Miss Buncle Married (20 page)

The day following Barbara's meeting with her Golden Boy was just as beautiful as its predecessor. Mr. Abbott went up to town as usual, but rather more reluctantly. “I think I shall try and get away early,” he said to his wife as he went down the steps to the car.

“No, I mustn't,” said Barbara, staring through him with sightless eyes.

“What?” inquired Arthur, in amazement.

“Nothing.”

“What did you say?”

“I don't know. What did
you
say, Arthur?”

“I said I was coming home early.”

“Good,” said Barbara, without enthusiasm.

Arthur worried about the strangeness of his wife's words and manner all the morning. What had she meant? Was it something to do with that Marvell fellow? “No, I mustn't,”
that
was what she had said. What was it that she must not do?

He was still worrying about it at the back of his mind when Sam looked in and asked if he was busy.

“I ought to be, but I'm not,” said Mr. Abbott, pushing his papers to one side, “what is it, Sam?”

“D'you think I could get the afternoon off?” inquired Sam diffidently.

“I don't see why you shouldn't,” said his uncle kindly. “Going to golf or something?”

“No—er—not exactly,” replied Sam.

He had come into the room by this time, and Mr. Abbott was able to observe that his nephew was certainly not dressed for sport. His gray lounge suit immaculately pressed, his blue tie and socks and handkerchief, all of which matched so perfectly, and his marvelously polished shoes betokened some less strenuous pastime: a pastime, Mr. Abbott surmised, not unconnected with the fair, sometimes designated the weaker, sex.

“Hmm, you're very smart,” remarked Mr. Abbott in a jocund manner.

“Yes,” replied Sam complacently.

“Going out with a girl, I suppose, eh?”

“Well—er—yes, I am really,” admitted Sam, laughing a trifle self-consciously. “That is if you don't mind me popping off like this.”

“Off you go,” said Mr. Abbott. “Off you go. You've been working pretty hard lately—”

“Thanks awfully, sir.”

Sam walked out on air—he was going to meet Jerry, who had deserted her riding stables for the afternoon. He was so excited at the prospect of seeing her again that he could hardly
breathe.

I wonder what Sam's up to, reflected Mr. Abbott—in the intervals of dictating letters to his secretary—I wonder what the young devil's up to now. He looked a bit above himself, somehow.
A
girl
, thought Mr. Abbott. Hope to goodness it's the right sort of girl. If Sam gets entangled with the wrong sort of girl it will be worse than Bow Street—much worse. But I shan't say a word to Barbara—not a word. It isn't fair to either of them to tell tales out of school. But, perhaps, we'd better have the young scoundrel down to Wandlebury again—I'll suggest it to Barbara—he hasn't been down for some time now, and it's a good thing to keep an eye on him. Yes, I must keep an eye on Sam—the young rascal! And Mr. Abbott laughed to himself, and then cleared his throat and said aloud:

“Are you ready, Miss Fitch? Dear Mr. Shillingsworth. We have read your latest novel with much—er—no—er—with
intense
interest full stop we shall be glad if you will allow us er—no—er (damn it, why should I?) we shall be delighted to—er—include it in our autumn list full stop we note that you are anxious that the book should be published early in the year semicolon but our spring list is already—er—complete full stop as regards the proposed cheap edition of
Burnt
Trails—
bother, I can't do anything about that till I've seen Spicer.”

“No,” said Miss Fitch sympathetically. She scratched out the last few words on her shorthand notebook, for it was obvious to her trained intelligence that Mr. Abbott had ceased dictating his letter to Mr. Shillingsworth immediately after the name of the latter's book. She waited for Mr. Abbott's next words with her pencil poised, and her whole attitude betokened eager anticipation—it was the attitude of one who hangs upon the word of a god.

“No—o,” said Mr. Abbott doubtfully. “
No
,” said Mr. Abbott firmly. “It will have to wait. Spicer's gone to Birmingham—and that being so,” continued Mr. Abbott more cheerfully, “that being so I've a good mind to knock off and go home.”

“Yes?” said Miss Fitch, relaxing a little.

“Yes,” repeated Mr. Abbott, glancing at the window which was filled with golden sunlight. “Yes, I think so. I'll sign those letters in the morning,” he added, rising from his chair to show that he really meant every word he said.

