Miss Buncle Married

by D. E. Stevenson

  “They wouldn’t have been so funny,” said Mr. Abbott with conviction.

  “Oh yes, they would,” Barbara argued. “If I’d had an imagination, they would have been, because, don’t you see, I could have imagined funny people. Look at Dickens; you don’t suppose he ever knew anybody like Mr. Dick, or Mr. Micawber; he just made them up out of his head and everybody laughs at them.” She sighed and pressed Arthur’s arm. “I do wish I had an imagination,” she said, “I believe it might grow if I live in Wandlebury long enough, and then I could write things out of my head. Wandlebury makes me imagine things. The first day I got here I saw people in the square—ladies and gentlemen with whiskers and poke bonnets—”

  Arthur chuckled appreciatively. He hoped Barbara would go on talking; he adored it when Barbara was in one of her garrulous moods. It was rubbish, he supposed, if you really analyzed it, but what amusing rubbish it was! “Ladies and gentlemen with whiskers and poke bonnets”—Barbara was delightful.

  Mr. Abbott had not seen nearly enough of Barbara lately; she had been so busy and so worried. Even when he did see her she was up to the neck in wallpapers or cretonnes and he had got no good of her—no good at all. But now all that was over, and Mr. Abbott would get his wife back again with all her dear funny innocent ways. He was looking forward to it immensely.

  “Perhaps you imagined Mr. Tyler,” he suggested, hoping to start Barbara off again. He was getting very clever at the art of making his wife talk.

  “It is funny about Mr. Tyler,” agreed Barbara elliptically, “I can’t think why he’s always out when we call at the office. I thought he rather liked me that first day. He was so welcoming—you know what I mean—and he made me drink port—he really wanted me to. Now Mr. Tupper doesn’t mind whether I drink it or not.”

  “But you don’t like port,” Arthur objected.

  “I know,” said Barbara. “But even if I don’t like it, I like people to want me to drink it. It shows they’re really interested, you see. I wish you could see Mr. Tyler. I really do. I know you’d like him, Arthur. He’s got a round pink face and he beams at you through his spectacles. He’s not thin and dry like Mr. Tupper, and he’s the sort of man who minds a lot whether you like him or not, and he likes you to think he’s very clever and very important because he knows, in his inmost heart, that he’s not clever or important at all. So he puts on very grown-up airs, and swanks a little in front of the clerks, because it would be so awful if the clerks found out that he’s just a little boy pretending to be a grown-up lawyer.”

  Mr. Abbott digested all this with interest—not because he was the slightest bit interested in Mr. Tyler, a man he did not know, but because he was tremendously interested in Barbara, whom, after eighteen months of daily contact, he was just beginning to know. The strangest thing about Barbara, Arthur reflected, the strangest thing about this strange woman who was now his lawful wedded wife, was that although she understood practically nothing, she yet understood everything.

  She might or might not have “an imagination” (Arthur could not be sure of that), but she certainly had an extraordinary power of getting underneath people’s skins. Without being conscious of it herself she was able to sum up a person or a situation in a few minutes. People’s very bones were bare to her—and she had no idea of it. She used the very simplest language to voice her thoughts—quite often her expressions were couched in doubtful grammar—but this, in some strange manner, seemed to enhance their piquant flavor. Mr. Abbott could not understand it, but the very fact that he could not understand it intrigued him all the more. It was not that Barbara was illiterate, for when she had a pen in her hand her thoughts flowed freely, and flowed in perfectly good English, and, this being so, why was it that for everyday purposes she employed only the most colloquial expressions, and used banalities and hackneyed idioms? Barbara loved proverbs and worn-out clichés, and this was not because she was lazy and slipshod—as most people are who employ these phrases. (When she had insisted on calling her last book The Pen Is Mightier— she had called it that in all sincerity, and not in a satirical spirit with her tongue in her cheek as so many people had thought. No, she had called her book The Pen Is Mightier— simply because she had discovered—somewhat to her surprise—what a mighty weapon the pen was, when wielded by her hand. She had seen the good and the evil that her first book had wrought in Silverstream, and the sheer force of her sincerity had made the trite saying her own.)

