Miss Buncle Married (26 page)

The origin of this peculiar rite was lost in oblivion; Trivvie had forgotten the origin of it herself. She knew, however, that if she failed to carry out the rite with faithful exactitude—either because she was too tired and sleepy, or because somebody was there—she invariably dreamed a very terrifying dream. The dream was horrible, and it was always the same in every detail. Trivvie found herself in the hall at Chevis Place; she was in her cotton nightdress, with bare feet, and it was very cold. But it was not the cold that made Trivvie's teeth chatter in her head, it was the frightful anticipation of what she knew was coming. In the hall, over the enormous fireplace, hung the head and neck of a huge stag with branching antlers and glassy eyes. Trivvie could not look away, she knew—she
knew
what was coming. The stag began to move, it turned its neck this way and that, it began to struggle wildly against the wooden collar which held it in check—the wooden collar which bore a little silver plate telling the date upon which it had been killed and the forest in which Sir Archibald Chevis Cobbe had killed it. Trivvie watched with horror, she knew what was coming and this frightful anticipation was by far the worst part of the dream—the stag struggled, reared wildly, and broke loose from its bonds; its forefeet came crashing through the wall, tearing the paper, and scattering the plaster in clouds of dust. It leaped from behind the mantelpiece into the middle of the hall, leaving an immense hole in the wall from whence it had come. At this moment Trivvie always woke, screaming at the top of her voice, and Miss Foddy had to get up and pacify her with drinks of water and bicarbonate of soda.

Such was the Nightmare Curse, and a very peculiar and terrifying curse it was. Trivvie did not understand it; she did not even try to understand it. She merely accepted it and bore it philosophically, as a curse under which she, alone of all mankind, had to labor.

But this afternoon Trivvie was gay, no signs or portents troubled her, and bedtime, with its Nightmare Curse, was still an hour away. She waited at the gate for Ambrose and Mrs. Abbott—who had negotiated the drive in a more conventional manner—and danced along the road with them to the gate of The Archway House. On the other side of Barbara, Ambrose walked with sedate steps, hanging on her arm.

“We like you,” Trivvie said. “Don't we, Amby? We thought it was going to be horrid when you came and began spoiling the garden. Lanky still hates you, of course, but we don't, do we, Amby?”

“But I've only seen Lancreste once, in church,” said Barbara, who was grieved to hear that her Golden Boy was inimical to her.

“He's seen you,
often
,” giggled Trivvie.

“Why haven't I seen him?”

“Because he didn't want you to. Lanky's clever, he can track like a redskin brave, and he knows lots of things. It was Lanky who showed us how to make the elephant trap.”

“We dug it,” Ambrose put in.

“And Lanky covered it with sticks and leaves, and strewed the gravel over it so that it wouldn't show.”

“I think it was horrid of you,” Barbara told them. “I might easily have broken my leg.”

“But it was such
fun
,” said Trivvie callously.

“Lanky wanted to drive you away,” added Ambrose.

Barbara was annoyed. “It was very silly,” she said. “Very silly indeed, and Lancreste can't be clever if he thought
that
would drive us away—as if grown-up people could be driven away from their home by a silly little boy's booby trap!”

“He didn't think
that
would drive you away,” said Ambrose somewhat scornfully. “The elephant trap was just an extra.”

“It was the ghost, really—” began Trivvie.

“Oh, so Lancreste was the ghost, was he?” said Barbara casually; she was furious, by now, but she was not going to let them know that she was furious. Her Golden Boy had fallen from his pedestal—he was a devil, not an angel at all.

“Weren't you frightened?” inquired Trivvie with interest.

“No, of course not.”

“Well, other people were. It was frightful fun. Lanky did the ghost whenever anyone came and wanted to buy The Archway House—we
all
wanted the house to stay empty, but Lanky wanted it most.”

“Because of the garden,” Ambrose explained.

