THE FOOLISH LOVERS

BY

ST. JOHN G. ERVINE

New York

1920

TO MY MOTHER

who asked me to write a story without any "Bad words" in it;

and

TO MRS. J. O. HANNAY

who asked me to write a story without any "Sex" in it. 

THE FIRST BOOK OF THE FOOLISH LOVERS

 Why, 'tis an office of discovery, love! _The Merchant of Venice. _

 Love unpaid does soon disband. ANDREW MARVELL

THE FIRST CHAPTER

I

If you were to say to an Ulster man, "Who are the proudest people inIreland?" he would first of all stare at you as if he had difficulty inbelieving that any intelligent person could ask a question with soobvious an answer, and then he would reply, "Why, the Ulster people, ofcourse!" And if you were to say to a Ballyards man, "Who are theproudest people in Ulster?" he would reply . . . If he deigned to replyat all . . . "A child would know that! The Ballyards people, of course!"

It is difficult for anyone who is not a native of the town, tounderstand why the inhabitants of Ballyards should possess so great apride in their birthplace. It is not a large town . . . It is not eventhe largest town in the county . . . Nor has it any notable features todistinguish it from a dozen other towns of similar size in that part ofIreland. Millreagh, although it is now a poor, scattered sort of place, was once of great importance: for the mail-boats sailed from itsharbour to Port Michael until the steamship owners agreed that PortMichael was too much exposed to the severities of rough weather, andchose another harbour elsewhere. Millreagh mourns over its lost glory, attributable in no way to the fault of Millreagh, but entirely to theinscrutable design of Providence which arranged that Port Michael, andnot Kirkmull, should lie on the opposite side of the Irish Sea; andevery Sunday morning, after church, and sometimes on Sunday afternoon, the people walk along the breakwater to the lighthouse and remind eachother of the days when their town was of consequence. "We spent ahundred and fifty thousand pounds on our harbour, " they say to eachother, "and then the Scotch went and did the like of that!"--the likeof that being their stupidity in living in an exposed situation. Millreagh does not admit that it has suffered any more than a temporarydiminishment of its greatness, and it makes optimistic and boastfulprophecies of the fortune and repute that will come to it when theengineers make a tunnel between Scotland and Ireland. Sometimes anarticle on the Channel Tunnel will appear in the _Newsletter_ orthe _Whig_, and for weeks afterwards Millreagh lives in a fever ofexpectancy; for whatever else may be said about the Tunnel, this iscertain to be said of it, that it will start, in Ireland, fromMillreagh. On that brilliant hope, Millreagh, tightening its belt, lives in a fair degree of happiness, eking out its present poverty byfishing and by letting lodgings in the summer. 

Pickie, too, has much reputation, more, perhaps, than Millreagh, for itis a popular holiday town and was once described in the _EveningTelegraph_ as "the Blackpool of Ireland. " This description, althoughit was apt enough, offended the more pretentious people in Pickie whowere only mollified when the innocent reporter, in a later article, altered the description to, "the Brighton of Ireland. " With consummateunderstanding of human character, he added, remembering the Yacht Club, that perhaps the most accurate description of Pickie would be "theCowes of Ireland. " In this way, the reporter, who subsequently became amember of parliament and made much money, pleased the harmless vanityof the lower, the middle and the upper classes of Pickie; and for atime they were "ill to thole" on account of the swollen condition oftheir heads, and it became necessary to utter sneers at "ham-and-eggparades" and "the tripper element" and to speak loudly and frequentlyof the superior merits of Portrush, "a really nice place, " before theycould be persuaded to believe that Pickie, like other towns, isinhabited by common human beings. 

Ballyards never yielded an inch of its pride of place to Millreagh orto Pickie. "What's an oul' harbour when there's no boat in it?"Ballyards said to Millreagh; and, "Sure, the man makes his livin'sellin' sausages!" it said to Pickie when Pickie bragged of the greatgrocer who had joined the Yacht Club in order that he might issue achallenge for the Atlantic Cup. Tunnels and attractive seaboards wereextraneous things that might bring fortune, but could not bring merit, to those lucky enough to possess them; but Ballyards had character . . . Its men were meritable men . . . And Ballyards would not exchange theleast of its inhabitants for ten tunnels. Nor did Ballyards abate anyof its pride before the ancient and indisputable renown of Dunbar, which distils a whiskey that has soothed the gullets of millions of menthroughout the world. When Patrickstown bragged of its long history . . . It was once the home of the kings of Ulster . . . And tried to make theworld believe that St. Patrick was buried in its cathedral, Ballyards, magnificently imperturbed, murmured: "Your population is goin' down!";nor does it manifest any respect for Greenry, which has a member ofparliament to itself and has twice the population of Ballyards. "It'san ugly hole, " says Ballyards, "an' it's full of Papishes!"

Millreagh and Pickie openly sneer at Ballyards, and Greenry affects tobe unaware of it, but the pride of Ballyards remains unaltered, incapable of being diminished, incapable even of being increased . . . For pride cannot go to greater lengths than the pride of Ballyards hasalready gone . . . And in spite of contention and denial, it asserts, invincibly persistent, that it is the finest and most meritabie town inIreland. When sceptics ask for proofs, Ballyards replies, "We don'tneed proofs!" A drunken man said, on a particularly hearty Saturdaynight, that Ballyards was the finest town in the world, but the generalopinion of his fellow-townsmen was that this claim, while very human, was excessively expressed. London, for example, was bigger thanBallyards. So was New York!. . . . The drunken man, when he had recoveredhis sobriety, admitted that this was true, but he contended, and waswell supported in his contention, that while London and New York mightbe bigger than Ballyards, neither of these cities were inhabited by menof such independent spirit as the men of Ballyards. A Ballyards man, heasserted, was beholden to no one. Once, and once only, a Millreagh mansaid that a Ballyards man thought he was being independent when he wasbeing ill-bred; but Ballyards people would have none of this talk, and, after they had severely assaulted him, they drove the Millreagh manback to his "stinkin' wee town" and forbade him ever to put his foot inBallyards again. "You know what you'll get if you do. Your head in yourhands!" was the threat they shouted after him. And surely the wideworld knows the story . . . Falsely credited to other places . . . Whichevery Ballyards child learns in its cradle, of the man who, on beingrebuked in a foreign city for spitting, said to those who rebuked him, "I come from the town of Ballyards, an' I'll spit where I like!"

II

It was his pride in his birthplace which sometimes made John MacDermotthesitate to accept the advice of his Uncle Matthew and listen lenientlyto the advice of his Uncle William. Uncle Matthew urged him to seek hisfortune in foreign parts, but Uncle William said, "Bedam to foreignparts when you can live in Ballyards!" Uncle Matthew, who had neverbeen out of Ireland in his life, had much knowledge of the works ofEnglish writers, and from these works, he had drawn a romantic pictureof London. The English city, in his imagination, was a place ofmarvellous adventures, far mere wonderful than the ancient city ofBagdad or the still more ancient city of Damascus, wherein anythingmight happen to a man who kept his eyes open or, for the matter ofthat, shut. He never tired of reading Mr. Andrew Lang's _HistoricalMysteries_, and he liked to think of himself suddenly being accostedin the street by some dark stranger demanding to know whether he had ataste for adventure. Uncle Matthew was not quite certain what he woulddo if such a thing were to happen to him: whether to proclaim himselfas eager for anything that was odd and queer or to threaten thestranger with the police. "You might think a man was going to lead youto a hidden place, mebbe, where there'd be a lovely woman waiting toreceive you, and you blindfolded 'til you were shown into the roomwhere she was . . . And mebbe you'd be queerly disappointed, for itmightn't be that sort of a thing at all, but only some lad trying tosteal your watch and chain!"

He had heard very unpleasant stories of what he called the ConfidenceTrick, whereby innocent persons were beguiled by seemingly amiable meninto parting with all their possessions!. . . 

"Of course, " he would admit, "you'd never have no adventures at all, ifyou never ran no risks, and mebbe in the end, you do well to chancethings. It's a queer pity a man never has any adventures in this place. Many's and many's a time I've walked the roads, thinking mebbe I'd meetsomeone with a turn that way, but I never in all my born days metanything queer or unusual, and I don't suppose I ever will now!"

Uncle Matthew had spoken so sadly and so longingly that John had deeplypitied him. "Did you never fall in love with no one, Uncle Matthew?" heasked. 

"Och, indeed I did, John!" Uncle Matthew replied. "Many's and many'sthe time! Your Uncle William used to make fun of me and sing_'Shilly-shally with the wee girls, ha, ha, ha!'_ at me when I wasa wee lad because I was always running after the young girls andsweethearting with them. He never ran after any himself: he was alwayslooking for birds' nests or tormenting people with his tricks. He was adaft wee fellow for devilment, was your Uncle William, and yet he'ssobered down remarkably. Sometimes, I think he got more romance out ofhis tormenting and nesting than I got out of my courting, though love'sa grand thing, John, when you can get it. I was always falling in love, but sure what was the good? I never could be content with the way thegirls talked about furniture and us setting up house together, when allthe time I was wanting hard to be rescuing them from something. Nowonder they wouldn't have me in the end, for, of course, it's veryimportant to get good furniture and to set up a house somewhere niceand snug . . . But I never was one for scringing and scrounging . . . Mymoney always melted away from the minute I got it . . . And I couldn'tbear the look of the furniture-men when you asked them how much itwould cost to furnish a house on the hire-system!"

He paused for a moment, reflecting perhaps on the pleasures that hadbeen missed by him because of his inability to save money and hisdislike of practical concerns. Then in a brisker tone, as if he wereconsoling himself for his losses, he said, "Oh, well, there'sconsolation for everyone somewhere if they'll only take the trouble tolook for it, and after all I've had a queer good time reading books!"

"Mebbe, Uncle Matthew, " John suggested, "if you'd left Ballyards andgone to London, you'd have had a whole lot of adventures!"

"Mebbe I would, " Uncle Matthew replied. "Though sometimes I think I'mnot the sort that has adventures, for there's men in the world wouldfind something romantic wherever they went, and I daresay if Lord Byronwere living here in Ballyards, he'd have the women crying their eyesout for him. That was a terrible romantic man, John! Lord Byron! Aterrible man for falling in love, God bless him!. . . "

It was Uncle Matthew who urged John to read Shakespeare--"a veryplain-spoken, knowledgable man, Shakespeare!"--and Lord Byron--"a terriblebad lord, John, but a fine courter of girls and a grand poet!"--andHerrick--"a queer sort of minister, that man Herrick, but a good poetall the same!"--and Dickens. Dickens was the incomparable one whofilled dull streets with vital figures: Sam Weller and Mr. Pickwick andMr. Micawber and Mrs. Nickleby and Mr. Mantalini and Steerforth andDavid Copperfield and Barkis; and terrible figures: Fagan and BillSykes and Uriah Heap and Squeers and Mr. Murdstone and that fearful manwho drank so much that he died of spontaneous combustion; and patheticfigures: Sidney Carton and Little Nell and Oliver Twist and Nancy andDora and Little Dorritt and the Little Marchioness. 

"You'd meet the like of them any minute of the day in London, " saidUncle Matthew. "You'd mebbe be walking up a street, the Strand, mebbe, or in Hyde Park or Whitechapel, and in next to no time at all, you'drun into the whole jam-boiling of them. London's the queer place forseeing queer people. Never be content, John, when you're a man, to stayon in this place where nothing ever happens to anyone, but quit off outof it and see the world. There's all sorts in London, black men andyellow men, and I wouldn't be surprised but there's a wheen of RedIndians, too, with, feathers in their head!. . . . "

"I'd be afeard of them fellows, " said John. "They'd scalp you, mebbe!"

"Ah, sure, the peelers wouldn't let them, " said Uncle Matthew. "Andanyway you needn't go near them. They keep that sort down by the Docksand never let them near the places where the fine, lovely women live. London's the place to see the lovely women, John, all dressed up insilk dresses, for that's where the high-up women go . . . In the Season, they call it . . . And they take their young, lovely daughters with them, grand wee girls with nice hair and fine complexions and a grand way oftalking . . . To get them married, of course. I read in a book one time, there was a young fellow, come of a poor family, was walking in one ofthe parks where the quality-women take their horses every day, and ayoung and lovely girl was riding up and down as nice as you like, whenall of a sudden her horse ran away with her. The young fellow neverhesitated for a minute, but jumped over the railings and stopped thehorse, and the girl was that thankful and pleased, him and her wasmarried after. And she was a lord's daughter, John! A very high-uplord! She belonged to a queer proud family, but she wasn't too proud tofall in love with him, and they had a grand time together!"

"Were they rich?" said John. 

Uncle Matthew nodded his head. "It would be a great thing now, " hesaid, "if a lord's daughter was to take a fancy to you!. . . "

"I'd have to be queer and adventurous for the like of that to happen tome, Uncle Matthew, " John exclaimed. He had never seen a lord'sdaughter, but he had seen Lady Castlederry, a proud and beautifulwoman, who seemed to be totally unaware of his existence when he passedby her on the road. 

"Well, and aren't you as fond of adventure as anybody in the wideworld?" Uncle Matthew retorted. 

"Indeed, that's true, " John admitted, "but then I never had anyadventures in my born days, and you yourself would like to have one, but you've never had any!"

Uncle Matthew sat quietly in his chair for a few moments. Then he drewhis nephew close to him and stroked his hair. 

"Come here 'til I whisper to you, " he said. "D'you know why I never hadany adventures, John?"

"No, Uncle Matthew, I do not!'

"Well, I'll tell you then, though I never admitted it to anyone else inthe world, and I'll mebbe never admit it again. I never had any becauseI was afraid to have them!"

"Afeard, Uncle Matthew?" John exclaimed. He had net yet trimmed histongue to say "afraid. "

"Aye, son, heart-afraid. There's many a fine woman I'd have run awaywith, only I was afraid mebbe I'd be caught. You'll never have noadventures if you're afraid to have them, that's a sure and certainthing!"

John struggled out of his Uncle's embrace and turned squarely to facehim. 

"I'm not afeard, Uncle Matthew, " he asserted. 

"Are you not, son?"

"I'm not afeard of anything. I'd give anybody their cowardy-blow!. . . "

"There's few people in the world can say that, John!" Uncle Matthewsaid. 

III

People often said of Uncle Matthew that he was "quare in the head, " butJohn had never noticed anything queer about him. Mrs. MacDermott, finding her son in the attic where Uncle Matthew kept his books, reading an old, torn copy of Smollett's translation of _Gil Blas_, had said to him, "Son, dear, quit reading them oul' books, do, oryou'll have your mind moidhered like your Uncle Matthew!"

And Willie Logan, tormenting him once because he had refused toacknowledge his leadership, had called after him that his Uncle Matthewwas astray in the mind. It was a very great satisfaction to John thatjust as Willie Logan uttered his taunt, Uncle William came roundMcCracken's corner and heard it. Uncle William, a hasty, robust man, had clouted Willie Logon's head for him and sent him home howling. 

"Go home and learn your manners, " he had shouted at the blubbering boy. "Go home and learn your manners, you ill-bred brat, you!"

Uncle William had spoken very gravely and tenderly to John after thataffair, as they walked home together. "Never let anyone make little ofyour Uncle Matthew!" he had said to his nephew. "He's a well-read man, for all his queer talk, and many's a wise thing he says when you're notexpecting it. I never was much of a one for trusting to booksmyself. . . . I couldn't give my mind to them somehow . . . But I have agreat respect for books, all the same. It isn't every man can spare thetime for learning or has the inclination for it, but we can all payrespect to them that has, whatever sort of an upbringing we've got!"

It was then that John MacDermott learned to love his Uncle Williamalmost as much as he loved his Uncle Matthew. He had always liked UncleWilliam . . . For he was his uncle, of course, and a kind man in spite ofhis rough, quick ways and sharp words . . . But Uncle Matthew hadcommanded his love. There had been times when he almost disliked UncleWilliam . . . The times when Uncle William made fun of Uncle Matthew'sromantic talk. John would be sitting in front of the kitchen fire, before the lamp was lit, listening while his Uncle Matthew told himstories of high, romantical things, of adventures in aid of beautifulwomen, and of life freely given for noble purposes, until he waswrought up into an ecstasy of selflessness and longing . . . And thenUncle William would come into the kitchen from the shop, stumbling, perhaps, in the dark, and swear because the lamp was not lit. 

Once, after he had listened for a few moments to one of Uncle Matthew'stales, he had laughed bitterly and said, "I declare to my good God, butyou'd be in a queer way, the whole pack of you, if I was to quit theshop and run up and down the world looking for adventures and women indistress. I tell you, the pair of you, it's a queer adventure takingcare of a shop and making it prosper and earning the keep of the house. There's no lovely woman hiding behind the counter 'til the young lordcomes and delivers her, but by the Holy Smoke, there's a terrible lotof hard work!"

It had seemed to John then, as he contemplated his Uncle Matthew'sdoleful face and listened to his plaintive admission, "I know I'm nohelp to you!" that his Uncle William was a cruel-hearted man, and inhis anger he could have struck him. But now, after the affair withWillie Logan and the talk about Uncle Matthew, and remembering, too, that Uncle William was always very gentle with Uncle Matthew, eventhough his words were sometimes rough, he felt that his heart had ampleroom inside it for this rough, bearded man who made so few demands onthe affection of his family, and deserved so much. 

John knew that his Uncle William and his mother shared the commonbelief that Uncle Matthew was "quare, " but, although he had oftenthought about the matter, he could not understand why people held thisopinion. It was true that Uncle Matthew had been dismissed from theBallyards National School, in which he had been an assistant teacher, but when John considered the circumstances in which Uncle Matthew hadbeen dismissed, he felt satisfied that his uncle, so far from havingbehaved foolishly, had behaved with great courage and chivalry. UncleMatthew, so the story went, had been in Belfast a few days after theday on which Queen Victoria had died, and had stopped in Royal Avenuefor a few moments to read an advertisement which was exhibited in thewindow of a haberdasher's shop. These are the words which he read inthe advertisement:

 * * * * *

WE MOURN

OUR

DEPARTED QUEEN

 * * * * *

MOURNING ORDERS PROMPTLY

EXECUTED

 * * * * *

When he had read through the advertisement twice, Uncle Matthew brokethe haberdasher's window!