  I wonder what it is, thought Mr. Abbott, as they walked round the garden in friendly contented silence, I wonder what it is that makes Barbara’s books sell like they do. Has she genius—as Spicer declares—or only natural facility, natural talent? And, if it is genius, am I justified in not encouraging her to exercise it? But what is the difference, he wondered. Just where does talent merge into genius? If talent is a natural aptitude for creation with an outlook on life peculiar to oneself, then genius is to have an outlook on life, peculiar to oneself, which yet appeals to everybody. Talent is for oneself and a few others, but genius is universal. Judged by this standard Barbara must very nearly have genius—if not quite—for her books seem to appeal to an enormous number of people in every class and every walk of life. But I shan’t worry her, he thought, I shall just leave it alone, and, if she wants to write she can write, and if she doesn’t want to, she needn’t. That’s what I said at the very beginning, and I shall stick to it. But I really hope, in a way, that she won’t want to write (thought Mr. Abbott) because this place is delightful—simply charming—and if Barbara starts writing about our neighbors, we shall most probably have to leave Wandlebury—just as she had to leave Silverstream—in a hurry.

  Mr. Abbott smiled as he thought of that midnight flitting from Silverstream. He had come down in his car as had been arranged, and had found Barbara and Dorcas ready and waiting, sitting on their suitcases—for the furniture had already gone. They were both frightened, he remembered, for they had been through a good deal already, and they knew there was worse to come. They were thankful to see him, thankful to get away from Tanglewood Cottage before the storm burst. Then, the very next day, he and Barbara had been married—a quiet affair in a dingy London church with no witnesses save the faithful Dorcas and Sam.

  Mr. Abbott’s thought stopped when they came to Sam, and he heaved an enormous sigh, for Sam was being extraordinarily difficult and annoying at the moment.

  Barbara’s hand tightened on his arm. “What’s the matter, Arthur?” she inquired sympathetically.

  “It’s Sam,” replied Mr. Abbott. “I don’t know what on earth I’m going to do about Sam.”

  Sam Abbott was the son of Mr. Abbott’s eldest brother who had been killed in the war; Mr. Abbott had made himself responsible for Sam’s education, and, when the right moment arrived, had taken him into the office to try him out. He meant to make a partner of Sam later on. “Abbott, Spicer, & Abbott” sounded rather well—so thought the senior Abbott—but now he was beginning to feel dubious as to whether Sam would ever settle down to work and become the sort of man who would make a safe partner. The thing was, you couldn’t depend on the boy. Sometimes he seemed reliable enough, sometimes he seemed positively brilliant, but sometimes he was a confounded nuisance, and Mr. Abbott would reflect gloomily that the devil must have begotten Sam and sent him to Abbott & Spicer’s with the sole object of plaguing and badgering them into an early grave.

  “What has Sam been doing?” Barbara inquired.

  “Hmm,” said Mr. Abbott. It seemed rather unfair to sneak to Barbara about Sam’s misdemeanors. After all the boy was only twenty-five—quite young—and his father had been killed when he was four years old, so he hadn’t had much of a chance. You couldn’t be very angry with him—and Elsie was weak. Elsie had spoiled the boy frightfully—not that he altogether blamed Elsie; it was difficult for a woman with a fatherless boy not to spoil him. But this morning, when Mr. Abbott had had to trek down to Bow Street an
d pay a fine for the boy, he had been angry, very angry indeed, and he had blamed Elsie. What a scene it had been! Elsie in a flood of tears, the boy ashamed and defiant in turn, and the magistrate smiling behind his hand. It wasn’t anything very serious, of course (just foolishness after some sort of dinner party, and Mr. Abbott had a strong suspicion that Sam had been made a sort of scapegoat), but Mr. Abbott had never got into trouble with the police in his young days. Why, when he was Sam’s age he had been fighting in France—an officer, with men’s lives dependent upon his common sense. Responsibility, thought Mr. Abbott. That was the thing to make a man of you. There were no wars now, thank God, and he hoped, most devoutly, that there never would be anymore, but he was very glad that he had been the right age for the last war.

  “What has Sam been doing?” inquired Barbara again.

  “Oh, painting the town red,” said Mr. Abbott, laughing a little.

