The Nutmeg Tree

by Margery Sharp

  “Oh God!” prayed Julia aloud. “Don’t let him ever know!”

  The tears ran down her cheeks; she wiped them away, clumsily, with the flat of her hand; and as she sat there weeping a most curious image, born perhaps from that other image of the spilt milk, arose in her mind. She saw herself as a cup of clear water, which she herself was somehow bearing through a crowd, and which she should have carried carefully, steadily, losing not a drop, so that when he asked for it the cup was still full and unpolluted. But instead of that she had let anyone drink who wished, sometimes because of what they gave her, mostly just because they were poor thirsty devils.…

  “How could I tell?” demanded Julia of her Creator. “God, how could I tell?” Ah, but how could anyone tell? Suppose you carried your cup high, safe above those thirsty mouths, and at last there was no one to drink from it? Wasn’t it better to have solaced a few poor devils by the way? And the strange image grew, till Julia saw all the race of women bearing their vessels of water and passing to and fro among the thirst-tormented race of men; and in the forefront she saw her daughter, carrying a cup of crystal, and holding it high above her head.

  “I must be going mad,” thought Julia, in real terror. She rose quickly; there was a wind among the treetops, soughing and whispering and shaking the leaves. The sound filled her with panic; she wanted to go back, yet the thought of the narrow leafy path was suddenly terrifying to her.

  The air seemed darker. It wanted a full hour till sunset; but already she could apprehend the stealthy approach of night.

  With quick, almost furtive steps Julia began to descend. So swiftly, so blindly had she come that the way back was now strange; twice she stood uncertain, and twice saw, or thought she saw, a movement in the trees behind. Her fear of the solitude changed to a fear of unknown company: the sensation of being watched, familiar even to those who walked habitually through woods alone, finally achieved her panic. She began to run, stumbling and hurting her feet on the up-thrust rocks. There were more of them than she remembered, and more blackberry-arms that caught at and tore her skirts. Julia wrenched herself free and ran on, faster and faster, till at last, unaware, she had passed the nut grove and the ruined pavilion. She had not realized her safety when a tall figure seemed to rise up in her path; with a cry of sheer terror she fell forward and was caught in Sir William’s arms.

  “I thought you were a ghost,” sobbed Julia. The feel of his coat under her cheek was such a blessed reassurance that she clung closer still, till she rasped her skin on the rough tweed. For a moment Sir William said nothing, nor was speech needed. The firm clasp of his arm, like a strong barrier against the powers of darkness, was enough. Julia made herself small within it, blessing him from her heart.

  “Did anything frighten you?” he said at last.

  “No,” sobbed Julia. “It was nothing. Only—I’m such a fool—I stayed up there too long, and I got scared. I don’t know why.”

  “It’s unfilled ground,” said Sir William quite calmly, as though that explained everything. “Come down to the house, my dear, and get warm.”

  But he did not move, nor did Julia. She just tilted back her head to receive his kiss.

  5

  “I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time,” said Sir William.

  “Then why didn’t you?” asked Julia, with real curiosity.

  They had walked a little way down the path, not far, but just into the open away from the trees. The rosebushes bounding the upper terrace still screened them from the house.

  “Because I haven’t been in love for a long time,” said Sir William, “and it makes a man nervous.”

  Julia laughed, partly from pure happiness, partly from astonishment. That anyone could be nervous because of her was something so strange, as well as so delicious, that she could hardly credit it. Her eyes widened even as she laughed; she held Sir William by the coat and made him repeat the astounding, the rapture-inducing statement.

  “But why, William? How could you be?”

  “In case I spoilt everything. In case you refused me.”

  Julia stood very still. Refuse him? Didn’t he know she couldn’t refuse him anything? Or was he—was it possible?

  It was possible. It was a miracle, but it happened. A moment later, in the plainest of terms, Sir William had asked her to marry him.

  “No!” cried Julia, almost wildly. “No, of course not! I never heard of such a thing!”

  And breaking from his arm she fled down the bank and ran for the shelter of the house.

  Chapter 20

  1

  Following the best Victorian precedent, Julia pleaded a headache, refused to come down to dinner, and drank a small bowl of soup in her room. Thither both Susan and Mrs. Packett, full of solicitude, came to visit her. “If they only knew!” thought Julia, obediently swallowing aspirins; but not a suspicion, it was plain, had crossed their minds. They talked of, and blamed, the thundery weather; they advised a quiet evening, or rather a long night in bed. Julia agreed to everything, and as soon as they were gone, dissolved—again following precedent—into a flood of nervous tears. The outburst relieved her; she washed her face, and sat down by the window, and tried to consolidate her moral position.

  She had refused Sir William. For a while that one fact, so enormous, blocked out everything else. She had refused Sir William; and though her doing so had been, at the time, a simple involuntary reaction, she did not now, nor ever would, question the rightness of that decision. During her talk with Bryan and her vigil on the hillside she had done all the thinking necessary; her mind was firmly made up. Sir William, in his blessed ignorance and uprightness, had asked her to marry him; only by refusing could she, Julia, reach up to his level.

