Miss Buncle Married

by D. E. Stevenson

  “Is she?” inquired Jerry with interest.

  “And they’re frightfully devoted to each other,” continued Sam eagerly. “It’s rather nice, that, isn’t it?”

  Jerry nodded. “It is, rather,” she agreed. “It makes a nice sort of atmosphere, doesn’t it? I don’t mean soppiness, of course—that sort of thing always gives me the creeps—but real, friendly love.”

  There was silence on that. “Real, friendly love,” Sam thought, that’s exactly what I feel for her. How odd! And then he thought—I shall never forget this, never, not if I live to be a hundred, not even if I never see her again.

  It would always be his—that was what he meant—this little picture: the quiet mellow room, the glow of the lamp, the dark shadows behind the chairs, and Jerry in the firelight, all ruddy with its glow. Already the little picture was enshrined in his memory like a picture seen in the focusing lens of a camera, like a single colored photograph taken from the roll of a cinematograph film—one stationary incident culled from the swiftly passing film of his life.

  They talked a little longer of different matters, and then Sam got up to go. Jerry walked with him to the gate, and stood there, leaning on it. There was a mist rising from the ground, but it was clear overhead, quite dark and starry. Sam could not see her face—it was only a blur—but he could see it in his mind, and, somehow or other, he knew that it wore that sad, wise look which he found so pathetic.

  “Mr. Abbott,” she said, and it seemed strange to hear her voice so clearly in the darkness, “Mr. Abbott, do you like the town or the country best?”

  “The country,” replied Sam promptly, and he said it quite honestly with never a thought for the delights of London which had seemed so good to him a short while ago.

  Jerry sighed. “I wish Archie liked the country,” she said. “He finds it dull here. He wants to live in town, but I simply couldn’t. Besides, I’m making money now—just a little—and he isn’t. We ought to live together—but why should I bother you.”

  “You aren’t bothering me,” said Sam. “Why ought you to live together?”

  “Because it’s cheaper,” said Jerry simply.

  “I see,” nodded Sam.

  “Have you ever read a book called Great Expectations?” Jerry inquired, somewhat naively, “I think Archie is very like that boy. You see he knows that someday he’ll be rich, and so it doesn’t seem to him worthwhile to settle down to anything. He gets a job, and then he gives it up because he doesn’t like it, or else the job gives up Archie because he won’t work hard enough, and then he’s idle for a time until he finds something else. I wish,” said Jerry, sighing again, “I wish Archie had no expectations.”

  “It’s worrying you,” Sam said sympathetically.

  “Yes. You don’t mind me telling you about it, do you? I can tell you about it because you’re young too, and you understand how difficult the world is now. Older people don’t understand the difficulties.”

  Sam agreed eagerly. It was exactly what he had found. “Things were so different when they were young.”

  “Or else they’ve forgotten.”

  They were silent. An owl hooted in the darkness, and there was a gentle rustle in the hedge as if some small timid animal was stirring. Sam felt very near this girl. He wanted to stretch out his hand and touch hers. He could see her hand, dimly white, on the bar of the gate, but something forbade him—it was too soon. He made up his mind then he must get to know her better, must see her often, and then—

  “Look here!” said Sam suddenly, “I wonder—I wonder if I could ride sometimes when I’m down here. I shall be down quite a lot, I expect, and it’s so difficult to get enough exercise. Do you—I mean could I hire a horse—or anything?”

  Jerry laughed, it was a chuckling sort of laugh, very pleasant to hear, and very infectious. “Of course you can hire a horse,” she said. “Haven’t I just told you I keep a livery stable? Six bob an hour is what I charge.”

  “But I should want lessons,” Sam told her. “You see I’m an awful duffer at riding—haven’t ridden since I was ten.”

  “Schooling is extra, of course,” Jerry said. “Ten bob a lesson inclusive.”

  “That would be the thing,” said Sam cheerfully—if Jerry had said five guineas a lesson his reaction would have been the same. It really didn’t matter what he paid as long as it gave him the opportunity of seeing her often.