He was seized by a policeman, and in due time was brought before themagistrates who, in addition to fining him and compelling him to payfor the damage he had done, caused the Resident Magistrate to admonishhim not merely for breaking the window and interfering with thebusiness of a respectable merchant, but also for offering a frivolousexcuse for his behaviour. Uncle Matthew had said that he broke thewindow as a protest against a counterjumper's traffic in a nation'sgrief. "I loved the Queen, sir, " he said, "and I couldn't bear to seeher death treated like that!" This was more than the Magistrates couldendure, and the Resident Magistrate made an impatient gesture and said, "Tch, tch, tch!" with his tongue against his palate. He went on to saythat Uncle Matthew's loyalty to the Throne was very touching, verytouching, indeed, especially in these days when a lot of people seemedto have very little respect for the Royal Family. He thought that hisbrother-magistrates would agree with him. ("Hear, hear!" and "Oh, yes, yes!" and an "Ulster was always noted for its loyalty to the Queen!"from his brother-magistrates. ) But all the same, there had to bemoderation and reason in everything. It would never do if people wereto go about the country breaking other people's windows in the name ofpatriotism. It was bad enough to have a pack of Nationalists andPapists going about the country, singing disloyal songs and terrorisingpeaceable, lawabiding loyalists, without members of respectedProtestant and Unionist families like the prisoner . . . For UncleMatthew was in the dock of the Custody Court and had spent the night ina cell . . . Imitating their behaviour in the name of loyalty. He hadtaken into the consideration the fact that the prisoner had acted fromthe best motives and not from any feeling of disaffection to theThrone, and also the fact that he belongs to a respectable family, andso he would not send him to gaol. He gave him the option of paying afine, together with costs and the bill for repairing the window, or ofgoing to prison for one calendar month; and he warned the public thatany other person who broke a window, however loyal he might be, wouldbe sent to gaol without the option of a fine. 

Uncle Matthew had turned to where Uncle William was sitting with thefamily solicitor in the well of the court, and Uncle William had noddedhis head comfortingly. Then the warder had opened the door in the sideof the dock, and Uncle Matthew had stepped out of the place of shameinto the company of the general public. The solicitor had attended tothe payment of the fine and the cost of repairing the fractured glass, and then Uncle William had led Uncle Matthew away. Someone had titteredat Uncle Matthew as they passed up the steps of the court towards thedoor, and Uncle William, disregarding the fact that he was in a courtof law, had turned on him very fiercely, and had said "Damn yoursowl!. . . " but a policeman, saying "S-s-sh!", had bustled him out of thecourt before he could complete his threat. And an old woman, with ashawl happed about her head, had gazed after Uncle Matthew and said, "The poor creature! Sure, he's not right!"

The arrest and trial of Uncle Matthew had created a great scandal inBallyards, and responsible people went about saying that he had alwaysbeen "quare" and was getting "quarer. " Willie Logan's father had eventalked of the asylum. Whose windows, he demanded, were safe when, afellow like that was let loose on the town? Uncle William had gone tosee Mr. Logan . . . No one knew quite what he said to that merchant . . . But it was evident ever after that he had accepted Uncle William'sadvice to keep a civil tongue in his head. The Reverend Mr. McCaughan, who was manager of the Ballyards National School, went specially to thehouse of Mr. Cairnduff, the headmaster of the school, to consult him onthe subject. He said that something would have to be done about thematter. The MacDermotts, he said, were a highly-respected family . . . AMacDermott had been an elder of the church for generations past. . . Andhe would be very sorry, very sorry, indeed to do anything to upsetthem, but it was neither right nor reasonable to expect parents to restcontent while their children were taught their lessons by a man who wasboth queer in his manner and very nearly a criminal . . . For after all, he had spent a night in a prison-cell and had stood in the dock wherethieves and forgers and wife-beaters and even murderers had stood!

Mr. Cairnduff was in complete agreement with Mr. McCaughan. He, too, had the greatest respect for the MacDermotts . . . No man could helphaving respect for them . . . And he might add that he had the greatestpossible respect for Matthew MacDermott himself . . . A well-read and akindly man, though a wee bit, just a _wee_ bit unbalancedmebbe!. . . 

"Aye, but it's that wee bit that makes all the difference, Mr. Cairnduff!" said the minister, interrupting the schoolmaster. 

"It is, " Mr. Cairnduff agreed. "You're right there, Mr. McCaughan. Youare, indeed. All the same, though, I would not like to be a party toanything that would hurt the feelings of a MacDermott, and if it couldbe arranged in some way that Matthew should retire from the professionthrough ill-health or something, with a wee bit of a pension, mebbe, totake the bad look off the thing. . . Well, I for one would not be againstit!"

"You've taken the words out of my mouth, " said the minister. "I had itin my mind that if something of the kind could be arranged!. . . "

"It would be the best for all concerned, " said Mr. Cairnduff. 

But it had not been possible to arrange something of the kind. Themember for the Division was not willing to use his influence with theNational Board of Education in Uncle Matthew's behalf. He rememberedthat Uncle Matthew, during an election, had interrupted him in arecital of his services to the Queen, by a reminder that he was only amilitia man, and that rough, irreverent lads, who treated an electionas an opportunity for skylarking instead of improving their minds, hadfollowed him about his constituency, jeering at him for "a mileeshyman. " Uncle Matthew, too, had publicly declared that Parnell was thegreatest man that had ever lived in Ireland and was worth more than thewhole of the Ulster Unionist members of parliament put together. . . Which was, of course, very queer doctrine to come from a member of anUlster Unionist and Protestant family. The member for the Divisioncould not agree with Mr. McCaughan and Mr. Cairnduff that theMacDermotts were a bulwark of the Constitution. Matthew MacDermott'sbrother. . . The one who was dead. . . Had been a queer sort of a fellow. Lady Castlederry had complained of him more than once!. . . No, he wassorry that, much as he should like to oblige Mr. McCaughan and Mr. Cairnduff, he could not consent to use his influence to get the Boardto pension Matthew MacDermott. . . . 

"That man's a blether!" said the minister, as he and the schoolmastercame away from the member's house. "He won't use his influence with theBoard because he hasn't got any. We'd have done better, mebbe, to go toa Nationalist M. P. Those fellows have more power in their wee fingersthan our men have in their whole bodies. I wonder, now, could wepersuade Matthew to send in his resignation. I can't bear to think ofthe Board dismissing him!"

Uncle William solved their problem for them. "Don't bother your headsabout him, " he said when they informed him of their trouble. "I'llprovide for him right enough. He'll send in his resignation to you thenight, Mr. McCaughan. I'm sure, we're all queer and obliged to you forthe trouble you have taken in the matter. "

"Ah, not at all, not at all, " they said together. 

"And I'll not forget it to either of you, you can depend on that. Idaresay Matthew'll be a help to me in the shop!. . . "

Thus it was that, unpensioned and in the shadow of disgrace, UncleMatthew left the service of the National Board of Education. 

John admitted to himself, though he would hardly have admitted it toanyone else, that his Uncle Matthew's behaviour had been very unusual. He could not, when invited to do so, imagine either Mr. McCaughan orMr. Cairnduff breaking the windows of a haberdasher's shop because ofan advertisement which showed, in the opinion of some reputable people, both feeling and enterprise. Nevertheless, he did not consider thatUncle Matthew, on that occasion, had proved himself to be lacking inmental balance. He said that it was a pity that people were not moreready than they were to break windows, and he was inclined to thinkthat Uncle Matthew, instead of being forcibly retired from the school, ought to have been promoted to a better position. 

"If you go on talking that way, " his mother said to him, "people'llthink you're demented mad!"

"I wouldn't change my Uncle Matthew for the whole world, " John stoutlyreplied. 

"No one's asking you to change him, " Mrs. MacDermott retorted. "Allwe're asking you to do, is not to go about imitating him with hisromantic talk!"

IV

John did not wish to imitate his Uncle Matthew . . . He did not wish toimitate anyone . . . For, although he could not discover that "quareness"in him which other people professed to discover, yet when he saw howinactive Uncle Matthew was, how dependent he was on Uncle William and, to a less extent, on Mrs. MacDermott, and how he seemed to shrink fromthings in life, which, when he read about them in books, enthralledhim, John felt that if he were to model his behaviour on that of anyoneelse, it must not be on the behaviour of Uncle Matthew. Uncle Williamhad a quick, decided manner . . . He knew exactly what he wanted andoften contrived to get what he wanted. John remembered that his UncleWilliam had said to him once, "John, boy, if I want a thing and I can'tget it, I give up wanting it!"

"But you can't help wanting things, Uncle William, " John had protested. 

"No, boy, you can't" Uncle William had retorted, "but the AlmightyGod's given you the sense to understand the difference between wantingthings you can get and wanting things you can't get, and He leaves itto you to use your sense. Do you never suppose that I want somethingstrange and wonderful to happen to me the same as your Uncle Matthewthere, that sits dreaming half the day over books? What would become ofyou all, your ma and your Uncle Matthew and you, if I was to do thelike of that I? Where would your Uncle Matthew get the money to buybooks to dream over if it wasn't for me giving up my dreams?. . . "

John's heart had suddenly filled with pity for his Uncle William whomhe saw as a thwarted man, an angel expelled from heaven, reduced from aproud position in a splendid society to the dull work of one whomaintains others by small, but prolonged, efforts. He felt ashamed ofhimself and of Uncle Matthew . . . Even, for a few moments, of hismother. Here was Uncle William, working from dawn until dark, denyinghimself this pleasure and that, refusing to go to the "shore" with themin the summer on the assertion that he was a strong man and did notneed holidays . . . Doing all this in order that he might maintain threepeople in comfort and . . . Yes, idleness! Mrs. MacDermott might beexcluded from the latter charge, for she attended to the house and thecooking, but how could Uncle Matthew and himself expect to escape fromit? Uncle Matthew had more hope than he had, for Uncle Matthewsometimes balanced the books for Uncle William, and did odds and endsabout the shop. He would write out the accounts in a very neat hand andwould deliver them, too. But John made no efforts at all. He was thecomplete idler, living on his Uncle's bounty, and making no return forit. 

He was now in his second year of monitorship at the school where hisUncle Matthew had been a teacher, and was in receipt of a few poundsper annum to indicate that he was more than a pupil; but the few poundswere insufficient to maintain him . . . He knew that . . . And even if theyhad been sufficient, he was well aware of the fact that his UncleWilliam had insisted that the whole of his salary should be placed inthe Post Office Savings Bank for use when he had reached manhood. . . . Hemade a swift resolve, when this consciousness came upon him: he wouldquit the school and enter the business, so that he could be of help tohis Uncle William. 

"Will you let me leave the school, Uncle?" he said. "I'm tired of theteaching, and I'd like well to go into the shop with you!"

Uncle William did not answer for a little while. He was adding up acolumn of figures in the day-book, and John could hear him countingquietly to himself. "And six makes fifty-four. . . Six and carry four!"he said entering the figures in pencil at the foot of the column. 

"What's that you say, John, boy?"

"I want to leave school and come into the shop and help you, " Johnanswered. 

"God love you, son, what put that notion into your head?"

"I don't want to be a burden to you, Uncle William!"

"A burden to me!" Uncle William swung round on the high office stooland regarded his nephew intently. "Man, dear, you're no burden to me!Look at the strength of me! Feel them muscles, will you?" He held outhis tightened arm as he spoke. "Do you think a wee fellow like youcould be a burden to a man with muscles like them, as hard as iron?"

But John was not to be put off by talk of that sort. "You know rightlywhat I mean, " he said. "You never get no rest at all, and here's mestill at the school!. . . "

"Ah, wheesht with you, boy!" Uncle William interrupted. "What sort oftalk is this? You will not leave the school, young man! The learningyou're getting will do you a world of benefit, even if you never go onwith the teachering. You're a lucky wee lad, so you are, to be gettingpaid to go to school. There was no free learning when I was a child, Ican tell you. Your grandda had to pay heavy for your da and your UncleMatthew and me. Every Monday morning, we had to carry our fees to themaster. Aye, and bring money for coal in the winter or else carry a fewsods of turf with us if we hadn't the money for it. That was whatchildren had to do when I was your age, John. I tell you there's aqueer differs these times between schooling from what there was when Iwas a scholar, and you'd be the great gumph if you didn't takeadvantage of your good fortune!"

"But I'd like to _help_ you, Uncle William. Do you not understandme? I want to be doing something for you!" John insisted. 

"I understand you well enough, son. You've been moidhering your mindabout me, but sure there's no call for you to do that. No call at all!Now, not another word out of your head! I've said my say on thatsubject, and I'll say no more. Go on with your learning, and whenyou've had your fill of it, we'll see what's to be done with you. Howmuch is twelve and nine?"

"Twenty-one, Uncle William!"

"Twenty-one!" said Uncle William, at his day-book again. "Nine andcarry one!. . . "

In this way Uncle William settled John's offer to serve in the shop, and restored learning and literature to his affection and esteem. Johnhad not given in so easily as the reader may imagine. He had insistedthat his Uncle William worked much too hard, had even hinted that UncleMatthew spent more time over books than he spent over "_the_books, " the day-book and the ledger; but his Uncle William had firmlyover-ruled him. 

"Books are of more account to your Uncle Matthew than an oul' ledgerany day, " he said, "and it'll never be said that I prevented him fromreading them. We all get our happiness in different ways, John, and itwould be a poor thing to prevent a man from getting his happiness inhis way just because it didn't happen to be your way. Books are yourUncle Matthew's heart's-idol, and I wouldn't stop him from them for thewide world!"

"But he does nothing, Uncle William, " John said, intent on justice, even when it reflected on his beloved Uncle. 

"I know, but sure the heart was taken out of him that time when he wasarrested for breaking the man's window. It was a terrible shock to him, that, and he never overed it. You must just let things go on as they'regoing. I don't believe you'll foe content to be a teacher. Not for oneminute do I believe that. But whatever you turn out to be, it'll be noharm to have had the extra schooling you're getting, so you'll stay ona monitor for a while longer. And now quit talking, do, or you'll haveme deafened with your clatter!"

Uncle William always put down attempts to combat his will byassertions of that sort. 

"Are you angry with me, Uncle William?" John anxiously asked. 

"Angry with you, son?" He swung round again on the high stool. "Comehere 'til I show you whether I am or not!"

And then Uncle William gathered him up in his arms and crushed theboy's face into his beard. "God love you, John, " he said, "how could Ibe angry with you, and you your da's son!"

"I love you queer and well, Uncle, " John murmured shyly. 

"Do you, son? I'm glad to hear that. "

"Aye. And I love my Uncle Matthew, too!. . . "

"That's right. Always love your Uncle Matthew whatever you do orwhatever happens. He's a man that has more need of love nor most of us. Your da loved him well, John!"

"Did he?"

"Aye, he did, indeed!" Uncle William put his pen down on the desk, andleaning against the ledger, rested his head in the cup of his hand. "Your da was a strange man, John, " he said, "a queer, strange man, witha powerful amount of knowledge in his head. That man could write Latinand Greek and French and German, and he was the first man in Ballyardsto write the Irish language . . . And them was the days when people saidIrish was a Papist language, and would have nothing to do with it. Yourda never paid no heed to anyone. . . He just did what he wanted to do, nomatter what anyone said or who was against him. Many's the time I'veheard him give the minister his answer, and the high-up people, too. When Lord Castlederry came bouncing into the town, ordering people todo this or to do that, just because the Queen's grandson was coming tothe place, your da stood up fornenst him and said, as bold as brass, 'The people of this town are not Englishmen, my lord, to be orderedabout like dogs! They're Ballyards men, and a Ballyards man never bentthe knee to no one!' That was what your da said to him, and LordCastlederry never forgot it and never forgave it neither, but he coulddo no harm to us, for the MacDermotts owned land and houses inBallyards before ever a Castlederry put his foot in the place. He was aproud man your da, with a terrible quick temper, but as kindly-natureda man as ever drew breath. Your ma thinks long for him many's a time, though I think there were whiles he frightened her. Your Uncle Matthewand me is poor company for her after living with a man like that. "

"Am I like my da, Uncle William! My ma says sometimes I am . . . Whenshe's angry with me!"

"Sometimes you're like him and sometimes you're like her. You'll be agreat fellow, John, if you turn out to be like your da. I tell you, boy, he was a man, and there's few men these times . . . Only a lot ofoul' Jinny-joes, stroking their beards and looking terrible wise overha'penny bargains!"

"And then he died, Uncle William!"

"Aye, son, he died. You were just two years old when he died, a little, wee child just able to walk and talk. I mind it well. He called me intothe bedroom where he was lying, and he bid the others leave me alonewith him. Your ma didn't want to go, but he wouldn't let her stay, andso she went, too. 'William, ' he said, when the door was shut behindthem, 'I depend on you to look after them all!' Them was his verywords, John, 'I depend on you to look after them all!' I couldn'tanswer him, so I just nodded my head. He didn't say anything more for awee while, but lay back in the bed and breathed hard, for he was inpain, and couldn't breathe easy. Then, after a wee while, he lookedround at me, and he said, 'I'm only thirty-one, William, and I'm dying. And oul' Peter Clancy up the street, that's been away in the head sincehe was a child, is over sixty years of age!. . . I thought he was goingto spring out of the bed when he said that, the temper come over him soquick and sudden, but I held him down and begged him to controlhimself, and he quietened himself. I heard him saying, half under hisbreath, 'And God thinks He knows how to rule the world!' He died thatnight, rebellious to the end!. . . He said he depended on me to lookafter you all, and I've tried hard, John, as hard as I could!"

His voice quavered, and he turned away from his nephew. "Your da was myhero, " he said. "I'd have shed my heart's blood for him. It was hardthat him that was the best of us should be the first to go!"

John stood by his uncle's side, very moved by his distress, but notknowing what to do to comfort him. 

"My da would be queer and proud of you, Uncle William, " he said atlast, "queer and proud if he could see you!"

But Uncle William did not answer nor did he look round. 

V

It was understood, after that conversation between John and his UncleWilliam, that the boy should remain at school for a year or two longer, working as a monitor, not in order that he might become a schoolmaster, but so that he might equip his mind with knowledge. Mrs. MacDermottwished her son to become a minister. It would be the proudest day ofher life, she said, if she could see John standing in a pulpit, preaching a sermon. Who knew but that he might be one day be theminister of the Ballyards First Presbyterian Church itself, the verychurch in which his family had worshipped their God for generations. 

John, however, had no wish to be a minister. 

"You have to be queer and good to be one, " he said, "and I'm not asgood as all that!"

"Well, mebbe, you'll get better as you get older, " Mrs. MacDermottinsisted. 

"I might get worse, " he replied. "It would be a fearful thing to be aminister, and then find out you wanted to commit a sin!"

"Ministers is like ourselves, John, " Mrs. MacDermott said, "and Idaresay Mr. McCaughan sometimes wants to do wicked things, for all he'ssuch a good man, and has to pray to God many's a while for the strengthto resist temptation. That doesn't prove he's not fit to be a minister. It only shows he understands our nature all the more because he hastemptations himself!"

