Miss Buncle Married (30 page)

Arthur's reflections on the subject were interrupted by the arrival of Archie Cobbe—or Archie Chevis Cobbe, as he was now to be called—who was accompanied by a tall, nice-looking man with one sleeve pinned to his breast. Archie moved about among the crowd, talking and laughing in a friendly manner, and inviting all and sundry to come down to Chevis Place “after the show” and partake of light refreshments. Gradually he made his way over to the pile of boulders where the Abbotts were sitting and greeted them cordially.

“This is Major Macfarlane,” he said, introducing his one-armed companion. “He's going to try and teach me how to run the estate. I'm awfully lucky to have him.”

“Nonsense,” said the Major. “I'm lucky to have the job—and you haven't much to learn as far as I can see.”

“You're
all
to come to Chevis Place afterward,” Archie continued. “You will, won't you? It's to be a sort of house-warming. We've laid in provisions enough for a regiment—haven't we, Macfarlane? And beer, and tea, and coffee enough to float the Queen Mary—and I want
you,
especially, Jerry, to do hostess for me.”

“I'll do my best,” Jerry promised. “But you know I'm not much use at that sort of thing.”

They chatted for a few minutes, and then Archie moved on, in his squire-like manner, to greet Mrs. Thane and Candia, who had just arrived on the scene. Barbara voiced all their thoughts when she exclaimed in a surprised voice:

“Isn't it queer? Archie seems to have grown.”

Archie really did seem to have grown. He seemed taller and broader, and his personality had expanded in the warm sun of his changed fortunes.

“Prosperity suits some people,” said Monkey Wrench, who had come up to speak to them and had overheard Barbara's remark.

“Yes,” agreed Jerry. “You can't think how kind and considerate he is now, and he's so anxious to do the right thing for Chevis Place—Mr. Tupper was quite wrong,” she added thoughtfully.

“All he needs now is the right wife,” said Arthur, who had succeeded in obtaining that most desirable possession for himself.

“We shall have to find him one,” Barbara agreed, quite forgetting that she had decided never to meddle in the affairs of her neighbors again.

It was now almost dark, and Monkey—who had been hopping with excitement for the last half-hour—decided to light his bonfire.

“It isn't
quite
time,” he admitted, looking at his watch, and putting it to his ear to see if by any chance it could have stopped.

“It isn't
quite
time yet, but it may take a minute or two to get going, so I think I shall light up.”

A ladder was brought and reared against the bonfire, and Monkey mounted with a flaming torch in his hand. Everybody had stopped talking and watched breathlessly. He laid the torch on the top of the bonfire and climbed down. For a few moments it looked as if the torch would go out, and the bonfire remain unlighted, but only for a few moments. Gradually the top of the erection caught fire; flames ran round the edge, licking the wood, then they shot upward in a pyramid of fire; volumes of smoke ascended into the darkening sky, and the whole bonfire leaped into life with a sound of crackling and hissing.

The glare of the flames shone, with a lurid light, upon the upturned faces of the spectators, and murmurs of approval and delight were heard on every side. Monkey's bonfire was a tremendous success.

“It's wonderful,” said Barbara in admiration.

“Oh wonderful, wonderful,” exclaimed a deep sonorous voice just behind her. “And most wonderful, wonderful! And yet again wonderful, and, after that, out of all whooping.”

Barbara had no need to look behind her to see who it was that had thus extolled Monkey's bonfire, but look behind her she did. There stood Mr. Marvell, large and majestic as ever, wrapped like a Roman emperor in his voluminous black cloak. His head was bare, and his luxuriant wavy hair gleamed in the ruddy glow of the flames. Around him were grouped, like satellites, his family and dependents: Mrs. Marvell, Lancreste, Trivona and Ambrose, Miss Foddy, and the two maids. It was an elevating sight.

“Look at them, Arthur,” Barbara whispered, nudging Arthur and chuckling a little with pure delight. “Aren't they marvelous? And isn't he exactly like the Colossus of Rhodes?”

Arthur was forced to agree. There was something really noble about the little group, outlined against the darkness of the sky, and nobody could behold it without perceiving that the dominant figure in it was, indeed, more than life-size.

