Dorcas was torn between her disapproval of Milly’s stories and her enjoyment of their racy character.
“I s’pose you ’eard all about Mrs. Featherstone ’ogg’s drawing-room meeting,” said Milly, helping herself to Miss Buncle’s jam with a liberal hand. “Seems to ’ave been a sort of free fight from wot I ’ear. They all fixed on Mrs. Walker as being John Smith—”
“Well, they fixed wrong,” interpolated Dorcas.
“I know that,” said Milly calmly.
“And how d’you know that so certain?”
“Easy as A B C. I took a walk up to the doctor’s after supper larst night an’ ’ad a little chat with Nannie—you know Nannie Walker, silly old fat ’ead, ain’t she? Well, Nannie says Mrs. Walker never does no sort of writing except the doctor’s accounts an’ suchlike. She reads and knits the twins’ jumper suits. That’s proof enough for me. A person can read when they’re knitting, but they can’t write, can they? Not unless they’ve got a double set of ’ands, they can’t.”
“A regular Sherlock ’olmes, aren’t you?” inquired Dorcas with a trace of irony in her tone.
“Well, I can put two and two together as well as most,” replied Milly amiably, “and a good deal better than some. I found out more in ’arf an hour from the twins’ old Nannie than all Silverstream sitting round The Riggs drawing-room the ’ole blessed afternoon. They ’ad old Mr. Durnet there if you’ll believe me—wot on earth they ’oped to find out from that pore dotty old man is more than I can see. And in the middle of the Meeting the pore old soul ups an’ says, ‘When’s my tea coming, that’s wot I wants ter know.’ Aunt Clarer said ’e did, an’ I don’t blame ’im neither. It beats the band, don’t it, Dorcas?”
Dorcas was forced to agree that it did. She was beginning to wish she had not been so scornful about Mrs. Featherstone Hogg’s drawing-room meeting. What a score it would have been if she could have said to Milly, “Ah yes, of course, I was there myself.” How Milly’s young eyes would have bulged at the news. But Dorcas hadn’t been there, and she was beginning to get a little tired of Milly’s second-hand account of the proceedings, so she changed the subject very successfully by remarking,
“That’s a nice hat you’ve got on, Milly.”
“She give it me,” replied Milly with a wink. “Had me eye on this ’at ever since she got it. She gave three guineas for it, if you please.”
“Lor’!” said Dorcas, looking at the hat with increased respect.
“It’s too smart for ’er now she’s after the Vicar,” continued Milly. “That’s ’ow I got it.”
“I thought she was after that Mr. Fortnum.”
“You are be’ind’and,” said Milly mischievously. “It’s the Vicar now, and she’s as good as got ’im too. Calls ’im Ernest to ’is face—an’ ’e is earnest too. She thinks ’e’s got plenty of money—”
“Well, he has, hasn’t he?” inquired the thoroughly interested Dorcas.
“No ’e ’asn’t,” said Milly, lowering her voice confidentially, ’everyone thought ’e ’ad money when ’e come, but Mrs. ’obday says it’s not true. She says the poverty of the pore young gentleman is beyond words. ’E goes about with ’oles in ’is boots the size of five shilling bits, and she spends all ’er time trying to darn ’is socks because ’e ’asn’t a penny to buy new ones. Mr. ’obday tol’ me ’imself ’e ’as to put ’is foot down strong, or she’d be taking the scraps of meat out of their own mouths to feed the Vicar—fair gone on ’im Mrs. ’obday is.”
“Lor’!” exclaimed Dorcas in amazement.
Milly had finished with the Vicar now. She emptied out the dregs of her tea and studied the cup carefully.
“Do mine, Milly,” Dorcas said, handing over her cup to the amateur fortune-teller, “what’s that big square-looking thing, there?”
“Ooh, that’s a wedding, that is! A wedding in the ’ouse. It ’ull be Miss Buncle—wot’s the London gentleman like?”
“Biggish man,” said Dorcas thoughtfully, “nice eyes, dark hair, grayish over the ears—”
“That’s ’im. See, ’e’s down there near the bottom of the cup—biggish man—”
“Where? Let’s see,” entreated Dorcas.