“It doesn't matter telling you, now,” added Trivvie, “because Father caught him, you see. And his sheet was all muddy—”

“Father thrashed him,” added Ambrose, with relish.

Barbara was glad to hear it, and Mr. Marvell went up considerably in her estimation. She was also somewhat relieved to know that the ghost would trouble The Archway House no more. Personally she had never minded the ghost, but others had minded it, and she had sometimes wondered what would happen if the ghost returned and frightened the servants—as it had frightened the charwoman—would they all leave in a body?

“And was Lancreste the ghost at Ganthorne Lodge?” she inquired.

“Oh no,” replied the children in unison, and Trivvie added, in an awed voice, “that's a
real
ghost.”

***

Arthur met Barbara at the door.

“What ages you've been!” he exclaimed.

“Were you bored, darling?” inquired Barbara. “I came away as soon as I could. Didn't you get Monkey to come and have tea with you?”

“Oh yes, he came,” said Arthur, a trifle irritably. “But he had an urgent call—had to dash off at a moment's notice. Thank goodness I'm not a doctor. Monkey can't call his soul his own; he's at everybody's beck and call.”

“I know,” agreed Barbara sympathetically. “Was it Lady Chevis Cobbe, or what?”

“It was Mrs. Dance,” said Arthur. “They think she's got appendicitis.”

Barbara stood on the step and gazed at him—incredulity, horror, and dismay chased each other across her face.

“It
can't
be!” she exclaimed.

“Appendicitis,” Arthur told her. “They're taking her into a nursing home in Gostown to operate—it's nothing to worry about, darling. Heaps of people have appendicitis—she'll be all right in a fortnight or so—” (he thought, good heavens! I'd no idea that Barbara was so fond of the woman). “Even Dance himself, isn't unduly anxious,” Arthur continued earnestly. “It's quite a simple case. Honestly, Barbara, you needn't be so upset.”

“I am—upset,” said Barbara, in a faint voice.

It was only too obvious that she was upset—dreadfully upset—Arthur took her by the arm and supported her to a chair; he went for brandy and made her drink it; he stood over her, and fussed round her anxiously, watching, with tender concern, until the color began to return to her pallid face.

“There, you're better now, darling,” he said, with relief. “I was a fool to blurt it out at you like that, but I'd no idea—”

“Yes, I'm better,” she agreed. “It was most extraordinary the way everything went round and round, and the hall got sort of dark.”

“Don't think about it,” Arthur advised.

“No, I won't.”

She sat in silence for a minute or two, holding on to Arthur's hand and trying to recover herself. It had been a most uncomfortable experience.

“I think you should go to bed,” said Arthur. “I really think you should. You've been doing too much—those Marvells have upset you.”

“I must see Trivvie,” said Barbara suddenly. “Yes, that's the only thing to do. I must see Trivvie at once.”

“Trivvie!”

“Yes, you must go and fetch her.”

“But why—”

“You'll find them down at the stream—they're sure to be there.”

“But, Barbara, you're not fit—”

“If you don't go and fetch her I shall have to go and look for her myself,” said Barbara firmly.

“But, my dear—”

“Go, Arthur,” she besought him. “Go quickly—I must see her now—at once—immediately.”

Arthur thought she was mad, but he saw that he must humor her—it was the only thing to do—and he fled to find Trivvie.

I'll make her do it, Barbara thought, as she waited in the hall for Trivvie to come, I must make her do it. Of course there's no truth in it—none at all—it's merely an amazing coincidence—it must be that, it
must
be—but, all the same, I shall
make
Trivvie go straight home and take out the pin.

Lady Chevis Cobbe died very early one spring morning. Jerry had been summoned from Ganthorne Lodge the night before. She had found Sir Lucian Agnew in the big hall, and the two of them sat over the fire together and talked in low voices. The cousins arrived from London and Pangbourne during the night, and were accommodated with rooms in the big empty house. The accommodating of the cousins was Jerry's job—since there was nobody else to undertake it—and she found it a most onerous task, for both lots of cousins were convinced that
they
were the heirs to Chevis Place, and, therefore, entitled to the best room. Dr. Wrench was there, of course, and Mr. Tupper; and the London specialist (summoned by Dr. Wrench on his own responsibility) came down in his Daimler, looked at the patient, and departed again, saying that there was nothing more to be done, and leaving it to be understood that it was much too late, and that, if he had been called in before, he could have done a good deal.

