Miss Buncle Married

by D. E. Stevenson

  “But Aunt Matilda showed me her will, and it was quite different,” cried Archie.

  “I saw a different will, myself,” added Bertie Chevis.

  “So did I,” exclaimed Denis. “What has been done with the other wills?”

  “It is quite possible that you may have seen other wills,” admitted Mr. Tupper. “You may have done so. The fact is the testatrix was somewhat dubious as to the disposal of her—ahem—not inconsiderable property. She made a number of wills at—er—various times. Each of these wills was duly signed and deposited with us, and each will—as you will readily understand—canceled the others. This document,” continued Mr. Tupper, taking up the will and holding it to his bosom, as if he feared—as well he might—that the legatees would tear it in pieces, “this document is the last will made by Lady Chevis Cobbe and it is undoubtedly legal.”

  “She was mad when she made it,” exclaimed Denis Chevis angrily, “I shall take advice—you will hear from my solicitor.”

  “And from mine,” added Bertie, almost stuttering in excitement. “And from mine. The whole thing is—is outrageous—positively outrageous! My uncle would turn in his grave at the idea of Chevis Place going to a Cobbe. It has been in our family for generations.”

  “Her ladyship had the right to leave her property as she chose,” Mr. Tupper pointed out. “The property was not entailed.”

  “It ought to have been entailed,” cried Denis.

  “That is scarcely the point,” replied Mr. Tupper dryly. “I am afraid I cannot offer any opinion as to what ought to have been done. Nor do I wish to go into the matter any further. If you desire to consult me about—er—anything connected with the various bequests and legacies you will find me at my office. Meanwhile I propose to—er—leave you.” (And if Mr. Tupper did not actually say “leave you to fight it out” his manner implied it.) “To—er—leave you,” he said.

  He placed the precious document very carefully in his black bag, and made for the door; and, such was the dignity of his deportment, that the disappointed and furious relations made way for him and let him go unscathed.

  Monkey Wrench seized his hat and fled for his life.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The Residuary Legatee

  Jerry was busy upstairs in her aunt’s boudoir; it was the smallest room in the great house, and this was one of the reasons why Jerry liked it. She preferred small rooms, they were more comfortable and homelike, they did not call for such dignified and stately behavior. Another reason why Jerry liked the boudoir was because she knew it best. It was here that Aunt Matilda always sat, and Jerry had sat here with her hundreds of times. She therefore felt more at home here—less lost—Jerry was rather like a dog in her hatred of strange places.

  I shall be able to go home now, she thought to herself. Mr. Tupper can’t keep me here any longer—I won’t stay—I shall go home tonight, or tomorrow morning at the very latest—and then Sam.

  Jerry had no headache—none at all—she was one of those fortunate people who never suffer from headaches—or very rarely. She had made the usual feminine excuse because she did not want to attend the reading of Aunt Matilda’s will. It would be the most frightful scene—she knew that—and, like the doctor, Jerry abominated scenes. She liked to see her fellow creatures at their best, not at their worst, and she was aware that none of the legatees would be at their best when Aunt Matilda’s will was read to them. Vultures, she thought, just vultures—that’s what they are. They never bothered about Aunt Matilda when she was alive, but, now that she’s dead, here they are—a pack of vultures, squabbling over her remains—disgusting brutes! thought Jerry, and she sat down to write some letters at Aunt Matilda’s desk.

  She was interrupted by the arrival of Mr. Tupper, looking very solemn and portentous in his old-fashioned morning-coat and black trousers, which he had donned for the occasion. Jerry told him to come in and laid down her pen—she supposed she would have to listen to him.

  “I have read the will to the—er—relations,” said Mr. Tupper solemnly, “and now I propose to read it to you,” and with these words he opened the black bag, and took out the document which had already caused so much trouble.

  “Oh no!” cried Jerry in dismay. “I mean don’t bother. It wouldn’t be any good because, you see, I shouldn’t understand a word—all those ‘aforesaids’ and ‘hereinafter mentioneds’ and things—honestly, I shouldn’t understand a word. Just tell me if there’s anything I ought to know.”

