The character of Mrs. Rider, the doctor’s wife, was clearly and sympathetically drawn. Mr. Abbott liked her immensely. She was really a charming creation. Mrs. Rider was suspected of being the author of Storms in a Teacup, and had rather a thin time of it in consequence. She was the victim of an absurd and altogether incredible conspiracy, hatched by the Myrtle Coates and Horsley Downs lot, to prove her authorship of the book. Mr. Abbott was rather doubtful about this incident; he wondered whether Miss Buncle would mind if he suggested its deletion. The kidnapping of the Rider baby was rather too improbable and unconvincing, even for a novel like The Pen is Mightier—, and most people would take it for farce. He decided to think it over carefully, and speak to Miss Buncle about the kidnapping business.
The Pen is Mightier— was a complicated sort of book; it had so many threads. There was the Myrtle Coates thread, and there was the conspiracy against Mrs. Rider, and there was the main theme all about Elizabeth Wade and her book, and besides these, there were several smaller threads all intertwined one with the other in a decidedly ingenious manner. Mr. Abbott disentangled them in his own mind: Mr. Horsley Downs had cast off his fetters and was having a much better time of it than he had in Disturber of the Peace. He amused himself very pleasantly and innocently by taking actresses to lunch at The Berkeley. (This must have been added last night for it bore the authentic stamp, and the ink was still blue.) The Gaymers, the Waterfoots, and Miss Earle took subsidiary places in The Pen is Mightier—. They had been dealt with faithfully in Miss Buncle’s previous book. The Gaymers’ divorce was touched on lightly; the Waterfoots sent postcards from Rome to say that they were exploring the Forum and found it intensely interesting; and Miss Earle and Miss Darling were “seen off” to Samarkand accompanied by the good wishes of their friends.
All these stories merged into each other, but they were really distinct stories and Mr. Abbott surmised that they were true—or very nearly true. He could vouch for the complete and almost terrifying veracity of the Elizabeth Wade story, and his own portrait, labeled Mr. Nun, amused him immensely—Barbara was always kind to people she liked.
The book was very like Disturber of the Peace, but it was handled more firmly; it was better, funnier, more even in texture. Miss Buncle’s writing had come on a lot, and yet it had not lost the extraordinary simplicity which some people had taken for satire. Mr. Abbott was delighted with The Pen is Mightier—.
Toward the end Miss Buncle had gathered in her threads with a cunning hand, and they were all gathered in and finished off neatly except the main thread of all. Elizabeth Wade was left—as it were—hanging in the air. It was this that had stumped Miss Buncle—how was she to finish off Elizabeth Wade, seeing that Barbara Buncle was by no means finished off?
Mr. Abbott saw the difficulty. The book required something to round off the main theme and complete it, something definite. It was the more difficult, of course, because The Pen is Mightier— was all true; there was no fantastic element in this book like the Golden Boy in the latter half of Disturber of the Peace. It was all true, therefore the dénouement must be true also: otherwise, the result would be inartistic.
Mr. Abbott sat and thought about it for a long time, and then he smiled. He saw the end of the book quite clearly, and it was an end that satisfied him—he hoped sincerely that it would satisfy Miss Buncle. He found a sheet of foolscap and outlined his idea for the completion of The Pen is Mightier—. It did not take him long for it was only an outline, of course, and he made it as bare as possible because he did not want it to appear as if there had been a strange hand at work in the completion of Miss Buncle’s book. The letter which he enclosed with the manuscript and the notes took him much longer to write, and he re-wrote it several times before he was satisfied with its wording. Then he packed up the whole thing and sent it back to Miss Buncle by registered post.
Mr. Abbott reflected, as he procured his receipt at the Post Office, that this was—perhaps—a unique way of proposing to a lady. He hoped Miss Buncle would take it in the right spirit and appreciate its fine points; he hoped that she would do it justice in her book. It was all to go into the book, of course, that was the whole idea: Elizabeth Wade’s confession to her publisher of having got stuck with her new novel, Mr. Nun’s offer to read it, and his suggestion for the end, coupled with a proposal of marriage to the fair author. The Pen is Mightier— would end with the wedding of Mr. Nun and Miss Elizabeth Wade—no better ending could be possible. It finished off Elizabeth in great style and it was just the sort of finishing off that The Pen is Mightier— required.
