Miss Buncle Married

by D. E. Stevenson

  “But it’s all right for this year, anyhow,” said Barbara more cheerfully. “Because I really can feel spring today, and so can the birds. Just listen to them, Arthur!” And she smiled to herself, and thought of the bulbs and the seeds, and the roses and all the nice things she had bestowed royally upon The Archway House garden (in the hope that the sun would return from New Zealand at its appointed time and make them grow) and how they would all be preparing, in the secret fastness of the earth, to arise like giants and do her honor.

  As they neared the side gate of the churchyard (which they always used because it was so much nearer), they saw the Marvell family in front of them. Barbara hastened her steps, because she liked the Marvells, and Arthur lagged behind a little because he didn’t. As a matter of fact Arthur thought that the Marvell family was a blot upon the fair landscape of Wandlebury. Mrs. Marvell was a horrible woman, simply horrible; the children were ill-bred young savages, and Mr. Marvell himself was a bounder of the first water. Arthur had never liked Mr. Marvell since that first night at dinner when he and Barbara had spent so long in the studio together. He was aware that Barbara had a penchant for Mr. Marvell; she enjoyed his company; she admired his height, his resonant voice, and his amazing memory for quotations. Arthur did not like it much when Barbara admired other men—it was foolish, perhaps, but not altogether unnatural—and Mr. Marvell had a sort of grandeur, he was imposing and overpowering. He was, in fact (so thought Arthur), just the sort of man that women always admire. Once Arthur had made up his mind to dislike Mr. Marvell he found plenty of reasons for his attitude. There was the day that Barbara had met the fellow in Wandlebury, and had come home full of the extraordinary compliments he had paid her, and there was the night of the Musical Evening when the fellow had pursued Barbara to the other end of the room, and the two of them had hobnobbed together for ages, laughing like a pair of old friends. Arthur didn’t blame Barbara at all—he knew her too well—but he did blame Mr. Marvell, and blamed him most severely. The fellow had a wife of his own, hadn’t he? Well then, he should leave other people’s wives alone.

  It was, therefore, with disgust and annoyance that Mr. Abbott beheld the Marvell family making its way to church on that fine February morning.

  The Abbotts met the Marvells at the small side gate leading into the churchyard. Mr. and Mrs. Marvell did not attend church very regularly, but, today, they had elected to attend. Miss Foddy was there, too, of course, and the children, looking quite unlike themselves with Sunday clothes and Sunday faces. It was the first time Barbara had beheld Lancreste Marvell. She had heard about him incessantly, both from Miss Foddy and from his younger brother and sister, but, in spite of that, she was in no way prepared for what she saw. For, no matter how often or how well a person is described, a verbal description can never convey an accurate picture of the lineaments, and the pigment, and the aura that make up the whole personality of a human being.

  It’s my Golden Boy, thought Barbara, how extraordinary!—and she gazed at Lancreste Marvell with amazement and excitement—it really is wonderful (she thought), it really is one of the most exciting things that has ever happened to me. It’s my Golden Boy.

  Barbara’s Golden Boy was the one creature of her imagination, her only child—so to speak. She had written about him in Disturber of the Peace. All the other characters in the book were people she knew—real people of flesh and blood—but the Golden Boy was purely imaginary, and Barbara had always been proud of him. It was this imaginary Golden Boy who had given the book its name, for he had danced gaily into the village of Silverstream, blowing an erotic tune on his pipes, and had disturbed the peace of the sleepy little place in various subtle ways. All sorts of amazing things had happened in Silverstream (or Copperfield as Barbara had called it, in a vain attempt to disguise its identity from the world), all sorts of amazing and unprecedented things had happened, and every one of them was directly attributable to the influence of the Golden Boy. And, now, here he was in Wandlebury, as large as life and twice as natural, Barbara’s very own Golden Boy. He was dressed rather differently, of course, for Barbara had imagined him with very little clothing—practically none in fact—and she now beheld him arrayed in Etons, very immaculate indeed, with a brand new topper resting lovingly upon his golden hair; but what were clothes (when all was said and done)? It was Barbara’s Golden Boy—she would have known him anywhere.

