"Yes, we'd be much better off there!"
"Go back and admit I've failed in London! Crawl home with my tail between my legs!..."
"Don't be melodramatic," said Eleanor.
"I have my pride," he retorted. "You can call that being melodramatic, if you like, but I call it decent pride. I won't admit to anybody that I've failed. I haven't failed!..."
"I didn't say you had, dear!"
"I won't fail. You wait. Just you wait. I'll succeed all right. If I have failed so far, I can try again, can't I? Can't I?"
"Yes, John!..."
"I'm not going to take a knock-down blow as a knockout. I know I can write. I feel the stuff inside me. The book I'm doing now, isn't that good?"
"Well!..."
"Isn't it good? You'll have to admit it's good!"
"I daresay it is. It isn't the kind of book I like, but I'm sure it's good. That's why I want to get a job, so that you can finish it in peace. Let me try ... just until you've finished the book. Then perhaps things will be all right. I'd like to be able to say that I helped you!"
"You're a lot too good for me."
"Oh, no, I'm not. Any girl whoisa girl would want to help, wouldn't she?"
His temper had subsided now, and the reproach he always felt after such a scene as this made him feel very ashamed of himself.
"I'm sorry, Eleanor, that I lost my temper just now. I didn't mean to say what I did!..."
"But, my dear," she exclaimed, "you didn't say much, and if you did it was because you were upset about the play and the novel. Don't worry about that. Now, listen to me. I met Mr. Crawford this morning!..."
"Crawford?"
"Yes. He's managing director of that motor place I used to be in. He told me he had never had a secretary so useful as I was, and that he wished I'd never met you!..."
"Did he, indeed?"
"Yes. Of course, that was only a joke. I'm sure he'd let me go back to my old job for a while!..."
"No. No, no!"
She stood up, half turned away from him, and said, "Well, I'm going to ask for it anyhow!"
"You're what?"
"Yes, John, I'm going to ask for it. Don't shout at me! You really must listen to sense. I'm not going to run into debt or have trouble with tradesmen about money just because of your pride. I want you to finish that book!"
"I'd rather sweep the streets than let you go back to your old job."
"Well, I'll get a new one then!"
"Or any job," he said. "I don't care what it is. That man Crawford, what do you think he'd say if you went back to him? I know. 'Poor Mrs. MacDermott, her husband must be a rum sort of a fellow ... not able to keep his wife ... she had to go out to work again soon after he married her!' That's what he'd say!"
"But does it matter what he says?"
"Yes. I'm not going to have anybody say that I can't earn enough to keep you decently!"
"That's all very fine, John, but you're not doing it. Your novel hasn't brought you any money at all, and you've spent as much on the play as you've got so far. You've had one or two articles printed, and that's all. The rest of the money we've lived on has come from your Uncle William!..."
"Uncle William! None of it came from him. Uncle Matthew left me his money and my mother gave me the rest!"
"Yes, and how did they get it? From your Uncle William, of course. His work has kept them, hasn't it? And you? We're sponging on your Uncle William, and I hate to think we're sponging on him. You're very proud about not letting me go out to work, but you're not so proud about letting Uncle William keep you!"
This was a blow between the eyes for him. "That's a bitterly unkind thing to say," he murmured.
"It's true, isn't it?" she retorted. "I don't want to be unkind, John, but we've really got to face things. I'm frightened. I don't like the thought of getting into debt. I've never been in debt before. Never! And I can't see what's going to happen when we've spent our money if one of us doesn't start to earn something now!" She changed her tone. "John, don't be silly about it. Do agree to my getting a job for the present. You'll be able to get on with your book at home, and any other writing you want to do, and then perhaps things will get straight and we'll be all right!"
"The point is, do you believe in me?" he demanded.
"Of course I believe in you!..."
"Ah, but I mean in my work. In my writing. Do you believe in that?"
"What's that got to do with it? Lots of books are very good that I don't much care for. I likedThe Enchanted Lover—it was quite good—but I don't much care for the one you're doing now. I can't help that. I daresay other people will like it better!"
"Why don't you like it?"
"Well, it doesn't seem to me to be about anything."
"Listen, Eleanor! I don't want just to be one of a mob of fairly good writers. If I can't be a great writer, I don't want to be a writer at all. I'll have everything or I'll have nothing!"
"I see!"
"So now you know. I feel I have greatness in me ... but you don't feel like that about me," he said.
"I don't know anything about greatness. All I know is that I like some things and that I don't like others. I don't know why a book is great or why it isn't. You can't judge things by what I say. It's quite possible that you are a great writer, and that's why I want you to let me get a job, so that you can go on with your work and be able to show the world what you can do. I'd hate to think you'd been prevented from doing your best work because you'd had to use up your energy doing other things. It won't take long to finish this book, will it?"
"No."
"Well, then, I shan't have to work for very long. By the time it's finished,The Enchanted Lovermay have earned a lot of money for us ... and the play, too ... and then we can just laugh at our troubles now!..."
III
He remained obdurate for a while, but in the end she wore his opposition down. Mr. Crawford gladly welcomed her back to her old job, and even offered her a larger salary than she had been receiving before her marriage. "I've learned your value since you went away," he said. "I'm a fool to tell you that, perhaps, but I can't help it. Half the young women who go out to offices nowadays would be dear at ninepence a week. The last girl we had here caused me to imperil my immortal soul twice a day through her incompetence. I've sworn more in a week since you left us, than I ever swore in my life before!..."
Eleanor insisted that John should not inform his mother of her return to work. Intuitively she knew that Mrs. MacDermott's pride would be outraged by this knowledge, and that she would make bitter complaint to John of his failure to maintain his wife in a way worthy of his family; and so she urged John to say nothing at all of the matter either to Mrs. MacDermott or to Uncle William. He had made no comment on the matter, but she knew that he had been relieved by her request.
Hinde had fulfilled his promise to boomThe Enchanted Loverin theEvening Herald, and Mr. Jannissary reluctantly admitted that the book was selling. "Slowly, of course, but still ... selling! I think I shall get my money back," he said.
"Do you think I'll get any money out of it?" John asked.
"Ah, these things are on the knees of the gods, my dear fellow! It is impossible to say!"
The second book moved in a leisurely manner to its close, and Mr. Jannissary declared that he was delighted to hear thatThe Enchanted Loverwould shortly have a successor. He thought that perhaps he could promise to pay royalties from the first copy of the new novel!...
"How do writers manage to live, Mr. Jannissary?" John said to him at this point, and Mr. Jannissary murmured that there was a divinity which shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we may.
"Oh, is that it?" said John.
"Some men have been very hungry, MacDermott because they served their Art faithfully. Think of the garrets, the lonely attics in which beautiful things have been imagined!..."
"I've no desire to go hungry or to live in a lonely attic, Mr. Jannissary. Let me tell you that!"
