Miss Buncle's Book

by D. E. Stevenson

  Sally closed her eyes and thought about it deeply; she could think much better when her eyes were shut. She would save the poor young man from the clutches of Mrs. Greensleeves; she would save him in spite of himself. The only thing to be settled was how she was going to save him.

  Thinking all this over and over inside her head, Sally went home and was wonderfully docile and obedient to her grandmother, drinking up her milk without a murmur, and sitting reading very quietly in the corner of the sofa for the remainder of the morning.

  “May I go out for a walk, Gran?” Sally asked, when they had finished lunch and were drinking their coffee in the drawing-room. “It is so nice and sunny today, I feel a walk would do me a lot of good.”

  Mrs. Carter saw no reason why Sally should not go for a walk; she, herself, liked to sit down quietly with a book after lunch, and sometimes she closed her eyes and snoozed for a little in a ladylike manner; but children were different, of course, and the doctor had said most distinctly that Sally was to have sunshine.

  “I think you might, dear,” said Gran, “perhaps Lily had better put on her things and go with you—”

  “Oh, Gran! It’s Lily’s afternoon out,” said Sally reproachfully.

  This was an argument that could not be met. Gran would rather have gone for a walk with Sally herself than have filched an “afternoon out” from her admirable and highly efficient parlor maid.

  “Well, I suppose you had better go alone then,” she said, with a little sigh. “I don’t like you walking about alone, but it can’t be helped. Don’t go too far, dear, and don’t overtire yourself or get your feet wet.”

  Sally promised to obey these dull injunctions with unusual docility and departed to call on Mrs. Greensleeves.

  ***

  Vivian Greensleeves was in when Sally called. She often took a little nap after lunch herself—there was nothing else to do in Silverstream except sleep. She had just composed herself comfortably upon her pink bed, and closed her eyes, when Milly came in to say that Miss Carter had called.

  “Miss Carter!” exclaimed Vivian irritably.

  “Mrs. Carter’s granddaughter,” said Milly, “the young lady from The Firs.”

  “I know all that,” said Vivian. “What does she want to see me for?”

  Milly had no idea. Miss Carter hadn’t said why she wanted to see Mrs. Greensleeves; she had just called.

  “Well, I suppose I had better see her,” said Vivian reluctantly. “Some idiotic message from the old lady, I suppose—curse her!”

  She arose reluctantly from her bed and powdered her nose. She did this quite instinctively and not because she wanted to appear at her best before Sally Carter.

  Sally was waiting in the drawing-room. She rose when her hostess appeared and they shook hands gravely. It crossed Vivian’s mind that the Carter child was much younger than she had thought; she couldn’t possibly be more than fifteen. The impression was due to the fact that Sally had donned an entirely different set of garments from those she usually wore. With the old blue school hat which had been stowed away in the bottom of her hat box for the last three years, and the belted waterproof, and the colored woolen scarf wound round her neck, Sally would have passed anywhere for a schoolgirl. Nor had she been content merely to lay aside her attractive and sophisticated clothes (Sally was nothing if not thorough), she had laid away her grown-up manner as well.

  “I hope you don’t mind me coming,” she said shyly.

  Vivian replied conventionally that she was very pleased to see her—she could not well do otherwise—and asked her to sit down.

  “Silverstream is awfully dull, isn’t it?” said Sally opening her eyes very wide. “I expect you find it awfully dull too, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I do,” replied Vivian fervently. She wondered what on earth the child had come for. Why didn’t she say what she had come for instead of sitting there gazing round the room with those intensely blue and innocent eyes?

  “Have you a message for me?” she asked at last.

  “Oh, no,” said Sally. “No, I haven’t. You see Gran didn’t know I was coming. I expect you think it’s rather queer me coming to see you like this—I just—I just wanted to see you—” said Sally, looking down and twisting one of the buttons of her waterproof in an embarrassed manner.

  Vivian smiled—she thought she understood now why Sally had come. The child had evidently taken a fancy to her this morning, one of those schoolgirl passions which one reads about in psychological novels. And wasn’t it quite a natural thing that Sally should take a fancy to somebody so entirely different from the dull and stodgy people with whom she was surrounded? Of course it was.

