Miss Buncle Married (9 page)

“Oh!” said Barbara. She had always wondered how you painted the town red—it sounded a fine thing to do. “Don't you think we might ask him down here for a few days?” she suggested.

Mr. Abbott was in two minds about this. “Well,” he said dubiously, “but Sam might not want to come.”

“Why not?”

It was impossible to say why not without giving Sam away (Sam might not want to come after being severely reprimanded, not to say hauled over the coals by his uncle for his idiotic behavior) so Mr. Abbott said vaguely:

“You don't know Sam,” meaning of course that Sam was a bit of a problem, and that you never knew where you were with him. But Barbara took his words literally (as she always took everything) and replied instantly:

“Oh, yes, I do. I saw him at the wedding—and his mother, too. Shall we have to ask
her,
Arthur?”

“She wouldn't come if you did,” Arthur said, “Elsie's awfully religious, you know. One of those people who think more about their own hereafter than other people's presents. If Elsie looked after Sam properly instead of spending all her time in church. If she spent as much time and energy on Sam as she has in saving her soul, Sam wouldn't have—”

“Wouldn't have
what
?” inquired Barbara eagerly.

“Wouldn't have painted the town red,” said Mr. Abbott in his “smiling voice.”

By this time Mr. Abbott had almost decided to ask Sam down for a few days. Barbara was interested in Sam and obviously intended him to come. After all, thought Mr. Abbott, he couldn't do much harm
here
(he couldn't paint Wandlebury red) and, perhaps, if I heard Barbara's opinion of him, it would give me some clue to the boy. I'd like Barbara's opinion of Sam. And then he chuckled inwardly and thought, if Barbara sees through to Sam's bones, I'll eat my hat. The truth was that Mr. Abbott had thought it all over before, and it had been on the tip of his tongue, on several occasions, to suggest having Sam down to Sunnydene, but every time this had happened he had choked the words back, and left them unsaid. The reason for this strange behavior, this wavering, this filling and backing on the part of the usually forthright and stable Mr. Abbott was rather queer. It was the recollection of Sam at the wedding, and Barbara's reaction to the vision—for vision he was. Mr. Abbott had thought himself rather smart—until he saw Sam—he had arrayed himself in his morning coat, with his neatly striped trousers and lavender waistcoat, and he had had his topper ironed at Blockes. They had decided to have a very quiet wedding (this was necessary in the peculiar circumstances), but Mr. Abbott had felt that it was due to Barbara to wear the proper clothes to marry her in, and the proper clothes for a wedding were those enumerated above. In addition to this Mr. Abbott was aware that he looked well in morning dress (and what man does not desire to look well at his wedding?); his broad shoulders seemed even broader beneath the well-fitting black cloth, his narrow hips seemed narrower beneath the chaste pinstripe of his trousers, the shining topper lent dignity to his pleasant, kindly face. These garments of Mr. Abbott's were old and valued friends; they had helped him through his first luncheon party, they had given him confidence at his first board meeting, they had accompanied him to weddings galore, and, on two occasions, had aided and upheld him in the discharge of the responsible and onerous duties of best man. He had worn them at Lords, year by year when he attended the Eton and Harrow match. They had accompanied him to Ascot and had shared with him the joy of winning a good deal of money and the sorrow of losing considerably more. The morning coat and the topper (but not the other more festive accompaniments) had seen him through a good many funerals, and had helped him to conceal too much feeling—or too little.

For five years these, almost sacred, garments had been laid away, guarded by blue paper and a superfluity of mothballs, while Mr. Abbott waged war for his country, attired—very differently, but almost as becomingly—in a khaki tunic and a Sam Browne belt; and, when he returned, bearing the sheaves of victory, he had lifted the garments out of the trunk where they had reposed for so long, had shaken out the mothballs, and had thought—I wonder if I can still wear my morning coat. Of course he could still wear his morning coat, and, what was more, he could still wear the striped trousers, the lavender waistcoat, and the carefully preserved and shining topper—of course, he could wear them (and very smart he looked in them too). War was not the sort of game that put flesh on a man. They fitted him as well as ever—
and
they
still
fitted
him.