"No ... no, of course not. None of us have. I trust I am not a voluptuary or self-indulgent in any way, but I too would dislike to be excessively hungry. Still, I think it must be a great consolation to a man to think that he had made a great work out of ... his pain, so to speak!"
John reflected for a moment on this. Then he said, "How do you manage to keep going, Mr. Jannissary, when you publish so many books that don't bring you any return?"
Mr. Jannissary glanced very interrogatively at John. Then he waved his hands, and murmured vaguely. "Sacrifices," he said. "We all have to make sacrifices!..."
John left the publisher and went on to the office of theEvening Heraldwhere he saw Hinde. "I've brought an article I thought you'd like to print," he said when he had been admitted to Hinde's office. Hinde glanced quickly through it. "Good," he said, "I'll put it in to-morrow. I suppose," he continued, "you wouldn't like to do a job for me?"
"What sort of a job?"
"There's to be a great ceremony at Westminster Abbey to-morrow ... dedication of a chapel for the Order of the Bath. The King'll be there. Like to go and write an account of it?"
"Yes, I would!"
"Good. I'll get Masters to send the ticket of admission on to you to-night!"
He felt much happier when he left the Herald offices than he had felt when he entered them. He had sold an article and had been commissioned to do an interesting job. Eleanor would be pleased. He hurried home so that he might be there to greet her when she returned from her work.
IV
She was sitting in front of the fire when he entered the flat. "Hilloa," he said, "you're home early, aren't you?"
She looked up and smiled rather wanly at him.
"Yes," she said, "I came home about three!..."
"Why? Aren't you well?"
"I'm not feeling very grand!"
"What's the matter!"
"I don't know. At least I ... Oh, I don't know. It may only be imagination!"
He sat down beside her. "Imagination!..." She looked at him very steadily, and he found himself remembering how beautiful he had thought her eyes were that day when he saw her for the first time. They were still very beautiful.
"I'm not sure," she said. "I don't know ... but I ... I think I'm going to have a baby!"
"Holy Smoke!"
"I don't know. I feel so stupid!..."
She had been smiling while she was telling this to him, but now she dismayed him by bursting into tears.
"Eleanor!" he exclaimed, not knowing what to say or to do, and she let herself subside into his arms and lay there, half laughing and half crying.
"I'm being a ... frightful ... fool," she said between sobs, "but I ... I can't help it!"
They sat together until the dusk had turned to darkness, holding each other and whispering explanations and hopes and fears. A queer sense of responsibility settled upon John, a feeling that he must bear burdens and be glad to bear them. Eleanor seemed to him now to be a very fragile and timid creature, turning instinctively to him for care and protection. Immeasureable love for her surged in his heart. This very dear and gentle girl, so full of courage and yet so full of alarm, had become inexpressibly precious to him. She had come to him in doubt and had entrusted her life to him, not certain that she cared for him sufficiently to be entirely happy with him. He had tried to make her happy, and slowly he had seen her liking for him growing into some sort of affection. Perhaps now she loved him as he loved her. Soon she would be the mother of a child ... his child!... How very extraordinary it seemed! A few months ago, Eleanor and he had been strangers to each other ... and now she was about to bear a child to him!
"I must work hard," he said to himself, and then to her, "Of course, you can't go back to Mr. Crawford. I'll write to my mother and tell her!"
He remembered the commission from Hinde, and while he was telling her of it, the postman delivered a letter from the Herald in which was the invitation card for the ceremony in Westminster Abbey.
She examined it with interest. "But it says Morning Dress must be worn," she exclaimed, pointing to the notice in the corner of the card. "You haven't got any Morning Dress!"
"Do you think it'll matter?"
"They may not let you in if you go as you are now. You haven't even a silk hat!"
"What shall I do then?" he asked.
"We must think of something. Perhaps Mrs. Townley's husband would lend you his silk hat!" The Townleys were their neighbours. "He hardly ever wears it, and he's about your size!"
"I shouldn't like to ask them!..."
"Oh, I'll ask them all right," Eleanor said.
She left the flat and crossed the staircase to the door of the Townleys' flat, and after a little while, she returned carrying a silk hat that was much in need of ironing.
"She lent it quite willingly," Eleanor said. "She says Mr. Townley's only used it twice. Once when they were married and once at a funeral. Put it on!" She fixed it on his head. "It doesn't quite fit," she said. "Perhaps if I were to put some paper inside the band, that would make it sit better!"
She lined the hat with, tissue paper and then, put it on his head again. "That's a lot better," she exclaimed. "Look at yourself in the glass!"
"I feel an awful fool in it," he murmured, glancing at his reflection in the mirror.
"Oh, well, I suppose all men do feel like fools when they put on silk hats ... at first anyhow ... but it isn't any worse than a bowler hat or one of those awful squash-hats that Socialists wear. Men's hats are hideous whatever shape they are. I don't know what we're to do about a morning coat for you. I didn't like to ask Mrs. Townley to lend her husband's to me!..."
"Good Lord, no! You can't borrow the man's entire wardrobe from him!"
"Your grey flannel trousers might look like ordinary trousers, if we could get a morning-coat for you!" She paused as if she were reflecting on the problem. "I know," she said at last. "It's sure to rain, in the morning. King George is going to the thing, so it's sure to rain. Wear your overcoat ... then you won't need a morning coat ... and the silk hat and your grey flannel trousers and your patent leather boots!..."
"It's a bit of a mixture, isn't it?"
"It won't be noticed. That'll do very nicely! Thank goodness, we've solved that problem! The money will be useful, dearest!"
V
"What luck!" said Eleanor, looking out of the window in the morning. The sky was grey and the streets were wet and dirty.
John had urged her to stay at home, offering to explain to Mr. Crawford why she was not returning to her employment, but she had insisted that she was well enough now and must treat Mr. Crawford as fairly as he had treated her. "I'll give notice to him at once," she said, "and he can get someone else as soon as possible ... but I can't leave him in the lurch!"
They travelled by Tube to town together, and John went on to Westminster Abbey. He was very early and when he arrived at the entrance nominated on the Invitation Card he found that he was the first arrival. Ten minutes afterwards, a grubby-looking man in a slouch hat ambled up the asphalt path to the narrow door against which John was leaning. "Good morning!" John said, glancing at the slouch hat and the shabby reefer coat and the brown boots. "Have you come to do this ceremony, too?" The man nodded his head. He was very uncommunicative and had a surly look. "But they won't let you in, like that!" said John.
"Won't let me in! Who won't let me in?" the man demanded.
"It says 'Morning Dress to be worn' on the Invitation Card," John answered, showing his card as he spoke.
"That's all bunkum! They'd let me in if I were naked. I'm here to report the performance, not to display my elegance, and these people want the thing reported as much as possible. I don't suppose you know me?"
