He's an author, you see, and Cecily Woodruff, Diccon Quarry, Lad, Dear-Heart, even the villain himself were all created by his pen. The events in the story are dictated-to by Mr. Macefield's imagination. It's all part of his book that he hopes to publish and get wealthy by. So when he children get into his book and his heroine gets out of it, there's rather a kerfuffle. Here's the scene directly after Cecily has told him the truth about what has happened:
The clock ticked,
beating a funereal rhythm into the otherwise silent room. Cecily remained
seated, her eyes still fixed on Mr. Macefield who had not stirred for ten full
minutes from his current position—head on desk, arms over head, hair sticking
wildly up like untrimmed grass around a fence. She wondered if this man had
been so overcome by her tidings that he’d fainted—but such a person would
hardly be worthy of the name of Man. He must be lost in thought, as she herself
had been when she heard the news. She shifted in her seat and the chenille of
her dressing gown made a soft hushing noise—enough to rouse Mr. Macefield from
his brown study. He raised his head a mite, his eyes darting from one corner of
his desk to the other, as if the thing he had lost were to be found somewhere
under the litter of papers and empty, coffee-stained teacups.
Cecily cleared her
throat, sufficiently encouraged by this sign of life to get on with the
business of solving the monumental problem before them. Mr. Macefield responded
with a slow shake of his head as if he’d been a great Newfoundland just waking from a nap.
“You’re quite sure
they’re gone?”
“Quite.”
“Ah. I thought
so.” Mr. Macefield’s lips pressed against each other and it struck Cecily that
he looked a much older man now than he had but a quarter of an hour before.
“What can be done,
sir?”
“That would be the
question, would it not, Miss Woodruff? I—I mean, your Grace.”
Cecily’s smiled at
the quick recovery and the discomfited expression on her author’s face as he
stole a sidelong glance in her direction. She put out a small, white hand and
bowed her head. “I am not worthy of any such title, sir. I have done a terrible
deed this morning.”
Mr. Macefield
dropped her hand, which he had taken reverently, and scraped his chin. “You
don’t mean to say you did it on purpose?”
“Never, sir!”
“No—no, your
Grace. Forgive me for even wondering.” He scraped his chin again and chuckled
nervously. “You are not capable of any
such thing—ha ha! I wrote you—I ought to know that much—you are kindness itself
and beauty, grace, accomplishment, and modesty besides. Do forgive me.”
“You are forgiven,
Mr. Macefield, but I can’t help wondering what is to be done in the matter?”
Cecily fumbled with a pile of trimmings from pen-nibs and fixed an intent gaze
on the man before her. He shrugged, tugged at his cravat so it lay even more
cocked to one side than usual, and harrumphed.
“In cases such as
these,” he began, frowning, “it is customary, I believe, to call the
policeman.”
“The policeman!
Surely you would not put the future queen of Scarlettania in—”
“Jail? Certainly
not. A blunder again. But what else does one do in the case of missing persons?
And so many missing all at once.” He tossed his hands in the air, fluttered his
fingers like a covey of doves, and smiled. It was apparent that, for the
moment, the idea had rendered him quite helpless.
Cecily leaned
forward in her chair. “There is one difference in our case than most others, sir.”
“Indeed? Is there?
The children are missing, and nowhere to be found, certainly?”
“But that is not
so, Mr. Macefield—they are to be found. We know where they have gone—the only
trouble is, we cannot get at them.”
Mr. Macefield
smiled again. “Capital logic, Miss Woodruff—er, your Grace. I ought to have
thought of it myself.”
Cecily smiled;
glad to have her piece spoken. The matter was entirely in her employer’s hands
now. It was only he who had the power to do anything to change to course of
events. She sighed. Court-life had not taught her how to handle such a dilemma,
though it had taught her many a valuable skill. A sun-beam warmth crept into
her heart, the precursor of a laugh—perhaps they ought to begin a royal class
on What To Do If One Loses Her Charges. But there were graver matters at hand.
“What is your
course of action?” Cecily asked. Her employer’s course of action, at present,
seemed to be to clutch his hair and stare, sighing now and smiling then,
frowning in between.
He stirred. “I
suppose the only thing to do is to…write them home.” He sighed then, and
overwhelm registered so strong in the slump of his shoulders, Cecily could
hardly bear to look upon him. “But see here, your Grace—is there not another
way? What about the box? Surely you have it with you?”
Cecily shook her
head. “I’d thought of that—but your children are most thorough in their
mischief—they took the box along.”
Mr. Macefield
nodded and scratched his nose. “I only wondered—I might have gone in after
them.”
“And what then?
The box can only carry people forth—never call them back. Where it dances once
it cannot tread again.”
Mr. Macefield slid
half-way down his chair till only his cravat, his head, and his hair were
visible above the sea of paper. “I had forgot that.”
“Then, sir,”
Cecily said, standing and smoothing her skirt. “You had better start writing.”
She turned to leave.
Mr. Macefield
scrambled under his desk and blocked her retreat. “Isn’t there another way?
Something else I can do right now?”
Cecily peered over
his shoulder at the desk, chair, bookcases, and tables awash in manuscript. A
brief interlude in the madness might aid the poor man’s agony. Then her stomach
turned a somersault as remembrance forced itself upon her mind. “Well, there is
one thing that must be done immediately.”
“Alleluia—what is
it?”
“We must tell your
wife, sir.”
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