Miss Buncle Married (22 page)

“But then they wouldn't be them,” was all she could manage to say, and even that was a struggle.

Arthur began to get a little muddled too, for Barbara's incoherency was frightfully infectious. “You don't want them to be them,” he told her earnestly.

“But, if they're not them, they're nobody—they're nothing,” said Barbara in despair.

“I only meant—” began Arthur.

“And if I make Colin Rhodes small and—and weedy,” continued Barbara desperately, “if I make him small and weedy-looking—like you said—then he isn't him, at all, and there's no point in him, at all, and how is he going to say, ‘How white a woman is, under the moon'?! No small, mean-looking man could say
that
,” added Barbara with conviction.

***

It happened to be a Saturday, and Arthur took the day off. He had not arranged to play golf so they had the whole day at their disposal, and ample opportunity to discuss
There's Many a Slip—.
They discussed it off and on all day long. Arthur continued to toy with the idea of changing the appearance of the characters and publishing the book. He even went to the length of producing a pencil and paper and showing Barbara how easily it could be done. Barbara listened to all he said quite patiently, but she remained unconvinced.

“I should
die
if we had to leave The Archway House,” she reiterated.

“But if we changed the appearance of the characters—”

“We can't,” she said. “I
know
we can't. It's difficult to explain, Arthur, but I just know it in my bones.”

Arthur was aware that when Barbara knew a thing in her bones it was conclusive. There was absolutely nothing more to be said or done. He pocketed his pencil with a sigh.

“I'm sorry,” Barbara continued. “I really am most awfully sorry, but it's no good—no good at all. And anyhow I couldn't do anything
now.
I'm absolutely dry. I haven't got anything more left in me, Arthur.”

“We'll put it aside, then,” Arthur suggested. “We'll leave it in the meantime. Perhaps later on—”

They compromised on that. Arthur locked up the manuscript in the bottom drawer of his bureau and hung the key on his chain; but he couldn't lock up his thoughts so easily. He and Barbara went out for a walk together, and still they discussed the book.

“It seems a pity that I'm the only person who can really appreciate how clever it is,” Arthur said, “other people would enjoy it, of course, but they couldn't appreciate it without knowing the Wandlebury people.”

“I don't mind,” said Barbara, “as long as you like it that's all that matters. I wrote it for myself and you.”

“Sam knows the people here,” said Arthur thoughtfully.

“Sam mustn't read it!”

“No, of course not. As a matter of fact I doubt whether anybody
could
read it until it has been rewritten,” Arthur said, thinking of his struggle to decipher Barbara's peculiar scrawl. “No, of course not, but what about having Sam down next weekend? He hinted to me that he would like to come, but, of course, it was no good while you were working.”

“No,” said Barbara.

“Eh?” inquired Arthur in surprise. “Don't you want Sam?”

“Not just now.”

“Why? He'll be disappointed. As a matter of fact, I said I would ask you if he could come. I thought you liked Sam.”

“Yes, I do like him.”

“Well, why not have him?”

“Don't let's have him,” said Barbara. “Don't let's have anybody,” she added with feminine guile, and she pressed Arthur's arm.

Arthur fell for this at once—what loving husband wouldn't have fallen?—and laughed a trifle self-consciously.

“Just our two selves, eh?” he said.

“Yes.”

“Well, that's OK by me—as Sam would say,” replied Arthur, and he returned the pressure affectionately.

“You can tell him we're going to do the spring cleaning,” Barbara said. “I mean if you want an excuse. It's quite true, of course; we shall have to start quite soon now.”

“Right—but that's not the
real
reason, is it?” inquired Arthur pressing her arm again.

“No, that's not the real reason,” replied Barbara truthfully.

Sam was extremely disappointed when his hints about a visit to The Archway House fell on deaf ears. He couldn't understand it at all. I'm sure they liked having me, he thought, I'm certain of it. Why on earth won't they have me anymore? He wrote to Jerry, and received long letters in reply, and that was very nice, of course, but it was not enough. Jerry came up to town once or twice, and Sam gave her tea at the club, but that was not enough, either. They couldn't talk properly, and Sam felt that Jerry was not really Jerry at all in her town clothes. She was quite different, and so was he; it was frightfully unsatisfactory. Sam wanted to go to Wandlebury; he wanted to see Jerry properly; he wanted to hold her in his arms and kiss her darling mouth.