  She was still gazing at Lancreste in wonderment and delight when the bells stopped ringing, and the little group, which had been admiring the clemency of the weather, turned with one movement toward the gate. Lancreste seized the handle to open it for the ladies (his manners were excellent, as Miss Foddy had so often admitted) but the gate refused to open.

  “It’s stuck,” said Lancreste, shaking it.

  “Let me have a try,” suggested Mr. Abbott, lending his aid.

  “Won’t it open?” inquired Mrs. Marvell.

  “Oh dear! We shall be late!” lamented Miss Foddy.

  What various hindrances we meet,

  In coming to the Mercy-Seat,

  said Mr. Marvell, in his sonorous voice. He leaned on the gate, and the extra weight burst it open, so that Mr. Abbott was almost precipitated onto the muddy path.

  Barbara thanked Mr. Marvell, and commented favorably upon his strength (quite oblivious of the fact that her simple praise was infuriating Arthur), and the whole party trooped into church and disposed themselves in their different pews as the Voluntary came to an end.

  In church Barbara could not keep her eyes off her Golden Boy. There he sat between the large black bulk of his father and the small green figure of his mother; there he sat with his golden head bathed in reddish light from a stained glass window, and his ethereal face raised in worship (at least it looked like that) to his Creator. It was almost too wonderful to be true. His behavior was perfect; he knelt, and sat, and stood, and never once did his eyes stray round the church. He neither fidgeted like Trivvie, nor sucked peppermint balls like the greedy young Ambrose, and his voice, when he raised it in song, was the most beautiful voice that Barbara had ever heard. It was high above the other voices, crystal clear and as effortless as a bird’s. It seemed to Barbara the embodiment of sheer beauty; there was no emotion in it, no expression at all in the clear, sweet notes, and yet it thrilled her to the core and brought tears to her eyes.

  I must see more of him, Barbara thought. I must get to know him, somehow. He can’t possibly be horrid and troublesome like Miss Foddy always says. Look at how good and well-behaved he is, and his face is like the face of an angel—and his voice—I wonder if he would come to tea, Barbara thought. I wonder if he’s going to be here in Wandlebury for a little now—I must see more of him, somehow. And Barbara was so busy thinking about her Golden Boy, and how she was going to inveigle him into The Archway House, and sustain him with currant buns, and iced cakes, and chocolate biscuits, that poor Mr. Dance’s erudite sermon passed in at her left ear and out of her right, even more quickly than it usually did.

  Arthur was also inattentive to the exhortation delivered so fervently by Mr. Dance, and his thoughts were even less suitable to the occasion than those of his wife. He was still brooding over the scene at the wicket gate, and anathemizing the hero of the occasion in a soundless soliloquy. It was just like that big bounder to barge in like that and obtain all the kudos, thought Mr. Abbott in annoyance. The gate had stuck with the wet weather, of course; I had almost got it open, and then he barges in like a great elephant, and everybody thinks he did it. He’s a most dangerous man, thought Mr. Abbott, eyeing the black-cloaked bulk of Mr. Marvell with intense dislike, a most dangerous man. I wonder what Barbara really thinks of him.

  ***

  The day which had opened so auspiciously for Barbara (and so inauspiciously for her husband) continued fair and warm for the time of year. Barbara, wandering round the garden, found that her bulbs were beginning to show little sh
oots of green. She was enchanted at this further proof that the sun was returning to the northern hemisphere. She wandered down to the stream, and found it deserted, save for a thrush, which was extremely busy cracking the shell of a snail against a stone and devouring its inmate. She wandered back to the house and found it wrapped in Sunday afternoon peace. Arthur was asleep in his study. She wandered out again and looked at the bulbs. Somehow or other Barbara felt restless today. She couldn’t account for it, except, of course, that she had seen her Golden Boy. The Golden Boy was a symbol of disturbance, so perhaps that accounted for it. It’s funny, thought Barbara, it really is funny, but that Golden Boy seems to have made me restless. There can’t be anything in it, of course, because the whole thing was just imaginary—it was the only thing I ever imagined until I came here and saw the people in Wandlebury Square—but all the same it seems to have had a funny sort of effect upon me; I don’t feel as if I could settle down to anything.