It was rather an achievement, Mr. Abbott thought, that at forty-three you could still wear the same morning coat that you had worn at twenty, rather an achievement. Not many men of forty-three could say the same.

These things being so, it was only to be expected that Mr. Abbott should decide to appear in morning dress at his wedding, and should say, off-hand to Sam, who had accepted the honor of being best man, “By the way, I'm going to wear morning dress.” “Oh yes. Yes, of course, Uncle Arthur,” Sam had replied, negligently, and had turned up at St. Humbert's attired in
his.

It was natural, Mr. Abbott supposed, if somewhat galling, to find that the clergyman had taken Sam for the bridegroom, and Mr. Abbott for his father. (The mistake was discovered and rectified in time, so no harm was done except to Mr. Abbott's vanity.) It was a natural mistake, for Sam was young, and Sam, Mr. Abbott was bound to admit, was good-looking He had upon him the radiance of youth, which the clergyman had mistaken for the radiance of a bridegroom. Mr. Abbott had realized all this and made allowances; it was Barbara's reaction to Sam that Mr. Abbott had taken to heart.

“Oh!” she had said when she saw Sam for the first time; and her eyes had strayed admiringly from the tips of Sam's patent leather Oxfords to the crown of his shining topper, dwelling on the way, with all too obvious pleasure and amazement, upon his lemon-colored spats, his gray and white “sponge-bag” trousers, his lemon waistcoat embroidered with lemon flowers, his lemon tie with the pale silver horseshoes, his high collar with its immaculate wings, and the lemon carnation in the buttonhole of his perfectly tailored morning coat.

“Oh!” was all she had said, but there are many kinds of “Ohs,” and, besides, Mr. Abbott had seen the admiration in her eyes. It had all hurt just a little because Mr. Abbott, not unnaturally, wanted all Barbara's admiration for himself on this auspicious day. So this was the reason why, when Mr. Abbott's mind said, “Invite Sam to come and stay and see what Barbara thinks of him,” his heart replied, “No don't, keep Barbara for yourself.”

Mr. Abbott scarcely realized all this, of course; it was a subconscious reaction, and the little that he did realize of it he was not proud of. And now, when Barbara suggested having Sam down, he decided that it was all nonsense, and that he had got over it long ago—besides he had no excuse for not having him—none that he could produce. So, after a little hesitation, while he fought with his disinclination to have Sam and conquered it, he said to Barbara:

“All right, we'll ask Sam and see.”

And with that they went in and presently retired to bed.

Barbara had been at The Archway House for a week before she saw the Marvell children in her garden. It was the day of Sam's arrival, and she had been so busy preparing for his reception that she had not been out all the morning. In the afternoon she walked down to the wild strip of garden beyond the little wood, where the stream ran between banks of sod turf, and, just as she was emerging from the wood, she stopped suddenly for she heard the high-pitched sound of children's voices.

It's them, she thought, it's those Marvell children. And she walked on very quietly so as not to disturb them, and found them sailing little boats on the stream. Trivvie was squatting at the edge of the stream with her back to Barbara, but she was easily recognizable by her tangled brown hair, and the bright-blue overall which she was wearing. On the other side of the stream there was a small plump boy with fair curly hair, and a pink-and-white complexion; he was clad in tight brown shorts and a tight brown jersey, which made him look (thought Barbara) for all the world like a chestnut bud before it bursts into green leaves. He was capering wildly and shouting in his thin shrill voice.

“Mine's winning, Trivvie. Cambridge is winning!”

Barbara watched them for a few minutes—they were too intent upon their game to notice her presence, but, when the race was over and Oxford had won after all—not without some sharp practice on Oxford's part, Barbara suspected—Trivvie looked up, warned by some sixth sense that they were not alone.

“Hullo, it's you!” she said, and then she added defiantly, “You said we could play here.”

“I know, it's all right,” Barbara replied.

“Trivvie's been bucking about you, frightfully,” said the boy, gazing at Barbara with his very deep-blue eyes. “I don't think you're much to buck about.”

“Shut up, silly,” said Trivvie in a stage whisper. “What an owl you are! D'you want to be turned out of here?”

“She better try,” retorted the boy, without rancor.

