Miss Buncle Married (4 page)

“Mrs. Rast,” she said, getting up out of the chair, and frowning at Mrs. Rast in a majestic manner. “Mrs. Rast, I consider your remarks impertinent. I shall be glad if you and your husband will look for another situation at the end of the month.”

Mrs. Rast was aghast—as anybody well might have been—at the metamorphosis she was witnessing. It was like seeing a sheep turn into a tiger before your eyes. She did not recover the use of her tongue until her mistress had left the kitchen.

Arthur had not yet gone to play golf. He was waiting in the hall for John Hutson to call for him (practicing a little putting on the hall carpet) when Barbara, still simmering with rage, emerged from the kitchen premises.

“There you are, Arthur,” she remarked, with forced brightness. “Hasn't Mr. Hutson called for you yet?”

“No,” said Arthur, putting assiduously.

“The Rasts are leaving,” added Barbara casually.

“The Rasts—leaving?” exclaimed Arthur, with alarm and consternation. “Good heavens! How frightful! What's the matter? Do they want more wages or something? Couldn't you persuade—”

“They don't want to leave Hampstead Heath,” Barbara told him.

Arthur's face cleared, “Oh,” he said, “Oh well—there's no real need for us to go, is there? I mean—well—there's no real need. I was just thinking this morning—besides, you haven't found a house yet. Did you explain?”

“I told her we hadn't fixed on a house,” Barbara admitted, she was still boiling with rage, but the rage was well in hand (it was a servant not a master). She thought, Arthur's in a groove—he
shall
move.

“Oh, well!” Arthur said, oblivious of the hidden storm. “Oh well! That's all right then.”

“Are you going to stay on here?” inquired Barbara.

“What d'you mean?” cried Arthur, suddenly aghast.

“I'm leaving here, you see,” Barbara explained calmly. “But, of course,
you
needn't—”

“Barbara! Barbara, of course, I didn't mean I wanted to stay here—no, of course not.”

“You must have meant something.”

“No, nothing. Nothing at all,” said Arthur earnestly. “Of course I'm as keen as ever to find a house—as keen as ever.”

“If you'd rather stay—”

“No, no—certainly not. We must move—”

“You see, I've half left here already,” Barbara explained, waving her hand vaguely. “It's a funny sort of feeling—I've left here, but I haven't gone anywhere else. I'm sort of in the air. But I couldn't possibly come back here and settle down again—I simply couldn't.”

“Barbara, don't be absurd. We're going to move, I tell you.” He was thoroughly alarmed now; it was so unlike Barbara to behave like this—could she be ill, he wondered—ghastly thought! What on earth would happen if Barbara took ill?

He was moved by his guardian angel to do the right thing, the only thing in the utterly unprecedented circumstances. He seized her in his arms and kissed her thoroughly—he had had eleven months' experience in kissing Barbara, and he was rather good at the job. “There,” he said, “there—it's all right, darling, isn't it?”

Much to his relief, Barbara responded adequately. “Of course, it's all right, silly,” she replied, kissing him in return.

They were still locked in each other's arms, when Mr. Hutson opened the front door and walked in—he was a privileged visitor.

“Are you ready, Arthur? Oh Lord, I'm sorry!” he exclaimed, trying to back out again.

They drew apart, full of confusion.

“We were just—er—saying good-bye,” said Barbara blushing furiously.

“Barbara's going to Wandlebury—she's going to look at a house, you know,” added Arthur, babbling with embarrassment. “We're leaving here tomorrow—or the next day. I told you we were leaving, didn't I? I mean you've heard me say we were leaving here—”

“Yes, of course. Everybody knows you're leaving,” agreed John Hutson. “But surely you're not going tomorrow—it's Sunday, you know.”

“Well, perhaps not exactly tomorrow, but quite soon—quite, quite soon,” Arthur assured him, “quite,
quite
soon—just as soon as ever we can—as soon as Barbara finds a house for us to move into. It was my idea to leave here, you know—I've told you that, haven't I? My idea entirely—yes—I can't bear this place—can't think how I've stuck it so long.”

