Miss Buncle Married (18 page)

Mrs. Marvell and Mr. Abbott misunderstood each other completely. Mr. Abbott thought that Mrs. Marvell was mad or bad. Mrs. Marvell thought Mr. Abbott was a Philistine—a dull, hypocritical old donkey, as she put it to herself—and they were both wrong. It is very unfortunate when people misunderstand each other so completely, and the saddest part of this particular case of misunderstanding was that there was no possibility of their ever coming to a better understanding of each other, because they were divided by a miasma of prejudice and ignorance.

It was into this atmosphere of prejudice and ignorance that Mr. Marvell and Barbara returned.
They
were delighted with each other, not so much because they understood each other any better than the other couple, but because they misunderstood each other differently. Mr. Abbott was thankful to behold his wife, apparently safe and sound. His one idea was to go home and take her with him. He rose and said that they must go. It was really Barbara's privilege to determine the hour of their departure, but Barbara showed signs of settling down in the drawing-room, and Mr. Abbott was desperate. I shall be rude to that dreadful woman in a minute, he thought, in fact I have been rude to her already, only she doesn't seem to mind. He rose and dragged Barbara away.

The Marvells were a little surprised at their guests' departure; they begged them to stay a little longer, and offered various inducements, such as ping-pong, or the wireless, but Mr. Abbott scarcely listened. All he wanted was to get home.

Sam spent Christmas with his mother, it was only right that he should; he would have enjoyed it more if he had not had to attend quite so many services in church. Sam liked church in moderation, but he did not like spending his entire holiday in the sacred edifice. He escaped as soon as was decent, and came down to The Archway House feeling more chastened than usual after his ordeal. Barbara was worried about Sam; he was not like himself at all. Unrequited love and too much church had worn out and subdued the gay young man out of all recognition. Barbara insisted on giving him breakfast in bed and Sam enjoyed it. He was in the mood for a little petting and pampering—somewhat tired, and not a little miserable. Barbara was a good soul.

The Abbotts had postponed their Christmas dinner for Sam's benefit; it was to be a party. Barbara had wanted to invite the Marvells—to return their hospitality—but Arthur wouldn't hear of it, so they had asked Jerry Cobbe and her brother (who was with her for the festive season) and Monkey Wrench.

The party took place the night following Sam's arrival. Dr. Wrench rang up at about seven o'clock and left a message to say he had had an urgent call, but would come later if he could get away. The remaining five dined off turkey and plum pudding, and pulled crackers afterward. The dinner was excellent, and the party ought to have been a success, but, somehow or other, it fell rather flat. The host and hostess were the only people who really enjoyed it, and their enjoyment was tempered, unconsciously, by the fact that their guests were not in tune. Their guests were, in fact, thoroughly out of tune, not only with each other, but also with themselves.

Jerry and Archie Cobbe had just had a frightful row. They had actually had it on the way to the party, as they were driving over in Archie's small car. The row was all the more frightful because it was a rare thing for them to quarrel. Jerry was a sweet-tempered person, as a rule; she was very fond of Archie, in spite of his delinquencies, and was tactful and soothing and indulgent by turns. But, tonight, she had been none of these things, and each had said enough to make it plain that they were completely at variance with each other upon the Ethics of Life. Jerry's view of Life was that “you should be independent and stand on your own feet”; and Archie's view was that your relations should “take an interest in you, especially if they have Plenty of the Needful, like Aunt Matilda.”

“Why
should
Aunt Matilda?” Jerry had inquired, and Archie had replied, “Why
shouldn't
she? I'm her heir, aren't I? You'd think the old brute would be glad to fork out a bit now, instead of keeping me hanging on, longing for her to pip.”

“Oh Archie!” Jerry had cried. “You don't mean that, it's
beastly
!”

“I'm beastly, am I?”

“What you said was beastly.”

“I said what I thought.”