But John would not be convinced by her arguments. "I don't know, ma!"he said. "If I wanted to be wicked, I'm afraid I'd be it, so don't askme to be a minister for I'd mebbe disgrace you with my carryings-on!"

Mrs. MacDermott had been deeply hurt by his refusal to consider theministry. 

"Anybody'd think to hear you, " she said, "that you'd made up your mindto lead a sinful life. As if a MacDermott couldn't conquer his sinsbetter nor anybody else!"

His mother, he often observed, spoke more boastfully of the MacDermottsthan either his Uncle William or his Uncle Matthew. 

John's final, overwhelming retort to her was this: "Would my da haveliked me to be a minister?"

"I never knew what your da liked, " she retorted; "I only knew what hedid!. . . "

"Do you think he would have liked me to be a minister?" John persisted. 

"Mebbe he wouldn't, but he's not here now!. . . "

"You wouldn't do behind his back what you'd be afraid to do fornensthis face, would you?"

"You've no right to talk to me that way. I'm your mother!. . . "

"You knew rightly he wouldn't have liked it, " John continued, inexorably. 

And then Mrs. MacDermott yielded. 

"You're your da over again, " she complained. "He always had his way inthe end, whatever was against him. What _do_ you want to be, then, when you grow up?"

"I don't know yet, ma. I only know the things I don't want to be, andteaching is one of them. And a minister's another! Mebbe I'll know in awee while!"

He did not like to tell her that in his heart he wished to go in searchof adventures. His Uncle Matthew's imaginings had filled his mind withromantic desires, and he longed to leave Ballyards and go somewhere . . . Anywhere, so long as it was a difficult and distant place . . . Where hewould have to contend with dangers. There were times when he felt thathe must instantly pack a bundle of clothes into a red handkerchief . . . He could buy one at Conn's, the draper's . . . And run away from home andstow himself in the hold of a big ship bound for America or Australiaor some place like that . . . And was only prevented from doing so by hisfear that his mother and uncles would be deeply grieved by his flight. "It would look as if they hadn't been kind to me, " he said inremonstrance to himself, "and that wouldn't be fair to them!" Butalthough he did not run away from home, he still kept the strong desirein his heart to go out into a dangerous and bewildering world and seekfortune and adventures. "I want to fight things, " he said to himself. "I want to fight things and, . . . And win!"

Mixed up with his desire for adventure was a vision of a beautiful girlto whom he should offer his love and service. He could not picture herclearly to himself . . . None of the girls in Ballyards bore theslightest resemblance to her. Sometimes, indeed, he thought that thisbeautiful girl was like Lady Castlederry . . . Only Lady Castlederry, somehow, although she was so very lovely, had a cold stupid look in hereyes, and he was very certain that this beautiful girl had bright, alert eyes. 

There had been a passage of love-making between Aggie Logan and him, conducted entirely by Aggie Logan. She had taken him aside one day, inthe middle of a game of "I spy, " and had said to him "Will you courtme, Johnnie?"

"No, " he had replied. 

"Do you not love me then?" she enquired. 

"No, " he said again. 

"But I want you to court me, " she persisted. 

"I don't care what you want, " he retorted. "I won't court you because Idon't want to court you. I don't like you. You're too much of a girnerfor me!"

"I'm not a girner, " she protested. 

"You are. You start crying the minute anything happens to you or ifpeople won't do what you want them to do. I wouldn't marry a girner forthe wide world!"

"I won't girn any more if you'll court me, " she promised. 

"I daresay, " he replied skeptically. 

She considered for a moment or two. "Well, if you won't court me, " shesaid, "I'll let Andy Cairnduff court me!"

"He can have you, " said John, undismayed by the prospect of theschoolmaster's son as a rival. 

She stood before him for a little while, without speaking. Then sheturned and walked a little distance from him. She stopped, with herback turned towards him, and he knew by the way her head was bent, thatshe was thinking out a way of retaliating on him. The end of herpinafore was in her mouth!. . . She turned to him sharply, letting thepinafore fall from her lips, and pointing at him with her finger, shebegan to laugh shrilly. 

"Ha, ha, ha!" she said. "I have you quarely gunked!"

"Gunked!" he exclaimed, unable to see how he had been hoaxed. 

"Yes, " she answered. "I gunked you nicely. You thought I wanted you tocourt me, but I was only having you on. Ha, ha, ha!"

He burst out laughing. "I that consoles you, " he said; "you're welcometo it!"

Then she ran away and would not play "I spy" or "Tig" any more. 

He had not told his mother of that passage of love with Aggie Logan. Itdid not occur to him to tell anything to his mother. His instinct, indeed, was not to tell things to her, to conceal them from her. 

VI

If anyone had said to him that he did not love his mother as much as heloved his Uncle Matthew and his Uncle William, he would have been veryangry. Not love his mother more than anyone else on earth!. . . Only ablow could make a proper answer to such a charge. Nevertheless hismother was associated in his mind with acts of repression, withforbidding and restraint. She seemed always to be telling him not to dothings. When he wanted to go to the Lough with Willie Logan to playRobinson Crusoe and his Man Friday or to light a bonfire in TeeshieMcBratney's field with shavings from Galpin's mill in the pretence thathe was a Red Indian preparing for a war-dance, it was his mother whosaid that he was not to do it. He might fall into the water and getdrowned, she said, or, he might fall into the fire and get roasted todeath. As if he were not capable of controlling a raft or a bonfire!. . . 

He felt, too, that sometimes she punished him unjustly. When the Logansand he had played Buffalo Bill and the Red Indians attacking thedefenceless pale-face woman, he had had a fierce argument with WillieLogan about the part of Buffalo Bill. Willie, being older, had claimedthe part for himself, and, when denied the right to it, had declaredthat neither Aggie nor he would play in the game. Then a compromise hadbeen arranged: Willie was allowed to play the part of Buffalo Bill andto slay the Red Indian on condition that John, before being slain, should be allowed to scalp the helpless pale-face woman. He scalped herso severely, by tugging tightly at her long hair, that she began tocry, and Willie, more conscious of the fact that he was Aggie's brotherthan that he was Buffalo Bill, bore down upon John and gave him his"cowardy-blow. " They fought a fierce and bitter fight, and in the end, Willie went home with a bleeding nose, and John went home with a blackeye. 

Willie had not played the man over that affair. He went to his motherand complained of John's selfish and brutal behaviour, alleging that hehad suffered terrible punishment in a chivalrous effort to protect hissister from ruffianly assault; and his mother, a thin, acidulous woman, whose voice was half snarl and half whine, carried her son's complaintto Mrs. MacDermott. 

Mrs. MacDermott had not stopped to enquire into the truth of the chargeagainst John beyond asking if it were true that he had pulled AggieLogan's hair and fought with Willie Logan. John had replied "Yes, ma!"That was sufficient for Mrs. MacDermott, that and the testimony ofJohn's discoloured eye, and she had beaten him with the leather tawsethat was kept hanging from a nail at the side of the fireplace. "Thatmy son should do the like of that!" she said over and over again untila cold fury of resentment against her had formed in his heart. It wastrue that he had pulled Aggie's hair much harder than he ought to havedone, but he had not intended to hurt her. What he had done, had beendone, not out of malice, but in the excitement of the game; and it wasnot fair to beat him so severely for so little a thing as that. Hewould not cry . . . He would not give his mother the satisfaction ofhearing him cry, although the lashing he was receiving was hurting hisbare pelt very sorely. She could keep on saying, "That my son should dothe like of that!" but he would not mind her. . . . 

Then, as if she understood his thoughts and perceived that he wasunmoved by her outraged feelings, she had changed her complaint againsthim. Glancing up at the portrait of her husband which was hanging overthe fireplace, she said, "That your father's son should do the like ofthat!" Compunction came to him then. He, too, looked up at the portraitof his father, and suddenly he wanted to cry. The pale face, made morepale in appearance by the thick, black beard, and having the faded lookwhich photographs of the dead seem always to have, appeared to him tobe alive and full of reproach, and the big burning eyes, aflame, theylooked, with the consuming thing that took his life, had anger in them, anger against him!. . . 

He had not any regret for hurting Aggie Logan . . . He did not believethat he had hurt her any more severely than was necessary for thepurposes of the game, and even if he had hurt her, she ought to haveborne it as part of the pretence . . . He did not care whether he hadhurt her or not, for she was a "cry-ba" at all times, ready to "girn"at anything . . . But he had sorrow at the thought that he had donesomething of which his father might have disapproved. Mrs. MacDermott, with that penetration which is part of the nature of people who areaccustomed to yield to stronger personalities had discovered that shecould win John to her obedience by reminding him of his father; and sheused her power without pity. "What would your father think of you, ifhe knew!" she would say. 

She was not a hard or a cruel woman . . . She was very kind and loved herson with a long clutching love . . . But her life with her husband hadcontained so many disturbances of comfortable courses, thrilling enoughat the time, but terrifying when viewed in retrospect, that her nature, inclined to quiet, fixed ways and to acceptance, with slightresistance, of whatever came to her, made all the efforts that werepossible to it to keep her life and her son's life in peace. She hatedchange of any sort, whether of circumstances or of friends, and sheloved old, familiar things. The tradition of the MacDermotts, theirlife in one place for generations and the respect with which they weregreeted by their townsmen, gave immense pleasure to her, and herdearest dream was that John should continue in the place where hisforefathers had lived, and that his son and his son's son shouldcontinue there, too!

And so it was that she was always telling John not to do things. Sheloathed Uncle Matthew's romances and his talk of adventures in foreignparts, and she insisted that he was "away in the mind" when her sonspoke of him to her. She tried to make the boy walk inconspicuously, tokeep, always, in the background, to do only those things that weregenerally approved of. His quick temper, his haste with his fists, hishabit of contradicting even those who were older than he was, hisunwillingness to admit that he was in the wrong . . . All these disturbedand frightened her. They would lead him into disputes and set him up inopposition to other people. His delight in the story of his father'sencounter with Lord Castlederry troubled her, and she tried to convinceher son that Lord Castlederry was a well-meaning man, but, as she knew, without success. She had delighted in her husband's great courage andself-sufficiency, his sureness, his strong decision and hisunconquerable pride and independence . . . But now, in contemplation, these things frightened her . . . She wondered sometimes why it was thatthey had not frightened her in his lifetime . . . And the thought thatshe might have to live again in contention and opposition roused allher strength to resist that fate. She had lived down much of thedislike that her husband had aroused. It was not necessary now topretend that she did not see people, that she might escape from themortification of being stared at, without a sign of recognition; andshe would not lightly yield up her comfortable situation. If only shecould only persuade John to become a minister! There was nothing inthat to frighten her: there was everything to make her feel content andproud. 

When she took John to Belfast, she made the holiday, so eagerlyanticipated, a mortification to him. While they were in the train, shewould tell him not to climb on to the seat of the carriage to look outof the window at the telegraph-poles flying past and the telegraph-wiresrising and falling like birds . . . She would tell him not to standat the door in case it should fly open and he should fall out and bekilled . . . She would tell him, when the train reached the terminus inBelfast, to take tight hold of her hand and not to budge from herside . . . She would refuse to cross the Lagan in the steam ferry-boat andinsist on going round by tram-car across the Queen's Bridge . . . Shewould tell him not to wander about in Forster Green's when he edgedaway from her to look at the coffee-mills in which the richly-smellingberries were being roasted. When she took him to Linden's to tea . . . Linden's which made cakes for the Queen and had the Royal Arms over thedoor of the shop! . . . She spoiled the treat for him by refusing to lethim sit on one of the stools at the counter and eat his "cookies" likea man: she made him sit by her side at a table . . . An ordinary tablesuch as anyone could sit on anywhere . . . At home, even!

His Uncle William had taken him up to Belfast one market-day, and thatFriday was made memorable to him forever because his Uncle had said tohim, "Well, boy, what would you like to do?" and had consented, withoutdemur, to cross the Lagan in the ferry-boat. Uncle William had notclutched at him all the time in fear lest he should fall into the riverand be drowned, and had allowed him to stand at the end of the boat andwatch the swirl of the water against the ferry-steps when they reachedthe Antrim side. He had said to him, too, "I've a wee bit of businessto attend to, boy, that'll not interest you much. Would you like tostay here in the market for an hour by yourself while I go and do it?"

Would he like?. . . 

And not one word about taking great care of himself or of not doingthis or doing that . . . Of keeping away from the horse-fair, and notgoing too near the cattle. Uncle William trusted him, took it forgranted that he was capable of looking after himself. . . . 

"Very well, then, " Uncle William said, "I'll meet you here in an hour'stime. No later, mind you, for I've a deal to do the day!"

And for a whole hour, John had wandered about the market, not holdinganyone's hand and free to go wherever he liked! He had walked throughthe old market where the horses were bought and sold . . . Had evenstroked a mare's muzzle while some men bargained over it . . . And thenhad crossed the road to the new market where he smelt the odour offlowers and fruit and listened to the country-women chaffering overtheir butter and eggs. He spent a penny without direction!. . . He boughta large, rosy American apple . . . Without being asked whether he wouldlike to have that or an orange, or being told that he could not have anorange, but must have an apple because an apple in the morning was goodfor him. . . 

When he told his mother that night of the splendid time he had had byhimself, she said, "You might have lost yourself!. . . " That chilled him, and he did not tell her of the gallant way in which he had rubbed hishand on a horse's side. He knew very well that she would say, "It mighthave kicked you!. . . "

VII

It was she who was most particular about the dyeing of his Easter eggsand the ritual of hanging up his stocking on Christmas Eve. She hadwanted to go on dyeing eggs for him at Easter and hanging up hisstocking on Christmas Eve, even when he was twelve years of age andcould not be expected to tolerate such things any longer. He liked theEaster ceremonial better, perhaps, than that of Christmas. His motherwould bid Uncle Matthew take him out of the town to the fields togather whin-blossoms so that she could dye the eggs to a pretty browncolour. Tea-leaves could be used to dye the eggs to a deeper brown thanthat of the whin-blossoms, but there was not so much pleasure in takingtea-leaves from the caddy as there was in plucking whin-blossoms fromthe furze-bushes. The Logans bought their Easter eggs, already dyed, from old Mrs. Dobbs, the dulce-woman, but John disliked the look of hereggs, apart from the fact that his mother would not permit him to buythem. Mrs. Dobbs used some artificial dyes which stained the eggshellsa horrible purple or a less horrible red, and John had a feeling ofsickness when he looked at them. Mrs. MacDermott said that if the eggswere to crack during the process of boiling, the dye would penetratethe meat and might poison anyone who ate it; and even if the shellsremained uncracked, the dye would soil the fingers and perhaps soil theclothes. She wondered at Mrs. Logan!. . . 

And on Easter Monday, she and Uncle Matthew and Uncle William would goto Bryson's field where there was a low mound covered with short grass, and from the top of this mound, he would trundle his Easter egg downthe slope to the level ground until the shell was broken. Then he wouldsit beside his mother and uncles, and eat the hard-boiled meat of theegg while Uncle Matthew explained to him that he was celebrating anancient Druidical rite. 

VIII

But he loved his mother very dearly when she came to him at night toput him to bed and listen to his prayers. He would kneel down in frontof her, in the warmth of the kitchen so that he might not catch cold inthe unheated bedroom, and would shut his eyes very tightly because Goddid not like to see little boys peeping through their distended fingersat Him, and would say his verse:

 I lay my body down to sleep. . . . I pray the Lord my soul to keep, And if I die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take. 

and having said that, he would add a general prayer for his family. "God bless my Mother" . . . He always said _"Mother"_ in hisprayers, although he said _"Ma"_ in ordinary talk . . . "and myUncle William and my Uncle Matthew and all my friends and relations, and make me a good boy for Jesus' sake, Amen. Our Father which art. . . . "Then he would scamper up the stairs to bed, and his mother would hapthe clothes about him and tell him to go to sleep soon. She would bendover him and kiss him very tightly, and he would put his arms abouther, too. "Son, dear!" she would say. 

THE SECOND CHAPTER

I

When John MacDermott was seventeen years of age and entering into hisfourth year of monitorship, his Uncle William said to him, "John, boy, you're getting on to be a man now, and it's high time you began tothink of what you're going to do with yourself when you are one!"

"You're mebbe right, " said John. 

"The next year'll be your last one at the monitoring, won't it?" UncleWilliam continued. 

John nodded his head. 

"Well, if I were you I'd make a plan of some sort during the next yearor two, for it would never do for you to come to the years ofdiscretion, and have to take to the teachering because you couldn'tthink of anything else to do. I can see well your heart's not in thattrade. "

"It is not, indeed!" John said vigorously. "It's a terrible tiring job, teaching children, and some of them are that stupid you feel provokedenough to slap the hands off them! I'm nearly afraid of myselfsometimes with the stupid ones, for fear I'd lose my temper with themand hurt them hard. Mr. Cairnduff says no one should be a teacher thathas a bad temper, and dear knows, Uncle William, I've a fearful temper!He's a quare wise man, Mr. Cairnduff: he doesn't let any of hismonitors use the cane, for he says it's an awful temptation to becruel, especially if you're young and impatient the way I am!"

"Is that so now?" said Uncle William. 

"Oh, it is, right enough. I know well there's times when a child'sprovoked me, that I want to be cruel to it . . . And I'd hate to be cruelto any child. There's a wee girl in my class now. . . . Lizzie Turley'sher name!. . . "

"John Turley's child?"

"Yes. God knows she's the stupidest child in the world!"

"Her da's a match, for her, then, for he's the stupidest man I've everknown. That fellow ought not to have been let have children!. . . "

"It's not her fault, I know, " John continued, "but you forget that whenyou're provoked. I've tried hard to teach that child . . . Vowed tomyself I'd teach her . . . To add up, but I'm afraid she's beaten me. Shecan subtract well enough . . . That's the queer part about her . . . Butshe cannot add up. You'll mebbe not believe me. Uncle William, but thatchild can't put two and one together and be sure of getting the rightanswer. At first she couldn't add two and one together at all. She'dput down twelve for the answer as likely as not. But I worked hard withher, and I got her to add up to two and six make eight . . . And thereshe stuck. I couldn't get her past that: she couldn't add two and seventogether and get nine for the answer. But if you asked her to subtracttwo from nine, she'd say "seven" all right! That's a queer thing, now!Isn't it?"

"Aye, it's queer enough!"