“It's not a bad place,” ventured Mr. Hutson—a trifle bewildered by his friend's vehemence.

“Oh, it
is
,” Arthur told him earnestly. “It's a bad place—not a good place at all. Barbara and I are leaving immediately.”

They walked down the path, Arthur still assuring his friend of the imminence of their departure. Mr. Hutson's small car was waiting at the gate. Mr. Hutson got in and started the engine. Mr. Abbott stowed his clubs into the tonneau.

“I say,” he said, hesitating with his foot on the step. “I say, John, I think I had better run back for a moment and say good-bye to Barbara—you don't mind waiting a moment, do you?”

“I thought
you
said
good-bye to her!” exclaimed Mr. Hutson in amazement.

“Not properly,” Arthur told him seriously. “I think I had better say good-bye to her properly.”

He ran back to the house and disappeared from view.

“So that's marriage!” said Mr. Hutson to himself. “Most extraordinary!”

English towns and villages have as many idiosyncrasies as prima donnas. Some of them hide themselves among woods, or lurk behind hills, to burst into the motorist's view as the road winds round a corner; others are set upon a hilltop, their roofs and spires stretching heavenward for all the world to see. Others, again, lie upon a plain, so that the traveler sees them before him for miles, growing gradually bigger, changing from a toy village to a real one as he approaches. Some indulge in outlying suburbs of villas and bungalows, very new and tidy; others in long rows of workmen's cottages with children playing round the doors.

Barbara approached Wandlebury from the north, she had lost her way, and had been misdirected by a congenital idiot in charge of two ancient farm carts full of manure. She had wandered helplessly into muddy lanes, and had nearly bogged the car in trying to turn at a field gate—turning was still a troublesome and somewhat exhausting business for Barbara Abbott. She had begun to wonder whether Wandlebury had walked away in the night, leaving the countryside unblotted by its tenancy. For miles she had expected to see the place at every turn in the road; for miles she had said to herself, “I'm almost there—that next corner will disclose it to me.” If the country had not been so beautiful she would have been annoyed, she might even have given up the chase and gone home in despair, but the country was beautiful—not flat, nor exactly hilly, but rolling as English country ought to be. The day was bright and breezy, cloud shadows moved over the fields like smoke, and, like smoke, they faded and disappeared. A haze of tender green was spread upon the fields, as the seeds, which had lain dormant for so long, thrust forth their green blades to the warmth of the sun. Barbara could not be annoyed—it was not in her to be annoyed on such a day, and in such surroundings. Besides, she was distinctly above herself today. She had won a battle—a pitched battle against the forces of evil, and she had “managed” Arthur beautifully.
I'm coming on,
she thought.

At this moment, a moment of psychological importance in Barbara's development, she turned the corner of a high wall and found herself in the middle of a town—it was Wandlebury, at last, and Wandlebury just when she had ceased to expect it. There was no gradual approach to the place, no hideous growths of brick and plaster to be penetrated before the core of the town was reached—one moment Barbara had been in the country, the real country of hedges and fields and trees, and the next moment she was in the town.

It was a very small town, of course—a sleepy, sunshiny place that looked as if the rush and hurry of the modern world had overlooked its existence. Barbara found herself in a big square, paved with cobbles. There was a fountain in the middle; the water from the fountain flowed away in a wide runnel: it made a pretty whispering sound. A few pigeons, their iridescent feathers gleaming in the sunshine, strutted about, pecking hopefully among the cobbles, or sat and preened themselves on the edge of the wide shallow basin of the fountain. One side of the square was occupied by County Buildings of Georgian character. They were four stories high with pediments over the principal windows and a heavily ornamented cornice along the edge of the flat roof. High pillars of Doric design graced the broad doorstep, supporting two small balconies with carved stone balustrades. Between the balconies an arched window lent a pleasing dignity to the design, and broke the monotony of the long line of tall windows whose large panes glittered in the morning sunshine. The whole effect of the buildings was bold, and simple, and massive.

