Miss Buncle's Book

by D. E. Stevenson

  The jacket was just a little disappointing because the Golden Boy was quite different from Barbara’s conception of him. For one thing he seemed to have goats’ legs and his ears were pointed in a peculiar way—Barbara had imagined quite a human, ordinary sort of boy—but that was, after all, a mere detail and you could hardly expect a strange artist to depict a Golden Boy exactly as you had imagined him.

  The set was over now, and the players were returning to the pavilion talking about the various strokes which had made or marred their fortunes in the game. Mr. Hathaway was illustrating a back-hand drive to Mrs. Bulmer. He was a kind man, always ready to help the rabbits to improve their status.

  “What about a men’s four?” suggested Dorothea Bold, “Here’s Dr. Walker coming—it would be splendid to watch.”

  “Awfully sorry, I must go now,” said the Vicar, struggling into his blazer. “The truth is my uncle is coming for two nights—”

  He said good-bye to everybody and strode off. He was late, for the set had lasted longer than he had expected. He wondered if it would matter much if he broke into a run. Would it do Silverstream any harm to see its Vicar doubling along the High Street like an ordinary young man? Perhaps it was better just to walk quickly. When you became a Vicar it seemed necessary to stifle so many natural impulses.

  Uncle Mike wouldn’t mind him being a bit late—there was no foolishness of that kind about Uncle Mike—but Ernest was longing to see Uncle Mike after all these weeks, and to add to his pleasure it was delightful to be going to entertain Uncle Mike in his very own house.

  The Reverend Michael Whitney was Ernest Hathaway’s uncle, guardian, tutor, his father in God, and general confessor. He had looked after Ernest ever since the latter had been left an orphan at eleven years old. Ernest had spent all his holidays at the big old-fashioned country rectory, a corner of which was amply sufficient for the bachelor Rector’s needs. Uncle and nephew—an oddly assorted couple—had walked and talked together and fished various small streams in the neighborhood with more or less success. Uncle Mike had devoted one entire summer holiday to the important task of teaching Ernest to hold a straight bat, to keep his eye on the ball, and step out to it. There was a certain telling pull to leg which Uncle Mike had imparted to Ernest and which had brought that young man laurels on more than one occasion.

  Ernest owed everything to Uncle Mike, and he knew it and was grateful. It was nice to be able to entertain Uncle Mike in return. He was only coming for two days, of course, but Ernest had managed to include most of Uncle Mike’s favorite dishes in the two days’ menu. He hoped Mrs. Hobday would make a success of the dishes and not forget the orange salad, nor make the curry too hot.

  As Ernest put his hand on the gate and vaulted lightly into his own garden, he saw that Uncle Mike had arrived and had established himself in a deck chair on the lawn beneath the chest-nut tree. Ernest waved his hand, and shouted, “Don’t get up.”

  “I can’t,” said Uncle Mike (his figure was not of the type that rises easily from deck chairs), but his round fat face beamed with pleasure as Ernest came toward him across the lawn.

  “Been teaching your parishioners to play tennis?” asked Uncle Mike chuckling.

  “Trying to,” smiled Ernest.

  “Not getting stuck-up, are you?”

  “Trying not to,” smiled Ernest again.

  “How often have I warned you against the Sin of Pride?” demanded Uncle Mike with mock severity.

  “Hundreds of times,” Ernest agreed with mock humility.

  They both laughed. It was very pleasant to joke with somebody who understood. Ernest was happy; the garden was full of the late-afternoon golden sunshine and the song of birds. It was quiet and peaceful after the chatter of the tennis club. He sat down on the grass beside Uncle Mike and took off his hat.

  “You’re very comfortable here,” Uncle Mike told him. “I like the look of that woman you’ve got—Mrs. Hobday, isn’t it? Your bookcase fits into the library nicely, doesn’t it?”

  “I’m too comfortable,” Ernest replied tersely.

