The Nutmeg Tree

by Margery Sharp

  Her disappointment was great. She had hoped for true-lovers’ knots, faded but still blue, perhaps even a cupid or so; especially she had hoped for some sign of recent occupation. A cushion, a letter, a mere heart scratched on the wall—any of these would have pleased and contented her. But there was nothing. There was not even a view, for the nut trees grew too close. “It’s a shame!” thought Julia vaguely; her pity being half for anyone else who might be similarly disappointed, half for the pavilion itself. And the emotion (though vague) was not a barren one: with sudden resolution she took out her lipstick and drew a heart of her own.

  Scarcely had she finished when a sound of voices below brought her hastily back to the doorway. There were people on the path, Susan and Bryan and a tall unknown man. He had grey hair, and as he walked his hand rested lightly and familiarly on Susan’s shoulder. Susan looked up, even her height diminished by his, and smiled affectionately. Bryan, a little behind, was wearing his best deferential air.…

  Sir William had come.

  2

  Julia now naturally wanted to get down unobserved and go back to the house and tidy her hair and come out again and be discovered in the garden; and as the path turned almost at once, she had every hope of being able to do so. But Bryan, already behind, let the others pass out of sight while he stopped to tie his shoe.

  “Sst! Julia!” he hissed.

  With as much dignity as she could muster, Julia advanced to the top of the steps.

  “What are you doing there?” she asked severely.

  “The question is, what are you? I spotted you as we came up, and thought perhaps you weren’t feeling social.”

  “I wasn’t,” said Julia crossly. “I’m not now. Is that Sir William?”

  “It is, darling. The ranks of the godly are increased by one. Shall I help you down?”

  But Julia refused his assistance and descended alone. She had no time to waste on foolishness.

  “You go on with the others,” she directed, herself taking the lower path. “I’ve an important letter to write.”

  “Hi! Julia!”

  Simply to stop him shouting, she turned and looked back.

  “What is it now?”

  “When you’ve written your letter—and changed your frock—where would you like us to discover you?”

  Julia had a very good mind to ignore the impertinence altogether. But she didn’t.

  “Under the pines,” she said hastily; “and not for half an hour.”

  3

  Exactly twenty-five minutes later she was in position. She had on a fresh white frock, and not too much lipstick. On her knee lay The Forsyte Saga. She wished for a dog, but the villa could not supply one, and Anthelmine’s cats were too common-looking.

  The minutes passed slowly while Julia held her pose. She was afraid to lean back, in case the seat should mark her dress; there were several deck-chairs, but the rustic bench had a suggestion of Marcus Stone which strongly appealed to her. As once before, on the lower terrace, Julia was acutely aware of herself as part of a charming picture. “There ought to be a man!” she had thought; and now that a man was imminent, her consciousness was correspondingly heightened. With straining ears she listened for the voices in the vineyard; and when at last they became audible they were so much closer than she expected that she had barely half a minute to become absorbed in her book.

  To the party above she was now distinctly visible, and Susan called cheerfully down to her. Julia did not stir. She was going to look up with a start, but she was going to do it at close range. She just turned over a page and smiled slightly, as though at some cultured witticism.

  “Hi, Julia!” cried Bryan, quite close at hand.

  At that Julia started in earnest, for he had leapt the last bank and was speaking positively in her ear. She gave him one good glare, and turned with a welcoming smile for the more decorously approaching figures of Susan and their guest.

  “This is Sir William—my mother,” said Susan, also directing upon Bryan a repressive look. It was unfortunate for the young man that the return of his lady-love’s favour at once produced in him those same high spirits which had been the cause of his losing it. As Susan said herself, she could not pretend; she could not pretend now to be pleased that he had leapt down that bank and made her mother jump into the air just as Sir William was about to be introduced.…

  Julia, however, noticed none of this, being too much taken up with her own deportment. It was beautiful. She graciously inclined her head, graciously extended her hand, and by moving a little along the bench, invited Sir William to sit.

