Miss Buncle Married

by D. E. Stevenson

  “No,” said Sam firmly. “No, that is not a good idea, Dorcas.” He would rather not see Jerry at all than go to her looking a figure of fun.

  “I can’t think of anything else,” said Dorcas hopelessly, “unless you was to wear a pair of Mr. Abbott’s golfing stockings and your overcoat. You might do that, sir.”

  “I might,” agreed Sam, with bitter sarcasm. “There would be no chance at all of me catching a most frightful chill, would there? I might go out in my pajamas, mightn’t I? Or wrapped up in a sheet—somebody might think I was the ghost—I might even—” said Sam, and then he stopped, suddenly; for, after all, why shouldn’t he? Why shouldn’t he wear his fancy dress, and go over and see Jerry in it? The fancy dress was there in his suitcase, all ready and waiting (it was simply asking to be worn) and it became him mightily, as he well knew. No need to be ashamed of himself in those marvelous togs, no indeed. Sam banished the horrible vision of himself, shambling into Jerry’s drawing-room with Uncle Arthur’s bags in folds round his stomach, and in wrinkles down his legs, showing, Sam felt, that Uncle Arthur was, not only a bigger man, but, also (in some ways) a finer man than himself. Sam banished the vision—the nightmare vision. No, no, he knew of a better way than that.

  “Hurrah!” he shouted, frightening Dorcas nearly out of her skin. “Hurrah! Of course I will. What an owl I was not to think of it before!” and he pounced upon the suitcase and emptied the gorgeous raiment it contained in a heap onto the floor.

  Dorcas fled from the frightful spectacle of a young gentleman tearing off a neat blue shirt over his untidy head.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Sir Walter Raleigh

  Thus it befell that, half an hour later, Jerry, sitting lonely and rather miserable by her drawing-room fire, was startled out of her wits by the apparition of an Elizabethan courtier. He stood in the doorway for a moment, and she gazed at him speechlessly—at his crimson, long-waisted doublet, with the puffed shoulders, and the crisp white ruff; at his crimson trunk-hose, slashed with cream velvet, and his crimson stockings and buckled shoes; at the crimson cloak, lined with cream and trimmed with fur, which swung from one shoulder with careless grace; at the flat crimson hat (trimmed with a long feather) that sat so jauntily on his curled hair; at his long, thin gold-mounted rapier, and the gold chain that he wore round his neck.

  “Oh—Goodness!” said Jerry in alarm.

  The gentleman swept off his feathered hat in a low bow, and then, flinging pageantry to the winds, he rushed across the room, and fell on his knees, and swept her into his arms.

  “Sam!” she cried in amazement.

  “Jerry, darling—darling—darling,” said Sam, kissing her with extreme vehemence between each word.

  “Sam, how gorgeous you are! How simply gorgeous!”

  “Yes, aren’t I?” Sam agreed, delighted at the success of his plan, “and aren’t you frightfully lucky to have such a gorgeous person of your very own?”

  Jerry laughed. Sam really was a darling. He was so full of happiness and vim; so young and boyish and altogether delightful. If Jerry had not loved him to distraction already, she would have fallen in love with him now. But I couldn’t possibly love him more than I did, she thought, as she looked into the eager eyes so near her own, and yet I believe I do love him more.

  “But, Sam,” she said, when she had recovered a little from her first surprise and delight at his arrival, “but Sam, darling, how did you come? Where are you going? What’s happened? Here I was,” she continued, without giving him time to explain, “here I was, glooming over the fire, thinking about you, and suddenly you appear, looking like—looking like—”

  “Sir Walter Raleigh,” said Sam, “at least that’s what I’m supposed to look like, so I hope I do. Sir Walter Raleigh at the Court of Queen Elizabeth—that’s me.”

  “But why?” Jerry not unnaturally inquired, “why Sir Walter Raleigh?”

  “I liked the kit,” Sam explained. “It seemed to suit me, somehow.”

  “Oh, it does,” agreed Jerry—there could be no two opinions about that. “It does suit you, darling.”

  “I’m glad you think so,” Sam told her earnestly. “Frightfully glad. Modern dress doesn’t give a man much scope, does it?”

