Miss Buncle Married

by D. E. Stevenson

  “Oh, Jerry!” said Barbara, appalled at this revelation—after all the trouble she had taken to prevent Sam and Jerry from seeing each other, all she had accomplished was to drive them into each other’s arms.

  “We were desperate,” continued Jerry earnestly. “Sam was miserable in town, and I was miserable at Ganthorne, and it seemed so silly, somehow. You see, there was nothing to prevent us getting married except poor Aunt Matilda; and, as Sam said, if she wasn’t told about it she wouldn’t know. At first I thought we ought to wait until she was better, but Sam really was so awfully wretched, and so was I, really. So Sam said the best thing to do was just to get married and tell Aunt Matilda when she got better—you see the idea, don’t you? We’ve been married for ten days now,” continued Jerry, “and I’m certain nobody knows a thing about it. Sam comes down every night and it’s simply lovely having him—simply lovely. He wears his Elizabethan dress,” said Jerry chuckling, “with long red stockings and puffy sleeves, and a cloak. He really got it for a fancy dress ball and then he never went to the ball after all. I’ll tell you all about that some other time—all about the first time he wore the dress and came over to see me in it. I was so miserable that night and then Sam appeared like a sort of fairy godmother, or something—it was that night that sort of settled the whole thing. We talked and talked, and Sam persuaded me to marry him—he looked so splendid, and he was so dear, and funny, and pleased with himself that I couldn’t resist him—I didn’t really need very much persuading,’” said Jerry honestly. “Not very much. But the whole point of the Elizabethan dress (apart from darling Sam rather fancying himself in it) is, that if anybody sees him about the place, they think he’s a spook.”

  “But Jerry—” began Barbara who had listened to all this with increasing horror and alarm.

  “I’ll tell you,” said Jerry, the words pouring out of her in an excited stream. “I really must tell you about that first night. He wore his fancy dress because, somehow or other, he lost his trousers—aren’t men funny, helpless lambs, Barbara? So he wore the Elizabethan dress, and came dashing over to Ganthorne in it, and, as I told you, I simply couldn’t resist him. It wasn’t the dress, exactly, but it was Sam in the dress—if you know what I mean—and then he scared Crichton away—quite by mistake—and that gave us the idea of him wearing it—so as to scare other people, you see.”

  Barbara could follow this in part (she knew about the trousers, of course), she could follow enough of it to see that it was entirely her fault that this dreadful thing had happened. Not only had she driven them into each other’s arms by refusing to have Sam at The Archway House, but she had further destroyed them by compelling Sam to visit his beloved in a dress that showed off his charms, and made him absolutely irresistible.

  “Oh, Jerry!” she said, in horror-stricken tones.

  “You’re not angry with us, darling,” Jerry coaxed, seating herself on a stool at Barbara’s feet and stroking her hand. “Don’t be angry, Barbara. We’re so happy—so frightfully happy. You know what it is to be happy like that, don’t you? So you see, you mustn’t be angry with Sam and me. And, now that poor Aunt Matilda has gone, we can tell everybody; but I wanted to tell you first—the very first of all,” said Jerry, smiling up into Barbara’s face.

  “Oh dear!” Barbara said, thinking aloud in her perturbation of mind. “I did all I could to prevent it—I did everything I could think of, and it was the worst thing I could do—the very worst thing. It just shows you shouldn’t meddle,” she continued incoherently, “unless, of course, you’re Elizabeth Nun—and I’m not, and never will be. It just shows you shouldn’t meddle with things. If I had only told you about it—how I wish I had! What on earth did my promise to Mr. Tyler matter compared to this? He was horrid, anyhow—afterward, I mean—and, anyhow, he never did anything for me, except tell me the house was full of rats—which it wasn’t. I see, now, I should have done one thing or the other,” said Barbara wretchedly. “I should either have left it alone, altogether, and not tried to meddle, or I should have broken that idiotic promise, and told you the whole thing—oh dear, what a fool I am!”