Miss Fitch rose too; she collected her papers and departed without a sound—she really was invaluable.

When Mr. Abbott arrived home, expecting to find a pleased and surprised wife at his beck and call, he was met on the doorstep by Dorcas, Dorcas with a long face and wild eyes.

“Good heavens!” cried Mr. Abbott, leaping out of the car and dashing up the steps. “Good heavens, Dorcas, what's happened?”

“Oh, Mr. Abbott!” said Dorcas, almost wringing her hands. “I hardly like to tell you. Oh, Mr. Abbott!”

“What is it?” he inquired, frantically. Visions of Barbara eloping with that ghastly Marvell fellow zigzagged like lightning through his mind. “What is it, Dorcas? For goodness' sake tell me what's happened?”

“I've been expecting it,” Dorcas said. “I've been expecting this to happen ever since she came back from church yesterday with that queer dazed look in her eyes—”

“What is it?” cried Mr. Abbott, and he seized Dorcas by the arm and shook her gently.

“She's writing,” Dorcas said.

“Writing!”

“Yes, writing.”

“Is that all?” said Mr. Abbott, mopping his forehead, which was beaded with perspiration from the agony of mind he had endured.

“You wouldn't say ‘Is that all' if you knew what it's like when she starts,” Dorcas told him. “She's been writing all day. She's had no lunch. I knocked on the door and told her it was pigeon pie, and she never even answered.”

“Why didn't you go in?” inquired Mr. Abbott. He was so delighted to find that his wife's preoccupation had nothing to do with Mr. Marvell that he could not take a grave view of the situation. Dorcas was an old wife; she was making a fuss about nothing. Why shouldn't Barbara write if she wanted to? “Why didn't you go in?” he repeated. “She was too absorbed to hear you knocking on the door, that was all.”

“The door's locked,” Dorcas told him. “Oh dear!” she lamented. “Oh dear, oh dear—I thought she'd got over it. We were all so happy and peaceful—”

“Don't be absurd, Dorcas,” said Mr. Abbott, quite sharply. It really
was
absurd—anybody would think that Barbara had taken to drink, at least, by the way Dorcas was going on.

“Oh, if you'd just go and tell her not to, sir!” Dorcas besought him. “She's locked the door, but, perhaps, she'd open it for
you—
or you could shout at her through the window. You've no idea what it's like when she gets started on that writing; it goes on and on. She's just like a lunatic, she is
really,
sir. You don't know what it's like. She goes on and on; going without meals and sleep and wearing herself—and everybody else—to shreds.”

“Don't be absurd,” said Mr. Abbott again. He pushed Dorcas aside and went to the door of his study where Barbara was ensconced.

Barbara opened the door at once when she heard his voice. She stood there looking at him with dazed eyes; her hair was standing on end, and she had a smear of ink across one cheek; behind her he could see the desk littered with paper; it had overflowed onto the floor in an untidy wave, and every sheet was closely covered with Barbara's ungainly scrawl.

“I'm—busy—” she said, looking at him vaguely.

Arthur was quite frightened at her appearance; she looked as if she scarcely knew who he was.

“I know you're busy,” he said, with assumed cheerfulness. “You've started another book, haven't you? Splendid work! But it's teatime, now, so you had better knock off for a bit.”

“I don't want any tea,” Barbara announced firmly.

“But I want some tea,” Arthur pointed out. And I can't have my tea alone. Come along, Barbara, the crumpets will be getting cold.”

“I can't leave this mess,” said Barbara, indicating the sea of paper, which Arthur had already observed. “They'll tidy it up, or something.”

“That's all right,” said Arthur, taking her arm. “Look, Barbara, we'll lock the door and you can put the key in your pocket.” He suited the action to the word, and thought (with rueful amusement) as he handed her the key:
my
room,
is it? I shall get a fat lot of use out of this room for the next few weeks!

Barbara ate quite a good tea. The crumpets were especially good, and she was naturally hungry. She was rather vague and abstracted at times, but Arthur kept her mind occupied, chatting cheerfully about anything and everything that came into his head. After tea he did not allow her to return to her work, but walked her about the garden, holding on to her arm and inviting her to admire the bulbs which were coming up very quickly in the bright sunshine.

