the same, Stephen could not help thinking about it, and presently he rose and began searching about for water; if only he could find a spring—the merest trickle—it would solve most of his difficulties and anxieties. Surely there must be water somewhere; surely they must have had water here when the Coribunda workings were in full swing? But all he had found was a large iron tank which had been tipped over. (Perhaps by a devil?) There was a residue of water in it, green slimy water from which rose a nauseating stink; Stephen turned away in disgust.
The Blue Sapphire Page 9