“Then you
are
beastly,” Jerry had cried with sudden rage. “Aunt Matilda has always been decent to us. I know she's queer, but she's kind to
us,
and there's no real need for her to be kind to us, because she isn't really any relation at all. I can't think why you haven't got any
pride,
Archie. Why don't you
do
something, instead of idling about town?”

“Idling about town!” Archie had retorted fiercely. “Is that what you think I'm doing? You'd like me to come down here and turn myself into a sort of groom, wouldn't you? Talk of pride—you can't have much pride. You're nothing but a common hack-hirer.”

“I can keep myself—you can't do that,” Jerry had told him angrily.

“It's just as well,” Archie had replied, bursting with rage. “It's a good thing you can keep yourself. Nobody else would keep you—”

It was just like fishwives or something, Jerry thought (as she sat at the Abbotts' festive board, and tried to swallow turkey and ham before it turned to sawdust in her mouth). It was just like fishwives
screaming
at each other. What possessed me to say things like that to Archie? What on earth possessed me? And what on earth's the matter with me, she wondered miserably. I can't sleep at night, and I'm as irritable as a bear. I feel as if I could burst into tears, at any minute, and simply
howl—
I never felt like this before
in
all
my
life.
She glanced across the table at Archie. How cross he looks! she thought. What
will
the Abbotts think of him? Oh dear, why didn't I keep my temper with him? I haven't seen him for weeks, and I'm so fond of him, really. It's just because I
am
so fond of him (she reflected) that I'm so angry with him, so disappointed when he doesn't seem to have any guts. But I must
talk,
she thought, it's awful of us to be so gloomy when the Abbotts have been so kind in asking us to dinner like this—and, with that, she flung herself into the conversation with forced, and slightly feverish, gaiety.

The third guest's wretchedness arose from love. Sam had loved Jerry for weeks, and he could not get any nearer to her. Every time he saw her he loved her more, and, when he was in town and didn't see her at all, he loved her more. He was almost desperate by now. And she hasn't had any use for me at all, he thought, she hasn't given me the smallest encouragement. It's hopeless, absolutely hopeless. But I shall have to tell her soon—I can't wait much longer. Oh darling, darling Jerry, how sweet you are! (Sam thought she looked even sweeter than usual tonight: there was a fey quality in her gaiety, she laughed and chattered and chaffed, and her eyes were very bright.) Oh Jerry, Jerry, he thought, I can't bear it anymore.

Dinner was over by this time, and Sam got up and went round the table to light Jerry's cigarette—he was past caring whether the others would think it queer. He watched the brown head bent forward a little as she held her cigarette to his match; he smelt the fragrance of her hair, it was a clean fresh fragrance like the scent of wild flowers; he saw the white nape of her neck (as he stood over her) and the little rings of silky hair, and he was so moved by the nearness and dearness of her, that, when she looked up and smiled to thank him for the little service, it took him all his strength not to kiss her then and there.

Afterward, back in his own chair—he scarcely knew how he had got there—his cheeks burned at the recollection of his impulse. How near disaster he had been! The hand that lifted his glass to his lips trembled so that a few drops of wine were spilled.

Barbara saw it all, and the truth burst upon her with a blinding flash: Sam was in love with Jerry. For a few moments she was delighted, for she was a born matchmaker, and she was fond of them both. They'll make a nice pair, she thought happily. Of course that's why poor Sam is so subdued, but it's bound to be all right, because Sam really is a dear and Jerry is, too. It's
lovely.
And then, quite suddenly, she remembered about the will and came to earth with a bump. But Jerry mustn't marry, she told herself aghast,
she
mustn't marry or she'll lose Chevis Place.
Goodness! said Barbara to herself, whatever shall I do? She doesn't know about the will, of course, and I can't tell her, because I promised faithfully that I wouldn't tell a soul. What can I do?

She was still wondering what she could do, when she and Jerry went into the drawing-room together (leaving the three men to drink their port in the time-honored manner).

“It's cold, isn't it?” Barbara remarked.

