Miss Buncle's Book

by D. E. Stevenson

  “Who is your Bishop?” interrupted Dorothea somewhat irritably for such a good-natured woman. “Who on earth is your Bishop? You’ve been talking about him for ages, and I don’t see what he has got to do with our getting married—”

  Colonel Weatherhead roared with laughter.

  “Good heavens! I thought everyone in Silverstream had heard about my Bishop—I can’t be such a garrulous old bore after all—have I never told you about my struggles with the brute every autumn?”

  “Never,” said Dorothea primly, “and I really do not think you should speak of a Bishop in that way, Robert dear. He may be very trying at times—I am sure he is—but after all we must remember that he is consecrated—consecrated with oil,” said Dorothea vaguely, “and therefore—”

  “It’s a weed,” gasped the Colonel between his spasms of laughter. “Bishop’s weed—it grows in my hedge—it has roots like an octopus—”

  Dorothea did not join in his mirth. How was she to know that it was a weed he was talking about? She saw nothing very funny in the misunderstanding.

  Colonel Weatherhead took out a large white silk handkerchief and mopped his eyes. When the film of moisture was removed he was horrified to find that his ladylove was offended. She was sitting up very straight in her chair gazing before her at the picture of the Colonel’s grandfather, in oils, which hung upon the dining-room wall.

  “Never mind the stupid old weed,” he said hastily. “It’s just one of my silly jokes—damn silly joke, I know. Somehow I always enjoy my fight with the Bishop’s weed. It’s the only fight I’m fit for now, and the old soldier enjoys a fight. Let’s go into the drawing-room, shall we?”

  Dorothea was immediately appeased. They went into the drawing-room arm in arm. Simmons had built up the fire to an alarming height—he had been brought up in the Army, of course, where coal is free—Dorothea thought it was rather extravagant but it was certainly very cozy on a cold night. They toasted their toes and talked about themselves and were very happy.

  The Colonel walked home with his guest. It was still raining and everything was dripping wet—they nearly fell into the hole in Dorothea’s drive, which had escaped their memory for the time being.

  “What about Monday?” whispered the Colonel.

  “Not Monday,” she pleaded.

  “Why not Monday? What’s the matter with Monday?” he demanded boldly.

  “Too soon. How can I get my clothes ready?”

  “We’ll stop in Paris and get clothes,” he told her with diabolical cunning. “Listen, Dorothea. We don’t want a lot of fuss and bother in Silverstream. Let’s give them the slip. Just vanish quietly and tell them nothing about it until it’s all over. We’ll send them postcards from Paris or Monte, then they’ll have time to talk themselves out before we get home. What do you say?”

  Dorothea wanted fuss as little as he did. She could almost hear the gossips saying, “Well, it’s taken her four years. I wonder how she managed to hook him in the end. He must be in his dotage, I suppose.” That is what they would all say when they heard of her engagement, and she would know they were thinking it when they offered her their congratulations.

  “Well,” she said, wavering.

  “You will!” he jubilated. “Hurrah!”

  He really was quite like a boy, and it was much more exciting, being engaged to him, than she had expected. Fancy his planning all that about Monte Carlo for Christmas—you would never think him capable of such a dashing idea. It was rather a nice idea too. It would be lovely to get away from Silverstream for a bit and bask in the sun. Robert was really a dear; she loved him. She had wanted him for years and she had almost despaired. He had always been friendly and neighborly, ready to help and advise her in any emergency that required male help and advice—when her tree fell, for instance, it was Colonel Weatherhead who arranged with the man to come and cut it up for her—but he had never shown the slightest signs of wanting to marry her until last night. What had suddenly wakened him up? Dorothea wondered, as she shut and bolted the front door and went slowly and thoughtfully up the stairs to bed.

  She lighted the gas fire in her bedroom and thought about it all, sitting in a low chair and warming her knees the while. There was nobody to consult about her marriage. She was independent. Her money was her own. She had two sisters, both married. One lived in London and the other in a country parsonage. They would be surprised, of course perhaps even rather amused, for they were both younger than herself and both very much married matrons—but they would be quite nice about it, she knew. I can stay with Alice while Robert arranges about the wedding, she thought. Alice was always quite pleased to give her house-room for a few days when she wanted it.

