Miss Buncle Married (10 page)

Barbara was extremely sorry for Miss Foddy. It seemed dreadful (Barbara thought) that a clever woman like Miss Foddy should be badgered and annoyed by the Marvell children, and worked like a slave by Mrs. Marvell until she was brought to such a pitch of desperation that she was forced to confide her troubles to the first stranger she met. Miss Foddy was obviously frightfully clever (nobody who was not frightfully clever could talk like that. Barbara couldn't have talked like that to save her life—and we always admire in others the qualities and attributes which we lack ourselves), Barbara could no more have expressed her troubles in the flowing and erudite English employed by Miss Foddy than she could have flown to the moon.

The truth was (as Miss Foddy would have said), the truth was that things had come to a crisis for the Marvells' governess. Her position had been growing more and more difficult for weeks and she had nobody with whom she could discuss it—no confidante of any sort or kind. Poor Miss Foddy was neither fish nor flesh, she was not one of the family, and not—most certainly not—one of the servants and, today, with the mysterious disappearance of her charges, everything had boiled up, and she suddenly felt that she must tell somebody all about it—or burst. It was at this dangerous—not to say critical—moment that Barbara had appeared on the scene and had shown her sympathy with Miss Foddy's troubles. She had listened with interest, and had made one most penetrating and sympathetic remark. It was quite enough. Instead of bursting with a terrific explosion, Miss Foddy had poured out her troubles to Barbara's willing and sympathetic ear. But, although she had been pouring them out for about ten minutes without ceasing, she had not done yet, there was more to come. And, as Mrs. Abbott's attention showed no signs of wandering, Miss Foddy was encouraged to continue.

Miss Foddy was very lonely at the Marvells'—so she told Barbara, still in that clever and cultured English which her hearer so admired—she had never been so lonely in any of her numerous posts. When she was at Mrs. Benton's she had been like one of the family, sharing in all their interests and amusements; Mrs. Winkworth's husband had been unkind to her and Miss Foddy had sympathized and upheld her in her vicissitudes; and at the Redmonds' the eldest girl was grown up—a delightful girl—and had been wont to discuss her various love affairs with her young sister's governess. In all these houses Miss Foddy had had somebody to talk to, somebody to help, somebody who sought her out and desired her company as a human being, but at the Marvells' she had nobody—nobody at all. Mr. and Mrs. Marvell completed each other's lives—or at least they wanted no outside interference in their affairs—and the children only bore Miss Foddy's company when they were obliged to do so—they, too, were completely self-satisfied and self-contained. Miss Foddy was naturally very glad that Mr. Marvell did not ill-treat his wife, did not neglect her, or drink, or stray after younger and more attractive women like the too-amiable Mr. Winkworth, but she rather wished that Mr. Marvell were not
always
at home, filling the house with his overpowering personality, because, if he hadn't been, Mrs. Marvell might have talked to
her
occasionally, and discussed modern conditions, or the children's health and progress. Miss Foddy wouldn't have minded
what
it was, as long as it was something.

All this Miss Foddy poured out to Barbara—all this and more—and Barbara stood and listened to it all with careful and sympathetic attention.

“I am sure I do not know—I cannot think why I am telling you all this,” said Miss Foddy at last, pulling herself up with a jerk. “You must think that I am a most garrulous person—you must think that I am insane.”

“Oh no, I don't,” Barbara assured her. “I think you are frightfully clever, and it's all most interesting. I'm most awfully sorry for you, Miss Foddy,” and she really meant it, for Barbara—by reason of her art—was intensely interested in her fellow creatures, and could understand their feelings and sympathize with their afflictions with the sympathy of her emotions. She could have understood and sympathized even if the troubles had been communicated to her in far less vivid and exciting language than that used by the erudite Miss Foddy—but the language helped, of course, what a gift it was! Miss Foddy's troubles were now Barbara's own, and if there were a single thought in Barbara's mind
of
using
Miss Foddy—of squeezing her like an orange and using the juice for her next book—it was entirely a subconscious thought, and one which Barbara would immediately and sincerely and indignantly have denied. For the truth is (as Miss Foddy would have said), the truth is that authors have no idea at all how or where they garner their harvest. The harvest is garnered by some busy imp that watches and garners daily, hourly, keeping the barns full, so that when the day of threshing comes, and the wheat is winnowed from the chaff, there shall always be enough and to spare for the making of the bread.

“It's all most interesting,” Barbara told Miss Foddy. “No, really, I mean it. Of course I understand how frightfully dull it must be to have nobody to talk to. You must feel as if you were going to burst, sometimes.”

“Yes,” said Miss Foddy, amazed at this perspicacity. “Yes, that is exactly—
exactly
how I feel, Mrs. Abbott.”

