Miss Buncle's Book

by D. E. Stevenson

  “Thank you,” said Mr. Snowdon with elaborate sarcasm. “Thank you very much. I am sorry to interrupt your eloquence but I have other things to do. When I want to hear another sermon from you I shall come to church, but this one will last me for some time I fancy. Meanwhile perhaps you will be good enough to mind your own business and allow me to mind mine. If I choose to erect a certain type of memorial upon my family grave, I shall do so. Good afternoon, Mr. Hathaway.”

  Ernest retired, baffled and conscience-stricken. He realized too late that he had been treading on delicate ground with elephantine feet. He had offended Mr. Snowdon without achieving his object. Ernest brooded over the matter as he went home. It seemed to him a very strange thing to take down a granite cross and put up a marble sarcophagus after a woman had been dead and buried for three years. What was the meaning of it? The lettering was different too, for the granite cross had borne the inscription, “She is not dead, but sleepeth.” Ernest remembered it distinctly because he had liked it; he had thought when he read it that it was a beautiful idea to put our Lord’s consolatory words to Jairus upon a memorial tombstone. They had a deep significance; they carried with them a promise—the promise of resurrection.

  Ernest felt sorry these words were not upon Mrs. Snowdon’s grave anymore (he had a strange feeling that Mrs. Snowdon was sorry too), but this was by no means the worst part of the unfortunate affair, even the hideous erection itself was not the worst part of it; far worse than these was the knowledge that he had been tactless and indiscreet. Uncle Mike had warned him of the pitfalls of his calling. “Tread warily,” Uncle Mike had said. “You may think they’re fools, but you’re a fool if you let them see it, and don’t offend the ‘little ones,’ whatever you do, or you will be much happier and more comfortable at the bottom of the sea with a millstone round your neck.” This much from Uncle Mike and, already, at the very beginning of his incumbency, he had offended one of his most important parishioners.

  Ernest was so upset that he could think of nothing else, he mooned round the house for a bit, and finally decided to go and have tea with Vivian. He must talk it over with somebody and Vivian was obviously the person with whom to talk it over. He was going to marry Vivian, she was going to share all his troubles and worries; well, she could begin by sharing this one—thought Ernest. Besides, of course, he wanted to tell Vivian all about it; she was so sweet and womanly and sympathetic, and she knew a good deal about the world. She could advise him whether he should write to Mr. Snowdon and apologize, and if so what he should say. Perhaps between them they should concoct a conciliatory letter to Mr. Snowdon.

  Ernest thought all this as he breasted the hill. He hadn’t seen Vivian for several days, indeed he had not seen her since that dreadful morning when she had interrupted Miss Carter’s history lesson. That was Wednesday, and today was Saturday—practically three days without a glimpse of Vivian! It was strange that he had not noticed this before. He wondered why she had not dropped in to see him as she usually did either in the morning, when he was working in the garden, or in the afternoon, when he was reading in his study. Perhaps she had been busy, or perhaps it was because the weather had been so dreadful—it had rained all yesterday and most of the day before, he remembered.

  He found Vivian having tea in front of the drawing-room fire. It was a cozy scene. How nice that she was alone! Ernest went forward eagerly.

  “Well, what do you want?” Vivian asked sharply. The mere sight of him caused her to boil with rage, for she had discovered that what Sally had told her was true. In fact once she began to make inquiries it appeared that everybody in the village was aware of Ernest’s financial difficulties, everybody except herself. The village was full of the most astounding tales of the poverty at the Vicarage. She was told about the enormous holes in his shoes (which could be seen to great advantage during the Litany) and about the even more enormous holes in his socks, which Mrs. Hobday was obliged to wrestle with because the poor gentleman could not afford new ones. She was even told that Ernest had invested in a pair of hair clippers and had endeavored, with startling results, to cut his own hair so as to save a monthly ninepence at the Silverstream barber’s gentlemen’s saloon. Nearly all the shops had tales to tell of poor Ernest’s amateur efforts in economy. He bought broken rolls at Mrs. Goldsmith’s and odd scraps of meat at Mr. Hart’s, and the outside leaves of cabbages at Miss Clement’s fruit and vegetable emporium. Mrs. Hobday had put him up to it of course, they told Mrs. Greensleeves, the poor gentleman would never have thought of things like that himself.

