Miss Buncle's Book

by D. E. Stevenson

  “John!” she said suddenly. “Shall I let Angela go alone? I could take up some sort of work—no, don’t say anything yet—I believe I’m bad for Angela, John. I have begun to think she would be better without me. She depends upon me too much. Sometimes I think she is beginning to lose her identity altogether—”

  “What on earth are you talking about?” said Dr. John furiously, taking a few strides across the floor and back again to his usual station in front of the fire. “What on earth are you talking about, Ellen? I thought you had more sense. Angela would depend upon anybody who happened to be there to depend upon. It’s her nature to—to lean—Angela is weak in body, and soul, and mind.”

  “I know,” said Ellen, “I know all that, John, but I love her just the same. I love her too much. I fuss over her too much—I agonize over her—”

  “Look here, we all agonize over people we love. But we mustn’t fuss—that’s the important thing. It’s difficult not to fuss, but we mustn’t do it, Ellen. I don’t think you do fuss over Angela. I think you’re very sensible with her.”

  “I’ve begun to doubt it,” Ellen replied. “You don’t know how she depends upon me for everything. She can’t even decide what to wear without asking me what I think. That’s bad, isn’t it, John?”

  “It’s the woman’s nature,” he said impatiently. “You’ve done such a lot for her; you’ve been wonderful to her, Ellen. Believe me it’s not your fault that she’s weak and vacillating—you’re not bad for her; it’s absurd and ridiculous to think so. As for her going to Egypt by herself, the thing’s simply unthinkable; I couldn’t countenance it for a moment. I’d rather she stayed here, infinitely rather. You must go and look after her; she needs you. For pity’s sake, don’t go and get a lot of foolish ideas into your head.”

  “John, have you read that book?”

  “Have I read it? Did Sarah give me a moment’s peace until I had read the wretched book? Have I had a moment’s peace ever since with everybody talking about it, and having hysterics over it?—Don’t talk to me about that book, Ellen,” said Dr. John half in fun and half in earnest.

  “But what do you think of it, John?” she demanded, disobeying his injunction promptly.

  “Well, I’ll tell you what I think about it if you like. I know I’m in the minority in my opinion, but that can’t be helped. I think it was written by a very simple-minded person—a woman. Yes, I’m almost certain John Smith is a woman. I wouldn’t mind betting you a fiver that it’s a woman, if you like to take me on. And I don’t think the book is meant to be unkind or libelous at all. I think John Smith sat down at her desk, and wrote that book in absolute good faith, merely describing people as she saw them, putting in every smallest detail about them just as she saw it.”

  “But the second part,” objected Ellen.

  Dr. John laughed. “The second part ran away with her—that’s obvious. The book suddenly took the bit in its mouth and bolted with John Smith, and she just sat back and held on like grim death and let it run. I confess that it amused me, Ellen—I know this is heresy in Silverstream, but it amused me immensely. It didn’t strike me as a satire, nor could I find anything nasty in it. You can read it both ways, I know, especially some parts like the love scenes, but I’m pretty certain that John Smith intended nothing nasty. I’m pretty certain that it’s just a simple story, written by a very innocent person, a person totally ignorant of the world and worldly matters—perhaps even rather a stupid person.”

  “And who is it?” she asked him, thoughtfully.

  “There you have me,” the doctor owned, stroking his chin. “There, I admit, you have me cold. I have not the remotest idea who could have written that book, although, obviously, I must know the author quite well.”

  “She must be a local person,” Ellen agreed; she had quite accepted the doctor’s diagnosis of the author’s sex.

  “Of course she must be. And somebody who knows us all intimately. Everybody will tell you that the book is full of discrepancies, of course. Mrs. Carter says that it is quite wrong about her hair,” said Dr. John with twinkling eyes, “and Mrs. Featherstone Hogg denies that she was ever in the chorus—”

  “Was she?” inquired Ellen breathlessly.