  Jerry looked very childish as she sat there, half turned from the writing table. Her curls were ruffled, they glinted in the sun which poured through the open window; there was a smudge of ink on her nose, and two of her fingers were inky—for Jerry was no penwoman. Mr. Tupper thought that she looked like a schoolgirl—she was very young, very young indeed—and his heart misgave him a little. It would have been wiser if the money had been properly tied up (he thought) and trustees appointed. It would have been much wiser. He had tried to persuade her ladyship to do this at the time, but her ladyship had not listened. Her ladyship did not care for advice, she went her own way and it was never the slightest use trying to guide or control her.

  “Well,” said Mr. Tupper, relaxing his legal manner, and smiling for the first time that afternoon. “Well, I think there is something you should know, Miss Jerry. You are Lady Chevis Cobbe’s residuary legatee.”

  Jerry gazed at him in amazement. “Me?” she inquired. “Do you mean Chevis Place and all that?”

  “Yes,” said Mr. Tupper, smiling more broadly than before. “‘Chevis Place and all that’ describes the bequest admirably. It is far more concise than our clumsy legal phrases and equally embracing.”

  “My hat!” exclaimed Jerry, aghast. She looked round the room where she was sitting and tried to believe it was hers—her very own to do what she liked with—it was incredible, quite incredible.

  “But what about Archie?” she inquired at last. “Wasn’t he furious? And what about Denis and Bertie Chevis? Oh dear, it’s simply frightful! Why on earth did Aunt Matilda do it?”

  “Her ladyship gave us no reasons for the changes she made in the disposal of her property,” said Mr. Tupper, resuming his legal manner. “It did not concern us professionally. Our part was merely to draw up a legal will in conformity with her wishes. She was not a lady who brooked interference—you are aware of that, Miss Jerry.”

  “Oh, I know,” said Jerry. “I’m not blaming you—you couldn’t help it, of course.”

  Mr. Tupper blinked, he thought that “blaming” was a curious word to use in the connection. He certainly had not expected to be “blamed” by Jerry for drawing up a will making her a wealthy woman. From the other legatees he had expected blame (and had got it in full measure), not because it was in any way his fault that the will was different from what they had hoped, but because he was aware that lawyers are constantly blamed for unsatisfactory wills. It is in human nature to blame somebody when things go wrong, and, as testators are always safely out of the way before their wills are made public, the lawyers who have carried out their instructions come in for all the abuse.

  “I did not anticipate blame from you,” Mr. Tupper pointed out.

  “No, of course not,” agreed Jerry. “I know how frightfully stubborn Aunt Matilda was. You couldn’t help it—I know that. Didn’t Bertie get anything?” she inquired anxiously.

  “Two thousand pounds.”

  “Well, that’s a good deal, isn’t it?”

  “I’m afraid it did not satisfy Bertie.”

  “No,” said Jerry. “No, I don’t suppose it would. How awful, isn’t it?”

  “Scarcely ‘awful,’” said Mr. Tupper. “Your Aunt wished you to have Chevis Place and it was for her to decide.”

  “Yes,” said Jerry thoughtfully.

  “You did more for her than the others,” he continued
, “and to my mind, the fact that she decided to make you her residuary legatee was natural in view of what you did for her.”

  “But I didn’t do anything,” cried Jerry. “I didn’t do anything at all!”

  “You came and saw her when she was ill,” said Mr. Tupper.

  “Anybody would have,” Jerry told him. “I used to be sorry for her, you see. I used to think it must be frightfully lonely for her all alone in this huge place—I wish I’d come oftener,” she added, rather sadly.

  “You evidently came often enough,” Mr. Tupper pointed out with dry humor.

  “They’ll kill me,” exclaimed Jerry, with sudden conviction. “They’ll kill me, I know they will.”

  “Surely not,” objected Mr. Tupper. “Surely not. My experience leads me to believe that the fact that you are now—er—a woman of considerable means will have quite the reverse effect upon her ladyship’s relatives.”

  “You mean they’ll lick my boots?” inquired Jerry in dismay. “How ghastly!”

