Next to the Weatherheads in order of merit Barbara put Miss King and Miss Pretty. They had departed to Samarkand just after the New Year. At least they had said they were going to Samarkand. Barbara was in some doubt whether their flight south had really ended in Samarkand, for the postcards which had arrived in due course, and had been displayed on the mantelpieces of Silverstream, seemed to be views of the pyramids, varied by an occasional sphinx. Barbara had always been led to believe that these interesting and ancient monuments were exclusively Egyptian.
Margaret Bulmer was also one of the successes achieved by Disturber of the Peace, but in an entirely different manner. Margaret had returned from her long visit to her parents, looking ten years younger, to find a much more considerate and agreeable husband. The truth was that Stephen had missed her quite a lot; the house had not been nearly so comfortable without Margaret to oil the wheels of the domestic machinery. Stephen was determined to take no risks, and he laid himself out to be agreeable to his wife. Moreover an old shed at the bottom of the garden had been converted into a very comfortable writing room for Stephen, so he was able to carry out his researches into the character and attainments of Henry the Fourth without being disturbed by the noise of his offspring and dependents. The house was more comfortable for everybody now that there was no longer the need for complete and absolute silence. Mr. Bulmer’s writing room was all the more necessary because the children had been thoroughly spoiled by their grandparents during their long visit. They were now a pair of ordinary, healthy, noisy children and no longer little white mice. All this was directly attributable to the influence of Disturber of the Peace, so that although Margaret had not actually followed her prescribed destiny and eloped at midnight from her bedroom window with Harry Carter, Barbara felt quite justified in claiming Margaret as another success.
And lastly there was Mr. Featherstone Hogg. Barbara was so glad to hear that he was really having a nice time. She liked Mr. Featherstone Hogg; he had always been kind to her. Barbara liked to repay kindness with kindness so she had given him a nice time in The Pen is Mightier—. A chance remark of old Mrs. Carter’s anent Edwin’s unfortunate penchant for the stage, coupled with her own experiences at The Berkeley, had shown Barbara in what way Edwin could be entertained (she might not have imagination but she was certainly ingenious), and it appeared that she had chosen well for him. She had entertained him exactly as he liked to entertain himself. Barbara was glad.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Sally’s Secret
The next morning was fine and sunny. Sally came dancing in to see Barbara with a copy of the Daily Gazette in her hand.
“Look,” she cried, “look, Barbara! John Smith has written a new book. It’s coming out next week. Oh, I am excited about it, aren’t you, Barbara? I wonder what he’s written about this time. It’s called The Pen is Mightier—. Doesn’t it sound thrilling? No pen could be mightier than John Smith’s, could it?”
Barbara tried hard to register surprise; she decided that she was not a born actress. Fortunately Sally was too full of her great news to notice Barbara’s attempts. She did not wait for answers to her various questions. Sally rarely expected answers to her questions, and Barbara knew her well enough now not to bother about finding any. By the time you had found an adequate answer Sally had flitted on to something quite different.
“Gran rang up Mrs. Featherstone Hogg,” continued Sally delightedly. “She shut the door of the library so that I shouldn’t hear what she was saying, but she was so excited and talked so loud, that I heard quite clearly in the hall. They are both ordering copies of it to be sent to them the moment it comes out. They hope it will give them some clue to John Smith. Are you ordering a copy, Barbara? You had better do it soon. The first edition will be sold out directly. Will you lend me your copy to read if Gran sits on hers? Oh, I do think John Smith is marvelous!”
“You’re going to marry him, aren’t you?” inquired Barbara wickedly.
“Oh, that was just my nonsense,” said Sally, actually blushing, “you mustn’t take all I say for gospel truth, Barbara dear. When I’m excited I just gas on, and say all sorts of rubbish. How could I possibly want to marry a man I’ve never even seen?”
“It does seem impossible. But of course you know exactly what he’s like, and that makes a lot of difference. Big and strong—isn’t he—with a humorous mouth and piercing eyes and long tousled hair—”
“You’re teasing me now. What a horrid person you are! Do be good, Barbara, and I’ll tell you a secret. It’s a frightfully important secret too. I’m in love.”
“Not really? Not with John Smith?”
“Silly, it’s true. I’m engaged,” Sally said, fishing down the front of her jumper and displaying a ring set with diamonds. “Now will you believe it’s true?”
Barbara was forced to believe such indubitable evidence; she was suitably impressed.
“We’re going to be married directly I hear from Daddy. I’ve written to tell Daddy all about it. Oh Barbara, he’s a marvelous man!”
“I know. You always said he was.”
