Miss Buncle Married

by D. E. Stevenson

  “Yes, thank you, I’d like to,” Sam said. “It’s frightfully good of you, Barbara—thank you awfully.”

  Dorcas might have told Barbara a good deal about what had happened the previous evening, but she didn’t say a word either; for, curiously enough, the kitchen chimney went on fire that very morning, and, what with the fright and the awful mess, and the cook’s rage and fury over the occurrence, the mysterious disappearance of young Mr. Abbott’s trousers (and the other incidents connected with their loss) passed completely out of Dorcas’s mind.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Sound and Fury

  One fine day Mr. Abbott came home from the office much earlier than usual and found his wife getting ready to go out.

  “Oh, Arthur!” she exclaimed, in dismay. “I didn’t know you were coming home early. I’ve got to go out to tea.”

  “Can’t you telephone and say you can’t go—or something?” inquired Arthur with the selfishness and self-assurance of a spoiled husband. He had come home on purpose to have tea with his wife, and was absurdly disappointed at the prospect of tea without her. Besides, it was really a glorious day—the first real day of spring—and Arthur had decided that, after tea, he and Barbara would walk round the garden together, and examine all the nice things that were coming up and coming out in the garden. He could have done this by himself, of course, but that wouldn’t be the same at all. The garden—as a garden—did not interest Arthur very much, but the garden and Barbara combined interested him enormously. Barbara was enchanting in the garden, so eager and pleased and happy, so surprised to find the things that she had planted—or caused to be planted—in the autumn were really coming up. Barbara was more Barbara-ish than ever when she was in her garden, and Arthur could never have enough of the blend.

  “Oh, no, Arthur. I couldn’t possibly put it off,” Barbara replied. “It would be so frightfully rude. You had better come too—they did ask you, but, of course, I said you wouldn’t be home in time.”

  “Where are you going?” inquired Arthur cautiously.

  “To the Marvells’.”

  “Good heavens! No thanks,” said Arthur. “I’ll get Monkey to come round and have tea with me—if you really must go.”

  Arthur was not jealous of Mr. Marvell anymore. There’s Many a Slip— had shown him that there was no need for him to be jealous of the man; but he did not like the Marvells at all, and he could not for the life of him understand what Barbara saw in the family.

  “Yes, I must go,” Barbara told him.

  “Why on earth d’you want to go to the Marvells’?”

  “I think they’re rather nice,” Barbara replied. “Yes, you ring up Monkey—I won’t stay long,” and she kissed her husband and departed to her tea party with that peculiarly elastic step that Mr. Marvell had admired.

  It astounded Barbara that Arthur did not like their next-door neighbors—they were queer, of course, but Barbara liked people all the more when they were queer. She found them more interesting and instructive than ordinary people, and Barbara enjoyed instruction. Barbara had received the invitation to take tea with the Marvells in much the same spirit as she would have received an invitation to participate in the chimpanzees’ tea party at the zoo (lots of people would have received an invitation of this nature with horror and revulsion, but Barbara was always ready for a new experience) and she had accepted the invitation with much the same feelings of half-nervous, half-pleasurable anticipation.

  It will be rather fun to see them all together, Barbara thought, as she tripped elastically down the drive. I’ve never seen them all together before. It will give me a kind of peep into their lives. She was aware that they would be all together for tea, because Trivvie had told her so—all except Lancreste, of course, for Lancreste had departed once more to visit his cousins at Bournemouth.

  The Marvells were having tea in the dining-room when Barbara arrived. The children welcomed her boisterously; Mrs. Marvell with her usual vagueness; and Mr. Marvell cried:

  “Oh, blithe newcomer, harbinger of spring!” and invited her to sit near him by the window.

  Barbara was delighted to be called a harbinger of spring; it sounded a pleasant kind of thing to be. She cast off her furs and sat down beside him and asked with her usual kind interest in the affairs of others, how the painting was getting on.

  “Not too well,” said Mr. Marvell, relapsing into gloom. “There are periods in the life of a creative artist when everything goes stale—stale and—and stringy.”