  “How many lessons would you want?” inquired Jerry. “It’s cheaper if you have a dozen—”

  “I shall want a dozen,” said Sam promptly. “The only difficulty is I don’t quite know when I shall be here.”

  “Yes, I see. Well, it wouldn’t matter—you can just have them when you come. We should have to fit them in as we could. I’m busy sometimes. I suppose before breakfast would be too early for you.”

  “Why, it’s the best time!” cried Sam. Something in Jerry’s voice had informed him that this was her opinion, had informed him that Jerry was up and about at daybreak, and had a wholesome scorn for those who preferred to doze sleepily in their warm beds. Her next words proved him correct in his surmise.

  “That’s what I think,” she said in a friendly tone. “Of course, it’s rather dark now, so you couldn’t ride very early, but it would be all right about half-past eight. Lots of people hate getting up early, especially London people like you.”

  “I only live in London because I have to,” Sam told her earnestly.

  He walked back to The Archway House on air. Everything was arranged. The following day was a Saturday, and he was to have a lesson at half-past eight, which would give him time to return to The Archway House for breakfast at half-past nine. In the afternoon Jerry was coming to tea. She had promised to give him another lesson on Sunday; on Monday he was returning to town, but it was no good worrying too much. Perhaps he would be able to wangle another visit out of Uncle Arthur in the near future. It ought not to be very difficult; they liked him, he knew, and he was good at wangling things.

  The Sam that strode home was a totally changed being from the Sam of twenty-four hours ago. A totally changed being, with totally different tastes, and an entirely new outlook upon life. Then he had preferred the town to the country, now he preferred the country to the town. Then he had preferred dark girls, rather pale and languorous (elegant, decadent, decorative creatures with long silken legs), now he preferred—Jerry. It did not strike Sam as strange that his tastes had altered, for he was not in the habit of analyzing himself. He merely thought, Gadzooks! This time yesterday I hadn’t even seen her; I was fed up to the back teeth at the prospect of the Musical Evening.

  The elder Abbotts were a little surprised to hear about the riding, but not inordinately so. Sam was good at dissembling his feelings (he had had lots of practice in the art at home). He remarked casually at dinner that he wanted a bit of exercise, and had arranged to hire a nag from Miss Cobbe.

  “Good name for a girl who keeps horses!” was Mr. Abbott’s reaction.

  Sam smiled and agreed.

  “I didn’t know you were keen on riding,” added Mr. Abbott.

  “I don’t get much chance of it,” Sam pointed out.

  “I think it will be nice for you, Sam,” said Barbara kindly. So that’s that, thought Sam complacently. It was very easy.

  Sam’s first riding lesson was not all bliss. He was very rusty, to say the least of it, and Jerry did not let him off lightly. She had a high sense of her responsibilities, and took care that her pupils got their money’s worth. Sam was very tired, and very sore, and very humble when Jerry was done with him.

  “I told you I was a duffer,” he said ruefully.

  “You’ll soon learn,” replied Jerry, with her kind smile. “Go straight home and take a boiling-hot bath with mustard in it.” She was a very practical girl.

  Sam climbed stiffly into B
arbara’s little car—which he had borrowed for the occasion—and drove home to do her bidding.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Tea and Crumpets at The Archway House

  Sam was not in the drawing-room when Jerry arrived at The Archway House for tea. She asked after him with some anxiety, for she was aware that she had been a trifle hard on him.

  “He’s gone out for a walk with Arthur—they’ll be back soon,” Barbara said. “Sit near the fire, won’t you? It’s frightfully cold and windy, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, but I like it,” replied Jerry.

  “So do I,” Barbara agreed, and then she added, “Sam enjoyed his ride this morning.”

  “That’s good,” said Jerry, smiling a little as she visualized Sam’s agonized face as he trotted round and round her field, bumping about like a sack of coals. She was not going to give him away—oh dear, no! It was rather sporting of him to tell them he had enjoyed it—not quite veracious, of course, but you couldn’t have everything.

  “Yes,” said Barbara. “We’re so glad he enjoyed it. Arthur’s been rather worried about Sam. He’s young, you know, and he likes a gay life—quite natural at his age, of course. Arthur thinks the riding will be so good for him.”