"No, I don't," said John.
"Well, I'm known as the Funeral Expert in Fleet Street. My paper always sends me out on special occasions to report big funerals. I'm very good at that sort of thing. I seem to have a flair for funerals somehow. I've never done a show like this before, but if I can only persuade myself to believe that there's a corpse about, I'll do it better than anybody else. I make a specialty of quoting the more literary parts of the Burial Service in my reports!..."
"You won't be able to do that to-day. This isn't a funeral," said John.
"No, but I can quote the hymns if they've got any merit at all. Otherwise I shall drag in the psalms. Hymns aren't very quotable as a rule. Shocking doggerel most of 'em!..."
They were joined by other reporters, and John observed that he alone among them was wearing a silk hat. He commented on the fact to the Funeral Expert.
"There's only one silk hat in the whole of Fleet Street," the Funeral Expert replied, "and it belongs to the man who specialises in Murders. He never investigates a murder without wearing his silk hat. He says it's in keeping with the theme!"
The door was opened by a verger and the journalists entered the Abbey and were led up some very narrow and dark and damp stone stairs until at last they emerged on to a rude platform of planks high up in the roof. At one end of the platform a pole had been placed breast-high between two pillars, and against this the journalists were invited to lean. Far below, the ceremony was to take place. John felt giddy as he looked down on the floor of the Cathedral.
"We shan't be able to see anything up here," he said to the Funeral Expert.
"What do you want to see?" was the reply he received. "You've got a programme of the ceremony, haven't you, and an imagination. That's all you need. I suppose you've never done a job of this sort before?"
"No. I'm a beginner!"
"Well, write a lot of slushy staff about the sun shining through the rose-coloured window just as the King entered the Abbey. That always goes down well. There are three psalms to be sung during the service. If you quote the first one, I'll quote the second, and then we shan't clash. Is that agreed?"
"All right!"
Half the journalists retreated from the pole-barrier and sat on a pile of planks at the back of the platform. Like John, they suffered from giddiness. They had their writing-pads open, however, and were busily engaged in inventing accounts of the ceremonial that was presently to be performed. John glanced over a man's shoulder and caught sight of the words, "As His Majesty entered the ancient abbey, a burst of sunlight fell through the old rose window and cast a glorious crimson light on his beautiful regalia!...."
"Lord!" said John, moving away.
He went to the end of the platform, and then, moved by some feeling which he could not explain, descended the dark, stone stairs which he had lately mounted. He could hear the music of the organ, and presently the choir began to sing an anthem.
"I suppose it's beginning," he thought.
He reached the ground-floor, and presently found himself standing behind a stone-screen in the company of selected persons and officials in brilliant uniforms. There were three special reporters here, to whom an official in a gorgeous green garb, looking very like a figure on a pack of cards, was giving information. John edged nearer to them, and as he did so, he saw that some ceremony was proceeding in one of the chapels.
"What's happening?" he asked in a whisper.
His neighbor whispered back that this was to be the chapel of the Order of the Bath, and that the King was about to conduct some ceremonial with the Knights of the Order. He raised himself on the edge of a tomb and saw two lines of old men in rich claret-coloured robes facing each other, with a broad space between them, and while he looked, the King passed between the Knights who bowed to him as he passed towards the altar. He heard the murmur of old, feeble voices as the Knights swore to protect the widow and the orphan and the virgin from wrong and injury!...
"They haven't the strength to protect a fly," John whispered to his neighbour.
"Ssh!" his neighbour whispered back, "it's a symbolical promise!..."
VI
He hurried to the offices of theEvening Heraldand wrote his account of the ceremony he had seen. He described the old and venerable men who had sworn to protect the widow and the orphan and the distressed virgin, and demanded of those in authority by what right they degraded an ancient and honourable Order by allowing feeble octogenarians to make promises they were incapable of fulfilling. Heaven help the distressed virgin who depended on these tottering knights for succour!... He had written half a column of very vituperative stuff when Hinde came into the room.
"Hilloa," said Hinde, "done that job all right?"
John smiled and nodded his head.
"I've got a letter for you," Hinde continued. "Cream sent it to me and asked me to pass it on to you. He hasn't got your address!"
He handed the letter to John and then picked up some of the sheets on which the report of the ceremony in the Abbey was being written. He read the first two sheets and then uttered a sharp exclamation.
"Anything wrong?" John asked.
"Wrong!" Hinde gaped at him, incapable of expressing himself with sufficient force. He swallowed and then, with a great effort, spoke very calmly. "My dear chap," he said, "I regard it as a merciful act of God that I came into this room when I did. What the!... Oh, well, it's no good talking to you. You're absolutely hopeless!"
"Why, what's the matter?"
"Matter! I can't print your stuff. I should get the sack if I were to let this sort of thing go into the paper. Haven't you any sense of proportion at all?"
"But the whole thing was ridiculous!..."
"What's that got to do with it? Half the world is ridiculous, but there's no need to run about telling everybody!"
"But if you'd seen them ...oldfellows swearing to draw their swords in defence of women and children, and them not fit to do more than draw their pensions!..."
"Yes, yes, we know all about that. But a certain amount of humbug is decent and necessary!" He turned to a young man who had just entered the room. "Here, Chilvers, I want you to do a couple of columns on that stunt at the Abbey this morning!"
"Righto," said Chilvers.
"But he wasn't there!" John protested.
"Wasn't there!" Hinde echoed scornfully. "A good journalist doesn't need to be there. Just give the programme to him, will you?" John handed the order of proceedings to Chilvers, and Hinde added a few instructions. "Write up the King," he said. "Every inch a sovereign and that sort of stuff. Royal dignity!... Was Kitchener there?" he said turning again to John.
"Yes. A disappointing-looking man!..."
"Write him up, too. Say something about soldierly mien and stern, unbending features!"
"I see," said Chilvers. "The other chaps.... I'll work them off as venerable wiseacres!..."
"No, don't rub their age in. Venerable's not a nice word to use about anything except a cathedral. You can call the Abbey a venerable edifice or the sacred fane, but it would look nicer if you call the old buffers "the Elder Statesmen." Good phrase that! Hasn't been used much, either. Get it done quickly, will you?" He turned to John. "You might have made us miss the Home Edition with your desire to tell the truth!"
John turned away. The sense of failure that had been in possession of him since the production ofMilchu and St. Patrickfilled him now and made him feel terribly desolate. Whatever he did seemed to fail. He set off with high hopes and fine intentions, but when he reached his destination, his arrival seemed to be of very little importance and his small boat seemed to be very small and his cargo of slight value. Almost mechanically he opened Cream's letter. Hinde, having discussed other matters with Chilvers, called to John. "Come and see me in my room, will you, before you go!" and John answered, "Very good!" He read Cream's note. Cream had suddenly to produce a new sketch, and he had overhauled John's piece and put it on at the Wolverhampton Coliseum."It went with a bang, my boy! Absolutely knocked 'em clean off their perch! I wish you'd do another!..."