  “Take a deck-chair, sir,” suggested Bryan maliciously. “That thing’s as hard as nails.”

  But Sir William sat down by Julia. He was tall and thin, sunburnt, with slightly rough grey hair and the kind of profile she most admired. An aquiline nose was one of her weaknesses, and Sir William’s was a real beak. “Distinguished!” thought Julia, after her first discreet glance. “He could play an Ambassador just as he stands!”

  “What a beautiful place this is!” said Sir William distinguishedly.

  “Remarkable,” agreed Julia. “Are you fond of scenery?”

  Sir William said that he was. He added that as he had his car with him, he hoped to see a good deal of it. If the next day were fine, they might all motor up the Grand Colombier and have lunch on top. They would be able to see the Rhône and Mont Blanc.

  “What kind is it?” asked Julia.

  Since Sir William looked a trifle puzzled, it was perhaps as well that Bryan answered for him.

  “Dark blue Daimler,” he said succinctly. “I hope, sir, that barn doesn’t leak?”

  “I hope so too,” replied Sir William with philosophy, “but any barn a Frenchman isn’t using is pretty certain to be derelict. However, the weather seems settled enough.”

  Susan glanced up at the blue and white sky.

  “The clouds are coming from the Midi,” she said, “which isn’t a very good sign. Julia’s had the one perfect week this summer.”

  These last words, in conjunction with the disastrous fortunes she had dealt herself the night before, struck Julia as ominous. Could it be that the arrival of Sir William, to which she had so much looked forward, was to prove fatal to her peace and happiness in the character of young Mrs. Packett? Was he going to see through her, like Bryan, and—unlike Bryan—denounce her and turn her out? His aquiline features, even in repose, looked terribly stern; what would they be like when agitated by righteous indignation? “Grand!” thought Julia involuntarily; for already she admired Sir William very much indeed. She was like a passenger in a small boat who, fearful of a storm, would nevertheless enjoy seeing the ocean rage. Sir William’s wrath would be terrible, but it would be a fine sight. “I’m all right so far,” thought Julia, summoning her courage. “I’ve just got to keep my head.…”

  All through lunch, therefore, she said hardly a word. She wiped her mouth both before and after drinking, took no second helps, and was very attentive to Mrs. Packett. Bryan, after his momentary relapse, was on his best behaviour too, and almost equally silent. Susan and her grandmother talked to Sir William, asking after common acquaintances—several of them, to Julia’s pleasure, with titles—and about his tour through France. But the meal as a whole was unusually dull, and no one sat long over coffee. Julia in particular was so exhausted that she went straight to her room and slept for two hours.

  After tea Sir William took them all for a drive. Susan sat in front, Julia with Bryan and Mrs. Packett in the back. The car was a beauty, and they saw some very nice scenery. Then they came home and dined, and after dinner played bridge. Bryan (his behaviour was fluctuating like a fever-chart) suggested poker, but Julia felt herself bound to sit on him. “I hate gambling,” she said virtuously, “I think it’s so bad for the character”; so they played several rubbers, Mrs. Packett sitting out, at twopence a hundred. At half-past ten Susan yawned; at a quarter to eleven Julia revoked, and no one but Sir William no
ticed it. Then Claudia brought in the barley-water, and they all went to bed.

  “I’m so glad Sir William has come,” said Mrs. Packett to Julia, as they passed through the lobby on the way to their rooms. “It will make things a little gayer for you.”

  “Not half,” said Julia grimly.

  But she said it only to herself.

