The Nutmeg Tree

by Margery Sharp

  “You mean you haven’t anything?” asked Sir William, to whom such a situation, in a person almost connected with him, was naturally startling.

  “Not a cent,” said Julia thankfully—for it would have been dreadful to answer that question with Mr. Rickaby’s money still in her bag. “I haven’t even a return ticket, and how I’m to get back I don’t know.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” said Sir William. He paused, and Julia held her breath, because if he wanted an opening there was a beauty. But Sir William was still preoccupied with her extraordinary revelations.

  “I’d like to know how you got here,” he said, “if it won’t make me an accessory after the fact.”

  “Oh, no!” cried Julia. “It was easy. I just sold some valuable furniture”; and since the moment for sentiment had obviously passed, she made a very good story out of Mr. Lewis and the bailiffs.

  They had more weighty conversations, as well; for now that Julia knew Sir William better she was constantly on the lookout for an opportunity to talk about Susan and Bryan. Such an opening, however, was surprisingly difficult to find; Sir William had apparently cast all care aside, and refused to be drawn into any serious discussion. All he wanted was to lounge about the garden and listen to Julia’s reminiscences, or else drive her about in the car and laugh at her appreciations of the scenery. “But it is a nice view!” said Julia once, indignantly. “Of course it is,” agreed Sir William. “Then why do you laugh when I say so?” demanded Julia. “It’s not what you say,” explained Sir William, “it’s your face while you say it. You have a special landscape-expression, my dear; you look so pleased with yourself.…”

  Julia finally decided to count as an opportunity the first moment she could get Sir William alone when he wasn’t actually laughing out loud. This occurred one fine, very hot morning, when they were both a little lazy in the heat, and when Anthelmine’s visit was safely over. She had brought them a handful of dragées, the white sugared almonds that announced a wedding in the village; so the opportunity was really a good one.

  “These are for Jeanne-Marie,” said Julia. “Claudia’s niece. She’s getting married next week.”

  Sir William grunted.

  “William!”

  “What is it, my dear?”

  “I want to talk to you seriously. About Sue and Bryan.”

  Sir William stretched himself in his deck-chair and looked at the sky. Julia understood his feelings; like any man happy and contented in the moment, he did not want to be bothered. Nor did she, for that matter; for no one else but Susan would she have disturbed, by so much as a thought, their delicious silent intimacy. But for Susan she had to do it.

  “It’s all my fault,” she said cunningly.

  At once, as she had known he would—and what happiness the knowledge gave her!—Sir William roused up.

  “Nonsense, my dear! You’ve got an absolute passion for taking blame on yourself. How could it possibly be your fault?”

  “Because I ought to have been firm as soon as I got here,” said Julia seriously. “As soon as I knew—and while Susan was readier to hear what I said. I ought to have told her straight out that he was no good. I ought to have led him on and shown him up, even if it meant showing myself up too. But I left it, partly because I did so want her to think well of me, and partly because I knew she’d be so hurt. I haven’t got a really hard heart.”

  “That’s true enough,” agreed Sir William.

  “You see, I’m sure,” continued Julia earnestly. “It must seem odd to hear me say I understand a girl like Susan, but I do. She’s very obstinate, and very proud. However badly Bryan turned out she’d never leave him or divorce him or—or do any of the other things. She’d just hang on, miserable, trying to keep up appearances. She’d take up welfare work, I expect, and eat her heart out.”

  “I should imagine welfare work would be rather Susan’s line,” said Sir William.

  “Of course it is. She ought to be an M.P.—her grandmother thinks so too. But how can she put her heart into anything, when she’s miserable at home?”

  “Won’t she be equally miserable if she’s separated from Bryan now?”

  “But only for a while,” said Julia eagerly. “She’ll get over it. She’s only twenty. I know if she doesn’t marry Bryan she won’t marry anyone else for a long time, but I believe that’s a good thing. Susan wants someone older than herself, someone with a position, who’ll appreciate her. I can’t quite explain it, but she needs ideas more than people. She’s got ideas about herself. If you ask me, I believe Bryan’s the first young man who ever had the nerve to make love to her, and she feels if she doesn’t stick to him she’ll be letting herself down.… You haven’t gone to sleep again, have you?”