  Mr. Tupper was still trying to find a reply to this extraordinary remark, when the butler appeared and announced that Mrs. Abbott had called and was waiting in the drawing-room. Would Miss Cobbe care to see her for a few moments?

  “Oh, how nice of her!” exclaimed Jerry, who was thankful for a respite from the consideration of her new status. “How nice of her to come! Show her up here, Killigrew—and Killigrew,” she continued, “I shan’t be coming down to dinner tonight.”

  “No, Miss,” said Killigrew, smiling in a deferential manner. “You would like dinner sent up here, Miss?”

  “Yes,” said Jerry. “You see, Killigrew, they might eat me instead of Mrs. Sheffield’s nice lamb cutlets.”

  “Yes, Miss,” agreed Killigrew. “May I—would it be considered presuming if I was to offer my congratulations, Miss—and those of the rest of the staff?”

  “Oh, thank you—no, of course it wouldn’t be, at all. I mean I’m still me, Killigrew, and I intend to remain me,” she added with a lift of her small determined chin.

  “Yes, Miss,” agreed the butler.

  “And I shan’t forget how kind you were to me when I was little,” continued Jerry. “And all the talks we had in the pantry, with you cleaning the silver and me eating jam out of the silver jam-pot—” (and she thought to herself—Goodness, that jam-pot belongs to me now, how frightfully queer!)

  “Nor me, either,” replied Killigrew with spirit. “I shan’t forget—nor Mrs. Anderson, nor Mrs. Sheffield, nor any of us. None of us won’t forget how you used to come over here when you were a little girl. I may say, that the opinion in the Housekeeper’s Room—for what it’s worth—is that ’er ladyship did the right thing when she made the new will.”

  “Well, Killigrew, I don’t know,” said Jerry thoughtfully. “I really haven’t had time to get used to the idea.”

  Mr. Tupper had been listening to this unconventional and somewhat indiscreet conversation with growing concern. He now felt that he simply must put an end to it.

  “I think,” he said, in the loudish impersonal voice he reserved entirely for superior menials, “I think that Mrs. Abbott is still waiting downstairs, Killigrew.”

  Killigrew withdrew hastily.

  “Dear Jerry,” said Mr. Tupper kindly. “It would perhaps be better if you could adopt a little more dignified manner toward the servants. Otherwise you may have trouble with them. I am speaking as a friend, my dear—a very old friend—and entirely for your own good. I have known you since you were a small child. You are now—I would remind you—a young woman of considerable—ah—fortune, and are therefore of considerable—ah—importance in the world.”

  “But that’s just it!” Jerry exclaimed. “I mean I can’t. Really and truly I’m not a bit suited for that sort of thing. I’m not—not proud enough, or something, and it’s no use trying to be something that you’re not. I can’t change myself.”

  “We don’t want you changed,” Mr. Tupper assured her.

  “Yes you do—you want me to be dignified—and I can’t be,” Jerry told him earnestly. “Of course you’re quite right—I mean the owner of Chevis Place ought to be a dignified sort of person.”

  At this moment Barbara was announced, and Jerry flew into her arms and hugged her.

  “Darling,” she cried. “How gorgeous to see you again! What a lamb you are to come.”

  Mr. Tupper went away and left them. He was disturbed and distressed. He saw breakers ahead; Jerry was right when she said she was not suited for her new position. She would either change (and change, Mr. Tupper feared, for the worse) or else she would remain as she was, innocent and guileless as a newborn infant, and become a prey for fortune hunters and spongers.

  “She’s too young,” he said to himself, as he went downstairs. “Too young and too—too impulsive.”

  Archie was in the hall, putting on his coat.

  “Are you going away?” inquired Mr. Tupper in surprise.

  “Yes,” said Archie shortly.

  “Surely you are going to see your sister before you go!” exclaimed the lawyer, following the young man out of the front door.

  “No, I’m not,” said Archie furiously. “I don’t want to see anybody, and especially not Jerry. The whole thing was a put-up job. I’ve said it before and I say it again. Jerry got round Aunt Matilda behind my back—when I was away in London—she came crawling round here. I know she did. But I’m not beaten yet, you needn’t think it. I’m going straight to my solicitor in London—I’ve been duped and deceived,” cried Archie incoherently. “You’re all in it, every one of you—undue influence—mad, that was what she was. You shall hear more of this—mad, crazy, absolutely stark mad.”

