Miss Buncle's Book

by D. E. Stevenson

  “Oh!” cried Ernest, leaping from his chair, “are you—I mean I didn’t know—are you—are you Miss Carter?—I thought it was going to be a child.” (His amazement and consternation were all that could be desired.)

  “Gran treats me like one,” replied Sally, taking command of the situation at once. “It really is most annoying—I suppose it’s because Gran is so old herself.”

  “I suppose it is,” agreed Ernest.

  “Old people never seem to think that children grow up—they think you remain at the same age always. And of course Gran remembers Daddy being a little boy, and eating bread and milk for his supper, so I suppose it is difficult for her to realize me at all.”

  “I suppose it is,” said Ernest again.

  “People’s brains work slowly when they get old. They don’t pick up new impressions, you know. A doctor explained that to me once. It was very interesting indeed.”

  “Yes, it must have been,” said Ernest helplessly, He was quite at a loss as to how he was going to begin the lesson. How on earth was he to start teaching Latin and History to this very self-possessed young lady? Lord’s Modern Europe, which he had found and decided upon as being the very thing for his purpose, now seemed entirely inadequate support. So too, the Latin Primer he had unearthed last night from a box of old books and carried down to the study with triumph and satisfaction. The young lady was taking off her gloves; she evidently expected him to start at once. Ernest ran his hands through his hair in despair.

  Sally had begun to enjoy herself; she was fully aware of Ernest’s dilemma.

  “I had this at school of course,” said Sally, taking up the well-worn primer. “But I expect I’ve forgotten all about it by now. Do we start at the beginning?”

  “Yes,” agreed Ernest. “At least, I don’t know. Perhaps you would rather do some translations. The primer is rather dull. You see I didn’t know you were—I thought you were—I mean I just got those books out because—”

  “But I’m really very ignorant,” Sally told him, opening her blue eyes very wide, and gazing at him innocently. “You’ll be horrified when you find how little I know. I’ve forgotten everything I ever learned.”

  How blue her eyes were!

  “Perhaps I might take off my hat,” suggested Sally.

  “Oh yes,” he said. “Yes, of course, do take it off if it’s more comfortable.”

  Sally took it off, and gave her head a little shake so that her golden curls fluffed out round her head like a halo. Ernest had never seen anything so pretty in his life. He gazed at her with fascinated eyes.

  “Well, I suppose we had better begin, hadn’t we?” she inquired, sitting down at the table. “Yes I suppose we had,” replied Ernest, trying to pull himself together.

  “We mustn’t waste our time,” Sally pointed out.

  Ernest agreed. He took up the Latin Primer and laid it down again—it was awfully dull.

  “What about history?” suggested Sally. “I’m awfully ignorant about history, you know.”

  “We had better start with history, then,” Ernest said.

  “Everyone should know something about history, shouldn’t they?” Sally demanded.

  Ernest was sure that she was right. They opened Lord’s Modern Europe and glanced through it together.

  “I think this is too—too elementary for you,” Ernest said suddenly, closing the book and looking at his pupil—he found it difficult not to look at her. And when he looked at her he could think of nothing except how pretty she was. He looked away again, and tried to collect his scattered wits. “Modern thought has progressed so enormously,” said Ernest. “Dates are not considered so important nowadays; it’s the background that really matters. It’s understanding how the people lived, what kind of things they had to eat, and what they felt and thought.”

  “Dates are dreadfully dull,” Sally agreed. “I never could learn dates. What you say sounds so interesting.”

  Ernest glowed. He said some more about it, elaborating his theory. They discussed the manner in which history should be taught. Meanwhile the time flew. It was half-past eleven before they had decided where to begin.

  “I’m afraid we haven’t done much work,” Ernest said guiltily as his pupil rose and pulled on her hat.

  “We’ve cleared the ground,” Sally pointed out. “It’s most important to clear the ground. And you have found out how little I know—”

  “Oh, but I haven’t at all,” Ernest assured her. “I mean you’re so intelligent. So alive.”

