The Foolish Lovers

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He looked at the names of the barristers painted on the doorways of the
houses, and wondered which of them were judges. He wished he could see
a judge in his crimson robes and his long, curly wig, coming out of the
chambers, and while he wished for this splendid spectacle, he saw a
barrister in his black gown and horse-hair wig, come down a narrow
passage from the Strand and enter the doorway of one of the houses. He
walked on into Pump Court and watched the sparrows washing themselves
in the fountain where Tom Pinch met Ruth ... and while he watched them,
his sense of loneliness returned to him. His head still ached and now
his heart ached, too. Disappointment had come to him all day. He was
alone in a city full of people who knew nothing of him and cared
nothing for him. And his heart was aching. The peace of Pump Court only
served to make him more aware of the ache in his head. As he dipped his
hand in the water of the fountain, he wished that he could go round a
corner and meet Uncle William or Mr. Cairnduff or the minister or even
Aggie Logan ... meet someone whom he knew!...

"I'd give the world for a cup of tea," he said to himself suddenly, and
then, "I wonder could I find that place where I saw the girl. Mebbe
she'd be there again!..."

He looked about him in an indeterminate way. Then he moved from the
fountain in the direction of the Strand. "I can try anyway!" he said.

VIII

The girl was sitting at a large table in a corner of the restaurant,
and he saw with joy that there was a vacant seat immediately opposite
to her. He looked at her as he sat down, but she gave no sign of
recognition. He had hoped that their encounter earlier in the day would
have entitled him to a smile from her, but her features remained
unrelaxed, although he knew that she was aware of him and remembered
him. Her eyes and his had met, and he had been ready to answer her
smile with another smile, but she averted her eyes from his stare and
looked down at her plate. What eyes she had ... grey at one moment and
blue at another as her face turned in the light! When she looked
downwards, he could see long lashes fringing her eyelids, and when she
looked up, the changing colour of her irises and the blue tinge that
suffused the cornea, caused him to think of her eyes as pools of light.
Her face was pale, and in repose it had an appearance of puzzled pathos
that made him feel that he must instantly offer comfort to her, and he
would have done so had not her nervous reticence prevented him. What
would she do if he were to speak to her? There was an illustrated paper
lying close to her plate. He leant across the table and, pointing to
the paper, said, "Are you using that?"

She started, and then, without a smile, said, "No," and passed the
paper to him.

"Thank you!" he murmured, taking it from her.

It was an old paper, and he did not wish to read it, but he had to
pretend to be interested in it, for the girl showed no desire to offer
any more than the casual civilities of one stranger to another. He
hoped that he might suddenly look up and find that she was regarding
him intently ... she would hurriedly glance away from him with an air
of pretty confusion ... but although he looked up at her many times, he
never caught her gazing at him. He wished that she would take her hat,
a wide-brimmed one, off so that he might see her hair. How ridiculous
it was of women to sit at meals with hats on!... He could just see a
wave of dark brown hair under the brim of her hat, flowing across her
broad brow. Her eyebrows were dark and level and very firm, and he
thought how wonderfully the darkness of her eyebrows and her eyelids
and the pallor of her skin served to enrich the beauty of her eyes.
Maggie Carmichael's eyes had had laughter in them ... they seemed
always to be sparkling with merriment ... but this girl's eyes had
tears in them. She might often smile, John told himself, but she would
seldom laugh. Her air of listening for an alarm and the nervous
movement of her fingers made him imagine that a magician had changed
some swift and beautiful and timid animal into a woman. The magicians
in the _Arabian Nights_ frequently turned men and women into
hounds and antelopes, but the process had been reversed with this girl:
an antelope had been turned into a woman.... If only she would give him
an opportunity of speaking to her, of making friends with her! He
suddenly held out the paper to her. "Thank you!" he said.

"It isn't mine," she answered indifferently.

He became confused and clumsy, and he put the paper down on the table
so that it upset a spoon on to the floor with a noise that seemed loud
enough to wake the dead; and as he stooped to pick it up, he pushed the
paper against her plate, causing it almost to fall into her lap.