Trivvie looked at him with scorn; he was silly, Ambrose was. Couldn't he see that they had better suck up to Mrs. Abbott? It was no good arguing with him now, because he could be frightfully stubborn when he liked—Trivvie knew it to her cost—but afterward he should hear of it. Meanwhile a change of subject might be diplomatic.

“You
never
come down here, do you?” she remarked politely.

“Not often,” Barbara admitted.

“Fancy having a stream of your own and not coming down to look at it, even,” remarked Ambrose scornfully.

“Perhaps she's busy,” Trivvie pointed out. “What d'you
do
all day?” she added, turning back to Barbara, and asking the question as if she were a visitor from the moon and had just arrived upon the earth that very day.

“How do you mean?” inquired Barbara, somewhat taken aback.

“I mean whatever do you
do?
You don't paint like Daddy, and you don't sit and be painted like Mummy, and you've got servants so you don't have to cook or make the beds, and you don't have lessons and play like us, so whatever do you
do
?”

Barbara tried to give an account of her activities; she knew she had been busy all day, but it sounded very little when it was told.

Trivvie listened with growing pity to the stumbling narrative—grown-ups were odd, she thought (not for the first time). Here was a perfectly strong and healthy grown-up with the whole day to do what she liked with, and nobody to say she mustn't do this or that or the other, and look at what she did—it was really pitiable. “How dull!” she said at last, sadly shaking her untidy head. “
Doesn't
it sound dull, Amby?”

Ambrose was squatting by the stream. “I wasn't listening,” he said, “but I don't suppose it's any duller than what
we
have to do.”

“But she doesn't
have
to,” Trivvie complained. “Don't you see, Amby? She can do what she
likes
.”

Barbara found it rather embarrassing to be discussed in this frank manner—just as if I wasn't here at all, she thought vaguely.

“P'raps she
can't
do what she likes,” Ambrose objected, “and anyhow it can't be any sillier than what
you
do.”

“I didn't say it was silly,” Trivvie pointed out. “I said it was dull—and it was dull—what are you doing, Amby?” she shrieked suddenly. “Leave my boat alone, you've swamped my boat—you beastly fat-faced baboon!” With a sudden lightning dart she was across the stream, and had seized the unsuspecting Ambrose by the collar of his jersey. The next moment they were rolling on the turf, kicking and squealing, a jumble of brown and blue, fat legs and thin legs all mixed up in inextricable confusion.

“Stop!” cried Barbara, picking her way across the stream. “Stop it at once; you'll kill each other—”

They stopped as suddenly as they started, and Trivvie sat up, shaking her hair out of her eyes with a characteristic toss.

“We won't
kill
each other,” she said scornfully. “I wouldn't hurt Amby—at least not badly—it does him good to be hurt a
little
.”

Ambrose sat up too, and gazed quietly round the little grove. He seemed to bear no malice for the sudden attack that he had endured—he rarely bore malice, for he was of a philosophical disposition, and took what came to him as natural manifestations of fate. In appearance as well as by nature the two young Marvells were as different as children could be—Trivvie was quicksilver, easily moved to wrath or repentance; Ambrose was stolid and stubborn as a mule; Trivvie was a brown elfin creature, thin and wiry; Ambrose was plump and chubby with rosy cheeks and fair hair.

“Trivvie's got a demon,” said Ambrose in a conversational tone. “Like Socrates, you know. Was that your demon, Trivvie?”

“No, it wasn't,” replied Trivvie promptly. “It was me. My demon doesn't go for people—it's not that kind of demon at all. It tells me things, it's more—more like a familiar spirit, really.” She drew up her bare knees, almost to her chin, and stretched the very short skirt of her blue overall over the knobby bones: “There are lots of different kinds of demons, you know,” she added dreamily.

“I don't like your demon,” Ambrose said. “I think it's silly.”

“My demon doesn't mind a bit,” retorted Trivvie defiantly.

Barbara thought it was time to change the subject. “You haven't told me what
you
do all day,” she said, “what do you do?”

“Lessons, mostly,” Trivvie replied, “we have to, you see.”

“We don't do them all day,” Ambrose put in.

“Do you go to school?” inquired Barbara.

“No, Froggy gives us lessons.”

“You're lucky not to go to school.”