  “You said so in your letter,” agreed Uncle Mike. “I didn’t know what you meant. How can a person be too comfortable? I suppose you have got one of your wild-cat ideas—”

  “Yes, I have,” Ernest owned, smiling a little, “at least you will probably think it is a wild-cat idea.”

  “I have no doubt of it. Let’s hear the worst.”

  “It’s like this, Uncle Mike,” Ernest said, clasping his hands round his knees and looking up at the other man with his frank gaze, “I’ve got too much money.”

  The fat man began to laugh; he laughed and wheezed and laughed again.

  “You’ve got your asthma—” said Ernest anxiously.

  “You’re enough to give anyone—asthma,” gasped Uncle Mike. “Absolutely unique in this planet—don’t you know that the—whole world is on the verge of bankruptcy?”

  “I’m not talking about the whole world,” replied Ernest. “I’m talking about myself. Here am I, a strong healthy man, living in luxury—it’s not right.”

  “You can help people, Ernest.”

  “There is nobody here that needs help,” Ernest replied, “nobody really poor. Of course I can give money away to people, but it doesn’t do much good—in fact I’m beginning to see that it does harm. People here think that I’ve got plenty of money and they come to me with tales—not always strictly true—and expect me to help them.”

  “Human nature,” suggested Uncle Mike who had seen a good deal of human nature in his time.

  “It’s doing harm,” Ernest told him, “my money is doing harm in this parish. Instead of giving, they take. It’s not right. St. Paul said people should give to the church, and support their priests.”

  “You find them grasping?” inquired Uncle Mike.

  “Only because I’m well off—I’m sure of that, or at least nearly sure. They are only grasping because they think I can afford to give.”

  “Well, you can.”

  “Yes, but the system is all wrong. The whole thing is back to front—oh it’s so difficult to explain—” Ernest cried, waving his arms. “My mind is so full of it all that I simply can’t put it into words. Look at the Apostles, look at St. Francis! They stripped themselves of their worldly goods (perhaps it was to teach people to give) and they didn’t starve, did they?”

  “People fed them,” replied Uncle Mike. “People don’t feed saints nowadays; they ask them why they are not on the dole, and advise them to apply for parish relief.”

  “Now don’t be horrid, Uncle Mike,” said Ernest, as if he were, once more, only eleven years old. “You can understand if you want to. It’s really quite simple—here I am living in luxury and getting fat and lazy. It’s frightfully bad for me, and it’s bad for other people too. Mrs. Hobday is wasteful and extravagant, and I don’t care—why should I?—People come and ask me for money and I give it to them because it’s less trouble to give it to them than to refuse—it’s bad, bad, bad.”

  “Well, supposing it is bad—what is the remedy?” inquired Uncle Mike uneasily.

  “I ought to be able to live on my stipend.”

  “You couldn’t,” replied Uncle Mike, “we went over all that before you came here. The living was offered to you because you had private means. It is such a poor living that no man who had not private means could take it—”

  “That’s another wrong thing,” said Ernest excitedly. “A living shouldn’t be offered to a man because he has private means—the laborer is worthy of his hire—it is debasing the church—no living should be so poor that a single man couldn’t live on it.”

  “The world is far from perfect,” Uncle Mike said (he had lived in the world a long time and had learned to take the bad with the good, like a Gregory powder in jam). “The world is far from perfect. There
are lots of things wrong but you can’t change the world.”

  “I don’t want to change the world—at least perhaps I do want to, but I’m not such a fool as to think I can—that isn’t the point. The point is that there’s something wrong here, something wrong in my life and I’ve got to change it. I’m going to try and live on my stipend, Uncle Mike. After all a man should be able to live on very little. Look at St. Francis—”

  “Well, go ahead then,” said Uncle Mike who was beginning to feel rather weary, and had no wish to hear anymore about St. Francis at the moment. “Go ahead and try to live on it for a bit. I don’t suppose it will do you any harm. Try to keep your expenses down to three pounds a week—”

  “That wouldn’t be any good,” interrupted Ernest, shaking his head, “I wouldn’t be able to do it.”