  “God knows how I did it,” she thought, bowing her head down on the window sill. “It must have been because I hadn’t time to think.…”

  But she knew, with melancholy pride, that even if she had thought it would have been the same. For she would have thought of Susan. To marry Sir William would be to destroy the last argument against Susan’s marriage with Bryan; no use talking to Bryan of incompatibility, if her own action, meanwhile, spoke louder than any words! That afternoon, for the first time, she had been conscious of making an impression on him; how much stronger it would be when he knew what she had done! For know he must, even though it meant asking permission of Sir William first—and that would be almost the hardest thing yet.

  “If only I could get away!” thought Julia desperately. “If only I could cut it clean out!” The thought of the morning, bringing its renewal of their intercourse, was terrible to contemplate; she could only pray that Sir William, like herself, would be willing to wipe out and forget everything that had happened since the moment when she so literally fell into his arms. Not that she would forget—ever; she would warm all her life with the beautiful memory; but she would behave as though she had. Gradually, firmly, she would withdraw from intimacy; become gently reserved; so that when at last they parted it would be merely as friends.

  “If the truth were known,” said Julia aloud, “I bet he’s thanking his stars already.”

  Then she put her hand over her heart and pressed hard; because it really felt queer, like something heavy and bruised inside her. Renunciation scenes were all right on the stage; but in real life—and without an audience—there wasn’t much fun in them. Julia got up and automatically began to tidy her hair; the face in the glass surprised her by looking very much as usual. “It’s too round,” thought Julia dispassionately. “I’m not built for tragedy”—and she was still scrutinizing herself when Susan tapped at the door and came quietly in.

  “How are you now?” she asked. “I thought you might have gone to bed.”

  2

  “No,” said Julia, with a guilty start. “No, I haven’t. I believe it’s cooler.”

  “It is,” agreed Susan. “There’s almost a breeze. Uncle William thinks it might do you good if he took you for a short run in the car.” />
  Julia started again. This was a frontal attack such as she had not contemplated, and such as she must at all costs repel.

  “Thank him very much,” she said quickly, “but I don’t think I will. I believe I’d better stay quiet. I believe I’m going to bed.”

  Susan smiled encouragingly, like the best type of nurse.

  “If you can make the effort, you know, I believe you’d feel better.” Her eyes glanced over the soup bowl, which Julia, in spite of mental distress, had cleaned up with a piece of bread. “You get so much more air in a car.”

  “It’s closed,” said Julia, rashly entering into argument.

  “But you can have all the windows open, and the roof. You can sit in the back by yourself and be perfectly quiet.” Susan smiled again; her bedside manner was so perfect that Julia could almost smell the ether. She changed her line of defence.

  “If you want to know, Sue, I don’t like to give Sir William the trouble—”

  “Then that’s all right,” said Susan triumphantly, “because he’s getting the car out now.”

  Five minutes later Julia found herself being tenderly delivered to her abductor at the foot of the porch steps. The car was as open as its Daimler nature permitted, there were rugs in case the night turned chilly, and a paper fan (supplied by Anthelmine) in case it perversely turned hot.

  “Back or front?” asked Susan, as Bryan leapt gallantly forward to open the door.

  Sir William looked round, full into Julia’s face.

  “Back,” said Julia.

  With languid dignity she took her seat. As Bryan folded the rug over her knees, as the others stood watching from the steps, she began to feel as though she were really leaving a nursing-home for her first outing. It was a good moment in its way—and it was just like Bryan to go and spoil it.

  “Bet you don’t come home like that!” said Bryan cheerfully.

  3

  For perhaps three minutes the car and its two occupants slid silently through the dark. There was a breeze, as Susan had promised; but even physically Julia could not relax. She sat rigid in every limb, one hand clutching the rug, the other pressed hard against the seat. Totally incapable of speech herself, she equally feared and longed for Sir William’s first words. When at last, from a slight movement of his head, she knew that they were coming, she could hardly draw breath.

  “You must be damned hungry,” said Sir William over his shoulder.

  “I’m not!” gasped Julia.

  “If you’d only told me,” continued Sir William, unheeding, “I could have had a headache myself.”

  “I did have a headache!” cried Julia indignantly.

  “Whether you had or you hadn’t, I can quite believe you’ve got one now. The first thing we must do is to get you some food. Why are you sitting there in the back?”

  “So that I don’t have to talk,” explained Julia, with as much sarcasm as she could muster. For some minutes she flattered herself that it had taken effect; but Sir William’s next question was not reassuring.

  “What was that young Relton said to you?”

  “Nothing,” snapped Julia. “At least—he said he was sorry for me being dragged out, just to please Susan, when I’d got such a headache.”

  “You’ll be better when you’ve had some food,” said Sir William.

  Julia was now too exasperated to speak; but she was no longer tense. She threw herself back against the cushions with an audible thump; her brain worked naturally and furiously as she thought of more things to say to Sir William. Their skirmish had at least broken the ice, and as this thought crossed her mind Julia suddenly began to laugh.

