The Blue Sapphire

by D. E. Stevenson

  ‘Why?’ asked Julia in dismay.

  ‘To make it up with your father, of course. He might not be angry with you if I packed you off home in disgrace; he could take it out on me.’

  ‘I shan’t go—at least not if you want me.’

  ‘Want you!’ he exclaimed. ‘You’re a delight to me. It’s a joy to look at you and listen to your pretty voice. I’ve not got many joys at the moment.’

  ‘Well, that’s settled then,’ said Julia. She said it lightly, but in fact she was more than a little embarrassed by the charming compliment. . . . But no, it was not really a compliment at all! He was simply speaking the truth straight from his heart. How strange that he could do it like that, without the slightest sign of self-consciousness. One had always heard that the Scot was a reserved sort of person—dour was the word—but dour was certainly not the word for Uncle Randal.

  They were silent for a while. Then he said, ‘Did Andrew ever speak of me?’

  ‘Never,’ replied Julia. ‘I didn’t know—I didn’t know anything about you.’

  ‘Not even that I existed?’

  ‘No, not really. It was only after I got your letter and thought about it that I vaguely remembered hearing Father and Mother saying something about “Randal.” It was the name I remembered, that was all.’

  He sighed. ‘Perhaps it’s as well. They wouldn’t have said much good of me.’

  Julia hoped he would tell her more, but he was gazing at the fire in silence. What could they have quarrelled about, she wondered. What could it be? Now that she was getting to know him she could not believe that Uncle Randal had done anything very bad. Nothing that would justify an age-long feud; nothing that could not be forgiven. She looked at the thin worn face and the kindly eyes with the little wrinkles round them which had come from smiles. Suddenly she burst out impulsively, ‘Uncle Randal, I don’t believe you ever did anything bad!’

  ‘Landsakes, Julia!’ he exclaimed, looking up and laughing. ‘Never did anything bad! What a thing to say to a man! Is there a man on this earth who could lay his hand on his heart and make such a claim? If there is I’d like to see him. I’d like to see him, but I’m not sure I’d like him much; he’d be a queer uncanny being.’

  ‘You mean he wouldn’t be human?’

  ‘Of course he wouldn’t be human. “To err is human, to forgive divine.” Do you know Alexander Pope, Julia? No, you’re a bit young for Pope. It was Shelley I liked when I was your age, and Keats and Byron. Then I came onto Browning—there’s good meat in Browning if you take the trouble to understand—but now it’s Pope. Would you get him for me, Julia?’

  Julia rose and went to the book-shelves. She was aware that Uncle Randal had changed the subject because he did not want to talk about the quarrel. I wonder if I shall ever know what happened, she thought, as she looked along the shelf for the book he had asked for.

  ‘No, he’s above that at the other end,’ said Uncle Randal, pointing. ‘He’s a bit shabby, poor fellow, but that’s because he’s read.’

  ‘So he doesn’t mind being shabby,’ said Julia standing on tiptoe to reach the shelf and bringing the well-worn copy of Pope’s Poetical Works to its owner.

  ‘No, he doesn’t mind a bit,’ agreed Uncle Randal, turning over the leaves with his long thin fingers. ‘To tell you the truth it always grieves me when I see a book that’s never read. There’s something a bit pathetic about its crisp leaves and immaculate binding. Poor thing! What’s a book for if it’s not to be read and enjoyed? Well, I won’t bore you reading screeds of Pope—it would be an ill return for your kindness in coming all this way to see me—but there’s just a wee bit in “An Essay on Man” that comforts me a good deal in these days when the newspapers make such uncomfortable reading:

  All Nature is but art unknown to thee;

  All chance, direction which thou canst not see;

  All discord, harmony not understood;

  All partial evil, universal good;

  And spite of pride in erring reason’s spite,

  One truth is clear, Whatever is, is right.’

  Julia was leaning on the back of his chair following the lines, so although some of it was difficult to understand, she grasped its meaning.

  ‘“Whatever is, is right,”’ she said doubtfully. ‘But I wish they hadn’t invented nuclear fission.’

  ‘They wouldn’t have been given the brains to invent it if it hadn’t been intended.’

  ‘Well . . . perhaps.’

  ‘There’s no perhaps about it. If we have any faith at all we’ve got to believe that. What do you make of “All chance, direction which thou canst not see”?’

