Miss Buncle Married (12 page)

“Don't they? Rather like a zoo.”

“What do you do?” Jerry asked.

“I'm in a publishing office.”

“Oh, that must be rather interesting. Tell me about it. What do you have to do? Read books and things?”

Sam told her.

They discussed modern literature.

She's not really pretty, Sam thought (looking up at the small eager face, with the broad brow and the widely set gray eyes, so frank and clear). She's not really pretty, but there's something about her. I rather like those funny little freckles on her nose and her cheeks, I suppose it's being out riding all day. She looks awfully healthy and strong, somehow.

They talked for a long time. People passed and repassed in the hall, but nobody came upstairs. Sam congratulated himself upon his astuteness in the choice of a retreat. If he had been sitting there with any other girl he would have felt bound to kiss her—a kiss would have been indicated, so to speak (she would have expected it and he would have enjoyed it in much the same way as he would have enjoyed a glass of good wine), but this girl was different from other girls of Sam's acquaintance, and Sam was intuitive enough to recognize the fact. It was rather a pity, in a way, because he would have enjoyed kissing Jerry—all the more because her face was not all messed up with paint and stuff—but Jerry did not expect to be kissed, she might even be rather angry if he attempted such a thing. She's a funny girl, he thought, quite odd, really. It's almost like talking to a man. And yet it wasn't the least like talking to a man, either. There was something about her. Sam was quite annoyed when it was time to go home. The Musical Evening had not been such a complete washout after all.

It was the next afternoon. The sad level light of the winter's sun lay on the empty fields and defined the peaked roofs of cottages and barns with yellow light and gray shadow. It seeped in between the bare black branches of the trees, and glittered mildly in the puddles and the water-logged ruts of the country lanes. Sam Abbott strode along twirling a heavy stick, and striking at the withered stalks of cow parsley and nettles that grew along the edges of the path. He was on his way to see Jeronina Cobbe and, as an excuse for his visit, he had a note—wangled with amazing diplomacy from Barbara—in his pocket. It was essential that he should see Jeronina Cobbe, because the thought of her had been worrying him, and Sam was quite certain that if he saw her again he would be able to put her out of his head. It would cure him completely. He would see her in the cold light of reason and the queer effect she had made upon him would be dissipated. Sam was sure of that. He was so sure of it that he kept telling himself about it all the way. No girl was going to upset him, and disturb his night's rest—
no
girl
on
earth.
I wonder if she'll see through the excuse, he thought (as he decapitated a withered thistle with one blow). Well, I don't care if she does. How could she, anyhow? It would be quite natural for Barbara to ask me to walk over and deliver a note.

He stopped for a moment where the lane forked—the signpost said “Ganthorne” and “Gostown”—Ganthorne was obviously right. He strode on. There were moors about him now, brown moors with boggy green patches, all very desolate on this November afternoon. I suppose she rides here, Sam thought; it must be rather fun. Quite soon he came to the place he was looking for—a small gray house, dove-colored, with twisted chimneys. Trees grew round about it, enclosing it in a dark casket. In front of the house was the garden, damp and dreary now, and colorless save for a row of slightly frosted chrysanthemums. To the right was a long low building—the stables where Jeronina kept her horses.

Sam paused at the gate and looked at the house. It was an Elizabethan gem. His eyes dwelt on it with pleasure; he noted the timbered orders; the gables, steep and darkly jutting; the mullioned windows with their diamond-shaped panes. Then he marched up to the door and rang the bell. It was an old-fashioned bell of wrought-iron, and was almost hidden among the bright red leaves of the Virginia creeper.

The door was opened by a fresh-faced country girl, who seemed somewhat surprised at his appearance, and informed him, reluctantly, that Miss Cobbe was over at the stables. The obvious thing to do was to hand over the note and return home, but Sam had come for a definite purpose, and he intended to see Miss Cobbe.

“I'll go and find her,” he said, and suited the action to the word.

Jerry was easily found. She was standing in the stable yard talking to a groom. She was clad in jodhpurs, brown, like an autumn beech leaf, and a brown jersey, high-necked and close-fitting. Her brown head was bare, and the wind had ruffled her silky hair, and had whipped her cheeks into a rosy glow.

“Hullo!” she said, when she saw Sam, “have you come to see the horses?”

“I've got a letter for you,” replied Sam, delivering it as he spoke.