The next morning, after Arthur had departed to the city, Barbara unlocked the study door and locked it again behind her. She spent all day there, writing as if her life depended upon it, and refusing all meals until Arthur returned, and, once more, dug her out of her retreat. This strange state of affairs went on for a fortnight, and Arthur was beginning to get extremely anxious about his wife. She looked pale and worn, and there were dark shadows under her eyes.

“I told you what it would be,” Dorcas said, when he spoke to her about her mistress. “I
knew
what it would be if once she got started. It was like this before—only worse, because, before, she wrote all night sometimes. She wasn't married then, of course.”

“How long d'you think it will go on?” inquired Mr. Abbott anxiously. It seemed to him that, at this rate, Barbara's book must very soon be finished, unless it was going to be one of these new-fashioned, extremely long books like
Anthony
Adverse.

“Oh, not long now, sir,” Dorcas assured him. “It never lasts so very long. She gets rid of it so quick, you see.”

Dorcas was correct as usual in her prophecy. For, the very next day when Arthur returned from the office, Barbara came to him with a bundle of papers in her hands.

“I'd like you to read it,” she said. “It isn't finished, of course, but I can't do any more just now. I feel dry—if you know what I mean—it's all run out of me. But if you'd just read it, and see what you think—I've no idea what it's like myself.”

“I'll read it,” said Arthur courageously—the bundle looked extraordinarily unpalatable, “I'll read it, tonight, and see what I think. Is it—” He stopped. He was about to say “is it fact or fiction?” but he refrained. He had been wondering all this time whether the book was “all about Wandlebury” (just as Barbara's other books had been “all about Silverstream”), and whether they would have to leave the place when it was published, but he had had the self-control not to inquire. I can wait a bit longer, he thought, I'll know for certain when I read it, and it will really be better if I come to it with an open mind.

So, after dinner, Arthur settled himself in a comfortable chair in his study (which was once more his own) and prepared to read Barbara's book; and Barbara, after looking at him doubtfully for a moment or two, said:

“Arthur, I wonder if you'd mind if I went to bed. I'm not ill or anything, but I'm frightfully tired. And, anyhow, I simply couldn't bear to sit here and watch you reading it.”

“Yes, of course, go to bed,” said Arthur, looking at her over the top of his reading spectacles (which he had donned for the task ahead of him) and smiling at her kindly. “Of course go up to bed—and go to sleep. I won't wake you when I come up. I shall probably be late, you know. I'll tell you what I think of it in the morning.”

“Tell me honestly, won't you?” Barbara said, kissing him on the top of his head where the hair was just beginning to get a trifle thin.

“I'll tell you honestly,” he promised.

So Barbara went to bed, and Arthur sat up, reading her book, until the small hours of the morning.

Barbara had called her new book
There's Many a Slip—.
She adored proverbs, of course, and this particular proverb had seemed applicable to the theme of her tale. Arthur was rather pleased with the name. It was in the “John Smith” tradition and would go very nicely with
The
Pen
Is
Mightier—
by the same author. He was even more pleased when he began to read the book—it enthralled him. It was all the more remarkable that the book should enthrall him because it really was in the most appalling muddle, and, in many places, Barbara's writing was almost, if not quite, illegible. In moments of excitement when Barbara was in the grip of her Muse, her brain had outrun her hand, and the writing had become erratic—larger and more ungainly than any writing that Arthur had hitherto had the misfortune to encounter. But, in spite of this, Arthur persevered, and he managed to grasp the trend of the story and to appreciate its rare flavor. Barbara's cunning had not deserted her; neither had marriage dulled the sparkle of her unconscious wit.

“It's better,” said Arthur to himself, before he had penetrated more than halfway through the embrangled manuscript. “It's better—and funnier.”

It was better and funnier than the previous books. It was more assured, more cohesive. The language was smoother and more colorful; but, in spite of these subtle differences, it was undoubtedly a “John Smith.” People who had liked the other two books—and they were legion—would like this one also, and, possibly, like it better.

