“I want to introduce Candia Thane,” she said. “I’m sure you’ll like her. Oh, here are the Marvells!”
Barbara was interested to meet the Marvells on account of their offspring—she felt convinced that the parents of Trivvie and Ambrose must be unusual, and therefore worth knowing. Mr. Marvell was certainly unusual, he was very tall and broad-shouldered, with strongly carved features, and iron-gray hair. He wore his hair rather long, and had a wave in it that a society beauty might have envied. Mrs. Marvell had a queer kind of untidy elegance, her hair was brown—like Trivvie’s—and cut in a straight bob, like a medieval page, with a straight fringe across her forehead. Her eyes were brown and rather wide apart, and had a vague look, which, Barbara discovered later, was due to the fact that she was extremely shortsighted.
“How do you do,” she said. “Are you the people that have come to live next door?”
Barbara answered in the affirmative; she was a little surprised that Mrs. Marvell had found it necessary to ask the question.
“The garden has been neglected for a long time,” complained Mrs. Marvell.
“I know,” replied Barbara. “I’m having it tidied up.”
“It’s rather a nuisance because of the seeds—dandelions and things—they blow over the wall,” said Mrs. Marvell, peering over Barbara’s shoulder as she spoke.
“Oh yes,” said Barbara. It was difficult to know what else to say.
“Yes, it’s rather a nuisance,” said Mrs. Marvell again.
Barbara felt it was unfair to blame her for the state of The Archway House garden. It was not her fault that the place had been neglected for so long—but she found this conviction difficult to word, so she left it unuttered. I wonder (she thought) whether my garden will suffer more from her children, or hers from my dandelions—but she left this thought unuttered, too.
“Perhaps you’ll come to dinner some night,” said Mrs. Marvell more cheerfully. “You don’t expect me to call, or anything, do you?”
“Oh no—no, of course, not,” murmured Barbara.
“Because I never do, you know. But come to dinner.”
“We don’t play bridge,” said Barbara firmly.
“Bridge!” exclaimed Mrs. Marvell, as if she had never heard of the game. “Oh, bridge. No, we don’t play bridge. James doesn’t like it.”
“Neither do we.”
“We play ping-pong sometimes.”
“We don’t play ping-pong,” said Barbara.
“But we’re not very good at it.”
“We can’t play at all.”
“How funny!” said Mrs. Marvell, and then she added, “But come to dinner all the same.”
“Thank you, we should like to,” Barbara said politely. She thought—this is a mad conversation, quite mad. She’s like the White Queen out of Alice in Wonderland.
At this moment all conversation suddenly ceased, and a fat woman in pink began to sing in a very loud contralto voice.
“That’s the worst of these Musical Evenings,” whispered Mr. Marvell, who was standing on Barbara’s other side.
“What is?” inquired Barbara in the same sibilant tone.
“The music, of course.”
Several people turned round indignantly and said, “Hush,” whereupon he relapsed into gloomy silence.
When the applause was over Barbara was delighted to find her husband at her elbow.
“Well,” he inquired, “how goes it? Do you know enough people yet?”
“Where have you been, Arthur?” she exclaimed.
“Talking to one or two fellows,” he replied. “They’re going to put me up for the golf club.”
“That’s good,” nodded Barbara. She was very much pleased at the information for she had been worrying about Arthur’s golf. He enjoyed it, and it was good for him. It really was splendid news.
“Hullo!” said Arthur suddenly. “Hullo—it isn’t—it can’t be—it is! Monkey, by all that’s blue!” And he leaned across Barbara, and seized hold of a funny little man with a brown face and surprised eyebrows—“Monkey—don’t you know me?”
“Badger!” cried the little man, equally thrilled at the unexpected meeting, “Badger—Good Lord it’s you! Where have you come from—eh?”
“What have you been up to, you old scrounger?” cried Arthur, quite red in the face with excitement. “Look here, this is my wife. Barbara, this is Monkey Wrench—we were in France together fighting the Boche. Monkey’s a great fighter—you’d never think it to look at him, would you?”