  “No,” said Sir William, “I’m considering. And I think you’re right, my dear. Only what do you want me to do?”

  “An awful lot,” admitted Julia. “In the first place, I want you to give Bryan a bad time. Talk to him about settlements, and how you’re going to tie up Susan’s money, and ask when he’s going to do a bit of work, and how soon you can see his father. He hates that kind of thing. If he can put it off by not being officially engaged for another year, he will. And then, for Susan—I want you to have her in town with you, and give dinner parties, and make her meet a whole lot of nice men.”

  Sir William considered this without enthusiasm.

  “Susan’s still at Cambridge,” he objected. “She won’t desert her French to help me entertain.”

  “But she gets a great long Christmas holiday,” retorted Julia. “I’m not worrying about her while she’s at college. A month or two back in her own atmosphere will do her good—and besides, if you begin too soon she’ll smell a rat. Christmas is just the time.”

  “And I don’t know any young men. I haven’t for years.”

  “I didn’t say young, I said nice. I know as well as you that Susan won’t care for dancing. The sort you want are the serious ones—interested in the slums, and all that. If they ask her to serve on committees, she’ll have the time of her life.”

  Sir William groaned.

  “I’ve spent a lifetime on committees already—”

  “There you are!”

  “And I’ve had enough of them. I was going to write my last letter of resignation to-night.”

  “What from?” asked Julia quickly.

  “A new sort of club affair in the East End. All very self-governing and educational. I had a letter from the secretary last night, asking if I’d mind submitting a provisional constitution, together with estimates for expenses and a draft appeal for public support.”

  “And you’re not going to do it?”

  “I’m going to send a cheque instead. From now on, I’m the public.”

  Julia jumped up, her face radiant.

  “We won’t have to wait after all,” she said joyfully. “It’s the very thing! Where’s Susan?”

  3

  Susan was in the garden-room, filling her vases. For Sir William, who shared Julia’s indifference to tangles, she had just completed a fine Dutch flower-piece of small early dahlias and red jasmine. She would have made a good florist, and knew it. Sometimes, in the abundance of her energy, she toyed with the idea of running a flower-shop as a sort of side-line to more important activities. She felt she could run any number of things—a career for Bryan, and one for herself, and probably her mother’s cake-shop (if it ever materialized) into the bargain. At the moment, occupied by no more than French literature and a lover, she was feeling vaguely underexercised. It was therefore with extreme pleasure, as Julia had foreseen, that she listened to her guardian’s proposal.

  “But of course, Uncle William!” she cried. “I’ve done settlement work already, for school. I’d love to help, if you think I can be useful.”

  “I’m sure you’ll be very useful indeed,” said Sir William sincerely. Not one of that extremely well-meaning committee had Susan’s energy—but then not one of them had Susan’s yout
h. A pair of charitable dowagers, an M.P., an unpaid secretary, and—yes, that fierce, rather dishevelled young man who was the prime mover. He had energy enough—but no tact. If he and Susan ever got together, they would make, thought Sir William, a formidable team.…

  “I ought to tell you,” he said, “that there’s probably another scheme being got out, by a fellow called Bellamy. He’ll probably tear everything you suggest to pieces. He always does.”

  Susan opened her eyes.

  “Bellamy! The Bellamy who wrote Civics of the Slums?”

  “Very likely,” replied Sir William, with amazing indifference. “I know he’s written something. If you’ll come along, I’ll give you all the stuff.”

  Half an hour later Susan was seated in the billiard-room surrounded by a plan of the new premises, all the information so reluctantly acquired by Sir William, and a mass of pamphlets on club management. She was perfectly happy. As soon as Bryan came back from the lodge, she intended that he should share her joy.