The second side of the square consisted of a row of private houses, which had been turned into offices and banks. They matched the County Buildings in period and design, were flat faced and pillared, with little flights of wide steps leading up to porticoed doorways. On the third side was a row of shops, and on the fourth, the Inn.

The Inn, which bore the intriguing sign of The Apollo and Boot, was the oldest building in the square; it was pure Elizabethan, with small windows, timbered orders, and a gabled roof. The archway, which admitted travelers to the inn yard, was high and pointed, and above the archway was a row of latticed windows with diamond-shaped panes. Barbara felt, as she looked at the Inn, that the sound of the coach wheels of a previous century had not died away. She could so easily imagine the coaches, dashing round the corner, lurching in through the tall archway, and drawing up with a clatter of hoofs on the cobbled yard. She could imagine the horn blowing, the ostlers running out to change the horses, and the quaintly dressed passengers climbing down from the top of the coach with stiff and weary limbs. Mr. Pickwick, she thought, and Weller—yes, Sam Weller, that was his name—and the long lanky Mr. Winkle who fought in the duel. It's all exactly like that, she thought (trying to catch the aroma of the book, the bird's-eye view which we reproduce when we try to remember something read long ago and build up from an incident or a character in the story). It's all exactly like the background of
Pickwick
Papers.
How Arthur will love it, she thought, and her heart warmed toward him, for she was desperately fond of Arthur. The recollection of the little scene this morning made her smile—but her eyes were a trifle wet. As if I would have gone away and left him! she thought tenderly, what an absurd darling he is! It was all just bluff on my part (at least I suppose it was; I didn't really
think
it was bluff at the time) and how I ever found the courage to do it, beats me. But, after all, it was really for his own good. He was getting into such a dull groove, and I know he'll be happy here—and so shall I. Already she was determined that the house she was going to look at was the right house. Wandlebury was the place she had been looking for—she knew it in her bones.

Through the tall arch of The Apollo and Boot she drove her car, and was half ashamed of its insignificance and modernity in that ancient yard. She parked it carefully in one corner—there was nobody about—and went into the Coffee Room for lunch.

The Coffee Room was disappointing; it was dark and rather dirty—somebody had tried to bring it up to date and had succeeded in spoiling the atmosphere without achieving his object. But Barbara did not notice the room; she sat by the window and looked out at the square, at the fountain and the pigeons, and the pale gray buildings, and, above them, the pale blue sky; and suddenly, as she looked, the square was invaded by a flock of sheep, driven by boys, who cried shrilly to each other, and waved their sticks; and a strong smell of disinfectant from the sheep's hot bodies drifted up to her as she sat at the window, and caught her by the throat.

But they didn't use disinfectant in those days, said Barbara to herself—it was a sure proof that Wandlebury was really here in the twentieth century.

After Barbara had finished her lunch she set out on foot for the lawyer's office, where she was to inquire about The Archway House. The waiter had told her that it was no distance—no distance at all—and Barbara felt she could sample the unique flavor of Wandlebury better on foot than awheel. She strolled across the square, looking about her with interest and enjoyment. The square was full of ghosts—or so it seemed to Barbara—jolly little ghosts out of Arthur's set of Dickens. Little gentlemen with whiskers on their cheeks, clad in knee breeches, with tight-fitting blue coats and glossy boots; and ladies with poke bonnets and curls, the silken rustle of whose skirts blended with the whisper of the running water in the wide gutter. It was all the easier to see these ghosts because, apart from them, the square was empty. There were no cars, no pedestrians, no signs whatever of the modern inhabitants of the town. But to Barbara the square was not empty, nor deserted, and this was strange, because Barbara always said that she had no imagination at all. To Barbara “an imagination” was a definite thing; it was like a leg, or an arm, or an ear, and when she said she didn't have “an imagination” she visualized herself as a sort of mental cripple, a person who had been born without the usual supply of assets. “I have no imagination,” she would say, sadly, and she would go on to explain that
that
was the reason she had had to put her neighbors into her books. It seemed unkind of them to be annoyed at finding themselves there. They really ought to have been sorry for her—it was not her fault that she had been born without “an imagination,” was it? This being the case, it was very strange, very strange indeed that she should have seen poke bonnets and whiskers in Wandlebury, and heard the rustle of silken petticoats in the deserted square.