“If it would be any use,” Barbara added (a trifle diffidently, for Miss Foddy really was so frightfully clever, and so very—so very
articulate,
and Barbara was neither of these most desirable things), “if it would be any use at all—if you'd
like
to, I mean—I should be awfully pleased if you'd come and have tea with me. If you have an afternoon—an afternoon to spare—” Barbara said vaguely. She had been on the point of saying “
an afternoon out
,” but, somehow, that sounded more like a housemaid than a governess.

“Oh, how kind! Oh, Mrs. Abbott, that really is too kind!” cried Miss Foddy, and her face went quite pink again—but this time with pleasure and excitement. “Oh, I'm sure I could. Mrs. Marvell would spare me, I'm sure. If it would not bore you—there is nothing I would like better. Oh, how very kind to think of it.”

“Well, that's settled then,” Barbara said, very much embarrassed at the wretched Miss Foddy's gratitude for such a trifling boon (you never knew what to
do
with gratitude, Barbara thought, and this gratitude was inordinate). “Don't forget, will you?” she added, somewhat unnecessarily it would seem, “I'd like to show you the house—if you're interested in houses—just let me know when you can come—” and, so saying, she fled and left Miss Foddy spilling gratitude and pleasure all over the path; and she never remembered until she was going into the house, that Trivvie and Ambrose had been hiding in the bushes all the time, and had probably heard every word of Miss Foddy's tragic lament.

And what will happen—thought Barbara, gazing at the eighteenth-century chest that graced her hall—what will happen now I'm sure I don't know. Will they be better, or will they be worse?

Sam Abbott was in rather a chastened mood when he arrived at The Archway House for his little visit. He had wanted to refuse the invitation, but his mother, taking a strong line (for once) with her spirited offspring, had made him accept.

“You must not bear ill will toward Uncle Arthur,” she told him, and added the somewhat hackneyed but ever valuable advice about not letting the sun go down upon your wrath.

“I can't prevent the sun going down, can I?” inquired the irrepressible youth with deplorable levity, “And, anyhow, it's Uncle Arthur's wrath, not mine. It will be simply foul, living for five days with Uncle Arthur glowering at me, and thinking all the time how different I am from what
he
was when
he
was twenty-five. It's bad enough at the office. Oh yes, I'll go, if you want me to, but don't blame me if
anything
happens
.”

Sam's spirits rose a little when he beheld The Archway House. He knew a little about architecture, and its bold simple lines pleased him. And the inside of the house was almost as pleasant as the outside; it was so right, so comfortable, and yet so dignified. Barbara saw that Sam appreciated her treasure, and showed him round, pointing out its beauties and amenities with innocent pride.

“She's rather decent, really,” said Sam to himself in surprise, as he dressed for dinner in his warm, cozy room. “Decent of her to give me a fire,” he added, warming his socks before its comforting blaze. “Perhaps it won't be so absolutely foul after all. I wonder what on earth induced her to marry a crusty old beast like Uncle Arthur!”

Thus soliloquized Sam, in the privacy of his bedroom, but, even as he thus soliloquized, he was rather ashamed. He knew perfectly well in his inmost heart that Uncle Arthur was not a crusty old beast, but really quite decent in his own way; and he knew—for Sam was no fool—that most uncles, and most senior partners of reputable firms, would have been quite as crusty as Uncle Arthur if their young nephews—or apprentices—had been mixed up in an affair like that filthy Bow Street business. Uncle Arthur's not bad, really (thought Sam indulgently), and if only he wouldn't buck so much about that damned war (that old people are so proud of) and keep his views about the degeneracy of the young to himself, I could get on with Uncle Arthur like a house on fire.

It was even more of a surprise to Sam, when he went downstairs and sat down at the well-appointed dinner table to an excellently cooked and adequately served meal, to find that the crusty old beast was a charming host, and that Uncle Arthur and his new wife were delightful together, teasing each other in a very pleasant way, and cracking jokes and enjoying themselves as if they had been quite young, like himself, instead of quite old with one foot in the grave.

