Miss Buncle Married

by D. E. Stevenson

  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 Ma
tilda 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—”

  The color faded from Mr. Tyler’s rubicund countenance; he staggered to a chair.

  “What?” he said. “What? You are not Lady Chevis Cobbe?”

  “No, I’m not—I have never even heard of her,” Barbara assured him.

  “Oh dear! Oh dear me, this is dreadful, this is really dreadful!”

  “I’m Mrs. Abbott,” continued Barbara, “Mrs. Arthur Abbott, and I came here to look at The Archway House.”

  Mr. Tyler took out a handkerchief and mopped his face. “This is terrible,” he said. “This is truly terrible. I shall never get over this—never.”

  “I’m very sorry,” Barbara told him (her heart was touched at the sight of so much suffering). “I really am awfully sorry, but I’d no idea—I mean I thought you knew who I was. You seemed to be expecting me.”

  “I was expecting her,” said Mr. Tyler faintly.

  “Oh, I see,” said Barbara nodding.

  “Oh dear! Oh dear me!” lamented Mr. Tyler. “And her ladyship was so insistent on discretion—I shall never get over it.”

  “Well, you’ll be very silly, then,” said Barbara firmly. “There’s no harm done so far as I can see, except that I’ve wasted an awful lot of time reading that silly document of yours.”

  “You had no business to read it,” said Mr. Tyler, pulling himself together a little. “Surely you must have seen that it did not concern you.”

  “I didn’t want to read it,” retorted Barbara indignantly. “You told me it was necessary. You said I was to read it. You said you’d explain everything when you came back.”

  “Because I thought you were her ladyship,” explained Mr. Tyler.

  “How could you think that?”

  “Because you’re like her. I was expecting Lady Chevis Cobbe, and you’re like her. I don’t know her ladyship very well—my partner does all her business—and naturally I thought—oh dear, and she was so anxious that this will should be kept a complete secret.”

  “I shan’t tell anybody about it,” Barbara promised. She was really very sorry indeed for Mr. Tyler. He was quite broken. He had lost all his funny pompous manner, and had become quite human and not a little pathetic. “I shan’t tell anybody,” she assured him.

  “You will ruin me if you do,” said Mr. Tyler frankly.

  “Well, I’ve told you that I won’t,” repeated Barbara again.

  “Did you actually—er—read the will?” inquired Mr. Tyler, a trifle more hopefully. “Ladies sometimes find our legal phraseology a trifle obscure, so perhaps—”

  “Well, not very carefully,” Barbara replied, stretching the truth a good deal in her desire to comfort him, and feeling very uncomfortable about the whole thing. “The people were all just names to me. I don’t know any of them.”

  “That’s true,” agreed Mr. Tyler eagerly, “you don’t know any of them. Now, if it had been any of the local people it would have been quite different—it would have been disastrous, simply disastrous—but, of course, it could not have happened, because I know them. Yes. But you don’t know anybody here—that’s true.”

  Barbara was glad to see Mr. Tyler recovering, not only because she was a humane woman, and took no pleasure in the sight of a fellow creature in distress, but also because she hoped she would be able to lead the conversation round to the subject of The Archway House. She had wasted far too much time already, drinking port and reading wills. I had better hurry, she thought, or I shall have no time to see the house properly, and I must see it properly, after coming all this way. So, after a few more soothing and consolatory words, Barbara came to the point and demanded the keys of The Archway House.

  Mr. Tyler was only too happy to oblige. He decided that when Mrs. Abbott had gone he would mix himself a pretty strong dose of whisky and soda. Wine was all very well in its way, but, after a severe shock, such as he had experienced, whisky and soda wa
s the best thing—his whole body craved the stuff.

  “I will send a clerk with you,” he said, as he unlocked the safe and took out a large bunch of keys, somewhat rusty in appearance. “A clerk, yes. The gate may be a little stiff to open. Mr. Pinthorpe shall go with you and see that you have—ha—every facility. You will find The Archway House in slight disrepair, of course. It has not had a tenant for a considerable period, but the roof is sound—yes—the roof is—ah—sound.”

  Chapter Six

  The Archway House

  Barbara was drawn to Mr. Pinthorpe from the first. She was drawn to him strongly, and for a particular reason with which all authors will sympathize. Mr. Pinthorpe was reading one of her books. It was Disturber of the Peace (Barbara’s firstborn, and secret favorite) and he was reading it with such intense interest and absorption that he did not notice the approach of the junior partner of his firm until that gentleman addressed him by name in a peremptory manner. It was fortunate for Mr. Pinthorpe that he had gained Barbara’s heart with such suddenness and security, for Mr. Pinthorpe’s appearance was so against him, that nobody, not (you would suppose) his own mother, could have been drawn to him by his looks. He was thin and tall, with long arms, and long thin legs, and a very small round nob of a head set on a long thin neck. His face was extremely unprepossessing owing to a sallow skin, an abnormally long and pointed nose, and very small black eyes, which were so completely socketless, that they reminded the beholder of the boot-buttons sewn onto the face of a rag doll. Mr. Pinthorpe possessed no eyebrows at all, and his hair, which he wore parted in the middle, was very thin and lank, and more than a trifle untidy.