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.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Colonel and Mrs. Weatherhead
The Weatherheads returned to Silverstream about the beginning of March. They had had a delightful time at Monte Carlo and had settled down into married harness with the greatest of ease. The Colonel was delighted with his pretty, agreeable wife, and had no idea that he was completely under her thumb.
Barbara was the first person in Silverstream to call upon the newly married couple. She had always liked Dorothea Bold, and she was anxious to see what Dorothea Weatherhead was like. What had marriage done to Dorothea? Besides, it was something to do, to walk down to the bridge and call. It would take the best part of an afternoon and would serve to kill time. Barbara was very restless these days; she couldn’t settle to anything.
The Weatherheads had taken up their abode in Cozy Neuk while The Bridge House was being altered to suit their requirements. They were delighted to see Barbara Buncle and asked her to stay to tea. They told her all their news, first about their adventures at Monte Carlo and then about the alterations at The Bridge House. It was being painted and papered from attic to cellar—they told Barbara—and a bow-window was being thrown out on the south side of the drawing-room.
“I may tell you that’s my idea entirely,” said Colonel Weatherhead with no little pride. “The room was dull and cold. A south window will make all the difference.”
Barbara complimented him on his sagacity.
“It’s convenient being so near at hand,” said Dorothea, chipping into the conversation. “Robert can keep an eye on the workmen and see what they are doing. You’ve no idea how it keeps them up to the mark to have a man after them. They never pay any attention to a woman.”
“It was only because Dorothea wanted somebody to chivvy the plumbers who were doing her drains that she consented to marry me,” put in the Colonel chuckling.
“Yes, that was the reason,” agreed Dorothea, “you really ought to get a husband, Barbara. They’re quite useful if the drains go wrong, or if you want a bow window built out.”
“My drains never go wrong,” Barbara replied, smiling inwardly, “and I couldn’t possibly afford a bow-window. Besides nobody would want to marry me, would they?”
They both protested vehemently, but insincerely, at her modesty. Barbara was aware of the insincerity of their protestations—her writing had made her perspicacious of her fellow creatures—and she hugged herself with delight to think of their amazement when they heard—
“And how’s Silverstream?” inquired Dorothea, as she sat down behind the tea table, and arranged the cups with her pretty plump hands.
Barbara told her that Silverstream was just the same as ever.
“Not entirely,” said Colonel Weatherhead, chuckling and winking at his new wife. “Been a bloodless revolution at The Riggs, hasn’t there?”
“Now don’t be naughty, Robert,” Dorothea entreated him. “I’m sure Barbara wouldn’t be interested in nasty gossip about poor little Mr. Featherstone Hogg.”
“I’m dashed sure she would be,” returned the Colonel.
“Of course I would,” cried Barbara. “It’s too cruel to rouse my curiosity like that. I insist on hearing all about it.”
“You tell her then,” Dorothea said.
“Well, it’s not very much really. It’s only rather funny when you know the Featherstone Hoggs, and know how the poor little feller has always been kept in order, and squashed on every occasion. Dolly and I saw the little feller in town one night at that new smart restaurant in Mayfair—Silvio, or something. He was dining tête-à-tête with a young lady and enjoying himself tremendously. He was far too much taken up with his fair companion to see us.”
“She looked like a chorus girl,” Dorothea put in, “frightfully made up, and the least possible amount of clothes. I don’t know what ‘Agatha’ would have said if she had seen ‘dear Edwin’ and his companion that night.”
They were in the middle of tea when Sarah Walker arrived to pay her call. She kissed Dorothea and told her that she was a wicked woman—
“The idea of keeping us all in the dark like that!”
“It was all very sudden, you know,” replied Dorothea blushing prettily.
“You must blame me, if there’s any blame going,” said the Colonel. “The whole thing was entirely my fault and I’m not a bit sorry, either.”
“You dreadful soldier-men,” said Sarah, shaking her head in dismay. “You’re a wild, dangerous lot, and no mistake.”
“I’m going to have an At Home,” announced Dorothea, changing the subject abruptly, “you and Barbara must both come, and help me with it. I don’t want Silverstream to feel done out of its Wedding At Home.”
Sarah wrinkled her brows. “It’s sweet of you, Dorothea, but I don’t think I will. You see Silverstream doesn’t like me much at the moment. They all think I’m John Smith.”
“They think you are John Smith?” inquired Dorothea in a bewildered voice. “Who on earth is John Smith?”
“That’s just what everybody wants to know—or at least they did until they fixed on me.”
“But who is he? What has he done?”
“You don’t mean to say you haven’t read the book?” exclaimed Sarah in amazement. “I thought everybody in the whole world had read it—Disturber of the Peace, by John Smith,” she added, on seeing that her hostess had no idea what she was talking about, “you’ve read it, haven’t you, Colonel?”
“Oh, I know now!”
cried Dorothea. “It’s that book Mrs. Featherstone Hogg was so furious about. Robert read it just before we went abroad. He said there wasn’t much in it—didn’t you, Robert?”
“Not very much,” said Robert, uncomfortably.
“I bought it in London to take abroad with me,” continued Dorothea, “but the queer thing was it disappeared—so I never read it after all.”
“Disappeared?” inquired Sarah with interest.
“Yes, vanished completely. I put it in the top of the lunch basket to read it in the train, and when I opened the basket it had gone—wasn’t it odd?”
“Very odd indeed,” Sarah replied, “but I really wouldn’t bother about it anymore, if I were you. As the Colonel so rightly says there is not much in it.”
Colonel Weatherhead looked at her gratefully—what an eminently sensible, charming, and agreeable woman Mrs. Walker was! Just the very friend for dear Dolly—the friend he would have chosen for her himself.
Barbara left the tea party early. She was expecting Arthur to supper, and she was pleasantly thrilled at the prospect of seeing him. She had not seen Arthur for nearly a week; he had been so busy trying to get all his business cleared up and put in order so that he could take a nice long holiday with a clear conscience. And, besides the pleasure of seeing Arthur again, there was another pleasure in store tonight. Barbara was looking forward to it immensely. Arthur had promised to bring with him an advance copy of The Pen is Mightier—. The book was going to be published quite soon now; in fact, as soon as certain important arrangements had been completed.
As she walked home, Barbara thought about the Weather-heads very contentedly. It was obvious that their marriage had been a success; they both seemed very happy. The Weatherhead marriage was her most successful achievement—or perhaps it would be more correct to call it the most successful achievement of Disturber of the Peace. They had done exactly what they were told and made no fuss about it whatever. She felt a proprietary interest in the Weatherheads.
Miss Buncle's Book Page 26