  Barbara said sympathetically that it sounded horrid. She accepted a muffin—there were no crumpets, unfortunately—and the conversation became general.

  “Did you hear about the ghost?” Mrs. Marvell inquired vaguely.

  “What ghost?” asked Barbara with interest. “D’you mean our ghost? We haven’t seen it lately.”

  “Mummy means the one at Ganthorne Lodge,” explained Trivvie with her mouth full.

  “The whole thing is nonsense,” said Mr. Marvell firmly.

  “But Ivy saw it,” urged Trivvie. “Ivy was going up the lane to her home, and she saw a ghost—a man in funny old-fashioned clothes. He went in at the gate and disappeared.”

  Barbara smiled. She had been taken in, too often, by the Marvell children’s weird tales to believe a word of the story.

  “I beg,” said Mr. Marvell, “I beg that you will not gossip with the servants, Trivona. I have had occasion to complain of this predilection on your part before. The habit is undignified and injurious. There is no need for you and Ambrose to mix with the lower classes for information or instruction. You have your mother, and myself, and Miss Foddy, and I venture to think that, between us, we can supply the necessary sustenance for your growing intelligence.”

  A great part of this harangue was incomprehensible to Trivvie, but she managed to follow the general trend of her father’s observations in much the same way as a person can follow the general trend of a conversation carried on in an imperfectly understood foreign language.

  “But none of you saw the ghost and Ivy did,” she pointed out. “So you couldn’t tell us about it, you see. And it isn’t gossip at all, it’s true.”

  “Do not argue, Trivona,” said Mr. Marvell. “For, not only is it an extremely ill-bred habit to argue with your parents, but it also shows the intense ignorance of your untutored mind. Gossip is occasionally true,” he continued. “But not this case, I think,” and he went on to point out to the assembled company that there were no such things as ghosts, and that the people who saw them—or imagined they saw them—were merely the victims of their own disordered imaginations. Barbara listened attentively to this interesting, if somewhat dogmatic, lecture on the subject of hallucinations; Miss Foddy busied herself cutting slices of bread and butter and honey for the children; and Mrs. Marvell stared vaguely out of the window.

  Mrs. Marvell was, as usual, very tired. She had had a difficult time lately. It was not only the artist who suffered when his work went stale and stringy—the soft blur of gold and blue, and brown and green, which was all that her shortsighted eyes could make of the spring sky and the awakening garden, was very restful and soothing. Restful and soothing, too, was the booming sound of her husband’s voice as he explained his views to Mrs. Abbott. She’s a nice, safe friend for James, thought Mrs. Marvell to herself. I can’t think why he likes her, but he does. And she’s nice and safe. By this she meant that Mrs. Abbott could not appeal to, nor satisfy, the physical side of her husband, and, as that was the only side of her husband that Mrs. Marvell appreciated, Mrs. Abbott could not take anything that was hers. This view of conjugal rights is not so unusual as its strangeness might appear to justify. There are quite a number of people in the world who limit their jealousy in this peculiar manner.

  “It’s funny,” said Barbara suddenly, when the lecture on hallucinations had come to an end, “it’s
funny the different kinds of people there are in the world. I mean there are businessmen, and doctors, and lawyers, and artists, and people like that; and they’re all so frightfully different—if you know what I mean. Do you think they start being different from the very beginning, or does something happen to them to make them different?”

  It was an exceedingly interesting point, and Mr. Marvell recognized it as such in spite of the somewhat muddled language in which it was clothed.

  “Most wretched men,” he told her in a lugubrious voice, biting into a muffin with such hearty appetite that the butter squirted through his fingers, “most wretched men are cradled into poetry by wrong; they learn in suffering what they teach in song.”

  “That’s poetry,” said Barbara, with acumen. “I can’t think how you remember so much poetry, Mr. Marvell. It’s exactly what I meant, too,” she added admiringly. “Something happens to make them different.”