  “But, Sam!” exclaimed Jerry in amazement, “you didn’t just get the clothes to come down and see me—”

  “Good Lord, no, of course not!” cried Sam. “Did you think I had gone balmy or something, darling? I’ll tell you the whole thing if you’ll hold on a minute; but, first, I want to tell you something frightfully important, something frightfully nice. You’ll never guess what it is, never—I’ve got my salary raised.”

  “Oh, Sam, how splendid!”

  “Yes, isn’t it? It isn’t only the cash, you know—though it will be jolly useful, of course—but it makes me feel I’m getting on. Uncle Arthur was frightfully nice about it. He said I was useful and reliable. He said,” continued Sam, aping his Uncle’s speech and manner with deplorable impertinence, “he said, ‘By the way, I was speaking to Spicer, and we have decided to—er—raise your salary. You’re doing well now, and you’re most useful and—er—reliable,’ and then when I’d thanked the old buffer, he said, ‘Yes, I’m extremely pleased, Sam.’ So what d’you think of that?”

  “I think it’s simply splendid,” said Jerry, with conviction.

  “Am I your good, nice, clever boy?” inquired Sam.

  “You’re my good, nice, clever, darling boy,” Jerry told him.

  “And it’s all because of you, darling,” Sam said, rubbing his cheek against her shoulder, “all for you, every bit of it—so there. And now,” added Sam, sitting back, and looking at her with very bright eyes, “and now I’ll tell you everything—all the rest of it—why Sir Walter Raleigh, and all that. It’s frightfully long, and frightfully complicated,” said Sam earnestly, “so we had better have cigarettes.”

  They lighted cigarettes, and the long and complicated story was further delayed, because, when he lighted Jerry’s cigarette for her, it reminded Sam of the Christmas dinner party at The Archway House, and how he had nearly disgraced himself by kissing Jerry in front of everybody. And, of course, when he had told her about it, he had to kiss her; because it was so lovely to have the right to kiss her whenever he wanted to—or very nearly. At last, however, Sam got started on his long and complicated story, and he told her the whole thing from the very beginning—all about how he had bearded Uncle Arthur in his private office, and had practically demanded an invitation to The Archway House for the weekend, and how Uncle Arthur had refused to have him, and then taken pity on him, and suggested that he should come down to Wandlebury for the night; and he explained how it was that he happened to have the Sir Walter Raleigh kit in his bag; and he told her about his arrival at The Archway House, and how nice Barbara had been, but also how mysteriously adamant about not having him to stay; and he told her how delighted he was to learn that his host and hostess were going out to dinner, and how he had sung in his bath because everything was simply too right—too absolutely marvelously right—for words; and then he told her about the disappearance of his trousers.

  “It was the most extraordinary thing,” he said. “I know I left them on the chair with my other things—I know I did—and when I came back from my bath they had gone.”

  “Did you look everywhere?” Jerry inquired.

  “My dear lamb, of course I looked everywhere; and I rang for Dorcas, and she looked everywhere—you would have laughed if you could have seen us,” Sam continued (for, looking back on the scene, the humor of it became apparent), “you would have laughed, Jerry—there was I, in my shirt, dancing about with impatience, and Dorcas crawling about on the floor on her hands and knees, looking under the bed—but I didn’t laugh at the time, I can tell you, because I was so desperate to see you, and I didn’t know how I was going to manage it
without any trousers. I was desperate, simply desperate—and Dorcas made all sorts of ridiculous suggestions; and then I suddenly thought of these togs, and the moment I thought of these togs, I simply leapt into them and came—and here I am,” said Sam with a sigh of contentment.

  “Yes, that’s all that matters,” Jerry agreed (she thought: of course, his trousers were there all the time—they must have been there—they were under the quilt or something. How helpless men are!—but she was far too wise to say anything of the sort). “Yes, that’s all that matters,” she said. “And you do look simply splendid. And it’s too lovely for words having you like this, because I was feeling a bit gloomy before you came.”

  “Gloomy?” inquired Sam tenderly. “Why were you feeling gloomy, darling lamb?”

  “Oh, nothing much. I’m not going to bother you with my small worries.”