"I beg your pardon," he exclaimed.

"It's all right," she replied coldly.

He could feel the blood running hotly through his body, and the warm
flush of it spreading over his cheeks. "That was a cut," he said to
himself, and wondered what he should do or say next. What a fool he
must appear to her! ... It would be ridiculous to ask her to tell him
the time, for there was a large and palpable clock over her head so
fixed that he could not fail to see it. It was very odd, he thought,
that she should not wish to speak to him when he so ardently wished to
speak to her. She had finished her meal and he knew that in a moment or
two she would rise and go out of the restaurant. He leant across the
table.

"Miss Moore," he said, "I wish you would be friends with me!"

She looked at him as if she were not certain that he had spoken to her,
and as she saw how earnestly he gazed at her, the expression of her
face changed from one of astonishment to one of alarm.

"Won't you?" he said.

She gave a little gasp and rose hurriedly from her seat.

"Miss Moore!" he said appealingly.

"I don't know you," she replied, hurrying away.

He sat still. It seemed to him that every person in the restaurant must
be looking at him and condemning him for his behaviour. He had spoken
to a girl who did not know him, and he had frightened her. The look of
alarm in her face was unmistakable. What must she think of him? Would
she ever believe that he had no wish to frighten her, that he wished
only to be her friend, to talk to her? If he had told her that he did
not know anyone in London and was feeling miserably lonely, perhaps she
would have been kind to him ... but what opportunity had he had to tell
her anything. Well, that was the end of that! He was not likely to see
Eleanor Moore again, and even if he were, he could hardly hope, after
such a rebuff, to win her friendship unless a miracle were to
happen ... and he had begun to feel dubious about miracles since he had
arrived in London. Perhaps, if he were to follow her and explain
matters to her!...

He hurried out of the restaurant, and stood for a moment or two on the
pavement glancing up and down the street. She was turning out of the
lane into Queen Victoria Street, and as he stood looking at her, she
turned round the corner and he lost sight of her.

"I'll go after her," he said.

IX

He ran into Queen Victoria Street and glanced eagerly about him. It was
difficult in the press of people to distinguish a single person, but
fortunately the street was fairly clear of traffic, and he saw her
crossing the road near the Mansion House. He hastened after her and saw
her enter a block of offices in Cornhill. He reached the door of this
building in time to see her being carried out of sight in the lift. He
entered the hall and stood by the gate until the lift had descended.

"Can you tell me which of these offices that lady works in?" he said to
the liftman. "The lady you've just taken up, Miss Moore?"

The liftman looked at him suspiciously.

"Wot you want to know for?" he demanded.

"Oh, I ... I'm a friend of hers," John answered lamely.

"Well, if you're a friend of 'ers, I daresay she'll tell you 'erself
next time she sees you," said the liftman. "Any-'ow, I sha'n't. See?"

"But I particularly want to know," John persisted. "Look here, I'll
give you half-a-crown if you'll tell me!..."

"An' I'll give you a thick ear if you don't 'op it out of this quick,"
the liftman retorted angrily. "I know you. Nosey Parker, that's wot you
are! Comin' 'round 'ere, annoyin' girls! I know you! I seen fellers
like you before, I 'ave!..."

"What do you mean?" said John.

"Mean! 'Ere's wot I mean. You're either a broker's man!..."

"No, I'm not," John interrupted.

"Or you're up to no good, see! An' wotever you are, you can just 'op
it, see! You'll get no information out of me, Mr. Nosey Parker, see!
An' if I ketch you 'angin' about 'ere, annoyin' 'er or anybody else
I'll 'it you on the jawr, see, an' then I'll 'and you over to the
police. An' that'll learn you!"

John stared at the man. "Do you mean to say?..."

"I mean to say wot I 'ave said," the liftman interjected. "An' I don't
mean to say no more. 'Op it. That's all. Or it'll be the worse for
you!"

The lift bell rang, and the man entered the lift and closed the gate.
Then he ascended out of sight. John gaped through the gate into the
well of the lift.