He enclosed postal orders for two pounds, the fee for one week's performance. John put the letter into his pocket and, nodding to Chilvers, now busily writing up the King and Lord Kitchener, he left the room and went to Hinde's office.
"I'm. sorry, Mac," Hinde said to him, "I'm sorry I let out at you just now, but you gave me a fright. I'd have been fired if I'd let your thing go to press!"
"I quite understand," John answered. "I see that I'm not fit for this sort of work. I don't seem to be much good at anything!"
"What about Cream? He told me he'd done your sketch very successfully!"
John passed Cream's letter to him. "Well, you can do that sort of thing all right anyhow," Hinde said when he had read the letter.
"Cream re-wrote it," John murmured. "And even if he hadn't, it's not much of an achievement, is it? I wanted to write good stuff, and I can't do it. I can't even do decent journalism!..."
"Oh, those articles you do aren't too bad," Hinde said encouragingly.
"What are a few articles! The only success I have is with a low music-hall sketch, and even that has to be rewritten!"
"Come, come!" said Hinde. "You're feeling depressed now. You'll change your mind presently. I daresay there's plenty of good stuff in you and one of these days it'll come out. You needn't get into the dumps because you've failed to make good as a journalist. God knows that's no triumphant career! Plenty of good writers have tried to make a living at journalism and failed hopelessly. Haven't had half the success you've had! Finished that new book of yours yet?"
"Very nearly!"
"I suppose Jannissary is going to do it, too?"
"Yes. I've contracted for three novels with him!"
"I wonder how that man would live if it weren't for the vanity of young authors!"
"I don't know," said John. "I'm too busy wondering how young authors manage to live!"
I
The money derived from Cream's sketch had compensated them for the loss of the money earned by Eleanor; but two pounds per week was insufficient for their needs, and, now that the bank balance was exhausted and they were dependent upon actual earnings, John had less time for creative work. Free lance journalism seemed likely to provide an adequate income for them, but he soon discovered that if he were to make a reasonable livelihood from it, he must give up the greater part of his time and thought to it. He could not depend upon certain or immediate acceptance of any article he wrote for the newspapers. Sometimes a topical article was sent to the wrong newspaper and kept there until too late for publication in another newspaper. Regularly-employed journalists, engaged to choose contributions from outside writers, were extraordinarily inconsiderate in their relationships with him. They would hold up a manuscript for a long time and then arbitrarily return it; they would return a manuscript in a dirty state, even scribbled over, because they had capriciously changed their minds about it, and he would waste time and money in having it re-typed; they even mislaid manuscripts and offered neither compensation nor apology for so doing.... In a very short while, John discovered that the more high-minded were the principles professed by a newspaper, the worse was the payment made to its contributors and the longer was the time consumed in making the payment. The low-minded journals paid for contributions well and quickly, but the noble-minded journals kept their contributors waiting weeks for small sums.... He could not depend upon the publication of one article each week. Could he have done so, his financial position, while meagre, would have been fairly easy and regular. There were weeks when no money was earned, and there were weeks when he earned ten or twelve guineas ... gay, exhilarating weeks were those ... and there were even weeks when he could not think of a suitable theme for an acceptable article. In this state of uncertainty and constant effort to get enough money to pay for common needs, the second novel became neglected, and it was not until several months after the adventure at Westminster Abbey that the manuscript was completed and sent to Mr. Jannissary. By that time, John was in debt to tradesmen and to a typewriting company from which he had purchased a typewriter on the hire system. The Cottenham Repertory Theatre had failed to arrange a London season, consequently he had had no further income fromMilchu and St. Patrick,and Mr. Jannissary, when John talked about royalties fromThe Enchanted Lover, never failed to express his astonishment at the fact that the sales of that excellent book had not exceeded five hundred copies. He had been certain that at least a thousand copies would have been sold as a result of the boom in theEvening Herald.
"Why don't you put a chartered accountant on his track?" said Hinde when John told him of what Mr. Jannissary had said.
John shrugged his shoulders. His experience with the Cottenham Repertory Theatre had cured him of all desire to send good money after bad. He wished now that he had taken Hinde's advice and had kept away from Mr. Jannissary, but it was useless to repine over that. He turned instinctively to Hinde for advice, and Hinde was generous with it. He was generous, too, with more profitable things. He put work in John's way as often as he could, and in spite of the fiasco over the Abbey ceremony, had offered employment on theHeraldto him, but John had refused it, feeling that his novel would never reach its end if he were tied to a newspaper. When, however, the book was completed, he went to Hinde again and consulted him about the prospect of obtaining regular work. His immediate needs were important, but overshadowing these was the need that would presently come upon him. Eleanor in a few months would be brought to bed ... and he had no money saved for that time. She would need a nurse ... there would be doctor's bills!...
"I must get a job of some sort that will bring a decent amount of money," he said to Hinde.
Hinde nodded his head. "There's nothing on theHerald," he said, "but I may hear of something elsewhere. What about a short series of articles for us? Write six or seven articles on London Streets. Take Fleet Street, Piccadilly, Bond Street, the Strand and the Mile End Road, and write about their characteristics, showing how different they are from each other. That kind of stuff. I'll give you three guineas each for them, and I'll take six for certain if they're good. If they're very good, I'll take some more. That'll help a bit, won't it?"
"It'll help a lot," said John very heartily.
II
Soon after this interview, Hinde informed John that theSensationhad a vacancy for a sub-editor, and that Mr. Clotworthy was willing to try him in the job for a month. "And for heaven's sake, don't make an ass of yourself this time!" he added. "Clotworthy was very unwilling to take you on, but I convinced him that you are sensible now and so he consented!" John had taken the news to Eleanor, expecting that she would be elated by it, but when he told her that his work would keep him in Fleet Street half the night, she showed very little enthusiasm for it. Her normal dislike of being alone was intensified now, and the thought of being in the flat by herself until one or two in the morning frightened her. "I shan't see anything of you," she complained.
"I shall be at home in the daytime," he replied.
"Yes ... writing," she said bitterly. "People like you have no right to get married or ... have children!"
He considered for a while.
"I wonder if my mother would come and stay with us?" he said at last.
"And leave Uncle William alone?"
"Oh, he could manage all right!"
"Don't be childish, John. How can he manage all right? Is he to attend to the house and cook his meals as well as look after the shop? It looks as if someone has got to be left alone through this work of yours ... either me or Uncle William ... and you don't care much who it is!..."
"That's unfair, Eleanor!"
"Everything's unfair that isn't just exactly what you want it to be. I'm sick of this life ... debt and discomfort ... and now I'm to be left alone half the night!..."