  Julia hesitated. She thought of Stephen finding that poor old man with the woolly hair. It was touch and go, Stephen had said. The finding of him had led to the meeting of Julia and Stephen; the sapphire horse; the renovations at Gemscoombe House. Surely that was ‘direction which thou canst not see’?

  ‘Yes,’ said Julia. ‘I know of one thing at least that looked like chance and turned out well for a lot of people.’

  ‘Do you, now? That’s interesting.’

  ‘I’m not so sure about “All discord, harmony not understood,”’ declared Julia. ‘No, I’m sure that isn’t true,’ she added, her thoughts switching to Fifi, who did her best to create discord and succeeded only too well.

  ‘Och, away, lassie!’ exclaimed Uncle Randal, laughing. ‘You’re trying to shake my faith in my favourite philosopher.’

  Julia smiled in sympathy. ‘I’d like to read some more. Would you mind if I took the book up to bed with me?’

  ‘Of course not. Take anything you like,’ he replied, waving his hand and making her free of his shelves.

  Soon after this Mrs. Walker came in. She pointed to the clock and said it was half past nine.

  ‘Oh, Maggie! But I’m enjoying myself!’ exclaimed Uncle Randal reproachfully.

  ‘That’s easy seen, but you’ve been up long enough. You know as well as me what happens when you’re over-tired. Miss Julia will be off to her bed too, no doubt,’ added Mrs. Walker, as she shepherded him away.

  He paused at the door to look back at Julia with a twinkle in his eye. ‘Don’t you forget to take Pope to bed with you, Julia. He’ll enjoy it, I’m sure of that,’ said Uncle Randal.

  Of course he meant I’ll enjoy it, thought Julia, as she tucked Pope under her arm and went upstairs to bed.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The next day was dull and rainy. Julia was disappointed, for she had intended to walk to the woods; Mrs. Walker had assured her it was a nice morning’s walk and would keep her out of the way till dinner-time, but Mrs. Walker was bound to admit that it would not be a nice walk to-day.

  ‘You’ll just need to keep your bed till I get the room dusted,’ said Mrs. Walker with a sigh.

  ‘I’ll dust the room,’ Julia told her.

  A long argument ensued, but in the end, somewhat to her own surprise, Julia was victorious and, armed with a couple of large yellow dusters and a sweeper, started upon her task. She was standing upon a ladder dusting the books on Uncle Randal’s top shelf when the door opened and Mr. Logan came in.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said. ‘You seem busy.’

  ‘Good morning. Yes, I’m very busy. Do you want to see Mrs. Walker? She’s in the kitchen.’

  ‘I want to see you,’ he replied. ‘What you’re doing is a waste of time, you know. You’re merely disturbing the dust, moving it from one flat surface to another. There’s no sense in it.’

  ‘No sense in it?’

  ‘Very little sense. Anyway I want to talk to you about something important, so please come down and listen.’

  There was so much urgency in Mr. Logan’s voice that Julia felt bound to comply. She was still puzzled about him. She was even more puzzled than before, for to-day he was different again . . . and, now that she had descended from the ladder and was able to look at him properly, she was quite taken aback; the man she had taken for a disreput
able character was attired in a well-cut tweed sports jacket, a blue linen shirt and a silk tie and a pair of grey flannel trousers, spotlessly clean and neatly pressed.

  ‘I see you’re surprised at the transformation,’ he said. ‘The poacher is on his way to Edinburgh, so he had to get cleaned up.’

  ‘He isn’t a poacher at all,’ said Julia, smiling.

  ‘It depends what you mean by a poacher. I had no right to kill that bird so if you don’t mind we’ll just keep quiet about it.’

  Julia nodded, ‘I suppose you shot it on someone else’s ground.’

  ‘Good heavens, no! What a frightful thought. It was on my own moor—Dunraggit. It’s just a little matter of dates, that’s all.’

  ‘Dates?’

  ‘Yes, but it was an old cock, so my sin is not terribly black, and if Maggie stews it carefully it will make a nice change for her lord and master. He’s very partial to grouse. That’s the whole explanation, see?’

  Julia did not see.

  ‘The twelfth of August,’ said Mr. Logan impatiently. ‘The glorious twelfth is the day upon which grouse shooting begins.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Julia with dawning comprehension. ‘Yes, of course. How silly of me!’