"I've a good mind to break that chap's skull," he said to himself as he
turned away.

He left the block of offices and went towards Prince's Street.

"It's no good hanging about here any longer," he said. "I'll go home!"

A 'bus drove up as he reached the corner, and he climbed into it. "I'll
come again to-morrow," he said, "and try and find her. She'll have to
listen to me. I'm really in love this time!"

He had been provided with a latch-key before leaving Miss Squibb's
house in the morning, and, with an air of responsibility, he let
himself in. Lizzie, carrying a tray of dishes, came into the hall as he
opened the door.

"Just in time," she said affably. "If you'd 'a' been a bit sooner,
you'd 'a' seen the Creams. They come back just after you went out
'smornin'. I told 'em all about you ... you bein' Irish an' littery an'
never 'avin' been to the Zoo or anythink. They _was_ interested!"

"Oh!"

"'E's such a nice man, Mr. Cream is. She ain't bad, but 'e's nice. They
gone to the Oxford now. I wish you'd seen 'em start off in their
broom!"

"Broom?"

"Yes, their carriage. They 'ave to 'ire one when they're in London so's
to get about from one 'all to another. They act in two or three 'alls a
night in London. I do like to see 'em go off in their broom of a
evenin'. Mykes the 'ouse look a bit classy, I think, but Aunt says
they're living in sin an' she down't feel 'appy about it. But wot I sy
is, wot's it matter so long as they pys their rent reg'lar an' down't
go an' myke no fuss. They couldn't be less trouble. They keep on their
rooms 'ere, just the same whether they're 'ere or not, an' sometimes
they're away for months at a stretch. It ain't every dy you get lodgers
like them, and wot I sy is, if they are livin' in sin, it's them
that'll ave to go to 'ell for it, not us. Aunt's very religious, but
she can see sense syme's anybody else, so she 'olds 'er tongue about
it. I down't 'old with sin myself, mind you, but I down't believe in
cuttin' off your nose to spite someone else's fyce. You go an' wash
your 'ands, an' I'll 'ave your dinner up in 'alf a jiff!..."

John stared at her. "I don't know what you mean by living in sin," he
said.

"Well, you are innercent," she replied. "'Aven't you never 'eard of no
one livin' together without bein' married?"

"I've read about it!..."

"Well, that's livin' in sin, that is. Pers'nally, I down't see wot
diff'rence it mykes. They be'ave about the syme, married or not. 'E's a
bit more lovin', per'aps, than a 'usband, but otherwise it's about the
syme!"

The bluntness of Lizzie's speech disconcerted him, and yet the
simplicity of it reassured him. He did not now feel, as he has felt in
the morning, that she was a Bad Woman; but he could not completely
comprehend her. Girls in Ballyards did not speak as she spoke. One knew
that there were Bad Women in the world and that there was much sin in
love-making, but one did not speak of it, except in shuddering
whispers. Lizzie, however, spoke of it almost as if she were talking of
the weather. Evidently, life and habit in England were very different
from life and habit in Ballyards.... He went up the stairs to his room,
in a mood partly of horror and partly of curiosity. He was shocked to
think that he was living in the same house with guilty sinners, but he
had an odd desire to see them.

When he had reached the first landing, Lizzie called after him.
"There's a poce-card for you," she said. "From Mr. 'Inde. 'E says 'e'll
be 'ome to-morrow, an' 'e asts you to give me 'is love. Saucy 'ound!
'E's a one, 'e is!"

John turned towards her. "It won't be necessary for me to give his love
to you, will it?" he said sarcastically. "You seem to have taken it
already!"

She was unaware of his sarcasm. "So I 'ave," she said. "I'll tell 'im
that when 'e comes back!"

"Do you always read post-cards, Lizzie?" he asked.

"Of course I do," she answered. "So does everybody. You 'urry on now,
an' I'll 'ave your dinner up before you finish dryin' your fyce!" She
contemplated him for a moment. "You got nice 'air," she said, "only it
wants brushin'. An' cuttin', too!"

Then she disappeared down the stairs leading to the basement.