  “William!”

  “My dear?”

  “Did you do it on purpose?”

  “Do what?”

  “Make me lose my temper.”

  “Of course,” said Sir William. “Now are you coming in front?”

  He stopped the car; Julia bundled out and got in beside him. His object having been achieved, however, Sir William relapsed into silence; and indeed it was only a few minutes before the outskirts of Belley began to loom before them. They drew up not at the Pernollet, but, by Julia’s choice, at a small café near the promenade. She selected it because there were plenty of people there, and because for once in her life she wanted chaperoning; she had not allowed for Sir William’s English habit of lumping all foreigners with their natural and inanimate surroundings.

  “Now then!” he said, as soon as Julia was supplied with an omelette and red wine. “It’s customary, when refusing an offer of marriage, to give some reason. Even if you simply dislike the man, you’re supposed to trump up some polite excuse as a salve to masculine pride.”

  “Dislike!” cried Julia, at once falling into the trap. “If you think that, you—you can’t have any sense at all. I like you better than any man I’ve ever met.”

  “Thank you,” said Sir William. “That’s very handsome. Then why won’t you marry me?”

  Julia decided to tell a certain amount of the truth.

  “Because it wouldn’t be suitable. Because I wouldn’t be the kind of wife people expect for you.”

  “Damn what people expect,” said Sir William vigorously. “I’ve been doing what people expect all my life, and now I’m old enough to please myself.”

  Julia took a deep breath.

  “You don’t know anything about me—”

  “I know quite enough. I know you make me enjoy things as I never thought I would again. I know that I have a most ridiculous desire, Julia,—since you’re so obviously capable of looking after yourself,—to take care of you. You’ll probably find me a thorough nuisance.”

  “Oh no, I shouldn’t,” said Julia earnestly. “I should simply love it. I’ve often looked at women with husbands—the nice sort, you know, who buy railway tickets for them—and thought how lovely it must be.” She paused, aware that this was not the line she had intended to take, and began again. “There are things I ought to tell you—”

  “Don’t,” said Sir William. “I haven’t been a hermit myself, but I’m not going to bore you with the details.”

  “I shouldn’t be bored a bit,” said Julia, who had no tact.

  “In any case I shan’t tell you. We start clear from now.”

  “But I must tell,” said Julia desperately. “You see, if, when we both left here, you’d asked me to go to Aix with you—or anywhere else, for that matter—I’d have come like a shot. Just for a week, or as long as you wanted me. I—I’d come now.”

  “I know you would, my dear.”

  “Well?” said Julia, staring straight in front of her.

  “I don’t want you just for a week,” explained Sir William. “I want you for always. And I’m too old, my dear, to go about staying in hotels under assumed names. I should find it a great nuisance.”

  “We could take a villa somewhere,” suggested Julia seriously.

  “That would be even more conspicuous,” said Sir William.

  Involuntarily Julia sighed. She was loving him more and more all the time, and it didn’t make things easier. But she thought of Susan and hardened her heart.

  “There’s something else, William—no, not about me; about Sue and Bryan. I’ve told him again and again that people as different as they are haven’t a hope. But we’re just as different ourselves: you’re good, like Susan, and I’m the same sort as he is—and what’s more, he knows it. If I go and marry you, he’ll just think it’s all rot.”

  “So it is,” said Sir William.

  “About us, perhaps,” admitted Julia. “But then you’re different again. You’re not pure good, like Sue. You’re older, and you’ve knocked about a bit, and you wouldn’t expect so much. But Bryan won’t see all that; he’ll just see that I’ve practised one thing and preached another, and he’ll never believe a word I say again. You know what the young are.”

  “I know one thing,” said Sir William, “and that is that I strongly object to being made the sacrifice.”
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  “He’d want a double wedding,” prophesied Julia, still following her own train of thought; “it’s just what he’d enjoy. He’d go and marry Susan just to see my face. I’m sorry, William dear.”

  Sir William was apparently following his own train of thought too.

  “I can understand that you’re afraid of getting tired of me—”

  “No!” cried Julia, stung. “Never! You mustn’t think that of me, William! I know—I could swear—that if I married you I’d never look at another man so long as I lived. I wouldn’t want to. I’ve got an awful lot of—of faithfulness in me, if you can only believe it.…”

  “If I didn’t believe it,” said Sir William gently, “I shouldn’t have asked you to marry me. But I think it’s only for the one right man, my dear, and if I’m not he—”

  “But you are!” wailed Julia, almost in tears. “I’ve known it all along, and that’s what’s so awful. You can’t think how I want to—to show you. I’ve sometimes wished—no, not wished, just imagined—that you were a hopeless invalid, or paralyzed, or something, so that I could just be there looking after you for years and years. I’d love it!”

  For a moment Sir William did not speak; and indeed so forcible an expression of devotion was enough to silence any man. Then he reached out and put Julia’s coat round her shoulders.