“An’ that’s a flitting—see, down the other side? Means you’re going to move, that’s wot that means—and those dots all over the place is money coming in—”
Chapter Eighteen
A History Lesson
It was decreed by the Powers That Be that Sally Carter was to have some instruction. Dr. Walker had been consulted and had given his opinion that an hour’s study every morning would do Sally no harm. The truth was Mrs. Carter was finding difficulty in employing her granddaughter. Sally was not domesticated, she disliked household toil, and the suggestion that she should help with the jam was met with a firm refusal. Sally had never made jam, she didn’t know how to make jam, and she wasn’t going to go into the kitchen and display her ignorance to the cook.
Mrs. Carter’s habit was to rise about eleven, and what was Sally to do with herself until then? What Sally did was to wander about the damp garden and catch a cold in her head. So Mrs. Carter called in the doctor, and they put their heads together and decided that a little study—just an hour every morning—would do Sally less harm after her operation than mooning about and catching cold. “And she’s woefully ignorant,” Mrs. Carter said, shaking her beautiful gray curls in dismay, “I don’t know what Harry has been thinking about, I really don’t. He has kept the child with him all the time, roaming about the world—a year in this school, and six months somewhere else, and then a governess for a bit until Harry found her making eyes at him and sent her away—the poor child knows nothing, positively nothing. It is deplorable. Who can we find in Silverstream to teach the child? Who can we find, Doctor? You know everybody, of course, so perhaps you can help me.”
“I wonder if Hathaway would take it on,” said Dr. Walker thoughtfully.
“You mean the new Vicar?” inquired Mrs. Carter in a surprised voice.
“Well, I don’t know, of course,” said Dr. Walker, cautiously. “He might not consider it for a moment—but then again, he might. I happen to know he’s not very well off, and he might be glad to make a little extra in that way.”
“But my dear doctor, I thought he had plenty of money.”
“So we all thought, but he hasn’t.”
“Are you quite certain?” asked Mrs. Carter incredulously.
“Quite certain. My information is from a reliable source,” replied Dr. Walker. “Perhaps he has lost it all, like many unfortunate people in these troublous times, or perhaps he never had as much as rumor gave him. Anyway, there it is. Hathaway is a poor man, and a well-educated man and he must have a lot of time on his hands,” said the busy doctor, “and I can’t think of anybody else at all.”
The last argument clinched the matter as far as Mrs. Carter was concerned. She was really desperate. She sat down the moment the doctor had gone and wrote a little note to Mr. Hathaway (Mrs. Carter always wrote little notes), putting her difficulties before him, and asking him in a most tactful manner whether he could possibly spare an hour in the morning to initiate her granddaughter into the mysteries of Latin and History.
Ernest was somewhat startled when the little note reached him per Mrs. Carter’s gardener. He wouldn’t have minded coaching a boy, but this was evidently a girl—granddaughters usually were—and it seemed just a trifle infra dig to coach a girl. On the other hand there was the money question, and the money question was troubling Ernest very badly at the moment. Three pounds a week had seemed quite a lot when he had started so gaily on his new régime, but by the time Mrs. Hobday’s wages had come off it, and the weekly bills had been settled, there was nothing left over for such necessary items as the replacement of underwear, the soling of shoes, a pair of winter gloves, or seeds
for the garden.—The Apostles and the Saints had lived in warmer climes, and under totally different conditions, of course—
After a few weeks, in which he vainly endeavored to live below his income, Ernest began to wonder what would happen when his suits wore out, or if he had to call in the doctor, or see the dentist about his teeth. There was also his library subscription to think of—a mere nothing in the old days, but now a serious consideration. It must be met somehow of course, for it was absolutely necessary for a man in his position to have new books and keep abreast of modern thought. It was his duty to do so, and he would starve himself sooner than neglect his duty.
Ernest sat and thought about it for a long time, and then he rummaged about and found an old tobacco tin, and made a hole in the lid. Every week he tried to drop a few shillings into the box, and every week they had to come out again to meet some unexpected demand upon his purse.