  Dorothea had decided to humor Robert’s boyish whim; there was no reason against it. I wonder how old he is—she thought—perhaps nearly sixty, but he doesn’t look it, and anyhow it doesn’t matter. I’m not as young as I was, and Robert’s a dear. The drawing-room at The Bridge House is rather dull—she thought—but I could brighten it up with some of my own things. Perhaps Robert would throw out a bow-window in the drawing-room, that would make a lot of difference.

  After a little she got up and began to pull out drawers and burrow into tissue paper. I shan’t take much—she thought—it will be fun getting things in Paris—pretty things. Fancy him suggesting that!

  Dorothea paused for a moment with a silk scarf in her hands. It almost looked as if—as if he knew a good deal about women. He was so glib about it. Had he taken other women to Paris to choose clothes? Well, I can’t help that, she told herself sharply. What does it matter anyhow? Get on with the job, Dorothea.

  She got on with it.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Sunday and Monday

  The next day was Sunday. The newly engaged couple had decided to go to church separately, to sit in their separate pews, and to behave as if nothing had happened. It was rather fun to deceive Silverstream, and Silverstream would be all the more surprised when it received its postcards from Paris.

  Dorothea tripped along sedately. It was a lovely morning. The clouds had all vanished, and the sun was shining brightly through the bare trees. She did not know whether Robert was ahead of her or behind. (Her clocks were all different. Clocks are one of those mysterious things that never go so well in a woman’s house. Clocks need a man to keep them in proper subjection.) First she thought that Robert must be ahead of her and hurried on, and then she was sure he was behind her and dawdled.

  Barbara Buncle was just coming out of her gate when Dorothea passed; they walked along together talking about the sunshine and how nice and warm it was for December. Dorothea liked Barbara. She felt sorry that Barbara’s clothes were so appalling. Probably Barbara was very badly off, but even so she might have done better than that. The truth was she looked less peculiar in her everyday garments because they were tweeds and jerseys—you couldn’t go far wrong with tweeds and jerseys. On Sundays poor Barbara looked a perfect sight. Her hat was frightful.

  “Why don’t you get a new hat, Barbara?” she said suddenly.

  “Well, I did think of it, but this one is still quite good,” replied Barbara.

  “Give it to Dorcas and buy another,” suggested Dorothea, daringly.

  “Perhaps I will,” said Barbara, and why shouldn’t I? she thought—why shouldn’t I have some nice clothes now that I can afford it? The only bother is I never seem to be able to get nice ones. I always feel an absolute guy in new clothes. How nice Dorothea looks!

  “How nice you look, Dorothea!” she said.

  “Do I?”

  “Yes. You always look nice, of course, but today you look even nicer than usual.”

  “You lamb!” said Dorothea.

  Colonel Weatherhead passed them, and bowed gravely.

  “A pleasant morning after the rain, Mrs. Bold,” he remarked as he
went by.

  Dorothea laughed inwardly—he was a naughty boy! Barbara collected the phrase for her new novel. “A pleasant morning after the rain,” was exactly what Major Waterfoot would have said. Not to Mrs. Mildmay, of course, for they were married now and it was not a remark that a man was likely to make to his wife, but Major Waterfoot could say it to somebody else—it was too good to waste.

  The new novel had started, and it was proving uphill work. Inspiration had not visited Barbara. She was toiling at it nobly, if somewhat hopelessly. It will never be as good as Disturber of the Peace, she thought.

  The three people with their secret thoughts—so secret and so diverse—entered St. Monica’s together. Mrs. Carter and Sally were close behind. Mrs. Greensleeves was already in her pew. Miss King and Angela Pretty were hurrying across the field-path followed by Mrs. Goldsmith and her family. The Bulmers were there, and the Snowdons, and the Featherstone Hoggs, even the two young men from Mrs. Dick’s had come to church this morning. The sunshine after the rain had lured them all out. Of all our Silverstream friends only the Walkers were absent. The doctor scarcely ever went to church, and Sarah had stayed at home because the twins had a feverish cold.