  “Bother me!” cried Sam. “But that’s what I’m here for—to be bothered, I mean. Of course you’ve got to tell me everything—all about everything. Cough it up, Jerry!” he entreated her, in the disgusting, but extraordinarily descriptive, not to say pictorial jargon of his day. “Cough it up, Jerry. Come on, now—it’s not fair me telling you all my troubles, and you not telling me yours.”

  “Oh well,” said Jerry, smiling adoringly at her masterful young man. “Oh well, it’s various things, really. I had to sack Crichton (for one thing), he was rather rude and beastly. He’s been awfully slack lately, and, when I told him off, he was impertinent, so I had to sack him, and it was horrid. I paid him what I thought was fair, but he wasn’t satisfied, and he began to argue. And then Brackenbridge came up—the second groom you know—and Crichton went off mumbling and grumbling in a horrid way.”

  “The foul brute!” exclaimed Sam, with feeling.

  “Yes,” said Jerry. “It really was rather horrid. So I was just sitting here, feeling moldy and lonely—Markie’s gone to the pictures with Miss Foddy—and then you came.”

  “You don’t mean you were all alone in the house?” inquired Sam anxiously.

  “I don’t mind it really,” Jerry assured him, “not usually, I mean. It was just tonight, somehow—everything seemed rather foul. Aunt Matilda’s very ill again, and I got a worrying sort of letter from Archie, and then the groom—things sort of mounted up, if you know what I mean.”

  “Of course I know what you mean. It’s horrid,” said Sam, “and, oh Jerry, I don’t like you being here all by yourself! I do wish I could come down and take care of you.”

  “Well, you can’t,” Jerry replied. “You know what I told you about Aunt Matilda. You mustn’t come down at all, because somebody might see you here, and then it would be all over Wandlebury in a few hours. People would be sure to say we were engaged if they saw you here—you know how people talk.”

  “Oh, Jerry, it has been so hateful!” Sam said miserably. “These last few weeks when I couldn’t see you have been absolutely frightful—you don’t know—”

  “Hush!” said Jerry, raising her hand and listening.

  “It’s a bell,” said Sam. “Markie, perhaps.”

  “No, not Markie,” Jerry declared. “Markie has the key; besides it’s not really time for Markie. Oh Sam, perhaps it’s Crichton.”

  “If it’s Crichton,” said Sam grimly, and he rose to his feet, “if it’s Crichton—and I only hope it is Crichton—I’ll—I’ll Crichton him—”

  The bell pealed again.

  “I’ll Crichton him,” Sam said, making for the door and uttering this strange threat with the most frightful ferocity imaginable. “Just let me get my hands on him—I’ll Crichton him.”

  “Oh, Sam, you can’t go like that!” Jerry cried, but Sam had already gone.

  Sam had quite forgotten his gorgeous apparel; his one and only idea was to get at Crichton, who had been “rude and beastly” to Jerry, and to give him a sock. He strode to the front door and flung it open. It was dark outside, of course, but the oil lamp which had been left burning over the porch for Markie’s convenience, threw a gentle radiance upon the step, and there, sure enough was Crichton—a small, sturdy sort of man, with a foxy face under his peaked cap. Sam recognized Crichton at once; he had seen the fellow often when he came over to the stables for his riding lessons. But if Sam recognized Crichton, Crichton most certainly did not recognize Sam. When the door opened, and Crichton raised his eyes, expecting to see the small lithe figure of Miss Jerry Cobbe, and, instead of that familiar and reassuring sight, he beheld before him, in the lintel, the gorgeous figure of an Elizabethan courtier in full rig, Crichton did not stand upon the order of his going.

  “Gor blimey!” he exclaimed, and, with that, he turned and most incontinently fled down the path, through the wicket gate and up the lane as fast as ever his bow legs would take him. “It wos a b— ghost, that’s wot it wos,” he told his cronies afterward, over a pint of beer at the Ganthorne Arms, “a girt big ’eadless ghost, it wos—dressed up in old-fashioned togs, it wos, all bloody, wif its ’ead under its arm.”

  Sam, after pursuing Crichton as far as the gate, returned to Jerry, somewhat disappointed at the ease with which he had routed his enemy. He found Jerry standing in the doorway, laughing until the tears ran down her cheeks.

