Miss Buncle's Book

by D. E. Stevenson

  Vivian sighed and the letter fluttered onto the silk quilt—she had let her tea get cold while she read it. If only I could sell up the house and take a flat in town, she thought, but town’s no fun without money. Nothing is any fun without money, I must have money somehow.

  She lay back and considered ways and means. Iris was right, she was growing moldy in Silverstream; it was dull as ditchwater, nothing ever happened. There was such a dearth of men in the place that she had actually made friends with one of Mrs. Dick’s paying guests. He was amusing and admiring—though common—and he had a car. He was better than nothing, that was all that could be said. Unfortunately he had begun to get a little troublesome just lately. Vivian would have to put him in his place and there would be no more joy-rides in Mr. Fortnum’s car. What a nuisance it all was! She sighed again and her eyes fell on the bills—something would have to be done about it. She took up the letter again and read the parts concerning Ernest Hathaway very carefully.

  The next day was Sunday. Vivian Greensleeves rose from her pink bed much earlier than usual; she had mapped out her campaign and decided that there was no time to be lost. When she was dressed she surveyed herself in the glass. The effect was charming but rather too—well too smart. Perhaps the black hat would be better for the occasion. She changed her hat and rubbed some of the red off her lips.

  On her way down she looked in at the kitchen door and said, “I’m going to church, Milly. There may be a gentleman to lunch. Make a cheese soufflé in case.”

  She was inconsiderate and overbearing, but Milly stayed with her because she was generous in a careless way. She let Milly out a great deal, when it suited her, and gave Milly her frocks and hats when she was tired of them (which was long before they showed any signs of wear).

  Milly was annoyed about the gentleman coming to lunch for it was her afternoon out, and it was doubtful, now, whether she would get out at all. At the best it would be late before she had cleared the lunch and washed up.

  “I suppose you’ll want coffee,” she said sullenly.

  “Of course I shall want coffee,” replied Mrs. Greensleeves.

  She was perfectly aware that Milly was in a bad temper, but not in the least worried about it. She hummed a little song as she tripped off to church in her high-heeled shoes.

  The Snowdons were coming out of their gate as she passed; they were all dressed up in their Sunday clothes. Mr. Snowdon lifted his hat to Mrs. Greensleeves and remarked in a cheerful voice that it was a fine day. The Misses Snowdon greeted Mrs. Greensleeves with cries of delight. They were no longer young but they were full of skittishness. Miss Olivia was fat and red, she was the musical one. Miss Isabella was thin and pale, she was the poetical one. They admired each other with a great admiration, and Mr. Snowdon admired them both, and they both admired him. They were an extremely happy family, but perhaps somewhat annoying to their friends; for they were all so full of each other’s excellences that they had no admiration or interest for the excellences of outsiders.

  On this particular Sunday morning Olivia was full of Isabella’s latest poem; it was about a violet, and she had sent it to Country Lore and it had been accepted. Vivian Greensleeves was obliged to walk along with the Snowdons and listen to all this. Few of us have the necessary unselfishness to hear with gladness the talents of others extolled or to listen with patience to the successes of those whom we despise—Vivian hated it more than most people.

  “I must speak to Barbara Buncle,” she said, and hurried on in the middle of the story. It was rude, of course, and the Snowdons were annoyed; they discussed the bad manners of Vivian Greensleeves all the way to church.

  Meanwhile Vivian had hurried on and nearly overtaken Miss Buncle, but not quite. She did not really want to speak to Miss Buncle, nor to be seen walking with her—dull, frumpy creature! She was wearing a brown silk dress that had seen its best days long ago, and a light blue hat. It almost made your eyes water, Vivian decided. She slackened her pace a little, but not too much, for the Snowdons were behind.

  The little Church of St. Monica was cool and dim—very pleasant after the bright glare outside. Vivian took up a strategic position beneath the pulpit. He was nice-looking, she decided. She liked his thin, ascetic face, his sleek black hair, and his dreamy gray eyes set wide apart. His forehead was high and his head beautifully shaped. The choir sang better than usual, and not so slowly; he seemed to have made a difference already in the church.

  There was the usual gathering in the churchyard after the service. Vivian saw the Bulmers, with their two small children, talking to Mrs. Bold. Miss Buncle was walking across the fields with old Mrs. Carter—they lived next door to each other. The Snowdons were in animated conversation with Mrs. Walker, the doctor’s wife.

  Vivian avoided them all and strolled about by herself looking at the gray tombstones with their worn inscriptions—some of them were so worn as to be illegible—and was glad that she was alive.

  Colonel Weatherhead passed her, looking very smart in a new gray flannel suit. He waited for Mrs. Bold at the lych gate and they walked away together—they lived opposite each other at the far end of the village near the bridge.

  She’ll never get him, thought Vivian, looking after the two figures with a malicious smile. He’s far too much of a bachelor and too set in his ways—what a pair of fools!

  The choir boys came tumbling out of the vestry, with their hob-nailed boots clattering on the steps. They threw on their caps and went tearing home over the fields. Would the man never come? Vivian wondered. What on earth could he be doing? Ah, there he was!