"There's been times when I've wanted to hit that wee girl . . . Hit herwith my shut fists . . . And I don't like to feel that way about a childthat's not all there . . . Or any child! I'm afraid I'm not fit to be ateacher, Uncle William. You have to be very good and patient. . . Andit's no use pretending you haven't. Mr. Cairnduff says it's moreimportant for a teacher to be good than it is for a minister, and he'sright, too. He says a child should never be slapped by the teacherthat's offended with it, but by another teacher that knows nothingabout the bother. He doesn't use the cane much himself, but there'ssome teachers likes using it. Miss Gebbie does. . . She carries a bigbamboo about with her, and gives you a good hard welt across the handwith it, if you annoy her. I wouldn't like to be in that woman's grip, I can tell you. Some women are fearful hard, Uncle William!"

"Worse nor men, some of them, " Uncle William agreed. 

"Mr. Cairnduff told me one time of a teacher he knew that got to likethe cane so much that he used to try and trip the children into makingmistakes so's he could slap them for it. Isn't it fearful, that?"

"Terrible, John!"

"I'd be ashamed to death if I got that way. Oh, I couldn't go on withthe teaching, Uncle William. I wouldn't be near fit for it. "

"Well, never mind, John. There's one thing, the extra schooling you'vehad has done you no harm, and I daresay it's done you a lot of good. But you'll have to think of something to do!. . . "

"Yes, I will!"

"Do you never think of anything? Is there any particular thing you'dlike to do?"

"There's a whole lot of things I've fancied I'd like to be, but after awee while I always change my mind. The first time I went to Belfast, Ithought it would be lovely to be a tram-driver 'til I saw a navvytearing up the street . . . And then I thought a navvy had the best jobin the world. You know, Uncle William, it takes me a long while to findout what it is I want, but when I do find it out, I take to it queerand quick. I'll mebbe go footering about the world like a lost thing, and then all of a sudden I'll know what I want to do . . . And I'll justdo it!"

"Hmmm!" said Uncle William. 

"It sounds queer and foolish, doesn't it?"

"Oh, I don't know, John. Many's a thing sounds silly, but isn't. "

"It's true, anyway. I've noticed things like that about myself. It's . . . It's like a man getting converted. One minute he's a guilty, hell-deserving sinner, the way John Hutton says he was, footering aboutthe world, drinking and guzzling and leading a rotten life . . . And thenall of a sudden, he's hauled up and made to give his testimony and doGod's will for the rest of his life! I daresay I'll drift from one thingto another . . . And then I'll know, just like a flash of lightning . . . AndI'll go and do it!"

"That's a dangerous kind of a doctrine, " said Uncle William. "It'seasier to get into the way of drifting nor it is to get out of itagain. And you're a young lad to be thinking strange thoughts likethat!"

"I'm seventeen, " John replied. "That's not young!"

"It's not oul' anyway. Anybody'd think to hear you, you had the yearsof Methuselah. I suppose, now, you never thought of coming into theshop?"

"I did think of it one time, but you wouldn't let me!. . . "

"That was when you wanted to help me. But did you never think of it foryour own sake? You see, John, you're the last of us, and this shop hasbeen in our family for a long while . . . It's a good trade, too, andyou'll have no fear of hardship as long as you look after it, althoughthe big firms in Belfast are opening branches here. The MacDermotts canhold their heads up against any big firm in the world, I'm thinking . . . In this place, anyway. Did you never feel you'd like to come into theshop?"

John glanced about the shop, at the assistants who were servingcustomers with tea and groceries. . . . 

"No, " he said, shaking his head, "I don't think I'd like it!"

Uncle William considered for a few moments. Then he said, "No, Ithought you wouldn't care for it. Your da felt that way too. The shopwasn't big enough for him. All the same, there has to be shops, andthere has to be people to look after that!"

"Oh, I know that right enough, Uncle William. I'm not saying anythingagainst them. They're all right for them that likes them!. . . "

He paused for a while, and his Uncle waited for him to proceed. "Sometimes, " he said at last, "I'm near in the mind to go and be asoldier!. . . "

"For dear sake!" said Uncle William impatiently. 

"Or a sailor. I went down to the Post Office once and got a bill aboutthe Navy!. . . "

"Well, I would think you were demented mad to go and do the like ofthat, " said Uncle William. "You might as well be a peeler!"

II

His mind turned now very frequently to the consideration of work otherthan that of teaching. He made a mental catalogue of the things thatwere immediately possible to him: teaching, the ministry of thePresbyterian Church, the shop . . . And ruled them all out of his list. The thought of soldiering or of going to sea lingered in his mind for along time . . . Because he associated soldiering and sailoring withtravel in strange places . . . But he abandoned that thought when hebalanced the tradition of his class against the Army, and Navy. All themen of his acquaintance who had joined the Army or the Navy had doneso, either because they were in disgrace or because they were unhappyat home. It was generally considered that in joining either of theServices, they had brought shame upon their families, less, perhaps inthe case of the Navy than in the case of the Army. In any event, hisUncle William's statement that a MacDermott could not endure to beordered about by any one settled his mind for him on that subject. Hewould have to get his adventures in other ways. He might emigrate toAmerica. He had a cousin in New York and one in Chicago. He might go toCanada or Australia or South Africa . . . Digging for gold or diamonds!There was nothing in Ireland that attracted him . . . All the desirablethings were in distant places. Farming in Canada or Australia had aromantic attraction that was not to be found in farming in Ireland. Hehad _seen_ farmers in Ireland . . . And he did not wish to be likethem!

But, no matter how much he considered the question, he came no nearerto a solution of it. 

He would go out to the fields that lay on the shores of the Lough, going one day to this side, and another day to that, and lie down inthe sunshine and dream of a brilliant career. He might go intoparliament and become a great statesman, like that man, Lord Salisbury, who had come to Belfast once during the Home Rule agitation. Or hemight turn Nationalist and divert himself by roaring in the House ofCommons against the English! He wished that he could write poetry . . . If he could write poetry, he might become famous. There was an oldexercise book at home, full of poems that he had made up when he wasmuch younger, about Ireland and the Pope and Love and Ballyards . . . Butthey were poor things, he knew, although Mr. Cairnduff, to whom he hadshown them, had said that, considering the age John was when he wrotethem, they might have been a great deal worse. Mr. Cairnduff had givengenerous praise to a long poem on the election of a Nationalist for thecity of Derry, beginning with this wail:

 _Oh, Derry, Derry, what have you done? Sold your freedom to Home Rule's son!_

but neither Uncle William nor Uncle Matthew had had much to say for it. Uncle William said that his father would not have liked to think of hisson writing a poem full of sentiments of that sort, and Uncle Matthewwent upstairs to the attic and brought down, a copy of _Romeo andJuliet_ and presented it to him. But Mrs. MacDermott was pleased ina queer way. She hoped he was not going to take up politics, but shewas glad that he was not a Home Ruler!

Sometimes, when he had been much younger than he now was . . . Johnalways thought of himself as a man of great age . . . He had resolvedthat he would become a writer; but although he began many stories andsolemn books . . . There was one called, _The Errors of Rome_ inwhich the Papists were to be finally and conclusively exposed . . . Noneof them were ever finished. Then had come a phase of preaching. Hismother read the _Christian Herald_ every week, and John would geta table cloth, and wrap it round himself to represent a surplice . . . For the Church of Ireland was more decorative than the PresbyterianChurch . . . And deliver the sermons of Dr. Talmage and Mr. Spurgeon in aloud sing-song voice that greatly delighted Mrs. MacDermott. That, too, had passed, very swiftly indeed, because of the alarming discovery thathe was an atheist! He would never forget the sensation he had createdin school when he had suddenly turned to Willie Logan and said, "Willie, I don't believe there's a God at all. It's all a catch!. . . "

Willie, partly out of fright, but chiefly because of his incorrigibletendency to "clash, " immediately reported him to Miss Gebbie, who hadbeen a teacher even then . . . It seemed to him sometimes that MissGebbie had always been a teacher and would never cease to be one . . . And she had converted him to a belief in God's existence at the pointof her bamboo. . . . 

Then came a time of mere dreaming of a future in which some beautifulgirl would capture all his mind and heart and service. He would rescueher from a dire situation . . . He would invent some wonderful thing thatwould bring fame and fortune to him . . . And he would offer all his fameand fortune to her. His visions of this girl, constantly recurring, prevented him from falling in love with any girl in Ballyards. When hecontrasted the girl of his dream with the girls he saw about him, hecould not understand how anyone could possibly love a Ballyards girl. Aggie Logan!. . . 

He would come away from the fields, pleased with his dreams, but stillas far from a solution of his problem as ever. 

III

One evening, his Uncle William came into the kitchen where John wasreading _John Halifax, Gentleman_ to his mother. 

"I ought to go to Belfast the morrow, " he said, "but Saturday's anawkward day for me. I was wondering whether to send John instead. He'snothing to do on Saturdays, and it would be a great help to me!"

John closed the book, "Of course, I'll go, Uncle William!" he said. 

Mrs. MacDermott coldly regarded them both. "You know rightly, " shesaid, "that I'm as busy on Saturday as you are, William. How can he goup to Belfast when I can't go with him?"

"I never said nothing about you going with him, " Uncle Williamretorted. "He's well able to go by himself!" _"Go by himself!"_Mrs. MacDermott almost shouted the words at her brother-in-law. "A ladthat never was out of the town by his lone in his life before!"

"He'll have to go by his lone some day, won't he? And he's a big lumpof a lad now, and well able to look after himself!"

"He'll not stir an inch from the door without me, " Mrs. MacDermottdeclared in a determined voice. "Think shame to yourself, William, tobe putting such thoughts into a lad's head . . . Suggesting that heshould be sent out in the world by himself at his age!. . . "

Uncle William shifted uneasily in his seat. "I'm not suggesting that heshould be sent out into the world, " he said. "I'm only suggesting thathe should be sent to Belfast for the day!. . . "

"And what sort of a place is Belfast on a Saturday afternoon with a lotof drunk footballers flying about? He will not go, William. You cansend Matthew!. . . "

Uncle William made a gesture of impatience. "You know rightly, Matthew's no good for a job of this sort!"

"Well, then, you'll have to go yourself. I'll keep an eye to the shop, forby my own work!. . . "

John got up and put _John Halifax, Gentleman_ on the window-ledge. 

"You needn't bother yourself, ma, " he said. "I'm going to Belfast themorrow. What is it you want me to do, Uncle William?"

Mrs. MacDermott stared at him for a moment, then she got up and hurriedout of the kitchen. They could hear her mounting the stairs, and thenthey heard the sound of her bedroom door being violently slammed. 

"Women are queer, John, " said Uncle William, "but the queerest women ofall are the women that are mothers. Anybody'd think I was proposing tosend you to the bad place, and dear knows, Belfast's not that!"

"What's the job you want me to do?"

"Come into the shop and I'll tell you!"

John followed his Uncle into the shop and they sat down together in thelittle Counting House. 

"There's really nothing that a postcard couldn't do, " Uncle Williamsaid. "That was the excuse. I've been thinking about you, John, and Ithought it was a terrible pity you should never get out and about byyourself a bit . . . Out of Ballyards, I mean . . . To look round you. It'sno good to a lad to be always running about with his ma!"

"You're a terrible schemer, Uncle William, " said John. 

"Ah, g'long with you, " his Uncle answered. "Here, pay heed to me now, while I tell you. This is what I want you to do!. . . "

He showed a business letter to John and invited him to read it. Then heexplained the nature of the small commission he wished him to execute. 

"It'll not take you long, " he said, "and then you can look aboutyourself in Belfast. You'll want a few coppers in your pocket!" He puta coin into John's hand and then closed the lad's fingers over it. "It's great value to go down the quays and have a look at the ships, "he went on, "and mebbe you could get a look over the shipyard! . . . Andperhaps when you're knocking about Belfast, you'll see something you'dlike to do!"

IV

In this way, his Saturday trips to Belfast began. He found them muchless exhilarating then he had imagined they would be. He inspected theCity Hall in the company of a beadle and was informed, with greatpreciseness, of the cost of the building and of the price paid to eachartist for the portraits of the Lord Mayors which were suspended fromthe walls of the Council Chamber. The beadle seemed to think that theportraits represented a waste of ratepayers' money, and he consideredthat if the Corporation had given a contract to one artist for all thepictures, a great reduction in price could have been obtained. . . . TheMuseum and the Free Library depressed him, precisely in the way inwhich Museums and Free Libraries always depress people; but he foundpleasure in the Botanic Gardens and the Ormeau Park. He devised anexcellent scheme of walking, which enabled him to go through theBotanic Gardens, then, by side streets, to the Lagan, where a ferrymanrowed him across to the opposite bank and landed him in the OrmeauPark. He would walk briskly through the Park, and then, when he hademerged from it, would cross the Albert Bridge, hurry along the SandQuay, and stand at the Queen's Bridge to watch the crowds of workmenhurrying home from the shipyards. He never tired of watching the"Islandmen, " grimy from their labour, as they passed over the bridge ina thick, dusky stream to their homes. Thousands and thousands of menand boys seemed to make an endless procession of shipbuilders, designers and rivetters and heater-boys. But it never occurred to himthat there was something romantic in the enterprise and labours ofthese men, that out of their energies, great ships grew and far landswere brought near to each other. He liked to witness the dispersal ofthe shipyard's energies, but he did not think of the miracle whichtheir assembled energies performed every day. By this narrow, shallowriver Lagan, a great company of men and boys and women met daily tomake the means whereby races reached out to each other; and their shipssailed the seas of the world, carrying merchandise from one land toanother, binding the East to the West and the South to the North, andmaking chains of friendship and kindliness between diverse peoples. Itwas an adventure to sail in a ship, in John's mind, but he did notknow, had never thought or been told, that it is also an adventure tobuild a ship. The pleasure which he found in watching the "Islandmen"crossing the Queen's Bridge was not related to their work: it was foundin the spectacle of a great crowd. Any crowd passing over the Bridgewould have pleased John equally well. . . . 

But the crowd of "Islandmen" was soon dispersed; and John found thatthere was very little to do in Belfast. He did not care for footballmatches, he had no wish to enter the City Hall again, he could not walkthrough the Botanic Gardens and the Ormeau Park all day long, and hecertainly did not wish to visit the Museum or the Free Library again. He became tired of walking aimlessly about the streets. There was a wetSaturday when, as he stood under the shelter of an awning in RoyalAvenue, he resolved that he would return to Ballyards by an earlytrain. "It's an awful town, this, on a wet day!" he said to himself, unaware that any town in which a man is a stranger is unpleasant on awet day . . . And sometimes on a fine day. "Somehow, " he went on, "thereseems to be more to do in Ballyards on a wet day than there is inBelfast on a wet day!" A sense of loneliness descended upon him ashe gazed at the grey, dribbling skies and the damp pavements. Thetrams were full of moist, huddled men and women; the foot-passengershurried homewards, their heads bent against the wind and rain; thebleak-looking newspaper boys, barefooted, pinched, hungry and cold, stoodshivering in doorways, with wet, sticky papers under their arms; andwherever he looked, John saw only unfriendliness, haste and discomfort. There would not be a train to Ballyards until late in the afternoon, and as he stood there, growing less cheerful each moment, he wonderedhow he could occupy the time of waiting. The wind blew down the street, sending the rain scudding in front of it, and chilling him, and, halfunconsciously, he hurried across the road to take shelter in a sidestreet where, it seemed to him, he would be less exposed. He walkedalong the street, keeping in the shadow of the houses, and presently hefound himself before the old market of Smithfield. 

"Amn't I the fool, " he said to himself, "not to have come here before?"

For here, indeed, was entertainment for any man or woman or child. Inthis ancient market for the sale of discarded things, a lonely personcould pass away the dull hours very agreeably. The auctioneers, wheedling and joking and bullying, could be trusted to amuse anyreasonable man for a while, and when their entertainment was exhaustedthere were the stalls to visit and explore. He stood to listen to aloud-voiced man who was selling secondhand clothes, and then, turningaway, found himself standing before a bookstall. Piles of books, of allsizes and shapes and colours, lay on a long shutter that rested ontrestles; and in the shop, behind the trestles, were great stacks ofbooks reaching to the ceiling. He fingered the books with the affectionwith which he had seen his Uncle Matthew finger those in the attic athome. Some of them had the dreary, dull look observable in books thathave long passed out of favour and have lain disregarded in some darkand dusty corner; and some, though they were old, looked bright andpleasant as if they were confident that the affection which had beentheirs for years would be continued to them by new owners. He picked upold volumes and spent much time in contemplating the inscriptionsinside them . . . Fading inscriptions in a thin, genteel handwriting thathad the careful look of writing done by people who were anxious thatthe record should not offend a schoolmaster's eye . . . And as he readthese inscriptions, a queer dejection settled on him. These books, dusty and disregarded, he told himself, represented love and thoughtthat had perished. Doubt and damp pessimism clutched hold of him. Atthe end of every brave adventure was Smithfield Market. He put down abook which contained an inscription to "Charles Dunwoody from hisaffectionate Mother, " and looked about him. Everywhere, secondhand, rejected things were for sale: clothes, furniture, books, pictures . . . The market was a mortuary of ambition and hope, the burial ground oflittle enterprises, confidently begun and miserably ended. Here werethe signs of disruption and dispersal, of things attempted but notachieved, of misfortune and failure, of things used and abandoned formore coveted things. John had imagined himself performing great featsto win the love and favour of some beautiful woman . . . But now he sawhis adventure in love ending in a loud-voiced auctioneer mouthing jokesover a ruined home. Behind these piles of books and pictures andclothes and furniture, one might see young couples bravely setting outon their little ships of love to seek their fortunes, light-heartedlyfacing perils and dangers because of the high hope in their hearts . . . And coming to wreck on a rough coast where their small cargoes wereseized by creditors and brought to this place for sale, and they wereleft bare and hurt and discouraged. . . 

"Oh, well!" said John, shrugging his shoulders and picking up a newerbook. 

That would not happen to him. If he failed in one enterprise he wouldstart off on another. If he made a fortune and lost it, he would makeanother one. If the things he built were to be destroyed . . . Well, hewould start building again. . . . 

But the mood of pessimism still held him and he could not bear to lookat the books any longer. An unhappy ghost hid behind the covers of eachone of them. He hurried out of the market into the street. The rain hadceased to fall, but the streets were wet and dirty, and the air struckat him coldly. He glanced at his watch, and saw that he could not nowcatch the train by which he had intended to return to Ballyards. 

"I'll go and get my tea somewhere, " he said, and then, "I don't thinkI'll come to Belfast again. I'm tired of the town!"