  “I’m sure I don’t know, and if I did I wouldn’t tell you,” was the whimsical reply. “Bulmer says he’s the soul of amiability, and Mrs. Dick doesn’t feed her paying guests on congealed bacon fat, and I assure you here and now that I never prescribe castor oil for malingerers—as a matter of fact I know a trick worth two of that—but all the same I am convinced that John Smith knows us all pretty well, and that, therefore, we must know John Smith.”

  “That’s what I said to Mr. Abbott,” Ellen agreed.

  Dr. John was edging toward the door. He hoped that Ellen would let him go and have his lunch—it was after two o’clock and he was feeling somewhat empty—but she hadn’t finished with him yet.

  “You’re not really anxious about Angela, are you?” she asked, following him into the hall.

  “Not if you go away,” he replied firmly. “I shall be worried if you stay here. Lord! I wish I could get away from this abominable climate, and take Sarah—you’re lucky.”

  “You wouldn’t let Sarah come with us?” suggested Ellen hopefully.

  “Kind of you,” he said, struggling into his coat, and retrieving his hat from the stand, “very kind indeed, and of course I’d let her. But I don’t think she’d go. Persuade her if you can. I’d miss her abominably, of course, but I’m all for it, if you can get her to go. I tried to send her away when she was ill, but she was twice as ill at the mere idea—”

  “You were anxious about her, I know,” said Ellen.

  “Anxious? I was demented,” replied the doctor. “I don’t want anyone to go through that particular hell if I can help it. That’s why I’m banishing you to Egypt.” He was on the doorstep now, poised for flight—if only the woman would stop talking and let him get home.

  “Why don’t you send us to Samarkand while you’re about it?” she demanded, with a deep chuckle. “I believe you’re in league with your female John Smith.”

  Dr. John waved his hat at her. “Good! Splendid!” he cried. “That’s the spirit—that’s more like the good old Ellen King I know so well. Tell them all that you and Angela are off to Samarkand—and, Ellen,” he added in lower and more confidential tones, “don’t forget to order those riding breeches, will you? You’d look fine in them.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Drawing-Room Meeting

  Barbara Buncle was a little late for the drawing-room meeting on Thursday afternoon. She had been working at her new novel all the morning, and then, just as she was in the middle of dressing, Sally had appeared and had wanted to hear all about her adventures in town, and all about Virginia and the new clothes. Barbara tried to talk and dress at the same time but she was not used to it, having been an only child with no sisters to initiate her in the art.

  “That stocking’s inside out,” Sally told her, “and there’s a tiny hole in the heel. You had better give it to me to mend while you put on your hat.”

  Barbara complied meekly. Her new outfit had not arrived yet, so she had to wear her old hat—the one that looked so ridiculous upon her new hair.

  “You can’t go like that,” said Sally frankly. “Haven’t you got any other hats at all?”

  “None that I could wear,” admitted Barbara sadly.

  Sally put down the stocking, which she had mended neatly, and rummaged in Barbara’s wardrobe. She unearthed an old black felt which Barbara had intended to give to Dorcas, twisted it this way and that in her small capable hands, and finally crammed it onto Barbara’s head, back to front, and told her to go.

  “You’ll be fearfully late if you don’t hurry,” she said, just as if it were not her fault at all that Barbara was late. “Gran starte
d hours ago. And I want you to listen to everything that everybody says and remember it all to tell me. I’d give anything to be there.”

  Barbara promised, and seized her umbrella, and fled, quite forgetting about the hat.

  Mrs. Featherstone Hogg had arranged all her chairs around the drawing-room walls. They were filled with people. She herself was seated in the middle with a card-table in front of her, covered with a red cloth, and laden with writing materials. Beside her sat Mr. Bulmer wearing his gloomiest expression.

  Mr. Bulmer’s gloom was due partly to domestic difficulties which had arisen in the absence of his wife, and partly to the feeling that he looked a fool sitting in the middle of Mrs. Featherstone Hogg’s drawing-room on a bedroom chair. He had tried to efface himself upon the sofa beside Mrs. Goldsmith, but Mrs. Featherstone Hogg had pounced upon him, and dragged him forth and seated him at her side; and there he was, for all the world like an exhibit in a show—a secondary exhibit, of course, for Mrs. Featherstone Hogg was obviously the primary exhibit herself.