  He walked quickly with his eyes on the ground, immersed in his own thoughts. Vivian had to touch him on the arm as he passed her.

  “I’m Mrs. Greensleeves,” she said, smiling sweetly.

  Mr. Hathaway took off his hat and shook hands with her. “What a lovely day!” he said. She was sure he said that to everybody.

  “I wondered if you would come and have lunch with me, Mr. Hathaway,” she said in a friendly manner. “It would give me so much pleasure.” She saw refusal in his face, and added quickly, “I knew Mr. Dunn so well. I should like to get to know you. It is such a help—

  She saw that she had said the right thing and left it at that—she was very cunning.

  “I have got the Children’s Service,” he told her doubtfully.

  “Not till three,” she pleaded. “And my house is not far.”

  Mr. Hathaway would rather have gone home; he was still new to his work and he found it took a lot out of him, but perhaps it was his duty—it was his duty to make friends with his parishioners, of course.

  Vivian was thinking what a pity he’s not tall! He looked taller in the pulpit, but he can’t be more than five feet six. He looks strong and athletic though. Vivian sighed, she liked tall men.

  “Well, it’s very kind of you—” said Ernest Hathaway, with a smile.

  They left a message at the Vicarage and walked up the hill together. Vivian began to talk about the sermon, and asked one or two fairly intelligent questions about it. Mr. Hathaway answered them conscientiously. He was rather dull, she decided. For one thing he seemed quite unconscious that he was walking with a pretty woman. He’s never once looked at me, she thought. I might have been Barbara Buncle for all the impression I have made on him.

  Vivian’s eyes were not so useless, she had noted the cloth of his black suit, it was fine and smooth; his shoes were handmade and beautifully shiny. Fancy him having all that money, she thought—what a waste!

  In spite of her bad temper Milly produced a good lunch. The cheese soufflé was a trifle curdled and lumpy, but it was quite eatable. Mr. Hathaway did not notice its deficiencies for he was talking about himself, and his ambitions. Like most people he enjoyed talking about himself to a sympathetic listener. It crossed his mind that Mrs. Greensleeves was a nice woman.

&nbs
p; “I’m afraid I’ve talked all the time,” he said as he went away to take the Children’s Service.

  “It has been so interesting,” said Mrs. Greensleeves, hiding a yawn. “Come and have supper with me on Wednesday night—just a little plain supper—then you can give me a turn,” she smiled at him.

  Mr. Hathaway reminded her, a little sternly, that Wednesday night was a Saints’ Vigil and that there was a service at St. Monica’s at eight o’clock. She looked suitably chidden, and asked him to come on Thursday instead.

  “I’m afraid I have been rather naughty about Saints’ Days lately,” she told him, veiling her brown eyes with long black lashes.

  There was no time now to point out the enormity of being lax, for the children would be waiting. Mr. Hathaway decided as he strode off down the hill that here was a soul to be saved. He had already suspected that his predecessor had been a somewhat careless shepherd. Mrs. Greensleeves was obviously a sweet, good little woman by nature—a trifle worldly perhaps, but fundamentally sound. She must be gathered into the fold. It was exactly what Mrs. Greensleeves intended him to think.

  On Thursday night Mr. Hathaway appeared looking very smart in a well-cut dinner jacket. Vivian Greensleeves had taken a lot of trouble over the “little supper”—it was just right. There were shaded candles on the table which shed a very pretty soft light on Vivian’s beautiful arms. She leaned her elbows on the table and told her guest a great deal about herself. The greater part of the story came directly from a book which Vivian had just read; it was called A Brand from the Burning. Vivian softened it down a good deal; she did not want to appear too flaming a brand, or Mr. Hathaway might be afraid of having his fingers burned. Vivian was, of course, more sinned against than sinning, but she was definitely a strayed sheep. They sat on the sofa together afterward and Mr. Hathaway did his duty by her. He showed her the error of her ways and besought her to repent. Mrs. Greensleeves repented very prettily with tears. Mr. Hathaway was forced to comfort her. He rather enjoyed the experience. It was impossible to complete the saving of Vivian’s soul in one evening, and Ernest Hathaway was not one to grudge his time when the saving of a soul was in question. He promised to come again. He came again, quite often. It was soon rumored in Silverstream that Mrs. Greensleeves had become an enthusiastic churchgoer; Milly Spikes may have had something to do with the spreading of the news. Milly did the shopping in the village for Mon Repos.

  “It ’asn’t done ’er any good so far,” Milly said, in answer to a piously expressed hope of her aunt, Mrs. Goldsmith, at the bakery. “More cantankerous than ever, that’s wot she is. It’s the Vicar she’s after, if you ask me.”

  “Not really?” Here was a piece of news worth having, and straight from the horse’s mouth, so to speak. Somebody came in at that moment for a cutting loaf—they would have to wait, that was all. Aunt and niece had their heads together over the counter. “And she said…and he said…and in comes Mr. You Know Who…and she said…but don’t you say I told you, for mercy’s sake.” It was all very thrilling.