“We
aren't
lucky,” said Ambrose, contradicting her in a calm, indifferent sort of way. “We'd learn more if we went to school—Lanky says so.”

“I don't think Froggy's bad—” began Trivvie.

“She's no good,” said Ambrose gloomily. “She doesn't even know arithmetic properly. I asked her how many different kinds of fives there were, and she said all fives were alike.”

“She said your fives were like nothing on earth.”

“Shut up,” said Ambrose, treating this irrelevant remark with the indifference it deserved. “Can't you see there are different kinds of fives? You can make a five with five ones, or with four and one, or with three and two—they're all different aren't they?”

“They all look the same,” argued Trivvie.

“Not to me—they look quite different to me,” maintained Ambrose stubbornly.

“Well, why did you ask her if you knew?”

“To see what she'd say, of course, and she didn't say what you said she said. She said my fives were extrable.” He got up and tried to brush the wet mud off his shorts. “Girls don't understand,” he said, frowning fiercely at nothing. “Girls don't understand—I ought to be at school—with boys.”

“Oh Amby, I understand,” said Trivvie anxiously. “You know I do—I do really, I was only teasing. I'm just like a boy, Amby. I can climb trees better than you.”

“You're not like a boy,” Ambrose told her firmly.

“I am.”

“You're not.”

“Why aren't I? I can climb—”

“You know why,” he said. “You know as well as I do, your—”

Barbara felt it was time to interrupt the discussion—it seemed to be taking a somewhat dangerous turn—“I think that's somebody calling you,” she said quickly.

They listened for a moment in silence, and Barbara heard the cries again, nearer this time. “Trivona—Ambrose.” It was like a lost spirit wailing among the trees.

“It's Froggy,” Trivvie exclaimed. “She's coming this way—”

With a sudden glance backward, and a whispered injunction, “Don't tell her,” the two slid into the bushes and were lost to view.

Barbara was amazed at the suddenness of their departure, it left her in the air; one moment the children had been there, talking to her, and the next moment they were gone. The stream flowed by, chuckling over the stones; the branches of the bare trees rose and fell gently as the wind sighed past; and the little grove was silent and deserted. Barbara stood there for a moment, bewildered, helpless, baffled; and, during that pause, Miss Foddy hove into view, her pince-nez flashing in the sun.

Miss Foddy was small and slight, with grayish-brown hair, and very brown eyes behind the flashing glasses. She gave you the impression of a brown mouse—small and timorous. But, in spite of her mouse-like looks, Barbara was taken aback at her appearance on the scene; it would have been better if Barbara had vanished like the children—had gone while the going was good. Barbara was taken aback at the sight of Miss Foddy, but Miss Foddy was positively overwhelmed at the sight of Barbara.

“Oh!” she said aghast. “Oh—I'm trespassing—”

“It's all right,” Barbara assured her.

“Pray forgive me,” continued Miss Foddy, positively trembling with agitation. “You are Mrs. Abbott, I presume—pray forgive me. I am not in the habit of trespassing upon your property, I assure you.”

“It's really quite all right,” said Barbara again.

“I am looking for the children,” Miss Foddy told her, casting her eyes to left and right as she spoke. “You have not, by any chance, seen the children—my charges—the Marvell children? I am Mrs. Marvell's governess.”

“How do you do,” said Barbara solemnly.

“How do you do,” repeated Miss Foddy, greatly pleased.

They shook hands.

The conventions having been observed, Miss Foddy inquired again about her charges, and Barbara realized that she was in a most uncomfortable predicament, and wished again, more fervently than before, that she had had the presence of mind to follow the children's example and disappear. Was she to take sides with Trivvie and Ambrose, as they had obviously expected, and deceive the wretched Miss Foddy as to their movements? Or was she to side with the law, and indicate the route that the fugitives had taken? Barbara was practically certain that the children had not gone far, they were probably hidden in the bushes, within earshot, listening intently to every word that was being said. How could she give them away?

Barbara gazed at Miss Foddy in perplexity and distress.

