The Foolish Lovers

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"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 the _Evening Herald_ and 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 ... _old_ fellows 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 of _Milchu and St. Patrick_ filled 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!"

THE THIRD CHAPTER

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 from _Milchu and St. Patrick,_ and Mr. Jannissary, when
John talked about royalties from _The 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 the _Evening 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 the _Herald_ to 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 the _Herald_," 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 the
_Sensation_ had 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?"

"You _fool_!" 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.

"It _is_ her 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 the _Sensation_
the 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 the
_Evening 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 the _Sensation_, 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 the _Sensation_. 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 incessant _rurr-rurr-rurr_ of 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!..."

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