  “It was nice of you to come,” said the pleasantly flattered Vivian—even a schoolgirl’s admiration was worth having in a place as dull as Silverstream.

  “Oh, no, it was nice of you to see me,” replied Sally humbly.

  “I’m sorry you are feeling dull here—I expect you had a much gayer time with your father, hadn’t you?”

  “Yes. There were parties in the winter, and we used to play tennis at school in the Summer Term. Daddy was always moving about, of course, so I went to lots of different schools.”

  “Rather nice,” suggested Vivian to whom a constant change of scene seemed very desirable.

  “In some ways,” Sally agreed, “but I didn’t learn very much, because I was just getting used to one kind of teaching when I moved on to something quite different. Gran says I’m very ignorant for my age, so that’s why I’m having lessons with Mr. Hathaway.”

  “I see,” said Vivian. She was interested. It had seemed such a queer arrangement when she had broken in upon them in the middle of the lesson that morning. She had even felt a trifle—just a trifle—jealous. Perfectly ridiculous of her to feel jealous of an infant like this! She had tried to find out from Ernest why on earth he had taken on the job of teaching Sally Carter but he had not given any satisfactory explanation of his reasons. Ernest could be very obstinate when he liked.

  “It’s very kind of Mr. Hathaway to spare the time,” Vivian continued, when she had sorted things out in her own mind. “I suppose he is doing it to please Mrs. Carter.”

  Sally nodded. “Partly to please Gran, and partly, of course, because he needs the money so badly,” she told Vivian with childish frankness.

  “Mr. Hathaway has plenty of money,” said Vivian sharply. “You needn’t think the money is any object to him. I expect your grandmother asked him to do it and he didn’t like to refuse.” It would be just like Ernest, she thought, to feel he was obliged to teach the child when Mrs. Carter asked him.

  Sally shook her head sadly, “I know people think Mr. Hathaway is rich, but he’s frightfully poor really. He’s lost all his money you know. It’s frightfully sad. I shouldn’t think anyone has ever been so poor before.”

  “Nonsense,” said Vivian, but all the same her heart missed a beat. Supposing the child was right? Supposing Ernest really had lost all his money and she had wasted all that time and taken all that trouble for nothing? “What makes you think he has lost all his money?” she asked, trying to make her voice sound casual but not succeeding in deceiving Sally’s sharp ears.

  She’s horrified—Sally thought, hugging herself with delight at the success of her plan—she’s trying hard not to believe it, but she knows it’s true all the same. Aloud she said sadly, “Dr. Walker told Gran, and I know it’s true because he hadn’t enough money to pay his laundry bill until he got the money from Gran for my lessons. Oh, I do think it’s sad, don’t you, Mrs. Greensleeves?”

  “It’s more than sad—if it’s true,” replied Vivian in a strange voice—and I’ll find out whether it’s true or not before I’m a day older—she added to herself fiercely.

  Sally had now discovered the black cat. This sagacious animal usually remained in the ki
tchen with Milly and the food, both of which he infinitely preferred to his official mistress. Today for some reason, known only to himself, he was sitting on the black mat in front of the drawing-room fire, and, when Sally called to him invitingly, he stretched his back and walked slowly across the floor.

  “Oh what a darling cat!” Sally exclaimed. “Is he yours? Puss, puss, puss—what’s his name, Mrs. Greensleeves?”

  She continued to praise and stroke the pussy’s glossy back. He really was a dear, and she was intensely grateful to him for helping her to change the subject. She felt instinctively that she had said enough about Mr. Hathaway’s poverty, enough to upset Mrs. Greensleeves and to place a thorny doubt in her mind. Mrs. Greensleeves would never know a moment’s peace until she had found out definitely whether the staggering news was true or not, and that was all that Sally wanted. So she stroked the cat’s ears and slid her small hand along his ridgy back until he purred like a miniature Rolls-Royce.

  “But his clothes are so—so good,” said Vivian, who was too closely interested to abandon the subject.