  4

  By next morning it was obvious that Susan’s doubts had been justified; the weather was breaking, and the expedition to the Grand Colombier was by common consent put off. Julia was not altogether sorry; she had little desire to sit for another two hours—and possibly longer—cooped up with Bryan and her mother-in-law. Even in a Daimler, it wasn’t worth it. The morning hours, however, now that their plan had fallen through, seemed unusually long; she would have liked to tell herself some more fortunes, but feared lest Sir William should see and despise her. He was wandering about rather aimlessly, now in the house, now in the garden; Susan had retired with her French, Bryan was nowhere to be seen, and Mrs. Packett, in the billiard-room, was busily engaged with what would probably turn out to be a small cookery-book. Julia looked in on her, and went hastily away. From the hall she caught sight of Sir William’s tall figure on the porch steps. He was really beautifully set up! He had the straightest back, for his age, that Julia had ever seen, and for a moment she stood contemplating it with genuine pleasure. Then Sir William turned round, so quickly that she had no time to fall into an effective pose; and thus he too received an unexpected and attractive impression. For there was about Julia, when she forgot herself, a certain charming simplicity: she stood there admiring him with the happy candour of a child before a Christmas tree.

  “Come up to the rock,” invited Sir William, “and look for Susan’s clouds.”

  “I don’t mind if I do,” said Julia. But her spirit, as she joined him, was wary. She was still rather afraid of his profile, and her anxiety to make a good impression almost tied her tongue. However, the opportunity was in many ways favourable; there was at least no Bryan to upset her with his too understanding looks, or with his overemphatic agreement whenever she made a cultured remark.…

  “Do you care for Galsworthy?” asked Julia, as they began the ascent.

  Sir William replied that he did. Which just showed—and Julia only wished that Susan had been there to hear.

  “I’ve got The Forsyte Saga,” she continued. “I think it’s wonderful.”

  “A very fine piece of work,” said Sir William. “Particularly To Let.”

  Since Julia had not yet reached that, this was rather a stumper. But she kept her end up well.

  “I like A Man of Property. I think it’s wonderful.”

  Sir William agreed with her again. Their conversation was not exactly animated, but it was of the most superior kind.

  “Mrs. Packett looks remarkably well,” said Sir William.

  “Doesn’t she?” said Julia.

  It was surprising how soon a subject became exhausted. Julia, whose turn it now was, racked her brains in vain. There remained of course the whole great topic of Susan’s marriage, but until she knew Sir William better—until her good impression had been made—Julia preferred to leave it untouched. He was too valuable an ally to be approached without due precaution.

  “Do you like Aix?” asked Sir William.

  “No, I don’t,” said Julia, taken unawares. “Not that I’ve ever been there,” she added hastily. Sir William was too polite to notice the inconsistency, but the necessity for not noticing somehow killed that topic as well. They mounted for a while in silence, and soon Julia could not have spoken even if she had found anything to say. She needed all her breath to keep from panting. Sir William, with the privilege of his sex, frankly wiped his forehead; Julia made an effort to contract her pores. By the time they reached the foot of the rock her chief emotion was regret for her absent powder-box.

  “Close, isn’t it?” she gasped, as they came to a standstill. She could feel the blood beating in her cheeks, the hair clinging to her temples: it would have astonished her to know that Sir William found the effect most attractive. “Florid,” Mrs. Packett had written; “glowing,” substituted Sir William; he thought that if only Julia would keep silent—or at any rate stop making genteel remarks—he could enjoy her company very much indeed.

  “I love a nice view,” said Julia, regaining her breath. She gazed raptly over the plain: clouds had drifted in over the encircling hills and lay like a canopy at a level somewhat below their summits. Through great ragged gaps, however, the sun still struck down, picking out here a village, there a little hill: Magnieu lay in shadow, the roofs of Belley shone. Where, in all that, was the Midi? wondered Julia; but she did not care to show her ignorance by a direct question. Instead she asked what Sir William thought of the weather.

  “It’s certainly unsettled,” he told her, “but I haven’t Susan’s local knowledge. If we do get a thunderstorm, it’ll be a big one. Shall you mind?”

  “Not in the least,” said Julia untruthfully. Thunderstorms were a terror to her, and if one happened in the middle of the night, when she was all alone, she really didn’t know how she could bear it. Louise was just the same—except that she, with the energy belonging to her red hair, at least got some excitement out of them: she used to rush out in her best nightgown and have no end of a time. “I’d better put on my pink satin,” thought Julia. “I’d be too scared to change.…” She shivered in anticipation.