  “What on earth are you talking about?” demanded Jerry, with a chill feeling in her heart. “What on earth are you talking about, Barbara? Who is Elizabeth Nun? And what has Mr. Tyler got to do with me—or Sam?”

  “I should have told you long ago,” Barbara said. “When I saw that Sam was in love with you—that night at dinner—I should have told you the whole thing. Instead of which I just meddled and muddled, and hid Sam’s trousers, and did far more harm than good—what a fool I am! What an idiot!”

  “Barbara,” said Jerry firmly. “If you don’t leave off talking nonsense, and tell me what it’s all about, I shall—I shall shake you.”

  “I don’t know how to tell you—I don’t know where to begin,” Barbara said helplessly. “It’s all so complicated—and I’m so frightfully upset.”

  “You’re frightening me. Tell me this,” Jerry implored. “There’s no reason—no real reason—why Sam and I—why we shouldn’t have married each other—is there?”

  “Yes, of course there is. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you all along.”

  It seemed to Jerry that her heart almost ceased to beat. It was a horrible sensation. If she were to lose Sam now—and yet how could she lose him? They were married. She could feel the ring inside her blouse, where it hung on a little gold chain from her neck—she couldn’t lose Sam now.

  “It was in the will,” continued Barbara, trying to explain everything in the fewest possible words. “I saw the will myself, when I was at Mr. Tyler’s office—the very first day I came to Wandlebury. Of course I didn’t know you then—or anybody,” said Barbara earnestly. “So, of course, I wasn’t very interested.”

  “He showed you Aunt Matilda’s will!” Jerry exclaimed in very natural amazement.

  “He thought I was Lady Chevis Cobbe—it was all a mistake. The whole thing was awfully queer. He gave me port and that made it all the queerer,” explained Barbara. “But the point is you don’t get all this,” she continued looking round the room vaguely, “you don’t get Chevis Place, or anything, if you’re married.”

  “Is that all?” cried Jerry. “My dear, how you terrified me! I thought—well, never mind; I don’t really know what I thought—but I don’t want Chevis Place, I don’t really.”

  “You don’t want Chevis Place?”

  “No, and I might have known it was something like that,” cried Jerry, quite wild with relief. “I might have known if I had thought for a moment—if I hadn’t been too terrified to think at all.”

  “You mean you don’t mind?” inquired Barbara incredulously.

  “I’m thankful,” said Jerry earnestly. “I’ve been trying to pretend that I was doubtful about it, but, all the time, I hated the thought of leaving Ganthorne Lodge.”

  “But Jerry—”

  “I felt I ought to be pleased—everybody seemed to think I ought to be—and it seemed ungrateful to Aunt Matilda not to be pleased when she had been so kind, but, all the time, I hated the whole thing—inside me.”

  “I can’t believe it,” Barbara said.

  “Listen, Barbara,” said Jerry earnestly. “I’m beginning to see it all plainly now. Just think what it would have meant if I had got Chevis Place, and all that money. I couldn’t have done all the things I like doing anymore. I couldn’t have gone about in breeches; I couldn’t have worked with the horses; it wouldn’t have mattered about my business—whether it was a success or whether it wasn’t. I should have had to be grandly dressed,” said Jerry naïvely, “and I should have had to have people to stay, and entertain, and go to parties—I should have had to be thinking all the time: Am I living up to Chevis Place? And I couldn’t, ever,” said Jerry. “I couldn’t do it, because I’m not that kind of person at all. And Sam—oh, Barbara, think how bad it would h
ave been for Sam—Sam wouldn’t have had to work anymore. It wouldn’t have been worthwhile, and, even if he had gone on working, all the real interest would have gone, for what would his salary have been in comparison with all Aunt Matilda’s money? Sam needs work,” said Jerry with her wise look. “Yes, it’s good for Sam to work. He would get slack and careless if he didn’t have to work. You don’t know how sweet Sam is about his salary,” she continued, smiling up at Barbara. “He likes to give me money every week—and I like to take it from him. Housekeeping money, he calls it, and he’s so serious and important about it. If I had all that money myself, I couldn’t take it from Sam—oh, I can’t explain, but it would all be different, and it would all be wrong.”