It was an extraordinarily wearing night, and when it was all over and her ladyship had departed peacefully to a Better Land (which presumably would suit her down to the ground seeing that there is said to be no marriage nor giving in marriage there), Jerry was thoroughly exhausted and more miserable and disgusted than she had ever been before.

Jerry felt that the real sadness of Aunt Matilda's death lay in the fact that nobody really minded—nobody was heartbroken at her passing. Even she, herself, who had always been quite fond of Aunt Matilda, could not summon any tears. The truth was that Lady Chevis Cobbe had not been a lovable woman; she was “queer,” and her queerness kept her aloof from her kind; she was proud, and her pride had erected a barrier between herself and the outside world; she was suspicious of anybody who was “nice” to her, and her suspicion poisoned the atmosphere round about her.

“I believe Dr. Wrench is the one who feels it most,” said Jerry to herself, as she looked at the doctor's white face and shadowed eyes, “and he only feels it because he feels he ought to have been able to do more for her than he did—which is rot,” said Jerry, “because I'm perfectly certain nobody
could.
Sir Lucian feels it too, of course, but only in an
outside
sort of way. He is seeing himself all the time, and he sees himself as a man who has lost his best friend. It's really rather disgusting. And as for the Chevis relations—well—they're just
vultures
.”

When morning came, the big house, which had been half empty for so long, was filled with people—people whispering together in low voices, going softly up and down the broad staircase, gathering in the dining-room for breakfast, and dispersing again on various pretexts.

Jerry had intended to return to Ganthorne Lodge when breakfast was over, but Mr. Tupper told her that she was to stay.

“It will be better for you to remain here until—ahem—in the meantime,” he said firmly. “After all, you knew her ladyship very well—I should like you to be here, and take control of the—er—rather equivocal situation, until—ahem.”

“But I can't take control,” said Jerry, aghast. “None of the Chevis relations listen to
me
.”

“You must do your best,” Mr. Tupper told her. “After all, it is only for two days.”

It was only for two days, until (as Mr. Tupper had been too delicate to say) the funeral was over and the will was read. Once the will had been read everything would be made plain. Archie would get his inheritance, and the Chevis relations would fade away—but it was the longest two days that Jerry had ever spent.

Archie Cobbe had been motoring in Cornwall with a friend; he arrived at Chevis Place the day after his aunt's death. He was extremely annoyed to find the house full of Chevis relations, all of whom were under the impression that it was their prerogative to take command of the situation. They beheld Archie's efforts to assume control with indifference, or scorn, or repressed rage (according to their temperaments). After all, what was Archie? He was only a Cobbe. The Chevis relations were suspicious and resentful of each other, but they united in their resentment against these upstart Cobbes.

The situation was equivocal, as Mr. Tupper had said, for the house was full of people bent on showing their authority. Denis Chevis, for instance (who lived in town, and was therefore up-to-date), informed the butler that dinner was to be served at eight-thirty, instead of at eight o'clock as hitherto; and Bertie Chevis (who lived at Pangbourne, and prided himself upon his old-fashioned ways) desired the butler to inform the cook that he preferred to dine at seven sharp. The wretched Killigrew brought these conflicting orders to Jerry, and asked what was to be done about it.

“Goodness!” said Jerry.

“It's awkward, isn't it, Miss?”

“Very awkward,” she agreed, “and I think on the whole,” she added with Solomon-like judgment, “I think on the whole, Killigrew, the best thing will be just to go on having dinner at the usual time.”