  Chapter 18

  1

  A new and remarkable atmosphere now descended upon the villa. When Julia first arrived there she had been struck by its air of lazy peace; all that was now changed. Susan went about looking exactly like the secretary of a committee, always with a pamphlet in her hand or a bundle of foolscap under her arm. Nor did she stop at carrying the things about with her; among the papers turned over by Sir William were the plans of the proposed club; Susan traced them in triplicate (to work out alternative forms of cloakroom accommodation) and pinned them to the billiard-room wall. Whenever Julia looked up from a bridge-hand she saw the words “Lavatories” in red ink. All this businesslike activity, moreover, stimulated Mrs. Packett afresh, and she telegraphed home to an estate agent for particulars of vacant shops in the Kensington district. The agent, also stimulated, telegraphed back, at such length, and detailing such enormous rents, that the old lady, as well as everybody else at the villa, was quite appalled. “What did you say in your wire?” they asked; but Mrs. Packett would not tell them. Undaunted, she next entered into correspondence with a number of gentlefolk who were advertising in the Lady for “partners with capital.” Some of them wired as well, saying “OFFER OPEN TWO DAYS ONLY,” Or “MANY APPLICANTS WILL YOU CLOSE AT ONCE?” By such innocent devices did they try to lure Julia into their tea-shops. Mrs. Packett, who was by now having the time of her life, wired back all round saying “NO SEND PARTICULARS AND BALANCE-SHEET”—and then the balance-sheets arrived, and she made Sir William check them.

  “It’s awful,” admitted Julia gloomily; “but what can I do, William? I can’t tell her.…”

  “I suppose not,” said Sir William, looking up from the highly complicated accounts of the Singing Samovar. “But it’s rather hard on me. I might just as well be back in Whitehall.”

  “Couldn’t you make Bryan do them?”

  “He can’t add. Anyway, he’s being roped in to draw up articles of partnership.”

  Julia sighed. She hated the idea of yet another link between herself and that objectionable young man, but the fact remained that she and Bryan and Sir William had instinctively grouped themselves into a passively resisting minority. In numbers, it is true, they were superior, but Susan and her grandmother had the moral ascendency. They were Packetts. Julia resented their activities with all her heart, but she had never had a greater respect for her late husband’s family.

  “Here’s Susan now,” she said. “Give me one of those sheets to look at.…”

  Susan, however, had not come in search of assistants; she merely wanted to know Mr. Bellamy’s private address.

  “Because I think I’d better write to him direct, Uncle William,” she said; “then if there are any of my ideas he’d like to use, he can incorporate them with his own. It’s no use putting two schemes in front of a committee; they simply start to argue.”

  Sir William looked at her with healthy mistrust.

  “Wonderful,” he said. “Have you been reading Bacon?”

  Susan laughed.

  “I’d certainly put a committee at a long table, and not a round one. One can’t approve of him, but he did know how to get things done.”

  Sir William looked through his diary, found Mr. Bellamy’s address, and wrote it down for Susan to take away. She went without lingering, brisk and businesslike; but both Julia and Sir William, instead of getting on with their work, sat gazing after her.

  “She doesn’t approve of Bacon,” said Sir William at last. “If he were here, she’d certainly tell him so. And of course, she’s perfectly right.”

  “She’s always right,” said Julia. It was wonderful to have a daughter who was always right, but even to her own ears, and as her next words betrayed, the tribute sounded cold. “She’s a darling!” said Julia firmly.

  Sir William went on with his accounts.

  2

  The third and youngest member of the minority, Bryan Relton, was having an even harder time than his elders. Like Julia, he had found in the original atmosphere of Les Sapins exactly the air that suited him, and the chill wind of efficiency, which now so steadily blew through it, did not brace him but simply made him shiver. Julia could at least warm herself in the comradeship of Sir William; Bryan was left out in the cold. When Susan first spoke to him of her new hobby he had been quite sympathetic and interested; if she liked that sort of thing, by all means (he felt) let her spend a wet afternoon making out plans. But the thing went on and on! Susan never forgot it! She was too strict with herself to neglect her studies, but the moment they were done she switched straight over to the Mile End Road.