Barbara shook hands with the little man.
“Bless my buttons, it’s good to see you again!” continued Arthur. “Brings back old times, what? Remember that night at Amiens?”
“Hush, hush,” said the other with feigned terror. “No lurid reminiscences here—I’m a staid respectable old medico now, and I’ve got my reputation to think of.”
“What? A medico?” Arthur exclaimed. “Great heavens—hadn’t you killed enough people in France? Talk about blood lust.”
Barbara never knew what Dr. Wrench replied to this amazing innuendo; she was swept off to be introduced to somebody else. She had now met so many people that she was completely bewildered; it was impossible, she found, to disentangle the unfamiliar names and faces. How awful! she kept thinking (as she bowed or shook hands with another complete stranger), how awful if I meet them in the street and cut them dead! The only thing for me to do is to bow to everybody I see, because all Wandlebury must be here tonight—or very nearly—so there will be less chance of making a mistake by bowing than not bowing.
By this time Barbara had been gradually pushed up to the end of the room where the dais was situated. Silence was commanded and Sir Lucian Agnew—rather a thin weedy-looking man, with a pink-and-white complexion—climbed onto the dais and prepared to entertain the company.
“Our Wandlebury poet,” explained Mr. Marvell, who was once more at Barbara’s elbow. “Our Wandlebury poet prepares to recite an original and hitherto unpublished gem from his own immortal works.”
“How clever of him!” exclaimed Barbara, looking at Sir Lucian with awe and wonder.
“It is indeed,” agreed Mr. Marvell. “But perhaps we had better withhold our superlative praise, until we have heard and enjoyed Sir Lucian’s effort.”
Sir Lucian cleared his throat and raised his eyes to the ceiling—he evidently required no aid to memory—
“Thoughts in my Garden,” said Sir Lucian slowly.
A charm of goldfinches upon a bush
Of Michaelmas daisies or long-tailed vetch
Is busy pecking at the little seeds—
Their golden livery gleams in the sunshine.
The weed-blanketed dung-hill boasts
A rainbow-hued murmuration
Of starlings—and, on the currant bushes,
Red and white currants hang like milky pearls,
Or blood-red rubies. Tits as small as mice
Hang upside down, and gorge until their beaks
Drip with succulence
There was a tremendous applause when Sir Lucian finished, and then the hum of conversation burst forth once more.
“How did it strike you?” Mr. Marvell inquired, with a satirical gleam in his fine eyes.
“I thought it was awfully pretty,” replied Barbara, with her usual truthfulness. “But it wasn’t a poem, really, was it? I mean it didn’t rhyme.”
“Sir Lucian prefers vers libre,” explained Mr. Marvell solemnly.
He was beginning to think that Barbara was a most amusing woman—quite an acquisition to Wandlebury—and he took her simple sincerity for subtlety (it was too innocent to be natural, he thought), and she took his sarcasm for sincerity. But in spite of this complete misunderstanding of each other—or perhaps b
ecause of it—they got on extraordinarily well. They agreed that Sir Lucian must be frightfully clever to write poetry like that, and they agreed it was “very brave” of him to stand up and deliver his poem before such a large and critical audience, and the fact that Barbara really thought these things and Mr. Marvell didn’t never became apparent.
Chapter Eleven
The Musical Evening—Continued
Barbara was still discussing the poem with Mr. Marvell when Mrs. Dance spotted her, and bore down upon her with her usual toothy smile.
“There you are, Mrs. Abbott!” she exclaimed delightedly. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Isn’t it a lovely party?”
Barbara had no difficulty in remembering Mrs. Dance; she had suffered too much, both mentally and physically, during that lady’s call. Those large and gleaming teeth would forever be associated in Barbara’s mind with the storm and stress of the furniture arriving, and an aching at the base of her spine.
“Come and sit down, Mrs. Abbott,” continued Mrs. Dance, leading the way to a sofa in the corner of the room, which happened to be unoccupied at the moment, “come and sit down, and I’ll tell you who everybody is.”