He had the opportunity of looking at her as she opened Barbara's note and read it. Now was his chance to take a good look at her, and discover what it was about this girl that had disturbed him. He made the most of the opportunity. He studied her carefully: she was different, that was what it was. She was entirely and absolutely different from any girl he had met. There was nothing artificial about this girl; her small determined face was innocent of powder. Sam looked at the freckles on her nose, he marked the broad brow, the sensitive mouth (how pale the mouth looked without the usual smear of red!). It was rather a sad face when it was in repose; it had a sort of sad, wise look as if its owner had too many responsibilities, too many burdens for her years. Sam felt suddenly that he would like to take care of her.

Jerry lifted her eyes and smiled, and the sadness vanished. “I suppose you know—Mrs. Abbott has asked me to tea tomorrow,” she said. “It's nice of her, isn't it? Will it be all right if I just give you a verbal message, or had I better write?”

“It will be quite all right,” Sam assured her. “You can come, I hope?”

“I'd like to come,” said Jerry. “You're sure I oughtn't to write? She won't mind, I mean. Some people are rather peculiar about—”

“Oh, Barbara's frightfully sensible.”

“You call her Barbara?” inquired Jerry in surprise. “Isn't she your stepmother?”

“No, she's my aunt by marriage,” Sam explained. “Besides, I always call people by their Christian names—it's so much easier.” He looked at her as he spoke, hoping that she would take the hint. It would be nice to call her Jerry. He would come to it in time, of course, but the sooner the better.

“I see,” said Jerry. “Everyone here thinks you are Mr. Abbott's son—you know how people talk in country places. They haven't got anything better to do, poor dears.”

They laughed together over the foolishness of “poor dears,” and the atmosphere became more friendly. It was extraordinarily pleasant in the stable yard, sheltered from the wind. The light was fading fast; from the stalls and loose-boxes came the stamp of a hoof, and champ of teeth, and the rattle of a chain, and the rather pleasant stable smell, slightly ammoniac in the nostrils. Sam felt that he and Jerry were alone in the world; he felt very near to her today. Last night he had talked to her about himself, but today he wanted to know more about
her—
what did she do, all day? What were her thoughts?

“You're fond of horses?” he said, tentatively.

“I love them,” said Jerry. She was silent for a moment or two and then, when Sam did not speak, she continued, “I couldn't do without horses, you know—at least, of course, that's rubbish, because I could do without them, I suppose, if I had to—but all the
goodness
would go out of my life if I had to do without horses. You see, Father loved horses, and I was brought up with them.”

“Yes,” said Sam, nodding sympathetically.

“And then, when Father died, and we were not so well off, everyone said the horses must be sold, and, of course, I saw that too—I mean it would have been absurd to keep three horses just for me. Archie doesn't care about riding; he rides sometimes, when he's here, but he doesn't love it like I do. Well, I didn't want to sell the horses a bit, and I put it off from week to week; and then, somehow or other, I began to find people who wanted to keep horses down here for hunting, and a man asked me if I would take an old favorite who was past work, and keep her for him; then some people turned up who wanted a few lessons, and they told their friends about me; and there were some children staying with Mrs. Thane for the holidays—her son's children—and they wanted to ride (it all happened so queerly, somehow), and gradually I began to see that I could keep the horses, and actually make them pay. So now,” said Jerry, smiling at him in a friendly way, “so now you see before you a livery stable proprietor—a sort of riding master—a sort of glorified groom.”

“It was splendid,” said Sam earnestly. “I know there was a lot more to it than that. I mean you must have worked awfully hard, and had bad moments when you thought it wasn't going to be any good—and—and all that.”

“Yes, I did,” said Jerry, not a little surprised that this young man had seen what apparently nobody else had seen.

There was a silence after that for a few moments—a friendly sympathetic silence—and then a groom appeared and touched his cap.

“Well, Crichton, what is it?” inquired Jerry.

Crichton gave his message—Colonel White had rung up to know whether Silver Maid would be fit to ride tomorrow, and, if so, could she be sent over to the Cross Roads tomorrow by nine-thirty. Jerry gave the necessary orders clearly and concisely and the man ran off.

Gadzooks, she's capable! thought Sam—no wonder she's managed to pull through. What a girl! What guts!

“I wish I could get a groom with a little sense,” said Jerry rather wearily. “They've got no initiative, these people. Well, never mind. What about tea? Would you like some, Mr. Abbott? I've been out all afternoon, and I'm starving. Perhaps you've had tea.”

“No,” lied Sam. “I'd love some tea, if it wouldn't be a bother.”