The humor in this new book was slightly more conscious—so Arthur thought—it was as if the author had begun to realize that she was indeed a humorous person. In the other books the humor had been completely unconscious. Barbara had not known that they were “funny”; had not meant them to be; was, even, slightly hurt by the way that everybody insisted upon the fact that she was first and foremost a humorist. Arthur had heard her assure people that her books were “not funny at all.” She had said so to Mr. Spicer and to one or two other people who were in on the secret; but none of them had believed her, of course. Spicer had laughed until he was nearly purple in the face and had remarked afterward to his senior partner, “My word, your wife
is
a wag, and no mistake.” Arthur was aware that his wife was not a wag—not in the way that Spicer intended: she was perfectly sincere when she said that her books were not funny. She believed them to be “not funny,” and how could a book be funny without its author's knowledge?

Arthur knew all this, of course, but he had not read very far into the new book before he saw that there was a difference in the wit. The wit was not so unconscious. Barbara had begun to realize that she was a wag. The difference was so slight that nobody else would have seen it—nobody who did not know Barbara could possibly have spotted the difference. The difference was only this: in her other books Barbara had been funny without knowing it, and in this book she knew when she was being funny.

The humor in
There's Many a Slip—
lost nothing by being conscious, in fact Arthur thought it had gained. That incident about the lawyer's clerk, who had amused himself by walking so carefully in the middle of each flagstone (for instance) was amazingly well done. Arthur knew that the incident was true, because he had heard about it at the time, but the written description outshone the verbal one, as the sun outshines the moon, and Arthur laughed aloud in the privacy of his study at the humor of it.

He saw, of course, that this new book of Barbara's was partially true. That is to say, he recognized the Wandleburians under their different sobriquets. He recognized Jerry and her brother, and the lawyers, and Lady Chevis Cobbe, and he recognized the Marvells and their opprobrious progeny. He and Barbara were Mr. and Mrs. Nun and had come to settle at Church End (which was the name that Barbara had given to Wandlebury in her book).

But why Church End? thought Arthur in perplexity.

In her previous books Barbara had hit on the most delightful pseudonyms for her various characters. Dr. Walker had become “Dr. Rider” and Major Weatherhead had become “Colonel Merryweather”; Mr. Bulmer had been thinly disguised as “Mr. Gaymer,” and Mr. Fortnum had naturally become “Mr. Mason.” It was all quite easy—anybody could see the connection. In this book, however, the names were disguised with more subtlety (was it because Barbara thought that this precaution would prevent their owners from recognizing themselves?) and Arthur could not see the connection at all. Why, for instance, had Mr. and Mrs. Marvell become Mr. and Mrs. Colin Rhodes? And why had the vicar's wife become Mrs. Sittingbourne? What had led Barbara to disguise Mr. Tyler as Mr. Reade and Lady Chevis Cobbe as Lady Savage Brette? He decided to ask Barbara about it in the morning, and returned to his perusal of the manuscript.

The little character sketches interested Arthur enormously. Barbara was exceedingly good at getting under people's skins, and she had evidently taken a good deal of trouble with the Wandleburians. She knew the neighbors better than Arthur, of course, because she saw more of them. She was in Wandlebury all day while he was at the office, but Arthur knew them well enough to see that their portraits were excellent—they were life-size. The character sketch of Mr. Colin Rhodes (the painter) was perhaps the most interesting from Arthur's point of view. When he had read all that Barbara had to say about Mr. Rhodes he put down the manuscript and roared with laughter. The laughter was partly amusement and partly relief—there was absolutely no need to worry anymore. Barbara had seen through Mr. Rhodes. “What a fool I was!” said Arthur aloud. He saw quite distinctly that Barbara liked the man, and that he amused her enormously, but he also saw that the man only interested her as a type. It is much easier to make a striking character sketch of a person with striking characteristics than to make a character live when he is more or less like other people. Barbara had never seen anybody the least like Mr. Marvell before, and his peculiarities had provided her with invaluable copy. On the whole Barbara had been kind to Mr. Marvell (or Mr. Rhodes as she had called him). She had limned him sympathetically and with a certain admiration. She had given him full marks for all his good points—his immense size, his good humor, his resonant voice, and his amazing memory for apt quotations—but it was abundantly clear to Arthur that there was no need for him to be jealous of the man. “If Barbara sees him as clearly as
that
, said Arthur to himself, and then he added, “how on earth does she do it?”