  Thus it was that when Ernest walked into her drawing-room looking pleased to see her, and expecting her to be equally pleased to see him, Vivian’s blood simply boiled with rage, and instead of welcoming him with open arms as Ernest had expected, she looked at him as if he were some new and particularly loathsome species of slug and inquired what he wanted.

  “You haven’t been to see me for ages,” Ernest told her, slightly damped by this unusual reception.

  “I’ve found you out, you see,” replied Vivian, trying to speak calmly and not succeeding very well.

  “You’ve found me out?”

  “Yes.”

  “But I haven’t done anything,” said poor Ernest.

  “Oh no! You haven’t done anything, have you?” demanded Vivian scornfully, “you haven’t lied and deceived me at all, have you?”

  “No, I haven’t,” replied Ernest with some spirit.

  “You thought you had taken me in nicely, didn’t you?” continued Vivian with rising heat. “Coming here and pretending to everybody that you were rich and strutting about in fine clothes, and all the time you haven’t a penny—not enough money to have your shoes mended—”

  “Oh, is that all?” said Ernest, beginning to see daylight through the fog, “I can explain that quite easily, you see—”

  “Yes, that’s all,” Vivian interrupted furiously. “That’s all and it’s quite enough too—”

  “But Vivian, if you would listen for a moment I can explain—”

  “I don’t want to listen to you anymore, I’ve listened to you quite enough, I’m sick of listening to you—”

  “But Vivian —”

  “The idea of you coming here,” she cried, “the very idea of you coming here and pretending to be so good and pious—a sort of saint on earth—and all the time you’re nothing but an impostor.”

  “I’m not an impostor.”

  “You are an impostor, and a liar and a cheat. The very idea of you coming to propose marriage to me when you hadn’t a single penny to bless yourself with. What do you think I want to marry you for? I suppose you think I would be happy and content to live all my life in a moldy country vicarage, pinching and scraping, and counting every halfpenny? Well you’re mistaken, then. I suppose you think you’re so good and wonderful that any girl would be proud to marry you and darn your socks for the rest of her life? Well, you’re mistaken there, too—thoroughly mistaken. You bore me to death,” said Vivian vindictively. “Do you hear that—you bore me to death.”

  Ernest heard it; he could not fail to hear it, for Vivian’s voice was loud and somewhat shrill. He found that his knees were shaking for he was unused to scenes of this kind. He gazed at Vivian with horror—was this really Vivian, this woman with the hard eyes and the shrill shrewish voice? Was this the same Vivian who had listened to him so sympathetically, who had brought him her troubles and doubts to be smoothed away? Was this the lamb that he had brought back with such pride and joy to the fold?

  You bore me to death, Vivian had said. He bored her. Why then had she listened to him and encouraged him to talk to her? Why had she sought him out, visited him at the vicarage, invited him to her house, and, above all, why had she promised to marry him? It seemed a most extraordinary thing to Ernest. He could not understand it at all. He was utterly bewildered. He gazed at Vivian and decided that she lo
oked strange; she looked like an unknown woman. He felt as if he had never seen her before.

  “Then it was—it was because—because you thought I had money,” he said slowly, his brain clearing as he spoke, “you said you would marry me because you thought I had money?”

  Vivian didn’t like it put quite like that; it sounded all wrong, somehow, as if she were in the wrong and not Ernest at all.

  “People must have money you fool!” she said with slightly less rancor. “How do you suppose people can live without money?”

  “They need a little, certainly.”