“Not Daddy (although of course he’s marvelous too). I mean Ernest’s marvelous—Mr. Hathaway, you know. Barbara, he’s too sweet for words. I adore him. Of course I’ve been in love before,” continued Sally, looking very wise and experienced, “but never the least like this—this is the real thing. We’re just waiting now for Daddy’s letter and then we’ll get married and live happily ever after.”
Barbara looked at her in distress. “Sally dear,” she said anxiously. “I don’t think your father will consent to your marrying Mr. Hathaway. He’s very nice, of course, but he’s so frightfully poor—what would you live on?”
“That’s just the amazing thing, my dear. He’s not poor at all. He’s written and told Daddy exactly how much he has, and it’s lots,” said Sally, opening her blue eyes very wide. “He gave away all his money for a whole year just to see what it was like to be poor. He’s so good, you know, Barbara. His ideals are so wonderful. I shall never be able to live up to Ernest’s ideals.”
“Of course you can if you try.”
“Yes, perhaps,” Sally agreed. “If I try very hard—but isn’t it wonderful, Barbara? Isn’t it just like a novel to fall in love with a poor man, and then find he’s rich beyond the dreams of avarice?”
Barbara agreed; she hugged Sally and told her how frightfully glad she was.
Sally was rather young of course, but she had seen more of the world than many older people and she was quite capable of managing her own life. Barbara had always thought Mr. Hathaway a nice young man—rather serious perhaps, but Sally would liven him up. It seemed very suitable, and she thought that Sally would be happy. She was in a condition of mind to believe that marriage was a desirable state.
“And you’ll come to the wedding, won’t you, Barbara?” Sally said, disengaging herself from Barbara’s embrace.
“If Barbara Buncle still exists, Barbara Buncle will be there,” replied that lady. (And that’s really rather clever of me, she thought, because I shan’t be Barbara Buncle anymore; I shall be Barbara Abbott. It’s a pity I shan’t be at the wedding of course, but I can’t be, so it’s no use thinking about it.)
Sally’s news was really astounding; she could hardly believe it was true. She wished she had known about it before so that she could have put it all into The Pen is Mightier—. It would have added considerable interest to the story of Mr. Shakeshaft if she had married him off to his pupil—just like Swift and Stella, Barbara thought regretfully. There might even have been a double wedding at St. Agatha’s. No, the wedding was Elizabeth’s and Elizabeth’s alone. It would never have done to filch any of the glory from Elizabeth; but the story about Mr. Shakeshaft being a rich man after all—a sort of prince in disguise—was a distinct loss to The Pen is Mightier—. Why didn’t I think of it? sighed Barbara. I have no im
agination at all. It would have finished off Mr. Shakeshaft so happily and made Mrs. Myrtle Coates look even more of a fool. It is, of course, the obvious end, only I was too blind and stupid to see it.
“What are you thinking about, Barbara?” demanded Sally.
“I’m wishing I had a little imagination,” replied Barbara. She was always truthful when it was possible so to be.
“Never mind, old thing! We can’t all be John Smiths,” said Sally, squeezing her arm affectionately.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
John Smith
The Pen is Mightier— arrived in Silverstream. It seemed that practically everybody had ordered copies in advance. By twelve o’clock Mrs. Featherstone Hogg was on the telephone summoning her forces.
“Of course it’s Barbara Buncle,” she said to Mr. Bulmer. “Who would have thought that frumpy little object would have the audacity to write such wicked books? You’ve read the new one, I suppose; it’s worse.”
“I’ve glanced through it—just glanced through it casually,” replied Mr. Bulmer, who had had his nose glued to the pages of The Pen is Mightier— ever since it had arrived. “The novel is not worth reading.”
“Of course not,” agreed Mrs. Featherstone Hogg. “I just glanced through it too, just to see whether I could find any clue to John Smith’s identity, and it’s perfectly plain now.”
Mr. Bulmer agreed.
“I’ll call for you in the Daimler in about ten minutes,” added Mrs. Featherstone Hogg. “We can’t do anything to her, I suppose, but we can go down to Tanglewood Cottage and have it out with her.”
Mr. Bulmer agreed with alacrity.
Mrs. Featherstone Hogg rang up Vivian Greensleeves and arranged to pick her up on the way; the Weatherheads were invited but refused; Mrs. Carter agreed to meet the others at the gate, so too, the Snowdons.
Mrs. Featherstone Hogg could not think of anyone else to ask; she did not want people like Mrs. Dick and Mrs. Goldsmith; they only complicated matters. She had made the mistake of asking too many people to her drawing-room meeting and she was determined not to repeat it. Of course it was a great pity that Ellen King was not here—
Mrs. Carter was coming out of her gate as the Daimler drove up to Tanglewood Cottage and disgorged its occupants.