“If they don't ask me soon I shall
ask
them to have me,” Sam said. “I simply can't bear not seeing you—”

“But you're seeing me now,” Jerry pointed out, smiling at his impatience.

“Not properly,” growled Sam.

“Well, I don't see why you shouldn't ask them to have you,” said Jerry thoughtfully. “Ask them, Sam.”

“I will,” said Sam boldly. “I've hinted till I'm blue in the face, and Uncle Arthur takes no notice, but I shall ask him straight out on Monday—we'll know where we are, then.”

So on Monday Sam walked into his uncle's sanctum and inquired, with a charming smile, whether he could come to The Archway House for the weekend. “I haven't been down since Christmas,” he reminded Uncle Arthur, “and it seems ages. I should love to come down for a few days—hope you don't think it awful cheek of me to suggest it,” he added, with a slightly forced laugh.

“No, not at all,” said Mr. Abbott. “Why shouldn't you ask? As a matter of fact we can't have you at the moment. Barbara's going to start spring cleaning or something.”

“Oh!” said Sam in dismay.

“Later on,” added Mr. Abbott kindly, “you must come later on.”

“Uncle Arthur,” said Sam desperately, “do you think I've offended Barbara or anything? I mean I know I say silly things sometimes. D'you think she's fed up with me about anything?”

“No, no, my boy,” replied his uncle heartily, “Barbara's not like that a bit.”

“I wouldn't do anything to hurt Barbara for
Worlds
,” continued Sam wretchedly, “not for
Worlds.
She's been so frightfully decent. Perhaps you'd tell her,” he continued, humbling himself to the ground, “perhaps you'd tell her that if I've done anything, or said anything—”

“No, no!” interrupted Arthur Abbott, quite aghast at the spectacle of his young and personable relative in such distress. “No,
no
! It isn't that at all. Barbara likes you very much; she said so.”

“Well, what is it, then?” inquired Sam, desperately.

This placed Arthur Abbott in rather a hole. He was not going to disclose the true reason for Sam's exclusion—it was a little secret between himself and Barbara. (“Just our two selves?” he had said, and Barbara had replied, “Yes.”) It was a little secret, the sort of little secret that husbands and wives share with each other, but nobody else. Other people might think it rather silly—it wasn't silly, of course, but other people might think it was—so other people must not know about it. The other reason that Barbara had told him to offer, about the spring cleaning, had fallen rather flat. Arthur had thought it was thin, himself, and Sam had, quite obviously, seen through it. Arthur had no third reason to offer the pertinacious Sam. As a matter of fact he was sorry for Sam. He was very fond of the boy—the more so because Sam really appeared to have settled down and got over “all that nonsense.” He was finding Sam very useful now, and it was nice to see his fresh young face in the dusty office and to think,
he's mine, my blood.
(Blood is thicker than water, as Barbara would have said.)

“By the way, Sam,” said Arthur Abbott, trying to turn the subject into pleasanter channels, “by the way, I was speaking to Spicer, and we have decided to—er—raise your salary. You're doing well now, and you're most useful and—er—reliable.”

“Oh, thank you, sir!”

“Yes, I'm extremely pleased with the—er—way you're sticking to it—extremely pleased, Sam.”

“Thank you, sir. It's most awfully good of you.”

“Not at all. That's all right. You're worth it, old fellow,” and Arthur Abbott patted his young nephew on the shoulder in an affectionate manner.

“I'm frightfully pleased,” Sam assured him.

“That's all right. Run along, now. I've got to get some work done, you know.”

“And Uncle Arthur, you'll tell Barbara,” said Sam eagerly. “You'll speak to her and tell her all I've said, and if I've done anything—or had I better write?” suggested Sam. “Perhaps I should
write—

“Look here, Sam, this is
nonsense
,” said Mr. Abbott, kindly and reassuringly, “this is absolute rubbish, Sam. I've told you that there's no reason at all—”

“There must be,” said Sam wildly.

