Miss Buncle Married (31 page)

Mr. Abbott looked at the clock several times as he went through his business on Wednesday morning. He was excited at the prospect of the interview with John Smith. Years of publishing had failed to dim his enthusiasms or to turn him into a soured and bitter pessimist. Every new and promising author found favor in his eyes. He had given up trying to predict the success or unsuccess of the novels he published, but he went on publishing them and hoping that each one published would prove itself a bestseller.

Last Friday morning his nephew, Sam Abbott, who had just been taken into the firm of Abbott & Spicer, suddenly appeared in Mr. Abbott's sanctum with a deplorable lack of ceremony and announced, “Uncle Arthur, the feller who wrote this book is either a genius or an imbecile.”

Something stirred in Mr. Abbott's heart at these words (a sort of sixth sense perhaps), and he had held out his hand for the untidy-looking manuscript with a feeling of excitement—was this the bestseller at last?

His sensible, publishing, businessman-self had warned him that Sam was new to the job, and had reminded him of other lamentable occasions when authors who had promised to be swans had turned out disappointing geese, but the flame which burned within him leaped to the challenge.

The manuscript had gone home with him that night, and he was still reading it at 2 a.m. Still reading it, and still in doubt. Making allowances for the exaggeration due to his youth and inexperience Sam had been right about
Chronicles
of
an
English
Village
, and Mr. Abbott could not but endorse his opinion. It was not written by a genius, of course, neither was it the babblings of an imbecile; but the author of it was either a very clever man writing with his tongue in his cheek, or else a very simple person writing in all good faith.

Whichever he was, Mr. Abbott was in no two opinions about publishing him. The Autumn List was almost complete, but room should be made for
Chronicles
of
an
English
Village
.

As Mr. Abbott turned out his light—about 3 a.m.—and snuggled down comfortably in bed, his mind was already busy on the blurb that should introduce this unusual book to the notice of the world. The author might have his own ideas about the blurb, of course, but Mr. Abbott decided that it must be very carefully worded so as to give no clue—no clue whatever—as to whether the book was a delicate satire (comparable only with the first chapter of
Northanger
Abbey
) or merely a chronicle of events seen through the innocent eyes of a simpleton.

It was really a satire, of course, thought Mr. Abbott, closing his eyes—that love scene in the moonlit garden for instance, and the other one where the young bank clerk serenaded his cruel love with a mandolin, and the two sedate ladies buying riding breeches and setting off for the Far East—and yet there was simplicity about the whole thing, a freshness like the fragrance of new mown hay.

New mown hay, that was good, thought Mr. Abbott. Should “new mown hay” go into the blurb or should it be left to the reader to discover? What fools the public were! They were exactly like sheep…thought Mr. Abbott sleepily…following each other's lead, neglecting one book and buying another just because other people were buying it, although, for the life of you, you couldn't see what the one lacked and the other possessed. But this book, said Mr. Abbott to himself, this book must go—it should be made to go. Pleasant visions of bookstalls piled with neat copies of
Chronicles
of
an
English
Village
and the public clamoring for more editions passed dreamily through his mind.

The author must come and see him, thought Mr. Abbott, coming back from the verge of sleep. He would know then, once he had seen the man, whether the book was a satire or a straight story, and he must know that (the mystery intrigued him) but nobody else should know. John Smith must be bidden to the office at the earliest possible moment for there was no time to waste if the book was to go into the Autumn List—John Smith, what a name! An assumed name, of course, and rather a good one considering the nature of the book.

Sleep hovered over Mr. Abbott darkly; it descended upon him with outstretched wings.

On Saturday evening, after a day's golf, Mr. Abbott read the book again. He took it into his hands with some trepidation. It was probably not so good as he had thought—things looked different at 2:00 a.m. He would be disappointed when he reread the thing.