  “What sort of a gay life?” inquired Jerry.

  “Oh, nightclubs and things,” replied Barbara vaguely.

  Jerry’s heart sank. Somehow or other she hadn’t thought Sam Abbott was “like that.” There was no harm in nightclubs, of course, but the people who frequented them were not her kind, and she had rather thought that Sam Abbott was her kind. It was a little disappointing.

  Barbara must have read her thoughts in part, for she continued, “There’s absolutely no harm in nightclubs, but Arthur thinks that Sam does rather too much of it. I think Arthur worries quite unnecessarily. Sam’s young and good-looking, why shouldn’t he have a gay time? You’re only young once.”

  “Yes,” said Jerry.

  “I was afraid he would find it dull here.”

  “He likes staying with you,” Jerry told her.

  “He’s been a dear,” said Barbara. “But ten days is really long enough. I’m sure he’s dying to get back to all his gaiety,” and she smiled at Jerry, knowingly.

  It was rather difficult to smile back, but Jerry achieved it. You fool! (she told herself). What on earth does it matter to you what he’s like? You’re his riding master, that’s all. For goodness’ sake, be your age, Jeronina Cobbe!

  At this moment Sam came in, followed by Arthur Abbott and Doctor Wrench. They all had the healthy, hearty appearance of people who have been blown about by a cold November gale. Sam was delighted to find Jerry sitting by the fire. It seemed ages since this morning. He sat down beside her, and began to eat buttered crumpets with obvious enjoyment.

  “Barbara’s crumpets are Food for Gods,” he said, smiling across at his aunt-by-marriage.

  “I love crumpets,” Barbara agreed. “They never give me indigestion.”

  “Nothing ever gives you indigestion,” said Arthur proudly; it was one of the things that had drawn him to Barbara Buncle—her amazing digestion—he admired her for it all the more because his own digestion was poor.

  “And Barbara’s tea is Drink for Gods,” continued Sam, handing in his cup for more. “It’s funny how seldom you can get a really good cup of tea. Good Indian tea, properly made, with some body about it.”

  Doctor Wrench agreed. “It’s fine stuff when it’s right,” he said. “But how rarely you get it right! People either make it so weak that it tastes like straw, or so strong that it tastes like ink, or they buy horrible cheap stuff made of coarse leaves, full of tannin.”

  “The water must be boiling,” Barbara put in.

  “And the teapot warmed,” added Arthur.

  They all laughed when the itinerary was finished, and agreed that they were very particular people.

  Jerry had made no contribution to the conversation, and Sam felt intuitively that she was “a bit under the weather.” He determined to cheer her up, and began to talk and laugh in an amusing manner, and to tease his uncle and Barbara with that slight flavor of impudence which he knew they enjoyed. They both played up to the best of their ability, and the atmosphere became more and more friendly and hilarious. Doctor Wrench laughed until he was quite sore, and even Jerry was forced to join in the fun. The tea party was a great success.

  Presently Jerry said she must go, and Sam elected to see her safely home. They went off together in the darkness, and the two old warriors, Arthur Abbott and “Monkey” Wrench, repaired to the former’s study for a good talk. Barbara was left sitting by the fire in solitary state.

  “Comfortable den!” remarked Doctor Wrench, looking round the cozy room with some envy.

  “Yes, isn’t it,” agreed its owner, complacently. “Very comfortable and cozy. We sit here in the evenings when we’re alone.”

  “The Badger’s den,” said Doctor Wrench, and he looked at his old friend and laughed. “Rather different, eh?”

  Arthur laughed too. He knew what Monkey was thinking of. A little picture sprang into his mind—that dug-out in France—he saw it as clearly as if he had been there yesterday—the sandbags at the entrance, the crumbling steps, the trodden earthen floor. Gosh, what an awful hole it was! And yet it had been “home” to him for weeks—to him and Monkey.

  “D’you remember that staff captain?” he asked.

  “Rather,” said Monkey. “Came sailing along in his polished boots and poked his nose in at the doorway, ‘Good heavens,’ he said. ‘This place stinks like a badger’s den.’”