  ‘Well, never mind. I want to talk to you about something much more important.’

  ‘Yes?’ asked Julia inquiringly.

  She sat down as she spoke and immediately Mr. Logan followed suit, subsiding gracefully into a large chair and crossing his legs.

  ‘It’s about Uncle Ran,’ said Mr. Logan. ‘He’s not my uncle of course but I’ve always called him that. He’s a wonderful person. You don’t know him properly yet, but you’ll soon realise what a wonderful person he is. I’m terribly worried about him, Julia.’

  Her name fell from his lips so naturally that it was a moment or two before she realised what he had said. Yesterday he had called her ‘Miss Julia’—just as Mrs. Walker did—and that had seemed right. This morning it seemed quite natural that he should call her ‘Julia.’ It was not because he was wearing different clothes, not even because he was speaking differently; his whole personality seemed to have changed. He was one sort of person sitting at the kitchen table and having tea with Maggie Walker, and quite a different sort of person lounging gracefully in Uncle Randal’s comfortable leather chair.

  ‘I’m terribly worried about him,’ repeated the puzzling young man. ‘You can see how ill he is, can’t you?’

  ‘He’s very thin,’ agreed Julia. ‘But he’s so cheerful and bright. I know he was very ill last week when he wrote to me, but I thought he was getting better. Why are you so worried about him, Mr. Logan?’

  ‘Neil is the name.’

  Julia smiled. ‘All right,’ she said.

  ‘I’m worried about him because he’s not getting better,’ declared Neil Logan. ‘He’s seriously ill and the old doc hasn’t the slightest idea what’s the matter with him.’

  ‘You don’t mean—’

  ‘Oh, he thinks he knows what’s the matter, and he thinks there’s no hope, so he thinks the best thing to do is to dope Uncle Ran when necessary and let him die in peace.’

  Julia gazed at her informant with wide horrified eyes.

  ‘Yes, it’s grim,’ he agreed. ‘Perhaps I had better explain that I’m a student at Edinburgh University—medicine and surgery—taking my finals next month; so I know what I’m talking about.’

  ‘You ought to speak to the doctor!’

  ‘Speak to him! I’ve spoken till I’m tired. He won’t tell me a thing, but I know from his prescriptions what he thinks. You see, Julia, the chemist is a pal of mine. As a matter of fact I made friends with him so that I could check what Uncle Randal was being given . . . but keep that under your hat.’

  ‘Yes, of course, but—’

  ‘Listen, Julia. In simple words the old doc thinks it’s an inoperable tumour on the liver. My diagnosis is entirely different—’

  ‘But that’s dreadful!’ cried Julia. ‘He must see a specialist. He should be X-rayed and—and properly examined!’

  ‘Of course he should be,’ agreed Neil eagerly. ‘That’s what I’ve said all along. He should see MacTavish. Honestly, Julia, MacTavish is marvellous. He’s simply marvellous in every way, not only as a surgeon but as a man. There’s nobody like him—nobody. I’ve seen him operate—absolutely brilliant! You wouldn’t believe me if I told you some of the things he’s done. For instance . . . but it would be no good,’ declared Neil, pulling himself up short. ‘You wouldn’t understand a word I was saying . . . besides, there’s no time. I’ve got to go to Edinburgh to see an old professor and I mustn’t be late for my appointment. I came here to see you first because I had to see you—I just had to see you! You understand, don’t you, Julia? You’ve got to persuade Uncle Ran to see MacTavish.’

  ‘Oh, but I don’t think——’

  ‘You must!’ cried Neil, sitting forward in his chair and squeezing his hands together. ‘You simply must! You’re the only hope! When I heard you were coming I thought, if this girl has any guts she may be able to work it. That’s what I thought.’

  ‘But I told you! I’ve got a job in London so I can’t possibly stay here for more than a week. There wouldn’t be time——’

  ‘Is the job more important than saving a man’s life?’

  She gazed at him in dismay.

  ‘That’s what it comes to. The old doc is sitting back and letting him die.’

  ‘You mean an operation could save him?’

  ‘Yes, if it’s gall-bladder . . . and I’m practically certain that’s what it is.’

  ‘But Neil, why can’t you persuade him? You know him much better than I do.’

