The Foolish Lovers

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His mind was quieter now. He was certain of his love for Eleanor. How
wise his mother had been to suggest that he should go out for a walk.
She had guessed, no doubt, that he was ill at ease and full of doubt,
and had sent him forth to find rest in movement and ease in energy. It
was a great comfort to have his mother by him now. That morning he had
looked at her, sitting in the light of the window, and had seen for the
first time the great depth of her eyes and the wonderful patience in
her face.... He must consider her more in future. Eleanor liked her,
and she liked Eleanor. That was all to the good!... He must go home
now. He would walk to Blackfriars Bridge, cross the river and go home
by the Elephant and Castle. He started to walk briskly along the
Embankment, but he had not gone very far on his way when he heard his
name called.

"Oh, John!" the call was, and looking round, he saw Eleanor rising from
one of the garden-seats near the kerb.

"Eleanor!" he exclaimed. "What are you doing here?"

She came quickly to him and he took hold of her hands.

"I was frightened," she said, half sobbing as she spoke.

"Frightened!"

"Yes. I lost my nerve this evening and I ... I came out to think. Oh, I
wonder are we wise!..."

He drew her arm in his. "Come home, my dear," he said.

He led her across the road, through the District Railway Station and up
Villiers Street to the Strand, and as they walked along he told her of
his own fears. "You were frightened, too?" she said in astonishment.

"Not frightened," he replied, "only ... well, dubious!"

"Perhaps we'd better wait," she suggested.

"Oh, no, no. I should feel such a fool if I were to tell people we'd
postponed our marriage because we'd both got scared about it!"

"It's better to feel a fool than!..."

"And anyhow I know that it's all right. I feel sure it's all right.
When I walked along the Embankment before I met you, I became certain
that I wanted you, Eleanor, and no one else but you. My dear, I'm
terribly happy!"

"Are you?"

"Yes. Why, of course, I am. How can I be anything else when I shall be
your husband this time to-morrow?"

They walked along Bond Street because they had discovered that Bond
Street, when the shops are shut, is dark and quiet, and once they
stopped and faced each other, and John took her in his arms and kissed
her. "Sweetheart!" he murmured, with his lips against hers.

Then he took her to her club. "What a place for you to be married
from!" he said, as he bade her good-night.

"This is my last night in it," she answered. "I shall never live in a
place where there are only women again!" She paused for a moment, and
then, with a sigh of relief, added, "Thank Goodness!"

III

On the following morning they were married; and in the evening they
went to Ireland for their honeymoon. They were to go to Dublin for a
week, and then up to Ballyards for a fortnight. Eleanor had proposed
that Mrs. MacDermott should cross to Ireland with them, but she shook
her head and smiled. "I'm foolish enough," she said, "but I'm not as
foolish as all that. You'll want to be by yourselves, my dear!"

"I'll see your mother safely off from Euston," Hinde said, "when she
makes up her mind to go!"

They spent the day quietly together until the time came for Eleanor and
John to go to the railway station. Mrs. MacDermott took him out of the
room. "I want to have a wee talk with you," she said in explanation.

"Here," she said, putting an envelope into his hand. "That's a wedding
present for you from me!..."

"But you've given me one already," he interrupted.

"Oh, aye, that was just an ordinary one, but this is the one that
matters. It'll be useful to you sometime!"

He opened the envelope, and inside it were ten notes for ten pounds
each. "Ma!" he said.

"Now, now, never mention it," she exclaimed hurriedly. "What does an
old woman like me want with money when there's two young ones in need
of it. It'll help to keep you going till you're earning!"

He hugged her to show his gratitude. "My son," she said, patting his
back.

"Listen, John," she went on, "while I speak to you!"

"Yes, ma!"

"Don't forget that Eleanor's a young girl with no one to tell her
things. She's very young, and ... and!..." She stumbled over her words.
"You'll be very kind to her, won't you, son?"

"Of course, I will, ma," John replied with no comprehension whatever of
what it was she was trying to say.

Then she let him go back to Eleanor.

They gathered in the hall to make their "Good-byes." There was a
telegram from the Creams to wish them happiness that Eleanor insisted
on taking with her although she had never seen the Creams; and Miss
Squibb mournfully insisted on giving a packet of sandwiches to them to
eat on the journey. She told them that they knew what these trains and
boats were like, and that they would be lucky if they got anything at
all to sustain them during their travels. "Though you probably won't
want to eat nothink when you get on the boat," she added encouragingly.