What'll I be like at forty-three, he wondered, as he joined in the fun and took sides with his aunt-by-marriage in baiting the senior partner of his firm—shall I be like Uncle Arthur? And this was followed by the altogether extraordinary and illuminating thought—well, I wouldn't mind if I were. For Uncle Arthur was so obviously happy, so jovial, so immeasurably delighted with the badinage he was receiving that you couldn't help feeling it would be very pleasant to be like that. It's rather nice (thought Sam), it really
is
rather nice (and rather pathetic somehow) to see the two of them together; because, of course, it's perfectly clear that they're absolutely nuts on each other, and, although it's quite an ordinary sort of thing to see young people go right in off the deep end, it's pretty uncommon, I should think, to see old people like Uncle Arthur and Barbara so frightfully gone on each other. Gadzooks! he thought (as he smiled at his uncle and his aunt-by-marriage and joined in the general conversation with spirit and aplomb), Gadzooks, what a queer thing Love is! Fancy Uncle Arthur, at
his
age, getting it so badly! I'm jolly certain I shan't get had, anyhow—no thank you, no marriage for this child—and he thought of his great crony, Toby Frensham, who had been the brightest spark you ever saw until he had gone in, head over heels at the deep end, over a girl, and how nowadays you couldn't get the wretched blighter to come out and have a bit of a beano in the evening, because he preferred to sit at home, in his poky little flat, and gaze with adoring eyes at the very ordinary girl he had chosen to make his wife. It isn't even as if she were frightfully pretty or anything, Sam thought, she's just plumb ordinary, and what old Toby sees in her I can't imagine. Gadzooks, what a queer thing Love is! Now if I ever fall in love, thought Sam, if I ever fall in love—which incidentally I shan't, because I shall take jolly good care not to—it will have to be somebody really beautiful, really wonderful, a glamorous, elegant, glorious creature, quite out of the usual run of girls. But I shan't, he thought, I'm safe, really. I've knocked about town for years now, and I've never seen a skirt that could do more than send a couple of shivers up my spine.

“I think we'll celebrate,” Uncle Arthur was saying. “Sam's our first guest. What do you say to a bottle of champagne, Barbara?”

“You needn't ask me,” said Barbara smiling, “you know perfectly well I don't like the horrible stuff. But that's no reason why you and Sam shouldn't—”

“What!” cried Sam in amazement. “You don't like fizz! Don't you really, Barbara?”

“Is that how you address your aunt?” inquired Mr. Abbott, before Barbara could reply.

Sam laughed. “Why not?” he demanded with youthful cheek. “I discovered her, didn't I? I was the first person to read
Disturber
of
the
Peace.
I told you she was a genius.”

“And does that give you the right to call her Barbara?” asked Mr. Abbott, with a whimsical lift of his brows.

“Well,
of
course
,” replied Sam promptly. “If it hadn't been for me you might never have met her, and then where would you have been? Another reader might not have appreciated the subtle humor of the
Disturber
and might have packed it up and sent it back to John Smith with Messrs. Abbott & Spicer's compliments. You've got a lot to thank me for, I can tell you.”

Mr. Abbott laughed, and so did Barbara—they were both pleased with their guest. He was an impertinent monkey, but the impertinence became him, and it was rather pleasant to be teased a little by a young and personable man. He's very amusing, Barbara thought, and very good-looking. He's rather like Arthur—a smaller and slighter edition of Arthur—and he's got Arthur's nice eyes. He's cocky, of course, but it's rather a nice kind of cockiness, quite a harmless kind. I know, now, what he reminds me of (thought Barbara smiling to herself), he reminds me of a young cockerel standing on a wall just starting to crow. Arthur needn't be worried about him, he'll be all right. He's just trying his voice and flapping his wings like cockerels do when they're pleased with themselves and their fine feathers, and all he needs is just something to settle him down—a nice wife would settle him down splendidly; we must look about and find a nice wife for Sam.

And, so thinking, Barbara smiled and nodded and took her part in the conversation and thoroughly enjoyed—through Arthur's and Sam's enjoyment—the excellent champagne which the former had produced from his new (but already well stocked) and capacious cellar.

***

It was while Sam was staying at The Archway House that the Musical Evening took place.

“It's so lucky,” Barbara remarked, as they dined early. “It really is so frightfully lucky that it has just happened while Sam's here. It must be rather dull for Sam—”

“Oh no, it isn't,” exclaimed Sam.

“—Staying here with two old married people like us,” continued Barbara, without heeding the interruption. “So it really is very lucky that the Musical Evening is tonight.”

Sam groaned inwardly. He was not feeling at all dull at The Archway House—it was really very surprising—he found it pleasant and peaceful. He went up to town every morning with Uncle Arthur, and returned with him at night; he walked and read and conversed amusingly with his host and hostess. He liked them increasingly and was fully aware that they liked him. No, it was not dull at all. But tonight was another matter altogether—a Musical Evening, what a frightful show it would be! It was the kind of show he detested, the kind of show that ought to be put down by law: dozens of people you didn't know—and didn't want to know—standing about and gassing to each other, and people singing (Oh, Lord! thought Sam) and light refreshments such as hock-cup, and pale coffee, and banana sandwiches.

“You have such a gay time in London,” continued Barbara, smiling at him kindly. “Dances, and dinner parties, and all sorts of things. It
must
be dull for you here.”

