Chapter Twenty-Five

Miss Buncle and Mr. Abbott

Barbara carried out the first part of her plan with the greatest ease. She ate her lightly boiled eggs and endured, with meekness, the scoldings of Dorcas. Then she went to bed and fell immediately into a deep and dreamless sleep. She awoke at two o’clock and found the sun shining. It was ridiculous to remain in bed any longer. She was refreshed by her sleep, thoroughly refreshed, but she found that she was somewhat restless and apprehensive. She must get up and move about. She must go out or something—anyhow it was quite impossible to remain in bed. The meeting with Mr. Abbott which had seemed a mere detail when she was divided from it by the gulf of sleep had suddenly assumed a terrifying guise. He would be here in two hours—in less than two hours—and he would want an answer to his proposal. Would Mr. Abbott propose again by word of mouth? Perhaps he would propose in the dashing manner of Major Waterfoot—how dreadful that would be! What on earth would she do if he fell on his knees before her, and declared in trembling accents that he could not live without her another moment. (Barbara could not quite see Mr. Abbott doing it, but you never knew.) Elizabeth might have managed such a scene with success; she would have known exactly what to do, of course, but Elizabeth was married now—Elizabeth could not help her. Elizabeth had managed her own love affair with consummate ease; she had placed her novel in Mr. Nun’s hands and had said, “Reginald, dearest, there is my answer.” It was all very well for Elizabeth to do things like that. Barbara couldn’t. To start with Barbara could not imagine herself addressing Mr. Abbott as “Arthur.” She supposed she would have to if she were going to marry him, but it would take her some time to get used to it.

Barbara was dressed by now, and there was still an hour before Mr. Abbott was expected. She decided to go for a walk—a good sharp walk would be the best cure for her unsettled nerves.

“You’re never going out, Miss Barbara!” Dorcas exclaimed, when she appeared downstairs with her hat and coat on. “What if the poor gentleman arrives before you get back?”

The words gave Barbara a sudden idea—it was such an excellent idea that she wondered why on earth she had not thought of it before.

“Give him this, Dorcas,” she said, dumping the fat untidy manuscript of The Pen is Mightier— on the kitchen table. “If he comes before I get back just give him this from me, and tell him I left it for him to read.”

“But he’ll be wanting to see you,” said Dorcas, reproachfully. “He won’t want to sit down and read all that rubbish the moment he arrives. Really, Miss Barbara, you might have a little consideration for the poor gentleman, I do think.”

“Just give it to him,” said Barbara, and she disappeared hastily out of the back door. There was no time to be lost. Mr. Abbott might arrive earlier than he had said, and it would be dreadful if he arrived before she had made good her escape.

She ran down the garden and squeezed through the gap in the fence and made off across the fields toward the church.

It was five o’clock before Barbara could make up her mind to return to Tanglewood Cottage, and even then it took all her courage. She crept into the hall like a burglar, and peeped in at the half-open door of the drawing-room. Mr. Abbott was sitting in front of the fire having tea. He looked very happy and quite at home in Barbara’s drawing-room. He was just pouring out a second cup when he looked up and saw his runaway hostess.

“Don’t be frightened of me,” he said, smiling at her in a friendly manner. “I’m warranted not to bite.”

Barbara laughed; it was so reassuring, so utterly different from what she had expected.

“Let me offer you some of your own excellent tea,” Mr. Abbott continued, waving the teapot at her hospitably. “You must be cold and hungry. Dorcas informs me that you had no lunch. It is really very naughty of you to go out without your lunch and wander about in the cold, and get chilled to the bone. When we are married I shall not allow you to do such silly things—we are going to be married, aren’t we, Barbara, dear?”

“Yes,” she said, “I think so. At least if you really want to be. I’m quite happy like this.”

“Of course I want to be,” replied Mr. Abbott, ignoring the latter half of her remark. “I want to be married very much indeed. Do come and have some tea, Barbara.”

She sat down rather gingerly at the other side of the fire, and accepted the cup which he had poured out for her. So far all had been well, and she was nearly sure now that Mr. Abbott was not going to kneel down and break into impassioned speech—what a mercy it was that he was such a sensible sort of man!

