Miss Buncle Married (28 page)

“You know all about it, I suppose,” said Jerry when she had hugged Barbara and bestowed her in a comfortable chair.

“All about what?” Barbara not unnaturally inquired.

“About Aunt Matilda leaving everything to me,” said Jerry, “and all that. You've heard, I suppose.”

“Yes,” said Barbara, smiling in a pleased manner.

“Oh, Barbara, how
lovely
it is to see you again!” Jerry exclaimed, suddenly overcome by the niceness of her comfortable, soothing friend. “I feel as if I hadn't seen you for
years—
so much has happened in the last few days. It's been absolutely foul, and the Chevis relations are vultures, and I've been miserable and disgusted—”

“
Poor
Jerry!” said Barbara sympathetically.

“And now
this
on the top of everything, just when I thought I was going home.”

“But Jerry, it's lovely for you.”

“Do you really, and truly, and honestly think so?” asked Jerry doubtfully. “I mean can you
see
me here?”

“Why, of course I can,” Barbara assured her. Ever since Barbara had known Jerry she had seen her as the prospective chatelaine of Chevis Place, so, of course, she was used to the idea and found nothing alarming or unnatural in it. “Of course I can see you here, Jerry,” she repeated, looking round the comfortable room with pleasure and delight writ large upon her kindly, honest countenance.

“Well, I don't know,” said Jerry, still dubious. “I don't know at
all.
I can't
believe
it, somehow. And it's horrid to feel that they're all so angry with me—Archie and everybody. I suppose Aunt Matilda must have thought it would be all right—me, being here, I mean—”

“She wanted you to have it,” Barbara pointed out.

“I suppose she did,” Jerry agreed.

“It's lovely for you,” urged Barbara.

“I suppose it is really, but I haven't got used to it yet. And, as I said before, I can't really
believe
it. Aunt Matilda wasn't a very happy sort of person, you know, in spite of all her riches, and Chevis Place, and everything—however, don't let's talk about it anymore,” said Jerry, in a more cheerful tone of voice. “I want to tell you about something else,” said Jerry, smiling and dimpling all over. “Something
far
more interesting, and
far
more important. I wonder if you can guess—no, I'm sure you couldn't possibly guess what it is.”

Barbara had only to glance at the face of her friend—flushed and eager now—and she knew at once what Jerry's secret was.

“Oh!” she exclaimed with delight. “Oh, Jerry,
you're
engaged
to
Sam
.”

Jerry threw back her head and laughed.

“That's what it is, isn't it?” inquired Barbara. “I knew it was. I was just hoping—”

“Darling!” cried Jerry. “How clever you are! How
did
you guess? Fancy you
seeing
and not saying a single
word
! But the joke is, you're not clever enough—not quite—because, you see, I'm not engaged to Sam at all, I'm married to him.”

Barbara was struck dumb—absolutely struck dumb by the news—she gazed at Jerry in amazement and consternation.

“No wonder you're surprised,” Jerry continued excitedly, “but I do hope you're not fed up with us about it. You see we
had
to do it all secretly because of poor Aunt Matilda and her funny ideas. I was afraid it would kill her if she heard about it, and then I should have been a murderer. So we didn't tell a soul except Markie—she had to be told, of course—and, as a matter of fact, she was in it from the very beginning. Markie's been an absolute lamb about it. You see we got quite desperate when we couldn't see each other—quite desperate.
You
couldn't have Sam down, and
I
couldn't go up to town and see him, because of leaving the horses. I
did
go up once or twice, for a few hours, but it wasn't much good. It was simply ghastly not being able to see each other—you can't think how desperate we were—”

“Oh, Jerry!” said Barbara, appalled at this revelation—after all the trouble she had taken to prevent Sam and Jerry from seeing each other, all she had accomplished was to drive them into each other's arms.