"Good-bye! Good-bye! Good-bye!"

John went up the hall to Lizzie. "Good-bye, Lizzie!" he said, and then,
"What on earth are you crying for?"

"I dunno," she answered, wiping her eyes. "Just 'appiness, I s'pose.
I'll be doin' it myself some dy. See if I down't. It'd annoy aunt,
anyway!"

They scrambled into the cab and were driven off. They leant back
against the cushions and looked at each other.

"Well, we're married, Eleanor. I always said we would be," John said.

"It's frightfully funny," Eleanor replied. "Isn't it?"

He did not answer. He took her in his arms instead.

* * * * *

THE THIRD BOOK OF THE FOOLISH LOVERS

Ask, is Love divine,
Voices all are, ay.
Question for the sign,
There's a common sigh.
Would we through our years,
Love forego,
Quit of scars and tears?
Ah, but no, no, no!
MEREDITH.

THE FIRST CHAPTER

I

The honeymoon at Ballyards had been a triumph for Eleanor. Uncle
William had immediately surrendered to her, making, indeed, no pretence
to resist her. She had demanded his company on a boating excursion on
the Lough, and when he had turned to her, sitting behind him in the bow
of the boat, and had said, "This is great health! It's the first time
I've been in a boat these years and years!" she had retorted
indignantly, "The first time! But why?"

"Och ... busy!" he had explained.

She had called to John, sitting with his mother in the stern, and
demanded an explanation of the causes which prevented Uncle William
from taking holidays like other people.

"Sure, he likes work!" said John.

"Nobody likes work to that extent," Eleanor replied, and then Mrs.
MacDermott gave the explanation. "There's no one else but him to do
it," she said. "Uncle Matthew had his head full of romantic dreams and
John fancied himself in other ways, so Uncle William had to do it all
by himself!"

John flushed, and was angry with his mother for speaking in this way
before Eleanor. He felt that she was stating the case unfairly. Had he
not once offered to quit from his monitorial work to help in the shop
and had not his offer been firmly refused?...

"There'll be no need for Uncle William to work hard when my play is
produced," he said.

"Ah, quit blethering about hard work," Uncle William exclaimed, bending
to the oars. "Sure, I'd be demented mad if I hadn't my work to do. What
would an old fellow like me do gallivanting up and down the shore in my
bare feet, paddling like a child in the water! Have sense, do, all of
you. Eleanor, I'm surprised at you trying to make a loafer out of me!"

She leant forward and pulled him suddenly backwards and he fell into
the bottom of the boat. "We'll all be drowned," he shouted. "I'll cowp
the boat if you assault me again!..."

"What does 'cowp' mean?" she demanded.

"In God's name, girl, where were you brought up not to know what 'cowp'
means! Upset!" said he.

"Well, why don't you say upset, you horrible old Orangeman," she
retorted.

"I'm no Orangeman," he giggled at her. "I wouldn't own the name!"

"You are. You are. You say your prayers every night to King William and
Carson!..."

"Ah, you're the tormenting wee tory, so you are! Here, take a hold of
these oars and do something for your living!"

She had changed places with Uncle William, and John felt very proud of
her as he observed the skilful way in which she handled the oars. Her
strokes were clean and strong and deliberate. She did not thrust the
oars too deeply into the water nor did she pull them, impotently along
the surface nor did she lean too heavily on one oar so that the boat
was drawn too much to one side or sent ungainly to this side and to
that in an exhausting effort to keep a straight course. He lay back
against his mother and regarded Eleanor out of half-shut eyes. She
mystified him. Her timidity when he had first spoken to her had seemed
to him then to be her chief characteristic and it had caused him to
feel tenderly for her: he would be her protector. But she was not
always timid. He had discovered courage in her and something uncommonly
like obstinacy of mind. She uttered opinions which startled him, less
because of the flimsy grounds on which they were built, than because of
the queer chivalry that made her utter them. She defended the weak
because they were weak, whereas he would have had her defend the truth
because it was the truth. The attacked had her sympathy, whether they
were in the right or in the wrong, and John demanded that sympathy
should be given only to those who were in the right even if they
happened also to be the stronger of the contestants. He had seen her
behaving with extraordinary calmness at a time when he had been certain
that she would show signs of hysteria, and while he was marvelling at
her imperturbability, he had heard her screaming with fright at the
sight of an ear-wig. He had rushed to her help, imagining that she was
in terrible danger, and had found her trembling and shuddering because
this pitiful insect had crawled on to her dressing-gown.... He had been
very frightened when he heard her screaming to him for help, and he
suffered so strange a reaction when he discovered that her trouble was
trivial that he lost his temper. "Don't be such a fool," he said,
putting his foot on the ear-wig. "You couldn't have made more noise if
someone had been murdering you!"