They walked up to the house together, talking in a desultory fashion. Jerry left Sam in the drawing-room while she went and washed, and Sam strolled about the pretty room, looking at the cushioned window seat, the pictures, and the beautiful old furniture (which was so exactly right for the room) and the gate-legged table, bearing ample tea, which was set before the fire. Jerry was not very long. She came down with smooth hair and clean hands, and settled herself on the wide fender stool to dispense the tea. Her legs, molded in her close-fitting jodhpurs, were cocked, one over the other; her figure was outlined faintly beneath the clinging wool of her jersey. She was strongly made—not thin and elegant, but rounded and sturdy. The muscles of her body had been developed by her active life. The firelight flickered on her fair skin (turning it ruddy) and awoke red lights in her gleaming brown hair. There was a golden circle of light from the lamp on the table—without, it was dark, and the windows were like deep-blue panels in the walls of the room.

“It's a cozy house, really,” Jerry said. “Some people would think it dreadfully uncomfortable, but I'm used to it.”

“It's beautiful I think,” said Sam quietly.

“Yes, isn't it?” she agreed, “I'm glad you think that.”

“Anybody would,” said Sam.

Jerry took a large slice of wheaten bread, spread with golden butter, and bit into it with her small white teeth. It was a natural gesture—she was very hungry indeed—but to Sam, there was something symbolic about it. Jerry was like bread, he thought. She was like good wholesome wheaten bread, spread thickly with honest farm butter; and the thought crossed his mind, that a man might eat bread forever and ever, and not tire of it, and that it would never clog his palate like sweet cakes or pastries or chocolate
éclairs.

I do care for her, Sam thought. I do care for her—it's different. It's not so much that I'm in love with her as that I love her. I'll always care for her if she'll let me. I'll work like mad at the office, so that Uncle Arthur will give me a raise—it will be rather good working for her. Oh, Glory! he said to himself, what a dear she is! What a lamb! I love every bit of her.

“You must come over another day and see the horses,” Jerry was saying. “It's no use now—too dark. I hate the dark winter evenings, don't you?”

“Yes,” agreed Sam.

“D'you live with your uncle and aunt?”

“Lord no, I'm only here for a visit, but I shall be down here a good deal, I expect,” said Sam hopefully. “They're awfully decent, you know,” he added (quite forgetting that, less than a week ago, he had anathematized his Uncle Arthur for being a crusty old beast). “Really, awfully decent—and they don't seem a bit
old,
if you know what I mean.”

“They aren't old, are they?” said Jerry. “I saw Mrs. Abbott last night. She's very nice-looking, isn't she? I thought she looked as if she'd be ‘nice to know.'”

“Oh, she is—she's a dear,” agreed Sam fervently. What a splendid thing it would be if Jerry and Barbara became friends. “I'm sure you'll like her awfully. You may think she's—well—rather simple, at first, but really and truly she's clever in some ways—extraordinarily clever.” (He thought, I wish I could tell her about the books, but, of course, I can't.)

“Is she?” inquired Jerry with interest.

“And they're frightfully devoted to each other,” continued Sam eagerly. “It's rather nice, that, isn't it?”

Jerry nodded. “It is, rather,” she agreed. “It makes a nice sort of atmosphere, doesn't it? I don't mean soppiness, of course—that sort of thing always gives me the creeps—but real, friendly love.”

There was silence on that. “Real, friendly love,” Sam thought, that's exactly what I feel for
her.
How odd! And then he thought—I shall never forget this, never, not if I live to be a hundred, not even if I never see her again.

It would always be his—that was what he meant—this little picture: the quiet mellow room, the glow of the lamp, the dark shadows behind the chairs, and Jerry in the firelight, all ruddy with its glow. Already the little picture was enshrined in his memory like a picture seen in the focusing lens of a camera, like a single colored photograph taken from the roll of a cinematograph film—one stationary incident culled from the swiftly passing film of his life.

They talked a little longer of different matters, and then Sam got up to go. Jerry walked with him to the gate, and stood there, leaning on it. There was a mist rising from the ground, but it was clear overhead, quite dark and starry. Sam could not see her face—it was only a blur—but he could see it in his mind, and, somehow or other, he knew that it wore that sad, wise look which he found so pathetic.

“Mr. Abbott,” she said, and it seemed strange to hear her voice so clearly in the darkness, “Mr. Abbott, do you like the town or the country best?”

“The country,” replied Sam promptly, and he said it quite honestly with never a thought for the delights of London which had seemed so good to him a short while ago.

Jerry sighed. “I wish Archie liked the country,” she said. “He finds it dull here. He wants to live in town, but I simply couldn't. Besides, I'm making money now—just a little—and he isn't. We ought to live together—but why should I bother you.”