Mrs. Dance was unfeignedly glad when she saw Barbara; she was feeling a trifle “out of it,” and this was all the harder to bear because she knew practically everybody in the room. The truth was that Mrs. Dance was not popular in Wandlebury—and she knew it. Now, unpopular people with thick skins are usually rather happy people—they go through life quite cheerfully treading on their neighbors’ toes, and bestowing their unwelcome company upon all and sundry, secure in the conviction that everybody likes them—but Mrs. Dance, unfortunately for herself, was thin-skinned. She was clever enough to know that people disliked her, but not clever enough to understand the reason for their dislike. When, for instance, she saw Jeronina Cobbe coming toward her down the street, and saw her suddenly turn and dive into the Wandlebury flower shop, Mrs. Dance was aware that Jeronina had not really wanted any flowers—how could she when her own garden was teeming with them—but had only taken this step to avoid a meeting with herself. Why didn’t people like her, Mrs. Dance wondered sadly. It was not (she had made sure of this) for any of the curious reasons that one saw advertised so assiduously in the daily papers in conjunction with different brands of lozenges or powders or lotions. What could it be, then? Mrs. Dance renewed her efforts to be popular in Wandlebury; she maneuvered people into corners, and told them amusing little anecdotes about their friends; she pursued people in the street, and poured into their willing ears all sorts of little tidbits of local gossip. The anecdotes and the tidbits usually went down well, and Mrs. Dance would take leave of her victim thinking—there, she really does like me now. But the next time they met the friendship had always cooled off, and Mrs. Dance had to start all over again. What Mrs. Dance did not realize was that the person in question had been willing enough to listen to the anecdotes and tidbits, but had afterward reflected, consciously or unconsciously, I wonder what Mrs. Dance says to other people about me.
Since her old friends—or acquaintances—were so unsatisfactory, Mrs. Dance was always ready for someone new, and Mrs. Abbott was just the sort of person that Mrs. Dance liked (or at least Mrs. Dance thought she was)—a simple and rather foolish person, but obviously well-off—so she maneuvered Barbara onto the sofa, and proceeded to put her wise as to the faults and failings of the Wandleburians.
“It’s so lucky you came tonight,” she said, bursting with friendliness. “Everybody’s here. There’s Mrs. Marvell—have you met her yet? Such queer clothes—artistic, of course. Not pretty at all (is she?) with those queer high cheekbones and weird hair. They say it’s Scotch—those cheekbones—but I shouldn’t be surprised if she had foreign blood in her. Have you met Miss Thane? That’s her in green—isn’t it a pity she wears green with that sallow skin? She lives with her mother at the other end of the town—not far from you. Mrs. Thane is an invalid—I don’t think there’s much the matter with her, myself, but she likes a lot of attention. Candia Thane will have to go back to her mother and tell her all about us, and what everybody wore, and if she doesn’t remember she will have to make it up as she goes along—ha, ha!” and Mrs. Dance laughed delightedly, “Candia is such a queer name, isn’t it?” she continued. “She was called Candia, because she was born there (it’s in Crete, you know). She was born in Candia quite by mistake—because Mrs. Thane was on her way home, intending her to be born here—but she arrived a month too soon—so like poor Candia to do the wrong thing!”
“What was Mrs. Thane doing in Crete?” inquired Barbara with interest.
“She and Colonel Thane were on their way home from Egypt or somewhere,” said Mrs. Dance vaguely, “and they stopped at Crete to see some ruins or something—it was all very awkward I believe. Colonel Thane’s dead now. He was out shooting and his gun went off and shot him. Some people say it wasn’t an accident at all, but, of course, you can’t believe all you hear.” Having disposed of the Thanes to her own satisfaction Mrs. Dance turned her attention to other matters. “Have you seen anything of the Marvell kiddies yet?” she inquired. “Ambrose is a dear little boy, but Trivona is very peculiar—slightly mental, I’m afraid. I believe Mr. Marvell’s grandmother died in an asylum, so, of course, that accounts for a lot. Lancreste, the elder boy, is consumptive—sad, isn’t it? I suppose you will be having Doctor Wrench as your doctor. I saw your husband talking to him as if he had known him before. Such an excellent doctor, but inclined to be a little unsympathetic, I always think. He doesn’t really understand my little Marguerite at all—the poor child is terrified of him—she needs a great deal of care and love—so terribly highly strung, you know. Doctor Wrench doesn’t understand her at all. Oh, there’s Archie Cobbe! Archie’s our bad boy, Mrs. Abbott. All towns have their bad boys, haven’t they?”