  “Of course you wouldn’t. Isn’t that just what I’ve been telling you?” asked Uncle Mike in exasperation. And how could he? How could Ernest, who had always had as much money as he could spend, suddenly start living on three pounds a week? (Especially when there was no real necessity for it. If you had to do a thing you just had to, and there was the end of it.) It was not that the boy was extravagant, exactly, but he always liked the best of everything, and, since his father had left him well provided for, there seemed to be no reason why he should not have the best of everything. Mr. Whitney had nothing to complain of about Ernest’s spending. The boy spent wisely, and he had always been generous in a wise manner, but up to now, he had managed to go through his large yearly income without the slightest difficulty.

  “I shan’t be able to live on three pounds a week unless I have only three pounds a week to live on,” Ernest was saying. “If I have only three pounds to spend, I can’t spend more.”

  “Can’t you?” inquired Mr. Whitney.

  “Well, I shan’t, anyhow,” returned Ernest, “and what I want to do is this, I want to arrange for all my money to go to various charities, to go to them straight off just as it comes in, so that I shan’t have it at all, even if I want it. You can get a deed of gift made out, or something like that, I suppose.”

  Mr. Whitney gasped.

  “Here’s a list of charities I’ve thought of,” Ernest continued, taking the list out of his pocket and handing it over. “You can probably suggest others. Of course the capital is tied up in the trust or I could have got rid of it much more easily—it’s a pity.”

  “It is indeed,” replied Mr. Whitney with deplorable sarcasm.

  “I’m afraid it’s going to be a bit of a nuisance for you,” continued Ernest. “But I don’t see how else I can arrange it, or who else I could get to do it for me—”

  At this point Mr. Whitney ceased to listen; he knew Ernest sufficiently well to know that when Ernest got an idea into his head nothing would remove it. The only thing to be done was to safeguard the rash youth from the consequence of his wild-cat scheme. If Uncle Mike took the management of the wild-cat scheme into his own hands he could keep part of the money in reserve for Ernest when he wanted it (as he most assuredly would want it). Yes, that would be the best way—he would fall in with Ernest’s plan and agree to distribute the money, and of course he would distribute the greater part of the money as Ernest wished; but part of it—say five hundred pounds—he would bank safely in Ernest’s name so that it would be there if required, and if not required it could be distributed at the end of the year. A year of poverty would do Ernest no harm—no harm at all. In fact it would be quite a valuable experience for Ernest. He had always had too much money, and too much money was bad—not that it seemed to have done Ernest any harm—. Mr. Whitney had been worried about Ernest’s affluence at one time, but when he saw that the boy was turning out all right in spite of the money, he had ceased to worry. It was strange how things worked out. Mr. Whitney had wished that Ernest might have the experience of poverty, and now Ernest had chosen to have it, and Mr. Whitney was worried. But there was really nothing to worry about, thought Mr. Whitney, comforting himself—he hated having to worry about things—because everything would be quite all right, and it would do Ernest good to count the pennies for a year. As long as the boy did not starve himself it would be all right. He must keep an eye on Ernest and see that he did not do that, of course.

  They discussed the whole matter again after dinner—the dinner had been very satisfactory—and it was decided that Ernest should sign a paper making over his year’s income to Uncle Mike. Uncle Mike would then distribute the money to various charities as he thought best. (Ernest didn’t mind very much who got the money as long as he was rid of it—he had begun to look upon it as a burden—perhaps the burden that Christian had carried strapped to his back.) At the end of a year the matter would be reconsidered. Mr. Whitney insisted on the year’s probation—Ernest might want to marry, or he, himself, might die; anything might happen in a year—

  “Good,” said Ernest at last, stretching his arms, “I’m free.” “You are bound,” thought Mr. Whitney but he was too wise to say so.

  ***

  The next morning was a Saint’s birthday. Ernest and Uncle Mike walked down through the garden to the little church. The dew glistened on the grass like millions of diamonds; a lark was singing blithely.