  Sally liked being called intelligent and alive; it was better to be intelligent than clever (who had said that?). Sally rather suspected that she was both, and perhaps she was right. She went home quite pleased with herself, and told Gran that the ground had been cleared. Gran had had a peaceful morning so she was easily convinced that the experiment was a success.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Miss Buncle’s Holiday

  Mrs. Carter was expecting Barbara Buncle to tea; she was somewhat surprised when Elizabeth Wade arrived instead.

  “My dear Barbara!” she said, peering at her guest shortsightedly, “My dear Barbara, what have you been doing to yourself? Not monkey glands, I hope.”

  “Just a new coat and hat, that’s all,” replied Barbara slightly dashed at her reception.

  “And you’ve had your hair permanently waved,” Mrs. Carter pointed out. “I must say it’s a great improvement to your appearance. It always is an improvement to anybody with straight hair. Mine is naturally wavy, of course,” she added defiantly—Mrs. Carter was trying hard to live down the wicked aspersions cast upon her hair by John Smith—

  “How nice for you!” said Barbara, sighing.

  “Sally has started lessons with the Vicar,” said Mrs. Carter, changing the subject rather abruptly. “It is such a blessing for the dear child to have some definite employment in the morning when I am busy.”

  “With the Vicar?”

  “Yes, he’s very badly off—so Dr. Walker says. I don’t know how Dr. Walker found out, except that he seems to know everything. Of course that’s how Sarah got all the information for her book—although a great deal of it is incorrect—”

  Barbara followed this disjointed and not altogether logical sentence with some difficulty. She seized upon the main point—or at least what she considered to be the main point.

  “But Sarah didn’t write it,” she said firmly.

  “How do you know? I’m perfectly certain she wrote it. Who else could have written it? Look at the opportunities she has. I’m certain the doctor tells her everything. I would never have Dr. Walker again if it were not for the fact that he understands my rheumatism so well. But I shall cut Sarah when I see her,” added Mrs. Carter with satisfaction.

  “She didn’t write it,” said Barbara again.

  “Well, I’d like to know who did, then. You didn’t stay until the end of the meeting, of course. We all decided that John Smith was Sarah Walker—it was unanimous, except for Ellen King, who always disagrees with everybody. Even old Mr. Durnet held up his hand—”

  “I don’t suppose he had the slightest idea what he was holding up his hand for,” interrupted Barbara.

  “Well, he held it up anyway—and wasn’t it a clear proof of guilt, getting in such a rage and dashing out of the room like a maniac without even saying good-bye to her hostess?”

  “I did the same,” said Barbara bravely. She had not realized until this moment that she had been guilty of a breach of manners. Ought she to have said “good-bye” to Mrs. Featherstone Hogg and “thank you very much for having me”? I suppose I ought to have—thought Barbara—but if I had thought that at the time I wouldn’t have come away at all; I simply couldn’t have done it before everybody, so perhaps it’s just as well I forgot my manners.

  “Oh, you!” lau
ghed Mrs. Carter. “Nobody even thought of you. You could never have written Disturber of the Peace. Sarah Walker has brains. I don’t care for the woman at all—never did. She has no idea of how a lady ought to behave. The way she hob-nobs with the village people and doesn’t pay proper respect where proper respect is due! I never could understand what you could see in Sarah Walker—but she certainly has brains of a kind—”

  Barbara was hurt, and amused, intensely relieved, and very much annoyed all at the same time. There was a queer bubbly feeling in her inside at the mixture of emotions. She felt inclined to shout, “Well, I did write it then, you silly old thing!” but she managed to stifle the inclination. She merely reiterated her conviction that Sarah had not written Disturber of the Peace.

  “It’s no use keeping on saying that, Barbara,” said Mrs. Carter irritably. “If Sarah didn’t write it, who did? Agatha Featherstone Hogg and I made a list of everyone we knew in Silverstream and went through it one by one, most carefully. Everyone is either in the book themselves—or else absolutely incapable of writing it. But in any case it doesn’t matter much now; we shall soon know for certain whether Sarah wrote it or not.”

  “You will soon know for certain?”

  “Agatha has a plan,” explained Mrs. Carter. “At least the plan really originated with Mrs. Greensleeves. Agatha has merely adopted it and they are working it out together.”

