Miss Buncle Married (19 page)

“I'll find them,” Jerry said. “They're on the mantelpiece in the drawing-room.”

She found them quite easily, for she knew the house, of course, and she was used to groping about in the dark. In a few moments she had lighted the lamp and the beautiful old room was filled with its mellow glow.

“Phew, that's better!” exclaimed Sam.

“There,” said Jerry. “You must go now, Sam. I'm sorry to be inhospitable, but you must.”

“I know,” Sam said reluctantly.

“Wait just one minute and I'll give you a drink.”

Sam didn't want a drink; he felt half-drunk already—drunk with happiness—in that pleasant state of elevation and bliss when nothing seems real. But he agreed to have the drink because it would give him a few minutes more of Jerry's company.

She went away, and returned with a tray which contained a decanter and a siphon and a glass.

“Here's how!” said Sam in the jargon of his day. “Look here, you must drink to
us
.”

She drank from his glass and repeated the meaningless words: “Here's how, Sam,” she said, looking up at him with her clear gray eyes full of love and happiness.

“Darling Jerry!” said Sam.

“Darling Sam!” said Jerry.

“I must go, I suppose.”

“Yes. You've been simply splendid,” said Jerry. “Simply splendid. I'll see you tomorrow—are you coming over to ride?”

“No, you won't see me tomorrow,” Sam told her. “That's the foul bit of it. I've got to go back to town early.”

“Oh
Sam
! When are you coming back?”

“I don't know—as soon as ever I can, you can bet on that.”

“How hateful!”

“Isn't it? But they've been awfully decent having me such a lot—I don't like sponging on them
too
much.”

“I know.”

“You'll marry me
soon,
won't you, Jerry?” he continued. “I've been most awfully patient. I've waited ages, and it's been absolute hell—”

“I can't—” replied Jerry, wrinkling her brows. “I simply can't, not until Aunt Matilda's better. We can't even be engaged—not properly, I mean.”

Sam's face fell. “But, good heavens, what has
she
got to do with it?” he exclaimed. “I mean you'd be here just the same—I mean,” he continued, laughing a trifle diffidently, “I mean I'm proposing to come and live here with you. It seems a bit odd, but that's what you want, isn't it?”

“Yes,” said Jerry nodding eagerly. “Yes, of course, Sam darling.”

“And you can go on with the horses and everything just the same—only I'd be here to take care of you.”

“Yes, it would be
lovely
.”

“I could easily go up to town every day from here,” Sam pointed out. “I've got my eye on a little car—a second-hand sports model, just the very thing, frightfully cheap, so it would be quite easy. And we'd have the evenings together—and Sundays, of course.”

“Yes,” Jerry agreed. “Yes, it's exactly what I want. Oh, Sam, I'm so happy—it's
exactly
what I want. I should hate to give up the horses and everything
now,
when it's just beginning to be a success.”

“Of course you would,” said Sam. “Of course you would. Besides, don't you see, it would be a help. I mean, I'm not getting a frightfully big salary yet—and—well, it would be a
help.
It sounds funny—”

“It sounds heavenly,” Jerry told him earnestly, and so it did. Jerry was an independent person. She liked “doing things”; she liked to feel that she was a useful member of society; she liked to “stand on her own feet.” If she could stand thus, with Sam's hand in hers, she would ask nothing more of Life.

“You and I together,” she told him. “Partners, Sam!”

“Yes,” said Sam. “Real friendly love—d'you remember saying that to me in this very room—that first day—
real
friendly
love.
I've never forgotten it, Jerry.”

Jerry hadn't forgotten it either. They reminisced very happily for several minutes in the age-old manner of lovers. It seemed most extraordinary that they should both remember so much of what the other had said and done—most extraordinary.

“Well, then,” said Sam at last, returning to the subject nearest his heart, “well, then, there's no reason to delay, is there, Jerry? You will marry me
soon,
won't you?”

“I can't—because of Aunt Matilda,” Jerry repeated. “You don't understand, Sam. Aunt Matilda would be most frightfully upset if she heard I was going to be married. And I can't possibly risk upsetting her
now,
when she's so ill. She might have another heart attack and die—and then I should be a murderer.”