"That's a _very_ rum sort of a woman," John murmured to himself as
he proceeded to his room.

THE SECOND CHAPTER

I

He had gone to bed before the Creams returned from their round of the
music-halls, but in the morning, when Lizzie had removed the remnants
of his breakfast, John heard a tap on the door of the sitting-room, and
on opening it, found a small, wistful-looking man, with a smiling face,
standing outside.

"Good-morning," said the stranger, holding his hand out. "I'm Cream
from the ground-floor!"

"Oh, yes," John answered, shaking hands with him. "Come in, won't you!"

"Well, I was going to suggest you should come down and be introduced to
the wife. She'd like to meet you!" Mr. Cream said, entering the
sitting-room as he spoke.

John had a sensation of self-consciousness when he heard the word
"wife."

"Settling down comfortably?" Mr. Cream continued.

"Oh, yes, thank you," said John. "I went out all day yesterday and had
my first look at London!"

"And what do you think of it? Great place, eh?"

John confessed that he had been disappointed in London, and in a few
moments he began to recite a list of the things that had disappointed
him.

"Wait 'til you've been here a few months," Mr. Cream interrupted.
"You'll love this town. You'll hate loving it, but you won't be able to
help yourself. I've been all over the world, the wife and me, and I've
seen some of the loveliest places on earth, but London's got me. You'll
be the same. You see!" He glanced about the room, casting his eyes
critically at the books. "I hear you're a writer, too?" he said, less
as an assertion than as a question.

"I've written one book," John replied, "but it hasn't been printed. I
want to discuss it with Mr. Hinde, but I haven't had a chance to do
that yet. He's been away ever since I arrived. He'll be home the day
though!"

"So Lizzie told me. Queer bird, Lizzie, isn't she?"

"Very," said John.

"But she's a good soul. I'd trust Lizzie with every ha'penny I have,
but I wouldn't trust that old cat of an aunt of hers with a brass
farthing. She's too religious to be honest. That's my opinion of her.
Come on down and see the wife!" He rose from his seat as he spoke. "I
suppose you've never tried your hand at a play, have you?" he asked,
leading the way to the door.

"No, not yet, but I had a notion of trying," John said, following him.

"I could give you a few tips if you needed advice," Mr. Cream
continued, as they descended the stairs. "As a matter of fact, the wife
and me are in need of a new piece for the halls, and it struck me this
morning when I heard you were a writer, that mebbe you could do a piece
for us. It would be practice for you!"

"What about Mr. Hinde?" John asked.

"I've tried him time after time, but it's no good asking. He's a
journalist, and a journalist can only work when he's excited. Put him
down to something that needs thought and care, and he's lost. And he
always says he's writing a tragedy about St. Patrick and can't think of
anything else!"

John smiled, without quite understanding why he was smiling, and
followed Mr. Cream into the ground floor sitting-room where Mrs. Cream
was lying on a sofa.

"This is the wife," Mr. Cream said. "Dolly, this is Mr.... Mr!..."

"MacDermott," John prompted.

"Oh, yes, of course. Mr. MacDermott. Lizzie did tell me, but I can
never remember Irish names somehow!"

Mrs. Cream extended a limp hand to John. "You must excuse me for not
getting up," she said, "but I'm always very tired in the morning!"

"You see, Mac," Mr. Cream explained, "Dolly is a very intense
actress ... I think she's the most intense actress on the stage ... and
she gets very worked up in emotional pieces. Don't you, Dolly?"

Dolly nodded her head, and then, as if the effort of doing so had been
too great an exertion for her, she lay back on the sofa and closed her
eyes.

"Perhaps I'd better go!..." John suggested.

"Oh, no, no! She's always like that. All right in the afternoon. Won't
you, Dolly?"

Dolly waved her hand feebly.