  He sprang into his small car, which was waiting in the drive, and departed at full speed—spurts of gravel were flung from beneath his wheels.

  “Trouble and more trouble,” Mr. Tupper said aloud, and he walked slowly home.

  Chapter Thirty

  Alarms and Excursions

  “You know all about it, I suppose,” said Jerry when she had hugged Barbara and bestowed her in a comfortable chair.

  “All about what?” Barbara not unnaturally inquired.

  “About Aunt Matilda leaving everything to me,” said Jerry, “and all that. You’ve heard, I suppose.”

  “Yes,” said Barbara, smiling in a pleased manner.

  “Oh, Barbara, how lovely it is to see you again!” Jerry exclaimed, suddenly overcome by the niceness of her comfortable, soothing friend. “I feel as if I hadn’t seen you for years—so much has happened in the last few days. It’s been absolutely foul, and the Chevis relations are vultures, and I’ve been miserable and disgusted—”

  “Poor Jerry!” said Barbara sympathetically.

  “And now this on the top of everything, just when I thought I was going home.”

  “But Jerry, it’s lovely for you.”

  “Do you really, and truly, and honestly think so?” asked Jerry doubtfully. “I mean can you see me here?”

  “Why, of course I can,” Barbara assured her. Ever since Barbara had known Jerry she had seen her as the prospective chatelaine of Chevis Place, so, of course, she was used to the idea and found nothing alarming or unnatural in it. “Of course I can see you here, Jerry,” she repeated, looking round the comfortable room with pleasure and delight writ large upon her kindly, honest countenance.

  “Well, I don’t know,” said Jerry, still dubious. “I don’t know at all. I can’t believe it, somehow. And it’s horrid to feel that they’re all so angry with me—Archie and everybody. I suppose Aunt Matilda must have thought it would be all right—me, being here, I mean—”

  “She wanted you to have it,” Barbara pointed out.

  “I suppose she did,” Jerry agreed.

  “It’s lovely for you,” urg
ed Barbara.

  “I suppose it is really, but I haven’t got used to it yet. And, as I said before, I can’t really believe it. Aunt Matilda wasn’t a very happy sort of person, you know, in spite of all her riches, and Chevis Place, and everything—however, don’t let’s talk about it anymore,” said Jerry, in a more cheerful tone of voice. “I want to tell you about something else,” said Jerry, smiling and dimpling all over. “Something far more interesting, and far more important. I wonder if you can guess—no, I’m sure you couldn’t possibly guess what it is.”

  Barbara had only to glance at the face of her friend—flushed and eager now—and she knew at once what Jerry’s secret was.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed with delight. “Oh, Jerry, you’re engaged to Sam.”

  Jerry threw back her head and laughed.

  “That’s what it is, isn’t it?” inquired Barbara. “I knew it was. I was just hoping—”

  “Darling!” cried Jerry. “How clever you are! How did you guess? Fancy you seeing and not saying a single word! But the joke is, you’re not clever enough—not quite—because, you see, I’m not engaged to Sam at all, I’m married to him.”

  Barbara was struck dumb—absolutely struck dumb by the news—she gazed at Jerry in amazement and consternation.

  “No wonder you’re surprised,” Jerry continued excitedly, “but I do hope you’re not fed up with us about it. You see we had to do it all secretly because of poor Aunt Matilda and her funny ideas. I was afraid it would kill her if she heard about it, and then I should have been a murderer. So we didn’t tell a soul except Markie—she had to be told, of course—and, as a matter of fact, she was in it from the very beginning. Markie’s been an absolute lamb about it. You see we got quite desperate when we couldn’t see each other—quite desperate. You couldn’t have Sam down, and I couldn’t go up to town and see him, because of leaving the horses. I did go up once or twice, for a few hours, but it wasn’t much good. It was simply ghastly not being able to see each other—you can’t think how desperate we were—”