“Have you only got one brother?” asked Barbara.
“Oh no, of course not. I’ve got Amby as well. Amby’s younger than me.”
“What unusual names!”
“Mhm! Rather silly, aren’t they? Trivona is a goddess you know—the Goddess of the Trent—and Lancreste and Ambrose were archbishops or something. I really must go now.”
***
Barbara’s second visitor was the vicar’s wife. She arrived just as the furniture was being carried into the house. It was the most awkward moment she could have chosen, for Barbara required all her wits to direct the men as to which room each piece was to adorn. It was difficult enough to recognize the chairs and tables, the bookcases and cupboards and beds beneath their sackcloth wrappings, without having to carry on a conversation with the vicar’s wife at the same time.
“I hope you belong to Our Church, Mrs. Abbott,” said Mrs. Dance, advancing upon Barbara with a somewhat toothy smile.
“Oh yes—yes, of course,” Barbara replied, shaking her hand vaguely. “In the study, please,” she cried, trying to direct the furniture-man. “No, not there, this room—I’ll open the door for you. Mind the wall—oh, please mind the wall—yes, of course, I expect we do. What is your church?”
“I’m chapel, mum,” said the furniture-man, setting down the bookcase and wiping his hands on the seat of his trousers. “I’m chapel, I am.” He was somewhat surprised at the question—most people didn’t seem to mind what place of worship you attended as long as you did your work properly and were careful not to take chunks out of their walls with the edge of a cupboard. But he was a polite man, and always liked to answer people’s questions when he could. “My people was chapel before me,” he added, hoarsely, for the bookcase was heavy, and he was a little out of breath. “The Potts has always been chapel—if you see what I mean, mum.”
“I didn’t really mean you,” Barbara explained. “Though I’m sure it’s very interesting,” she added with her usual kindness and politeness. “Very interesting indeed—oh wait, that doesn’t go there,” she cried, rushing after another man who was bearing a bed into the dining-room. “Upstairs, please—not you, that’s the dining-room table—upstairs please, wait, and I’ll show you which room—it’s my bed I think—no it’s the spare room at the end of the passage, I’ll show you—mind the light—that’s right—look out, take care of the banisters. In the pantry,” she shrieked, leaning over the stairs and signaling wildly to a third man, who was staggering into the hall with a crate of china balanced precariously upon his shoulders. “Go into the pantry.”
“Why?” inquired Mrs. Dance who thought the signals were for her, “I’d rather wait in the drawing-room.”
“The drawing-room, did you say?” asked the man with the crate, lurching toward the drawing-room door.
“Where’s this bed to go?” inquired the man on the landing.
“Shall I unpack this bookcase, mum?” shouted the ever-polite Potts.
It was all very difficult. Barbara wished that Mrs. Dance would go away and leave her free to wrestle with the situation, but Mrs. Dance was determined to remain until she had received a proper answer from Mrs. Abbott and, possibly, a contribution to the Organ Fund. She lingered in the hall, dodging packing cases and getting in everybody’s way, until Barbara would willingly have given her a whole organ if she had known that was what Mrs. Dance wanted.
At last the furniture had all been carried in. The vans drove off, and Mrs. Dance and Barbara were left in sole possession of The Archway House. They sat down on the stairs—there was nowhere else to sit—and Mrs. Dance had the opportunity she had been waiting for.
“I hope you’ll like it here,” she said, dubiously. “It’s very quiet, of course. You’ve come from London, haven’t you?”
“Hampstead Heath,” Barbara told her.
“That’s London, isn’t it?” said the good lady. “I’m afraid you’re bound to feel it quiet. There is so much going on in London.”
“Yes,” admitted Barbara, thinking of the dinners and bridge from which she and Arthur were escaping.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Dance. “Do you like music?”
Barbara answered in the affirmative. She was not very fond of music (possibly because she knew very little about it), but she was aware that it was the correct thing to like music, and she really thought she liked it. There are very few people in the world with courage enough to admit that they do not care for music (dogs and children come into the same category) and so brand themselves forever as Philistines in the eyes of their friends.