“You're getting all worked up about nothing,” said Mr. Abbott. He was at his wits' end (ground between the millstones of Barbara and Sam). He felt that he could do no more. He had said what he had been told to say and it was no use—none at all. Sam was determined to come for the weekend, or know the reason why, and, if Barbara didn't want him for the weekend, she would have to tell him herself. “Look here,” he said, shifting the responsibility to his weaker half, “look here, Sam. I'll tell you what we'll do. You get your things together, and come down with me for the night. Then you can see Barbara for yourself, and you'll see that it's all right. If you won't take my word for it,” said Mr. Abbott, smiling to show Sam that this was a joke, “if you won't take my word for it the only thing is to see her for yourself.”

Needless to say Sam was enchanted with the plan. He had intended to go to a fancy dress ball with the Frenshams, and to spend the night—or what remained of it—at their flat; but what was a fancy dress ball in comparison with the chance of seeing Jerry? It was less than nothing. Sam threw the Frenshams overboard without a qualm. If he could not see Jerry in the evening, he could be certain of seeing her in the morning.

I can sprint over to Ganthorne before breakfast, he thought, darling,
darling
Jerry!

“I've got my suitcase here, sir,” he said eagerly. “No evening things, of course—”

“Good Lord, that doesn't matter!” Arthur said, laughing, “as long as you've got a toothbrush—I can lend you anything else you need. Now, off you go—here, Sam,” he added, handing over a bulky-looking manuscript, “have a look through this, will you? Tell me what you think of it. I shall be ready to go about five.”

Sam gathered up the manuscript and fled to telephone Toby Frensham. His heart was singing like a bird.

Barbara was unfeignedly pleased to see Sam. She liked him immensely and it had been a great deprivation to her to exclude him from The Archway House. She laughed at his idea that he might have offended her in some way, and assured him that he was mistaken. But, to Sam's consternation, she also made it abundantly clear that the invitation to spend a long weekend at Wandlebury was not to be forthcoming.

“How could you be so silly!” she exclaimed. “Of course I'm not offended with you, Sam, and we love having you—you
know
that. I've been busy, that's all—and, of course, we're going to start spring cleaning. I told Arthur to explain—”

“I did explain, but he wouldn't believe me,” Arthur told her laughing.

“Couldn't I help in the spring cleaning?” Sam inquired anxiously. “I'm awfully good at hanging pictures and all that, you know.”

Barbara was rather touched at this evidence of affection on the part of her nephew-by-marriage, but she steeled her heart. It would be impossible to keep an eye on Sam and prevent him from meeting Jerry—more especially if she, herself, were busy with domestic tasks. Mrs. Nun had been able to manage it all beautifully, of course, but, although Barbara Abbott was much more adequate and adroit than Barbara Buncle had ever been, she had not yet reached the pitch of adequacy and adroitness enjoyed by Elizabeth Nun. I can't risk it, Barbara thought, and she regretfully—and very kindly—refused the noble offer.

“Later on,” she said, just as Arthur had said, “you must come for a long visit later on, when the spring cleaning is over,” and she thought to herself (somewhat callously, it must be owned),
that
woman
can't possibly last much longer. What a nuisance she is!

“That's right,” agreed Arthur. “That's right—a long visit later on. Meanwhile we must make the most of tonight.”

“Oh, tonight!” exclaimed Barbara frowning, “I'd quite forgotten. We're going out to dinner with the Thanes. Oh dear, what a pity, isn't it? Had you forgotten, too, Arthur?”

Arthur had forgotten, too. He looked anything but pleased at being reminded of it.

“Couldn't we put it off?” he inquired, not very hopefully.

“Oh, don't bother about
me
!” cried Sam—too eagerly.

“I don't see how we
could
,” said Barbara slowly. “If it was anybody else it wouldn't matter so much. But it's such a small house—Mrs. Thane's, I mean—and they will have taken such a lot of trouble to have everything nice. I really don't see how we could put it off
now
.”