  “I need lots,” Vivian said frankly. “It’s only idiots and imbeciles who say that money isn’t important. Money is the most important thing in the world. I would be perfectly happy with lots and lots of money—”

  “And a husband who bored you,” suggested Ernest, looking at her very gravely and waiting for her answer with some anxiety.

  She laughed a trifle hysterically. “With the Devil himself,” she cried.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The Children’s Party at The Riggs

  The Featherstone Hoggs’ Children’s Party was fixed for the second week in January. They gave one every year, usually on Christmas Eve, and a large and elaborately decorated Christmas Tree was the pièce de resistance; but this year, with all the excitement over Disturber of the Peace, and the drawing-room meeting, the children’s party had slipped out of mind.

  Mrs. Featherstone Hogg disliked the children’s party intensely. She only gave it because it was the “right thing” for the most important lady in the neighborhood to give a children’s party, and because Lady Barnton from Bulverham Castle could always be induced to come to it and bring her small nieces when she could not be induced to come to any other of Mrs. Featherstone Hogg’s various parties or At Homes.

  Christmas Eve had passed, and there was no mention of a children’s party. Mr. Featherstone Hogg had not forgotten about it, he liked the Children’s Party (it was the only kind of party he did like), but he thought perhaps Agatha had had enough to bear this year so he said nothing about it. Perhaps they might have one at Easter instead; by Easter Agatha would have settled down a little. He decided to leave it at that. He was astonished when Agatha reminded him about it, the first mention of it usually lay with him. In spite of Lady Barnton, Agatha always approached the Children’s Party with reluctance. It was such a bore, she always said, it was so noisy, the children made such a mess—

  So, when a few days after the New Year Agatha suddenly inquired with an amiable smile whether they were going to have a Children’s Party this year, Edwin looked up from his marmalade with surprise (they were at breakfast).

  “I thought you were too upset, Agatha,” said Edwin with solicitude. “I wasn’t going to bother you about it this year.”

  “One mustn’t be selfish,” Agatha replied smiling wanly. “One mustn’t allow one’s own feelings to interfere with the enjoyment of others.”

  “No,” said Edwin, a little dazed by this altruism.

  “I shouldn’t like the children to be disappointed just because I happen to be miserable.”

  “No,” said Edwin again.

  “Of course the little Bulmers are away—banished from their home all because of that unspeakable book,” continued Agatha in languid tones. “But we could have the Walker twins and the little Shearers, and Mrs. Carter’s grandchild (she’s rather old, of course, and a pert, unmannerly sort of girl, but we shall have to ask her), and Lady Barnton and her nieces, and the Turners, and the Semples from Bulverham—”

  Mr. Featherstone Hogg was pleased; he did not analyze Agatha’s motives. It was enough for him that they were to have the party, and have it, apparently, without the usual fuss. It was nice that they were going to have it after all; he always enjoyed it. Children were so jolly: he liked them, and they liked him. Children did not look through him, nor snub him because he was small and insignificant as so many grown-up people did. He was rather a “dog” with children and he enjoyed being a “dog.” Last year he had dressed up as Santa Claus and had been a tremendous success: in fact, the success of the evening. It was too late to be Santa Claus this year, of course, but he would think of something else to amuse them, something entirely new. Mr. Featherstone Hogg finished his breakfast hastily and went off to find the “list” which he kept securely from year to year among his papers in his meticulously neat desk.

  They fixed the date there and then and the invitations were issued immediately. Agatha pointed out that schools usually started toward the end of the month, and Lady Barnton’s nieces—at least the two elder ones—would be going away soon.