  “You’re getting cold,” said Sir William. “There’s more breeze up here than one thinks.”

  He turned to lead the way down, and Julia willingly followed. It was lovely to have him hold aside the branches for her, and give her a hand over the rough places, but the necessity—as she conceived it—for making polite conversation was still a dreadful worry. Sir William had apparently thrown up the sponge; they descended two thirds of the path in complete silence. At the turning under the pavilion, however, among the nut trees, an odd memory came into Julia’s head, and she thoughtlessly gave it utterance.

  “I had a little nut tree”—

  recited Julia suddenly—

  “And nothing would it bear

  “But a silver nutmeg—”

  She broke off, feeling rather foolish; but Sir William stood smiling at her.

  “—And a golden pear,” he finished. “You have a wonderful gift for completing the moment.”

  Julia didn’t quite know what he was talking about, but she nevertheless felt flattered. Her spirits rose, and on a reckless impulse she said incautiously:—

  “Do you know who taught me that? A Clown!”

  “Circus or pantomime?” asked Sir William.

  “Pantomime. When I was small, my mother used to play Columbine, and sometimes I waited for her in the dressing-room. And once, I don’t know why, I was crying about something, and the Clown came in and took me on his knee and recited that about the nutmeg. It was ages before I found out that he hadn’t made it up himself.”

  “And did it stop you crying?”

  Julia hesitated. Since Sir William, for some reason, evidently thought highly of the rhyme, and since she herself thought highly of Sir William, she would have liked to say yes; but honesty forbade.

  “I don’t know,” she confessed. “I did stop, but it was more likely because of the sausages. He let me play with them—and his poker.”

  “A Clown who recited nursery rhymes,” said Sir William thoughtfully. “You must have had some wonderful stories to tell Susan.”

  Julia looked quite shocked. Tell Susan about her grandmother being a Columbine! What next! Fortunately the girl was not inquisitive, but should the question ever arise Julia had long made up her mind what to say. “Your grandmother on my side, dear, was the daughter of a clergyman.” Which was quite possibly true, since Julia had never so much as heard her own grandfather mentioned; if she didn’t know that he was a clergyman, she equally didn’t know that he wasn’t.…

  Aloud she said, brusquely, “I
’ve never told Sue anything. As I expect you know, I haven’t been much of a mother to her.”

  “If you had,” said Sir William, “you’d neither of you be half what you are now.” And irrelevantly, absurdly, he quoted the rhyme again:—

  “… a silver nutmeg

  “And a golden pear.”

  “I don’t know about you,” said Julia, still put out, “but I’m dying for a drink.”

  5

  It would have taken more than barley-water (which was all she got) to restore her equanimity. She had accompanied Sir William into the vine for the sole purpose of making a good impression on him; what on earth had possessed her, then, to go gassing away about Clowns and dressing-rooms? Why, with all the beautifully correct present to draw upon, must she go and dig up her peculiarly incorrect past? For he would never have guessed, thought Julia fondly; if only she’d held her tongue he’d still be taking her for a real lady.

  She sat down to lunch in low spirits. It was just as dull a meal as that of the day before—with this difference, that besides being bored she was now nervous as well. She had a dreadful fear that Sir William might say something about Clowns, or Columbines, or even make some direct enquiry as to her early career; and indeed his attempts at conversing with her were alarmingly numerous. But Julia suppressed them—all. Even on the subject of Galsworthy she refused to be drawn. Galsworthy had written for the theatre, and theatres had Pantomimes, and Julia was taking no risks. After a while Sir William gave up trying, and devoted himself instead to old Mrs. Packett. At that Julia drew an easier breath, and by the time Claudia was clearing the meat-plates had recovered sufficient aplomb, and also sufficient appetite, to ask Susan what was the sweet.

  “Harlequins!” said Susan gaily.

  Julia started. Then surprise gave way to indignation as a most appalling thought flashed through her mind. He couldn’t—he couldn’t have told Susan already?