The Nutmeg Tree (14 page)

“I'm a fool,” she said gamely. “It's not really so bad as that.”

“Poor little girl!” said Mr. Rickaby.

Julia's answering sigh was partly one of relief. It was O.K., she'd been quite right, he did like to do good. With a sudden flash of insight she saw him as a man who liked his good times, but occasionally had trouble with his conscience, and as a man therefore to whom the combination of a good time with a Good Work would be a positive godsend.…

“Tell me all about it,” said Mr. Rickaby. “Tell me how you came here.”

“With Lucien,” said Julia.

“Lucien?”

“The dress designer,” said Julia. How, she could not tell, but this sinister figure had at that very instant sprung fully-fledged from her brain. Lucien, the designer … a man about fifty; tall, heavy, with narrow coffee-coloured eyes …

“Never heard of him,” said Mr. Rickaby, evidently with pride. “Some dago chap?”

“Armenian,” corrected Julia. “Lucien is just the trade-name.”

“Armenian! My God!” said Mr. Rickaby.

Julia sighed her agreement.

“You can't trust them,” she said sombrely.

“And he's left you planted here?”

Julia gulped.

“This morning—when we were leaving the hotel—there was another woman in the car … Someone he'd just picked up. A very tall ash-blonde, with dark eyebrows.”

“I believe I've seen her about,” said Mr. Rickaby.

For a moment Julia was quite startled by her own powers.

“Not that one,” she said hastily. “This one had only turned up last night.… But there she was in the car, and of course I wouldn't stand it. I said so. And then—can you believe it? He simply drove off.”

“No!”

“With my luggage in the back!”

There it was, a good, interesting, watertight story, and Julia felt justifiably proud of it. It accounted for everything, and it aroused in Mr. Rickaby the pleasurable sentiment of righteous indignation. The things he was saying about M. Lucien were hard but deserved. Nothing, Julia felt, was too bad for that devilish designer—especially when you thought how he treated his work-girls. For a moment in Julia's imagination there hovered a vision of dreadful Armenian excesses: for M. Lucien was by this time so real to her that she knew exactly what happened whenever he got a girl to stay late. But she pulled herself up; she wasn't going to risk a libel action; and her next cue was already overdue.

“Now tell me about
you
,” said Julia earnestly.

Mr. Rickaby told her. His story was not nearly so colourful as Julia's, but it was the one she wanted to hear. He was alone at Aix, and finding it rather dull. He had been overworking—overdriven, said Mr. Rickaby—and his doctor had ordered a complete change. He was obviously suffering for someone to talk to, and within the next half-hour had told Julia all about the complicated negotiations (amalgamation of two men's outfitting stores) which had led to his overworking and his presence at Aix. It was the sort of talk Julia was used to, and she knew so many of the right questions to ask that Mr. Rickaby conceived a very high opinion of her brains.

“You understand,” he said at last. “You're an intelligent woman.”

“It's so interesting,” said Julia modestly.

Mr. Rickaby slapped the table.

“There you are. You're interested
because
you're intelligent. Now my wife isn't interested at all. The fact of the matter is, she doesn't understand me.”

From sheer force of habit Julia glanced at her watch; For several years she used to have a permanent bet with one of her girl-friends that every man you met said that within the first hour; the girl-friend had said no, within the first half-hour; and they used to get quite a lot of fun out of jockeying their opponents (so to speak) into position—Julia holding the declaration off, Louise trying to bring it on; and then whoever lost had to stand the other a lunch. Good old Louise! thought Julia, with quite a rush of affection; she hadn't thought of the girl for years, but it was queer how that well-remembered phrase brought her suddenly to life. Red hair, she'd had, and a way with the boys that nearly always ended in a row.…

“You've heard that before, I expect,” said Mr. Rickaby, watching Julia's face. “But what's a man to say, if it's true?”

“That's just it,” murmured Julia.

“I don't say I'm easy,” pursued Mr. Rickaby fairly. “I dare say I'm a bit more complicated than most men. I like all sorts of things—good music, you know, and scenery. I've got—well, I suppose I've got ideals. But it takes a woman like you to understand.”

