Miss Buncle Married

by D. E. Stevenson

  “The key?”

  “The key of the front door—Archie’s got it in his pocket—and Markie sleeps like a rock; she’s a little deaf, you know. Oh, Sam, what are we to do?”

  “We’ll find a window open,” Sam said confidently.

  “We shan’t,” Jerry told him. “Not on the ground floor. Markie’s terrified of burglars. She locks up everything when she’s alone in the house.”

  “We’ll try, anyhow,” Sam said.

  They prowled round the house together, trying all the windows, but Jerry had predicted truly, Ganthorne Lodge was secure from nocturnal marauders. Every window was shut, every catch fastened. Markie had made certain of an undisturbed night.

  “You see,” said Jerry, half amused and half appalled at their predicament, “it’s absolutely hopeless. What are we going to do?”

  “We’ll ring the bell or shout,” Sam suggested, “or throw stones at her window.”

  “It wouldn’t be any good. She’s deaf,” Jerry pointed out. “The only way to wake Markie is to shake her.”

  They both laughed.

  “I must climb up, then,” said Sam, looking up at the blind face of Ganthorne Lodge consideringly.

  “You can’t—”

  “Of course I can. There’s a window half open. Whose is it? Not Markie’s, I hope.”

  “It’s mine,” Jerry told him. “Markie sleeps with her windows tight shut—she’s one of the old school who think the night air is bad for you.”

  “Does she?” inquired Sam with interest. “What a funny old trout she must be!”

  “Yes,” Jerry chuckled. “She is. That’s exactly what she is—a darling, dear, funny old trout. You’ll love Markie.”

  “Of course I shall,” agreed Sam. (He was prepared to love everybody that Jerry loved.) “Now then, we mustn’t waste time. That’s the window for me.”

  “No, Sam—you can’t—”

  “Of course I can.”

  “No, you’ll fall and break your leg or something.”

  “Nonsense,” said Sam. He felt that nothing was beyond his powers tonight; he almost felt that he could spread wings and fly into the window. It was really rather decent of old Markie to have locked up so well; a ground floor window would have been dull. He wanted to do something spectacular for Jerry, something really worthwhile, and here was the spectacular, worthwhile thing all ready for him to do. Sam was lucky.

  “Don’t be silly, Sam, you’ll fall,” said Jerry anxiously.

  “I shan’t fall,” he promised.

  He took off his coat and gave it to Jerry to hold. “There,” he said. “Hold that. I shan’t be long.”

  Then he started to climb. It was not really very difficult, for the creepers were old and thick and very strong. Their gnarled stems gave him a good foothold. He climbed onto the roof of an outhouse, and edged his way very carefully along the ledge. Jerry’s window was just above his head now. He stood up, balancing precariously, and grasped the sill. This was really the most difficult part of it all, but Sam managed it; he pulled himself up, slid the window wider open, and climbed in.

  Jerry had been watching breathlessly.

  “Hullo, here I am!” said Sam, grinning at her out of the window. “Go round to the front door, Jerry—I shan’t be a minute.”

  It was a good deal more than the promised minute before Sam found the front door. The house was strange to him and it was exceedingly dark. He groped his way to the door and spent some time feeling about on the wall for an electric light switch until he remembered that Ganthorne Lodge did not possess this modern convenience. The landing was dark too. He groped about for some time before he could find the stair. If only I had my torch! thought Sam in disgust; but he hadn’t even a match in the pocket of his dinner jacket. Fortunately the hall was a trifle less black, owing to a small window near the door, so the last bit of his task was not so blind. He found the handle of the door without much trouble and threw it open.

  Jerry was standing on the step. “I thought you were lost!” she exclaimed.

  “I was,” said Sam grinning, “completely lost. The place is pitch dark upstairs, and I hadn’t even a match.”

  “It was clever of you,” Jerry told him. “I was terrified. I don’t know how you managed that last bit by the window.”

  Sam didn’t know either, but, of course, he didn’t say so. He was naturally delighted that Jerry appreciated his feat. He was quite pleased with it himself—not many fellows could have done it so neatly—but he made light of it to Jerry.

  “Gadzooks, it was nothing!” he assured her. “I’m sorry I was such ages. Where are the matches?”

  “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 th
e 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.

  Chapter Twenty

  The Golden Boy

  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 Archwa
y 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.