“This is cozy,” said Mr. Abbott. “I’m very happy. I hope you are happy too. We suit each other exactly, and I am very fond of you, Barbara. I will be very good to you, my dear—don’t be frightened of me for goodness’ sake,” he added quickly. “Have some hot-buttered toast.”

Barbara was not really frightened; it was impossible to be frightened of Mr. Abbott anymore. He was so nice and friendly—just the same as he always was, only nicer and kinder. She ate quantities of hot-buttered toast, and felt much better. She began to feel quite safe and happy. She began to feel that someday—perhaps quite soon—she might manage to call him Arthur.

They discussed The Pen is Mightier— and Mr. Abbott told her that he thought it was even better than Disturber of the Peace. The only thing he was at all doubtful about was the kidnapping of the Rider baby. People didn’t kidnap babies in this country, Mr. Abbott said, and it seemed a pity to introduce one improbable episode into an otherwise probable and even veracious chronicle of everyday affairs.

“But it did happen,” Barbara pointed out. “It all happened exactly like that, except that it was really twins.”

Mr. Abbott gazed at her in amazement.

“It’s all true, every word,” Barbara continued. “Mrs. Greensleeves did it—Mrs. Myrtle Coates, you know—just as I wrote it. I could never have imagined it because I’ve got no imagination at all.”

“Well I’m jiggered!” said Mr. Abbott, heavily.

“Truth is stranger than fiction,” added Barbara with a satisfied smile. She was pleased at having thought of this exceedingly apt proverb; it was almost as good as The Pen is Mightier than the Sword, and would have done almost as well as a title for her book—almost as well, but not quite.

Of course Mr. Abbott could say no more about the improbability of the episode. An episode that has actually happened in real life cannot be said to be too improbable for a novel. So Mr. Abbott abandoned the subject, and, after suggesting one or two minor alterations, he asked if he might take the manuscript away with him tonight and put it in hand at once. He had brought the contract with him and Dorcas could be called in to witness Barbara’s signature, if she approved of the idea. Barbara agreed and summoned Dorcas from the back premises.

The contract was a very different contract from the one which Barbara had signed for Disturber of the Peace. John Smith was a bestseller now—or at any rate as near to a bestseller as made no odds. Miss Buncle was to get a large sum in advance, and excellent royalties as well. It was a good contract even for a bestseller, but Miss Buncle never looked at it. She took up Mr. Abbott’s fat fountain pen and inquired where she was to write her name.

“But you haven’t read it!” exclaimed Mr. Abbott in surprise.

“I suppose it’s just the same as before, isn’t it?” asked Barbara. “Why should I bother to read it over if you say it’s all right?”

Mr. Abbott was touched at her complete confidence in him, but somewhat startled at her ignorance of financial matters. She evidently quite failed to realize that her stock had gone up since Disturber of the Peace had been published, and that her market value had increased a hundredfold. It was a good thing—he thought—that she would have him to take care of her in future, and see that she was not swindled out of everything she possessed.

Dorcas signed her name upon the contract with a considerable amount of heavy breathing, and returned to the kitchen with all speed. She was busy roasting a duck for their suppers, and she was rather anxious about it. How awful if it “caught” while she was signing their stupid papers—something to do with the wedding, Dorcas supposed. She, also, had not bothered to glance through the contract, but that was chiefly because of the duck.

There was only one thing which had to be decided immediately. Mr. Abbott was a little anxious as to how Barbara would take it; he approached the subject with all the tact he could command.

“I like the way you’ve finished The Pen is Mightier—,” he told her, with an ingratiating smile.

“It was your idea entirely,” she told him.

“I mean I like the manner in which you have carried out my idea,” he explained. “The wedding is excellent, and all Copperfield coming to the feast is a delightful touch—one of the best things you’ve done, Barbara—it is delicate farce (if such a thing can be).”

“Farce!” said Barbara somewhat perplexed at the word, “But it’s not funny at all. At least it’s not meant to be funny, I didn’t mean—”

“I know, I know,” he said. “Nevermind. It doesn’t matter about that. Everybody will like it immensely and that’s the main thing. What I want to put before you is this: the end of your book is going to be true in essentials, but we can’t make it altogether true—I’m explaining it badly,” he cried, running his hand over his smooth hair, and looking at Barbara in a harassed manner. “I mean we can’t have our wedding here in Silverstream.”