  She wandered round, and, as she wandered, she thought about her Golden Boy. What fun it was writing about him, she thought. Shall I write another book? No, I won’t. No. I simply mustn’t, she decided. If I wrote about the people here they might recognize themselves like the Silverstream people did, and we should have to leave The Archway House. No, I simply mustn’t write another book. I’ll walk over to Ganthorne Lodge and see Jerry, she thought, perhaps the exercise will do me good.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The Pangs of Creation

  The day following Barbara’s meeting with her Golden Boy was just as beautiful as its predecessor. Mr. Abbott went up to town as usual, but rather more reluctantly. “I think I shall try and get away early,” he said to his wife as he went down the steps to the car.

  “No, I mustn’t,” said Barbara, staring through him with sightless eyes.

  “What?” inquired Arthur, in amazement.

  “Nothing.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I don’t know. What did you say, Arthur?”

  “I said I was coming home early.”

  “Good,” said Barbara, without enthusiasm.

  Arthur worried about the strangeness of his wife’s words and manner all the morning. What had she meant? Was it something to do with that Marvell fellow? “No, I mustn’t,” that was what she had said. What was it that she must not do?

  He was still worrying about it at the back of his mind when Sam looked in and asked if he was busy.

  “I ought to be, but I’m not,” said Mr. Abbott, pushing his papers to one side, “what is it, Sam?”

  “D’you think I could get the afternoon off?” inquired Sam diffidently.

  “I don’t see why you shouldn’t,” said his uncle kindly. “Going to golf or something?”

  “No—er—not exactly,” replied Sam.

  He had come into the room by this time, and Mr. Abbott was able to observe that his nephew was certainly not dressed for sport. His gray lounge suit immaculately pressed, his blue tie and socks and handkerchief, all of which matched so perfectly, and his marvelously polished shoes betokened some less strenuous pastime: a pastime, Mr. Abbott surmised, not unconnected with the fair, sometimes designated the weaker, sex.

  “Hmm, you’re very smart,” remarked Mr. Abbott in a jocund manner.

  “Yes,” replied Sam complacently.

  “Going out with a girl, I suppose, eh?”

  “Well—er—yes, I am really,” admitted Sam, laughing a trifle self-consciously. “That is if you don’t mind me popping off like this.”

  “Off you go,” said Mr. Abbott. “Off you go. You’ve been working pretty hard lately—”

  “Thanks awfully, sir.”

  Sam walked out on air—he was going to meet Jerry, who had deserted her riding stables for the afternoon. He was so excited at the prospect of seeing her again that he could hardly breathe.

  I wonder what Sam’s up to, reflected Mr. Abbott—in the intervals of dictating letters to his secretary—I wonder what the young devil’s up to now. He looked a bit above himself, somehow. A girl, thought Mr. Abbott. Hope to goodness it’s the right sort of girl. If Sam gets entangled with the wrong sort of girl it will be worse than Bow Street—much worse. But I shan’t say a word to Barbara—not a word. It isn’t fair to either of them to tell tales out of school. But, perhaps, we’d better have the young scoundrel down to Wandlebury again—I’ll suggest it to Barbara—he hasn’t been down for some time now, and it’s a good thing to keep an eye on him. Yes, I must keep an eye on Sam—the young rascal! And Mr. Abbott laughed to himself, and then cleared his throat and said aloud:

  “Are you ready, Miss Fitch? Dear Mr. Shillingsworth. We have read your latest novel with much—er—no—er—with intense interest full stop we shall be glad if you will allow us er—no—er (damn it, why should I?) we shall be delighted to—er—include it in our autumn list full stop we note that you are anxious that the book should be published early in the year semicolon but our spring list is already—er—complete full stop as regards the proposed cheap edition of Burnt Trails—bother, I can’t do anything about that till I’ve seen Spicer.”

  “No,” said Miss Fitch sympathetically. She scratched out the last few words on her shorthand notebook, for it was obvious to her trained intelligence that Mr. Abbott had ceased dictating his letter to Mr. Shillingsworth immediately after the name of the latter’s book. She waited for Mr. Abbott’s next words with her pencil poised, and her whole attitude betokened eager anticipation—it was the attitude of one who hangs upon the word of a god.