It was quite impossible to lose your way, once you were actually in the town of Wandlebury, because all the important part of the town was centered in the square; and very soon Barbara found the names “Tupper, Tyler, & Tupper” on a brass plate, and went briskly up the wide flat steps (worn a bit at the edges) to a dark-green, porticoed door. The bell was the kind you pull from its socket, and it made a terrific jangling somewhere below Barbara's feet. The noise had scarcely subsided when the green door was flung open, and a dapper little man with a round, chubby, pink face, and a round, shiny bald head stood before her framed in the lintel.

“Mr. Tupper?” inquired Barbara politely.

“Tyler,” he amended, bowing from the waist with old-fashioned courtesy, “Mr. Tyler—at your service—ahem. We have been—ah—expecting you all morning. Will you—ah—walk this way. My partner is—ah—unfortunately—ah—indisposed, but I have no doubt that I shall be able to—hum—hum—” and so saying Mr. Tyler led the way across the hall, rubbing his hands together busily and importantly.

Barbara followed, a trifle surprised at the warmth of her welcome. She had frequented the offices of lawyers and house agents for months, and was used to various kinds of treatment at their hands. She had met with cold indifference, verging on rudeness; she had also met with politeness and helpfulness, but she had never encountered such graciousness as this.

She found herself in a large and lofty room, looking out toward the back on to lawns and trees. The walls were shelved, almost to the roof, and the shelves were filled with large black tin boxes upon which, in white letters, she could read the names of Messrs. Tupper, Tyler, & Tupper's august clients. Among these she discerned Lady Chevis Cobbe, C. P. R. Wrench, Colonel Thane, Rev. Edwin Dance, M. Winkworth, Cobbe Estate, Sir Lucian Agnew, Chevis Estate, Wandlebury Orphanage, etc.

Mr. Tyler waved her to a chair near the window, a large and somewhat shabby leather chair; it was exceedingly comfortable. Barbara sank into its embrace with a sigh of relief. She had not realized she was tired, but she was—her morning had been a strenuous one, and her lunch at The Apollo and Boot had not refreshed her.

“You will take a glass of sherry, I hope,” said Mr. Tyler graciously, “or perhaps you would prefer port wine?”

Barbara did not want either, it was one of her peculiarities that she detested the taste of wine, but Mr. Tyler was so pressing, so emphatically of the opinion that it would do her good, so absurdly distressed at her refusal, that Barbara was obliged to change her mind and partake of his hospitality.

“I haven't very much time,” she told him, sipping the horrible stuff—which, incidentally, was '87 Jubilee Port, and had been most carefully (not to say lovingly) matured in Messrs. Tupper, Tyler, & Tupper's vast underground cellars. “I haven't very much time—so if you would—”

“Certainly, by all means,” he agreed. “I have the document ready. If you will just glance through it—we shall require witnesses, of course. Two of the clerks—”

“Surely we don't need witnesses!” Barbara exclaimed.

“I quite understand your feelings,” said Mr. Tyler earnestly: “We have been—ah—most discreet—I assure you—most discreet. My partner and I fully—ah—appreciate your desire for—ah—discretion. Our clerks are extremely—ah—discreet.”

“But I don't understand—” began Barbara.