  “I suppose he got them before he was poor,” said Sally naively.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Mrs. Snowdon’s Memorial

  Ernest was delighted to see his pupil appear as usual the following morning; he had been afraid she would not come. She had been annoyed and offended, he knew, at the arbitrary way in which Vivian Greensleeves had cut short their lesson. Vivian shouldn’t have done it, of course, and he shouldn’t have allowed Vivian to do it, but he had been absolutely helpless at the time—a mere shuttlecock between the two. Looking back upon the scene Ernest decided that he had played a poor part: he should have been firm, he should have sent Vivian away and finished the lesson with Miss Carter; but he could not have done it all the same. It crossed his mind that Vivian had been a little inconsiderate, and somewhat domineering. Was he taking unto himself a domineering wife? St. Paul said that a woman should be obedient to her husband. Of course he was not Vivian’s husband; she would be different when they were married. Strangely enough the thought of being married to Vivian had ceased to thrill him. Ernest wondered why. A week ago, ten days ago, the mere thought of being married to Vivian had been sufficient to send delicious shivers up his spine. It’s just that I’m getting used to the idea, Ernest thought.

  When the mystic hour of ten-thirty drew near, Ernest found that he could not sit still. He went and looked out of the window several times—would she come, or was she really hurt and offended? How awful if she didn’t come anymore, if she discontinued her lessons! They had had such pleasant hours together. He liked to hear her reading; she had such a pretty voice, and he could look at her undisturbed—he liked looking at her.

  If she doesn’t come I shall go and call, Ernest thought, I was at fault about the whole thing and I must apologize. Perhaps if I apologize she will forgive me for being such a weak idiot. He left the window—impelled by a sudden idea—and went into the kitchen to find Mrs. Hobday.

  “Oh, Mrs. Hobday,” said Ernest. “If anybody calls while I am giving Miss Carter her lesson please say I am engaged. The lesson must not be interrupted.”

  “Yes sir,” said Mrs. Hobday. “I’m sorry about yesterday, I really am. But Mrs. Greensleeves was so obstinate and you ’adn’t said nothing definite about not being disturbed. I really didn’t know wot to do.”

  “I know, it was my fault, Mrs. Hobday,” Ernest told her. “Entirely my fault—but you’ll know another time.”

  “Oh, I will, sir,” replied Mrs. Hobday. She won’t get in again and worry the poor lambs—added Mrs. Hobday to herself —not unless it’s over my dead body, she won’t.—Mrs. Hobday was another who had no use for Vivian Greensleeves.

  At this moment the doorbell rang; it rang so loudly that Ernest—whose nerves had been on edge all morning—nearly jumped out of his skin.

  “That’ll be Miss Carter now,” said Mrs. Hobday taking off her apron.

  “Don’t bother, I’ll answer it,” Ernest told her, and he ran to open the door. Sally was standing on the step. She smiled in a friendly manner when she saw Ernest.

  “Am I late?” she inquired.

  “No, not a bit,” replied the Vicar, “but I was so awfully afraid you wouldn’t come—I couldn’t help it yesterday—I’m such an ass—you aren’t angry, are you?”

  “I was, at the time,” Sally admitted, following him into the study. “But I’m not now, not a bit.” She stood and smiled at him.

  What a darling! thought Ernest. He had a sudden feeling that he would like to kiss her—a most extraordinary feeling for a man who was engaged to somebody else—of course it would never do to kiss her, it would be a frightful thing to do. Sally held out her hand and they shook hands gravely.

  “It won’t happen again,” Ernest said, “I’ve told Mrs. Hobday to say I’m engaged if anyone calls.”

  “No,” said Sally. “No, I don’t think it will happen again.” She took up Elizabeth and Essex, which was lying all ready on the table with a book-marker in the place. “Shall I read first, or will you?” she inquired.

  “You read,” Ernest said, and he composed himself very happily and contentedly in his chair to watch her.

  ***

  Several days later Ernest, taking a little stroll round the churchyard, was surprised and somewhat pained to see that a large pink marble sarcophagus had appeared as if by magic upon the Snowdons’ family grave. He was the more distressed because the little churchyard had hitherto been happily free from monstrosities of this nature. It was such a pretty little churchyard, peaceful and beautiful, with several fine old trees lending dignity to the scene, and the river murmuring past as if it were singing an endless lullaby to the sleepers.