He turned into Royal Avenue and passed across Castle Junction intoDonegall Place where there was a shop in which new books were sold. Theshop was closed now, but he was able to see books with handsome coversin the window and he stayed for a time reading the titles of them. There was a bustle of people about him, of newspaper boys and flowergirls, bedraggled and cheerless-looking, and of young men and womentempted to the Saturday evening parade in the chief street of the cityin spite of the rain. The sound of voices in argument and barter andbright talk mingled with laughter and the noise of the tram-cars andcarts clattering over the stony street. John liked the sound of Belfaston a Saturday night, the pleased sound of released people intent onenjoyment and with the knowledge that on the morrow there would stillbe freedom from labour, and as he stood in front of the bookshop, halfintent on the books in the window and half intent on the crowd thatmoved about him, the gloom which had seized hold of him in Smithfieldbegan to relax its grip: and when two girls, jostled against him by thedisordered movement of the crowd on the pavement, smiled at him inapology, he smiled back at them. 

He thrust himself through the crowd, breaking into a group of excitednewspaper boys who were thrusting copies of the _EveningTelegraph_ and _Ireland's Saturday Night_ at possible purchasers, and walked towards the City Hall, but, changing his mindunaccountably, he turned down Castle Lane and presently found himselfby the Theatre Royal. He had never been to a theatre in his life, butUncle Matthew and Uncle William, when they were young men, usedfrequently to come to Belfast from Ballyards to see a play, and theyhad told him of the great pleasure they had had at the "old Royal. "

"I've a good mind to go there to-night, " he said to himself, as hecrossed the street to examine the playbills which were posted on thewalls of the theatre. Mr. F. R. Benson's Shakespearean Company, he readon the bill by the stage-door, would perform _The Merchant ofVenice_ that evening. The Company would remain in Belfast during thefollowing week and would produce other plays by Shakespeare. 

"I _will_ go, " he said to himself. "I'll go somewhere now and havemy tea, and then I'll hurry back!"

He remembered that he had seen a volume of Shakespeare's plays in thebookshop in Donegall Place and that Uncle Matthew had each of the playsin a separate volume in the attic at home. He had read _The Merchantof Venice_ a long time ago, but had only a vague recollection of it. In one of the school-books, Portia's speech on mercy was printed, andhe could say that piece off by heart. The Jew had snarled at Portiawhen she had said "Then must the Jew be merciful!" "On what compulsionmust I?" he had demanded, and she had replied, "The quality of mercy isnot strained. . . . " The school-book did not print Portia's statement thatthe Jew must be merciful or the Jew's snarling demand, "On whatcompulsion must I?"; but Mr. Cairnduff had explained the story of theplay to the class and had told them of these two speeches, and John, interested by the story, had gone home and searched through the atticfor the play, and there had read it through. 

His mind went back to the bookshop. "It must be fine to work in a placelike that, with all the books you can want to read all round you, " hesaid to himself while he hurried through Corn Market on his way to arestaurant. He stopped for a moment or two, as an idea suddenlypresented itself to him. "I know what I'll do, " he said aloud. "I'llstart a bookshop myself. _New_ books . . . Not old ones. That sortof life would suit me fine!"

V

He ate his meal in great haste, and then hurried back to the theatrewhere a queue of people had already formed outside the entrance to thepit. Soon after he joined the queue, the doors were opened, and in alittle while he found himself sitting at the end of the second row. Hehad chosen this seat so that he might be able to hurry out of thetheatre quickly, without disturbing anyone, if he should have to leavebefore the play was ended to catch the last train to Ballyards. 

A boy about his own age was sitting next to him, and this boy askedJohn to let him have a look at his programme. 

"Did you ever see this piece before?" John said to him, as he passedthe programme to him. 

"I did not, " he replied. "I'm not much of a one for plays. I generallygo to the 'Lhambra on a Saturday, but somehow I didn't go there thenight!"

"That's a terrible place, that 'Lhambra, " said John. 

"What's terrible about it?" his neighbour replied. 

"I don't know. I was never there. This is the first time I've ever beenin a theatre. But I've heard fearful things about that place, aboutwomen coming out and dancing with hardly any clothes on, and thenkicking up their legs and all. I have an uncle went there once, andwhen the woman began kicking up her legs and showing off her clothes, he got up and stood with his back to the stage 'til she was done, hewas that disgusted. "

John remembered how shocked Uncle William had been when he told thatstory of himself. 

"Your uncle must be very easy shocked, " said the boy. "I can look atwomen kicking up their legs, and I don't think nothing of it at all. Ilike a good song and dance myself. I don't like plays much. Gimme awoman that's nice-looking and can sing and dance a bit, and I wouldn'task you for nothing nicer. Is there any dancin' in this bit, do youknow?"

"I don't think so, " said John. "I've never seen the piece before, butI've read it. I don't think there's any dancing in it!"

"And no comic songs?. . . "

"Sure, you'll see for yourself in a wee minute!"

John's neighbour considered. "I wonder would they give me my money backif I was to go to the pay-box and let on I was sick!"

"They'd never do that, " said John. "They'd know rightly you weren'tsick by the look of you!"

The boy returned the programme to John. "Well, I wish they'd hurry upand begin, " he murmured. 

The members of the orchestra came through a door beneath the stage andtook their places, and the sound of fiddles being tuned was heard for awhile. Then the leader of the orchestra came to his place, and after apause, the music began. 

"A fiddle's great value, " John's neighbour whispered to him. "I'm agreat hand at the Jew's harp myself!. . . "

The music ceased, the lights were lowered in the theatre and thefootlights were raised, throwing a great soft yellow glow on thepicture of the Lakes of Killarney which decorated the drop-curtain. Then, the curtain was rolled up, and the performance began. 

He had been interested by the play when he read it, but now he wasenthralled by it. He wished that the boy sitting next to him would notkeep on asking for the programme every time a fresh character appearedon the stage and would refrain from making comments on the play whileit was being performed. "Them people wore quare clothes in them days!"he had whispered to John soon after the play began, and when Shylockmade his first entrance, he said, "Ah, for Jase' sake, look at the oul'Sheeny!"

"Ssh!" said John. "Don't talk!. . . "

"Sure, why?. . . "

"Ah, shut up, " said John. 

He did not wish to talk during the intervals between the acts. Hewished to sit still in his seat and perform the play over again in hismind. He tried to remember Bassanio's description of Portia:

 _In Belmont is a lady richly left, And she is fair, and fairer than that word, Of wondrous virtues. . . . _

He could not think of the words that came after that . . . Except onesentence:

 _ . . . And her sunny locks Hang on her temples like a golden fleece. _

He repeated this sentence to himself many times, as if he were tastingeach word with his tongue and with his mind, and once he said it aloudin a low voice. 

"Eh?" said his neighbour. 

"I was just reciting a piece from the play, " he explained. 

"What were you reciting?"

"Do you remember that piece: _and her sunny locks hang on her templeslike a golden fleece?"_

"No!"

"In the first act? When the young fellow, Bassanio, was telling Antonioabout his girl in Belmont?"

His neighbour turned to him eagerly. "I wonder did they just put thatbit in about Belmont, " he said. "There's a place near Belfast calledBelmont . . . Just beyond the Hollywood Arches there! Do you know it?"John shook his head. "I wouldn't be surprised but they just put thatbit in to make it look more like the thing. What was the piece you werereciting?" John repeated it to him again. "What's the sense of that?"the boy exclaimed. 

"Oh, don't you see? It's . . . It's . . . " He did not know how to explainthe speech. "It's poetry, " he said lamely. 

"Oh" said the boy. "Portry. I see now. Ah, well, I suppose they have tofill up the piece some way! Do you think that woman, what's her nameagain?. . . "

"Portia?"

"Aye. D'you think she did live at Belmont? Some of them stories istrue, you know, and there was quare things happened in the oul' ancientdays in this neighbourhood, I can tell you. I wouldn't be surprisednow!. . . "

But before he could say any more, the lights were lowered again, andthere was a hushing sound, and then the play proceeded. 

"Oh, isn't it grand?" John said to his neighbour when the trial scenewas over. 

But his neighbour remained unmoved. "D'you mean to tell me, " he said, "that man didn't know his wife when he saw her in the Coort?"

"What man?"

"That fellow what-you-may-call-him? The man that was married on thegirl with the red dress on her!. . . "

"Bassanio?"

"Aye. D'you mean to tell me that fellow didn't know her again, and himonly just after leaving her!. . . "

John tried to explain. "It's a play, " he said. "He's not supposed torecognize her!. . . "

"Och, what's the good of supposing a thing that couldn't be!" saidJohn's neighbour. "Any man with half an eye in his head could have seenwho she was. I wish I'd gone to the 'Lhambra. This is a damn sillyplay, this!"

John was horrified. "Silly, " he said. "It's by Shakespeare!"

"I don't care who it's by, " was the reply. "It's damn silly to let on aman doesn't know his own wife when he sees her. I suppose that'sportry!" he sneered. 

John did not answer, and his neighbour went on. "Well, if it isportry . . . God help it, that's all!"

But John did not care whether Bassanio had recognized Portia in thecourt scene or not. He left the theatre in an exalted mood in which hehad little thought for the realities. Next week he told himself, hewould visit the Royal again. He would see two plays on the followingSaturday, one in the afternoon and one in the evening. The bills forthe following week's programme were already pasted on the walls of thetheatre when he came out, and he risked the loss of his train bystopping to read one of them. _Romeo and Juliet_ was to beperformed in the afternoon, and _Julius Caesar_ in the evening. 

He hurried down Ann Street and across the Queen's Bridge, and reachedthe railway station just in time to catch his train; and all the wayacross the bridge and all the way home in the train, one sentencepassed continually through his mind:

 _. . . And her sunny locks Hang on her temples like a golden fleece. _

VI

While he ate his supper, he spoke to his mother and his uncles of hisintention to open a bookshop. 

"I'm going to start a bookshop, " he said. "I made up my mind in Belfastto-day!"

"A what?" Mrs. MacDermott demanded. 

"A bookshop, ma. I'll have every book you can think of in it!. . . "

"In the name of God, " his mother exclaimed, "who do you think buysbooks in this place?"

"Plenty of people, ma. Mr. McCaughan!. . . "

"Mr. McCaughan never buys a book from one year's end to another, " sheinterrupted. "And if he did, you can't support a shop on one man'scustom. The people of this town doesn't waste their time on reading:they do their work!"

John turned angrily on her. "It's not a waste of time to read books, ma. Is it, Uncle Matthew?"

"You may well ask him, " she said before Uncle Matthew could answer. 

"What do you think, Uncle William?" John went on. 

Uncle William thought for a few moments. "I don't know what to think, "he said. "It's not a trade I know much about, John, but I doubt whetherthere's a living in it in Ballyards. "

"There's no living in it, " Mrs. MacDermott exclaimed passionately, "andif there was, you shouldn't earn your living by it!"

John gazed at her in astonishment. Her eyes were shining, not withtears, though tears were not far from them, but with resentment andanger. 

"Why, ma?" he said. 

"Because books are the ruin of people's minds, " she replied. "Your dawas always reading books, wild books that disturbed him. He was neverdone reading _The Rights of Man_. And look at your Uncle Matthew!. . . "

She stopped suddenly as if she realised that she had said too much. Uncle Matthew did not speak. He looked at her mournfully, and then heturned away. 

"I don't want to say one word to hurt anyone's feelings, " she continuedin a lower tone, "but my life's been made miserable by books, and Idon't want to see my son made miserable, too. And you know well, Matthew, " she added, turning to her brother-in-law, "that all yourreading has done you no good, but a great deal of harm. And what's theuse of books, anyway? Will they help a man to make a better life forhimself?"

Uncle Matthew turned to her quickly. "They will, they will, " he said, and his voice trembled with emotion. "People can take your work fromyou and make little of you in the street because you did what yourheart told you to do, but you'll get your comfort in a book, so youwill. I know what you're hinting at, Hannah, but I'm not ashamed ofwhat I did for the oul' Queen, and I'd do it again, gaol or no gaol, ifI was to be hanged for it the day after!"

He turned to John. 

"I don't know what sort of a living you'll make out of selling books, "he said, "and I don't care either, but if you do start a shop to sellthem, let me tell you this, you'll never prosper in it if it doesn'thurt you sore to part with a book, for books is like nothing else onGod's earth. You _have_ to love them . . . You _have_ to lovethem!. . . "

"You're daft, " said Mrs. MacDermott. 

"Mebbe I am, " Uncle Matthew replied wearily. "But that's the way Ifeel, and no man can help the way he feels!"

He sat down at the table, resting his head in his hands, and gazedhungrily at his nephew. 

"You can help putting notions into a person's head, " said Mrs. MacDermott. "John might as well try to _write_ books as try tosell them in this town!"

"_Write_ books!" John exclaimed. 

"Aye, write them!. . . "

But Uncle Matthew would not let her finish her sentence. "And whyshouldn't he write books if he has a mind to it?" he demanded. "Wasn'the always the wee lad for scribbling bits of stories in penny exercisebooks?. . . "

"He was . . . 'til I beat him for it, " she replied. "Why can't you settledown here in the shop with your Uncle William?" she said to her son. "It's a comfortable, quiet sort of a life, and it's sure and steady, and when we're all gone, it'll be yours for yourself. Won't it, William?"

"Oh, aye!" said Uncle William. "Everything we have'll be John's rightenough, but I doubt he's not fond of the shop!. . . "

"What's wrong with the shop? It's as good as any in the town!" Shecoaxed John with her voice. "You can marry some nice, respectable girland bring her here, " she said, "and I'll gladly give place to her whenshe comes!" She rocked herself gently to and fro in the rocking-chair. "I'd like well to have the nursing of your children in the house thatyou yourself were born in!. . . "

"Och, ma, I'm not in the way of marrying!. . . "

"You'll marry some time, won't you? And there's plenty would be glad tohave you. Aggie Logan, though I can't bear the sight of her, would givethe two eyes out of her head for you. Of course you'll marry, and I'dbe thankful glad to think of your son being born in this house. Youwere born in it, and your da, too, and his da, and his da's da. Fourgenerations of you in one house to be pleased and proud of, and I prayto God he'll let me live to see the fifth generation of the MacDermottsborn here, too. I'm a great woman for clinging to my home, and I loveto think of the generations coming one after the other in the samehouse that the family's always lived in. How many people in this towncan say they've always lived in the one house like the MacDermotts?"

"Not very many, " Uncle William proudly replied. 

"No, indeed there's not, I tell you, John, son, the MacDermotts aresomeone in this town, as grand in their way and as proud as LordCastlederry himself. That's something to live up to, isn't it! The goodname of your family! But if you go tramping the world for adventuresand romances, the way your Uncle Matthew would have you do, you'll loseit all, and there'll be strangers in the house that your family's livedin all these generations. And mebbe you'll come here, when you're anoul' man and we're all dead and buried, and no one in the place'll haveany mind of you at all, and you'll be lonelier here nor anywhere else. Oh, it would be terrible to be treated like a stranger in your owntown! And if you did start a bookshop and it failed on you, and youlost all your money, wouldn't it be worse disgrace than any not to beable to pay your debts in a place where everyone knows you . . . To bemade a bankrupt mebbe?"

"Ah, but, ma, the world would never move at all if everybody stopped inthe one place!" John said. 

"The world'll move well enough, " she answered. "God moves it, not you. "

John got up from the table and went, and sat on a low stool by thefire. "I don't know so much, " he said. "I read in a book one time!. . . "

"In a book!" Mrs. MacDermott sneered. 

"Aye, ma, in a book!" John stoutly answered. "After all, you know theBible's a book!" Mrs. MacDermott had not got a retort to thatstatement, and John, aware that he had scored a point, hurriedlyproceeded, "I was reading one time that all the work in the world wasstarted by men that wrote books. There never was any change or progress'til someone started to think and write!. . . "

Mrs. MacDermott recovered her wits. "Were they happy and contentedmen?" she demanded. 

"I don't know, ma, " John replied. "The book didn't say that. I supposenot, or they wouldn't have wanted to make any alterations!"

"Let them that wants to make changes, make them, " said Mrs. MacDermott. "There's no need for you to go about altering the world when you canstay at home here happy and content!"

Uncle Matthew rose from the table and came towards Mrs. MacDermott. "What does it matter whether you're happy and contented or not, so longas things are happening to you?" he exclaimed. 

Mrs. MacDermott burst into bitter laughter. "You have little wit, " shesaid, "to be talking that daft way. Eh, William?" she added, turning toher other brother-in-law. "What do you think about it?"

Uncle William had lit his pipe, and was sitting in a listeningattitude, slowly puffing smoke. "I'm wondering, " he said, "whether it'smore fun to be writing about things nor it is to be doing things!"

John turned to him and tapped him on the knee. "I've thought of that, Uncle William, " he said, "and I tell you what! I'll go and dosomething, and then I'll write a book about it!"

"What'll you do?" Mrs. MacDermott asked. 

"Something, " said John. "I can easily do _some_thing!"

"And what about the bookshop?" said Uncle Matthew. 

"Och, that was only a notion that came into my head, " John answered. "Iwon't bother myself selling books: I'll write them instead!" He glancedabout the kitchen. "I've a good mind to start writing something now!"he said. 

His mother sprang to her feet. "You'll do no such thing at this hour, "she said. "It's nearly Sunday morning. Would you begin your career bydesecrating God's Day!"

"If you start doing things, " said Uncle, reverting to John'sdeclaration of work, "you'll mebbe have no time to write about them!"

"Oh, I'll have the time right enough. I'll make the time, " John said. 

Uncle William got up and walked towards the staircase. "Where are yougoing, William?" Mrs. MacDermott asked. 

"To my bed, " said Uncle William. 

VII

Suddenly the itch to write came to John, and he began to rummage amongthe papers and books on the shelves for writing-paper. 

"What are you looking for?" his mother enquired. 

"Paper to write on, " he said. 

"You'll not write one word the night!. . . "

"Ah, quit, ma!" he said. "I must put down an idea that's come in myhead. I'd mebbe forget it in the morning!"

"The greatest writers in the world have sat up all night, writing outtheir thoughts, " Uncle Matthew murmured. 

John did not pay any heed to his mother's scowls and remonstrances. Hefound sheets of writing-paper and placed them neatly on the table, together with a pen and ink. He looked at the materials critically. There was paper, there was ink and there was a pen with a new nib init, and blotting paper!. . . 

He drew a chair up to the table and sat down in front of the writingpaper. He contemplated it for a long time while Mrs. MacDermott putaway the remnants of his supper, and his Uncle Matthew sat by the firewatching him. 

"What are you waiting for, John?" his Uncle Matthew asked. 

"Inspiration, " John replied. 

He sat still, scarcely moving even for ease in his chair, staring atthe white paper until it began to dance in front of his eyes, but hedid not begin to write on it. 

"Are you still waiting for inspiration, John?" his Uncle asked. 

"Aye, " he answered. 

"You don't seem to be getting any, " Mrs. MacDermott said. 

He got up and put the writing materials away. "I'll wait 'til themorning, " he replied. 