The night wore on. Bonfires could be seen all round, on nearly every hill. Some were large and flaming, and some were small and smoldering, but none of them (everybody agreed) was nearly as good as the Wandlebury bonfire. When the interest in the bonfire began to wane the crate of fireworks was opened, and Archie let off rockets and roman candles and fairy lights. It was a splendid entertainment. Barbara liked the rockets best; away they went into the sky; they burst with a bang, and the green and red and yellow stars hung for a moment among their quiet silver brethren and then fell, light as thistledown, through the still air.

When all the fireworks were over the crowd melted away; some of them went home, but most of them straggled down to Chevis Place and were entertained there, in a royal manner, by the new squire. Jerry and Sam went with them, but Arthur and Barbara stayed behind.

It was too beautiful to leave, Barbara thought. All around them the sky was bright with stars, and before them glowed and flamed the bonfire, lighting up the dark hilltop, and making the surroundings seem darker than they really were. There was something very mysterious and lovely about the fire, and Barbara realized this to the full. It seemed a link with the past, for fires had flamed upon this hill from prehistoric times; and it seemed a promise for the future, too, for it had drawn so many people together in friendliness and hopefulness.

They stayed on, Barbara and Arthur together in the quiet night, watching the bonfire, and talking in low voices of many things.

“I'm not going to finish my book,” she told him at last, after a long, thoughtful silence.

“You must do as you like about it,” he replied. “That's all I want—always—for you to do as you like. But, quite honestly, the book is better than the others—deeper and truer. It's a clever book.”

“I'm going to do something much cleverer,” said Barbara, smiling in rather a mysterious way.

“What are you going to do?” inquired Arthur with interest.

“I'm going to do something much,
much
cleverer,” she repeated. “Anybody could write a book. I'm going to have a baby.”

“Oh, Barbara!” exclaimed Arthur, thoroughly amazed by this totally unexpected and absolutely stupendous revelation. “Oh, Barbara—how marvelous—how simply splendid!”

“Wonderful out of all whooping, isn't it?” said Barbara, looking at him with an expression of grave innocence such as children sometimes wear. “So you see I shall be much too busy to be bothered with
There's Many a Slip—.
I shan't have any time for that sort of thing.”

Arthur agreed fervently that her new adventure—her biggest yet—was a whole-time job (he relinquished
There's Many a Slip—
without a sigh). His Barbara was an amazing woman, the most amazing woman under the sun—there was nothing beyond her powers, nothing. Arthur was convinced that he was the most fortunate man alive.

“That was why I didn't want to see the procession,” Barbara continued. “I know you thought it funny, but Monkey says I've got to take care of myself, you see.”

Arthur saw. That's why she nearly fainted in the hall, he thought; it wasn't anything to do with the Sittingbourne woman, but I won't remind her of that. I must take great care of her (thought Arthur). It would be frightful—simply frightful—if anything happened to Barbara.

They talked for a little about the nurseries in The Archway House and how they would have them done up; and Arthur decided that he must buy a rocking horse, which he had seen in the window of a toy shop not far from the office. He had looked at it as he passed, and had decided that it was the biggest, and the most splendid rocking horse he had ever seen. I shall buy it tomorrow, he thought, just in case somebody else might like the look of it.

“Isn't it funny?” said Barbara, when the subject was temporarily exhausted. “Isn't it funny, Arthur, we've only been here for about six months, but I feel we belong to Wandlebury now. We seem to have settled into the
people
as well as into the
place—
if you know what I mean. They know us, and we know them in a way you never get to know people nearer Town.”

“What you do in the suburbs is your own business,” Arthur pointed out. “But what you do in a little town like Wandlebury is everybody's business.”

“Yes,” agreed Barbara, “and I like it. I like it awfully. It's nice to feel that people are interested in you. I feel as if we had lived here for years,” she continued, pursuing her previous thought in a dreamy manner. “I feel as if we had been married for years, and years, and years. Do you feel like that, Arthur?”

“In a way, I do, of course,” admitted her husband. “But in another way I don't. You haven't changed a bit, you see. You're still exactly the same Barbara Buncle that you were when we first met.”

“Oh, but I've changed a lot!” Barbara exclaimed. “I have, really, Arthur.”

“How have you changed?” he inquired.