  Ernest paused and hesitated—there appeared to be several men employed in giving the finishing touches to the regrettable erection. He decided to go and speak to them—perhaps even remonstrate in a tactful manner. At any rate he could find out the reason for its sudden appearance among the simpler and more tasteful monuments. As he drew near Ernest perceived that Mr. Snowdon was there himself, speaking to the men and giving them some instructions about the lettering, “peace be st” had already been inscribed in large gold letters upon one side of the stone—it was a curious text to have chosen, Ernest thought.

  An older—and wiser—man than Ernest would have turned back on seeing the perpetrator of the outrage himself. Tombs and tombstones are delicate subjects for an outsider to intrude upon at the best of times, and Ernest was not as calm as he should have been to deal with a delicate subject—in fact, he was extremely annoyed. What business had Mr. Snowdon to destroy the amenities of Ernest’s pretty churchyard with his execrable taste? The thing was a perfect eyesore.

  He said, “Good afternoon,” to Mr. Snowdon, and asked, somewhat unnecessarily, what was being done.

  “I am erecting a memorial to my dear wife,” said Mr. Snowdon in throaty tones.

  “But there was already a memorial to Mrs. Snowdon here,” Ernest pointed out.

  “Merely a temporary one,” replied the bereaved husband. “Merely temporary.”

  “It was a granite cross, wasn’t it?” inquired Ernest, pursuing the subject unwisely.

  “Yes,” replied Mr. Snowdon briefly.

  “A granite cross is usually considered a sufficiently permanent type of memorial. As a matter of fact I liked it better than this.”

  “Did you?”

  Mr. Snowdon’s tone proclaimed that he did not care whether the Vicar liked it or not. If Mr. Snowdon thought fit to change the granite cross for a marble sarcophagus, it was no business of the Vicar’s—interfering man, poking his nose into matters that did not concern him.

  Ernest walked round to the other side of the enormous slab and saw that the inscription here was finished. Mr. Snowdon had caused the words “rest in peace” to be cut
upon this side of his dear wife’s memorial. The Vicar did not care for the wording at all; it had a Roman Catholic ring about it. His annoyance was in no way appeased.

  “I suppose you have obtained permission to erect it,” Ernest asked indiscreetly.

  “I have,” replied Mr. Snowdon.

  Ernest sighed; there was nothing more to be done about the wretched thing. He was just turning away when the marble sarcophagus hit him once more in the eye—it literally got up and hit him. It was a ghastly thing. It was too appalling for words. It spoiled that whole corner of the churchyard.

  “Do you think it is quite—er—suitable?” said Ernest, returning once more to the attack. “I mean it is so—so different from all the other stones, so—so very—er—large, and—and heavy. The stone sarcophagus has quite gone out of fashion, you know.”

  “You think so?” inquired Mr. Snowdon, with dangerous meekness.

  “It really has,” Ernest assured him, “perhaps you don’t know the origin of the custom of covering the entire grave with a large heavy stone. It was used to keep wolves and jackals from disturbing the grave—” Ernest was warming up to his subject now; he felt that if he explained the whole thing carefully to Mr. Snowdon he might see the error of his ways and consent to have the pink marble atrocity removed and the granite cross restored. Vivian could have warned Mr. Snowdon that he was in for a lecture on memorials and their historical and religious significance, but Vivian wasn’t there, of course. “They were at first confined to foreign lands,” continued Ernest, “where wolves and jackals abounded, roaming about graveyards and digging up bones. One can easily understand how the idea of the large heavy stone covering the entire grave was evolved. The idea was brought home by the Crusaders who had seen it during their travels and the practice of covering the tomb with a stone memorial became fairly common in England. It died out, I am glad to say, and was only revived for a short period during the panic caused by the trial of Burke and Hare. You will, of course, remember that these men were found guilty of despoiling newly made graves in order to procure anatomical specimens to sell to students and hospitals. I feel convinced that the panic caused was out of all proportion to the facts of the case, but naturally bereaved relatives felt anxious to protect the graves of their dead from desecration. Those days are now past and modern taste leans toward a simpler form; it prefers to dispense with all that is superfluous and meaningless. The sarcophagus is both superfluous and meaningless—it is even more meaningless than usual in this case for I believe Mrs. Snowdon has been dead for some years—”