"I hate ear-wigs!" she replied, still shuddering. "I hate all crawly
things. Oh-h-h!"

And here was another aspect of her: her skill in doing things that
required effort and thought. She handled a boat better than he could
handle it. He was more astonished at this feat than he had been when he
discovered that she had great skill in managing a house and in cooking
food, for he assumed that all women were inspired by Almighty God with
a genius for housekeeping and that only a deliberately sinful nature
prevented a woman from serving her husband with an excellently-prepared
dinner. In a vague way, he had imagined that Eleanor would need
instruction in housekeeping, but that she would "soon pick it up." Any
woman could "soon pick it up." His mother, he decided, would give tips
to Eleanor while they were at Ballyards, and thereafter things would go
very smoothly. He had determined that the flat at Hampstead which they
had rented should be furnished according to his taste so that there
should be no mistake about it; but when they began to choose furniture,
he found that Eleanor had better judgment than he had, and he wisely
deferred to her opinion. He was inclined, he discovered, to accept
things which he disliked or did not want rather than take the trouble
to get only the things he desired and appreciated; but Eleanor had no
compunction in making a disinterested shop-assistant run about and
fetch and carry until she had either obtained the thing for which she
wished or was satisfied that it was not in the shop. John always had a
sense of shame at leaving a shop without making a purchase when the
assistant had been given much bother in their behalf; but Eleanor said
that this was silliness. "That's what he's there for," she said of the
shop-assistant. "I'm not going to buy things I don't want just because
you're afraid of hurting his feelings!"

He began to feel, while they were furnishing their flat, that she knew
her own mind at least as well as he knew his, and a fear haunted his
thoughts that perhaps this adequacy of knowledge might bring trouble to
them. Gradually he found himself consulting her as an equal, even
accepting her advice, and seldom instructing her as one instructs a
beloved pupil. When she required advice, she asked for it. At
Ballyards, he had seen his mother quickening into zestful life because
of Eleanor's desire to be informed of things. One evening he had come
home from a visit to Mr. Cairnduff to find Eleanor seated on the high
stool in the "Counting House" of the shop while Uncle William explained
the working of the business to her.

"She's a great wee girl, that!" Uncle William said afterwards to John.
"The great wee girl! You've done well for yourself marrying her, my
son. She's a well-brought-up girl ... a girl with a family ... and
that's more nor you could say for some of the women you might 'a'
married. That Logan girl, now!..."

"I'd never have married her," John interrupted.

"No, I suppose you wouldn't. They're no family at all, the Logans ...
just a dragged-up, thrown-together lot. They've no pride in themselves.
They'd marry anybody, that family would. Willie's away to the bad
altogether ... drinking and gambling and worse ... and Aggie got
married on a traveller from Belfast, and two hours after she married
the man, he was dead drunk. He's been drunk ever since, they say. Aw,
she's a poor mouth, that woman, and not fit to hold a candle to
Eleanor. I'm thankful glad you've married a sensible woman with her
head on the right way, and not one of these flyaway pieces you see
knocking around these times. I'd die of despair to see you married to a
woman with no more gumption than an old hen!..."

II

He had experienced his most humiliating defect in comparison with
Eleanor on board the mail-boat from Kingstown to Holyhead. He had been
sea-sick, but she had seemed unaware of the fact that she was afloat on
a rough sea. That terribly swift race of water that beats against a
boat off Holyhead and causes the least queasy of stomachs a certain
amount of discomposure, affected Eleanor not at all; and when they
disembarked, it was she who found comfortable seats in the London train
for them and saw to their luggage; for John still felt ill and
miserable. "Poor old thing," she said, "you do look a sight!"