“Yes, Miss,” said Killigrew, and he heaved a sigh of relief, for what Mrs. Sheffield would have said if he had had to go to her and ask her to change the hour of dinner in such a ridiculous manner Killigrew couldn't imagine. “Yes, Miss,” said Killigrew. “Yes, I think—if you will excuse me saying so—I think that will be the best way out of the dilemma.”

So dinner appeared at the usual hour, and nothing was said by either of the gentlemen who had wanted it changed. There was a good deal of maneuvering for places at the long dinner table, but it was all quite decorous, there was nothing unseemly about it. Archie managed to secure the seat at the head of the table before Denis and Bertie had time to perceive his intention—he was younger than either of them, and considerably more agile.

“Just wait till the will's read,” said Bertie Chevis to his wife in the privacy of their bedroom. “I shall put that young man in his place when the will's read.”

“I suppose you're quite sure it's all right, Bertie?”

“Of course it's all right,” replied Bertie confidently. “Matilda showed me her will, years ago—of course it's all right.”

Denis Chevis and the partner of his bosom were holding much the same kind of conversation in
their
bedroom, which was situated at the other end of the house.

“It's all that girl's fault,” Denis was explaining, “that Jerry Cobbe—ridiculous giving the Berties the best room like that—perfectly ridiculous. Have you noticed the way she and her brother try to run the whole show? Just because they live here and saw a lot of Matilda before she died.”

“I suppose you don't think they can have
got
round
Matilda in any way?” inquired the partner of his bosom in anxious tones.

“Good Lord, no,” replied Denis, confidently. “Matilda wouldn't leave Chevis Place to a
Cobbe.
Besides, I saw her will. She showed it to me that time I was down here—it's perfectly all right. No need at all to worry. We shall just have to be patient until the will's read.”

Archie was another who was waiting impatiently for the will to be read. He was longing to get rid of the Chevis relations and enjoy the amenities of Chevis Place at his leisure. Unlike the others he was a trifle anxious about the will. He had been shown it, of course, and he was certain it was “all right”
really,
but it seemed almost too good to be true, that, after all these years, Chevis Place was actually within his grasp. He was certain it was “all right,” but he would not feel absolutely comfortable and happy until he had heard the will. Archie tried to get hold of Mr. Tupper several times during those two days, but it was extraordinarily difficult, and, even when Archie at last managed to hem him in and pin him down, Mr. Tupper was elusive and noncommittal.

“I can give you no authority,” said Mr. Tupper, with legal dryness, “I can give you no authority at all.”

“But I'm the heir,” Archie pointed out. “I'm Aunt Matilda's heir. She showed me her will, so there's no doubt about it at all. And I don't really see why I should be obliged to have the house full of all these Chevis relations. Can't you tell them that I'm the heir?”

“I can tell them nothing,” said Mr. Tupper firmly. “Dr. Wrench and I are her ladyship's executors, and we have decided that nothing is to be said or done until the will has been read.”

The two days passed and Lady Chevis Cobbe was buried with suitable pomp and ceremony in the tomb of her ancestors. Several heavy showers fell during the proceedings as if to show that nature mourned her death—if no one else did. But this pretty idea occurred to none of her relations. Denis Chevis turned up the collar of his morning coat and murmured to his wife, who was standing next to him, “April showers.” She agreed, and wondered, rather miserably, whether they would “have to live here now.” It was a horrid damp place, she thought, and she hated the country at any time. But she comforted herself with the reflection that they would have “lots of money” and could shut up the place for the greater part of the year, and spend their time very profitably in London—Denis doesn't like the country either, she thought, that's one mercy.

After the funeral the whole party gathered in the dining-room, with barely concealed anxiety and expectation on their countenances. Archie was well to the fore, advising everybody where to sit; opening this window, and shutting that one, to obviate any drafts; raising one blind and lowering another, so that the room should be light enough, but not too bright for the mournful occasion.