“We were desperate,” continued Jerry earnestly. “Sam was miserable in town, and I was miserable at Ganthorne, and it seemed so silly, somehow. You see, there was nothing to prevent us getting married except poor Aunt Matilda; and, as Sam said, if she wasn't told about it she wouldn't know. At first I thought we ought to wait until she was better, but Sam really was so awfully wretched, and so was I, really. So Sam said the best thing to do was just to get married and tell Aunt Matilda when she got better—you see the idea, don't you? We've been married for ten days now,” continued Jerry, “and I'm certain nobody knows a thing about it. Sam comes down every night and it's simply lovely having him—simply lovely. He wears his Elizabethan dress,” said Jerry chuckling, “with long red stockings and puffy sleeves, and a cloak. He really got it for a fancy dress ball and then he never went to the ball after all. I'll tell you all about
that
some other time—all about the first time he wore the dress and came over to see me in it. I was so miserable that night and then Sam appeared like a sort of fairy godmother, or something—it was
that
night that sort of settled the whole thing. We talked and talked, and Sam persuaded me to marry him—he looked so splendid, and he was so dear, and funny, and pleased with himself that I couldn't resist him—I didn't really need very much
persuading
,'” said Jerry honestly. “Not very much. But the whole point of the Elizabethan dress (apart from darling Sam rather fancying himself in it) is, that if anybody sees him about the place, they think he's a spook.”

“But Jerry—” began Barbara who had listened to all this with increasing horror and alarm.

“I'll tell you,” said Jerry, the words pouring out of her in an excited stream. “I really must tell you about that first night. He wore his fancy dress because, somehow or other, he lost his trousers—aren't men funny, helpless
lambs,
Barbara? So he wore the Elizabethan dress, and came dashing over to Ganthorne in it, and, as I told you, I simply couldn't resist him. It wasn't the dress, exactly, but it was Sam
in
the dress—if you know what I mean—and then he scared Crichton away—quite by mistake—and that gave us the idea of him wearing it—so as to scare other people, you see.”

Barbara could follow this in part (she knew about the trousers, of course), she could follow enough of it to see that it was entirely her fault that this dreadful thing had happened. Not only had she driven them into each other's arms by refusing to have Sam at The Archway House, but she had further destroyed them by compelling Sam to visit his beloved in a dress that showed off his charms, and made him absolutely irresistible.

“Oh, Jerry!” she said, in horror-stricken tones.

“You're not angry with us, darling,” Jerry coaxed, seating herself on a stool at Barbara's feet and stroking her hand. “Don't be angry, Barbara. We're
so
happy—so frightfully happy.
You
know what it is to be happy like that, don't you? So you see, you mustn't be angry with Sam and me. And, now that poor Aunt Matilda has gone, we can tell everybody; but I wanted to tell you first—the very first of all,” said Jerry, smiling up into Barbara's face.

“Oh dear!” Barbara said, thinking aloud in her perturbation of mind. “I did all I could to prevent it—I did everything I could think of, and it was the worst thing I could do—the very worst thing. It just shows you shouldn't
meddle
,” she continued incoherently, “unless, of course, you're Elizabeth Nun—and I'm not, and never will be. It just shows you shouldn't meddle with things. If I had only told you about it—how I wish I had! What on earth did my promise to Mr. Tyler matter compared to this? He was horrid, anyhow—afterward, I mean—and, anyhow, he never did anything for me, except tell me the house was full of rats—which it wasn't. I see, now, I should have done one thing or the other,” said Barbara wretchedly. “I should either have left it alone, altogether, and not tried to meddle, or I should have broken that idiotic promise, and told you the whole thing—oh dear, what a
fool
I am!”

“What on earth are you talking about?” demanded Jerry, with a chill feeling in her heart. “What on earth are you talking about, Barbara? Who is Elizabeth Nun? And what has Mr. Tyler got to do with me—or Sam?”

“I should have told you long ago,” Barbara said. “When I saw that Sam was in love with you—that night at dinner—I should have told you the whole thing. Instead of which I just meddled and muddled, and hid Sam's trousers, and did far more harm than good—what a fool I am! What an idiot!”

“Barbara,” said Jerry firmly. “If you don't leave off talking nonsense, and tell me what it's all about, I shall—I shall
shake
you.”

