DIAMONDS ARE TRUMPS
“I want to go a-maying,” Peter announced. Nor was her ardour abated
when Merle reminded her that April was still in its heyday.
“That makes no difference if the spirit of May-day be in me. The
weather is a sheer intoxication, and calls for revelry. It’s not your
birthday by any chance, is it?”
“If you can wait three weeks----”
“I can’t! I can’t! I want to go a-maying.”
Merle looked at her helplessly. “But one doesn’t go a-maying in Regent
Street,” she protested; “if you mean garlands and queens. I’ll crown
you with hawthorn from Gerrard’s, if you insist, but the expense will
be enormous. Or we’ll catch a cart-horse and plait its tail with red,
white, and blue. _Or_ I’ll treat you to an ice-cream soda at Fuller’s.
You can choose between these rural delights.”
“Where’s Stuart?” Peter demanded suddenly. “I haven’t seen or heard
of him for about a week.” One of Stuart’s habits was the treatment of
each curt farewell as final, leaving his companions in a pleasant state
of uncertainty as to his next summons to fellowship. “Where’s Stuart?
P’raps it’s _his_ birthday. ’Tisn’t mine, I know. Merle, what do you
say to a grand un-birthday festival? Stuart shall take us into the
country to toss cowslip balls. We’ll rout him out from his Aladdin’s
Cave. Who wants diamonds in springtime, in springtime----”
“‘The only pretty ring-time,’” Merle added. “So you’re wrong about the
diamonds.”
“We’ll go and look at his pretty rings.” Peter hesitated, came to a
full-stop opposite one of Liberty’s windows, a tawny riot of gold and
amber and copper tints. “Perhaps we’d better not,” she decided; “I hate
the sort of female who can’t leave a man alone in business hours. And I
hate still more the ponderous business face with which he receives her
pretty importunities.”
“But Stuart!” laughed Merle. “You can surely trust Stuart enough to
believe there is no City-spell on earth can hold him captive. Besides,
he begged us to invade his premises one day and see him play at
diamond-merchants. Don’t you remember?”
“In a silk hat; so he did. Come along then.” Peter wavered no longer,
but hailed a Holborn ’bus, and followed by Merle, scrambled to the top.
She was right about the weather: the warm air was a-stir with lilac
promise, and passing faces gave evidence of spring-cleaning within, a
more potent and magical spring-cleaning than ever achieved by mop and
broom.
“I feel about six and a half,” Merle confessed gaily, as with a
delighted sense of exploration they spelt out “Heron and Carr,
Diamond-merchants, first floor,” among a bewilderment of brass plates,
and mounted lightly the wide stone staircase.
“We want Mr. Stuart Heron, please,” to the office boy who answered
their summons; and again, “We want Mr. Stuart Heron,” as a preoccupied
clerk came slowly forward.
“Mr. Stuart?” The man looked reluctant. “Is it important?”
“Awfully important,” said Peter gravely. She was wondering what would
be the man’s attitude if she explained that the youngest partner of the
house was required for the purposes of an un-birthday celebration.
They were conducted through two or three apartments, containing nothing
more thrilling than cupboards and clerks, so that Merle assumed the
jewels were kept in glittering caverns below; and then ushered into an
anteroom, formal and luxurious, in which were already seated several
applicants for royal favour, grave men and grey, all.
“I think Mr. Stuart is engaged. What name shall I say?” The
confidential clerk appeared curiously disapproving of their presence.
“Got your card-case, Merle?”
Of course Merle had her card-case. And a card. And white kid gloves
with which to present it. More than could be said for Peter.
Their guide withdrew, having first motioned the girls to deep leather
arm-chairs, into which they sank and were obliterated. The silence of
the room became thick and muffled. A clock ticked ponderously from
the chimney-piece. The assembled veterans made no sound, with the
exception of one who played nervously with his feet, advancing these by
slow stages towards one another, and then scurrying them apart, as if
fearful of being caught in the act. Peter watched him, fascinated. It
was fully ten minutes before hurried steps approached the door....