  Mrs. Carter sat in the same pew as Barbara Buncle. Usually they sat one at either end of the pew with four vacant seats between them, but today Sally was there to fill the vacancy. Barbara could not help noticing that Sally was a little restless during the service; she seemed doubtful when to stand up and when to kneel down. She fluttered the leaves of her prayer-book in the vain endeavor to find her place. Sally doesn’t go to church often—Barbara decided.

  During the sermon a small piece of paper was pushed into Barbara’s hand. “I’m coming to tea with you today,” was written on it. Barbara looked at her, nodded, and smiled. She felt pleased and excited at the idea of Sally coming to tea—it was nice that Sally wanted to come. Perhaps Sally would talk about Disturber of the Peace. She liked hearing Sally talk about it. Mrs. Featherstone Hogg was having a meeting at her house on Thursday to talk about it, and she had asked Barbara to go. “There will be tea afterward,” Mrs. Featherstone Hogg had said. Barbara did not want to go to the meeting and hear them discussing Disturber of the Peace. She knew exactly what they would say about it. The tea was no inducement to those who knew Mrs. Featherstone Hogg’s teas. Barbara had endured many teas at The Riggs, so she knew exactly what to expect—shallow cups with gray-looking lukewarm liquid and a sandwich containing banana paste or gentleman’s relish, you didn’t know which it was going to be until you bit into it. Still, it would look funny if I didn’t go—Barbara thought.

  She tried to fix her mind on the sermon. It was all about loving your neighbor, and how you must seek out the good in people and only see the good. Mr. Hathaway said that was the way to make people good—by refusing to see the evil. Barbara wondered if this were true, and, if so, how deep it went. If you refused to see the evil in a murderer, did that cure him? Doubtful. Mr. Hathaway had passed on to the subject of money. Money was the root of all evil. St. Francis had no money. He had nothing, and he was superlatively good. People had too much money nowadays, Mr. Hathaway said. Our lives should be simplified. A man needed very little in this world; it was in the next world that a man should lay up treasure. “Sell that thou hast, and give to the poor,” said Mr. Hathaway. “And now—”

  Barbara stood up, wondering whether Mr. Hathaway had done that, it was said in the village that he had lots of money.

  Vivian Greensleeves did not listen much to the sermon; she had other things to think of. She had made considerable progress with the Vicar since that first luncheon party and the supper that followed. He bored her frightfully, but that could not be helped; the main thing was that he had money. Vivian needed money more and more. The shops in Silverstream were beginning to get impatient. Her dressmaker in London had sent her a lawyer’s letter demanding instant payment of her account. It was all so unjust, thought Vivian; if she had had money she would have paid her bills gladly, but she couldn’t give the wretches money when she had none to give them. Ernest Hathaway was her only hope. She must just make the best of him, and once they were married she need not listen to his dull and stupid dissertations anymore.

  After the service Vivian waited for the Vicar in the churchyard and they walked up the hill together. Ernest Hathaway had drifted into the habit of lunching with Vivian on Sundays. It was now an understood thing that she should wait for him after Matins and that they should walk up the hill to Mon Repos together.

  Today they talked about some books which Mr. Hathaway had lent Mrs. Greensleeves to read. They were incredibly dull books, but Vivian had actually read them—or partially read them—so as to have some intelligent questions all ready to ask him when they met. She had decided that her campaign must be speeded up—Mr. Hathaway admired her, and liked her, she knew. It was almost time he proposed. Today she would ask him to call her Vivian. He would be quite pleased to call her Vivian, she thought, and she was right. Ernest was quite ready to call her Vivian—he asked her to call him Ernest, and discoursed for some minutes about the religious significance of Christian names. Vivian didn’t care a jot for their religious significance, but she listened meekly. After all, whatever significance he attached to her Christian name, it was a step in the right direction to call her by it.