How on earth did she do it—his shy, slightly gauche Barbara? How could she write of men as she did, with such true insight? She saw them naked (as it were), stripped of all their little subterfuges, their mannerisms, the coverings that they assumed to shield their inadequate souls from the world's gaze. She saw them naked and calmly limned them so; not aware, in her kind, pleasant mind, that she was giving the show away. How did she do it? A man of genius is said to include a woman and a child among his elements. Was Barbara a woman of genius, harboring among her purely feminine—nay, spinsterish—elements, a man's soul?

Arthur had already made up his mind that
There's Many a Slip—
was partly fact and partly fiction. The people in the book were obviously the Wandleburians, but the actual tale was fiction—so Arthur decided. The story was concerned with a will which had been made by Lady Savage Brette, disinheriting her nephew, young Mr. Philip Brette (who was obviously Jerry Cobbe's rather unpleasant brother). Nobody knew about this will except Mrs. Nun, who had been given it to read by mistake, when she visited the lawyer's office to inquire about a house. This was all pure fiction, of course, and Arthur was considerably impressed by the flight of fancy on the part of his hitherto unimaginative wife. It was fiction, thought Arthur, and damn funny fiction at that. The agony of the little lawyer when he discovered his mistake was finely conceived. Barbara's imagination was growing (she had said that Wandlebury might help it to grow, and obviously Wandlebury had. Arthur felt quite pleased about it, because he knew how pleased Barbara must be).

The title of
There's Many a Slip—
referred to young Mr. Philip Brette's disappointment over his expectations from his rich aunt. He had built upon his expectations, and, when the will was read and he found himself disinherited in favor of his sister, he was extremely annoyed—in fact he was furious. He dashed off to London in his small—but speedy—car and disappeared out of the picture. The terms of Lady Savage Brette's will interested Arthur a good deal. She had left everything to her niece Miss Jennifer Brette on condition that the said Jennifer was unmarried. Arthur happened to know that this was just the sort of peculiar will that Lady Chevis Cobbe might make, but he did not see how Barbara could have known this. How had Barbara gotten to know of her ladyship's peculiar attitude toward marriage? Arthur had not told her; he had kept Monkey's confidences on the subject sealed in his own breast. “I suppose there's a lot of gossip about it,” said Arthur to himself.

At any rate, however Barbara had come to know about it—or surmise it—she had made good use of the knowledge in her story, for the
pièces de résistances
in her book were the machinations of Mrs. Nun to prevent her young friend Jennifer from marrying a young man called Bob Groome. This Bob Groome (whom Arthur suspected was in reality none other than his own nephew Sam) was desperately in love with Jennifer. He was in love with Jennifer to a positively alarming extent. Mrs. Nun, having seen the will, was aware that if Bob and Jennifer were to get married it would be all up with Jennifer as regards the Savage Estates, for it was only if Jennifer were unmarried that she was to inherit. Mrs. Nun's dilemma was acute, because she was inhibited by a solemn promise to Mr. Reade from breathing a word about the will to a living soul. She was, however, a dauntless creature, and she set to work and plotted and planned like a female Richelieu. She managed by fair means and foul to keep the young people apart, until the fortunate demise of the rich aunt cleared the way; whereupon Jennifer got her inheritance; and she and her lover fell upon each other's necks; and the unfortunate Philip (who had built upon everything coming to him) was cast forth into utter darkness with weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth.

It was an excellent plot, well sustained, and well worked out, and the end was extraordinarily satisfying. Arthur was rather sorry for the disinherited young man, whose cup had been (so unceremoniously) dashed from his lips, but he was aware that other people would not share his views. The young man had no business to build upon his expectations; he had deserved all he got. In John Smith's books people always got what they deserved; it was one of the reasons why they were so popular. The general public likes people to get what they deserve: wedding bells for the hero and heroine, and utter desolation for the villain of the piece.
There's Many a Slip—
fulfilled these conditions admirably.

In one sense the book was finished, for the end was there; it was a whole story, complete from beginning to end—but, in another sense, the book was by no means finished. (Arthur saw exactly what Barbara had meant when she had thrust it into his hands and said, “It isn't finished, of course.”) The book required a good deal of padding here and there, and a great deal of polishing, and in several places, it required cutting down or building up. It resembled a rough diamond—a diamond in the raw, so to speak. This was quite easy to understand, for Barbara had written it straight off with tremendous speed; she had had no time to polish it up as she went along. It now required calm consideration. But the book was good. It was very good. Indeed, it was excellent.

Arthur went to bed.