“But if she knew you were going to be here, just the same—you could go over and see her just as often—”

“It isn't
that
,” Jerry cried. “It isn't because she would miss me if I went away. It's just that she's queer about marriage—it's a sort of craze, or something. She can't bear people to get married—it makes her frantic.”

“She must be mad,” said Sam with conviction.

It was at this moment, when Sam had voiced his considered opinion of Lady Chevis Cobbe's idiosyncrasy, that the door of the drawing-room opened, very slowly, and a head appeared round the corner. It was a most peculiar apparition—quite terrifying in fact—a white face, very flat and expressionless, with two light-blue eyes, very dazed and glassy, surmounted by gray hair, twisted up into weird-looking horns which stuck out in all directions. The shadow cast on the wall behind the head was like the shadow of some prehistoric beast.

“Markie!” cried Jerry in amazement.

“I was awake,” said Miss Marks. “I was awake, and I thought I heard a noise.” She came further into the room, disclosing a long thin body clad in a gray flannel dressing gown with lace-edged collar and cuffs. “I thought I heard
voices
and I wondered if you and Archie—oh, it's not Archie!” she cried, trying to back out again through the closed door.

“It's Mr. Abbott,” said Jerry. “He brought me home—very kindly—you see Archie had to go back to town.”

“To town? Tonight?” exclaimed Miss Marks, forgetting her
déshabillé
in her surprise at the news.

“Yes, he's gone,” Jerry replied. “I'll tell you all about it later.”

“Well I never!” said Miss Marks, “but I daresay we shall manage without him quite nicely,” she added with a touch of sarcasm.

“Yes,” agreed Jerry.

“And it was very nice of Mr. Abbott to see you home—very nice indeed—but what have you been doing?” she inquired, peering at Sam and Jerry with her faded blue eyes, “what
have
you been doing? Mr. Abbott has torn his coat. Look at his sleeve.”

“Gadzooks, so I have!” exclaimed Sam.

“And you look like a pair of conspirators,” added Miss Marks perspicaciously.

The conspirators smiled at each other in a sheepish manner.

“You couldn't deceive Markie,” said Jerry laughing. “I never
could
deceive Markie. She always knew when I'd been up to something. We'll have to let Markie into the secret.”

Sam was nothing loath. He wanted to Tell The World that Jerry had consented to be his wife, he was bursting with it, absolutely bursting.

“We're going to be married,” he said. “Yes,
really
. Jerry and I. Isn't it marvelous? Can you beat it? Oh, Glory, I've never been so happy in my life!”

Miss Marks received the news with adequate enthusiasm—she was amazed, excited, delighted. Even Sam and Jerry were satisfied with her reaction to their proposed union. They made her drink their health, and they shook hands all round, and Jerry hugged her. It was a tremendous scene. Miss Marks was able to enter into the spirit of the scene because she was a romantic woman, all the more romantic because her own life had been singularly empty of romance. She adored Jerry, and wanted the best of everything for her darling child—and the best of everything, in Miss Marks' estimation, was a good-looking, and adoring lover. Sam was indubitably both. Sam had stepped straight into Markie's romantic old heart with that first speech of his. “Isn't it marvelous?” he had cried, with his eyes shining like stars. “Can you beat it? Oh, Glory, I've never been so happy in my life!”
There
was a lover.
That
was the spirit in which to approach matrimony.
Here
was the very man for darling Jerry—the very man.

Nobody on earth could have been a more sympathetic or delightful confidante for a pair of lovers than Markie. They poured out their hopes and fears, their amazing happiness and all their difficulties in an endless stream, and she drank it in. She was joyful and sad, hopeful and anxious by turns. She nodded her head, or shook it so that the queer-shaped horns rattled together like castanets. But Markie had quite forgotten about her curlers and her dressing gown, she was much too excited to think about things so mundane as these. She was completely and absolutely happy, and completely and absolutely absorbed in the happiness of her young friends.