  “And what is the plan?” Barbara asked breathlessly.

  “Well, I can’t tell you about it, because I promised Agatha I would tell nobody. Of course it wouldn’t matter telling you, Barbara, but a promise is a promise. Personally I think the plan is a trifle risky, but Agatha will be careful.”

  “Goodness!” said Barbara feebly. She was alarmed at the news. If the plan had been Mrs. Featherstone Hogg’s concoction she would not have worried so much—Mrs. Featherstone Hogg was vindictive but not subtle—but Mrs. Greensleeves was of a different caliber; she was cunning and sly as a vixen.

  “Yes,” said Mrs. Carter with satisfaction, “yes, we shall soon know for certain whether or not it was Sarah Walker. Did you get a postcard from Paris, by any chance?”

  Barbara admitted that she had.

  “Disgraceful! Positively indecent!” said Mrs. Carter, warming up again. “I don’t know what the world is coming to, nowadays.”

  “I think it’s nice that they got married,” Barbara said, trembling a little at her temerity in contradicting her hostess.

  “Nice!” exclaimed old Mrs. Carter. “It’s certainly not nice. The word is misused nowadays to a ridiculous extent. The word nice means fastidious, discreet—was it either fastidious or discreet for two people, whose names are being bandied about the world in a third rate novel, to rush off to Paris together? I suppose they are married,” added Mrs. Carter, in a tone which implied that she had grave doubts on the subject.

  “Dorcas was saying that they would make a very nice—er—I mean charming couple.”

  “Dorcas!” snorted Mrs. Carter, “what does Dorcas know about it? It’s a great mistake to talk things over with servants. You shouldn’t pay any attention to what Dorcas says.”

  “I don’t, unless I agree with her,” said Barbara simply.

  The conversation was getting more and more unpleasant. Barbara longed for Sally to come in and rescue her. She wondered where on earth Sally was, all this time. Once Sally appeared upon the scene Mrs. Carter would cease talking about disgraceful marriages, for she was very careful what she said before her granddaughter—quite unnecessarily careful considering Sally’s knowledge of the world and its wicked ways.

  “The amount of harm that book has done!” said Mrs. Carter, raising her eyes to the ceiling. “This dreadful hole-and-corner wedding, the Bulmers’ home broken up, and Isabella Snowdon’s nightmares are all directly attributable to that book—not to speak of the discomfort and worry it has caused to people like Agatha and myself—”

  Sally drifted in silently when tea was nearly over. She was all in brown today, russet brown like a November beech leaf. She sat down and sipped a large tumbler of milk with obvious distaste.

  “Where have you been, Sally?” inquired her grandmother anxiously. “I hope you haven’t been wandering about outside; it’s far too cold for you to be out at this time of night.”

  “I was walking.”

  “Where did you go, dear? All by yourself?”

  “I met Mr. Hathaway,” said Sally, carelessly. “He came along.”

  “That was good of him,” said Mrs. Carter. “Very kind indeed of him to take you for a walk. I hope you are not imposing too much on Mr. Hathaway’s good nature.”

  Sally did not seem to think this required an answer; she sipped her milk, and crumbled a biscuit in her fingers.

  “Don’t make crumbs, dear,” said Mrs. Carter. “You can ring the bell for Lily to take the tea away, if you like.”

  Sally ceased crumbling and rang the bell for Lily without speaking. When Sally had stayed at The Firs as a small child it had been a treat to ring the bell for tea to be cleared away, and Gran seemed to think it was a treat still. These small things annoyed Sally—she knew it was silly to be annoyed, but she was annoyed just the same.

  Barbara felt sorry for her today; she looked sad and withdrawn—the child was suffering within herself. Perhaps she was fretting for her father. It must be frightful for her—Barbara thought. Half an hour of old Mrs. Carter’s conversation had left Barbara somewhat worn—what must it be like to have nobody but Mrs. Carter, and Mrs. Carter all day long, and every day? Barbara remembered her promise to Virginia to keep an eye on Sally, and felt a trifle guilty. She had been so engrossed in her new book that she had not seen as much of Sally as she had intended.