  Ernest called her by it several times with a great deal of pleasure. He was very proud of this sheep which he had shepherded so energetically into the fold. He thought she was beautiful, and, now that she had repented of her sins and remedied her omissions, she was also good. What more could any man want than a good and beautiful wife?

  ***

  Sally arrived at Tanglewood Cottage for tea as arranged. Barbara had nothing to give her for tea; she had not expected a guest, and, being Sunday, she could not rush out and buy buns from Mrs. Goldsmith as she would most certainly have done had the day been an ordinary day. But there was a nice fire and they made hot-buttered toast and scorched their faces and were thoroughly happy.

  “I’ve been thinking of getting a new hat,” said Barbara suddenly.

  Sally pricked up her ears. “How exciting!” she exclaimed, and, visualizing the hat which had sat next to her in church that morning, she added fervently, “Yes, you really should.”

  “I’m so bad at choosing hats,” sighed Barbara. “That’s the worst of it. I never seem to get one that really suits me, and Miss Bonnar has such a poor selection.”

  “My dear—you would never buy a hat at Miss Bonnar’s!” cried the horror-stricken Sally.

  “But I always go to Miss Bonnar—”

  “Nonsense, you must go to town of course. Go to Virginia’s.”

  “Where’s that?” inquired Barbara with interest.

  “She’s a friend of mine,” Sally confided. “She has a little shop for hats and frocks in Kensington High Street. I’ll write a note to her, if you like, and tell her not to rook you.”

  “Will you really?”

  “Rather. It will be doing her a good turn too. And really she’s a frightfully decent sort, and frightfully clever at knowing exactly what will suit you.”

  “I’ll go tomorrow,” Barbara said dashingly. “And I’ll get some really nice clothes as well as a hat.” Why shouldn’t she? The hundred pounds in the bank seemed every reason why she should.

  “Have your hair waved first,” advised Sally as she went away regretfully, at seven o’clock. “But don’t let them cut it off whatever you do; it wouldn’t suit you at all, but they’re sure to want to do it.” She came back from the gate to add, “Give my love to Virginia and tell her I’m miserable.”

  Thus it fell out that Barbara and Dorothea Bold were both passengers in the 10:30 train to London on Monday morning. (Colonel Weatherhead had gone up by the 8:15 to transact some important business and to make inquiries about a Special License.)

  Barbara hailed Do
rothea cheerfully and they selected an empty third-class carriage and bestowed themselves therein.

  “I’m going to stay with Alice for a day or two,” said Dorothea truthfully—it seemed better to forestall any questions with an appearance of absolute frankness.

  “How nice!” said Barbara. “I’m only going up for the day. I’m going to have my hair waved, I think.”

  “Oh do,” cried Dorothea. “Go to my woman—she’s simply marvelous.”

  Barbara noted the address and thought how nice people were. It was all being made so easy for her. First Sally and now Dorothea had flown to her rescue. They talked in a friendly desultory sort of fashion all the way to town and parted at the station—Dorothea to go off to her sister’s, in a taxi, with her luggage, and Barbara to board a bus which her friend assured her would land her quite near the marvelous woman who would transform her lank locks into ravishing waves.

  The ravishing waves took some time to materialize. It was an amazing experience, Barbara decided, and she was not quite sure that she liked the result. Her old hat certainly looked most peculiar perched on the top of her undulating coiffure. However, she paid her money without a murmur and marched out of the shop—she was nearly sure that the girl at the desk was giggling at her appearance.

  She lunched frugally at a Corner Shop and then set out to look for Virginia. “A little yellow shop,” Sally had said, “with one small hat in the window and the name above the door in black letters.” It was difficult to find, because it was really so very small and unassuming, but Barbara found it at last wedged in between a huge drapery establishment and a flourishing flower shop. She pushed the door open and went in.

  The little shop was empty save for a few fragile-looking gilt chairs and long mirrors which showed Barbara her own form at several distressing angles. No wonder that girl laughed, thought Barbara disconsolately; I look an absolute freak with my hair like this. I wonder if there’s anything on earth that would straighten out a permanent wave. I don’t suppose there is anything short of cutting it all off at the roots.