  The Meeting had not yet started when Barbara arrived, so she was not late after all, or else the Meeting was late in starting. She slipped—as inconspicuously as possible—into a seat beside Sarah Walker and looked round the room.

  Miss King was sitting near the window beside Mrs. Carter, and beyond them was Mrs. Dick flanked by two of her gentlemen paying guests—Mr. Fortnum and Mr. Black. (The latter was Barbara’s supercilious young friend from the bank, of course.) Then came the three Snowdons, Mrs. Greensleeves and Captain Sandeman, and Mr. Featherstone Hogg. Mrs. Goldsmith was alone upon the sofa but she filled more than half of it quite comfortably. She looked very solemn and important in a black silk cloak trimmed with astrakhan. Mr. Durnet was near the door. He was all in his Sunday clothes and was obviously quite bewildered to find himself in The Riggs drawing-room. I’m glad I didn’t let Dorcas come, thought Barbara. Dorcas had been invited, of course, but she had shown no signs of wanting to attend the meeting, and Barbara hadn’t pressed her in any way. Barbara felt she could bear the ordeal better if Dorcas were safely at home.

  Barbara Buncle looked round the room and saw all her puppets (with a few exceptions) assembled together for the purpose of reviling their creator. She wondered if any other author had ever beheld such a curious sight. It would be exciting to write a play, Barbara thought, to see your creations put on the garment of mortality, to hear your words issuing from their mouths. But a play must always be a little disappointing; no actor can completely satisfy an author, and there must be some discrepancy between the author’s conception of a character and the actor’s expression. This was far better than any play, for the actors were themselves. They couldn’t act out of character if they tried, for they were the characters—as large as life and twice as natural.

  A strange mist hovered before Barbara’s eyes. Was this Silverstream, or was it Copperfield? Was that Mrs. Horsley Downs, or was it Mrs. Featherstone Hogg?

  Sarah Walker recalled her to reality. “I really ought not to be here because I’m not in it,” she whispered, “John’s coming later if he can possibly get away. Isn’t it funny?” Barbara agreed that it was, and inquired after the twins’ cold.

  “Oh it’s much better thank you,” said their mother. “They are out today for the first time. I do like your hat, Barbara.”

  “Good gracious!” exclaimed Barbara, “I’d forgotten about my hat—what on earth can it look like?”

  “Silence!” cried Mrs. Featherstone Hogg, and she tapped loudly on the card-table with a hammer.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” said Mrs. Featherstone Hogg. “It is now ten minutes to four, and two of our—of our number have not come yet. There are other absentees, of course, but they have been unavoidably—er—prevented from attending. I will read their apologies later. But these two people have sent no word; they said they would come and I was expecting them. They are very important to our—to our cause. I refer of course to Colonel Weatherhead and Mrs. Bold. Does anyone know why they have not turned up?”

  “Dorothea Bold has gone to London to stay with her sister,” said Barbara in a small voice.

  “How very strange!” said Mrs. Featherstone Hogg. “She might have let me know. Colonel Weatherhead promised to tell her about the Meeting. Well there is just the Colonel to wait for, then, and the point is shall we wait a little longer for him, or carry on without him?”

  A babble of talk immediately broke forth as everyone present began to explain to her neighbor or to her hostess why it was absolutely necessary to wait for the Colonel’s arrival, or to carry on with the Meeting at once. Barbara was swept into Copperfield (the new novel was all about Copperfield too, of course). She contemplated the scene with delight; she was a sponge, soaking up ambrosia.

  Mrs. Featherstone Hogg consulted in undertones with Mr. Bulmer and then rapped upon the table. The Meeting relapsed into silence.

  “Mr. Bulmer says I ought to have opened the Meeting by explaining that I am the chairman and he is the president,” she said loudly. “But of course the Meeting has not been opened yet. I merely wished to ascertain whether everybody thinks we should start without Colonel Weatherhead or wait until he comes.”

  “Very unconstitutional,” remarked Mr. Bulmer loudly.