“Why not?” Barbara inquired. She had already begun to look forward to the wedding. It was to be the same as Elizabeth’s wedding—or as near that ideal ceremony as possible. Of course you could not arrange for sunshine and bird-song in Silverstream as you could in Copperfield. Barbara realized that, and bowed to the inevitable like the philosopher she was; but she did want her wedding to be at the same church, and to be attended by the same people as Elizabeth’s wedding, and she did want to appear before the inhabitants of Silverstream as a pure white bride.

“Why not?” Barbara inquired again, for Mr. Abbott hadn’t answered her the first time. “Why can’t we have our wedding here in Silverstream, and everything just like Elizabeth and Mr. Nun?”

“Well,” said Mr. Abbott. “Well, you see, Barbara, the moment we publish The Pen is Mightier— everyone in Silverstream will know that you are John Smith. They couldn’t help knowing it, if they tried, because Elizabeth Wade is Barbara Buncle to the meanest intelligence, and Elizabeth Wade wrote Storms in a Teacup, and Storms in a Teacup is Disturber of the Peace.”

Barbara saw. “Fancy me not noticing that!” she said, sadly.

“It’s a pity but it can’t be helped,” said Mr. Abbott.

“I suppose you couldn’t keep back The Pen is Mightier— till after the wedding, could you?”

“I could,” Mr. Abbott agreed, “and I would too, if that would be any use. We could quite easily be married before the book is published, but there’s another thing to be thought of. Don’t you see what will happen when you send out the invitations to the wedding with my name on them? Wedding invitations usually have the name of the bridegroom inscribed upon them, don’t they?”

“Yes, what will happen?”

“Everybody will say, ‘Mr. Abbott’—who on earth is Mr. Abbott? Is he the publisher fellow? How is it that Miss Buncle knows Mr. Abbott so well?’”

“Of course they will,” said Barbara sadly. “How clever you are! Far cleverer than me. I would never have thought of that until it had happened.”

“Not clever at all,” Mr. Abbott said, preening himself a little—it really was very pleasant to be appreciated at one’s true worth. “Not clever at all, Barbara, dear. It is just my business brain. Your brain runs on other lines. Now, I could never have written Disturber of the Peace and The Pen is Mightier—,” said Mr. Abbott with perfect truth. “People are made differently—and how fortunate that they are; what a dull world it would be if we were all alike! One person can do one thing and another person can do something else. Together we shall be complete, invincible, perfect,” said Mr. Abbott ardently and he leaned forward, and laid his hand on Barbara’s knee.

It was a strong, comforting, safe sort of hand. Barbara rather liked the feeling of it lying there on her knee—she smiled at him.

“You see how it is,” he continued. “I should have loved you to have a beautiful wedding like Elizabeth’s, but it simply can’t be done. Directly Silverstream realizes that you are John Smith your life will be a burden to you. They can’t do anything very desperate, of course, but they can make things extremely unpleasant—”

Barbara knew that he was right; she would have to leave Silverstream. She found that she did not mind very much. She had lived in Silverstream all her life but the last few months had been too great a strain upon her nerves, she was not happy in Silverstream. The reason for her unhappiness was not far to seek: she never had a moment’s real peace. She never knew when somebody was going to pounce upon Disturber of the Peace, and tear it to bits; she never knew when somebody would stop her in the street and denounce her as John Smith; she felt positively sick every time the telephone bell rang in case somebody had found her out. Barbara felt that it would be a great relief to get away from Silverstream and leave all her fears, and all her troubles, behind.

She loved Copperfield, of course, but the books were finished now and Copperfield was fading from her mind. She could no longer enter Copperfield at will; the door was shut—she had shut it herself, of course, but she could not open it again.

“Will you be very sorry to leave Silverstream?” Mr. Abbott asked her, sympathetically.

“No,” said Barbara, “I don’t really think I shall mind very much.”

“Good,” he said, smiling and rubbing his hands.