"Her acting takes a lot out of her," Mr. Cream said. "Very exhausting
all that emotional work. Bound to be ... _bound_ to be! Now, comic
work's different. I can be as comic as you like, and all that happens
is I'm nicely tired about bedtime, and I sleep like a top. In fact, I
might say I sleep like two tops, for the wife's so unnerved, as you
might say, by her own acting that it takes her half the night to settle
down. Nerves, my boy. That's what it is! Nerves! I tell you, Mac, old
chap, if you want to have a good night's rest, go in for comic work,
but if you want to lie awake and think, tragedy's your trade. Nerves
all on edge. Overwrought. Terrible thing, tragedy! Isn't it, Dolly?"

Mrs. Cream moaned slightly and twisted about on the sofa. "Too much
talk!" she murmured.

"All right, my dear, all right. Suppose we just go up to your room
again, Mac, and talk until she's quieted down? Eh?"

"Very well," said John who was feeling exceedingly uncomfortable.

They left the room together, John walking on tiptoe, for he felt that
the situation made such a solemnity necessary.

"Temperament is a peculiar thing," Mr. Cream said as they ascended the
stairs.

"Evidently," John answered.

"I may as well warn you that Dolly'll make love to you when she's
recovered herself, but you needn't let it worry you. She can't help it,
poor dear, and I often think it's the only real relaxation she has ...
with her temperament. Just humour her, old chap, if she does. I'll know
you don't mean anything by it. It's temperament, that's all it is.
Dolly wouldn't do anything ... not for the world ... but it gives her a
lot of satisfaction to pretend she's doing something. Lot of women like
that, Mac. Not nice women, really ... except Dolly, of course ... and
you can excuse her because of her temperament!"

They entered the sitting-room and sat down at the table.

"And I may as well tell you," Cream continued, "that Dolly and me
aren't married. I'd like to be regular myself, but Dolly says she'd
feel respectable if she was married ... and she thinks you can't be
tragic if you're respectable. She always says that she's at her best
when she feels that I've ruined her life. I daresay she's right, old
chap, only I'd like to be regular myself. As I tell her, if it's hard
to be tragic when you're respectable, it's damn hard to be comic when
you're not. I expect Lizzie told you about me and Dolly?"

John nodded his head.

"I thought as much. Lizzie always tells people. I don't know what the
hell she'd do for gossip if we were to get married. I can't think how
she found out ... unless Dolly told her ... but you can be certain of
this, Mac, if there's a skeleton in your cupboard, Lizzie'll discover
it. Dolly's the skeleton in my cupboard. Of course, old chap, I don't
want it talked about. I wouldn't have told you anything about it, only
I guessed that Lizzie'd told you. Not that I mind _you_ or Hinde
knowing ... you're writers ... but music-hall people are so particular
about things of that sort. You wouldn't believe how narrow-minded and
old-fashioned they are about marriage ... not like actors. That's
really why I mentioned the matter. I don't want you to think I'm
bragging about it or anything!"

"Oh, no, no," said John. "No, of course not. I wouldn't dream of saying
a word to anybody!"

"Thanks, Mac, old chap!" Cream extended his hand to John, and John,
wondering why it was offered to him, shook it. "Now about this idea of
mine for a play!"

"Play?"

"Yes, for me and Dolly. Why shouldn't you do one for us? The minute I
heard you were a writer, I turned to Dolly and I said, 'Dolly, darling,
let's get him to do a play for us!' And she agreed at once. She said,
'Do what you like, darling, but don't worry me about it!' You see, Mac,
we're getting a bit tired of this piece we're doing now ... we've been
doing it twice-nightly for four years ... _The Girl Gets Left_, we
call it ... and we want new stuff. See? We'd like a good dramatic
piece ... a little bit of high-class in it ... for Dolly ... if you like,
only not too much. Classy stuff wants living up to it, and I haven't
got it in me, and people aren't always in the mood for it either. In
the music-halls, anyway. See?"

"But!..."

"Dramatic stuff ... that's what we want. Go! Snap! Plenty of ginger!
Raise hell's delight and then haul down the curtain quick before the
audience has had time to pull itself together. See? We'd treat the
author very handsome if we could get hold of a good piece with a big
emotional part for the wife ... and although I'm her husband ... in the
sight of God, anyway ... I will say this for her, Mac, there's not
another woman on the stage ... Ellen Terry, Mrs. Pat or Sarah Bernhardt
herself ... can hold a candle to Dolly for emotional parts. Of course,
there'd have to be a comic part for me, too, but you needn't worry much
about that. I always make up my own part to a certain extent. Just give
me the bare outline: I'll do the rest. You see, I understand the
public ... it's a knack, of course ... and I can always improve the
author's stuff easy. What do you say?"