“Ah!” said Mrs. Dance. “Ah, that’s good! You like music. You will find us very musical down here. Lady Chevis Cobbe is passionately fond of music. She has the most delightful Musical Evenings at Chevis Place. You will enjoy that immensely.”
“I’m sure I shall,” agreed Barbara politely.
“And the choir,” continued the vicar’s wife. “The choir at our dear little church is excellent. So different from most country choirs. The bishop always remarks upon the excellence of the choir when he comes.”
Barbara said that was very nice.
“Yes, so encouraging,” agreed Mrs. Dance, “but I am sorry to say that the organ is very poor. The organ is not worthy of us,” she said sadly. “We are making a collection for a new organ.”
Barbara said what a good plan that was.
Mrs. Dance sighed. It was not the reaction she had hoped for; however, she did not despair. There was plenty of time, and, if she could not get a decent contribution out of Mrs. Abbott today, she would return to the charge later. She had waited patiently for some time for this little chat, and she determined that it must not be altogether fruitless; if she could not get any money out of the woman she must try to get some information. Everybody in Wandlebury would want to know all about the new people and she had obviously got in first. Mrs. Dance knew that she would be able to lunch and tea out of the new people for days to come.
“I believe your husband is a publisher,” she said, smiling toothily. “I suppose, with so many new books being published, he must make a great deal of money.” Her eyes strayed round the hall as she spoke—it was amazing how nice the house looked, simply amazing when you knew what it had looked like before—all that nice white paint, and the crinkly new paper—it must have cost a small fortune.
“Oh no!” cried Barbara, horror-stricken by this suggestion. “Business is very bad—very bad indeed.”
Private means, thought Mrs. Dance, making a note of it in her mind. Aloud she said, “I’ve been wondering if you are related to the Wimbornes that I know—dear friends of mine—the Rutlandshire branch of the family.”
“No, I have never heard of them,” replied Barbara promptly.
“You aren’t?” exclaimed Mrs. Dance in surprise. “I thought your name was Wimbourne before you were married.”
“Oh no—no it wasn’t,” Barbara said.
“How funny!” giggled Mrs. Dance. “I wonder how I can have got that idea into my head. Isn’t it queer?”
Barbara agreed that it was very queer indeed.
Mrs. Dance sighed again. It was extraordinary uphill work, and she was not getting much “forrader.” Very secretive, she thought, and obviously ashamed of her origin.
“Do you find the climate very trying here?” she inquired hopefully.
“Oh no,” replied Barbara. “I mean we haven’t really lived here yet, but I’m sure I shan’t.”
“Perhaps you are used to bracing air—before you were married, I mean.”
“I don’t notice any difference in air,” admitted Barbara frankly. “All air is the same to me—even bad air. I’m so very strong, you see.”
Mrs. Dance was sick of hedging. “Where did you live before you were married?” she inquired.
Unfortunately Barbara was not lis
tening. Her eyes, wandering round the cluttered hall, had alighted upon a large crate, which, she was certain, must contain Arthur’s chest of drawers, and Arthur’s chest of drawers had no business to be in the hall; it ought to be in Arthur’s dressing-room, of course, that small, but delightfully convenient apartment leading off their conjugal bedroom.
“How trying!” Barbara murmured.
“Rye!” exclaimed Mrs. Dance. “Fancy that—most interesting, I know Rye very well, I have a cousin living there. I wonder if you know her—” She expatiated on her cousin who lived at Rye while Barbara gazed at Arthur’s chest of drawers and wondered how it was to be got upstairs now that the men had gone. Perhaps the gardener—thought Barbara, not very hopefully, for even her optimistic imagination boggled at the vision of the frail form of Grimes staggering up the staircase with that enormous crate.
“No,” she said absentmindedly. “No, I don’t know anybody called Skate, I’m afraid.”
“I said Kate,” declared Mrs. Dance—really Mrs. Abbott must be half-witted—“Kate Sparling. She has lived there for years and knows everybody.”
“Where?” inquired Barbara.