But Mr. Abbott was not the least bit disappointed when he reread the thing; it was just as good today as it had been last night—in fact it was better, for he knew the end and could now appreciate the finer points. It made him chuckle, it kept him glued to his chair till the small hours, it drifted along and he drifted along with it and time was not. It was the characterization, Mr. Abbott decided, that made the book. The people were all so real; every single character was convincing. Every single character breathed the breath of life. There was not a flat two-dimensional character in the book—rather unusual that! There were glaring faults of construction in the thing (in fact there was not much attempt at construction about it)—obviously a tyro, this John Smith! And yet, was he? And yet, was he? Weren't the very faults of construction part of the book's charm?

The first part of
Chronicles
of
an
English
Village
was a humdrum sort of affair—it was indeed a chronicle of life in an English village. It might have been dull if the people had not been so well drawn, or if the writing had not been of that amazing simplicity which kept one wondering whether it were intended to be satirical or not. The second part was a sort of fantasy: a golden boy walked through the village playing on a reed pipe, and his music roused the villagers to strange doings. It was queer, it was unusual, it was provocative, and, strangely enough, it was also extremely funny. Mr. Abbott was aware, from personal experience, that you could not lay it down until the end.

The name of the book was poor, Mr. Abbott thought.
Chronicles
of
an
English
Village
sounded dull; but another name could easily be found, a name that would focus light on the principal incident in the book, the incident upon which the whole story turned. What about “The Golden Boy” or “The Piper Passes”? Perhaps the latter was too sophisticated for such an artless (or was it an artful) story. It might be called “Disturber of the Peace,” thought Mr. Abbott. Yes, that was rather good. It had the right ring about it; it was easy to remember; it cast the necessary light upon the boy. He would suggest the title to John Smith.

It will have been deduced from the foregoing that Mr. Abbott was a bachelor—what wife would have allowed her husband to sit up till all hours for two nights running reading the manuscript of a novel? None.

Mr. Abbott
was
a bachelor; he lived at Hampstead Heath in a very pleasant little house with a small garden. A man and his wife—Rast was their name—“did” for Mr. Abbott and made him extremely comfortable. Their matrimonial differences were frequent and violent, but these were confined to the kitchen premises and were not allowed to interfere with their master's comfort. A slate hung upon a hook on the kitchen dresser, and if the Rasts were not upon speaking terms they communicated with each other through the medium of a squeaky slate pencil. “Wake him 7:30” Rast would write, and Mrs. Rast would glance at the slate on her way to bed and appear at Mr. Abbott's bedside at 7:30 precisely with a spotless tray of morning tea. Lucky Mr. Abbott!

The letter summoning John Smith was dispatched early on Monday—it was the first thing Mr. Abbott had seen to on his arrival at Brummel Street—and now here was Wednesday morning, and Mr. Abbott was expecting John Smith. There was the usual box of cigars on Mr. Abbott's table and two boxes of cigarettes—Turkish and Virginian—so that whatever sort of man John Smith might be, his taste could be catered for with the least possible trouble or delay. Mr. Abbott was not quite his usual self this morning; he was excited, and the typist found him distrait. He was not giving his whole mind to the drawing up of a water-tight contract with Mr. Shillingsworth, who was a bestseller and quarreled with every publisher in turn, and it was important, nay, it was imperative, that Mr. Abbott's whole mind should be given to the matter.

“I think you had better come back later,” Mr. Abbott was saying. “I must think it over carefully.”

At this moment there was a knock at the door and the small page boy announced hoarsely, “Miss Buncle to see you, sir. Shall I bring her up?”

“Buncle!” cried Mr. Abbott. “Buncle—who's Buncle?”

“Says she's got an appointment at twelve.”

Mr. Abbott stared at the imp while he rearranged his thoughts. Miss Buncle—John Smith—why hadn't he thought that it might be a woman?

“Show her up,” he said sharply.

The typist gathered up her papers and departed with the swift silence of her tribe, and a few moments later Miss Buncle stood before the great man. She was trembling a little, partly from excitement and partly from fear.