Sam didn't quite know how to reply. He glanced at Uncle Arthur and saw that he was smiling to himself—had Uncle Arthur told Barbara about that horrible show, or not? It almost looked as if he hadn't, and if he hadn't, it was decent of the Old Boy.

Barbara had received the invitation to the Musical Evening a few days ago, with a nice little note from Lady Chevis Cobbe saying that she could not pay calls at present as she was still far from strong after her illness, but she hoped so much that Mr. and Mrs. Abbott—and any guests who happened to be staying with them—would waive formality and give her the pleasure of their company at Chevis Place on the evening of the 27th November. Barbara had “accepted with pleasure.” She was very pleased about it. The Musical Evening would be such a good opportunity of “getting to know people” and it would be a nice party for Sam, and, now that the night had arrived, she was really excited. It was an adventure, and she loved adventures with all her heart.

Barbara had dressed with great difficulty for this occasion; first impressions were so important, and her neighbors would see her tonight for the first time. She had driven the good Dorcas nearly frantic at the way she had changed her mind; and, when she had finished her
toilette,
discarded dresses were strewn about all over her bedroom in attitudes of despair. But the result justified everything, and even Dorcas was bound to admit that her mistress had never looked so well. She had eventually chosen a night-blue charmeuse, very simply made, with a little train; and, to go with it, the diamond pendant and diamond star which Arthur had given her as his wedding present. When she surveyed herself in the long mirror of her new bedroom suite she was satisfied with her appearance—and justifiably satisfied. She was even more satisfied with the success of her
toilette
when Sam commented favorably upon it—a young man who painted the town red surely ought to know what was what. They were all waiting in the hall for Strange to bring round the car, and Arthur was helping Barbara to put on her evening cloak.

“You look simply topping, Barbara,” said Sam. “I love the color of your frock—what's it called?”

“Night-blue,” replied Barbara, blushing with pleasure. “I'm glad you like it, Sam. I think
you
look frightfully smart,” she added truthfully.

Sam preened himself (he
is
like a cockerel, thought Barbara in amusement). “Oh well,” he said deprecatingly, “but we men haven't so much scope. I like colors, you know. It would be rather fun to have a suit the color of your frock.”

“With knee breeches, and a brocaded coat,” Barbara agreed. “How splendid you would look! And Arthur,” she added looking at the tall, well-set-up figure of her husband, “Arthur would look simply magnificent, wouldn't he?”

They were all in an exceedingly pleasant and amiable frame of mind when the car came round to the door, and they set forth to the Musical Evening.

The drive at Chevis Place was already cluttered with cars when the Abbotts drove up. Everybody was there, for Lady Chevis Cobbe's Musical Evening was an affair that nobody wanted to miss. It was an annual event, the one occasion in the year when the doors of Chevis Place were thrown open to Town as well as County, and County rubbed shoulders, very amiably, with Town, as Lady Chevis Cobbe decreed that it should.

Chevis Place was a stately Elizabethan mansion that had been altered, and added on to, and brought up to date at various periods of its career. The result, to a fanatic upon the subject of architecture, was perhaps somewhat unfortunate (the kind of man who prefers candles to lamps, and powder closets to bathrooms might have torn his hair and called the Chevis family vandals and goths) but, to the ordinary person, Chevis Place was a pleasant place, and the different styles of architecture blended well enough to produce a dignified, commodious, and convenient country house. The ballroom, where the reception was being held, was a long-shaped room which had been added to Chevis Place by the present owner's grandfather. It was high ceilinged, and bright with candelabra, which now contained cleverly concealed electric bulbs.

“Mr. and Mrs. Abbott, Mr. Sam Abbott,” announced the butler in a stentorian voice, and the next moment Barbara found herself shaking hands with her hostess.

Barbara looked at Lady Chevis Cobbe with especial interest (so that's what I look like! she thought). She saw a woman of about her own height and build, with a pale face and dark-blue eyes. The lashes were dark and long, and the eyebrows finely drawn; she had rather an insignificant nose, but her mouth, though a trifle wide, was well-shaped, and her teeth, when she smiled, very white and even. I suppose I
am
rather like that, Barbara thought. She's a lot older than me, of course, but I don't think I carry myself so well. I must remember not to stick out my chin—she doesn't do that.

“So glad you could come,” Lady Chevis Cobbe was saying. “I was delighted when I heard somebody had bought The Archway House; it's such a pity when these nice old houses fall into disrepair. Where's Jerry?” she continued, looking round vaguely, “Oh, there you are—Jerry will introduce you to some of your new neighbors—my niece, Miss Cobbe—Mrs. Abbott,” she added, and turned away to welcome her next guests.