Julia nodded. She had often pondered this question of why wives didn't understand when women like herself did; and the only conclusion she had reached was that to understand men—to realize the full value of their good streaks, while pardoning the bad—you had to know so many of them. Then when you came across one fellow who was a soak, for instance, you could nearly always remember another who soaked worse; and
he
in turn might have qualities of generosity or cleverness which raised him above a third man who was a teetotaller. But to know all that you had to have experience, and wives as a rule hadn't. They knew only one man, where women like Julia knew dozens; but then women like Julia rarely became wives. It was a rotten system, when you came to look at it.…

“I expect I've left something out,” meditated Julia. Her thoughts glanced at Susan, then hastily looked away, just as her eyes would have looked away if Susan had actually appeared among the café tables.

“Where are you going to-night?” asked Mr. Rickaby suddenly.

Julia hesitated. The leading-on of Mr. Rickaby, enjoyable as it was, had been the result rather of habit than of design; and she had not yet visualized any definite issue to their encounter.

“I don't know.…”

“You must come to my hotel,” said Mr. Rickaby firmly. “
I'm
going to look after you now.”

She pressed his hand. She could hardly do less. And, in truth, she felt very kindly to him. A vicarious gratitude on behalf of that other Julia—the Julia who had been so shamefully used by M. Lucien—swelled her heart. But her brain remained clear.

“How can I?” she murmured. “Without any luggage?”

“I'll see to that too,” said Mr. Rickaby. He was being princely, and he knew it. “We'll go shopping. We'll buy you a suitcase and some things to put inside. How's that?”

Julia was properly overcome; but her brain went on working.

5

Considering that she was a stranger to the town, Julia showed some address in getting to the lingerie-shop first. There was a leather-goods establishment directly in their path, but she got her escort past it by suddenly looking into his face and asking what she was to call him. “Bill,” said Mr. Rickaby. “I couldn't call you Bill!” said Julia. “It's too ordinary.” And by the time they had decided that she should call him Ronald, the suitcases were passed. The next danger-point was the actual threshold of the lingerie-shop, but here she was aided by her companion's own modest nature. “You'll wait outside?” said Julia; and did not even have to add that she wanted to give him a surprise. Mr. Rickaby simply took out his fat pocketbook and handed her a thousand francs.

“Do you know,” he said, smiling at her, “you're an answer to prayer?”

“So are you,” said Julia; and since those were the last words she ever spoke to him, it was just as well that they made him happy.

Once inside the shop she took the simple and straightforward line of asking the vendeuse whether there was a back way out. The vendeuse looked through the glass door at Mr. Rickaby, and smilingly said that there was. Julia then bought a pair of very nice garters, to get change, tipped the girl, and was shown out. In the street she asked the way to a garage, and there hired a car, for the sum of two hundred and fifty francs, to take her back to Muzin. It made an awful hole in the money, but she was still over seven hundred up.

6

It was curious that, after behaving in so perfectly ladylike a manner, Julia should have been troubled by her conscience. But so it was: as she sat comfortably in the car, her bag plumped out by Mr. Rickaby's notes, she could not help feeling—well, mean.

“He asked for it,” she assured herself. “He was having a gamble, and he lost. I hope it'll be a lesson to him.”

For some minutes this new view of her conduct—that she had been altruistically and deliberately showing Mr. Rickaby the folly of his ways—brought a certain comfort. But the comfort did not last. In spite of herself Julia could not help picturing him waiting and wondering, and then perhaps going into the shop, and making a fool of himself in front of the vendeuse, and then stamping out again with a hot and angry face. It was all part of the lesson, of course, but men did feel that sort of thing so.…

To cheer herself up Julia took out the new garters and tried them on. They were black, with silver crescents. She hitched up her skirt and stretched out a shapely but solid leg, and found the effect extremely good. It was just at that moment that the chauffeur turned round to ask a direction.

“C'est près de Belley, Madame?”