“So you see, it's a secret,” said Jerry at last. “It's a dead secret, and nobody must know—or even suspect—because of Aunt Matilda. You see that, don't you, Markie? Because, if she got to hear about it, she might die or something—you know how odd she is—and then I should have killed her, and I should never be happy again,” added Jerry earnestly. “So you won't tell a soul, will you?”

“Not a soul,” agreed Markie, who loved a secret only a little less than a romance. “Of course, my dear, of course—not a soul—not a soul—a secret—a dead secret, until your poor Aunt recovers or—”

She stopped there, because, of course, she did not really wish for the demise of Lady Chevis Cobbe. It would be convenient, of course, and the poor lady was really very queer—fancy anybody being so extremely queer as to dislike the idea of romance—but still, in spite of her queerness, one could not—one did not—and even if one did, thought Miss Marks vaguely, one kept one's wishes to oneself.

The days sped past. They were slightly monotonous, but it was a pleasant monotony, for Barbara was happy. She had decided not to have Sam to stay again, because of Jerry. Sam was in love with Jerry (Barbara had discovered that interesting fact on the night of the Christmas dinner party) and Jerry must be protected from his advances until Lady Chevis Cobbe was safely dead. After that, of course, it would be quite all right. She could have Sam down
often,
and throw them together. It all seemed quite simple to Barbara, and, if she was slightly callous about the prospect of Lady Chevis Cobbe's demise, it must be remembered that she had only seen the lady once, and thoroughly disapproved of her attitude toward marriage. Barbara was a simple, straightforward person—black was black and white was white to Barbara. Lady Chevis Cobbe was ill, her life was no good to her—no good at all—and her death would be convenient and would open up the way for the course of true love to run smooth. Barbara and Miss Marks shared the same views—but they were quite unaware of each other's opinions.

Whenever Monkey Wrench came to The Archway House Barbara inquired of him, most anxiously, about the health of his august patient, and she managed to conceal from him her pleasure when the news was bad, and her disappointment when the news was better. Monkey thought that Barbara Abbott was a kind woman—it was nice of her to be so interested in her ladyship's health, very kind. He told her all he could. During January her ladyship rallied a little, and was even well enough to be taken out for drives in her Rolls-Royce, but in February she was not so well, and Barbara's hopes soared high.

Meanwhile life went on for other people in various degrees of monotony. The young Marvells played in The Archway House garden; Miss Foddy came to tea with Barbara and entertained her hostess with erudite discourse; Mr. Marvell painted his wife assiduously; Mr. Abbott made up his publishing lists; Monkey Wrench formed the habit of dropping in to The Archway House whenever he had a spare moment; Archie Cobbe racketed about town; and Sam and Jerry wrote long and slightly incoherent letters to each other, and longed for each other's company.

One Sunday in February Arthur and Barbara set out to walk to church. It was a gorgeous day after a spell of rain. The sun shone, and the birds sang with such fervor that the Abbotts agreed that it really felt like spring.

“It's funny,” said Barbara, and, as this was her well-known opening for a deeply significant remark, Arthur was immediately all attention. “It's funny, Arthur, but I'm always glad when it feels like spring. Not only because spring is a nice time of year and everybody likes it, but more, because, when winter goes on and on, I sometimes feel as if it was going on forever. Wouldn't it be awful if the sun stayed away—down in New Zealand, or wherever it goes—and forgot to come back here at all?”

Arthur agreed that it would be awful.

“It's a silly idea, I know,” admitted Barbara. “Because of course I
know
that the world moves round, and the sun stays still; I know it, but I can never quite believe it—in my bones. So you see that's why I'm even gladder than other people when I feel that spring is really coming. Do you ever feel that, Arthur?”

Arthur said he had never felt it. For him the seasons were fixed and immovable. He had never envisaged the possibility of spring getting lost (so to speak). He agreed, however, that it was a frightful thought—a positively nightmare thought.

“But it's all right for this year, anyhow,” said Barbara more cheerfully. “Because I really can feel spring today, and so can the birds. Just listen to them, Arthur!” And she smiled to herself, and thought of the bulbs and the seeds, and the roses and all the nice things she had bestowed royally upon The Archway House garden (in the hope that the sun would return from New Zealand at its appointed time and make them grow) and how they would all be preparing, in the secret fastness of the earth, to arise like giants and do her honor.