“Does he paint the town red?” inquired Barbara, looking with interest at the elegant figure in immaculate tails.
“Ha, ha!” laughed Mrs. Dance. “You are so amusing, Mrs. Abbott. Archie really prefers London to Wandlebury, but he can’t settle down to work. A bit of a rolling stone, I’m afraid. He’s Lady Chevis Cobbe’s nephew—her husband’s nephew, really—he lives with his sister at Ganthorne Lodge (at least he’s supposed to, but, as I said, he really prefers London to Wandlebury). Ganthorne Lodge is a sweet little house—very old and inconvenient; with earwigs, and no electric light, and the bath water always lukewarm, you know the kind of house I mean. Jeronina Cobbe is a charming girl—rather unwomanly perhaps; she goes about most of the time in breeches and a pullover—very modern—with no hat. Of course she has ruined her complexion. She runs a sort of riding school; isn’t it a queer sort of thing for a girl to do? They aren’t at all well off, but, of course, they’ll have plenty of money when Lady Chevis Cobbe dies—at least Archie will, everybody knows that he’s the heir.”
Barbara sat up and opened her eyes wide—so everybody knew that, did they? Barbara happened to know differently—and how queer, she thought, how very queer that I should know more about it than anybody else. Archie Cobbe isn’t the heir at all—how angry and disappointed he will be if he thinks he is the heir and finds that he isn’t! And he evidently does think he’s the heir, Barbara reflected (as she watched the young man moving about the room talking and laughing with his aunt’s guests), he’s behaving like an heir, there’s no doubt about that. It’s rather bad luck if he’s banking on all that money coming to him, and I really don’t think it’s very fair of Lady Chevis Cobbe not to tell him about her new will.
“You see,” continued Mrs. Dance (delighted with the obvious interest her information was arousing), “you see, Chevis Place and all the money belongs to Lady Chevis Cobbe in her own right. She was a Chevis, of course—very old family—and the place has belonged to the Chevis family for generations. So, when her only brother was killed in France, and the property came to her, she married Sir Archibal
d Cobbe—one of the Cobbes of Ganthorne—and a brother of Jeronina’s father—and Sir Archibald took the name of Chevis, and they called themselves Sir Archibald and Lady Chevis Cobbe. It must have been rather a blow for them to have no children to inherit, after all the bother they had taken (although Sir Archibald was only a knight so they couldn’t have inherited the title), but Lady Chevis Cobbe is going to leave the place to Archie, and I suppose he will take the name of Chevis so that there will still be a Chevis at Chevis Place. It’s all rather complicated, of course,” added Mrs. Dance, smiling in her toothy way.
“Yes, it is,” agreed Barbara—it was a good deal more complicated than Mrs. Dance suspected. Lady Chevis Cobbe was not going to leave the place to Archie Cobbe; she was going to leave it to his sister. Barbara had forgotten all about the will (which she had read by such a curious mistake in Mr. Tyler’s office), or, at least, she had not remembered a thing about it until this moment. She had been far too busy, moving into her new house, to remember the incident. But, now, it was all coming back to her. It had been stored up in a little cupboard in her brain, and she was taking it out and looking at it. There was something that had struck her as curious about that will—what was it? Oh yes, Lady Chevis Cobbe had made a curious proviso to her bequest to “the said Jeronina” and the curious proviso had run something like this—“if at my death the said Jeronina is still unmarried.”
Miss Buncle Married Page 11
