It was a very curious dream, muddled and inconsecutive as dreams are apt to be. She was sitting on the hill, the sun was warm, the sky was blue, one little white cloud floated in it serenely; below her lay the Roman fort, a curious squat building, surrounded by earthworks, but Liz was not interested in the fort, it seemed to her (in her dream) too familiar to be interesting, she was more interested in the Roman soldier who was standing on the hill with his back to her, gazing out over the sunlit landscape. He was a centurion in full armor that glittered in the sun; he was tall and broad shouldered, his limbs were strong and shapely.
Somehow or other—this was the curious part—Liz knew he was standing here for the last time. She knew that he had done his tour of duty and was going back to Rome. He was thinking of Rome, of his life there, of his friends and his family…but he was not as glad as he should have been at the prospect of seeing them again. The centurion was going home, but he was leaving his heart behind him. All this was vague to Liz in her dream; the centurion’s thoughts passed through her mind like a cloud, like a whiff of perfume caught on a summer breeze. She watched him closely and saw him stretch his arms. She heard him sigh. Then he sat down on the green turf, leaning forward over his bent knees in an attitude of dejection.
Liz awoke slowly, so slowly that she scarcely was aware of the moment of her awakening, so gradually that she scarcely knew she had been asleep. Everything looked exactly the same as it had looked in her dream: the bright sun, the green grass, the slowly moving cloud in the clear, blue sky. The centurion had vanished, of course, but in his stead was William Single…and he sat in exactly the same place, in exactly the same position (shoulders hunched, hands dangling between raised knees), and his expression was exactly the same, dejected, forlorn.
“William Single,” said Liz softly. “Why don’t you ask me to marry you?”
He turned. “Oh, Liz, because I’m too old, too clumsy and stupid and slow.”
“You certainly are very slow,” said Liz, with her little snort of laughter.
He came toward her and took her outstretched hand, and she drew him down until he was sitting beside her on the bank.
“Oh, Liz,” he said. “But you couldn’t…I mean why…why me?”
“Because you’re you,” said Liz. “You’re you and I’m me. That’s all that matters. If you think I’m going to let you go back to Oxford and live there without me—like the Roman soldier—”
“Like the Roman soldier!”
“The centurion,” explained Liz. “It wasn’t fair of him. He should have told her, you know. He should have taken her with him to Rome—”
“Is it a story?” asked William, taking her hand and kissing the fingers very gently.
“Not my hand, silly,” said Liz, putting up her face.
She was somewhat surprised at the effect of her words, but pleased too. After a few breathless moments she slipped from his grasp and her hands went to her hair, pushing it behind her ears. “Goodness!” she said.
He was chuckling now; he was sitting back with his hands around his knees, laughing at her.
“Well, I asked for it,” admitted Liz, smiling.
“That’s nothing,” declared William. “Ask for something else. Ask for the moon. Ask for the stars.” His eyes were shining like stars as he spoke.
“Oh, William!” she cried. “Do you really feel like that?”
“I feel like a god,” said William Single.
Continue reading for an excerpt from Miss Buncle’s Book
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 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 tur
ned 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.
About the Author
D. E. Stevenson (1892–1973) had an enormously successful writing career: between 1923 and 1970, four million copies of her books were sold in Britain and three million in the States. Her books include Miss Buncle’s Book, Miss Buncle Married, The Young Clementina, The Listening Valley, The Two Mrs. Abbotts, and The Four Graces. D. E. Stevenson was born in Edinburgh in 1892; she lived in Scotland all her life. She wrote her first book in 1923, but her second did not appear for nine years. She published The Four Graces in 1946.
The Four Graces Page 22