“Yes,” said Jerry, sinking into a chair. Her gaiety had gone now, she was deadly tired, and her head ached.

Barbara knelt down before the fire, and attacked it with the poker. “Is Mr. Cobbe going to stay with you for a bit?” she inquired.

“Yes, till Monday,” Jerry replied. “Don't call him ‘Mr. Cobbe,' Barbara. Nobody does.”

“But I scarcely know him,” Barbara pointed out, “and he's rather—rather unapproachable, isn't he? I mean, I shouldn't dare to call him anything else, Jerry.”

“He's not really unapproachable,” said Jerry, smiling faintly. “He's in rather a bad mood tonight; so am I for that matter. I've been wanting to apologize for us both all the evening. The truth is—as Miss Foddy would say—the truth is we had rather a row coming over in the car.”

Barbara looked up with the poker poised in midair. “Oh, Jerry, I
am
sorry,” she said.

“Don't be sorry,” said Jerry quickly. “Don't, for goodness' sake, be sorry, or I shall howl. I don't know what's the matter with me—I'm a perfect fool, that's all. How lovely your hyacinths are! Did you grow them yourself?”

“Yes, aren't they? Yes, I did,” Barbara replied. “I'm awfully proud of them, really, but they aren't nearly as good as Mrs. Thane's.”

“Mrs. Thane is wonderful with bulbs.”

“She's altogether wonderful, I think,” said Barbara thoughtfully.

At this moment the door opened and Dr. Wrench appeared. He looked cold and miserable. Barbara jumped up from the hearthrug and welcomed him cordially. She was very fond of “Monkey” and thought him “good for Arthur.” It was so nice that Arthur had found an old friend in Wandlebury.

“I was awfully sorry I couldn't come,” said Monkey, sitting down near the fire and holding out his thin hands to the cheerful blaze. “Couldn't get away before.”

“But have you had dinner?” inquired his hostess anxiously. “Because you can easily have it now.”

“No, no, I've had some,” replied the doctor. “They gave me some at Chevis Place.”

“Is Aunt Matilda—” began Jerry, sitting up and gazing at him in alarm.

“She's better,” the doctor said. “It's all right, Jerry. She had another heart attack, but it passed off. All the same I wish you or Archie could persuade her to let me have further advice. I'm worried about her, and I don't like the responsibility at all.”

“I'll try to persuade her,” Jerry promised. “D'you think I should go over to Chevis Place tonight? Would she like me to, I mean?”

“I'd rather you didn't. She's asleep, and it might alarm her if you went over there so late. But go in the morning, and try to get her to let me bring a specialist from town, will you, Jerry?”

“Yes, of course, I will,” Jerry said.

They were still talking about Lady Chevis Cobbe when Mr. Abbott and Sam came in.

“Mr. Cobbe had to go,” said Arthur. “He hadn't time to say good-bye. We got talking and he ran it rather fine.”

Barbara looked up in surprise.

“He had to be in town tonight,” explained Mr. Abbott, “a dinner party, or something. He asked me to say good-bye for him.”

Sam was watching Jerry's face—it was a habit of his—and he saw that she was surprised at the news. How queer! he thought, and then—with suppressed fury—what a bounder! For Jerry's face had gone rather white, and he saw her lips quiver. The next moment she had pulled herself together, for she was full of courage.

“Oh yes,” she said. “Of course—how silly of me to forget.”

“He doesn't give us much of his company, does he?” growled Monkey, who hadn't much use for Archie Cobbe. “Here today, and gone tomorrow. Has he found a job, yet?”

“Not yet,” said Jerry bravely.

Sam was the gainer by Archie's sudden flight, for it gave him the opportunity of seeing Jerry home.

Jerry elected to walk home, saying that she had eaten too much plum pudding, and the exercise would do her good. It was a lovely night, cold and very clear; the ground was crisp with frost beneath their feet. Sam and Jerry walked along in silence for a little while.