THE THIRD CHAPTER

I

John wrote his first story during the following week, and when he hadcompleted it, he made a copy of it on large sheets of foolscap in ashapely hand, and sewed the pages together with green thread. UncleMatthew had purchased brass fasteners to bind the pages together, butUncle William said that a man might easily tear his fingers with "themthings" and contract blood-poisoning. 

"And that would give him a scunner against your story, mebbe!" headded. 

John accepted Uncle William's advice, not so much in the interests ofhumanity, as because he liked the look of the green thread. He had readthe story to his uncles, after the shop was closed. They had drawntheir chairs up to the fire, in which sods of turf and coal wereburning, and the agreeable odour of the turf soothed their senses whilethey listened to John's sharp voice. Mrs. MacDermott would not join thecircle before the fire. She declared that she had too much work to doto waste her time on trash, and she wondered that her brothers-in-lawcould find nothing better to do than to encourage a headstrong lad in afoolish business. She went about her work with much bustle and clatter, which, however, diminished considerably as John began to read thestory, and ended altogether soon afterwards. 

"D'you like it, Uncle William?" John said, when he had read the storyto them. 

"Aye, " said Uncle William. 

"I'm glad, " John answered. "And you, do you like it, Uncle Matthew?"

"I like it queer and well, " Uncle Matthew murmured, "only!. . . " Hehesitated as if he were reluctant to make any adverse comment on thestory. 

"Only what?" John demanded with some impatience. He had asked for theopinions of his uncles, indeed, but it had not occurred to him thatthey would not think as highly of the story as he thought of ithimself. 

"Well . . . There's no love in it!" Uncle Matthew went on. 

"Love!"

"Aye, " Uncle Matthew said. "There's no mention of a woman in it fromstart to finish. I think there ought to be a woman in it!"

Mrs. MacDermott, who had been silent now for some time, made a noisewith a dish on the table. "Och, sure, what does he know about love?"she exclaimed angrily. "A child that's not long left his mother's armswould know as much. Mebbe, now you've read your oul' story, John, thewhole of yous will sit up to the table and take your tea!"

John, disregarding his mother, sat back in his chair and contemplatedhis Uncle Matthew. 

"I wonder now, are you right?" he exclaimed. 

"I am, " Uncle Matthew replied. "The best stories in the world havewomen in them, and love-making! I never could take any interest in_Robinson Crusoe_ because he hadn't got a girl on that island withhim, and I thought to myself many's a time, it was a queer mistake notto make Friday a woman. He could have fallen in love with her then!"

Uncle William said up sharply. "Aye, and had a wheen of black babies!"he said. "Man, dear, Matthew, think what you're saying! What sort ofromance would there be in the like of that? I never read much, as youknow, but I always had a great fancy for _Robinson Crusoe_. Theway that man turned to and did things for himself . . . I tell you myheart warmed to him. _I_ like your story, John, women or no women. Sure, love isn't the only thing that men make!. . . "

"It's the most important, " said Uncle Matthew. 

"And why shouldn't a story be written about any other thing nor a lotof love?" Uncle William continued, ignoring the interruption. "Idaresay you'll get a mint of money for that story, John. I've heardtell that some of these writers gets big pay for their stories. Poundsand pounds!"

John crinkled his manuscript in his hand and regarded it with a modestlook. "I don't suppose I'll get much for the first one, " he said. "Infact, if they'll print it, I'll be willing to let them have it fornothing . . . Just for the satisfaction!"

"That would be a foolish thing to do, " Uncle William retorted. "Sure, if it's worth printing, it's worth paying for. That's the way I look atit, anyhow!"

"I daresay I'll make more, when I know the way of it better!" Johnanswered. "What paper will I send it to, do you think?"

"Send it to the best one, " said Uncle William. 

Mrs. MacDermott took a plate of toast from the fender where it had beenput to keep warm. "Send it to the one that pays the most, " shesuggested. 

"I thought you weren't listening, ma!" John exclaimed, laughing at her. 

"A body can't help hearing when people are talking at the top of theirvoices, " she said tartly. "Come on, for dear sake, and have your teas, the whole of yous!"

II

It was Uncle William who advised John to send the story to_Blackwood's Magazine_. He said that in his young days, peoplesaid _Blackwood's Magazine_ was the best magazine in the world. Uncle Matthew had demurred to this. "I'm not saying it's not a goodone, " he said, "but it's terribly bitter against Ireland. The man thatwrites that magazine must have a bitter, blasting tongue in his head!"

"Never mind what it says about Ireland, " Uncle William retorted. "Sure, they're only against the Papishes, anyway!. . . "

"The Papishes are as good as the Protestants, " Uncle Matthew exclaimed. 

"I daresay they are, " Uncle William admitted, "but I'm only saying that_Blackwood's Magazine_ is against _them:_ it's not againstus; and I don't see why John shouldn't send his story to it. He's aProtestant!"

"If I wrote a story, " Uncle Matthew went on, "I wouldn't send it to anypaper that made little of my country, Protestant or Papish, no matterhow good a paper it was nor how much it paid me for my story. Irelandis as good as England any day!. . . "

"It's better, " said Uncle William complacently. "Sure, God Himselfknows the English would be on the dung-heap if it wasn't for us and theScotchmen. But that's no reason why John shouldn't send his story to_Blackwood's Magazine_. In one way, it's a good reason why heshould send it there, for sure, if he does nothing else, he'll improvethe tone of the thing. You do what I tell you, John!. . . "

And so, accepting his Uncle William's advice, John sent the manuscriptof his story to the editor of _Blackwood's Magazine;_ and eachmorning, after he had done so, he eagerly awaited the advent of thepostman. But the postman, more often than not, went past their door. When he did deliver a letter to them, it was usually a trading letterfor Uncle William. 

"Them people get a queer lot of stories to read, " Uncle William said toconsole his nephew, disappointed because he had not received a letterof acceptance from the editor by Saturday morning, four days after hehad posted the manuscript. "It'll mebbe take them a week or two toreach yours!. . . "

"They could have sent a postcard to say they'd got it all right, " Johnreplied ruefully. "That's the civil thing to do, anyway!"

He remembered that the Benson Shakespearean Company was still inBelfast and that _Romeo and Juliet_ was to be performed in theafternoon, and _Julius Caesar_ in the evening; and he went up tothe city by an earlier train than usual so that he might be certain ofgetting to the theatre in time to secure an end seat near the front ofthe pit. He had proposed to his Uncle Matthew that he should go toBelfast, too, to see the plays, but Uncle Matthew shook his head andmurmured that he was not feeling well. He had been listless lately, they had noticed, and Uncle William, regarding him one afternoon as hestood at the door of the shop, had turned to John and said that hewould be glad when the summer weather came in again, so that UncleMatthew could go down to the shore and lie in the sun. 

"He's not a robust man, your Uncle Matthew!" he said. "I don't think hetholes the winter well!"

"Och, he's mebbe only a wee bit out of sorts, " John answered. "I wish, he'd come to Belfast with me!. . . "

"He'll never go next or near that place again, " Uncle William replied. "He's never been there since that affair!. . . "

"You'd wonder at a man letting a thing of that sort affect his mind theway Uncle Matthew let it affect his, " John murmured. 

"When a man believes in a thing as deeply as he believed in the oul'Queen, " said Uncle William, "it's a terrible shock to him to find outthat other people doesn't believe in it half as much as he does . . . Ormebbe doesn't believe in it at all!"

"I suppose you're right, " said John. 

"I am, " said Uncle William. 

John was the first person to reach the door of the pit that afternoon. The morning had been rough and blusterous, and although the streetswere dry, the cold wind blowing down from the hills made peoplereluctant to stand outside a theatre door. John, who was hardy andindifferent to cold, stood inside the shelter of the door and read thecopy of _Romeo and Juliet_ which he had borrowed from his UncleMatthew; and while he read the play he remembered his uncle's criticismof the story he had written for _Blackwood's Magazine_: that itought to have had a woman in it! This play was full of love. Romeo, sighing and groaning because his lady will not look kindly upon him, runs from his friends who "jest at scars that never felt a wound" . . . And finds Juliet! In _The Merchant of Venice_, Bassanio andPortia, Lorenzo and Jessica, Gratiano and Nerissa had all made love. Even young Gobbo, in a coarse, philandering way, had made love, too! Inall the books he had read, women were prominent. Queer and distressingthings happened to the heroes; they were constantly in trouble andunder suspicion of wrong-doing; poverty and persecution were common tothem; frequently, they were misunderstood; but in the end, they hadtheir consolations and their rights and rewards. Love was the greatpredominating element in all these stories, the support and inspirationand reward of the troubled and tortured hero; and Woman was the symbolof victory, of achievement. At the end of every journey, at the finishof every fight, there was a Woman. Uncle Matthew had spoken wisely, John thought, when he said that you cannot leave women out of yourschemes and plans. 

John had not thought of leaving women out of his schemes and plans. Inall his romantic imaginings, a woman of superb beauty had figured in adim way; but the woman had been a dream woman only, bearing noresemblance whatever to the visible women about him. He had so muchregard for this woman of his imagined adventures . . . She changed herlooks as frequently as he changed the scene of his romances . . . That hehad no regard left for the women of his acquaintance. He nodded to thegirls he knew when he met them in the street, but he had never felt anydesire to "go up the road" with one of them. Willie Logan, as Johnknew, was "coortin' hard" and laying up trouble for himself by hisdiverse affections; and Aggie Logan, forgetful, perhaps, of the rebuffthat John had given to her childish offers of love, had lately taken tohanging about the street when John was due to pass along it. She wouldpretend not to see him until he was close to her. Then she would startand giggle and say, "Oh, John, is that you? You're a terrible strangerthese days!. . . " Once while he was listening to her as she made somesuch remark as that, Lady Castlederry drove by in her carriage, and hiseyes wandered from the sallow, giggling girl in front of him to thebeautiful woman in the carriage; and Aggie suffered severely by thecomparison. And yet Aggie had a quicker and more intelligent look thanLady Castlederry. The beautiful, arrogant woman was like the dream-womanof his romances . . . And again, she was not like her; for the dream-womenhad not got Lady Castlederry's look of settled stupidity in her eyes. 

John had hurriedly quitted Aggie's company on that occasion. He knewwhy Aggie always contrived to meet him in the street, and he thoughtthat she was a poor fool of a girl to do it. And her brother Willie wasa "great gumph of a fellow, " to go capering up and down the road in theevenings after any girl that would say a civil word to him or laughwhen he laughed!. . . 

All the same, women mattered to men. Uncle Matthew had said so, andUncle Matthew was in the right of it. In the story-books, women surgedinto the hero's life, good women and bad women and even indifferentwomen. And, now, in these plays, he could see for himself that womenmattered enormously. Yet he had never been in love with a girl! He wasnot even in love with the dream-woman of his romances. She was hisreward for honourable and arduous service . . . That was all. He was notin love with her any more than he was in love with a Sunday Schoolprize. It was a reward for regular attendance and for accurate answersto Biblical questions, and he was glad to have it. It rested on thebookshelf in the drawing-room, and sometimes, when there were visitorsin the house, his mother would request him to take it down and show itto them. They would read the inscription and make remarks on the oddnessof Mr. McCaughan's signature and turn over the pages of the book . . . Andthen they would hand it back to him and he would replace it on theshelf . . . And no more was said about it. Really, his dream-womanhad not meant much more to him than that. She would be given to himwhen he had won his fight, and he would take her and be glad to gether . . . He would be very proud of her and would exhibit her to hisfriends and say, "This is my beautiful wife!" and then!. . . Oh, well, there did not appear to be anything else after that. The book alwayscame to an end when the hero married the heroine. Probably she and hehad children . . . But, beyond the fact that they lived happily everafterwards, there did not appear to be much more to say about them. . . . 

Somehow, it seemed to him now, as he stood in the shelter of the PitEntrance to the Theatre Royal, reading _Romeo and Juliet_, thatthe heroine was different from his dream-woman. His dream-woman hadalways been very insubstantial and remote, but Juliet was a real woman, alive and passionate, with a real father and a real mother. The oddthing about his dream-woman was that she did not appear to have anyrelatives . . . At least he had never heard of any. She had not even gota name. She never spoke to him. Always, when the adventure was ended, he went up to the dream-woman, waiting for him in a misty manner, andhe took hold of her hand and led her away . . . And while he was leadingher away, the adventure seemed to come to an end . . . The picturedissolved . . . And he could not see any more. Once, indeed, he hadkissed his dream-woman . . . He had kissed her exactly as he had kissedhis great-aunt, Miss Clotworthy, who was famous for the fact thatshe had attended a Sunday School in Belfast as pupil and teacher forfifty-seven years without a break . . . And the dream-woman had taken thekiss in the unemotional manner in which she took hold of his hand when heled her away . . . And lost her!. . . 

There was something wrong with his dream-woman, he told himself. Thisman Shakespeare, so everybody said, was the greatest poet England hadproduced . . . Perhaps the greatest poet the world had produced . . . Andhe ought to know something of what women were like. Whatever elseJuliet might be, she certainly was not like John's dream-woman. She didnot stand at the end of the road waiting for Romeo to come to her. Shedid not wait until the fight was fought and won. She did not offer acold hand or cold lips to Romeo. Her behaviour was really more likethat of Aggie Logan than that of the dream-woman!. . . 

Aggie Logan! That "girner" with the sallow look and the giggle! Hecould see her now, standing in the street waiting for him, dabbing ather mouth with the foolish handkerchief she always carried in her hand. What did she want to keep on dabbing at her mouth with her handkerchieffor! Men didn't dab at _their_ mouths. . . . Nor did the dream-womandab at hers. . . . But it was just possible . . . Indeed, it was verylikely, that Juliet dabbed at hers!. . . 

At that moment, the Pit Door opened, and John, having paid hisshilling, passed into the theatre. 

III

He came away from the play in a disturbed and exalted state. Suddenlyand compellingly, he had become aware of the fact of Women. While hesat in the front row of the pit, listening with his whole body to theplay, something stirred in him and he became aware of Women. Theactress who played the part of Juliet had turned towards the audiencefor a few moments during the performance and, so it seemed to him, hadlooked straight into his eyes. She did not avert her gaze immediately, nor did he avert his. He imagined that she was appealing to him . . . Heforgot that he was sitting in the pit of a theatre listening to a playwritten by a man who had died three hundred years ago . . . Andremembered only that he was a young man with aspirations and romanticlongings, and that a young woman, in a pitiable plight, was gazing intohis eyes . . . And his heart reached out to her. He drew in his breathquickly, murmuring a soft "Oh, " and as he did so, his dream-woman felldead and he did not even turn to look at her. 

When the play was over, he had sat still in his seat, more deeply movedthan he had ever been before, overwhelmed by the disaster which hadcome upon the young lovers through the foolish brawls of their foolishelders; and it was not until an impatient woman had prodded him in theside that he returned to reality. 

"I beg your pardon, ma'am!" he said and got up and hurried out of thetheatre into the street. 

He went along High Street towards Castle Place, and as he walked along, he regarded each woman and girl that approached him with interest. 

"That one's nice-looking!" he said of a girl, and "That one's ugly!" hesaid of another. He wondered why it was that all the older women of theworking-class were so misshapen and lacking in good looks, when so manyof the girls of the working-class were shapely and pretty. Mr. Cairnduff had told him that Belfast girls were prettier than Londongirls. "London girls aren't pretty at all, " Mr. Cairnduff had said. "You'd walk miles in London before you'd see a pretty girl, but youwouldn't walk ten yards in Belfast before you'd meet dozens!" And yet, all those pretty working-girls grew into dull, misshapen, displeasingwomen. "It's getting married that does it, I suppose, " he said tohimself. "They were all nice once, but they married and grew ugly!"

He did not look long at the ugly and misshapen women. His eyes quicklysearched through the crowds of passers-by for the pretty girls, and atthem he looked with eagerness. 

"There's no doubt about it, " he said to himself, "girls are nice tolook at!"

He found a restaurant in the street off High Street. He climbed up somestairs, and then, pushing a door open, entered a large room, at theback of which was a smaller room. A girl was standing at a window, looking out on to the street, but she turned her head when she heardhim entering. She smiled pleasantly as he sat down, and came forward totake his order. 

"It's turned out a brave day after all, " she said. 

He said "Aye" and smiled at her in return. She had thick, fair hair, and he remembered Bassanio's description of Portia:

 _And her sunny locks Hang on her temples like a golden fleece. _

He had a curious desire to talk to the girl about the play he had justseen, and before he gave his order, he glanced about the room. She andhe were the only persons in it. 

"You don't seem to be very busy, " he said. 

"Och, indeed, we're not, " she replied. "We seldom are on a Saturday. Mrs. Bothwall . . . Her that owns the place . . . Thought mebbe somefootball fellows might come here for their tea after the matches so'sthey needn't go home before starting for the Empire or the Alhambra:but, sure, none of them ever comes. We might as well be shut for thecustom we get!"

He ordered his tea, and she went to the small room at the back of thelarge room to prepare it. He thought it would be a good plan to ask thegirl if she would care to have her tea with him, but a sudden shynessprevented him from doing so, and he was unable to say more than "Thankyou" when she put the teapot by his side. There was plenty for two onthe table, he said to himself: a loaf and a bap and some soda-farls anda potato cake and the half of a barn-brack and butter and raspberryjam. He looked across the room to where the girl was again looking outof the window. He liked the way she stood, with one hand resting on herhip and the other on her cheek. He could see that she had small feetand slender ankles, and while he looked at her, she rubbed her footagainst her leg and he saw for a moment or two the flash of a whitepetticoat. . . . 

"I was at the Royal the day!" he called to her. 

She turned round quickly. "Were you?" she said. "Was it good?"

"It was grand. I enjoyed it the best, " he answered. 

She came towards him and sat down at a table near to his. "What piecewas it you saw?" she asked. "It's Benson's Company, isn't it?"

"Yes. I saw _Romeo and Juliet_. "

"Oh, that's an awful sad piece. I cried my eyes out one year when I sawit!"

"It's a great play, " John said. 

"I suppose you often go?" she went on. 

"Last Saturday was the first time I ever went to a theatre. I saw_The Merchant of Venice_. I'll go every Saturday after this, whenthere's a good piece on. I'm going again to-night to see _JuliusCaesar!_"

"I'd love to see that piece!"

"Would you?"

"Aye, indeed I would. I'm just doting on the theatre. The last piece Isaw was _The Lights of London_. It was lovely. "

"I never saw that bit, " John answered. "You see I live in Ballyards andI only come up to town on Saturdays. "

"By your lone?" she asked. 

He nodded his head. He poured out his tea, and then began to spreadbutter on a piece of soda-farl. 