“Oui, oui,”
said Julia, letting down her skirt again.

“Yes, yes,” said the chauffeur, grinning.

“You attend to your job,” said Julia.

She was furious as much with herself as with him, and the incident ruffled her. If it had been Susan in the car he would never have dared. But then Susan wouldn't have been trying on garters.… “It's not that,” thought Julia; “it's just something about me. They see they can take advantage, and they do. Mean, I call it.”

Anger warmed her, and with the subconscious purpose of putting herself in the right, she directed it upon Mr. Rickaby. A man old enough to be her father—very nearly! “The old rip!” thought Julia. If she hadn't had the sense to come away, goodness knew what mightn't have happened! The idea that he was still at large in Aix, getting ready, no doubt, to entangle the next thirsty young woman who came his way, was quite distressing to her. She ought to have told the police about him. She ought to have given him in charge. He was a menace to female virtue, and it was no wonder girls went wrong.…

“All the same,” murmured the voice of Julia's conscience—and oddly enough it was also the voice of red-haired Louise—“all the same, dear, you did lead him up the path.…”

Julia rapped on the glass and told the chauffeur to stop. They were just outside the village, and she had no wish to arouse unnecessary comment. When she gave the man his tip he did not touch his cap, but swept it off with a low bow; and though Julia was almost sure this was wrong, she dared not try to rebuke him. She had a strong presentiment that if she opened her mouth, it would be to swear.

7

The first person she met in the villa grounds was Bryan Relton. He at once came towards her with an exaggerated air of anxiety relieved.

“My dear Julia! Where on earth have you been?”

“For a walk,” said Julia.

Mr. Relton looked at her thoughtfully, but did not ask where she had gone. Though Julia had no desire to be questioned, the omission for some reason annoyed her.

“Well?” she said sharply.

Mr. Relton continued to gaze.

“You look to me,” he said pensively, “like a cat who's just eaten the canary.”

Julia stared at him, speechless.

“And I don't believe,” continued this most objectionably perspicacious young man, “that it's going to agree with you.”

Julia just managed to get to her room, and then she did swear.

Chapter 13

1

Whenever Julia, after a period of distress, found herself once more in funds, she gave a party; so on the next day, which was one of the villa shopping days, Mr. Rickaby played unwitting host to a second luncheon at the Pernollet. “Of course it's on me!” said Julia gaily; and for an hour and a half thoroughly enjoyed herself. At the moment of paying, however, she got a nasty jar.

“What a lovely clean note!” observed Susan idly.

Julia jumped. It
was
lovely, fresh and crisp as though it had just been drawn from the bank: a note for five hundred francs. It was hardly probable that Mr. Rickaby should have taken the number; but supposing he bad—and suppose it ever got back to him—and supposing he had it traced …

“He'd never do anything,” Julia assured herself. “He'd only think I must have a hell of an appetite.…” But as one fear was quieted another took its place; for the first time it struck her that Susan wouldn't be really pleased to know that Mr. Rickaby had paid for her lunch. Susan never would know, of course—but if she did! The thought turned Julia hot all over.

Aloud, and quite unconscious of the length of the pause, she said: “I got it in London. I hate dirty money.”

“Filthy lucre,” remarked Bryan—his tone as idle as Susan's, but his eyes alert. “Personally I shouldn't mind how filthy it was, so long as it paid for this lunch. For what I have received, the Lord knows I'm truly thankful.”

Susan, standing by her chair waiting for Mrs. Packett to get up, opened her mouth and on a second thought closed it again. There was evidently a lecture impending, and Julia, to pay Bryan out, at once provided an opportunity for it.

“You young ones ought to walk back,” she said firmly. “It's not too hot and the exercise will do you good.”

“Yes,” said Susan quickly. “I was just thinking the same thing. Ready, Bryan?”

He looked at Julia, met a stony glance, and resigned himself to the inevitable. As Julia followed Mrs. Packett into the car she saw the pair of them turn along the promenade and set off at an unnaturally brisk pace.

2