They were all ready and waiting for some minutes before Mr. Tupper made his appearance, followed by Dr. Wrench. The subdued hum of conversation died away as the two executors came in. Mr. Tupper looked grave and important as befitted his task, but Dr. Wrench looked scared and miserable and, in very truth, he was both. There were at least three people in the room, each of whom believed himself to be the heir to Chevis Place, and believed it erroneously. Monkey knew enough about human nature to imagine the reactions of these people when they heard the will read. There would be a scene—there would be the devil of a scene—and Monkey hated scenes. He wished, devoutly, that a message would come for him which would necessitate his immediate departure from the battlefield. I wouldn't mind
what
it was, thought Monkey wretchedly, even a breach presentation would be better than this.

“Is everybody here?” inquired Mr. Tupper, taking up his position at the table and looking round the room.

“Yes, everybody's here,” said Archie promptly.

“I don't see Miss Jeronina Cobbe.”

“No, she's gone upstairs. She's got a headache,” Archie explained. “It doesn't matter about Jerry; I can tell her all about it afterward.”

“I think Miss Jerry should be here,” said Mr. Tupper, frowning, “you had better go and fetch her.”

“It's no good,” Archie told him a trifle irritably—why on earth couldn't the old idiot get on with the will. “It's no good bothering about Jerry. I told her to come and she wouldn't.”

Dr. Wrench leaned forward and whispered something to his co-executor. “Rather upset,” he whispered, “fond of her ladyship—just as well in a way—don't you think?”

“Very well,” said Mr. Tupper aloud. “I shall read the will to you first, and I shall go upstairs and see Miss Cobbe later—ahem.”

He began to read the will.

“
This is the last will and testament of me Matilda Victoria Chevis Cobbe
sometime known as Chevis Cobbe of Chevis Place Wandlebury in the county of Westshire, widow. I hereby revoke all testamentary dispositions heretofore made by me and declare this to be my last will.”

1. I appoint Alfred Tupper of Wandlebury aforesaid solicitor and Charles Wrench of the Corner House Wandlebury aforesaid Bachelor of Medicine to be the executors and trustees of this my will.

2. I declare that in the interpretation of this my will the expression “my trustees” shall (where the context permits) mean and include the trustees or trustee for the time being hereof whether original or substituted and if there be no such trustees or trustee shall (where the context permits) include the persons or person empowered by statute to exercise or perform any power or trust hereby or by statute conferred upon the trustees hereof and willing or bound to exercise or perform the same.

3. I bequeath the following specific legacies:

4. To my cousin Bertrand Chevis of Mill Hall Pangbourne in the county of Berkshire, the Chevis Miniatures contained in the glass table in the drawing-room at Chevis Place aforesaid.

5. To my cousin Denis Adam Chevis of 20 Finckle Street in the Borough of Kensington, the collection of Seventeenth-Century Snuff Boxes in the glass table in the library at Chevis Place aforesaid.

6. To my deceased husband's nephew Archibald Edward Cobbe of Ganthorne Lodge Ganthorne in the county of Westshire, the gold watch and chain the property of my deceased husband.

7. To my friend Lucian Agnew of Kingsmill House Wandlebury aforesaid Baronet, all my miniatures other than the Chevis Miniatures aforesaid and also my Rockingham tea and coffee service which he has always admired and also the Royal Worcester china bowl in the drawing-room at Chevis Place aforesaid and also the Ebony Cabinet with the Dresden china plaques which stands in my boudoir.

8. I bequeath the following pecuniary legacies:

9. To the said Bertrand Chevis, the sum of Two Thousand pounds.

10. To the said Denis Adam Chevis, the sum of Two Thousand pounds.

11. To each of my said trustees in the event of their accepting the office of trustee, the sum of Two Thousand pounds such sums to be in addition to any other sums hereinafter appearing.

12. To each of my nephews John Bertrand Chevis and James Bertrand Chevis and to my niece Matilda Ann Chevis all of Holly Lodge Winkham in the county of Essex, the sum of Five Hundred pounds, respectively.