"I'd be awful dull walking the streets by myself, " she said, watchinghim as he did so. "I'm a terrible one for company. I can't bear beingby myself!"

"Company's good, " he said. "Have you had your tea yet?"

"I'll be having it in a wee while!"

"I wish you'd have it with me!" He spoke hesitatingly. 

"Oh, I couldn't!" she exclaimed. 

"Sure, what's to hinder you?" His voice became bolder. 

"Oh, I couldn't. I couldn't really!. . . "

"You might as well have it with me as have it by yourself. And there'snobody'll see you. Where's Mrs. Bothwell?"

"She's away home with a headache!. . . "

"Then you're all by yourself here!" She nodded her head. "What time doyou shut?" he went on. 

"Half-six generally, but Mrs. Bothwell said I'd better shut at six thenight!"

He took a cup and saucer and a knife and plate from an adjoining tableand put them down opposite his own. 

"Come on, " he said, "and have your tea!"

"Och, I couldn't, " she protested weakly. 

He poured out some of the tea for her, "I suppose you take milk andsugar?" he said. 

"You're a terrible fellow, " she murmured admiringly, and he could seethat her eyes were shining with pleasure. 

"Draw up to the table, " he replied. 

She hesitated for a little while, and then she sat down. "This is notvery like the thing, " she murmured. 

"It doesn't matter whether it is or not, " he replied. "What'll youhave . . . Bread or soda-farl?"

She helped herself. 

"You know, " he said, "I was thinking it would be a good plan for thetwo of us to go to the theatre to-night!"

"The two of us, " she exclaimed. "Me and you!"

"Aye! Why not?"

She put down her cup and laughed. "I never met anybody in my life thatmade so much progress in a short time as you do, " she said. "What inthe earthly world put that notion into your head?"

"There's no notion about it, " he exclaimed. "I'm asking you plump andplain will you come to the theatre with me to-night!. . . "

"But it wouldn't be like the thing at all to go to the theatre with aboy that I never saw before and never heard tell of 'til this minute. Idon't even know your name!. . . "

"John MacDermott, " he said. 

"Are you a Catholic?"

"No. I'm a Presbyterian. "

"It's a Catholic name, " she mused. "I know a family by the name ofMacDermott, and they're desperate Catholics. They live over inBallymacarrett. Do you know them?"

"I do not. There never was a person in our family was a Catholic . . . Not that we have mind of. Will you come with me?"

"Ooh, I couldn't!"

"I'll not take 'No' for an answer!" he said, "and I'll not put anotherbite in my mouth 'til you say 'Yes. ' D'you hear me?"

"You've an awful abrupt way of talking, " she replied. 

"What's abrupt about it?" he demanded. 

"Well, queer then!" she said. 

"I see nothing abrupt or queer about it. Are you coming or are younot?"

"As if you were used to getting what you wanted, the minute you wantedit, " she went on, disregarding his question and intent on explainingthe queerness of his speech. "I'd be afeard to be _your_ wife, you'd be such a bossy man!"

"Ah, quit!" he said. "Will you come?"

"I might!. . . "

"Will you?"

"Well, perhaps!. . . "

"Will you or will you not?"

"You're an awful man, " she protested. 

"Will you come?"

"All right, then, " she replied, "but!. . . "

"I'll have some more tea, " said John. He looked round the room whileshe poured the tea into his cup. "Are there any more cakes or buns?" heasked. 

"Yes, would you like some?"

"Bring a plate full, " he said. "Bring some with sugar on the top andjam in the middle!"

"Florence cakes?"

"Aye!"

"You've a sweet tongue in your head!" She went to the small room as shespoke. 

"I have, " he exclaimed. "And I daresay you have, too!"

IV

"You never told me your name, " he said, when she returned with theplate of cakes. 

"Give a guess!" she teased. 

He looked at her for a moment. "Maggie!" he said. 

"How did you know?"

"I didn't know, " he answered. "You look like a Maggie. What's yourother name?"

"Carmichael!"

"Maggie Carmichael!" he exclaimed. "It's a nice name!"

"I'm glad you like it, " she said. 

V

He sat back in his chair while she went to prepare for the theatre. Howlucky it was that he had asked his Uncle William for more money thatmorning "in case I need it!" If he had not done so, he would not havebeen able to offer to take Maggie to the theatre. . . . They would go inby the Early Door. There was certain to be a crowd outside the ordinarydoor on a Saturday night. What a piece of luck it was that he hadchosen to take his tea in this place instead of the restaurant to whichhe usually went. Mrs. Bothwell's headache, too, that was a piece ofluck, for him, although not, perhaps, for her. He liked the look ofMaggie. He liked her bright face and her laugh and her beautiful, golden hair. What was that bit again?

 _In Belmont is a lady richly left, And she is fair and fairer than that word Of wondrous virtue. . . . _

and then again:

 _. . . And her sunny locks Hang on her temples like a golden fleece. _

Maggie came out of the small room, ready for the street, and he sat andwatched her as she shut the door behind her. 

"I believe I'm in love, " he said to himself. "I believe I am!"

"Are you ready?" he said aloud. 

"I've only to draw the blinds and then lock the door!" she replied. 

"I'll draw them for you, " he said, going over to the windows anddrawing down the blinds as he spoke. "Did you ever see _The Merchantof Venice_?" he asked when he had done so. 

"No, " she said. 

"There's a bit in it that makes me think of you, " he went on. 

"Oh, now, don't start plastering me, " she exclaimed gaily. 

"I mean it, " he said, and he quoted the lines about Portia's sunnylocks. 

"That's poetry. " she said. 

"It is!" he replied. 

"It's queer and nice!"

She opened the door leading to the stairs, and then went back to theroom to turn out the light. The room was in semi-darkness, save where asplash of yellow light from the staircase fell at the doorway. 

He turned towards her as she made her way to the door, and put out hishand to her. She took hold of it, and as she did so, he caught herquickly to him and drew her into his arms and kissed her soft, warmlips. 

"You're an awful wee fellow, " she said, freeing herself from hisembrace and smiling at him. 

He did not answer her, but his heart was singing inside him. _I loveher. I know I love her. I love her. I love her. I know I love her. _

They went down the stairs together, and as they emerged into thestreet, he put his arm in hers and drew, her close to him. Almost hewished that they were not going to the theatre, that they might walklike this, arm in arm, for the remainder of the evening. He could stillfeel the warmth of her lips on his, and he wished that they could go tosome quiet place so that he might kiss her again. But he had asked herto go to the theatre, and he did not wish to disappoint her. Theyentered the theatre by the Early Door, and sat in the middle of thefront row of the pit. There was a queer silence in the theatre, for theordinary doors had not yet opened, and the occasional murmur of a voiceechoed oddly. John put his arm in Maggie's and wound his fingers inhers, and felt the pressure of her hand against his hand. When theordinary doors of the theatre were opened and the crowd came pouringin, he hardly seemed aware of the people searching for good seats. Maggie had tried to withdraw her hand from his when she heard the noiseof the people hurrying down the stone steps, but he had not releasedher, and she had remained content. And so they sat while the theatrequickly filled. Presently an attendant with programmes and chocolatescame towards them, and he purchased a box of chocolates for her. 

"You shouldn't have done that, " she said, making the polite protest. 

"I've always heard girls are fond of sweeties, " he replied. 

He put the box of chocolates in her lap, and opened the programme andhanded it to her. 

"It's a long piece, " she said, "with a whole lot of acts and scenes init. That's the sort of piece I like . . . With a whole lot of changes init!"

"Do you?" he said. 

"Yes. I came here one time to see a piece that was greatly praised inthe _Whig_ and the _Newsletter_, and do you know they usedthe same scene in every act! I thought it was a poor miserly sort of aplay. The bills said it was a London company, but I don't believe thatwas true. They were just letting on to be from London. They couldn'thave had much money behind them when they couldn't afford more nor theone scene, could they!"

"Mebbe you're right, " he answered. 

The members of the orchestra came into the theatre, and after a whilethe music began. The lights in the theatre were diminished and thenwere extinguished, and the curtain went up. John snuggled closer toMaggie. 

VI

He was scarcely aware of the performance on the stage, so aware was heof the nearness of Maggie. He heard applause, but he did not greatlyheed it. He was in love. He had never been in love before, and he hadalways thought of it as something very different from this, somethingcold and austere and aloof, and very dignified . . . Not at all like thiswarm, intimate, careless thing. He slipped his hand from Maggie's andslowly put his arm round her waist. She did not resist him, and when hedrew her more closely to him so that their heads were nearly touching, she yielded to him without demur. He could feel her heart beating wherehis hand pressed against her side, and he heard the slow rise and fallof her breath as she inhaled and exhaled. He could not get near enoughto her. He wanted to draw her head down on to his shoulder, to put bothhis arms about her, to feel again his lips on her lips. . . . 

He started suddenly. Someone was tapping him, on the shoulder. Heturned round to meet the gaze of an elderly, indignant woman who wasseated immediately behind him. 

"Sit still, " she said in a loud whisper. "I can't see the stage for youtwo ducking your heads together!"

VII

He took his arm away from Maggie's waist, and edged a little away fromher. He felt angry and humiliated. He told himself that he did not carewho saw him putting his arm about Maggie's waist, but was aware thatthis was not true, that he deeply resented being overlooked in hislove-making. He did not wish anyone to behold him in this intimaterelationship with Maggie, and he was full of fury against the womanbehind him because she had seen him fondling her. For of course thewoman knew that he had his arm about Maggie . . . And now her neighbourswould know, too. The whole theatre would know that he had beenembracing the girl!. . . Well, what if they did know? Let them know!There was no harm in a fellow putting his arm round a girl's waist. Itwas a natural thing for a fellow to do, particularly if the girl wereso pretty and warm and loving as Maggie Carmichael. The woman herselfhad no doubt had a man's arm round her waist once upon a time. He didnot care who knew!. . . All the same!. . . No, he did not care!. . . Heslipped his hand into Maggie's hand again, and then quickly withdrewit. She was holding a sticky chocolate in her fingers!. . . 

He lost all interest in the play now. It would be truer, perhaps, tosay that he had not begun to be interested in it, and now that he triedto follow it, he could not do so. His mind constantly reverted to theindignant woman behind him. He imagined her looking, first this way andthen that, in her efforts to see the stage, getting angrier and moreangry as she was thwarted in her desire, and then, in her finalindignation, leaning forward to tap on his shoulder and beg him to keephis head apart from Maggie's so that she might conveniently see thestage. His sense of violated privacy became stronger. His love forMaggie, for he accepted it now as a settled fact, was not a thing forprying eyes to witness: it was a secret, intimate thing in which sheand he alone were concerned. He hated the thought that anyone else inthe theatre should know that Maggie and he were sweethearts, newly inlove and warm with the glow of their first affection. And then, when hehad slipped his hand back into hers, he had encountered a stickychocolate! While he was burning with feeling for her and withresentment against the old woman's intrusion into their love affair, Maggie had been chewing chocolate quite unconcernedly. In that crisisof their love, she had remained unmoved. When he had released her hand, she had simply put it into the box of chocolates and taken out a stickysweet and had eaten it with as little emotion as if he had not beenpresent at all, as if his ardent, pressing arm had not been suddenlywithdrawn from her waist because of that angry intruder into theirhappiness. She had taken his hand when he gave it to her, and hadreleased it again when he withdrew it, without any appearance of desireor reluctance. He had imagined that she would take his hand eagerly andyield it up unwillingly, that she would try to restrain him when heendeavoured to take his hand away from hers . . . But she had not doneso. 

Perhaps she did not love him as he loved her. Perhaps she did not lovehim at all. After all, he had met her for the first time about threehours earlier in the evening. Only three hours ago! It was hard tobelieve that he had not loved her for centuries, had not often felt herheart beating beneath the pressure of his hand, had not frequently puthis lips to her lips and been enchanted by her kisses. Why, he had onlykissed her once. Only once! Once only!. . . He looked at her as she satby his side, gazing intently at the stage. He could see a protuberancein her cheek, made by a piece of chocolate, and as he looked at her, itseemed to him to be a terrible thing that this girl did not love him. His love had gone out to her, quickly, insurgently and fully, andperhaps she thought no more of him than she might think of any chancefriend who offered to take her to see a play. She might have spent manyevenings in this very theatre with other men. Had she not told him thatafternoon that she hated to be alone! He had put his arm about herwaist in a public place and had been humiliated for doing so, butnothing of this had meant much to Maggie. She was quite willing to lethim embrace her . . . Perhaps she thought that she ought to allow him tohug her as a return for the treat at the theatre . . . Or perhaps sheliked to feel a man's arm about her waist and did not much care who theman might be. Some girls were like that. Willie Logan had told him thatCarrie Furlong was the girl of any fellow who liked to walk up the roadwith her. She did not care with whom she went; all that she cared aboutwas that she should have some boy in her company. She would kissanybody. 

Was Maggie Carmichael like that? Would she kiss this one or that one, just as the mood took her?. . . Oh, no, she could not be like that. Itwas impossible for him to fall in love with a girl who distributedkisses as carelessly and impassionately as a boy distributes handbills. He felt certain that he could not fall in love with a girl of thatsort, that some instinct in him would prevent him from going so. Otherfellows might make a mistake of that kind . . . Willie Logan, forexample . . . But a MacDermott could not make one. Maggie must be in lovewith him . . . She must have fallen in love with him as suddenly as he hadfallen in love with her . . . Otherwise she could not have consented soreadily to accompany him to the theatre. When he had taken her in hisarms and kissed her, she had yielded to him so naturally, as if she hadbeen in his arms many times before!. . . Perhaps, though, the ease withwhich she had yielded to him denoted that she had had muchexperience!. . . Oh, no, no! No, no! She was his girl, not anybody else'sgirl. He could not have her for a sweetheart, if she shared her lovewith other men. He must have her entirely to himself!. . . 

Oh, what a torturing, doubt-raising, perplexing thing this Love was! Afew hours ago he had known nothing whatever of it . . . Had merelyimagined cold, austere, wrong things about it . . . And now it had holdof him and was hurting him. Every particle of his mind was concentratedon this girl by his side . . . A stranger to him. He knew nothing of herexcept her name and that she was employed as a waitress in arestaurant. She was a stranger to him . . . And yet a fierce, unquenchable love for her was raging in his heart. Each moment, theflames of his passion increased in strength. When he looked away fromher, he could see her in his mind's eye. Each of the players on thestage looked like Maggie. . . . And there she was, all unaware of thisstrong emotion in him, placidly sitting in her seat, gazing at theactors! Do women feel love as strongly as men do? he asked himself ashe looked at her, and as he did so she turned, her head to him, conscious perhaps of his stare, and when her eyes met his in theglowing dusk of the theatre, she smiled, and, seeing her smile, heforgot his doubt and remembered only the great joy of loving her. 

VIII

He insisted on taking her to her home, although she stoutly declaredthat this was unnecessary. She lived at Stranmillis, she said, andthe journey there and back would make him miss his train; but he sworethat he had plenty of time, and would not listen to her dissuasions. When they reached the terminus at the Botanic Gardens, she tried toinsist that he should return to town in the tram by which they had comeout, but he said that he must walk with her for a while. She would notlet him accompany her to the door of her home . . . He must leave her ata good distance from it . . . And to this he agreed, for he knew what theetiquette of these matters is. He put his arm in hers, again drawingher close to him, and, listening to her laughter, he walked in gladnessby her side. It was she who stopped. "I'll say 'Good-night' to youhere, " she said. 

"Not yet, " he replied. 

"You'll miss your train, " she warned him. 

He did not heed her warning, but drew her into the shadow and held hertightly to him. 

"Don't!" she stammered, but could not speak any more because of thestrength of his kisses. 

Very long he held her thus, his arms tightly round her and her lipsclosebound to his, and then with a great sigh of pleasure, he releasedher. 

"You're a desperate fellow, " she said, half scared, and she laughed alittle. 

She glanced about her for a moment. "I must run now, " she said, holdingout her hand. 

"Not yet, " he said again. 

"Oh, but I must. I must!" she insisted. "Good-night!"

He took her hand. "Good-night, " he replied, but did not let her handgo. 

She laughed nervously. "What's wrong with you?" she said. 

"I . . . I'm in love with you, Maggie!" he murmured, almostinarticulately. 

Her laughter lost its nervousness. "You're a boy in a hurry and ahalf!" she said. 

"I know. Kiss me, Maggie!"

She held up her face to him. "There, then!" she said. 

He kissed her again, and then again, and yet again. 

"You're hurting me, " she exclaimed ruefully. 

"It's because I love you so much, Maggie!" he said. 

"Well, let me go now!. . . " She stood away from him. "You have me allcrumpled up, " she said. "I'll be a terrible sight when I get in!Anybody'd think you'd never kissed a girl before in your life!"

"I haven't, " he replied. 

"You what?"

"I haven't. I've never kissed any other girl but you!"

"You don't expect me to believe a yarn like that?" she said. 

"It's the God's truth, " he answered. 

"Well, nobody'd think it from the way you behave!"

He regarded her in silence for a few moments. Then he said, "Have youever kissed anyone before?"

"I'm twenty-two. " she replied. 

He had not thought of her age, but if he had done so, he would not haveimagined that she was more than nineteen. 

"What's that got to do with it?" he asked. 

"A lot, " she replied. "You don't think a girl as nice-looking as me hasreached my age without having kissed a fellow, do you?"

"Then you have kissed someone else?"

"I've kissed dozens, " she said. "Good-night, John!"

She turned and ran swiftly from him, laughing lightly as she ran, andfor a second or two, he stood blankly looking after her. Then he calledto her, "Wait, Maggie, wait a minute!" and ran after her. 

She stopped when she heard him calling, and waited for him to come upto her. 

"When'll I see you again?" he said. 

"Oh, dear knows!" she replied. 

"Will you come to the theatre with me next Saturday?"

"I might!"

"Will you get the day off, and we'll go in the afternoon and evening, too!"

"I mightn't be let, " she said. "Mrs. Bothwell mightn't agree to it!"

"Ask her anyway!. . . "

"I will, then. Good-night, John!"

He snatched at her hand. "Listen, Maggie, " he said. 

"What?" she answered. 

"Do you . . . Do you like me?"

"Ummm . . . Mebbe I do!"

"I love you, Maggie!"

"Aye, so you say!" she said. 

"Do you not believe me?. . . "

She shrugged her shoulders. 

"It's true, " he affirmed. "I love you!. . . "

"Good-night, " she said. 

"Good-night, Maggie!"

He released her hand, but she did not go immediately. She came close tohim, and put her arms about his neck and drew his face down to hers, and kissed him. 

"You're a nice wee fellow, " she said. "I like you queer and well!"

Then she withdrew her arms, and this time he did not try to detain her. 