  “Think of Archie,” Jerry continued gravely. “Look at what this money of Aunt Matilda’s has done to Archie. He knew it was coming to him (or thought he did) and it simply ruined his whole life. It made the small salaries he was able to earn seem worthless; it gave him a wrong idea of life. He depended upon the horrible money, instead of depending upon himself. And Aunt Matilda—look at Aunt Matilda,” cried Jerry. “Did her money make her happy? It made her miserable, that’s what it did. It cut her off from everybody—you couldn’t get near Aunt Matilda, because she thought all the time that you wanted something out of her. Oh, Barbara, what an escape we’ve had!”

  Jerry was quite breathless after all this. She stopped talking, and ran her fingers through her hair. It had been a tremendous speech, and the making of it had cleared her own mind, and removed any doubt that might have lingered in it as to the desirability of the legacy which she had missed through her marriage. She felt much better now, clear, and sane, and practical.

  “Well,” she said, smiling up at Barbara. “What do you think of all that?”

  “It’s quite true,” said Barbara slowly, ridding herself with some difficulty of the illusion that riches and happiness go hand in hand.

  “Of course it’s true,” said Jerry confidently. “I see that now even more clearly than I did before—so, now, the only thing to do is to get hold of Mr. Tupper and tell him that I’m married.”

  “Yes, I suppose we had better,” agreed Barbara, still a little reluctant at the thought of all that Jerry was losing.

  “I suppose you’re quite sure it was in the will—about me only getting Chevis Place if I wasn’t married,” inquired Jerry anxiously.

  “Quite sure,” said Barbara. “It struck me as so odd that I read that bit twice—to make sure. But, of course, it might have been changed afterward. Didn’t Mr. Tupper say anything about it?”

  “No—but, of course, he never thought for a minute that I was married,” Jerry reminded her. “How could he? I mean I don’t look married yet, do I?”

  Barbara looked at her friend seriously. “No, you don’t,” she agreed. “You look far too young, and the ink on your nose makes you look even younger, somehow.”

  Jerry laughed. “I don’t know why it is I always get inky when I write letters—I always do.” She got up and went to a little gilt mirror which hung on the wall, and began to scrub her face with her handkerchief. “I’m not really worrying,” she continued. “I’m sure the will wasn’t changed. It’s just exactly the sort of thing that Aunt Matilda would put in her will. I’m not really worrying at all.”

  Jerry got her hat, and they went down to Mr. Tupper’s office in Barbara’s car. They had thought, at first, of telephoning to him; but, as Jerry pointed out, somebody might overhear the conversation, and they were not ready to impart their secret to the world. It would be better to have everything perfectly clear before saying anything to anybody.

  They caught Mr. Tupper leaving his office, and explained that they wished to speak to him in private. Mr. Tupper was very gracious and friendly; he led them into his office, and gave them chairs. Barbara had not been in the room since the day that she and Arthur had bought The Archway House—it seemed a very long time ago.

  “Well, young lady,” said Mr. Tupper, smiling at Jerry in a kindly manner. “What can I do for you?”

  Jerry explained. She told him everything except the way in which Barbara had become possessed of the information about the will. (They had decided that it was not necessary to disclose Mr. Tyler’s mistake.) She told her story well, in her forceful colloquial way. Mr. Tupper listened without saying a word, but his face showed a good deal of what he was feeling; he was amazed, incredulous, and grieved in turn. In spite of Jerry’s assurances that she was glad she had escaped the legacy, he did not believe it.

  When Jerry had finished Mr. Tupper started. He pointed out the folly of secret marriages, and inveighed against the impatience of youth.

  “If you had only waited,” said Mr. Tupper, almost wringing his hands at the folly and madness of it all, “if only you had waited a little. Ten days—just ten days.”