“I think you're tired,” said Sam at last. “You should have let me take you in the car.”

“I like walking,” she replied quietly. “My head was aching rather, and the air's so lovely—it was good of you to come.”

“I like it,” said Sam quickly. “You
know
I like it. I've been wanting to tell you.”

“You know that Archie did not mean to go to town tonight,” Jerry interrupted him, still in that quiet voice. “I saw from your face—I saw that you knew. But you mustn't blame Archie because it was my fault, you see. We had—we had a row. You knew I was surprised.”

“Yes, I knew,” Sam told her.

“Do you think the others knew?”

“I don't think so,” said Sam, considering the matter. He was longing to tell her what he thought of Archie, but he stifled the words. He had made up his mind to ask her tonight—to ask her if there was any hope for him at all—and he felt that if they began to argue about Archie Cobbe his opportunity would be gone.

“I'm glad the others didn't know,” Jerry said. “It was just because he was angry with me—you see that, don't you?”

“Yes,” said Sam.

“I hope—I hope he was polite to Mr. Abbott,” continued Jerry. “It was so kind of them to ask us. I hope he thanked Mr. Abbott.”

“It's all right,
really
,” Sam assured her. “Uncle Arthur never thought anything—”

“Barbara knew.”

“Barbara always knows,” said Sam. “She's rather marvelous.”

They walked on in silence. They were crossing the moor now. It stretched away from them on either side, ghostly and deserted. The muddy pools gleamed like silver shields in the pale light of the moon; far on the horizon a line of bare-branched trees traced a dark lacy pattern against the starry sky.

“Jerry!” said Sam suddenly. “Oh, Jerry, I can't bear it anymore—I love you so, Jerry!”

“No,” she said. “No, Sam, don't.”

“Please,” said Sam earnestly. “Please—isn't there any hope at all? I mean I know you don't love me
now,
but couldn't you—couldn't you try?”

“No, Sam.”

“Why?”

“You don't really love me,” she said, and, despite herself, her voice trembled a little.

Sam was so amazed at this totally unexpected reply that it was a moment or two before he could find his voice.

“But, Jerry, I do—frightfully,” he said at last. How could she not know that he loved her? He had loved her for months, desperately. How could she not know?”

“No, Sam. You don't really,” she was saying. “You may think you do, but it's not real. It's just—just a passing thing.”

“Oh, Jerry, how can you? I want to marry you more than anything on earth—more than I've ever wanted anything on earth—and you say it's just a passing thing. What
do
you mean?”

“I'd rather we were just friends,” she said unsteadily.

“Jerry!”

“We're so different, you see.”

“Different? I don't know what you mean. I'll be anything you like,” said Sam wildly. “How are we different?”

“You can't change yourself—not permanently.”

“I can if you want me to—somebody's been telling you things about me,” Sam cried. “Uncle Arthur—”

“No, no! It's just that you're a town person, and I'm a country person,” Jerry explained. They had stood still for a few minutes in the heat of their discussion, but now Jerry began to walk on, and Sam had to follow. Jerry was speaking so quietly that he had to bend his head to listen to her explanations. He could see she was upset, and he wondered if this was a sign that there was some hope for him after all. “You're a town person, and I'm a country person,” she repeated. “You may think that doesn't matter, but it does—I know it does. You like parties and gaiety, and I don't. That doesn't mean that I think them wrong. It just means I'm no good at that sort of thing and I don't like it. You wouldn't be happy buried in the country, and I could never live in town—I couldn't—I couldn't possibly. We're different, you see—it's no use.”

“It's not true,” Sam said earnestly. “I don't know how you've got all that into your head, Jerry, but it isn't true—not now.”

“Don't Sam, it's no good—”

“You must listen,” he cried. “It's only fair. I've listened to you. I tell you it's all wrong. I
did
go the pace a bit, but that was before I'd seen you, and everything seemed so stale and not worthwhile—”

“You can't change all of a sudden—I don't want you to—I'm not blaming you a bit. There's nothing wrong in liking gaiety; in fact, it's natural,” said Jerry desperately.