  “Yes,” agreed Arthur, “and I daresay it did really, but we didn’t care. It was warm anyhow, wasn’t it, Monkey?”

  “Jolly cozy,” said Monkey dreamily. “I remember how fed up you were when everybody began to call you Badger.”

  “Was I?” exclaimed Arthur in surprise.

  “Of course you were, you ass!” said Monkey affectionately.

  “You were ‘Monkey’ long before that,” Arthur pointed out.

  “I was ‘Monkey’ at my prep school,” said Monkey chuckling. “What else could you expect with a name and a phiz like mine?…That’s a nice young nephew of yours,” continued the doctor as he sank into a leather chair and stretched out his thin legs to the fire, “most amusing beggar—full of beans, isn’t he?”

  “Hmm,” said Arthur. “He’s all right, really. Very young, of course, and a bit unreliable like all these youngsters nowadays. Barbara thinks he’ll outgrow it. Barbara’s rather good at summing people up.”

  “Yes. She’s watchful, isn’t she? Not always chattering nonsense like some women. I’m sure she’s right about young Sam. You mustn’t be too hard on him, Badger.”

  “I like that! Most people would be a damn sight harder on him than I am. D’you know I had to go and get him out of Bow Street the other day.”

  Monkey Wrench laughed. “The young devil! What had he been up to?”

  “Oh, painting the place red.”

  “And you gave him a good dressing down, I’ll be bound. Told him when you were his age you were leading a forlorn hope in France.”

  “Something like that,” admitted Arthur, smiling. “But how the devil did you know, Monkey?”

  “Well, it’s part of my job to read people,” said Monkey more seriously, “and you get into the way of doing it in season and out. People are odd, you know,” he added thoughtfully.

  “I was wondering,” Arthur said, taking his pipe off the mantelpiece and filling the bowl, “you haven’t much scope here, have you? Wouldn’t you have been better in town?”

  “I’ve plenty of scope,” returned Monkey. “It’s the kind of doctoring that appeals to me. I’ll tell you what I feel about doctoring—if it won’t bore you—you see, everyone wants to specialize now, o
r nearly everybody who has the brains for it. They sit in their consulting rooms like so many spiders; they diagnose, and, if necessary, they operate, and then they say good-bye and send in their bill. Well, it’s necessary to have people like that, I suppose, but that’s not my idea of doctoring. I mean it doesn’t appeal to me personally. My idea of doctoring is to get to know your patients, to help their minds as well as their bodies.”

  “A sort of medical father confessor?”

  “Yes, you can’t do that in town.”

  “I see,” said Arthur slowly, “yes, I see your idea, but it still seems to me that Wandlebury can’t give you much scope.”

  “I may not have very many patients, but I’ve got some very interesting ones,” said Doctor Wrench. “I don’t gas about my cases to other people, but I know you’re safe. There’s Mrs. Thane, for instance, a splendid woman. Full of courage and cheerfulness. Mrs. Thane is worth a dozen ordinary patients. And then, on the other hand, there’s Agnew—”

  “That poet fellow?” inquired Arthur, with interest. “There can’t be much the matter with him. What nerve to stand up and recite like that!”

  “Yes, what nerve!” agreed Monkey, smiling. “But you’ll be surprised to hear that that man is always in bed for days after his ordeal—absolutely laid out.”

  “What on earth does he do it for?”

  “You may well ask. He does it every year. Sometimes I think he does it just to show he’s not going to be beaten by his nerves. And sometimes I think it’s because Lady Chevis Cobbe asks him to. He’s her only friend, of course—her only real friend.”

  “What is her ladyship like?” inquired Arthur, with interest.

  “She’s a very strange woman. I’m frightfully worried about her at the moment—frightfully worried. I want a specialist, but she won’t hear of it.”

  “What’s wrong with her?” Arthur asked. “She looked all right at the party the other night.”

  “That damned party didn’t do her any good. It’s her heart. I don’t suppose you would understand if I told you what’s wrong. It’s rather an obscure thing, but definitely interesting. If she would only go slow she might live for years, but she won’t go slow. She’s a queer woman, Badger, she isn’t normal.”