  “Oh goodness!” she said, between her spasms of uncontrollable mirth. “Oh goodness! What an awful fright you must have given him! Oh goodness! I never saw Crichton run so fast—never!”

  “The beastly coward!” said Sam, angrily. “The beastly coward—he never gave me a chance to get at him. Why the devil didn’t he give me a chance? I wanted to biff the dirty little skunk.”

  “Look at yourself, Sam!” gasped Jerry.

  Sam looked down and saw his gorgeous clothes, and his face broke slowly into a smile. “Lord!” he said, “I never remembered—gadzooks! I suppose the little blighter thought I was a spook.”

  “Of course he did,” gurgled Jerry. “He expected to see poor little me, and when the door opened and he saw you—” She laughed again.

  They went back into the drawing-room and sat down by the fire.

  “You see now, Jerry,” said Sam, “you see now how horrid it is for you being here alone. You must promise me not to let Markie go out at night and leave you. It’s bad enough being in town and not seeing you, but if I’m terrified all the time that something will happen—”

  “It won’t,” Jerry assured him. “I’ll be all right really, Sam.”

  “If only we could see each other, often,” said Sam, heaving a big sigh, “if only we could, Jerry. I could bear it quite easily if I could come down to Wandlebury like I used to do, but Barbara can’t have me—or won’t—she’s going to spring clean the house or something. At any rate she made it quite clear that she can’t have me for ages. Isn’t it frightful?”

  “I can’t come up to town now, either,” Jerry pointed out, “because I shall have to get a new head groom and get him into my ways—”

  “I know,” said Sam miserably.

  “It’s all because of Aunt Matilda—you know that, don’t you?” Jerry pointed out. “If only she wasn’t so ill—”

  “I know,” said Sam again.

  “But as things are, we must just be patient.”

  “Oh, Jerry, it’s simply frightful. I’ve been patient for months now.”

  “Well, what can we do?”

  They talked for a long time. Sometimes the conversation took a cheerful turn, and they luxuriated in each other’s company; sometimes they thought of the future, and relapsed into gloom. The fire died down, and was revived by Sir Walter Raleigh with coal and logs; it had almost died down again by the time Markie came home. Markie was surprised and delighted beyond measure when she beheld Sam. She was thrilled to the core at his beauty and grace. No film star—not even her beloved Harold Handsome—could hold a candle to Jerry’s Sam. Markie sat down and gazed at him with
admiring eyes. He was beautiful—there was no other word for him—he was beautiful. No wonder darling Jerry was crazy about him, Markie was crazy about him herself.

  It was long past midnight before Sam, still gorgeous as a bird of paradise, returned to The Archway House and crept stealthily to bed.

  ***

  Mr. and Mrs. Abbott were already in bed and asleep when Sam came in. They had had a pleasant evening at the Thanes’, and had enjoyed an excellent dinner and a quiet chat about their neighbors. They had returned home at a reasonable hour, and, finding all quiet in The Archway House had concluded that their guest had retired to bed. While Arthur was busy brushing his teeth in the bathroom, Barbara had retrieved the gray trousers from beneath her mattress, and had hung them carefully over the banisters outside Sam’s door. She could not help smiling as she returned to her bedroom—it had been such an excellent plan. Sam had probably dined in his pajamas and dressing gown—she wouldn’t inquire. It was enough that she had been able to prevent him seeing Jerry.

  In the morning Sam’s trousers were brought in with his hot water, and laid on the chair, ready for him to wear. Sam saw them and was glad. “There they are, thank heavens!” he said to himself. “Of course, they were somewhere downstairs all the time, and that old fool, Dorcas, couldn’t find them. Anyhow it didn’t matter, I’m rather glad they were lost, really.” He was aware that he had looked far, far better as an Elizabethan courtier than he could possibly have looked in his ordinary everyday clothes, and he was glad—not unnaturally perhaps—that Jerry had had the privilege of seeing him in that marvelous rig-out. There were other reasons, too, why he was glad.

  Sam didn’t bother anymore about the loss of his trousers, nor did he mention the matter to Barbara—his mind was full of more important things. He was quiet and abstracted at breakfast, but this did not surprise his hostess at all. She was especially nice to Sam and told him again before he left for town in his uncle’s car that he must certainly come, later on, for a long visit.