“I got your letter,” she said in a soft voice, and showed it to him.

“So you are John Smith,” he announced with a humorous lift of his brows.

“It was the first name I thought of.”

“It is an easy name to think of,” he pointed out. “I rather thought it was too bad to be true.”

“I don't mind changing it,” she told him hastily.

“I don't want it changed,” said Mr. Abbott. “There's nothing wrong with John Smith—but why not Buncle? A good name, Buncle.”

Her face blanched. “But I live there!” she cried breathlessly.

Mr. Abbott caught her meaning at once. (How quick he was, thought Miss Buncle. Lots of people would have said, “Where do you live?” or “What has that got to do with Buncle?” but this man grasped the point in a moment.)

“In that case,” he said, and raised his hands a little, palm upward—they both laughed.

Contact was now definitely established. Miss Buncle sat down and refused both kinds of cigarettes (he did not offer her the cigars, of course). Mr. Abbott looked at her and wondered. How had she felt when she wrote
Chronicles?
Was it a straight story or a satire? He was still in doubt. She was obviously a simple sort of person—shabbily dressed in a coat and skirt of blue flannel. Her hat was dreadful, her face was pale and rather thin, with a pointed chin and a nondescript nose, but on the other hand her eyes were good—dark blue with long lashes—and they twinkled a little when she laughed. Her mouth was good too, and her teeth—if they were real—magnificent.

Meeting Miss Buncle in the street, Mr. Abbott (who was rather a connoisseur of feminine charms) would not have looked twice at her. A thin, dowdy woman of forty—he would have said (erring on the unkind side in the matter of her age) and passed on to pastures new. But here, in his sanctum, with the knowledge that she had written an amusing novel, he looked at her with different eyes.

“Well,” he said, smiling at her in a friendly manner, “I've read your novel and I like it.”

She clasped her hands together and her eyes shone.

This made him add—quite against his principles—“I like it very much indeed.”

“Oh!” she exclaimed ecstatically. “Oh!”

“Tell me all about it,” Mr. Abbott said. This interview was proceeding on quite different lines from what he had imagined, arranged, and decided; quite differently, in fact, from any other interview between an author and a publisher in which Mr. Abbott had ever participated.

“All about it!” echoed Miss Buncle helplessly.

“Why did you write it? How did you feel when you were writing it? Have you ever written anything before?” he explained.

“I wanted money,” said Miss Buncle simply.

Mr. Abbott chuckled. This was a new kind of author. Of course they all wanted money; everybody did. Johnson's dictum that nobody but a donkey wrote for anything except money was as true today as it had ever been and always would be, but how few authors owned to the fact so simply! They either told you that something stronger than themselves compelled them to write, or else that they felt they had a message to give the world.

“Oh! I am quite serious,” said Miss Buncle, objecting to Mr. Abbott's chuckle. “You see my dividends are so wretched this year. Of course I ought to have known they would be, after all the papers said, but somehow I didn't. The dividends had always come in regularly and I thought—well, I never thought anything about it,” said Miss Buncle truthfully, “and then when they didn't come in—or else came in only about half the usual amount—it gave me rather a shock.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Abbott. He could visualize Miss Buncle sitting there in the midst of a crashing world waiting with perfect confidence for her dividends to come in, and the dividends failing to come in, and Miss Buncle worried about it and realizing at last that
her
world was crashing as well as the outside world. He could visualize her lying awake at night with a cold sort of feeling in her heart and wondering what she had better do about it.

“So then you thought you would write a book,” suggested Mr. Abbott sympathetically.

“Well, not just at first,” replied the author. “I thought of lots of other things first—keeping hens for one thing. But I don't care for hens much. I don't like touching them; they are such fluttery things, aren't they? And Dorcas doesn't like them either. Dorcas is my maid.”

“Susan?” inquired Mr. Abbott with a smile and a motion of his hand toward the manuscript of
Chronicles
of
an
English
Village,
which lay between them on the table.