III

Mrs. MacDermott had begged him to stay beyond the stipulated time in
Ballyards, and Uncle William, with a glance towards Eleanor, had
reinforced her appeal; but John had refused to yield to it. There was
work to be done in London, and Eleanor and he must return to town to do
it. In a short while, his play would be produced ... he must attend the
rehearsals of it ... and then there was his novel for which he had yet
to find a publisher; and he must write another book. Eleanor had
hesitated for a few moments, not irresponsive to Uncle William's look,
but the desire to be in her own home had conquered her desire to remain
in Ballyards, and so she had not asked John to stay away from London
any longer. The flat was a small and incommodious one, but it was in a
quiet street and not very far from Hampstead Heath. They had spent more
money on furnishing it than they had intended to spend, but John had
soothed Eleanor's mind by promising that his play would more than make
up for their extravagance; and when, a fortnight after their return to
town, Mr. Claude Jannissary, "the Progressive Publisher," wrote to John
and invited him to call on him, they felt certain that their anxieties
had been very foolish. John visited Mr. Jannissary on the morning after
he had received that enlightened gentleman's letter, and was
overwhelmed by the praise paid to his book. Mr. Jannissary said that he
was not merely willing, but actually eager to publish it. He felt
certain that its author had a great future before him, and he wished to
be able to say in after years that he had been the first to recognize
John's genius. He did not anticipate that he would make any profit
whatever out of _The Enchanted Lover_ ... the title of the
story ... at all events for several years, partly because John still had
to create a reputation for himself and partly because of the appalling
conditions with which enlightened publishers had to contend. In time,
no doubt, John would attract a substantial body of loyal readers, but
in the meantime there was, if John would forgive the gross
commercialism of the expression, "no immediate money in him."
Nevertheless, Mr. Jannissary was prepared to gamble on John's future.
Even if he should never make enough to cover the expense of publishing
John's book, he would still feel compensated for his loss merely
through having introduced the world to so excellent a novel. Idealism
was not very popular, he said, but thank God he was an idealist. He
believed in Art _and_ Literature _and_ Beauty, and he was
prepared to make sacrifices for his beliefs. He could not offer any
payment in advance on account of royalties to John ... much as he would
like to do so ... for the conditions with which an enlightened
publisher who tried to preserve his ideals intact had to contend were
truly appalling; but he would publish the book immediately if John
would consent to forego all royalties on the first five hundred copies,
and would accept a royalty of ten per cent on all copies sold in excess
of that number, the royalty to rise to fifteen per cent when the copies
sold exceeded two thousand. Mr. Jannissary would put himself to the
great inconvenience of trying to find a publisher for the book in
America, and would only expect to receive twenty-five per cent of the
author's proceeds for his trouble....

John had not greatly liked the look of Mr. Claude Jannissary. So
uncompromising an idealist might have been expected to possess a more
pleasing appearance and a less shifty look in his eyes ... but soothed
vanity and youthful eagerness to appear in print and a feeling that
very often appearances were against idealists, caused him to sign the
agreement which Mr. Jannissary had already prepared for him. A great
thrill of pleasure went through him as he signed the long document,
full of involved clauses. He was now entitled to call himself an
author. In a little while, a book of his would be purchaseable in
bookshops.... "We'll print immediately," said Mr. Jannissary, handing a
copy of the agreement, signed by himself, to John and putting the other
copy carefully away. "I'm sure the book will be a great success ...
_artistically_, at all events ... and after all, that's the chief
thing. _That's_ the chief thing. Ah, Art, _Art_, Mr.
MacDermott, what a compelling thing it is! I often feel that I have
thrown my life away ever since I resolved to publish books instead of
writing them. There are times when I long to throw up everything and
run away into the country and meditate. Meditate! But one can't escape
from the bonds of the body, Mr. MacDermott!"

"Oh, no," John vaguely answered.

"The world is too much for us ... poor, bewildered idealists, searching
for the gleam and so often losing it. Rent has to be paid, butchers
demand payment for their meat ... I'm speaking figuratively, of course,
for I'm a vegetarian myself ... and one must pay one's way. So the body
has us, and we have to compromise. Ah, yes! But at the bottom of
Pandora's box, Mr. MacDermott, there is always.... Hope! This way,
please, and _good_ afternoon! It's been very nice indeed to meet
you!..."