***
Barbara Buncle was delighted with Mr. Abbott’s suggestion for ending her novel; she saw at once that it was exactly what she needed. Wedding bells would make an artistic finale—how clever Mr. Abbott was to have thought of it!
It was not until she had digested the foolscap sheet, and laid some tentative plans for Elizabeth’s wedding, that she turned to Mr. Abbott’s letter, and discovered that he had sent her a proposal of marriage. The letter was not long; it merely said that he hoped Mr. Nun’s suggestion would meet with Elizabeth’s approval. He realized, he said, that everything in the book was true, and he hoped that the end would be no exception to the rule. Could she—he inquired, and the words were underlined lest she should fail to perceive their significance—could she possibly see her way to making his suggestion for the ending of her book come true? The letter concluded with the information that he would come over on Friday afternoon for her answer.
Barbara was amazed; she read the letter several times before she could convince herself that it really meant what she took it to mean. She was absolutely staggered at the idea of anybody wanting to marry her. Mr. Nun had fallen in love with Elizabeth Wade, of course—what more natural considering the charms of that fortunate woman?—but for Mr. Abbott to confess to a like passion for Barbara Buncle was the most incredible thing on earth. She had long ago decided that Mr. Abbott was quite the nicest man she had ever met: he was reliable, and kind and loyal, she had trusted him and leaned on him when everybody had been so unkind about Disturber of the Peace, and he had not failed her. She had never before had a proposal of marriage in any form, but she realized—in spite of her inexperience in such matters—that Mr. Abbott’s proposal was unique. It was delicate, it was flattering, it was clever. Of course, Mr. Abbott was a very clever man; she had realized that at their first interview when he had been a complete stranger to her. He was now her friend and she valued his friendship tremendously—but could she marry him? It was such a surprise that he should want her to marry him; she had never thought of such a thing for a moment. This is so sudden—Barbara thought—and smiled at the aptness of the hackneyed phrase.
I can’t marry him, I can’t possibly—Barbara thought. And yet she wouldn’t like to lose him, to lose his friendship and his support. If she refused to marry him would he continue to be her friend? It would never be the same, of course; there would always be that feeling of embarrassment between them. The mere idea of losing Mr. Abbott’s friendship filled her with dismay. She began to wonder if she could possibly marry him; she began to think she might.
Dorcas brought in the supper and found her reading and rereading Mr. Abbott’s letter.
“What do you think of marriage, Dorcas?” inquired Barbara, in a conversational tone.
“It’s that Mr. Abbott!” Dorcas exclaimed, dropping the toast-rack in her excitement. “I knew it, Miss Barbara. I just knew it. It was in my cup—a wedding in the house and a biggish man looking toward it. That’s Mr. Abbott I said—I really did. Oh, Miss Barbara, I’m so glad!”
“But Dorcas, I haven’t made up my mind—” cried poor Barbara in dismay.
“No, Miss Barbara, of course you haven’t. But it will be lovely—fancy seeing you a bride, all in white with orange blossoms in your hair! Oh, and he’s such a nice gentleman too. So free and easy. I will say this for Mr. Abbott, he knows
what’s what, he does. Oh, Miss Barbara, how happy I am.”
“But I haven’t decided anything—I probably won’t marry him at all, Dorcas. I’ve got to think it all over—nothing is settled yet—”
“No, Miss Barbara, of course not. It would never do to jump at him; it wouldn’t be proper at all. But I can’t help thinking about the wedding. I do like weddings, don’t you, Miss Barbara? We can turn out this room for the reception, and have a buffet across the corner. I shall get one of Mrs. Goldsmith’s girls to help: she wouldn’t mind giving me a hand, an’ it would be ever so much nicer than having a stranger, don’t you think so, Miss Barbara? And the twins are just right for pages—the doctor’s twins—all dressed up in white satin and carrying your train—”
It was hopeless to argue with Dorcas. Barbara gave it up in despair.
“Well, anyhow, you’re not to say a word to anybody,” she said firmly. “I haven’t decided anything, and I won’t be rushed like this. It’s a dead secret, Dorcas. Every bit as dead as Disturber of the Peace.”