Barbara did not reply for a little while. It was very complicated, and she was never good at explaining what she felt. She looked back and saw the faults and failings in that ignorant, gauche spinster, Barbara Buncle, and felt her superiority in seeing them so clearly. She looked back, smugly and patronizingly, upon her virgin self. She was now one with the vast regiment of Married Women, no longer barred from their councils by the stigma of virginity; they discussed marriage with her. Sometimes they made her cheeks hot by the freedom with which they discussed it (Barbara could never contribute to these discussions; she had entered the married state too late in life and her nature was too set in spinsterhood), but, all the same, she was glad when they discussed marriage in her presence, for it helped to make her aware of her new status. When she had assured Arthur that she had “changed a lot” she saw just how and why she had changed. The world had broadened and deepened, and she was its citizen, full grown, and all the privileges and responsibilities of citizenship were hers. She had a man—all her own—with his life to make or mar; a house—the house of her dreams—where her lightest word was law; and, now, coming to her in the near and easily visualized future, was another dear and beautiful responsibility, a small young creature which would be utterly and absolutely dependent upon her, a new human being to cherish and control. She had new friends, who valued her for what she was and accepted her as she was; and she had new interests which increased and multiplied daily. Barbara saw all this quite clearly—the difference in status, and the difference in herself which made her adequate to its demands; but it was impossible—as ever—for her to put her feelings and convictions into words.

“Well, you see, I know things now,” said Barbara lamely.

See how the story began
with this excerpt from

available from Sourcebooks Landmark

One fine summer's morning the sun peeped over the hills and looked down upon the valley of Silverstream. It was so early that there was really very little for him to see except the cows belonging to Twelve-Trees Farm in the meadows by the river. They were going slowly up to the farm to be milked. Their shadows were still quite black, weird, and ungainly, like pictures of prehistoric monsters moving over the lush grass. The farm stirred and a slow spiral of smoke rose from the kitchen chimney.

In the village of Silverstream (which lay further down the valley) the bakery woke up first, for there were the breakfast rolls to be made and baked. Mrs. Goldsmith saw to the details of the bakery herself and prided herself upon the punctuality of her deliveries. She bustled round, wakening her daughters with small ceremony, kneading the dough for the rolls, directing the stoking of the ovens, and listening with one ear for the arrival of Tommy Hobday who delivered the rolls to Silverstream before he went to school.

Tommy had been late once or twice lately; she had informed his mother that if he were late again she would have to find another boy. She did not think Tommy would be late again, but, if he were, she must try and find another boy, it was so important for the rolls to be out early. Colonel Weatherhead (retired) was one of her best customers and he was an early breakfaster. He lived in a gray stone house down near the bridge—The Bridge House—just opposite to Mrs. Bold at Cozy Neuk. Mrs. Bold was a widow. She had nothing to drag her out of bed in the morning, and, therefore, like a sensible woman, she breakfasted late. It was inconvenient from the point of view of breakfast rolls that two such near neighbors should want their rolls at different hours. Then, at the other end of the village, there was the Vicar. Quite new, he was, and addicted to early services on the birthdays of Saints. Not only the usual Saints that everybody knew about, but all sorts of strange Saints that nobody in Silverstream had ever heard of before; so you never knew when the Vicarage would be early astir. In Mr. Dunn's time it used to slumber peacefully until its rolls arrived, but now, instead of being the last house on Tommy's list, it had to be moved up quite near the top. Very awkward it was, because that end of the village, where the old gray sixteenth-century church rested so peacefully among the tombstones, had been all late breakfasters and therefore safe to be left until the end of Tommy's round. Miss Buncle, at Tanglewood Cottage, for instance, had breakfast at nine o'clock, and old Mrs. Carter and the Bulmers were all late.

The hill was a problem too, for there were six houses on the hill and in them dwelt Mrs. Featherstone Hogg (there was a Mr. Featherstone Hogg too, of course, but he didn't count, nobody ever thought of him except as Mrs. Featherstone Hogg's husband) and Mrs. Greensleeves, and Mr. Snowdon and his two daughters, and two officers from the camp, Captain Sandeman and Major Shearer, and Mrs. Dick who took in gentlemen paying guests, all clamoring for their rolls early—except, of course, Mrs. Greensleeves, who breakfasted in bed about ten o'clock, if what Milly Spikes said could be believed.