  “Oh!” said Barbara. She had always wondered how you painted the town red—it sounded a fine thing to do. “Don’t you think we might ask him down here for a few days?” she suggested.

  Mr. Abbott was in two minds about this. “Well,” he said dubiously, “but Sam might not want to come.”

  “Why not?”

  It was impossible to say why not without giving Sam away (Sam might not want to come after being severely reprimanded, not to say hauled over the coals by his uncle for his idiotic behavior) so Mr. Abbott said vaguely:

  “You don’t know Sam,” meaning of course that Sam was a bit of a problem, and that you never knew where you were with him. But Barbara took his words literally (as she always took everything) and replied instantly:

  “Oh, yes, I do. I saw him at the wedding—and his mother, too. Shall we have to ask her, Arthur?”

  “She wouldn’t come if you did,” Arthur said, “Elsie’s awfully religious, you know. One of those people who think more about their own hereafter than other people’s presents. If Elsie looked after Sam properly instead of spending all her time in church. If she spent as much time and energy on Sam as she has in saving her soul, Sam wouldn’t have—”

  “Wouldn’t have what?” inquired Barbara eagerly.

  “Wouldn’t have painted the town red,” said Mr. Abbott in his “smiling voice.”

  By this time Mr. Abbott had almost decided to ask Sam down for a few days. Barbara was interested in Sam and obviously intended him to come. After all, thought Mr. Abbott, he couldn’t do much harm here (he couldn’t paint Wandlebury red) and, perhaps, if I heard Barbara’s opinion of him, it would give me some clue to the boy. I’d like Barbara’s opinion of Sam. And then he chuckled inwardly and thought, if Barbara sees through to Sam’s bones, I’ll eat my hat. The truth was that Mr. Abbott had thought it all over before, and it had been on the tip of his tongue, on several occasions, to suggest having Sam down to Sunnydene, but every time this had happened he had choked the words back, and left them unsaid. The reason for this strange behavior, this wavering, this filling and backing on the part of the usually forthright and stable Mr. Abbott was rather queer. It was the recollection of Sam at the wedding, and Barbara’s reaction to the vision—for vision he was. Mr. Abbott had thought himself rather smart—until he saw Sam—he had arrayed himself in his morning coat, with his neatly striped trousers and lavender waistcoat, and he had had his topper ironed at Blockes. They had decided to have a very quiet wedding (this was necessary in the peculiar circumstances), but Mr. Abbott had felt that it was due to Barbara to wear the proper clothes to marry her in, and the proper clothes for a wedding were those enumerated above. In addition to this Mr. Abbott was aware that he looked well in morning dress (and what man does not desire to look well at his wedding?); his broad shoulders seemed even broader beneath the well-fitting black cloth, his narrow hips seemed narrower beneath the chaste pinstripe of his trousers, the shining topper lent dignity to his pleasant, kindly face. These garments of Mr. Abbott’s were old and valued friends; they had helped him through his first luncheon party, they had given him confidence at his first board meeting, they had accompanied him to weddings galore, and, on two occasions, had aided and upheld him in the discharge of the responsible and onerous duties of best man. He had worn them at Lords, year by year when he attended the Eton and Harrow match. They had accompanied him to Ascot and had shared with him the joy of winning a good deal of money and the sorrow of losing considerably more. The morning coat and the topper (but not the other more festive accompaniments) had seen him through a good many funerals, and had helped him to conceal too much feeling—or too little.

  For five years these, almost sacred, garments had been laid away, guarded by blue paper and a superfluity of mothballs, while Mr. Abbott waged war for his country, attired—very differently, but almost as becomingly—in a khaki tunic and a Sam Browne belt; and, when he returned, bearing the sheaves of victory, he had lifted the garments out of the trunk where they had reposed for so long, had shaken out the mothballs, and had thought—I wonder if I can still wear my morning coat. Of course he could still wear his morning coat, and, what was more, he could still wear the striped trousers, the lavender waistcoat, and the carefully preserved and shining topper—of course, he could wear them (and very smart he looked in them too). War was not the sort of game that put flesh on a man. They fitted him as well as ever—and they still fitted him.