  Chapter Four

  Mr. Hathaway

  It was not only Vivian Greensleeves who found in the new Vicar an acquisition to Silverstream; the Tennis Club also benefited from his presence, and benefited very considerably. Mr. Hathaway played an excellent game of tennis, he was streets ahead of anybody else in the club; but a fairly even match could be made if the Vicar were given an absolute rabbit as a partner—and there were plenty of rabbits to choose from.

  Barbara Buncle was one of the most frequent of the Vicar’s partners; she was a keen player, but her game never seemed to improve. The more she tried the worse she seemed to get; it was really very discouraging.

  One fine afternoon in September, toward the end of the tennis season, Barbara Buncle walked down to the club. There was a match in progress, and those who were not taking part in the struggle were watching it from the verandah of the small pavilion. Barbara changed her shoes and joined the audience. It was an exciting game to watch, Mrs. Bulmer and the Vicar against Mr. Fortnum and Olivia Snowdon. They should have been evenly matched, for Miss Snowdon was one of the best players in the club, and Mrs. Bulmer one of the worst, and this should have counterbalanced the Vicar’s superiority over Mr. Fortnum; but this was mere theory, and did not allow for the psychology of the players at all. Barbara Buncle perceived that the Vicar and Mrs. Bulmer were going to win. The Vicar was in great form and he had managed to inspire his partner with unusual confidence. She was playing several degrees above her usual form, whereas their opponents were getting on each other’s nerves and in each other’s way and becoming more and more annoyed with each other. Miss Snowdon—in spite of her obesity—was a most energetic performer on the tennis court; she swooped here and swooped there, poaching in Mr. Fortnum’s court and getting extremely red and hot. Mr. Fortnum was annoyed at having his strokes interfered with; he withdrew to a corner and left Miss Snowdon to do as she liked—if she wanted to play a single, let her. He sulked and became careless. Miss Snowdon glared at him every time he missed the ball.

  Barbara watched it all with interest; it was such fun to watch people and see how they reacted to one another’s personality. Vivian Greensleeves was watching it too. She did not care for tennis, but she had begun to come down to the courts in the late afternoons—nobody quite knew why. She sat in a deck chair with a good deal of very neat leg clad in beige silk stocking exposed to view. She looked cool and graceful and very pretty. The women members did not take much notice of Vivian—if she liked to come down she could come, they didn’t mind much either way—but some of the men were quite pleased to sit and talk to her between the sets. The women members felt that she was not really a Silverstreamite, not really one of themselves. Miss Snowdon declared that she was “not good form,” and Miss Isabella Snowdon added that her clothes were “ootray.” Vivian was fully aware of their opinions; she, on her part, despised the whole lot of them. She thought them frumpy, and dull, and incredibly stupid. Her sole reason for appearing at the tennis club was to keep an eye on Ernest Hathaway. If he came, so must she; but she was bored stiff by the whole performance; she felt, and looked, as alien as a bird of paradise in a murmuration of starlings.

  The game was almost finished—it was finished to all intents and purposes, for Mr. Fortnum was beaten and not all the energy and vim of Miss Snowdon could pull him through.

  “Olivia has such beautiful style,” announced Miss Isabella Snowdon to all who cared to hear. She merely wished to point out, in a thoroughly ladylike manner, that it was not dear Olivia’s fault if her side was losing.

  “It would have made a better game if they had had Dorothea Bold instead of Olivia,” said Miss King firmly.

  “Oh, Miss King, how can you say such a thing?” cried Miss Isabella in horrified tones.

  “Merely because it happens to be true. Dorothea is a more reliable player than Olivia,” replied Miss King firmly, and moved away.

  “Horrid old thing!” said Miss Isabella to Barbara Buncle who happened to be sitting next to her. “It’s just jealousy, that’s what it is. She may dress herself up like a man, and talk and smoke like a man, but she’s nothing but a cat—that’s what she is.”

  “I rather like Miss King,” said Barbara placidly, and she looked at Miss King’s tall commanding figure as it strode off across the court with some affection. Of course she was rather funny with her deep voice, and her short hair, and her strange habit of wearing tailored coats and skirts with collars and ties like a man, and very often she was to be seen with a cigarette in the corner of her mouth, and her hands in her pockets; but, after all, these little peculiarities did nobody any harm, and there was something rather nice about the woman. At any rate she would never say behind your back what she would not say to your face (like some people one could name). You always knew exactly where you were with her; she said what she thought without fear or favor.

 
Miss Isabella looked at Barbara with contempt—fancy standing up for Miss King! But of course nobody in Silverstream cared what Barbara Buncle thought; the woman was nothing but an idiot. She wondered idly what Barbara Buncle was thinking about now, sitting there with that silly vacant smile upon her face. She would have been surprised if she could have read the thoughts that prompted the silly smile.

  The truth was that Barbara was feeling somewhat pleased with life today, and she had good reason to be pleased, for, only that morning, a parcel of books had arrived from Messrs Abbott & Spicer—six neat copies of Disturber of the Peace with the firm’s compliments. She had spent the whole morning reading her book, and marveling at the astounding fact that she had written every word of it, and here it was, actually in print, with a smart red cover, and a jacket with a beautiful picture of a Golden Boy playing on a reed pipe.