“But I
have
changed. I've changed to
me
,” cried Sam. “It wasn't me before, but it
is
me
now.
Uncle Arthur doesn't understand,” he continued incoherently. “There was a war when he was young like me—oh, I know it was beastly, and they were all frightfully brave, but that isn't the point. And I don't want another war or anything. That isn't the point either. The point is,” said Sam, searching wildly for words to express his meaning, “the point is he got his adventures out of it, and I had to find my own adventures. Oh, I know I was a silly ass, but it's all over now—all over and done with. It was all over the minute I saw you.”

Jerry had listened carefully to all this, and it impressed her. She saw the point that Sam had tried to make clear, and she saw that what he said might easily be true.

“You see,” said Sam in a calmer tone, “you see, I never wanted to go into the office. I wanted the army as a career, but Mother wouldn't hear of it. She thinks that all fighting is frightfully wicked. She hates war, and hates it all the more because of Father being killed in France. And then Uncle Arthur had paid for my education, and it seemed so ungrateful not to go into the office when he wanted me to—altogether I hadn't a chance. So there I was, stuck down in the office, and it was dull, dull, dull—
you
see
?”

Jerry saw. “But you're still there,” she pointed out.

“I know,” admitted Sam. “But the queer thing is I'm getting to like it. I've been working like a horse ever since I met you. I made up my mind I would, it was working for you in a way, and I'm beginning to like it. Uncle Arthur's frightfully decent now he sees I'm—well—reliable and all that. And really and truly I'm beginning to see the fun of it, if you know what I mean—but perhaps you don't?”

“Yes, I do,” Jerry said. “But isn't it only temporary? Oh, Sam, I hate to seem so difficult, but I must be sure. You see, I know what it's like when people have to live together, and don't like the same things. I've been through it with Archie—but it would be far, far worse if you were married to the person. And besides,” said Jerry in a very low voice, so low that Sam could scarcely hear it, “besides I couldn't bear it—I couldn't bear it, Sam, I could just bear it if you went away now, and I never saw you again, but I couldn't bear it if—if we went on—and—and then you got tired of me.”

“But I won't, ever,” said Sam gravely. They had reached the gate of Ganthorne Lodge by this time, and they stood still, facing each other in the cold white moonlight. Two young creatures, very serious and very earnest, oblivious of everything in the world save each other, and the supreme importance of the moment. “I won't, ever,” he said gravely, “I'll love you, and love you, forever, and ever, and ever—real friendly love, Jerry darling.”

And then, somehow or other, she was in his arms, and he was kissing her upturned face—the skin cool and fragrant; the lips soft and clinging beneath his own—and Jerry, half-laughing and half-crying, was saying, “Oh, Sam! Oh you silly, Sam, of course I love you! I've loved you all the time. It was just because I loved you so frightfully that I was afraid. But if you're sure—if you're quite, quite, quite sure—”

“I'm quite, quite, quite sure,” said Sam solemnly, and he kissed her again, just to teach her not to ask such silly questions.

When they had calmed down a little they began to notice the cold. It was freezing hard by now, and the wind was perishing.

“You really must go home, Sam,” said Jerry sensibly, and then she added with her deep chuckle, which was so infectious, “we shall both catch frightful colds in our heads, and I look a perfect sight when I've got a cold—you wouldn't love me anymore.”

“I would,” Sam told her, “I'd love you if you had measles. I'd love you if you had mumps,” and he kissed her again, more vehemently than before. “And anyhow,” he added firmly, when this was over, “and anyhow I'm not going until I've seen you safely into the house—”

“Oh, Sam!” cried Jerry, suddenly aghast. “Oh, Sam, I haven't got the key!”

“The key?”