  “Just so,” agreed Mr. Marvell, quite pleased with the effect he had produced upon his guest. “Just so, Mrs. Abbott. In my own case, now—take my own case,” said Mr. Marvell generously, “as a small and unimportant instance,” he continued in his sonorous voice, “a very small and unimportant instance of the great and altogether wonderful uses of adversity—Trivona, what are you whispering about?” he cried, pouncing suddenly upon the unfortunate child with the ferocity of a bull bison. “What are you whispering about, Trivona? How often have I besought you not to whisper—how often, I say? If your remark is not suitable for mixed company you must withhold it until you and Ambrose are alone. You see enough of Ambrose,” continued Mr. Marvell irritably. “Surely you see enough of Ambrose—you are in his company from morning to night. His face is the first thing your eyes light on when you awake, and the last thing your eyes behold before you close them in slumber. I have often felt the most intense sympathy for you on this account, Trivona, but—what did you say?”

  “I just said ‘all right,’” announced Trivvie meekly.

  “Ask them now,” said Ambrose, nudging her.

  “Do not nudge,” said Mr. Marvell, pouncing upon Ambrose for a change. “How often have I implored you not to nudge? It is a most unmannerly habit of yours, Ambrose. Am I the only person who tries to instill reasonable manners into you—am I?”

  “No, everybody does,” Ambrose admitted.

  “And another thing,” continued his father, in whom the unfriendliness of his Muse had engendered an unusually carping spirit. “And another thing that I object to—why must you ask your sister to ask us for whatever it is you desire? Have you no tongue? Can you not demand your own favors?”

  Ambrose regarded his father with a wide innocent stare.

  “It’s just that you listen to Trivvie more,” he said stolidly.

  “What?” inquired Mr. Marvell indignantly. “What? Do you accuse me of favoritism?”

  Ambrose still stared. He had no idea what favoritism was, so he did not know whether or not he had accused his father of that particular vice. He was not in the least alarmed by his father’s ferocity, for he had long ago discovered that when his father was like this—all sound and fury—it signified nothing, nothing at all. Behind his innocent stare Ambrose’s thoughts were busy: grown-ups were odd (he thought). For weeks father would take no notice of you, and you could do what you liked and behave how you liked with absolute safety, and then, quite suddenly, for no reason at all, he would jump on you like this. You could never depend on grown-ups (thought Ambrose). Sometimes they were useful and convenient, of course, but, mostly, they were foolish and unjust. The only thing to do when they raved like this, was just to sit still and let them rave, and get what amusement you could out of the show. Trivvie and Ambrose enjoyed the grown-up world in much the same manner as they enjoyed a circus. They were amused, scornful, or critical according to whether the various “turns” were good or bad. There were acrobats and jugglers, dressed-up monkeys riding in coaches, and bears walking on their hind legs; and, among these strange and exciting phenomena, their father—the clown, and therefore the pièce de résistance—ran about, getting in everybody’s way, and impotently cracking his whip.

  “Go on,” said Mr. Marvell, wearily. “Pray go on, Ambrose. We are all waiting with extreme interest—not to say anxiety—for this mysterious request of yours.”

  “It was just we wondered if Mrs. Abbott could come up to the schoolroom after tea,” said Ambrose stolidly.

  “A reasonable request!” remarked his father, more amiably. “A request that shows a certain amount of discrimination.”

  “We want to show her something,” added Ambrose.

  “And may we inquire what it is that you ‘want to show’ Mrs. Abbott?”

  “It’s a secret,” said Trivvie quickly, and she kicked Ambrose under the table.

  “All right, you owl. I know it’s a secret,” said Ambrose sotto voce.

  “A secret,” said Mr. Marvell indulgently. “Dear me, this is very mysterious, very mysterious indeed. Shall we try to guess what Mrs. Abbott is to be shown?”

  “You can if you like,” Ambrose told him, secure in the conviction that, if his father guessed from now until Doomsday, he would never succeed in guessing correctly.

  “On second thoughts perhaps I shall refrain,” said Mr. Marvell. “I feel that the matter is too deep for me to pry into. Too deep,” he continued, smiling, “I may feel a little hurt, perhaps, that it is Mrs. Abbott, and not myself, who has been chosen to be a repository for your secret; but, on the other hand, I feel bound to admit that you have shown perspicacity in your choice. Mrs. Abbott is exactly the right person to share a secret, since those who have secrets of their own to guard are indubitably the best custodians of the secrets of others.”