  “But look here,” said Mr. Black (from the bank). “Look here, you don’t need a chairman and a president, surely, I mean it’s not usual. Either the chairman presides or the president takes the chair, I mean—”

  Mrs. Featherstone Hogg took no notice of the objections and interruptions. She considered Mr. Black’s objection foolish. It was her Meeting, and she would do as she liked about presidents and chairmen. She certainly was not going to take instruction from Mr. Black.

  “Colonel Weatherhead is very important to us,” said Mrs. Featherstone Hogg, keeping firmly to the point, “and I consider we should wait until he comes.”

  “Why not telephone to the feller?” suggested Captain Sandeman, sensibly. “He’s probably forgotten all about it.”

  The chairman considered this, and decided that it was a good idea, so Mr. Featherstone Hogg was sent to telephone to the Colonel and find out if he had started.

  The Meeting waited patiently, all except Mr. Bulmer, who showed signs of strain. He had no use at all for Colonel Weatherhead, and considered that the business in hand could have been transacted quite as efficiently without the Colonel’s presence. As a matter of fact he had the same feeling about two-thirds of the people invited by Mrs. Featherstone Hogg. She had made a fool of the whole thing by asking old Durnet and Mrs. Goldsmith. The former was practically an imbecile in Mr. Bulmer’s opinion—a good many people were practically imbeciles in Mr. Bulmer’s opinion. He tapped irritably on the table with his fingers, and crossed and re-crossed his legs.

  After some time Mr. Featherstone Hogg returned to say that the exchange could get no reply from The Bridge House.

  “You should have told them to ring again,” said Mrs. Featherstone Hogg crossly.

  “I did,” he replied.

  There was nothing more to be done about the Colonel, so Mrs. Featherstone Hogg was obliged to start the proceedings without him. She rose from her chair and rapped upon the table with her hammer.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” said Mrs. Featherstone Hogg, referring to her notes, which she had compiled that morning with considerable care. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have met together today to discuss this book—Disturber of the Peace—which has been flung into our peaceful village like a poison bomb. Before the publication of this book we were all living together like a big happy family, but now there are rifts in the lute and the music is discordant and harsh. We have all suffered from the effects of this book—some in one way and some in another. I have no time to go into each individual case today. It is sufficient to say that all have suffered; that is why we are here. Books like Disturber of the Peace are a
deadly menace to society. They undermine the foundations of English life. An Englishman’s house is his castle. It is into the sacred precincts of this castle that Disturber of the Peace has entered, destroying the fragrance of the home, and violating ts privacy. We of Silverstream must lead the way. It is our duty and our privilege to show England that the home is still a sacred spot and cannot be violated with impunity.”

  Mrs. Featherstone Hogg had marked on her notes, “Pause for applause.” She paused hopefully.

  Mr. Black was the only member of the Meeting who realized what was expected of him. He clapped feebly, but it is impossible to clap alone, so he left off almost immediately.

  “There is only one thing to be done,” continued Mrs. Featherstone Hogg, returning to her notes. “The author of this sacrilege—John Smith he calls himself—must be found. He must be dragged out of his hole like a rat, and punished severely, as an example to the world. It is to do this that we have met today.” She sat down.

  Mr. Bulmer rose somewhat wearily and said, “I was under the impression that I was president of this Meeting. The impression was evidently erroneous,” and sat down.

  The Meeting applauded loudly, but whether the applause was intended to encourage Mr. Bulmer or to confirm him in his impression it is difficult to say.

  Mrs. Featherstone Hogg bobbed up again. “I am sorry that Mr. Bulmer is not satisfied with the way the Meeting is being conducted,” she announced in defiant tones. “I would like to remind him that we are here today to put our heads together and find John Smith. Small points of procedure are of secondary consideration compared with our main object. The Meeting is now open for discussion.”

  There was dead silence.

  Mrs. Featherstone Hogg waited for a minute or two and then bobbed up again.

  “Perhaps I haven’t explained properly,” she said. “The Meeting is now open, and anybody who has anything to say can say it now.”