“The key of the front door—Archie's got it in his pocket—and Markie sleeps like a rock; she's a little deaf, you know. Oh, Sam, what are we to do?”

“We'll find a window open,” Sam said confidently.

“We shan't,” Jerry told him. “Not on the ground floor. Markie's terrified of burglars. She locks up everything when she's alone in the house.”

“We'll try, anyhow,” Sam said.

They prowled round the house together, trying all the windows, but Jerry had predicted truly, Ganthorne Lodge was secure from nocturnal marauders. Every window was shut, every catch fastened. Markie had made certain of an undisturbed night.

“You see,” said Jerry, half amused and half appalled at their predicament, “it's absolutely hopeless. What are we going to do?”

“We'll ring the bell or shout,” Sam suggested, “or throw stones at her window.”

“It wouldn't be any good. She's deaf,” Jerry pointed out. “The only way to wake Markie is to shake her.”

They both laughed.

“I must climb up, then,” said Sam, looking up at the blind face of Ganthorne Lodge consideringly.

“You can't—”

“Of course I can. There's a window half open. Whose is it? Not Markie's, I hope.”

“It's mine,” Jerry told him. “Markie sleeps with her windows tight shut—she's one of the old school who think the night air is bad for you.”

“Does she?” inquired Sam with interest. “What a funny old trout she must be!”

“Yes,” Jerry chuckled. “She is. That's exactly what she
is—
a darling, dear, funny old trout. You'll love Markie.”

“Of course I shall,” agreed Sam. (He was prepared to love everybody that Jerry loved.) “Now then, we mustn't waste time. That's the window for me.”

“No, Sam—you can't—”

“Of course I can.”

“No, you'll fall and break your leg or something.”

“Nonsense,” said Sam. He felt that nothing was beyond his powers tonight; he almost felt that he could spread wings and fly into the window. It was really rather decent of old Markie to have locked up so well; a ground floor window would have been dull. He wanted to do something spectacular for Jerry, something really worthwhile, and here was the spectacular, worthwhile thing all ready for him to do. Sam was lucky.

“Don't be silly, Sam, you'll fall,” said Jerry anxiously.

“I shan't fall,” he promised.

He took off his coat and gave it to Jerry to hold. “There,” he said. “Hold that. I shan't be long.”

Then he started to climb. It was not really very difficult, for the creepers were old and thick and very strong. Their gnarled stems gave him a good foothold. He climbed onto the roof of an outhouse, and edged his way very carefully along the ledge. Jerry's window was just above his head now. He stood up, balancing precariously, and grasped the sill. This was really the most difficult part of it all, but Sam managed it; he pulled himself up, slid the window wider open, and climbed in.

Jerry had been watching breathlessly.

“Hullo, here I am!” said Sam, grinning at her out of the window. “Go round to the front door, Jerry—I shan't be a minute.”

It was a good deal more than the promised minute before Sam found the front door. The house was strange to him and it was exceedingly dark. He groped his way to the door and spent some time feeling about on the wall for an electric light switch until he remembered that Ganthorne Lodge did not possess this modern convenience. The landing was dark too. He groped about for some time before he could find the stair. If only I had my torch! thought Sam in disgust; but he hadn't even a match in the pocket of his dinner jacket. Fortunately the hall was a trifle less black, owing to a small window near the door, so the last bit of his task was not so blind. He found the handle of the door without much trouble and threw it open.

Jerry was standing on the step. “I thought you were lost!” she exclaimed.

“I was,” said Sam grinning, “completely lost. The place is pitch dark upstairs, and I hadn't even a match.”

“It
was
clever of you,” Jerry told him. “I was terrified. I don't know how you managed that last bit by the window.”

Sam didn't know either, but, of course, he didn't say so. He was naturally delighted that Jerry appreciated his feat. He was quite pleased with it himself—not many fellows could have done it so neatly—but he made light of it to Jerry.

“Gadzooks, it was nothing!” he assured her. “I'm sorry I was such ages. Where are the matches?”