He remembered that she was overwrought, and made no answer to her complaint. He would write to his mother and ask her to think of a solution of their problem that would not involve Uncle William in difficulties. It was useless to talk to Eleanor while she was in this nervous state of mind. He could see quite plainly that decisions must be made by him even against her desire. Poor Eleanor would realise all this after the baby was born, and would thank him for not showing signs of weakness!... He wrote to Mr. Clotworthy, as Hinde had suggested, about the sub-editorial work, and to his mother about the problem that puzzled them.
III
Mrs. MacDermott solved the problem, not by letter, but by word of mouth. She telegraphed to John to meet her at Euston, and on the way from the station to Hampstead, she told him of her plan.
"I'd settled this in my mind from the beginning," she said, "and you've only just advanced things a week or two by your letter. I'm going to take Eleanor back to Ballyards with me!..."
"What for?"
"What for!" she exclaimed. "So's your child can be born in the house where you were born and your da and his da!... That's why! Where else would a MacDermott be born but in his own home?"
"But what about me?"
"You! You can come home too, if you like!"
"How can I come home when I have my work to do? It'll be three months yet before the child is born!..."
"Well, you can stay here by yourself then!"
"In the flat ... alone?"
"Aye. What's to hinder you? That's what your Uncle William that's twice your age would have to do, if you had your way!"
"I don't see that at all. He could easily give Cassie McClurg a few shillings a week to come and look after him while you stay here with us!..."
"I'm not thinking about you or your Uncle William. I'm thinking about Eleanor and the child. I want it to be born at home!"
"Och, what does it matter where it's born," John impatiently demanded, "so long as it is born?"
"Youfool!" said Mrs. MacDermott, and there was such scorn in her voice as John had never heard in any voice before. She turned away and would not speak to him again. He lay back against the cushions of the cab and considered Eleanor would certainly be well cared for at home, but ... "what about me?" he asked. He supposed he could manage by himself. Of course, he could. That was not the point that was worrying him. He hated the thought of being separated from Eleanor!...
"No," he said to his mother, "I don't think I can agree to that!"
"It doesn't matter whether you agree to it or not," she replied. "It's what's going to happen!" She turned on him furiously. "Have you no nature or pride? Where else would Eleanor be so well-tended as at home?..."
"It isn't her home," he objected.
"Itisher home. She's a MacDermott now, and anyway the child is. You'd keep her here in this Godforsaken town, surrounded by strangers, and no relation of her own to be near her when her trouble comes!... There's times, John, when I wonder are you a man at all? Your mind is so set on yourself that you're like a lump of stone. You and your old books ... as if they matter a tinker's curse to anybody!..."
"I know you never thought anything of my work," he complained, "and Eleanor doesn't think much of it either. I get little encouragement from any of you!"
"You get encouragement," Mrs. MacDermott retorted, "when you've earned it. It's no use pulling a poor mouth to me, my son. I come from a family that never asked for pity, and I married into one that never asked for pity. My family and your da's family went through the world, giving back as much as we got and a wee bit more, and we never let a murmur out of us when we got hurt. There were times when I thought it was hard on the women of the family, but I see now, well and plain, that there's no pleasure in this world but to be keeping your head high and never to let nothing downcast you. I'd be ashamed to be a cry-ba!..."
"I'm no cry-ba!" he muttered sulkily.
"Well, prove it then. Let Eleanor come without making a sour face over it. Come yourself if you want to, but anyway let her come!"
"I don't believe she'll go," he said.
"She will, if you persuade her!" Suddenly her tone altered, and the hard tone went out of her voice. She leant towards him, touching him on the arm. "Persuade her, son!" she said. "My heart's hungry to have her child born in its own home among its own people!"
She looked at him so pleadingly that he was deeply moved. He felt his blood calling to him, and the ties of kinship stirring strongly in his heart. Pictures of Ballyards passed swiftly through his mind, and in rapid succession he saw the shop and Uncle Matthew and Uncle William and Mr. McCaughan and Mr. Cairnduff and the Logans and the Square and the Lough, and could smell the sweet odours of the country, the smell of wet earth and the reek of turf fires and the cold smell of brackish water....
"Have your own way," he said to his mother, and she drew him to her and kissed him more tenderly than she had kissed him for many years.
IV
When they told their plan to Eleanor her eyes lit up immediately, and he saw that she was eager to go to Ballyards, but almost at once, she turned to him and said, "Oh, but you, John? What about you?"
"I'll be all right," he replied. "Don't worry about me!"
"Couldn't you come, too?"
"You know I can't. How can I give up this job on theSensationthe minute I've got it!"
"Easy enough," Mrs. MacDermott interjected. "If you've only just got it, there'll be no hardship to you or to them if you give it up now!"
"I have to earn our keep," he insisted.
"There's the shop," Mrs. MacDermott insisted.
"I won't go next or near the shop," he shouted in sudden fury. "I came here to write books and I'll write them!"
"You're not writing books when you're sitting up half the night in a newspaper office!"
"I know I'm not. But I must get money to ... to pay for!..."
"Are you worrying yourself about Eleanor's confinement, son? Never bother your head about that. I'll not let her want for anything!..."
"I know you won't," he replied in a softer voice, "but I'd rather earn the money myself!"
Mrs. MacDermott tightened her mouth. "Very well," she said.
"I've a good mind to let the flat till you come back," John murmured to Eleanor.
"What's that?" Mrs. MacDermott demanded.
"I was saying I'd a good mind to let the flat until she comes back. I could go to Miss Squibb's for a while. It 'ud really be cheaper!..."
"Would you let strangers walk into your house and use your furniture?"
"Yes. Why not? We shall be able to pay the rent and have a profit out of what we shall get for sub-letting it."
"Making a hotel out of your home," Mrs. MacDermott said in disgust.
"Och, we're not all home-mad," John retorted.
"That's the pity," his mother rejoined.
V
Three weeks later, Eleanor, and Mrs. MacDermott departed for Ballyards. Eleanor had refused to go away from London until she had seen John settled in his work and the flat sub-let to suitable tenants. She arranged for his return to Miss Squibb who, most opportunely, had his old room vacant, and she made Lizzie promise to take particular care of his comfort. "I can tyke care of 'im all right," Lizzie said. "I've tyken care of Mr. 'Inde for years, an' I feel I can tyke care of anybody after 'im. You leave 'im to me, Mrs. MacDermott, an' I wown't let 'im come to no 'arm!" She leant forward suddenly and whispered to Eleanor. "I do 'ope it's a boy," she said.
"Why?" said Eleanor blushing.
"Ow, I dunno. Looks better some'ow to 'ave a boy first go off. You can always 'ave a girl afterwards. Wot you goin' to call it, if it's a boy?"
"John, of course!" said Eleanor.