Mrs. Goldsmith shoved her trays of neatly made rolls into the oven and turned down her sleeves thoughtfully. Now if only the Vicar lived on the hill, and Mrs. Greensleeves in the Vicarage, how much easier it would be! The whole of the hill would be early, and Church End would be all late. No need then to buy a bicycle for Tommy. As it was, something must be done, either a bicycle or an extra boy—and boys were such a nuisance.

Miss King and Miss Pretty dwelt in the High Street next door to Dr. Walker in an old house behind high stone walls. They had nine o'clock breakfast, of course, being ladies of leisure, but the rest of the High Street was early. Pursuing her previous thoughts, and slackening her activities a little, now that the rolls were safely in the oven, Mrs. Goldsmith moved the ladies into the Colonel's house by the bridge, and the gallant Colonel, with all his goods and chattels, was dumped into Durward Lodge next door to Dr. Walker.

These pleasant dreams were interrupted by the noisy entrance of Tommy and his baskets. No time for dreams now.

“Is this early enough for you?” he inquired. “Not ready yet? Dear me! I've been up for hours, I 'ave.”

“Less of your cheek, Tommy Hobday,” replied Mrs. Goldsmith firmly.

***

At this very moment an alarm clock started to vibrate furiously in Tanglewood Cottage. The clock was in the maid's bedroom, of course. Dorcas turned over sleepily and stretched out one hand to still its clamor. Drat the thing, she felt as if she had only just got into bed. How short the nights were! She sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the bed and rubbed her eyes. Her feet found a pair of ancient bedroom slippers—which had once belonged to Miss Buncle—and she was soon shuffling about the room and splashing her face in the small basin which stood in the corner in a three-corner-shaped washstand with a hole in the middle. Dorcas was so used to all this that she did it without properly waking up. In fact it was not until she had shuffled down to the kitchen, boiled the kettle over the gas ring, and made herself a pot of tea that she could be said to be properly awake. This was the best cup of the day and she lingered over it, feeling somewhat guilty at wasting the precious moments, but enjoying it all the more for that.

Dorcas had been at Tanglewood Cottage for more years than she cared to count; ever since Miss Buncle had been a small fat child in a basket-work pram. First of all she had been the small, fat child's nurse, and then her maid. Then Mrs. Buncle's parlor maid left and Dorcas had taken on the job; sometimes, in domestic upheavals, she had found herself in the role of cook. Time passed, and Mr. and Mrs. Buncle departed full of years to a better land and Dorcas—who was now practically one of the family—stayed on with Miss Buncle—no longer a fat child—as cook, maid, and parlor maid combined. She was now a small, wizened old woman with bright beady eyes, but in spite of her advancing years she was strong and able for more work than many a young girl in her teens.

“Lawks!” she exclaimed suddenly, looking up at the clock. “Look at the time, and the drawing-room to be done yet—I'm all behind, like a cow's tail.”

She whisked the tea things into the sink and bustled round the kitchen putting things to rights, then, seizing the broom and the dusters out of the housemaid's cupboards, she rushed into Miss Buncle's drawing-room like a small but extremely violent tornado.

Breakfast was all ready on the dining-room table when Miss Buncle came down at nine o'clock precisely. The rolls had come, and the postman was handing in the letters at the front door. Miss Buncle pounced upon the letters eagerly; most of them were circulars but there was one long thin envelope with a London postmark addressed to “John Smith, Esq.” Miss Buncle had been expecting a communication for John Smith for several weeks, but now that it had come she was almost afraid to open it. She turned it over in her hands waiting until Dorcas had finished fussing round the breakfast table.

Dorcas was interested in the letter, but she realized that Miss Buncle was waiting for her to depart, so at last she departed reluctantly. Miss Buncle tore it open and spread it out. Her hands were shaking so that she could scarcely read it.

ABBOTT & SPICER

Publishers

Brummel Street,

London EC4

—th July.

Dear Mr. Smith,

I have read
Chronicles of an English Village
and am interested in it. Could you call at my office on Wednesday morning at twelve o'clock? If this is not convenient to you I should be glad if you will suggest a suitable day.

Yours faithfully,

A. Abbott

“Goodness!” exclaimed Miss Buncle aloud. “They are going to take it.”

She rushed into the kitchen to tell Dorcas the amazing news.