  “But we didn’t know it would only be ten days,” said Jerry, “and, besides, I’m glad we didn’t, because I don’t want Chevis Place.”

  “Well, I must compliment you upon the way you are taking your disappointment,” said Mr. Tupper, searching for a gleam of comfort in the darkness of the sky. “It shows great strength of character, and—”

  “No it doesn’t,” Jerry told him earnestly. “I’m not disappointed—not a bit. I’ve told you what I feel about it, and I mean every word.”

  She might have spared her breath. Mr. Tupper had been a lawyer for nearly forty years, and, all that time, he had been assimilating the idea that money is above all things the most desirable. Every client that darkened his doors, darkened them in the hopes that Mr. Tupper would be able to obtain more money for him, or the equivalent of more money. Subconsciously, Mr. Tupper envisaged the world—the whole civilized world—digging and burrowing, toiling and moiling, plotting and scheming to acquire this eminently desirable possession. It was not likely that a chit of a girl could upset forty years of thought in as many minutes.

  “If you had allowed me to read you the will,” Mr. Tupper pointed out, “this mistake—this deplorable mistake—could not have occurred, and you would have been spared a great deal of suffering. It just shows that the legal manner of procedure should never—under any circumstances—be abrogated. I blame myself very much—very much indeed. I should have insisted upon reading you the will—I should have insisted upon it.”

  Jerry was silent. She had told him her views and he did not believe her. She saw that it was useless to reiterate them.

  “The estate now goes to Archie,” said Mr. Tupper, with a sigh, “and I, for one, am grieved (it is extremely unprofessional of me to make such a statement, but I have done so many unprofessional things today, that one more or less scarcely matters). Archie has not behaved in a proper manner, either before the death of her ladyship, or after. I am of the opinion that Archie is quite unfit to administer the estate in the way it should be administered.”

  “Well, neither could I,” Jerry reminded him.

  “We could have got somebody,” said Mr. Tupper. “In fact I had already thought of the very man to help us. A Major Macfarlane—an excellent fellow. He lost his arm in the War. He understands the details of running a big estate and could have taken the whole thing over—I intended to speak to you about it at the first opportunity because the estate needs a good deal of attention. Her ladyship kept everything in her own hands, and, since her illness, it has been extremely difficult—but, of course, it’s no good now,” said Mr. Tupper sadly. “Heaven alone knows what Archie will make of it.”

  “Archie will be all right,” said Jerry, trying to make her voice sound confident and assured.

  “Well, it can’t be helped,” said Mr. Tupper. “But I must say I feel that if her ladyship had known that there was any chance of Archie inheriting, she would have made different arrangements. She was not at all pleased with the way Archie was behaving—far from it—far from it.”

  “I
don’t agree with you at all,” Jerry exclaimed. “I think Archie ought to get it. He may have behaved badly, but Aunt Matilda let him think that he was her heir, and that wasn’t fair—it wasn’t a bit fair. And it was because he knew that all that money was coming to him that he was so extravagant. I know it was. And I’m quite sure,” she continued, searching for words to express her complicated feelings, “I’m quite sure that if Aunt Matilda had known I was married—or even engaged—she wouldn’t have wanted me to have Chevis Place. And it would have been horrid to have it and to feel all the time that it wasn’t what Aunt Matilda wanted. So, you see, I’m very glad that it’s all turned out as it has.”

  “You are taking the disappointment—the grievous disappointment—extremely well,” said Mr. Tupper solemnly.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The Jubilee Bonfire

  The sixth of May was an important anniversary for Mr. and Mrs. Abbott—they had been married for two years. That it was also an important anniversary for more important people did not detract from its value in their eyes; on the contrary, they were delighted to share their anniversary with their king and queen.

  “It gives you a kind of Special Feeling for them, doesn’t it?” Barbara remarked, as she and Arthur faced each other across the breakfast table; and Arthur—who was in the midst of his matutinal bacon and eggs—agreed that it did.