* * * * *
There had been changes in the firm of Heron and Carr since Stuart
entered it, three years before. Uncle Arthur had embraced the
opportunity to retire from business. Derwent Heron was growing old, and
absented himself frequently from the office: Baldwin--well, Baldwin
at the best of times was useful mostly as an ornament. Thus it befell
that a great deal of responsibility fell on the shoulders of the new
partner. Nor was Stuart averse to this. He was right when he said that
a game lost its value unless played in all seriousness. On the whole he
made few mistakes, though his lucky star ran the risk, from overwork,
of becoming somewhat frayed at the edges. Frequently he deplored the
difficulty of truly reckless gambling, with that officious orbit
fore-dooming him ever to success. Of late, certain events had decided
him to buy in a vast amount of stock, giving mostly bills in exchange.
Then, like a bolt from the blue, one Antoine Gobert, from Venezuela,
made his sensational announcement: no less than the discovery of a
cheap preparation for the making of diamonds. The days following this
revelation were fraught with the greatest strain to the merchants in
the trade. It was generally acknowledged that in the case of Heron
and Carr the crash consequent upon proof of Gobert’s integrity would
resound loudest. It was unlucky for the youngest diamond-merchant
in London that he should have been buying in with such rapidity and
vigour. His elders shook their grey heads over Stuart, but consulted
him notwithstanding, in this period of crisis; an unconscious tribute
to certain brilliant strokes made by the firm within the past three
years.
Gobert, having flung his bombshell, did not seem inclined to part too
easily with the mysteries of his prescription. Rumour was busy, and
prices fluctuated wildly. With difficulty was a panic averted. Stuart
firmly declared the magician a fraud; continued to assert it contrary
to the opinions of the majority, older men, men of deep experience.
It was felt that some decisive step would have to be taken, before
Gobert should make newspaper babble of his secret. Already journalism
was on the scent; and once known, the romance of the thing would
cause it to be gobbled greedily by the public. So the wizard was
approached; discreetly sounded; finally, an offer made to him by Sir
Fergus Macpherson, of the firm of Grey, Macpherson and Sons, well-known
diamond-merchants. An offer of twenty thousand pounds for the purpose
of private experiment; a slip of paper, containing the exact
ingredients of the manufacture, to be placed, in token of good faith,
at the Bank of England. Gobert refused twenty thousand pounds. Not
enough. Fifty thousand then? So be it, fifty thousand. The money was
paid over, and the experiments started. Then, somehow a doubt of Gobert
arose and grew. And that very day, April the 16th, it was finally
decided that the envelope was to be opened, the miracle laid bare. If
genuine--so much the worse for dealers in diamonds; so much the worse
for Stuart Heron in particular. The issue would not have loomed in his
eyes so stupendous, were it not that he felt his credit with Derwent
and Arthur at stake. The firm had relied on his judgment. So that,
sitting in earnest consultation with Sir Fergus and a certain Rupert
Rosenstein, his mouth was set in sterner lines than his age warranted,
and a deep frown lay between his eyebrows.
“Well, in that case, Sir Fergus----”
The confidential clerk entered noiselessly, and handed him a card:
‘Miss Merle des Essarts.’
“Here?”
“Two young ladies, Mr. Heron. Said it was important.”
“Oh--very well. Say that I’m coming at once.”
But it was several minutes before Sir Fergus rose to take leave.
And then there were so many matters that clamoured for his brain’s
attention; all overshadowed by a persistently recurring vision of a
factory ... ten factories ... a thousand factories; men working; swarms
of busy little figures; myriads of tiny white crystals the result of
their labours,--the result of a few lines of writing that awaited the
evening’s examination. Glittering crystals, produced in such quantities
as to flood the universe like dewfall ... pretty little crystals, but
utterly valueless.
Stuart straightened his shoulders. No good anticipating the worst.
He opened the door of the anteroom: “Ah, Digby, I wanted to see
you,”--and he of the wandering feet looked gratified.
Peter and Merle were waiting, rather impatiently, at the far end of
the apartment. Some of their April joyousness had been swamped by the
oppressive atmosphere surrounding them. The sunshine, creeping through
the heavily curtained window, was merely metallic here. So that they
greeted Stuart with relief.