“Isn’t it awful?” cried Mrs. Carter, hastening toward the others. “Isn’t it perfectly awful to think I’ve been living next door to him—to her—to John Smith I mean—all this time? I never was so mistaken in anyone; it just shows how deep she is.”
“I always considered Barbara Buncle half idiotic,” agreed Mrs. Featherstone Hogg.
“The books in no way disprove your opinion,” gasped Miss Snowdon, who had just arrived upon the scene, very breathless, with her father and sister in tow.
“That’s what I think,” agreed Mr. Bulmer. “They’re idiotic books.”
“Hullo!” exclaimed Vivian Greensleeves (who had been looking about her while the others talked). “Look at that. What does that mean?” She pointed to a large white board fixed securely in a tree near the gate. They all looked at it and saw that it bore in new black lettering the announcement:
TANGLEWOOD COTTAGE
this desirable residence for sale
Three Bedrooms, Two Reception, Bathroom, H&C
(Apply Mrs. Abbott, c/o Abbott & Spicer, Brummel Street, London, EC4)
“She’s going away,” Mr. Snowdon suggested.
“Can you wonder?” cried Mrs. Carter. “What sort of a life would she have in Silverstream after this?”
“I wonder who Mrs. Abbott is,” said Vivian.
Mrs. Featherstone Hogg was shaking the gate fiercely. “It seems to be locked; she’s frightened out of her wits, I suppose.”
“Quite likely,” agreed Miss Snowdon.
They all gazed up the drive. Vivian pointed out that there were the wheel marks of a large car in the soft ground. They were quite recent wheel marks.
“Who can have driven in?” Mrs. Carter wondered.
“She’s probably bought a car,” said Mr. Bulmer.
“Barbara Buncle!” cried Mrs. Carter incredulously. “The woman is as poor as a church mouse.”
“Is she?” said Mr. Bulmer sarcastically. “Is she really? She must have made hundreds out of her first novel, and even more out of the new one.”
“Hundreds out of that rubbish?” cried Mrs. Featherstone Hogg.
“Yes, hundreds. It’s just those trashy novels that make money, nowadays,” said Mr. Bulmer bitterly. (His bitterness was caused by the fact that Henry the Fourth was now completed and was going the rounds of all the Publishing Houses in London, and returning every few weeks, to its author, with the sure instinct of a homing pigeon.)
“Well, it’s no use standing here all day,” said Vivian Greensleeves, crossly.
They agreed that it was not. Mrs. Featherstone Hogg shook the gate again, but with no result.
“We could go in through my garden,” suggested Mrs. Carter. “There’s that gap in the fence—Sally uses it. I shall have it blocked up immediately, of course.”
It was an excellent idea, and the whole party turned to follow her.
At this moment another car drove up and was seen to be the doctor’s Alvis. Sarah had also procured a copy of The Pen is Mightier— and had spent the morning reading it and discovering its authorship. She had given the doctor no peace until he had agreed to bring her down to Tanglewood Cottage in the car.
“They’ll kill her,” she told him, with exaggerated concern.
Dr. John didn’t think that they would actually kill Miss Buncle, but he agreed that it might be as well to go down and see what was happening.
“Hullo!” said Sarah, stepping out of the car, “everybody seems to be calling on John Smith this morning.”
“Did you ever know such a wicked deception?” cried Mrs. Carter.
“Who would ever have thought it was Barbara Buncle?” cried Miss Isabella Snowdon.
“Barbara told me about it months ago,” replied Sarah nonchalantly.
“She told you she was John Smith?”
“Yes, months ago.” (But of course I didn’t believe her, added Sarah to herself.)
The whole party stood and gazed at Sarah in amazement. They had so much to say that they couldn’t find words to say anything at all.
“Well, never mind that now,” said Mrs. Carter. “Come along—this way—through my garden.”
They followed Mrs. Carter through her gate, and down the somewhat muddy path that led to the gap in the fence. Dr. Walker and Sarah came last, by themselves. They were not strictly of the party; they were merely here to see that nothing happened—
“What are you going to say, Agatha?” inquired Mrs. Carter, rather breathlessly, of Mrs. Featherstone Hogg.
“Words will be given me,” replied that lady, confidently, as she squeezed through the fence in the wake of the fat Miss Snowdon.
They approached the house through the shrubbery where Barbara had had her “feu de joie.” The trees were budding now, and there were some early daffodils among the long grass; but the party had no eyes for the beauties of spring; they were one and all engaged in framing cutting sentences to hurl at John Smith. They couldn’t do anything, of course, but they could say a good deal.
They approached the house in silence and stood in a little group upon the lawn. They stared at the house, and the house stared back at them with closely shuttered windows. It wore the unmistakable, forlorn look of a deserted nest.
Barbara Buncle had gone.
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 Marr
ied, 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 Miss Buncle’s Book in 1934.
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