  It was rather an achievement, Mr. Abbott thought, that at forty-three you could still wear the same morning coat that you had worn at twenty, rather an achievement. Not many men of forty-three could say the same.

  These things being so, it was only to be expected that Mr. Abbott should decide to appear in morning dress at his wedding, and should say, off-hand to Sam, who had accepted the honor of being best man, “By the way, I’m going to wear morning dress.” “Oh yes. Yes, of course, Uncle Arthur,” Sam had replied, negligently, and had turned up at St. Humbert’s attired in his.

  It was natural, Mr. Abbott supposed, if somewhat galling, to find that the clergyman had taken Sam for the bridegroom, and Mr. Abbott for his father. (The mistake was discovered and rectified in time, so no harm was done except to Mr. Abbott’s vanity.) It was a natural mistake, for Sam was young, and Sam, Mr. Abbott was bound to admit, was good-looking He had upon him the radiance of youth, which the clergyman had mistaken for the radiance of a bridegroom. Mr. Abbott had realized all this and made allowances; it was Barbara’s reaction to Sam that Mr. Abbott had taken to heart.

  “Oh!” she had said when she saw Sam for the first time; and her eyes had strayed admiringly from the tips of Sam’s patent leather Oxfords to the crown of his shining topper, dwelling on the way, with all too obvious pleasure and amazement, upon his lemon-colored spats, his gray and white “sponge-bag” trousers, his lemon waistcoat embroidered with lemon flowers, his lemon tie with the pale silver horseshoes, his high collar with its immaculate wings, and the lemon carnation in the buttonhole of his perfectly tailored morning coat.

  “Oh!” was all she had said, but there are many kinds of “Ohs,” and, besides, Mr. Abbott had seen the admiration in her eyes. It had all hurt just a little because Mr. Abbott, not unnaturally, wanted all Barbara’s admiration for himself on this auspicious day. So this was the reason why, when Mr. Abbott’s mind said, “Invite Sam to come and stay and see what Barbara thinks of him,” his heart replied, “No don’t, keep Barbara for yourself.”

  Mr. Abbott scarcely realized all this, of course; it was a subconscious reaction, and the little that he did realize of it he was not proud of. And now, when Barbara suggested having Sam down, he decided that it was all nonsense, and that he had got over it long ago—besides he had no excuse for not having him—none that he could produce. So, after a little hesitation, while he fought with his disinclination to have Sam and conquered it, he said to Barbara:

  “All right, we’ll ask Sam and see.”

  And with that they went in and presently retired to bed.


  Chapter Nine

  Marvells in the Garden

  Barbara had been at The Archway House for a week before she saw the Marvell children in her garden. It was the day of Sam’s arrival, and she had been so busy preparing for his reception that she had not been out all the morning. In the afternoon she walked down to the wild strip of garden beyond the little wood, where the stream ran between banks of sod turf, and, just as she was emerging from the wood, she stopped suddenly for she heard the high-pitched sound of children’s voices.

  It’s them, she thought, it’s those Marvell children. And she walked on very quietly so as not to disturb them, and found them sailing little boats on the stream. Trivvie was squatting at the edge of the stream with her back to Barbara, but she was easily recognizable by her tangled brown hair, and the bright-blue overall which she was wearing. On the other side of the stream there was a small plump boy with fair curly hair, and a pink-and-white complexion; he was clad in tight brown shorts and a tight brown jersey, which made him look (thought Barbara) for all the world like a chestnut bud before it bursts into green leaves. He was capering wildly and shouting in his thin shrill voice.

  “Mine’s winning, Trivvie. Cambridge is winning!”

  Barbara watched them for a few minutes—they were too intent upon their game to notice her presence, but, when the race was over and Oxford had won after all—not without some sharp practice on Oxford’s part, Barbara suspected—Trivvie looked up, warned by some sixth sense that they were not alone.

  “Hullo, it’s you!” she said, and then she added defiantly, “You said we could play here.”

  “I know, it’s all right,” Barbara replied.

  “Trivvie’s been bucking about you, frightfully,” said the boy, gazing at Barbara with his very deep-blue eyes. “I don’t think you’re much to buck about.”