"Um-m-m. Well, I suppose you'll 'ave to, after 'is father, but if I 'ad a son I'd call 'im Perceval. I dunno why! I just would. It sounds nice some'ow. I mean it 'as a nice sound. Only people 'ud call 'im Perce, of course, an' that would be 'orrible. I dessay you're right. It's better to be called John than to be called Perce!"
"Why don't you get married, Lizzie?" Eleanor said.
"Never been ast. That's why. I'd jump at the chance if I got it. You down't think I'm 'angin' on 'ere out of love for Aunt. I'm just 'angin' on in 'ope!..."
But before Eleanor and Mrs. MacDermott went to Ballyards, they realised that John's sub-editorial work was hard and inconvenient. The unnatural hours of labour in noisy and insanitary surroundings left him very tired and crochetty in the morning, and he felt disinclined for other work. He had written his series of articles on London Streets for theEvening Herald, and Hinde had professed to like them sufficiently to ask for more of them. Twelve of them had been printed ... one each day for a fortnight ... and the money had cleared John of debt and left a little for the coming expense. Cream's two pounds per week came regularly every Monday morning, and this, with the income from theSensation, and an occasional article made the prospects of life seem clearer. "There's no fame in it," he told himself, "but at least I'm paying my way!" In a little while, his second novel would be published, and perhaps it would bring a reward which he had unaccountably missed with his first book and his tragedy. More than anything else now, he wanted recognition. Money was good and acceptable and he would gladly have much more of it, but far beyond money he valued recognition. If he had to make choice between a large income and a large reputation, he would unhesitatingly choose a large reputation. He longed to hear Hinde admitting that he had been mistaken in John's quality. Indeed, in the last analysis, it seemed that more than money and more than general recognition, he craved for recognition from Hinde. He wished to see Hinde coming to him in a respectful manner!...
But there was little likelihood of that happening while he performed sub-editorial work on theSensation. Every night he and the other sub-editors, young and unhealthy-looking men, sat round a big table, handling "flimsies" and scribbling rapidly. They invented head-lines and cross-headings, and they cut down the work of the outside staff. When a nugget of gold was found in Wales and was pronounced to be a lump of quartz with streaks of gold in it rather than a nugget of pure gold, John had headed the paragraph in which the news was reported, ALL IS NOT GOLD THAT GLITTERS. He glanced at the heading after he had written it. "I seem to be getting into the way of this sort of thing," he said with a sigh. He put the paper down and got up from the table. The baskets lying about, full of "copy" or "flimsies" or cuttings from other papers; the hard, blinding light from the unshaded electric globes; the litter of newspapers and torn envelopes; the incessantrurr-rurr-rurrof the printing machines; and the hot, exhausted air of the room ... all these seemed disgusting. He shut his eyes for a moment. "Oh, God," he prayed, "let my book be a success! Get me out of this, Oh, God, for Jesus Christ's sake!..."
He understood the dislike which speedily grew up in Eleanor for this work. There would be very little fun for her, less even than for him, in a life that took him to Fleet Street in the evening and kept him there until the middle of the night. He must escape from it somehow, but in what way he was to escape from it he could not imagine. Vaguely, he felt that a book or a play would lift him out of Fleet Street and set him down in ease and comfort somewhere in agreeable surroundings; but it might be many years before that desired bliss was achieved. He would spend his youth in this atmosphere of neurosis and hasty judgment, and perhaps when he was old and no longer full of zest for enjoyment, he would have leisure for the things he could no longer delight in. And Eleanor, too ... she would have to struggle with penury until she grew tired and lustreless!... "No, she won't!" he vowed. "I'm not going to let her down whatever happens. I'll make a position somehow!..."
Then Eleanor and Mrs. MacDermott went to Ballyards. He stood by the carriage-door talking to them both while the train filled with passengers, and as the guard blew a succession of blasts on his whistle, he leant forward to kiss Eleanor "Good-bye!" A tear rolled down her cheek.... "I wish I weren't going now," she said, clinging to him.
"It won't be for long," he murmured. "Will it, mother?" he added to Mrs. MacDermott.
But his mother did not make any reply. She sat very tightly in her seat, and he saw that there was a hard look in her eyes and that her lips were closely joined together.
VI
He wandered out of the station... it was Saturday night and therefore he had not to go to theSensationoffice ... and entered the Hampstead Tube railway. On Monday, the agent would make an inventory of the furniture, and John would move to Brixton. Until then, he would stay at the flat, taking his meals at restaurants. He left the Tube at Hampstead and walked home. The flat seemed very dark and cheerless when he entered it, and he wandered from room to room in a disturbed state as if he were searching for something and had forgotten for what he was searching. A petticoat of Eleanor's, flung hastily on to the bed, caught his eye, a blue silk petticoat that he remembered her buying soon after they were married. He wondered why she had thrown it aside, for she was fond of blue garments, and this was new from the laundry. He rubbed his hand over its silk surface and listened to the sound it made. Dear Eleanor! Most sweet and precious Eleanor!... He left the bedroom and went into the combined sitting and dining-room and then into the kitchen. At the door of the tiny spare bedroom, he stopped and turned away. What was the use of wandering about the house in this disconsolate manner? Eleanor had gone and it was idle to pretend that he might suddenly come to her in some corner of the flat. It was much too early to go to bed and, since he could not sit still indoors, he resolved to go out and walk off his mood of depression and loneliness. The trees on Hampstead Heath stood up in deep darkness, and overhead he saw the innumerable stars shining coldly. In the dusk and shadow he could hear the murmur of subdued voices and now and then a peal of girlish laughter, or the deeper sound of a man's mirth. Young, eager-eyed men and women went by, intent on love-making, their faces shining with youth and the happiness of the unburdened. All the beauty of the world lay still before them, untouched and undimmed, drawing them towards it with rich and strange promises of wonderful fulfilment. And no shadow fell upon their happiness to darken it or make it cold.... He could feel his heart singing within him, and he asked himself why it was that he should feel happy in this street, in which Eleanor and he had walked in love together, when he had felt restless and unhappy in the flat where they had lived and loved. He stood under a lamp to look at his watch, and wondered where Eleanor was now ... what stage of her journey she had reached. The train had left Euston at half-past eight, and now the hour was twenty minutes past ten. Nearly two hours since she had gone away from him. Sixty or eighty miles, perhaps a hundred, separated them, and every moment the distance between them was lengthening. He could stand here, leaning against these rails and looking over the hollows of the Heath towards the softened glare of London, and almost tell off the miles that were consumed by the rushing, roaring train!... One mile ... two miles ... three miles!...