As they neared the side gate of the churchyard (which they always used because it was so much nearer), they saw the Marvell family in front of them. Barbara hastened her steps, because she liked the Marvells, and Arthur lagged behind a little because he didn't. As a matter of fact Arthur thought that the Marvell family was a blot upon the fair landscape of Wandlebury. Mrs. Marvell was a horrible woman, simply horrible; the children were ill-bred young savages, and Mr. Marvell himself was a bounder of the first water. Arthur had never liked Mr. Marvell since that first night at dinner when he and Barbara had spent so long in the studio together. He was aware that Barbara had a penchant for Mr. Marvell; she enjoyed his company; she admired his height, his resonant voice, and his amazing memory for quotations. Arthur did not like it much when Barbara admired other men—it was foolish, perhaps, but not altogether unnatural—and Mr. Marvell had a sort of grandeur, he was imposing and overpowering. He was, in fact (so thought Arthur), just the sort of man that women always admire. Once Arthur had made up his mind to dislike Mr. Marvell he found plenty of reasons for his attitude. There was the day that Barbara had met the fellow in Wandlebury, and had come home full of the extraordinary compliments he had paid her, and there was the night of the Musical Evening when the fellow had pursued Barbara to the other end of the room, and the two of them had hobnobbed together for ages, laughing like a pair of old friends. Arthur didn't blame Barbara at all—he knew her too well—but he did blame Mr. Marvell, and blamed him most severely. The fellow had a wife of his own, hadn't he? Well then, he should leave other people's wives alone.

It was, therefore, with disgust and annoyance that Mr. Abbott beheld the Marvell family making its way to church on that fine February morning.

The Abbotts met the Marvells at the small side gate leading into the churchyard. Mr. and Mrs. Marvell did not attend church very regularly, but, today, they had elected to attend. Miss Foddy was there, too, of course, and the children, looking quite unlike themselves with Sunday clothes and Sunday faces. It was the first time Barbara had beheld Lancreste Marvell. She had heard about him incessantly, both from Miss Foddy and from his younger brother and sister, but, in spite of that, she was in no way prepared for what she saw. For, no matter how often or how well a person is described, a verbal description can never convey an accurate picture of the lineaments, and the pigment, and the aura that make up the whole personality of a human being.

It's my Golden Boy,
thought Barbara,
how
extraordinary!—
and she gazed at Lancreste Marvell with amazement and excitement—it really is
wonderful
(she thought), it really is one of the most exciting things that has ever happened to me. It's my Golden Boy.

Barbara's Golden Boy was the one creature of her imagination, her only child—so to speak. She had written about him in
Disturber
of
the
Peace.
All the other characters in the book were people she knew—real people of flesh and blood—but the Golden Boy was purely imaginary, and Barbara had always been proud of him. It was this imaginary Golden Boy who had given the book its name, for he had danced gaily into the village of Silverstream, blowing an erotic tune on his pipes, and had disturbed the peace of the sleepy little place in various subtle ways. All sorts of amazing things had happened in Silverstream (or Copperfield as Barbara had called it, in a vain attempt to disguise its identity from the world), all sorts of amazing and unprecedented things had happened, and every one of them was directly attributable to the influence of the Golden Boy. And, now, here he was in Wandlebury, as large as life and twice as natural, Barbara's very own Golden Boy. He was dressed rather differently, of course, for Barbara had imagined him with very little clothing—practically none in fact—and she now beheld him arrayed in Etons, very immaculate indeed, with a brand new topper resting lovingly upon his golden hair; but what were
clothes
(when all was said and done)? It was Barbara's Golden Boy—she would have known him anywhere.

She was still gazing at Lancreste in wonderment and delight when the bells stopped ringing, and the little group, which had been admiring the clemency of the weather, turned with one movement toward the gate. Lancreste seized the handle to open it for the ladies (his manners were excellent, as Miss Foddy had so often admitted) but the gate refused to open.

“It's stuck,” said Lancreste, shaking it.

“Let me have a try,” suggested Mr. Abbott, lending his aid.