He had told Mrs. Hobday that he would have much less money in future, and had asked her to be as economical as she could. She had taken the news very calmly. Everybody was losing their money nowadays. It was a pity, but it couldn’t be helped. Why, just the other day Mrs. Hobday’s own brother had lost all his savings in one fell swoop. It was rubber or something, Mrs. Hobday thought. “I tell you what we’ll do, sir,” she said helpfully. “We’ll shut up the ’ouse, all except your bedroom and the study, and then we needn’t have that girl, Karen, anymore. A good-for-nothing slop of a girl she is! I’ll manage the whole thing myself easy.”
It had not been any part of Ernest’s scheme to throw a girl out of work, but he realized that something pretty drastic must be done, unless of course—but he wasn’t going to contemplate that for a moment, he would last out the year supposing he starved, supposing his clothes fell into rags. It was unthinkable to go crawling back to Uncle Mike with the admission that he had failed.
It is interesting to note that he was already thinking about the year not as a term of probation, but as a definite task to be faced. Perhaps Vivian had something to do with this. He had begun to get interested in Vivian at this juncture—interested, but no more.
Some weeks after the dismissal of Karen he had to speak to Mrs. Hobday again. He hated the job—hated it all the more because Mrs. Hobday was so frightfully nice, and had been so kind to him and so decent about it before. He put it off from day to day, brooding over it, and making himself utterly wretched about it, but at last he pulled himself together and went off to look for her. He found her making his bed.
“We must keep the bills down, I’m afraid,” he said, feeling extremely shy and embarrassed. “D’you think if I had just an egg or something for my supper it would make any difference?”
“That’s all right, sir,” she replied, beating up his pillow with her capable work-stained hands. “I’ve been getting the best of everything, seeing you were a gentleman as has been used to it—so to speak. I’ll keep the bills down to what you say. Only of course you’re bound to notice a bit of difference. Stooing steak isn’t the same as best steak and no amount of cooking will make it the same. And while we’re on the subject, sir, Hobday was asking if you’ll mind if I went ’ome nights. I’d take a bit less if I could get ’ome about six and cook Hobday’s supper. I could leave your supper all ready, and you could ’eat a cup of cocoa for yourself. I’d be ’ere early in the morning to see to the breakfast of course.”
Ernest consented; he was wax in Mrs. Hobday’s capable hands.
“I ’ardly liked to ask,” continued Mrs. Hobday. “But it would make a lot of difference if you really don’t mind. You see my girl’s been running up expenses—she’s a good girl, Mary is, but she’s young. She ’asn’t the eye to pick out the best bit of meat at the butcher’s. And then Rosy’s ill again an’ that makes more work. She gets the bronchitis every winter, that child does. As soon as ever the wind comes cold it strikes ’er in the chest. I don’t know what we’d do without Dr. Walker, he’s such a kind gentleman; ’e was in seeing Rosy yest’day afternoon. I took a run down ’ome just to see what was ’appening, an’ I run straight into Dr. Walker, ’e’s coming again tomorrow to see Rosy. Mrs. Walker was in too with a basket full of oranges and jelly and a bunch of flowers. Mrs. Walker would do you good just to look at ’er if you was ill, let alone what she brings.”
“I don’t think I know Mrs. Walker,” Ernest said.
“She goes to church pretty regular too,” replied Mrs. Hobday. “Except if the twins is ill, or anything—a tall slim lady she is, with brown ’air, and gray eyes, and ’er eyebrows go up and down a lot when she talks. You wouldn’t forget Mrs. Walker once you’d talked to ’er—and the doctor’s a fine man—kind that’s what they are.”
“You must go down to your home when you want,” Ernest said (he felt vaguely that he could be just as kind as the Walkers), “especially when your child is ill. Don’t mind about me. I’ll manage quite all right. Your first duty is to your home, of course.”