“Of course you must go,” cried Sam. “Of
course
you must. I only came down to see
you,
Barbara. I shall be quite happy here till you come back. It would be dreadful to disappoint Mrs. Thane at the last minute, like this. She will have got everything ready. I shouldn't wonder if it would make her quite
ill—
she's not strong, is she? Of course you must go. I shall be all right—
really
.”

Yes, thought Barbara, as she went upstairs and began to dress for the dinner party (with the aid of the faithful Dorcas). Yes, he'll be quite happy. He'll go over and see Jerry, that's what he'll do. I can see it in his face. The moment our backs are turned he'll be off to Ganthorne like a flash of lightning. Now, how on earth am I going to prevent him—because, of course, I must prevent him. I
must
keep them apart until Lady Chevis Cobbe dies. Dear me, she thought, how unfortunate it is that we've got to go out tonight! It
would
happen like that. How I wish I was clever like Elizabeth Nun! thought Barbara,
she
would have known exactly what to do. What a nuisance it is! What a frightful nuisance! But she can't go on living forever, and once she's dead (thought Barbara), once she's safely dead, I can have Sam here as much as I like and
throw
them together, because really and truly they're just
made
for each other. What a pity it is, thought Barbara, as she rummaged in her jewel case for her diamond star—what a frightful pity it is that Lady Chevis Cobbe is so
queer!
It must be so unhappy to be queer like that and not like to see people happily married. I suppose it's rather wicked of me to wish she was dead, but what good is she—poor creature—to herself or anybody else? I'm sure I would rather be killed quite suddenly in a motor accident or something than linger on like that.

“Dorcas!” she said, as she sat down, and allowed her faithful slave to button her shoes. “Dorcas, don't you think it's a queer thing to pray to be delivered from sudden death?”

“How you do startle me, Miss Barbara—Mrs. Abbott, I mean!” Dorcas exclaimed. “Sudden death, indeed! What's set you thinking about sudden death—and you all dressed ready to go out to a party.”

“I'd rather die suddenly than lingeringly,” Barbara told her, “wouldn't you, Dorcas?”

“I'm sure I never thought of it,” replied Dorcas. “There's no sense in thinking such morbid things that I can see. I'll die when my time comes, I suppose. There,” she added practically, “there's your shoes buttoned. I'll just run down and give your evening boots a wipe over. Don't you be long now, for I heard Mr. Abbott go down a minute or two ago, and he hates being kept waiting.”

Dorcas bustled off, full of importance, and Barbara caught up her evening cloak and prepared to follow. She peeped into Sam's room on the way down—to say good-bye and to tell him not to wait up for them if they were late—but Sam was not there. She listened, and heard him splashing in the bathroom. Sam's clothes were hung over a chair in his room: his gray trousers, with the dangling braces attached to them, his jacket and waistcoat, his neat blue shirt, and other more intimate garments. For a moment or two Barbara stood there and looked at them—an idea was coming to her, a tremendous inspiration; she waited for it breathlessly. It came.

Barbara seized the trousers and ran back to her room; she turned back the mattress of her bed; she spread the trousers tenderly upon the frame—taking care that the creases were exactly right, for Sam's trousers were sacred garments and worthy of the greatest consideration—she turned down the mattress again and smoothed the counterpane. Did it look exactly as it had looked before? It did. Nobody would know that Sam's trousers were now reposing peacefully beneath her mattress, nobody could possibly guess. Barbara caught up her bag and tripped gaily down the stairs; she donned her evening boots and preceded her somewhat impatient husband into the waiting car.

Sam, still luxuriating in his bath, heard them drive off. He lifted his voice in song. It was all
too
right, too utterly marvelous. He would bolt the “little dinner,” arranged for him by his kind hostess, and sprint over to Ganthorne Lodge. How pleased, how surprised darling Jerry would be! He dried himself with energy and returned to his bedroom. How lucky that he had crammed a clean white collar into his bag at the last moment! Here it was! Arrayed in undershirt and underwear, Sam did one or two simple exercises—stretching and bending—just for the sheer joy of it, to feel his fit young body moving in harmony with his will.