“The witnesses,” explained Mr. Tyler. “It is—ah—absolutely essential to have witnesses—but they will merely witness your signature—that is all.”

“I haven't even seen it yet!” cried Barbara—did he want her to buy the house without seeing it—what an extraordinary idea!

“Of course, of course,” agreed Mr. Taylor with ready apprehension. “You would like to see it first—to con it over—ah—at your leisure.”

Barbara agreed. (What strange words the man used! She had “seen over” houses, she had “inspected” houses, she had even “viewed” them, but she had never been invited to “con” a house at her leisure.)

“I will send for the draft at once,” said Mr. Tyler, smiling at her over the top of his tortoiseshell spectacles.

Here was another word strange to Barbara. She supposed a draft must be some kind of conveyance—an old-fashioned kind of cab, perhaps—to take her to see the house. It's just what you would expect in a place like Wandlebury, she thought. It
must
be a kind of vehicle—don't they have “draft horses?”

“I've got my car at the Inn,” Barbara told him.

“Quite so, quite so,” nodded Mr. Tyler. “A car is a most useful—ah—invention. You came in your car, and you—ah—left it at the Inn. By the way, I hope you found—ah—everything prepared to your liking?”

“You mean at the Inn?” inquired Barbara in a bewildered voice.

“Dear me, no—at the
house
!” explained Mr. Tyler.

“Oh, I haven't seen the house yet,” Barbara told him. “I only came to Wandlebury this morning.”

“Dear me!” exclaimed Mr. Tyler again. “Dear me! We thought you were—ah—arriving yesterday.”

“No, I only came this morning, and I came straight here. The agents said you had the keys.”

Mr. Tyler laughed heartily. “But the house is open,” he assured her. “Everything is—ah—prepared for your comfort. We have been most careful to—ah—see that everything was—ah—prepared.”

Barbara was getting more and more perplexed. How had Mr. Tyler known that she was coming—unless, of course, the house agent had written. She supposed that was what had happened. She had drunk her glass of port by this time—every drop of it, because Mr. Tyler was really so kind and she was very anxious not to seem ungrateful—and, although the taste was horrid, the wine had given her a warm comfortable feeling in her inside. She felt soothed, and a trifle sleepy, her critical faculties were a trifle blunted. Mr. Tyler was funny and old-fashioned, Wandlebury itself was funny and old-fashioned—it was all very pleasant and peaceful. The waste of time had ceased to worry her—what did
time
matter, thought Barbara vaguely—she would see the house presently, and she was sure she would like it. People always said it was no use trying to hurry these old-fashioned lawyers. She was still ruminating when the door opened and a young man came in with a legal-looking document in his hand. He laid it on the table and said something to Mr. Tyler in a low voice.

“Ah yes—ahem—this is what we want,” said Mr. Tyler importantly. “What did you say, Mr. Benson? The telephone? Dear me, how very—ah—inconvenient. We are all slaves to the telephone these days—all slaves. Perhaps your ladyship will be good enough to excuse me while I attend to this—hum—ha—matter. I will leave you to glance over the draft.”

“But need I?” inquired Barbara, who felt it would be much pleasanter to sit and doze a little while Mr. Tyler was away. “Is it necessary? I mean couldn't I see the house first?”

“I am afraid it will be necessary, or at least advisable, for you to glance over the draft,” Mr. Tyler told her. “You will find it in order—I have no doubt of that, for we followed your—ah—instructions with the—ah—greatest care—I will explain everything when I return.”

He handed her the document with a low bow, and hurried away.

Barbara took the document; it was all rather queer, but Mr. Tyler had said he would explain everything when he returned. She was glad of that, because there were quite a lot of things she wanted him to explain. The document on the face of it, did not seem to bear any reference to The Archway House, but Mr. Tyler had told her to read it—nay, he had said it was essential that she should read it—so she supposed she had better do so—she was an amenable woman.

