Miss Buncle Married

by D. E. Stevenson

  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

  Chapter One

  Breakfast Rolls

  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 ea
rly 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.

  Chapter Two

  Disturber of the Peace

  Mr. Abbott looked at the clock several times as he went through his business on Wednesday morning. He was excited at the prospect of the interview with John Smith. Years of publishing had failed to dim his enthusiasms or to turn him into a soured and bitter pessimist. Every new and promising author found favor in his eyes. He had given up trying to predict the success or unsuccess of the novels he published, but he went on publishing them and hoping that each one published would prove itself a bestseller.

  Last Friday morning his nephew, Sam Abbott, who had just been taken into the firm of Abbott & Spicer, suddenly appeared in Mr. Abbott’s sanctum with a deplorable lack of ceremony and announced, “Uncle Arthur, the feller who wrote this book is either a genius or an imbecile.”

  Something stirred in Mr. Abbott’s heart at these words (a sort of sixth sense perhaps), and he had held out his hand for the untidy-looking manuscript with a feeling of excitement—was this the bestseller at last?

  His sensible, publishing, businessman-self had warned him that Sam was new to the job, and had reminded him of other lamentable occasions when authors who had promised to be swans had turned out disappointing geese, but the flame which burned within him leaped to the challenge.

  The manuscript had gone home with him that night, and he was still reading it at 2 a.m. Still reading it, and still in doubt. Making allowances for the exaggeration due to his youth and inexperience Sam had been right about Chronicles of an English Village, and Mr. Abbott could not but endorse his opinion. It was not written by a genius, of course, neither was it the babblings of an imbecile; but the author of it was either a very clever man writing with his tongue in his cheek, or else a very simple person writing in all good faith.

  Whichever he was, Mr. Abbott was in no two opinions about publishing him. The Autumn List was almost complete, but room should be made for Chronicles of an English Village.


  As Mr. Abbott turned out his light—about 3 a.m.—and snuggled down comfortably in bed, his mind was already busy on the blurb that should introduce this unusual book to the notice of the world. The author might have his own ideas about the blurb, of course, but Mr. Abbott decided that it must be very carefully worded so as to give no clue—no clue whatever—as to whether the book was a delicate satire (comparable only with the first chapter of Northanger Abbey) or merely a chronicle of events seen through the innocent eyes of a simpleton.

  It was really a satire, of course, thought Mr. Abbott, closing his eyes—that love scene in the moonlit garden for instance, and the other one where the young bank clerk serenaded his cruel love with a mandolin, and the two sedate ladies buying riding breeches and setting off for the Far East—and yet there was simplicity about the whole thing, a freshness like the fragrance of new mown hay.

  New mown hay, that was good, thought Mr. Abbott. Should “new mown hay” go into the blurb or should it be left to the reader to discover? What fools the public were! They were exactly like sheep…thought Mr. Abbott sleepily…following each other’s lead, neglecting one book and buying another just because other people were buying it, although, for the life of you, you couldn’t see what the one lacked and the other possessed. But this book, said Mr. Abbott to himself, this book must go—it should be made to go. Pleasant visions of bookstalls piled with neat copies of Chronicles of an English Village and the public clamoring for more editions passed dreamily through his mind.

  The author must come and see him, thought Mr. Abbott, coming back from the verge of sleep. He would know then, once he had seen the man, whether the book was a satire or a straight story, and he must know that (the mystery intrigued him) but nobody else should know. John Smith must be bidden to the office at the earliest possible moment for there was no time to waste if the book was to go into the Autumn List—John Smith, what a name! An assumed name, of course, and rather a good one considering the nature of the book.