“Won't it open?” inquired Mrs. Marvell.

“Oh dear! We shall be late!” lamented Miss Foddy.

What various hindrances we meet,

In coming to the Mercy-Seat,

said Mr. Marvell, in his sonorous voice. He leaned on the gate, and the extra weight burst it open, so that Mr. Abbott was almost precipitated onto the muddy path.

Barbara thanked Mr. Marvell, and commented favorably upon his strength (quite oblivious of the fact that her simple praise was infuriating Arthur), and the whole party trooped into church and disposed themselves in their different pews as the Voluntary came to an end.

In church Barbara could not keep her eyes off her Golden Boy. There he sat between the large black bulk of his father and the small green figure of his mother; there he sat with his golden head bathed in reddish light from a stained glass window, and his ethereal face raised in worship (at least it looked like that) to his Creator. It was almost too wonderful to be true. His behavior was perfect; he knelt, and sat, and stood, and never once did his eyes stray round the church. He neither fidgeted like Trivvie, nor sucked peppermint balls like the greedy young Ambrose, and his voice, when he raised it in song, was the most beautiful voice that Barbara had ever heard. It was high above the other voices, crystal clear and as effortless as a bird's. It seemed to Barbara the embodiment of sheer beauty; there was no emotion in it, no expression at all in the clear, sweet notes, and yet it thrilled her to the core and brought tears to her eyes.

I must see more of him, Barbara thought. I must get to know him, somehow. He can't possibly be horrid and troublesome like Miss Foddy always says. Look at how good and well-behaved he is, and his face is like the face of an angel—and his voice—I wonder if he would come to tea, Barbara thought. I wonder if he's going to be here in Wandlebury for a little now—I
must
see more of him, somehow. And Barbara was so busy thinking about her Golden Boy, and how she was going to inveigle him into The Archway House, and sustain him with currant buns, and iced cakes, and chocolate biscuits, that poor Mr. Dance's erudite sermon passed in at her left ear and out of her right, even more quickly than it usually did.

Arthur was also inattentive to the exhortation delivered so fervently by Mr. Dance, and
his
thoughts were even less suitable to the occasion than those of his wife. He was still brooding over the scene at the wicket gate, and anathemizing the hero of the occasion in a soundless soliloquy. It was just like that big bounder to barge in like that and obtain all the kudos, thought Mr. Abbott in annoyance. The gate had stuck with the wet weather, of course; I had almost got it open, and then he barges in like a great elephant, and everybody thinks he did it. He's a most dangerous man, thought Mr. Abbott, eyeing the black-cloaked bulk of Mr. Marvell with intense dislike, a most dangerous man. I wonder what Barbara really thinks of him.

***

The day which had opened so auspiciously for Barbara (and so inauspiciously for her husband) continued fair and warm for the time of year. Barbara, wandering round the garden, found that her bulbs were beginning to show little shoots of green. She was enchanted at this further proof that the sun was returning to the northern hemisphere. She wandered down to the stream, and found it deserted, save for a thrush, which was extremely busy cracking the shell of a snail against a stone and devouring its inmate. She wandered back to the house and found it wrapped in Sunday afternoon peace. Arthur was asleep in his study. She wandered out again and looked at the bulbs. Somehow or other Barbara felt restless today. She couldn't account for it, except, of course, that she had seen her Golden Boy. The Golden Boy was a symbol of disturbance, so perhaps that accounted for it. It's funny, thought Barbara, it really
is
funny, but that Golden Boy seems to have made me restless. There can't be anything in it, of course, because the whole thing was just imaginary—it was the only thing I ever imagined until I came here and saw the people in Wandlebury Square—but all the same it seems to have had a funny sort of effect upon me; I don't feel as if I could settle down to anything.

She wandered round, and, as she wandered, she thought about her Golden Boy. What fun it was writing about him, she thought. Shall I write another book? No, I won't. No. I simply mustn't, she decided. If I wrote about the people here they might recognize themselves like the Silverstream people did, and we should have to leave The Archway House. No, I simply mustn't write another book. I'll walk over to Ganthorne Lodge and see Jerry, she thought, perhaps the exercise will do me good.