“I won’t say nothing,” Dorcas promised. “Mum’s the word, Miss Barbara. But you won’t mind me thinking about it, will you? I couldn’t promise not to think about it, not for ten pounds, I couldn’t.”
“Well, don’t talk about it anyhow,” Barbara said.
Dorcas sighed. There was lots more she could have said about the wedding, but she supposed it was no use trying to say it. She had thought of several most important points to discuss with Miss Barbara, but if Miss Barbara would not discuss them she must just hold her tongue. She took up her tray with manifest reluctance and turned to leave the room.
“Oh, and Dorcas,” said Barbara. “I shall be writing late tonight, so don’t forget my coffee.”
“You’d much better go to bed, Miss Barbara,” said Dorcas sensibly. “There’ll be no more need for you to write now that you’ve got a husband to keep you.”
In spite of the fact that she had got—or was possibly going to get—a husband, Barbara wrote all night. The end came out beautifully. There was a touching scene in the garden when Elizabeth accepted Mr. Nun’s heart and hand. It was summertime, and Mr. Nun came for his answer dressed in tennis flannels, with a light-blue blazer enhancing his manly charms. Elizabeth was sitting in the arbor, and Mr. Nun was so impatient to get to her, that he vaulted lightly over the hedge and came to her across the grass. Elizabeth was coy. She placed her finished manuscript in his hands and said: “Reginald, dearest, there is my answer” and left him in the arbor to digest it at leisure. Reginald read the end at top speed and found that it gave him his heart’s desire—he rushed into the house to claim his bride.
All Copperfield was bidden to the wedding and all Copperfield came with alacrity—even Miss Earle and Miss Darling were summoned from Samarkand to attend. Elizabeth was loved and admired and respected in Copperfield. Nobody had the slightest idea that she was J. Farrier, that much discussed author of Storms in a Teacup, and there was no reason why anybody should ever know now. The wedding had done away with the need for the dramatic exposure which Barbara had been toying with reluctantly. The wedding was a far nicer ending than the dramatic exposure of J. Farrier. Thus it was that all Copperfield came gladly to Elizabeth’s wedding, bearing gifts, and the villagers erected a triumphal arch. The wedding was solemnized in the little church of St. Agatha’s by the sad-faced Mr. Shakeshaft, who could not help comparing the good fortune of Mr. Nun with his own blasted hopes. It was a brilliant wedding, the sun shone upon the bride, and the birds burst into song as she appeared at the church door after the ceremony, a radiant vision in spotless white.
All Copperfield now repaired to the bride’s charming house for the Wedding Breakfast, and each and all of the assembled guests proffered congratulations and good wishes in characteristic phrases. It was a little like the last scene in a Christmas Pantomime, where all the characters appeared to make their bow.
Barbara finished The Pen is Mightier— just as the clatter of the milk-cans sounded in the road. She laid down her pen and went to the window. Dawn ought to have been breaking over the hills, but it was doing no such thing, and would not be doing any such thing for another two hours at least. The milk-cart was the only thing to be seen through the leafless trees. It was drawn up beneath the lamp-post so that the milkman could see which can was the right one for Tanglewood Cottage—a poor substitute for the breaking of dawn which Barbara felt was her right.
She yawned and stretched herself, for she was very stiff and cramped. The joy of achievement—and what an achievement—buoyed her up, so that she did not feel tired at all, but she was very hungry. Dorcas would be coming down soon, thought Barbara; she would get Dorcas to boil an egg for her—perhaps two eggs—and then she would go to bed and sleep till tea-time, for she must be fresh and rested when Mr. Abbott arrived.
Writing all that about Elizabeth’s wedding (her own wedding, really, for was she not Elizabeth?) had made the idea of marrying Mr. Abbott seem quite familiar. It was not surprising and alarming anymore. She had been rather foolish to be so perturbed at the idea. There was nothing to be surprised and alarmed at in a wedding; people got married every day, and they continued to be much the same as before. Marriage did not alter people much, as far as Barbara could see.
Elizabeth had gone forward bravely to meet her fate, the sun had shone upon her, and the birds had sung with joy; she was actually married now—Elizabeth was actually married. She wasn’t Elizabeth Wade anymore; she was Mrs. Reginald Nun, and soon—or perhaps not exactly soon, but some day—Barbara would be Mrs. Arthur Abbott.
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.”
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