“Rye, of course.”
“I’ve never been to Rye,” explained Barbara casually.
“But you said you had lived there—”
“I didn’t—I couldn’t possibly have said that, because I’ve never been there at all.”
Mrs. Dance gave up the struggle. The woman was a fool—there wasn’t a doubt of it—a fool and a liar (because she had most certainly said she lived at Rye). But I mustn’t go yet, thought Mrs. Dance, it isn’t any good offending her at the very beginning, especially if they belong to Edwin’s congregation.
“I hope the Marvells won’t plague you to death,” she said aloud. “They live next door in a quaint little modern bungalow. He built it himself, you know, and it’s supposed to be very artistic. It’s certainly very inconvenient,” continued Mrs. Dance giggling. “Queer-shaped rooms, full of divans and things. He’s a painter, of course, and the children run wild. Mrs. Marvell is very peculiar; some people say she drinks, but, of course, one must be charitable. I daresay her vague manner is not really due to drink at all. The children have the most extraordinary names. Edwin was quite worried when he had to christen them.”
“Fancy!” Barbara exclaimed.
“Poor children!” continued Mrs. Dance lugubriously. “Poor children, what chance have they got to make good in the world with such a peculiar upbringing? Really, when I look at my own child—so carefully taught and guided into the right paths—my heart positively bleeds for them.”
“Dreadful!” said Barbara shaking her head sadly. She wished again that Mrs. Dance would go. The stair was very hard to sit on, and there was such a lot to do. Barbara thought of all the things she had to do while she listened with one ear to Mrs. Dance’s prattle. It was quite easy to do this when you got used to it, and Barbara had had a lot of practice. In the old days, at Silverstream, Barbara had perfected herself in the art of half-listening to boring conversations. You listened just enough to know when the right time came to say “Yes” and “No” and when to shake your head sadly and say “Fancy!” or “Goodness!” or “How awful!” With these remarks, made at the proper time and in the proper manner, you could carry on a conversation for hours without any trouble to yourself.
Barbara was practicing her most useful invention on Mrs. Dance when, quite suddenly, she heard a name she knew, and she was all attention.
“—Lady Chevis Cobbe,” Mrs. Dance was saying, “Very ill indeed.”
“Ill?” inquired Barbara with interest.
“I said she had been ill,” said Mrs. Dance. “She is getting better now, and I hear she hopes to be well enough to have one of her Musical Evenings in November. Such a charming woman. She gave us ten pounds for the Organ Fund,” added Mrs. Dance hopefully.
“Fancy her being ill!” Barbara said thoughtfully. “I wonder…”
“Perhaps you know Lady Chevis Cobbe?” suggested Mrs. Dance after waiting for a few moments—most eagerly—to know what it was that Mrs. Abbott wondered.
“No,” said Barbara.
“What were you going to say?” inquired Mrs. Dance, who could contain her curiosity no longer.
“Nothing,” said Barbara.
“You said you wondered,” urged Mrs. Dance.
“Oh, I wondered—I just wondered—what was the matter with her,” said Barbara, and she blushed, because she hated having to tell lies.
“Something internal,” whispered Mrs. Dance mysteriously.
She rose. She could sit no longer on the cold hard stair, not even for the sake of the Organ Fund. She felt chilled to the bone, and that portion of her anatomy which had been in contact with the stone was quite numb. I only hope I don’t get something internal, she thought, but perhaps, as it was in such a very Good Cause—
“Good-bye, Mrs. Abbott,” she said. “It has been such a pleasure—yes, I really must go. I have promised to go and have tea with an invalid, and she would be so disappointed. Little things mean so much when—Good-bye. We shall look forward to seeing you settled here soon.”
“Good-bye,” Barbara said. “Good-bye, so nice of you to come.”
Mrs. Dance walked very quickly down the drive. She walked quickly, partly to warm herself up, and lessen the chance of getting a severe chill, and partly because she was going to tea with Mrs. Thane and she was late. But I shall have quite a lot to tell her, thought Mrs. Dance complacently.