  ‘That’s just it!’ cried Neil in agonised tones. ‘I’ve done my damnedest to persuade him, but he won’t listen to me; he thinks I’m still a kid. You know how it is when people have known you all your life, don’t you? They know you’ve got brains—they can’t help knowing because they know you’ve passed every exam you’ve ever sat with flying colours. They know you’re mad keen on your profession and you’ve worked like a nigger and you’re all set for first class honours in your finals, but all the same they won’t believe you know anything at all.’

  Julia gazed at him in astonishment.

  ‘It’s all true,’ he told her. ‘I’m not conceited or anything like that—I didn’t make my brains—I’m just being realistic. I’m not telling you in a boasting way, though it may sound like boasting to you. I’m just telling you because you simply must believe that I know what I’m talking about. I don’t care what I do or say if I can get Uncle Ran to consult MacTavish. Do you believe me, Julia?’

  It was impossible not to believe him. There was truth and sincerity, there was desperate urgency in every line of his tense body.

  ‘Yes,’ said Julia. ‘I believe every word you’ve said.’

  ‘Thank God for that!’

  ‘But what can I do? Why should he listen to me?’

  ‘You can try to make him—and anyway I’ve got somebody on my side. It’s been awful trying to fight the battle alone. I’ve talked to Uncle Ran; I’ve tackled the old doc. They won’t take me seriously. I’ve thought of all sorts of plans. One night when I was lying awake in bed I even thought of kidnapping him, doping him and taking him to Edinburgh in my car—absolutely ridiculous, of course, but you think of the most ridiculous things when you’re desperate. I had the plan all worked out—how to get Maggie out of the way and everything—but of course in the morning I saw what a fool I’d been.’

  Poor Neil, she thought. Aloud she said, ‘You’re terribly fond of him, aren’t you?’

  ‘I love him better than anybody else in the world.’

  There was silence for a few moments and then Neil rose and stretched his cramped limbs. ‘I must go,’ he said. ‘You’ll try to persuade him, won’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll try.’

  He held out his hand and they shook hands gravely.

  It was not u
ntil he had gone and she heard the sound of a noisy little car speeding down the road that she realised what she had let herself in for: she had promised to try to persuade Uncle Randal to see this mysterious MacTavish, who was ‘brilliant,’ and if Uncle Randal consented the surgeon might advise an operation (in Neil’s opinion this was a foregone conclusion, and somehow she had a great deal of faith in Neil’s opinion). What then? thought Julia. If Uncle Randal was to have a serious operation at her instigation could she say good-bye and leave him to it?

  But I must go home, thought Julia (oddly enough May Martineau’s house had become home). I’ll lose my job if I don’t go home. I can’t stay here indefinitely . . . that’s what it means, really. It means staying here until he’s better, and we don’t know when that will be. It may be weeks and weeks!

  The study was only half dusted, so Julia rose and went on with her task—but alas not very thoroughly, for she was turning it all over in her mind; thinking that perhaps Uncle Randal might refuse definitely to see MacTavish, or perhaps MacTavish might not advise an operation, or perhaps Neil was entirely wrong and Uncle Randal might regain his health and strength without having another opinion at all.

  *

  2

  Uncle Randal got up for lunch—or dinner, as Mrs. Walker called it—but Julia had not made up her mind how to tackle the subject of MacTavish. She had decided she must think about it seriously and choose a suitable opportunity when they would be free from interruption. Meanwhile Julia wanted to know the origin of the name ‘Leddiesford,’ which seemed to her delightful.

  ‘Lady’s ford,’ he told her. ‘It’s supposed to be the place where Mary, Queen of Scots, crossed the river. Some people say it was on her way to Dunbar to visit Bothwell, others say differently, but there are parts of the town which are very much older and the ford was there long before the unfortunate lady was born or thought of. Unless the name was changed, which seems unlikely, we’ve got to thank some other lady for naming the little place.’

  ‘Who could it be?’ asked Julia with interest.

  Uncle Randal smiled. ‘To tell you the truth I like to think it was the saintly Queen Margaret, though that’s going a bit far back in time. She died in ten ninety-three. Of course the ford would be there, and where there was a ford you would find an inn of sorts, and maybe a small village . . . but whether the wise and wonderful Margaret happened to ride in this direction and cross the river and give the place its name, nobody can tell.’