  Sarah Walker was not altogether surprised when she found that her name was omitted from the twins’ invitation to the children’s party at The Riggs. She could scarcely expect to be invited after her somewhat discourteous exit from the drawing-room meeting. The invitation card bore the information that Mrs. Featherstone Hogg was having a children’s party on the tenth of January and would be delighted to see Master and Miss Walker and Nurse. Well, anyhow, Nannie would enjoy it, thought Sarah, even if the twins didn’t. The twins were still rather young to enjoy parties and they had so few that they were apt to become over-excited and obstreperous. But Nannie would manage them (she managed them better than Sarah), and she would enjoy taking them and showing them off to the other nannies. It was rather dull for nannies in Silverstream; there were so few children. Now that the Bulmers had gone the little Shearers were the only other children in the place. Sarah had been glad when the Shearers came in and she found they had small children and a nanny that her nanny approved of. Fortunately Nannie had friends in Silverstream: she liked the Goldsmith girls, and Dorcas, and she was not above an occasional chat with Milly Spikes; but nannies are a class apart and these people—though well enough in their way—were not really congenial to her. At the Featherstone Hoggs’ party Nannie would meet several other nannies; she would be in her element. It was therefore almost entirely for the sake of their guardian that Master and Miss Walker accepted the kind invitation of Mrs. Featherstone Hogg.

  Dr. Walker had an urgent call to Bulverham on the afternoon of the party so he could not convey his offspring to The Riggs as had been arranged. Sarah was obliged to order a taxi for them; it was rather extravagant, of course, but fortunately parties did not happen very often in Silverstream.

  The twins were ready some minutes before the taxi arrived, and came into the drawing-room to wait.

  “How sweet they look, Nannie!” Sarah cried, hugging them both at the same time.

  Nannie agreed that they did. They were dressed in blue silk tunics embroidered with white daisies round the collars and cuffs. Their fair hair was bobbed neatly round their white necks. They had white silk socks and white buckskin shoes with small silver buckles. Nannie was intensely proud of them; it was so unusual to see twins—a boy and a girl—exactly alike. Nannie enjoyed the distinction of having such charges; she was openly amused and secretly flattered when people—and other nannies especially—could not tell them apart. “They’re not a bit alike really,” Nannie would say, laughing a little at the joke. “I could tell which was which in the dark.”

  “There’s the taxi,” said Sarah suddenly. “You had better not keep him waiting, Nannie. Tell him to come back for you at six; that will be late enough for them.”

  Nannie promised to remember to tell him. She enveloped the twins in their white fur coats, and shepherded them into the taxi.

  The party was just sitting down to tea when they arrived. Nannie counted about fifteen children; there were more grown-ups, of course. Mrs. Featherstone Hogg welcomed the Walkers affably and found two seats so that the twins could sit together—they were never happy apart.

  “What a dear little couple they are!” said Mr. Featherstone Hogg.

  Nannie smiled with a satisfied air; she had made a
rapid survey of the table and discovered that there wasn’t a child in the room who could compare with her two, not one. She stood behind their chairs and buttered their buns for them and saw that they didn’t eat anything unsuitable. Lady Barnton’s youngest niece had a fat nanny and she stood behind her child’s chair. Nannie looked at the fat nanny and decided that she was the right sort. She made a tentative remark and the two were soon chatting together happily. The Shearers’ nanny was at the other side of the table looking after the Shearer baby, who was only eighteen months—just old enough to want all he saw in the way of cakes and too young to be allowed to have them. Nanny Shearer’s hands were amply full, trying to keep him quiet and feeding him with sponge cake.

  “I never seen twins as alike as yours. Are they girls or boys?” said the fat nanny admiringly.

  “One of each.”

  “Well, I never. I’m sure nobody could tell the difference if they were paid for it. I had twins once but they were both girls, and they weren’t so like each other either.”

  Mrs. Greensleeves now appeared at Nannie’s elbow; she had come to “help with the children.” She spoke to Nannie in a friendly way and admired the twins.

  “Did you make their little tunics?” she asked.

  “Mrs. Walker made them,” replied Nannie. “Mrs. Walker makes nearly all their clothes; she’s a beautiful knitter too.”