The laughter and the shining eyes of the young lovers made him feel old, now that Eleanor was not with him to make him feel young. He felt old, though he was not old, because he was lonely again, more lonely than he had been before he saw Eleanor at the Albert Hall. He had followed her as a man lost in a desert follows a star, and she had brought him home at last ... and now she was gone from him, bearing a baby. Soon, though, very soon, the time would pass and she would return to him and they would never be separated again. He would fulfil his desires. He would write great books and great plays, and Eleanor would grow in loveliness and dignity, and his son ... for he was certain that the child would be a boy ... would reach up from childhood to manhood in strength and beauty!...
VII
The last post had brought the proofs of his second novel to him. He tore the packet open, and began to correct them at once.Hearts of Controversywas the title of the book, and it was dedicated:
To the Memory of my Uncle Matthew.
I
When Eleanor's son was born, John was still in London. He had intended to be with her, but Mr. Clotworthy would not give leave to him because of illness among the staff. "I'm sorry," he had said, "but I can't let you go. You'd only be in the way anyhow. A man's a cursed nuisance at a time like that. When Corcoran comes back, I'll see if I can manage a few days for you!" John murmured thanks and turned to go. "I hear good accounts of you," Mr. Clotworthy continued. "Tarleton says you're working splendidly. I'm glad you've learned sense at last!" John smiled rather drearily, and then left the editor's room. So he was learning sense, was he?... A few months ago, had Mr. Clotworthy told him that leave to go to his wife was denied to him, he would have sent Mr. Clotworthy to blazes ... but he was learning sense now, and so, though he ached to go to Eleanor, he was remaining in London. Tarleton ... the most common-minded man John had ever encountered ... said that he was working splendidly. They were all pleased with him. He could invent headlines and cross-headings and write paragraphs to the satisfaction of Tarleton, whose conception of a romantic love story was some dull, sordid intrigue heard in the Divorce Court. Tarleton always described a street accident as a tragedy. Tarleton referred ... in print ... to the greedy amours of a chorus girl as a "Thrilling Romance of the Stage," though he had other words to describe them in conversation. And John was giving satisfaction to Tarleton....
He wrote to his mother and to Eleanor explaining why he could not immediately go to Ballyards. Eleanor could not reply to his letter, but Mrs. MacDermott wrote that she was recovering rapidly from her illness and that the baby was a fine, healthy child."A MacDermott to the backbone,"she wrote."It's queer work that keeps a man out of his bed half the night and won't let him go to his wife when she's having a child! Your Uncle William isn't looking well ... he feels the weight of his years and the work on him ... and he is worried about the shop. But he's greatly pleased with Eleanor being here. Him and her gets on well together. He's near demented over the child!..."
II
His son was a month old before John saw him. Mrs. MacDermott led him to the cradle where the baby was sleeping, and as he looked down on it, the child awoke and screwed up its face and began to cry. Mrs. MacDermott took it in her arms and soothed it.
"Well?" she said to John.
He looked at the child with puzzled eyes. "Is it all right?" he asked.
"All right!" she exclaimed. "Of course, it's all right! What would be wrong with it?"
"It's so ugly-looking!..."
She stared incredulously at him. "Ugly," she said, "it's a beautiful baby. One of the loveliest children I've ever clapped my eyes on. Look at it!..." She held the baby forward to him.
"I can see it right enough," he answered. "I think it's ugly!"
"You don't know a fine-looking child when you see it," she answered indignantly.
He went back to Eleanor's room ... she was out of bed now, but because the day was cold was sitting before a fire in her bedroom ... and sat with her while she talked of little things that had happened to her during their separation. "You know, John," she said, "you're not looking well. You're getting thin and grey!..."
"Grey?"
"Yes ... your face looks grey. I'm sure that life isn't good for you!"
"I feel tired, but that may be the journey. The sea was rough last night, crossing from Liverpool to Belfast, and I didn't get any sleep. Mebbe that's what it is, I daresay I'll be looking all right to-morrow!"
"How long are you going to stay?" she asked.
"Well, Clotworthy told me to get back as soon as possible. Do you think you'll be able to come home with me at the end of the week?"
She did not answer.
"Of course," he went on, "we've got to get the tenants out of the flat first. I thought mebbe you'd come to Miss Squibb's with me till the flat was ready!"
"I don't think I should like that," she answered.
"No, mebbe not, but I'm terribly lonesome without you, Eleanor. It's been miserable all this while!..."
She put her arms about him and kissed him. "Poor old thing," she said.
"And I'd like you to come home as soon as possible."
Mrs. MacDermott brought the baby into the room. "John says he's an ugly child," she said to Eleanor, glancing angrily at her son.
"Oh, John!" Eleanor exclaimed reproachfully. "He isn't ugly. He's handsome!..."
"Well, I don't know what women call beautiful or handsome," John said, "but if you call that screwed-up face good-looking, then I don't know what good looks are!"
"I'm sure you weren't half so beautiful as baby is," Eleanor murmured.
Mrs. MacDermott put the child in its mother's arms, and happed the covering about its head. "Eight pounds he weighed when he was born," she said. "Eight pounds! And then you say he isn't beautiful! And him your own son, too!"
"Oh, well, if you only mean he's weighty when you say he's beautiful, mebbe you're right!..."
"You're unnatural, John," said Mrs. MacDermott.
"Are all babies like that?" he asked.
"All the good-looking ones are. Give him to me again, Eleanor, dear!" She took the baby from its mother, and holding it tightly in her arms, walked up and down the room singing it to sleep. "He's asleep," she said in a whisper, coming closer to them. She held the child so that they could see the tiny face in the firelight. They did not speak. Eleanor, leaning back in her chair, and John sitting forward in his, and Mrs. MacDermott standing with the baby in her arms, looked on the child.
"I'm its father," said John, at last. "That seems comic!"
"And I'm its mother," Eleanor murmured.
Mrs. MacDermott lifted the child so that her lips could touch its tiny mouth. "Five generations in the one house," she said. "I bless God for this day!"
III
"Will you be able to come with me to London at the end of the week?" John said at tea that evening.
"She's not near herself yet," Uncle William exclaimed.
"No, indeed she's not. You'd best leave her here another month," Mrs. MacDermott added.
"You're forgetting, aren't you that she's been here more than three months already."
"Och, what's three months when you're young," Uncle William replied.
"A great deal," said John. "Will you be ready, do you think, Eleanor?"
Eleanor hesitated. "I don't know," she said. "I don't feel very well yet. Can't you stay on a while longer, John? You know you're tired and need a rest, and it'll do you a lot of good to stay on for a week or two!"
"I must get back. I've a living to earn for three of us now!"
"I shall be sorry to leave Ballyards," Eleanor replied.
"There's no need for either of you to leave it," Mrs. MacDermott exclaimed. "Your home's here and there's no necessity for you to go tramping the world among strangers!"
"We've settled all that, ma!" John retorted.
"You don't like that life on newspapers, do you, John?" Eleanor asked.