  Ernest thought that he had never enjoyed anything more deeply and perfectly than that Early Celebration, his heart was full of peace and happiness. It was too wonderful to talk about. After it was over they walked back through the sunlit garden, very near together in spirit.

  “Do you think I’m a fool, Uncle Mike?” asked Ernest suddenly.

  “If you think it the right thing to do you are right to do it,” replied Uncle Mike quietly. “I believe the experience will be valuable.”

  Chapter Five

  Mrs. Walker

  Mrs. Walker—the doctor’s wife—was the first person in Silverstream to read Disturber of the Peace.

  It was a foggy evening in October, very raw and damp for the time of year. Incidentally it was the fifth anniversary of the Walkers’ wedding day, and Sarah Walker had arranged a nice little dinner with all the doctor’s favorite dishes to celebrate the occasion. But woman proposes and God disposes—Sarah knew when she heard the telephone bell that it was an urgent call.

  It was quite absurd that she should know from the way the bell rang that it was an urgent call (it might just as well have been a telegram from her father remembering, belatedly, the occasion; or a message from Mrs. Featherstone Hogg bidding her to tea; or half a dozen other things of no importance whatsoever), but Sarah always declared that she knew the moment the telephone bell rang whether it was the hand of God summoning John from her side, and the strange thing was that she was very often right.

  So, tonight, when the bell rang, and John ran downstairs to answer it, and returned to say, “It’s the Sandeman baby arriving,” she had already gotten over her disappointment about the anniversary dinner and had decided to counter-order everything (seeing the feast would be but an empty farce without John, and besides, she did not really enjoy salmon and oxtail herself, but only liked to see John enjoying them) and have a poached egg and a cup of cocoa on a tray in the study.

  “I’m frightfully sorry,” said Dr. John, “but it can’t be helped. Don’t wait up for me, Sally. Dear knows when I’ll be home—have you seen my rubber gloves?”

  “There’s a new pair in the drawer in the Surgery,” Sarah said, “the others split. Never mind, we’ll pretend it’s tomorrow. Be sure to make it a boy.”

  This was a recognized joke, so the doctor chuckled dutifully.

  “Take your muffler—the big gray one,” Sarah added, “it’s a horrible night.”

  He kissed her and tore himself away.

  The study was a cozy, rather shabby room with red curtains, shaded lights, and a few good prints on its plain, cream-colored walls. Two deep leather armchairs stood on either side of the fire.

>   Sarah sighed, drew back the curtains and peered out at the night. She could not make out whether it was raining; the mist was heavy, and the street lamps were surrounded by an orange-colored nimbus. She felt glad that she had made John take his muffler. She wondered how long Mrs. Sandeman’s baby would take to arrive. Her mind strayed back three years. It was on a night like this that the twins had made their unexpected appearance in the world—how horrible it had been! She had never appreciated John at his full value until that dreadful night, his kindness, his gentleness, his marvelous strength.

  The parcel of books from the library was on the table. Sarah undid the string and turned them over with her long thin fingers. What had they sent this time? She rejected a fat biography, and dipped into a historical réchauffé—too dull. She was not in the mood for improving literature tonight; something light and amusing would pass the time better. What about this one—Disturber of the Peace by John Smith? She took it up and sank into the doctor’s chair (it was the more comfortable of the two, for John’s weight had broken some of the springs and flattened out the others, whereas Sarah’s chair was still in its pristine state of bulgy hardness despite her five years’ occupancy). Nell, the setter—who had never set at anything more exciting than a crow—lay down comfortably at Sarah’s feet.

  “I shall wait up for him however late it is,” Sarah told her. “He can’t be later than twelve, can he, Nell? I shall make him a cup of Benger’s, and you shall have some too.”

  Nell wagged her tail. It was a pity she couldn’t talk, but she understood every word you said—at least the Walkers declared that she did.

  Sarah turned on the reading lamp and opened the book; quiet fell in the room as she began to read. She read quickly, for, since the advent of the twins, she had not been very strong, and people who are not very strong usually read a great deal, and people who read a great deal read quickly—besides the book ran along so easily, it swept you along—