"I don't know," said John.

"You needn't put your name to it, if you don't want to. Use a nom de
plume or leave the name out altogether. _Our_ audience doesn't pay
any attention to authors, so that won't matter. And it'll be a start
for you, Mac!"

"Oh, yes!"

"Any little bit of success, even if you're half ashamed of it, bucks
you wonderful, Mac ... I say, you don't mind me calling you Mac, do
you?..."

"No," John replied.

"Somehow it's homely when you can call a chap Mac, somehow! Now, if you
was to do a play for us, and it went well, it'd put heart into you for
something better. If you can find your way to the heart of a music-hall
audience, Mac, my boy, you can find your way anywhere. Now, what about
it, eh! Will you try to do a piece for us?"

"I'll try, but!..."

"That's all right," said Cream, again extending his hand to John.
"Dolly'll be very pleased to hear we've settled it!"

"But I've never seen a music-hall play!" John exclaimed, "and you
haven't said how much you'll pay me for it!"

"Never been in a music-hall!... Where was you brought up, Mac!"

"In Ballyards," John replied seriously.

"Where's that?"

"Have you never heard of Ballyards, Mr. Cream?"

"No," the comedian replied.

"Well, where were you brought up then?"

Cream regarded him closely for a few moments. Then he burst into
laughter and again shook John fervently by the hand.

"That's one up for you, Mac!" he said genially. "Quite a repartee.
Well, come with us to-night and see _The Girl Gets Left_. That'll
give you a notion of the sort of stuff we want. See?"

"How much will you pay me for it?"

"Well, we gave the chap that wrote _The Girl Gets Left_ ... poor
chap, he died of drink about six weeks ago ... couldn't keep away from
it ... signed the pledge ... ate sweets ... did everything ... no
good ... always thought out his best jokes when he was drunk ... well, we
gave him thirty bob a week for _The Girl Gets Left_ ... and mind
you he was an experienced chap, too ... but Dolly and me, we've decided
you have to pay a bit extra for classy stuff, and we'll give you two
quid a week for the piece if it suits us. Two quid a week as long as
the play runs, Mac. _The Girl Gets Left_ has been played for four
years ... four years, Mac ... all over the civilised globe. If your
piece was to run that long, you'd get Four Hundred and Sixteen Quid.
Four Hundred and Sixteen shiny Jimmy o' Goblins, Mac! Think of it! And
all for a couple of afternoons' work!..."

"And how much will you get out of it?" John asked.

"Oh, I dunno. Enough to pay the rent anyhow. You know, Mac, these
high-class chaps like Barrie and Bernard Shaw, they've never had a play
run for four years anywhere, and yet old Hookings, that nobody never knew
nothing about and died of drink, his play was performed all over the
civilised world for four years. That's something to be proud of, that
is. Four solid years! But there was nothing in the papers about him,
when he died ... nothing ... not a word. And if Barrie was to die, or
Bernard Shaw ... columns, pages! Barrie ... well, he's all right, of
course ... not bad ... but compare him with Hookings. Why, he doesn't
know the outside of the human heart, not the outside of it he doesn't,
and Hookings knew what the inside of it's like. You take that play of
Barrie's, _The Twelve Pound Look_. Not bad...not a bad play, at
all ... but where's the feeling heart in it? Play that piece in front
of an audience of coalminers and what 'ud you get? The bird, my boy!
That sort of stuff is all right for the West End ... but the people,
Mac, want something that hits 'em straight between the eyes and gives
'em a kick in the stomach as well. The best way to make a man sit up
and take a bit of notice is to hit him a punch on the jaw, and the best
way to make the public feel sympathetic is to hit it a punch in the
heart!..."

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