"No, but I have to live it until I can earn enough to keep us from my books. It's no use arguing, ma. My mind's made up on that subject. It was made up long ago!" Constraint fell upon them, and John, feeling that he must make conversation again, turned to his Uncle. "How's the shop doing?" he asked.
"Middling ... middling," Uncle William replied. "We're having a wee bit of opposition to fight against. One of these big firms has just opened a branch here. Pippin's! They're causing me a bit of anxiety, the way they're cutting prices down, but I think we'll hold our own with them. We always gave good value for the money, and some of these big shops only pretends to do that. But it's anxious work!"
"A MacDermott ought to be ready to fight for the good name of his family," said Mrs. MacDermott.
"Oh, I'm willing to fight all right," Uncle William answered.
"I know you are. I wasn't doubting you," Mrs. MacDermott assured him.
Their conversation became vague and disjointed. Several times John turned to Eleanor and tried to settle a date on which she should return to town, but on each occasion something interrupted them, and Eleanor showed no inclination to be definite. "There's no hurry for a day or two, is there?" she said at last, and then, pleading fatigue, she went to bed.
"I can't see what you want to go back to London for," Mrs. MacDermott said when Eleanor had gone. "The neither of you don't look well on that life, and you could write your books here just as well as you can there. Better, mebbe! Eleanor likes Ballyards. She doesn't care much for London."
Suspicion entered John's mind. "Have you been putting notions into her head?" he demanded.
"Notions! What notions?" she answered innocently.
"You know rightly what notions. Have you been trying to persuade her to stay here?"
"It's well you know, my son, I never try to persuade no one to do anything. I just let them find things out for themselves. It's the best way in the end."
"As long as you act up to that, you can do what you like," John said. "You may as well know, though, for good and all, that we're going back to London. I've a new book coming out soon!..."
"I wonder will you make as much out of it as you made out of your other book," Mrs. MacDermott said.
IV
There was a letter for John in the morning. His subtenant wrote to say that he liked the flat and found it so convenient that he was very anxious to know whether there was a chance of John giving up possession of it. He was willing to buy the furniture at a fair valuation!...
"Damned cheek," said John. He told the others of the contents of the letter.
"If we were to stay here," Eleanor said, "that offer would be very useful, wouldn't it?"
"It's of no use to us," he answered. "We're not going to stay here!"
In the afternoon, a telegram came from Clotworthy instructing John to return to London immediately. "Will you come with me or come later by yourself?" John said to Eleanor.
She hesitated for a few moments, then going quickly to him and putting her arms about his neck, she whispered, "I don't want to go back to London, John. I want to stay here!"
"You what?"
"I want to stay here. Oh, give up this work and stay at home. Your Uncle is getting old and needs help, and I'll be much happier here than in London!..."
"Give up writing!..."
"You'll be able to do some writing here if you want to!"
"Uncle William hasn't time to take a holiday. What time will I have to write if I take on his work?"
"He has no one to help him. I'll help you!"
"The thing's absurd!"
"No, it isn't. I like being in the shop. I've helped Uncle William a lot. I've made suggestions!..."
"My mother put this idea into your head!"
"No, she didn't. She's talked to me about Ballyards, of course, and the MacDermotts and the shop, but she has not asked me to stay here. It's my own idea. I like this little town, John, and its quiet ways and the comfort of this house. I've always wanted comfort and quietness, and I've got it here. I don't want to go back to the misery of London ... always wondering whether we shall have enough money to pay our bills, and you out half the night. Oh, let's stay here!"
He put her away from him. "No," he said obstinately. "I'm not going to give in!..."
"I'm not asking you to give in!"
"You are. You're asking me to come back here where everybody knows me and knows what I went out to do, and you're asking me to admit to them that I've failed!"
"No, no, dear!..."
"Yes, you are. Because I haven't made a fortune at the start, you all think I'm a failure. Hasn't every man had to struggle and fight for his position, and amn't I fighting and struggling for mine? If you cared for me!..."
"I do care for you, John!"
"Then you'd be glad to fight with me ... and struggle!..."
"Yes, I am prepared to fight with you ... but I'm not going to take risks with the baby!..."
"What's he got to do with it?"
She turned on him angrily. "Are you willing to let him suffer for your books, too? Do you think I'm going to let my child go without things to feed your pride?..."
"He won't have to go without things. I'll earn enough for him and for you."
"Yes, I know. We've seen something of that already. Well, I'm not going back to London, John. I'm simply not going back. You can't expect me to go from this house where I'm happy to that little poky flat in Hampstead and sit there night after night while you are at the office!..."
"Other women do it, don't they?"
"Other women can do what they like. If they're content to live like that, they can, but I'm not content. I don't like that life, and I won't live it. You must make up your mind to that. It isn't necessary for you to go back to theSensationoffice—you can stay here and help Uncle William!"
"Become a grocer!..."
"Why not? Isn't it better to be a good grocer than a bad novelist?"
His face flushed and he breathed very heavily. "You're all against me, the whole lot of you. You make little of me. I get no help or encouragement at all. My ma and you and Hinde!..."
"If you were good at that work, you would not need encouragement, would you?"
"I don't need it. I can do without it. I'll prove to you yet that I can write as well as anybody. Never you fear, Eleanor!..."
"I'm not going back to London," she said.
"Well, then, you can stay behind. I'll go back by myself!"
Mrs. MacDermott came into the room. "What's the matter?" she asked.
"Nothing," John replied. "I'm going back to London this evening. Eleanor says she's going to stay here!..."
"For good?"
"Aye ... for good."
"And you? When are you coming back?"
"I'm not coming back. She'll have to come to me. You're always talking about the pride of the MacDermotts. Well, I'll show you some of it. I'll not put my foot inside this house till Eleanor comes back to me. It's me that settles where we live ... not her ... not anybody. Do you think I'm going to throw up everything now when I've made a start? I've a new book coming out soon. You know that well ... the whole of you. I know you don't think much of it, Eleanor!..."
"I didn't say that," she interjected.
"But I think a lot of it. I know it's good. I'm sure it's good. And if it does well. I'll be able to leave theSensationoffice, and we can live happily together ... but you'll have to come to me. I won't come here to you!..."
He turned to his mother. "Mebbe you're content now," he said. "You've got your way. There's a MacDermott in the house to carry on the business when he's old enough. You'll not need me now!"
He went out of the room, slamming the door behind him, and a little while later, they heard him leaving the house.
"Wait, daughter," said Mrs. MacDermott, taking hold of Eleanor by the hand. "Don't fret yourself, daughter, dear. I lived with his father!..."
"But he always had his own way. You told me so yourself."
"Yes, that's true, but John has some of my blood in him, and my blood clings to its home. Content yourself a wee while!"
V
He met Uncle William crossing the Square, and suddenly he realised how old Uncle William was, and how tired he looked.