The typewritten document appeared to be a will. Barbara had seen her father's will and had had it explained to her, so she was able to decipher the peculiar language quite easily. The will started by declaring that it was the last will of Matilda Victoria Chevis Cobbe, revoking all other wills and testaments made by that lady and bequeathing all her worldly goods (and she seemed to be extraordinarily well endowed with worldly goods) to her deceased husband's niece, Jeronina Mary Cobbe, commonly residing at Ganthorne Lodge, Ganthorne. This bequest was, strangely, to hold good only on the condition that the said Jeronina Mary Cobbe was unmarried at the time of the testator's death. If the said Jeronina Mary Cobbe were married at the time of the testator's death, the bequest was to go to Archibald Edward Cobbe, the brother of the said Jeronina, with various provisos and conditions which did not interest Barbara in the least. There were legacies to different people, Bertrand Chevis and Sir Lucian Agnew and Dr. Charles Wrench, and smaller ones to servants and dependents, and there were bequests to charities such as Indigent Gentlewomen and Necessitous Governesses and Children's Homes and Hospitals, but, look as she would, Barbara could find nothing about The Archway House in the will, nothing at all. At the end of the will there was a blank space for the signature of the testator, and on this was scribbled in pencil MVCC, and below were two more blank spaces for the signatures of the witnesses.

The whole thing was most peculiar, thought Barbara (who was now beginning to recover from Mr. Tyler's port), most peculiar. What a strange will it was with that clause disinheriting the said Jeronina Mary Cobbe if she were married at the time of the testator's death. Barbara looked again, more carefully, to see if she had made any mistake, but there was no mistake at all. It was perfectly clear. If Jeronina (and what a funny name—rather
nice,
Barbara thought), if Jeronina was unmarried she was the residuary legatee, and raked in everything; if she was married she was fobbed off with two thousand pounds and some jewelry. Quite nice, of course, Barbara reflected, quite nice if you weren't expecting more, but a mere drop in the ocean compared with what the said Jeronina would get if she remained single. How funny not to want that girl to get married, Barbara thought. Matilda Thingummibob must be mad. (Barbara, herself, was delighted with matrimony and thought it the most desirable state on earth.)

Mr. Tyler was away a long time. He returned full of the most abject apologies. Barbara was delighted to see him, not only because she had taken a fancy to the kind little man, but also because she had been floundering in the bog of bewilderment too long. She was very ready for the explanations which had been promised her.

“Most aggravating!” said Mr. Tyler, bustling in like a fussy little steamboat. “Most aggravating. A call from Bournemouth—cut off in the middle—I cannot tell you how—hum—ha—
distressed
I am that this should have occurred during your visit. It was most unfortunate—most unfortunate. You will understand that we are—hum—ha—short-handed at present with Mr. Tupper indisposed. We prefer to keep matters in—ha—our own hands, which makes things—ha—difficult. Young Mr. Tupper is—an—an exceedingly capable young man, but he is—ha—
young
.”

Barbara assured him that she quite understood.

“Exceedingly kind, exceedingly gracious,” murmured Mr. Tyler. “May I give you—ah—a little more port wine? No?”

“No, thank you,” said Barbara firmly.

“Ah, well,” said Mr. Tyler, rubbing his hands. “Ah well. And now to business. You have—ah—glanced over the draft, so no time has been wasted. I trust it meets with your—ah—approval?”

“But there's nothing in it about the house,” objected Barbara.

“The house?” said Mr. Tyler. “You are, of course, referring to Chevis Place. The house is part of the—ah—estate. It goes to Miss Cobbe as residuary legatee. That was what you—ah—intended, was it not?”

Barbara gazed at him in amazement. “There's some mistake,” she said, in a bewildered voice. “I don't know what you're talking about at all. You must think I'm somebody else, or something.”

“My dear Lady Chevis Cobbe, how could I—”

“I'm not, I'm not,” Barbara cried. “I'm not her at all. I thought there was something queer about it—”