  “But it isn’t the Mile End Road!” said Susan, in answer to one of her lover’s complaints. “It’s India Dock Lane.” And she showed him the exact spot on a sketch-map. Bryan looked at it sulkily; to him the Mile End Road—or, for the matter of that, India Dock Lane—was less an actual locality than a frame of mind.

  “If you’re not interested,” said Susan suddenly, “I wish you wouldn’t pretend to be.”

  “Of course I’m interested, if you are.”

  “That’s exactly what I mean. You’re working up an interest just because of me.”

  “But that’s being in love,” pointed out Bryan. “Didn’t you know?”

  To his astonishment—for he rather expected a quarrel—Susan abruptly folded away the plan and asked him to come for a walk. They climbed the heights above Magnieu, up to the statue of the Virgin, and returned through woods. The views were magnificent, the conversation pleasantly light; but Bryan could not help feeling like a puppy being taken for a run.

  3

  With remarkable promptitude Mr. Bellamy replied; and Sir William, who happened to see the envelope, expressed his opinion to Julia that Susan was in for a bad quarter of an hour. For Mr. Bellamy had the habit of endorsing all suggestions which did not appeal to him with the one word “Rot!” He did it chiefly to relieve his feelings, and always meant to rub it out again if the papers were to be returned; but he was also absent-minded, and the habit had already lost him a philanthropic peer.

  “He won’t call Susan’s scheme rot,” said Julia indignantly, “because I’m sure it isn’t.” And as it happened she was right; Susan came out into the garden with a radiant face.

  “I’ve had a compliment, Uncle William;” she announced gaily. “Mr. Bellamy says I’m the first woman he’s had to deal with who’s got average common sense.”

  Julia looked at her daughter with wonder. If that was what Susan called a compliment …!

  “You ought to be highly flattered,” said Sir William. “I suppose that’s the highest praise he’s ever been known to give.”

  “It was the cloakroom arrangements for the girls,” continued Susan. “I’d got in half as many lockers again, and no overcrowding. They’re going to begin converting next month, Mr. Bellamy says, and if I’m in town he’s asked me to go and see him.”

  “Then I’m only sorry you won’t be,” said Sir William “You might prevent
his insulting the architect. We haven’t had a libel action yet, but I expect one at any moment.”

  Susan gazed thoughtfully at the vineyard. Her longing was so evident that Julia marvelled again: from the expression on the child’s face she might have been thinking about a hunt ball, or a new dance frock. It was really quite peculiar! But it was encouraging as well, and as soon as Susan had gone away—her visits were never long, because she had so much to do—Julia sat up with a pleased and maternal countenance.

  “What’s he like, William?”

  “Who, my dear?”

  “This Mr. Bellamy, of course. The one Susan’s so struck on.”

  Sir William looked at her with appreciation.

  “You’ve a wonderfully active mind, Julia. Have you been crying in the front pew already?”

  “Certainly not,” retorted Julia. “I’ve never cried at a wedding in my life.” She paused, and with her usual honesty added, “Not that I’ve been to many. They don’t seem to come my way.” And at that she had to pause again, while a fine blush—the first for twenty years—overspread her face. For how dreadful if he should think … if she should seem to be suggesting!

  “My dear—” began Sir William.

  “About this Mr. Bellamy,” said Julia hastily. “Tell me what he’s like.”

  Sir William considerately did so.

  “An untidy-looking beggar,” he said. “Unmarried, about thirty. Too honest to be popular, but highly intelligent.”

  “Is he good-looking?”

  “In a hungry sort of way I suppose he is. Rather like a Victorian curate gone Communist. I believe his father was an Oxford don.”

  Julia sighed, half regretfully, half with relief. Though the young man sounded pretty dreadful to her, he seemed also to have most of the qualities Susan approved. It was a pity he was so far away.

  “I ought to warn you,” added Sir William, “that as Susan’s trustee I should be forced to disapprove. If he ever makes two hundred a year, that will be his limit.”