“I don't know how to tell you—I don't know where to begin,” Barbara said helplessly. “It's all so complicated—and I'm so frightfully upset.”

“You're frightening me. Tell me this,” Jerry implored. “There's no reason—no real reason—why Sam and I—why we shouldn't have married each other—is there?”

“Yes, of course there is. That's what I've been trying to tell you all along.”

It seemed to Jerry that her heart almost ceased to beat. It was a horrible sensation. If she were to lose Sam now—and yet how could she lose him? They were married. She could feel the ring inside her blouse, where it hung on a little gold chain from her neck—she
couldn't
lose Sam now.

“It was in the will,” continued Barbara, trying to explain everything in the fewest possible words. “I saw the will myself, when I was at Mr. Tyler's office—the very first day I came to Wandlebury. Of course I didn't know you then—or anybody,” said Barbara earnestly. “So, of course, I wasn't very interested.”

“He showed you Aunt Matilda's will!” Jerry exclaimed in very natural amazement.

“He thought I was Lady Chevis Cobbe—it was all a mistake. The whole thing was awfully queer. He gave me port and that made it all the queerer,” explained Barbara. “But the point is you don't get all this,” she continued looking round the room vaguely, “you don't get Chevis Place, or anything, if you're married.”

“Is that all?” cried Jerry. “My dear, how you terrified me! I thought—well, never mind; I don't really know
what
I thought—but I don't want Chevis Place, I don't really.”

“You don't want Chevis Place?”

“No, and I might have known it was something like that,” cried Jerry, quite wild with relief. “I might have known if I had thought for a moment—if I hadn't been too terrified to think at all.”

“You mean you don't
mind
?” inquired Barbara incredulously.

“I'm thankful,” said Jerry earnestly. “I've been trying to pretend that I was doubtful about it, but, all the time, I
hated
the thought of leaving Ganthorne Lodge.”

“But Jerry—”

“I felt I ought to be pleased—everybody seemed to think I ought to be—and it seemed ungrateful to Aunt Matilda not to be pleased when she had been so kind, but, all the time, I hated the whole thing—inside me.”

“I can't believe it,” Barbara said.

“Listen, Barbara,” said Jerry earnestly. “I'm beginning to see it all plainly now. Just think what it would have meant if I had got Chevis Place, and all that money. I couldn't have done all the things I like doing anymore. I couldn't have gone about in breeches; I couldn't have worked with the horses; it wouldn't have mattered about my business—whether it was a success or whether it wasn't. I should have had to be grandly dressed,” said Jerry naïvely, “and I should have had to have people to stay, and entertain, and go to parties—I should have had to be thinking all the time:
Am
I
living
up
to
Chevis
Place?
And I couldn't, ever,” said Jerry. “I couldn't do it, because I'm not that kind of person at all. And Sam—oh, Barbara, think how bad it would have been for Sam—Sam wouldn't have had to work anymore. It wouldn't have been worthwhile, and, even if he had gone on working, all the real interest would have gone, for what would his salary have been in comparison with all Aunt Matilda's money? Sam needs work,” said Jerry with her wise look. “Yes, it's good for Sam to work. He would get slack and careless if he didn't have to work. You don't know how sweet Sam is about his salary,” she continued, smiling up at Barbara. “He likes to give me money every week—and I like to take it from him. Housekeeping money, he calls it, and he's
so
serious and important about it. If I had all that money myself, I couldn't take it from Sam—oh, I can't explain, but it would
all
be different, and it would all be
wrong
.”

“Think of Archie,” Jerry continued gravely. “Look at what this money of Aunt Matilda's has done to Archie. He knew it was coming to him (or thought he did) and it simply ruined his whole life. It made the small salaries he was able to earn seem worthless; it gave him a wrong idea of life. He depended upon the horrible money, instead of depending upon himself. And Aunt Matilda—look at Aunt Matilda,” cried Jerry. “Did her money make her happy? It made her miserable, that's what it did. It cut her off from everybody—you couldn't get
near
Aunt Matilda, because she thought all the time that you wanted something out of her. Oh, Barbara, what an escape we've had!”