“Ah, I understand, you have not seen them,” Miss Foddy said, taking Barbara's embarrassment for a sign of ignorance. “No wonder you are surprised that I should have to search for the children in your grounds, Mrs. Abbott, no wonder you are surprised; but the truth is [she continued] the truth is that they have no regard for the property of others, and, what is even more lamentable, I have not been able to inculcate in them the spirit of obedience so necessary to the discipline of the young mind. I confess this with some shame, Mrs. Abbott,” continued the wretched woman, whose small, grayish-brown face had gone pink to the ears. “I confess this with some shame, for I have now had the Marvell children under my care for two years, and two years should be sufficiently long to mold such young and plastic natures, but the truth is the Marvell children are a little beyond me, Mrs. Abbott. I have not been able to gain their confidence, nor even, I greatly fear, their respect. You are asking yourself,” she continued, quite mistaken as to the reason for Barbara's silence, “you are asking yourself why I have not resigned my post, since I am unable to carry out my duties to my own satisfaction, but the truth is, Mrs. Abbott, that it is so extremely difficult for a woman of my age and uncertified qualifications to find a post in the present-day congestion of the teaching profession, that I shrink—I positively shrink—from the consideration of such a course.”

“I don't suppose anybody could manage them,” said Barbara comfortingly—nor did she, when she thought of the amazing behavior of the young Marvells.

Miss Foddy was much too pleased with the most acceptable view of the case to wonder how Mrs. Abbott could have formed such a true opinion of her charges without having seen them. She smiled at Barbara, and the smile changed her entirely; it lighted up her worn little face, and took years off her age.

“How kind you are!” she exclaimed. “How kind you are, Mrs. Abbott, and—yes—I really believe there is a great deal in what you say. Strangely enough Mrs. Marvell was good enough to make the same observation—in different words, of course—when I hinted to her, as tactfully as possible, that I found the high spirits of her children a trifle difficult to control.”

“Well, you needn't worry then, need you?” said Barbara sensibly. “I mean if Mrs. Marvell herself—”

“One would imagine so,” agreed Miss Foddy. “But the case is not so simple as it may seem upon the surface. Mrs. Marvell is not a very good judge of what is, or is not, the best upbringing for her children. It seems a very extraordinary allegation for me to make against the children's mother, but it is nonetheless true. And I cannot help feeling that the reason she is anxious to retain my services is not so much because she thinks I am the best mentor for the children, as because I am able to be of service to her in various small matters connected with the house. Mrs. Marvell is obliged to help her husband, you must understand. Her husband is somewhat exacting, and I am able to take a certain amount of routine work off her hands—routine work such as counting the washing, dusting the drawing-room, keeping the accounts, and answering any letters which are not of a strictly private nature. These duties are not, of course, the duties to which I have been accustomed, but I have never found it advisable to refuse my aid when it was asked for. So long as these duties do not encroach upon the hours devoted to the children's study (and they do not, for I rise early and perform them before breakfast), I am only too happy to be able to undertake them, and to carry them out to the best of my ability. But sometimes,” said Miss Foddy (gazing at Barbara with her sad brown eyes, which reminded Barbara of the sad brown eyes of a spaniel belonging to Colonel Carter, the son of old Mrs. Carter, who had lived next door to her at Silverstream), “sometimes, Mrs. Abbott, I cannot help feeling that it is all too much for me, and that I should have more chance of dealing firmly with the children, if my energy were not dissipated in dealing with matters of minor importance. My task is none the easier this term owing to the fact that Lancreste—Mrs. Marvell's elder son—has not returned to his preparatory school. He was unfortunate enough to contract an exceedingly virulent form of whooping cough during the summer holidays, and the disease has left him with a small catarrhal patch at the base of the right lung. Doctor Wrench, while not anticipating any permanent injury to the organ, is still a trifle anxious, and definitely vetoes any suggestion of Lancreste returning to Rugton Hall until the symptom has completely disappeared. I am therefore taking Lancreste for history and mathematics, a duty which usurps a great deal of my time and energy. But this is by no means the most serious of my troubles with Lancreste. I do not grudge a moment of the time spent in helping him with his lessons—no—my most serious trouble with Lancreste is the influence he possesses over the younger children, and which he uses to incite them to behave like savages. This is all the more remarkable, because Lancreste, himself, seems quiet and well-mannered in comparison with Trivona and Ambrose, but his influence is deplorable—quite deplorable. The children are always more troublesome and difficult when Lancreste is at home.”