“The face is perfect,” laughed Peter. “All we expected, and more. And
now please take it off. Or is it merely semi-detached?”
Stuart did not reply. Nor was there perceptible alteration in his
demeanour. But Peter was too amused by his garments of black decorum,
to note that to-day they were something more than skin-deep.
“But, oh, Stuart, where’s the hat? You promised us the hat! Don’t say
you’ve left it in the hall?”
He turned to Merle; and though he spoke courteously, his thoughts
seemed very far away.
“My clerk told me it was important. Are you in any trouble? Or--can
I?”--he hesitated, obviously waiting an excuse for their presence. And
Merle’s cheeks began to burn.
“We--it isn’t really important,” she faltered. “I only--we thought----”
oh, to be safely down the steps and out in the street! How could she
say to this stranger: “We wanted you to come a-maying because it is
April.” The thrill of primroses in the air had dwindled to a pin-point
of triviality.
“We wondered whether you would care to join us for a day in the
country,” she finished at last, lamely.
“I’m sorry. I’m afraid it’s quite out of the question to-day.” He
appeared to realize dimly that something more was expected of him. His
eye fell on Digby, eager for attention. The confidential clerk entered:
“You’re wanted on the telephone, sir. Mr. Grey.” “All right, Lewis; ask
him to hold the line,” alert response now in his voice; and he had
already turned to the door, when he remembered his visitors. “We must
be going,” said Merle quickly. He looked relieved. “Ah, then you’ll
excuse me, I know. We’re rather rushed. Would you care to have a look
round the place?”--he signalled to Lewis to wait, in case his services
should be required as cicerone. “There’s nothing much to see, though.
No treasure-vaults,” with a groping attempt to resume the language of
which he had so patently mislaid the cipher.
And Merle, likewise clutching at her rags of self-respect, responded
with a forced laugh: “You don’t make the diamonds, then?”
“No,” Stuart’s tones were somewhat grim. “We don’t make the diamonds.”
He paused. Then, with a quick “Good-bye,” went to answer the telephone
summons. “I’ll see you directly, Digby,” thrown out on his way to the
door. Baldwin Carr appeared at another entrance: “Has Macpherson gone,
Stuart? Derwent wanted to speak to you----” “Right! when I’ve polished
off Grey.” What _was_ the matter with all these men, that the wrinkle
lay so deep between their eyebrows?
Baldwin glanced in some surprise at the figures of Peter and Merle,
standing irresolutely by the window. Then returned to his private
office.
The confidential clerk showed them out. A swinging door presented
them with a snatch of telephonic conversation: “Yes, it’s Mr. Stuart
Heron--Yes--No, not till to-night, nothing definite--we think----” The
door swung to, cutting off the rest.
On the stone steps, they came face to face with a little shrivelled
man, head cocked to one side; Arthur Heron, had they known it; rat
about to rejoin the sinking ship.
Out in the push and clamour of Holborn, Merle drew a long breath, put
both hands up to her hot face: “I wonder if I shall ever grow cool
again,” she said, rather tremulously. And: “I suppose we’ve made rather
fools of ourselves.”
“Don’t!” gasped Peter. Every time she recalled the blank look which
had received her first eager speeches it was as if someone had
dealt her a blow in the face. Oh, the stinging ignominy which lay
in the remembrance of Merle and herself, two blushing incoherent
little--idiots, intruding with froth and futility into the world of
real things, solid things, things that matter, world of men. And Stuart
could so easily have averted humiliation from their heads: one look,
one word, to prove his recollection of the thousand intimacies that had
lain between them.--“A day in the country ... I’m sorry--_Sorry!_” She
ejaculated the word aloud in accents of such furious scorn, that Merle
looked round startled. He should be sorrier still, soon! His fault,
every bit; not for ejecting them, but for ever having dared invite
them--to meet with that.
With a sense of rawness that cried out for solitude, Peter suddenly
bade Merle good-bye:
“I’m going home. Do you mind?”
And sorrowful for the mood of April so rudely shattered, Merle shook
her head and passed on.