Hinde had disturbed John's complacency very considerably when he saw
the agreement which John had signed. Eleanor had begun the process by
failing to understand why the first five hundred copies of the novel
should be published free of royalty. If Mr. Jannissary was to make
money out of these five hundred copies why was John not to make any? He
quelled her doubts momentarily by informing her that she was totally
ignorant of the conditions of publishing. If she only knew how
appalling they were!... Mr. Jannissary had so impressed John with the
terrible state of the publisher's business that he had gone away from
the office feeling exceedingly fortunate to have his book published at
all without being asked to pay for it. Eleanor's doubts, however, had
revived when Hinde, who dined with them on the evening of the day on
which the agreement had been signed, declared with extraordinary
emphasis that Mr. Jannissary was a common robber and would, if he had
his way, be enduring torture in gaol.

"He's a notorious little scoundrel who has been living for years on
robbing young authors by flattering their vanity. I suppose he told you
you were a marvel and bleated about his ideals?"

John could not deny that Mr. Jannissary had spoken of his ideals
several times during their interview.

"I know him, the greasy little bounder!" Hinde exclaimed. "You'll never
get one farthing from that book of yours, for he won't print more than
five hundred copies!..."

"He will if they're demanded."

"_If_ they're demanded. Do you think they will be?"

"I hope so!"

"Oh, we can all hope, but there's not much chance of you realising your
hope. Your book isn't a very good one!..." Eleanor glanced up at this.
She had not felt very certain about John's book herself, but now that
Hinde was belittling it, she was angry with him.

"_I_ think it's good," she said decisively.

"Even if it is," Hinde retorted, "it will only sell well if it's
advertised well. Lots of good books don't sell even when they are
advertised. But Jannissary doesn't advertise. He hasn't got enough
money to advertise. Look at the newspapers! How many times do you see
Jannissary's list in the advertisements?" John could not remember.
"Very seldom," said Hinde. "His books get less attention from reviewers
than other people's because the reviewers know that he's a rascal and
that nine out of ten of his books aren't worth the paper they're
printed on. Booksellers will hardly stock them. He makes his living by
selling copies to the libraries and persuading mugs to pay for the
publication of their books. That's how Jannissary lives!..."

"He didn't ask me to pay for publishing my book," John murmured.

"That's a wonder," Hinde replied. "Why didn't you ask for advice before
you signed this thing?"

"I want the book published as soon as possible. I have to make my name
and I daresay I shall have to pay for making it!"

Hinde put the agreement down. "Oh, well, if you look at it like that,"
he said, "there's no more to be said, but you've done a silly thing!"

"I don't see it," John boldly asserted, though there was doubt in his
mind.

"You'll see it some day!"

Hinde had parted from them earlier that evening than he had intended or
they had expected. He made an excuse for leaving them by saying that he
was tired and needed sleep after late nights of work, but he went
because John's vanity had been hurt by his criticism of the agreement
and also because he had said that John's book had no remarkable
qualities. "I'm telling you the truth that you're always demanding, and
I won't tell you anything else. You've been very anxious to tell it to
other people and now you'll have a chance of hearing it yourself. Your
book is not a good book. There are dozens like it published every year.
The _Sensation_ reviews them six-a-time in three or four hundred
words. You may write good books some day, but _The Enchanted
Lover_ is just an ordinary, mediocre book. I think your tragedy is
better!..."

"Well, it ought to be. It was written afterwards," John said, trying
hard to speak without revealing resentment.

"Yes. Yes, of course!" Hinde murmured.

A little later, he had taken his leave of them.

"I wonder if he's right!" Eleanor said to John when he had gone.

"Of course he isn't," John tartly replied. "I believe he's jealous!"

"Jealous!"

"Yes. He's been talking for years of writing a tragedy about St.
Patrick, but he's not done it, and then I come along and do it quite
easily and get the play accepted. And my novel's to be published, too.
Of course he's jealous! Any disappointed man's jealous when he sees
someone else doing things he's failed to do. I'm sorry for him really!"

"Perhaps that is it," Eleanor said, taking comfort to herself.

"No doubt about it. Anyhow, even if the novel is a failure, there's the
play. That's good. I know it's good. The novel was bound to have some
faults. All first books have!"

IV

Then came the disappointment of the tragedy. The manager of the
Cottenham Repertory Theatre wrote to say that they were compelled to
postpone the production of it for a few weeks because their season had
been unfortunate and they were eager to replenish their treasury by the
production of popular pieces. They all admired John's play very much
and were quite certain that it would be a great artistic success, but
its tragical nature made it unlikely to be profitable to any of them
just at present....

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