Chapter Eight
Husband and Wife
The great day came at last; the Abbotts “moved in” to their new abode. Mr. Abbott left Sunnydene in the morning, and returned at night to The Archway House. Everything was in order for his arrival. Barbara and Dorcas had been there all day getting things straight. The new servants had arrived and settled in. Barbara was almost as pleased with her new servants as she was with her house. She was so thankful to see the last of the Rasts with their endless quarrels and sour faces. The new servants were “nice,” thought Barbara (her favorite word); they were pleasant and agreeable, they smiled when you spoke to them, and were obviously delighted with the lovely, clean, new house.
Mr. Abbott arrived about teatime. He motored down in his new Vauxhall with his smart new chauffeur at the wheel. The trains were quite good, and quite convenient—he would use the trains occasionally, of course—but the first day he wanted to arrive in comfort, to arrive in state (as it were), so Strange had been ordered to call for him at the office at three o’clock. By this time Arthur was quite excited about the new house—almost as excited as Barbara herself—he had entirely forgotten his first dismal impressions of the place, and he would have been indignant if anybody had suggested to him that he had been coerced into buying the place by his wife.
“Most comfortable!” he said, walking round the house with his hands clasped behind his back, and his kind eyes gleaming through his spectacles. “Most comfortable!” he repeated, sinking gratefully into the larger of the two leather chairs arranged before the fire in the snug study behind the drawing-room. “Most comfortable!” he was to reiterate as he snuggled down in his beautiful new bed with the spring mattress and the blue swansdown blankets—but that was not yet; that was a pleasure to come, there was sherry, and then dinner (a truly excellent meal achieved by the new cook), and a little stroll round the garden with Barbara to be enjoyed before the acme of comfort was experienced.
Barbara was extremely keen on the little stroll round the garden after dinner. She wanted to show Arthur the beds which had been prepared for the new roses, and, although Arthur would just as soon have remained cozily by the fire, and put off seeing the beds until the morning—when he could have seen them much better—Barbara was obviously disappointed at the suggestion, and Barbara had toiled and moiled to make the place nice (she had done s
o much and done it so well) that Arthur felt he owed it to her to indulge her whim.
They waited until the moon rose behind the trees, and then they went out. It was a trifle cool, not to say chilly, in the garden, for it was now the end of October, but Barbara was too hardy to mind about that.
“You see, Arthur,” she said earnestly. “The roses must be here. Grimes has been making the crazy pavement. I think he’s doing it nicely, don’t you? The roses must be here so that we can look out on them from the drawing-room windows.”
The rose garden was absolutely bare. There was not even a twig to be seen, not a weed marred its surface. A pile of manure filled the night air with its unroselike odor.
“I wonder how it will look,” said Arthur thoughtfully.
“Oh, Arthur, can’t you see it?” Barbara exclaimed. “I can. I can see the roses all bursting into flower. I can smell them,” she added, sniffing appreciatively.
“That’s not roses, it’s manure you smell,” said Arthur in his “smiling voice.” “I thought you had no imagination, Barbara. But if you can see roses in an empty bed, and smell them in manure, you must have a good deal of imagination.”
Barbara had done more spectacular feats of imagination than this, but she had not realized it.
“Oh!” she said in surprise. “I believe you’re right, Arthur. I believe I must have an imagination after all.”
Arthur laughed. There was a tinge of heavenly foolishness in his Barbara; it was one of the surprising and delightful things about her.
They walked on, arm in arm. It was very pleasant if you kept moving; there was a freshness in the air, a tingle and a nip that Mr. Abbott found most agreeable after a day in his London office.
“I think perhaps Wandlebury has done that to me,” Barbara continued. “I’m sure I never had an imagination when I was at Hampstead Heath or Silverstream. Look at my books—it was all because of me not having an imagination that there was so much fuss about them. If I’d had an imagination I wouldn’t have had to write about the Snowdons, and the Bulmers, and Mrs. Featherstone Hogg. I could have made up new people out of my head.”
Miss Buncle Married Page 7