  “Sally must come and have tea with me again,” she said.

  “I’m sure the child would enjoy that,” said Mrs. Carter, graciously. “Wouldn’t you, Sally? Say thank you to Miss Buncle.”

  “Yes, thank you, Miss Buncle. I would like to come,” said Sally with a wan smile.

  She’s ill—thought Barbara in dismay—she’s pining away under our very eyes. I must try to cheer her up, poor little soul! Aloud she said—

  “Well, what about tomorrow at four o’clock?”

  ***

  The following morning was damp and unpleasant. Barbara glued her nose to the window and tried to determine whether it was actually raining or not. She decided that in any case it was not nice enough to go out for a walk. This was annoying because she was taking a little holiday and she was therefore free to enjoy herself. The new novel had absorbed all her thoughts and energies for days, and she felt exhausted, and a trifle stale. “I shall take a holiday,” she had said, throwing down her pen and shutting her desk firmly, and she was making herself take it. Today was the second day of her holiday and she was already weary of it; Silverstream was a cold bleak place compared with Copperfield.

  Barbara longed for the sunny atmosphere of her spiritual home, where she could do as she liked, and say what she pleased, and nobody could contradict her unless she allowed them to do so; where there was no fear of anyone discovering who she was; and where nobody made secret and alarming plans to unmask John Smith—or, if they did, she knew beforehand exactly what they were and could foil them at will.

  She wandered round the house getting in the way, and moving things about so that Dorcas couldn’t find them when she wanted them.

  “Why ever don’t you go and write your story, Miss Barbara?” said Dorcas at last in exasperation.

  “I’m taking a holiday,” said Barbara peevishly.

  “You don’t seem to be enjoying it much,” Dorcas said looking up from the kitchen table where she was rolling out the pastry for a pie. “It’s not my idea of a holiday mooning round the house with a long face—”

  “I wish I was dead,” Barbara said. “I wish I had
somebody to talk to. I wish—”

  “You better go out, Miss Barbara,” said Dorcas crossly. “What’s the good of wishing you was dead, and then wishing you had somebody to talk to? You couldn’t talk if you was dead. If you was to go out for a nice walk you might meet somebody to talk to, and I’d get on with my work—I’m behind ’and as it is.”

  “I’ll go for a fastidious discreet walk,” Barbara said, “that’s what nice means. Did you know that, Dorcas? Well it does. I’ll go out for a fastidious walk if you like—it would be more discreet to stay at home with all the talk that’s going on in Silver-stream. I know now exactly what a wanted man feels like.”

  “A wanted man?”

  “Yes, a man wanted by the police for murder or something. John Smith is wanted in Silverstream, you know, very badly wanted, and every time I walk down the High Street I expect to feel a heavy hand on my shoulder, and hear Sergeant Capper’s voice saying, ‘I arrest you in the name of the law,’ or whatever it is that they say to a wanted man.”

  “How you do rave on, Miss Barbara. Sergeant Capper would never arrest you.”

  “It would really be John Smith he was arresting,” Barbara explained, sitting down on the edge of the kitchen table and watching Dorcas fit her neat oval of dough onto the top of the pie. “John Smith is wanted for the murder of Mrs. Featherstone Hogg’s reputation—and Mrs. Carter’s too of course—Sergeant Capper would have to arrest John Smith even if he didn’t want to—”

  “Get your ’at like a dear, Miss Barbara,” Dorcas besought her. “The rain’s off now, and it’s nice and bright. I declare I don’t know what I’m doing with you standing over me talking all that nonsense. I’m not sure now as I haven’t gone and put sugar in the potatoes by mistake.”

  Barbara looked out of the window and saw that it had really cleared up, and the sun was struggling through the clouds. She went upstairs and put on her new coat and hat, and she took a new pair of gray gloves with fur gauntlets out of a drawer and put them on. She was wearing her new clothes every day now—it seemed rather extravagant, but she couldn’t help it. She had taken a dislike to her old clothes, for the new ones had opened her eyes to their frightfulness. They were scarcely worthy to be called clothes, Barbara thought; they were merely coverings for the body. She wondered how on earth she had ever worn them.