“Thank you kindly, sir, but I’ll manage to run both ’ouses—that’s nothing to me. As long as you’ve got your ’ealth you can do anything you set your mind to. That’s what I always say. I’ve said it to Hobday often when ’e’s been a bit down in the mouth about ’is work. You see, sir, Hobday’s a boiler-maker by trade. ’E used to go to Bulverham every day, but the works is closed down now, and ’e’s ’ad to take a job on the roads. Lucky to get it too. But Hobday gets a bit down in the mouth every now and then. ‘When am I going to get back to me own work?’ he says to me. I’m sorry for ’im, too. It’s ’ard when you can’t get your own work, isn’t it, sir? Just like as if you ’ad to go for a schoolmaster or something—I hope you don’t mind me making the remark, my tongue do run away with me sometimes.”
“No, of course not—yes, it is exactly the same, and I do feel very sorry indeed for your husband,” said Ernest trying to answer all her questions at once and getting a trifle mixed up in the attempt.
That was only last week, and here was Ernest going for a schoolmaster just like Hobday. He felt even more sympathy for Hobday now that he knew exactly what it felt like to have to take up work which was not really your own line. Of course it was much worse for Hobday, because Ernest’s was only a temporary thing. Now that he was definitely engaged to Vivian there was no question of carrying on with the experiment after the year was up. He must tell Vivian soon about his financial affairs, but there was no hurry about it. He had a lurking suspicion that Vivian would not understand the motives which had prompted his experiment in Poverty—she might even think him rather a fool.
Perhaps I am rather a fool, Ernest thought, wearing myself into a shadow quite unnecessarily. At any rate I don’t seem to be much use at this job. His financial affairs had not benefited very much from the new arrangement with Mrs. Hobday. The few shillings he had saved on her wages went into the tin, of course, but they came out again almost directly to buy a new spade for the garden—and only this morning the kitchen kettle had developed a small hole in its bottom—it was extraordinary how the money dribbled away.
“I must teach that little girl,” thought Ernest sitting down at his desk and taking up his pen to reply to Mrs. Carter. “There’s nothing else for it—and I ought to be glad of the opportunity, ungrateful wretch that I am!”
But all the same he sighed, as he sealed up his letter, and gave it to the gardener who was waiting for a reply. It was rather a come-down, after all his noble aspirations, to start teaching Latin and History to a little girl.
So far, little has been said about Ernest’s aspirations, and the reason why he had accepted the living at Silverstream, which was really rather a backwater and had, hitherto, been held by ancient or unambitious men. Ernest was neither ancient nor unambitious, but he felt that he could chew the cud of his learning for a while, and read and meditate, and, eventually, when he had got his somewhat chaotic ideas into order, he could write a book.
It was cert
ainly quiet enough at Silverstream, and now that he was alone at night in the big empty Vicarage it was really rather eerie. Sometimes Ernest thought he heard strange noises and went round the house with a thick stick, and an electric torch looking for burglars, but it had never been burglars yet. It was just the old house creaking in the wind, and talking to itself about all it had seen, and the big cheerful families which it had sheltered and sent forth into the world.
Ernest made up his mind, at last, that he would give up his nocturnal rambles. They wasted his time and made him feel lonely, and it was unlikely—when you thought about it seriously—that any sane burglar would choose the Vicarage for his nefarious purposes, considering that the Vicarage was almost empty and contained nothing of the slightest value for a burglar to take. It was much more likely, Ernest thought, that a sane burglar would choose The Riggs, which was glittering with silver plate, or The Firs, which boasted a valuable collection of eighteenth-century snuff-boxes. So he ceased to listen to the strange noises at night, and, after a little while, he ceased to hear them.
***
Sally was annoyed when she was informed of the arrangement with the Vicar. The idea of a grown-up woman like herself being sent back to the schoolroom like a troublesome child was galling in the extreme. But the whole thing was settled before she heard of it at all, and she was obliged to bow to the inevitable. Sally donned her most sophisticated garments, as a sort of mute protest against the indignity of it, and presented herself at the Vicarage punctually at ten-thirty. Her injured feelings were somewhat soothed by the Vicar’s reception of her.
Miss Buncle's Book Page 18