  “No—o,” said Mr. Abbott doubtfully. “No,” said Mr. Abbott firmly. “It will have to wait. Spicer’s gone to Birmingham—and that being so,” continued Mr. Abbott more cheerfully, “that being so I’ve a good mind to knock off and go home.”

  “Yes?” said Miss Fitch, relaxing a little.

  “Yes,” repeated Mr. Abbott, glancing at the window which was filled with golden sunlight. “Yes, I think so. I’ll sign those letters in the morning,” he added, rising from his chair to show that he really meant every word he said.

  Miss Fitch rose too; she collected her papers and departed without a sound—she really was invaluable.

  When Mr. Abbott arrived home, expecting to find a pleased and surprised wife at his beck and call, he was met on the doorstep by Dorcas, Dorcas with a long face and wild eyes.

  “Good heavens!” cried Mr. Abbott, leaping out of the car and dashing up the steps. “Good heavens, Dorcas, what’s happened?”

  “Oh, Mr. Abbott!” said Dorcas, almost wringing her hands. “I hardly like to tell you. Oh, Mr. Abbott!”

  “What is it?” he inquired, frantically. Visions of Barbara eloping with that ghastly Marvell fellow zigzagged like lightning through his mind. “What is it, Dorcas? For goodness’ sake tell me what’s happened?”

  “I’ve been expecting it,” Dorcas said. “I’ve been expecting this to happen ever since she came back from church yesterday with that queer dazed look in her eyes—”

  “What is it?” cried Mr. Abbott, and he seized Dorcas by the arm and shook her gently.

  “She’s writing,” Dorcas said.

  “Writing!”

  “Yes, writing.”

  “Is that all?” said Mr. Abbott, mopping his forehead, which was beaded with perspiration from the agony of mind he had endured.

  “You wouldn’t say ‘Is that all’ if you knew what it’s like when she starts,” Dorcas told him. “She’s been writing all day. She’s had no lunch. I knocked on the door and told her it was pigeon pie, and she never even answered.”

  “Why didn’t you go in?” inquired Mr. Abbott. He was so delighted to find that his wife’s preoccupation had nothing to do with Mr. Marvell that he could not take a grave view of the situation. Dorcas was an old wife; she was making a fuss about nothing. Why shouldn’t Barbara write
if she wanted to? “Why didn’t you go in?” he repeated. “She was too absorbed to hear you knocking on the door, that was all.”

  “The door’s locked,” Dorcas told him. “Oh dear!” she lamented. “Oh dear, oh dear—I thought she’d got over it. We were all so happy and peaceful—”

  “Don’t be absurd, Dorcas,” said Mr. Abbott, quite sharply. It really was absurd—anybody would think that Barbara had taken to drink, at least, by the way Dorcas was going on.

  “Oh, if you’d just go and tell her not to, sir!” Dorcas besought him. “She’s locked the door, but, perhaps, she’d open it for you—or you could shout at her through the window. You’ve no idea what it’s like when she gets started on that writing; it goes on and on. She’s just like a lunatic, she is really, sir. You don’t know what it’s like. She goes on and on; going without meals and sleep and wearing herself—and everybody else—to shreds.”

  “Don’t be absurd,” said Mr. Abbott again. He pushed Dorcas aside and went to the door of his study where Barbara was ensconced.

  Barbara opened the door at once when she heard his voice. She stood there looking at him with dazed eyes; her hair was standing on end, and she had a smear of ink across one cheek; behind her he could see the desk littered with paper; it had overflowed onto the floor in an untidy wave, and every sheet was closely covered with Barbara’s ungainly scrawl.

  “I’m—busy—” she said, looking at him vaguely.

  Arthur was quite frightened at her appearance; she looked as if she scarcely knew who he was.

  “I know you’re busy,” he said, with assumed cheerfulness. “You’ve started another book, haven’t you? Splendid work! But it’s teatime, now, so you had better knock off for a bit.”

  “I don’t want any tea,” Barbara announced firmly.