  They all gazed at Barbara, and Barbara blushed. What would they all think, she wondered. What would Miss Foddy think—and Mrs. Marvell? It was very unfair of Mr. Marvell to allude to the secret that she had asked him to keep (the secret that she wrote—or had written—books). It really was very unfair of him. Barbara wouldn’t have believed it of Mr. Marvell. She was so annoyed with him about it, that his subsequent conversation—though abounding with apt quotations—failed to provide her with the pleasure and amusement that Mr. Marvell’s conversation usually did. In fact she was quite glad when tea was over, and she escaped to the schoolroom with Trivvie and Ambrose.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Black Magic

  The two young Marvells were delighted to have secured Mrs. Abbott so easily. They dragged her upstairs to the small shabby room which did duty as a schoolroom and playroom combined, and prepared to show her their secret.

  “You won’t tell, will you?” Trivvie cried, dancing up and down in front of her like a jack-in-the-box. “Shall we make her swear on the book, Amby?”

  “She won’t,” said Ambrose, phlegmatically. “Grown-ups never will.”

  Trivvie was aware of this strange aversion on the part of grown-ups; she had merely forgotten about it, temporarily, in the excitement of the moment.

  “Oh, no, neither they will,” she said, and then she added more hopefully, “but p’raps her word’s as good as her bond—is it, Mrs. Abbott?”

  Barbara said it was, and thereby bound herself to guard the secret with her life. She was interested, by this time, and a little flattered at the honor of being chosen as the recipient of the young Marvells’ confidences.

  “Show her, Amby!” cried Trivvie, who could scarcely contain her impatience. “Show her, Amby—get out the box.”

  A box was placed carefully upon the table, and, from it was taken a clay figure, molded with considerable skill into a human form.

  Barbara examined it with interest. “It’s very good,” she said honestly. “Very good indeed. Where did you get the clay?”

  “Out of the stream,” said Ambrose, and he added proudly, “I made it.”


  “You should show it to your father,” said Barbara.

  “No,” said Ambrose. “He’d only pick it to bits.”

  “No, no,” cried Trivvie, “it’s a secret and you promised—d’you know who it is? It’s Mrs. Dance.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yes, of course it is—look at the teeth! And look, I’ve stuck a pin in it right through the middle—look, Mrs. Abbott—it’s a charm—it’s a spell—a witch’s spell—look at the pin—”

  Barbara was horrified. “Oh, Trivvie!” she exclaimed. “It isn’t kind. Oh, Trivvie! I mean, of course, it’s just a game, and couldn’t do her any harm, but you shouldn’t play that kind of game—really, Trivvie.”

  “It’s just a game,” said Trivvie, looking rather crestfallen. “And, anyhow, she’s horrid. We hate her, don’t we, Amby?”

  “Why do you hate her?” inquired Barbara with interest, adding hastily (for the sake of form), “You shouldn’t hate people, you know.”

  “We hate her because she’s ugly—her teeth stick out,” said Trivvie.

  “And she calls us kiddies,” added Ambrose with a shudder.

  Barbara understood the repugnance, she had felt something the same herself. She was aware that the blemishes, discovered in Mrs. Dance by the young Marvells, were really only outward signs of much more serious faults, and it was the inward woman from whom Trivvie and Ambrose recoiled. It was not really because her teeth stuck out and because she called them “kiddies” that Trivvie and Ambrose hated Mrs. Dance, but it was because she was the kind of woman who thought and spoke in a manner they detested. Barbara understood and sympathized with Trivvie and Ambrose, but she did not admit it.

  “I think Mrs. Dance means to be kind,” she pointed out, somewhat feebly.

  Trivvie and Ambrose were not deceived; they looked at each other and grinned.

  “She doesn’t like her either,” said Trivvie.

  “I told you she didn’t,” replied Ambrose.