IX

He missed the last train to Ballyards, but he did not mind that. He setout bravely to walk from Belfast. The silence of the streets, thedeeper silence of the country roads, accorded with the pleasure in hisheart. He sang to himself, and sometimes he sang aloud. He was in lovewith Maggie Carmichael, and she . . . She liked him queer and well. Hecould hardly feel the ground beneath his feet. The road ran away fromhim. The moon and the stars shared his exultation, and the trees gailywaved their branches to him, and the leaves of the trees beat theirhands together in applause. "And her sunny locks Hang on her templeslike a golden fleece, " he said aloud. . . 

It was very late when he reached the door of the shop in Ballyards. HisUncle William was standing in the shade of the doorway, peeringanxiously into the street. 

"Is that you, John?" he called out, while John was still some distanceaway from the shop. 

"Aye, Uncle William, " John called out in reply. 

Uncle William came to meet him. "Oh, whatever kept you, boy?" he saidwhen they met. 

"I missed the train, " John answered. 

"Your Uncle Matthew, John!. . . "

Anxiety came into John's mind. "Yes, Uncle?" he said. 

"He's bad, John. Desperate bad! We had to send for Dr. Dobbs an hourago, and he's still with him. I thought you'd never reach home!"

All the joy fell straight out of John's heart. He did not speak. Hewalked swiftly to the house, and passing through the shop, entered thekitchen, followed by his Uncle William. 

THE FOURTH CHAPTER

I

"Your ma's upstairs with the doctor and him, " said Uncle William, closing the kitchen door behind him. 

"Is he very bad?" John asked in an anxious voice. 

"I'm afeard so, " Uncle William replied. 

John went towards the staircase, but his uncle called him back. "Betternot go up yet awhile, " he said. "The doctor'll be down soon, mebbe, andhe'll tell you whether you can go up or not. "

"Very well, " John murmured, coming back into the kitchen and sittingdown beside the fire. 

"It come on all of a sudden just before bedtime, " Uncle William wenton, "He wasn't looking too grand all the morning, as you know, but wenever thought much of it. He never was strong, and he hasn't thestrength to fight against his disease. If he dies, I'll be the last ofthe three brothers. Death's a strange thing, John. Your da was thecleverest and the wisest of us all, and he was the first to go; and nowyour Uncle Matthew, that's wise in his way, and has a great amount ofknowledge in his head, is going too . . . The second of us . . . And I'mleft, the one that could be easiest spared. It's queer to take the bestone first and leave the worst 'til the last. You'd near think God had agrudge against the world!. . . What were you doing in Belfast the day?"

"I went to the theatre. "

"Aye. What did you see?"

"I saw _Romeo and Juliet_ in the middle of the day, and _JuliusCaesar_ at night!" John answered. "Is my Uncle Matthew unconscious?"

"No. He has all his senses about him. He knows well he's dying. Did henever speak to you about that?"

John shook his head. "I couldn't bear it if he did. Does he mind, d'youthink?"

"No, he does not. Why should he mind? It's us that's left behind that'sto be pitied, not them that goes. I can't make out the people of thesedays, the way they pity the dead and dying, when it's the living's tobe pitied. Did you like the plays, John?"

John roused himself to answer. "Aye, " he said, "they were grand. Whathappened when he took bad?"

"We had just had our supper, and he started to go up the stairs, andall of a sudden he called out for your ma, and we both ran to himtogether, her and me, and the look on his face frightened me. I didn'tstop to hear what was wrong. I went off to fetch Dr. Dobbs as quick asI could move. I never saw _Julius Caesar_ myself, but I mind wellthe time I saw _Romeo and Juliet_. It was an awful long time ago, when the oul' Theatre Royal . . . Not this one, but the one before it, that was burnt down . . . And we saw _Romeo and Juliet_. That's atremendous piece, John! It gripped a hold of my heart, I can tell you, and I came away from the theatre with the tears streaming down my face. I always was a soft one, anyway. That poor young boy and his lovely weegirl tormented and tortured by people that was older nor them, buthadn't half the sense! It grips you, that play!"

"Aye, " said John. 

"You'll hardly believe me, John, but the play was so real to me thatwhen they talked about getting married, I said to myself I'd go and seethe wedding. I did by my troth!"

"Eh?" said John abstractedly. 

"I was talking about the play!. . . "

"Oh, aye, aye! Aye!"

"It sounds silly, I know, " Uncle William continued, "but it's the God'sown truth, as sure as I'm sitting here. And whenever I pass 'TheRoyal, ' I always think of _Romeo and Juliet, _ and I see that poorboy and girl stretched dead, and them ought to have been happy togetherand having fine, strong childher!"

"I wonder how he is now. Do you think I should go up now?" John said. 

"Wait 'til the doctor comes down. I have great faith in Dr. Dobbs. Henever humbugs you, that man, but tells you plump and plain what's wrongwith you!" He sat back in his chair, and for a while there was no soundin the kitchen, but the noise of the clock and the small drooping noisemade by the dying fire. There was no sound from overhead. 

Uncle William glanced at the clock. He got up and stopped the pendulum. "I can't bear the sound of it, " he said to John as he sat down again. They remained in silence for a while longer, and then Uncle William gotup and started the clock again. "Mebbe . . . Mebbe, it's better for it tobe going. " he said. 

He searched for his pipe on the mantel-shelf and, when he had found it, lit it with a coal which he picked out of the fire with the tongs. 

"Your Uncle Matthew was terribly upset by it, " he said, reverting tothe play. "It was a wild and wet night, we had to walk every inch, ofthe way, for there was no late trains in them days, John, and we weredrenched to the skin. Your Uncle Matthew never said one word to me thewhole road home. He just held his head high and stared straight infront of him, and when I looked at him, though the night was dark, Icould see that his fists were clenched and his lips were moving, thoughhe didn't speak. You never see no plays like that, these days, John. The last piece I saw in Belfast was a fearful foolish piece, with a lotof love and villainy in it. The girl was near drowned in real water, and then the villain tied her on to a circular saw, and if it hadn'tbeen for the hero coming in the nick of time, she'd have been cut intwo. No man would treat a woman that way, tying her on to a saw! I'mafeard some of these pieces nowadays are terribly foolish, John, so Inever want to go now!"

II

There was a sound of footsteps on the stairs, and presently Dr. Dobbs, a lean, stooping man, came into the kitchen, followed by Mrs. MacDermott. The Doctor nodded to John, and Mrs. MacDermott said, "You're back!" and then went into the scullery from which she soonreturned, carrying a glass with which she hurried upstairs again. 

"Your Uncle's been asking for you, John, " said the doctor, drawing onhis gloves. 

"Can I go up and see him, sir?" John asked. 

"In a minute or two. Your mother'll call for you when he's ready. I'mafraid there's not much hope, William!" the doctor said. 

John leant against the mantel-shelf, waiting to hear more. He listenedin a dazed way to what the doctor was saying, but hardly comprehendedit, for in his mind the words, "I'm afraid there's not much hope!" madeechoes and re-echoes. Uncle Matthew was dying, might, in a littlewhile, be dead. Dear, simple, honest, kindly Uncle Matthew who hadloved literature and good faith too well, and had suffered for hissimple loyalty. 

"He's easier now than he was, " the doctor continued, "and he may last agood while . . . And he may not. I _think_ he'll last a while yet, but he might die before the morning. I want you to be prepared for theworst. You know where to find me if you want me, William!"

"Yes, doctor!"

"I've left him in good hands. Your mother's a great nurse, John, " hesaid, turning to the boy. 

"Can I go up to him now, doctor?"

"Yes, I think perhaps . . . Oh, yes, I think you may. But go up quietly, will you, in case he's dozed off!. . . "

John did not wait to hear any more, but, walking on tiptoe, went up thestairs to his uncle's room. 

Uncle Matthew turned to greet him as he entered the room. 

"Is that you, John?" he said. 

"Yes, Uncle Matthew, " John answered, tiptoeing to the side of the bed. "I'm sorry I wasn't here earlier. I never thought!. . . "

Uncle Matthew smiled at him. "Sure, son, it doesn't matter. Youcouldn't know . . . None of us did. Well, was the play good?"

But John did not wish to speak about the play. He wished only to sit byhis Uncle's bed and hold his Uncle's hand. 

"I'll go downstairs now for a wee while, " Mrs. MacDermott said. "I havea few things to do, and John can call me if you need me, Matt!"

"Aye, Hannah!" said Uncle Matthew. 

John looked up at his mother, but she had turned to leave the room, andhe could not see her face. 

He had never heard her call his Uncle by the name of "Matt" before, norhad he often heard Uncle Matthew use her Christian name in addressingher. He avoided it, John had observed, as much as possible, and it hadseemed to him that his Uncle did so because of his mother's antagonismto him. 

"What are you staring at, John?" Uncle Matthew said feebly. 

"She called you 'Matt', Uncle!"

"That's my name, " Uncle Matthew replied, smiling at his nephew. 

"Aye, but!. . . "

"She used to call me 'Matt' before she was married, and for a wee whileafterwards, when we were all friends together. Your da's death was afearful blow to her, and she never overed it. And she thought I was abad influence on you, filling your head with stuff out of books. Yousee, John, women are not like men . . . They don't value things the waywe do . . . And things that seem important to us, aren't worth a flip ofyour hand to them. And the other way round, I suppose. But a womancan't be bitter against a sick man, no matter how much she hated himwhen he had his health. That's where we have the whiphand of them, John. They can't stand against us when we're sick, but we can stand upagainst anything, well or sick!. . . "

John remembered his mother's caution that he was not to let his Uncletalk much. 

"You ought to lie still, Uncle Matthew, " he said, but Uncle Matthewwould not heed him. 

"I'm as well as I'll ever be. " he said. "I know rightly I'll neverleave this bed 'til I'm carried out of it for good and all. And I'm notgoing to deny myself the pleasure of a talk for the sake of an extraday or two!. . . "

"Wheesht, Uncle Matthew!" John begged. 

"Why, son, what's there to cry about? I'm not afeard to die. NoMacDermott was ever afeard to die, and _I_ won't be the first togive in. Oh, dear, no!"

"But you'll get better, Uncle Matthew, you will, if you'll only takecare of yourself!. . . "

"Ah, quit blethering John. I won't get better!. . . What were we saying?Something about your ma!. . . "

"Yes. Her calling you 'Matt'!"

"Oh, aye. You'd be surprised, mebbe, to hear that your Uncle Williamand me both had a notion of her before your da stepped in and took herfrom us? We had no chance against him. That man could have lifted aqueen from a king's bed!. . . "

"You ought not to be talking so much, Uncle Matthew!"

"Ah, let me talk, John. It's the only comfort I have, and I'll get allthe rest I want by and bye. Was it a girl kept you late the night?"

"How did you know, Uncle Matthew?"

"How did I know!" Uncle Matthew said with raillery. "How would anyoneknow anything but by using the bit of wit the Almighty God's put in hishead. What is it makes any lad lose his train, and walk miles in thedark? It's either women or drink . . . And you're no drinker, John. Tellme about her. I'd like to be the first to know!"

"I only met her the day!. . . "

"Aye?"

"I hardly know her yet . . . But she's lovely!"

"Go on . . . Go on!"

"I took her to the theatre with me to see _Julius Caesar_ and thenI left her home. She lives up near the Lagan . . . Out Stranmillisway!. . . "

"I know it well, " said Uncle Matthew. "Is she a fair girl or a darkgirl?"

"She has the loveliest golden hair you ever clapped your eyes on. Itwas that made me fall in love with her!. . . "

"You're in love with her then! You're not just going with her?"

"Of course I'm in love with her. I never was in the habit of just goingwith girls. That's all right, mebbe, for Willie Logan, but I'm not fondof it, " said John indignantly. 

"You fell in love with her in a terrible great hurry, " Uncle Matthewexclaimed. 

"Aye, " said John laughing. "It was queer and comic the way I fell inlove with her, for I had no notion of such a thing when I went in theshop to have my tea. She's in a restaurant off High Street. I'd been tothe Royal to see _Romeo and Juliet_, and I was full of the playand just wandering about, not thinking of what I was doing, when all ofa sudden I saw this place fornent my eyes, and I just went in, and shewas there by her lone. The woman that keeps the place had gone homewith a sore head, and left her to look after it!"

"What's her name?"

"Maggie Carmichael. It's a nice name. They don't do much trade on aSaturday, and her and me were alone in the shop by ourselves so I askedher to have tea with me, and then I asked her to go to the Royal, andshe agreed after a while, and when it was over, I took her home, andthat's why I missed the train and had to tramp it the whole way home. She's older nor I am. She says she's twenty-two. She was codding me fornever having kissed any other girl but her!. . . "

"You got that length, did you?"

"Aye, " said John in confusion. 

"You're like your da. Take what you want, the minute you want it. She'll think you're in earnest, John!"

"I am in earnest. I couldn't be any other way. How could a man feelabout a woman, the way I feel about her, and not be in earnest?"

"As easy as winking, " said Uncle Matthew. "You'll mebbe be in love ahundred times before you marry, and every time you'll think it's theright one at last. There's no law in love, John. You can't say aboutit, that you've got to know a woman well before you're safe in marryingher, nor you can't just shut your eyes and grab hold of the first onethat comes to your hand. There's no law, John . . . None at all. It's anadventure, love. That's what it is. You don't know what lies at the endof your journey . . . And you can't know . . . And mebbe when you reach theend, you don't know. You just have to take your chance, and trust toGod it'll be all right! Is she in love with you?"

"I don't know. I don't suppose so. She made fun of me, so I suppose shecan't be. But she said she liked me. "

"Making fun of you is nothing to go by. Some women would make fun ofGod Almighty, and think no harm of it. You'll soon know whether she'sin love with you or not, my son!"

"How will I, Uncle Matthew?"

"When she begins to treat you as if you were her property. That's asure and certain sign. The minute a woman looks at a man as much as tosay, 'That fellow belongs to me, ' she's in love with him, as sure asdeath. Anyway, she's going to marry him! Boys-a-boys, John, but you'rethe lucky lad with all your youth and health in front of you, andyou setting out in the world. Many's the time I've longed at nightsto be lying snug and comfortable and quiet in a woman's arms, butI never had that pleasure. Whatever you do, John, don't die an unmarriedman like your Uncle William and me. It's better to live with a crosssour-natured woman nor it is to live with no woman at all; for even theworst woman in the world has given a wee while of happiness to her man, and he always has that in his mind to comfort him however bad she turnsout after. And if she is bad, sure you can run away from her!"

"Run away from her! You'd never advocate the like of that, UncleMatthew?"

"I would. I'm a dying man, John, and mebbe I'll be dead by the morrow'smorn, so you may be sure I'm saying things now that I mean with all myheart, for no man wants to go before his God with lies on his lips. AndI tell you now, boy, that if a man and woman are not happy together, they ought to separate and go away from each other as far as they canget, no matter what the cost is. Them's my solemn words, John. I'd likewell to see this girl you're after, but I'll mebbe not be able. Nomatter for that. Pay heed to me now, for fear I don't get theopportunity to say it to you again. Whatever adventures you set out on, never forget they're only adventures, and if one turns out to be bad, another'll mebbe turn out to be good. Don't be like me, don't let onething affect your life for ever!. . . " He lay back on his pillow for afew moments and did not speak. John waited a little while, and then heleant forward. "Will I fetch my ma?" he asked. 

Uncle Matthew shook his head and waved feebly with his hand, and Johnsat back again in his chair. 

"Life's just balancing one adventure against another, " Uncle Matthewsaid at last, without raising his head from the pillow. "The goodagainst the bad. And the happy man is him that can set off a lot ofgood adventures against bad ones, and have a balance of good ones inhis favour. But it takes courage to have a lot, John. The Jenny-joes ofthe world never try again after the first bad one. I . . . I wasstaggered that time . . . I . . . I never got my foothold again. Thebalance is against me, John!. . . "

Mrs. MacDermott came into the room. 

"It's time you went to your bed, son, " she said, "and your Uncle'llwant to get to sleep, mebbe. Are you all right, Matt?"

"I'm nicely, thank you, Hannah!"

John got up from his seat and said "Good-night!" to his Uncle. 

"Good-night, John. Mind well what I've said to you!"

"I will, Uncle Matthew!"

"Good-night, son, dear!" said Uncle Matthew, smiling at him. 

III

In the morning, Uncle Matthew was better than he had been during thenight, and Dr. Dobbs, when he called to see him, thought that he wouldlive for several weeks more. John went down to the kitchen from hisUncle's room, happy at the thought that his Uncle might recover inspite of the doctor's statement that death was inevitable within ashort time. Doctors, he told himself, had made many mistakes, andperhaps Dr. Dobbs was making a mistake about Uncle Matthew. 

He had lain late, heavy with fatigue, for Mrs. MacDermott had notcalled him at his usual hour and so the morning was well advanced whenhe came down. 

"There's a letter for you, " said Uncle William, pointing to themantel-shelf, where a foolscap envelope rested against the clock. "It'llbe about the story, I'm thinking!"

John took the letter in his trembling fingers and tore it open. 

"They've sent it back, " he said in a low tone. 

"There'll be a note with it, " Uncle William murmured. 

"Yes!. . . " He straightened out the printed note and read it. "They'vedeclined it, " he said. 

"They've what?" Uncle William exclaimed, taking the printed slip fromJohn's hands. He read the note of rejection through several times. 

"What does it say?" Mrs. MacDermott asked. 

"It's a queer kind of a note, this!" said Uncle William. "You'd thinkthe man was breaking his heart at the idea of not printing the story. He doesn't say anything about it, whether it's good or bad. He justthanks John for sending it to him and says he's sorry he can't acceptit. If he's so sorry as all that, why the hell doesn't he print it?"

"William!" said Mrs. MacDermott sharply. "This is Sunday!"

"Well, dear knows I don't want to desecrate God's Day, " Uncle Williamanswered, accepting the rebuke, "but that is a lamentable letter toget. I must say!"

Mrs. MacDermott held her hand out for the letter. "Give it to me, " shesaid, and she took it from Uncle William. 

"This is his way of saying your story's no good, John, " she said, whenshe had read through the note. "No man would refuse a thing if hethought it was worth printing!"

Her words hurt John very sorely. He looked at her, but he did notspeak, and then, after a moment or two, he turned away. 

"Now, now, that's not right at all, " Uncle William said comfortingly. "There might be a thousand things to prevent the man from printing thestory. Mebbe he doesn't know a good story when he sees it. Sure, halfthese papers nowadays print stories that would turn a child's stomach, and a thing's not bad just because one paper won't take it. There'sother magazines besides _Blackwood's_, John, as good, too, andmebbe better!" He went over to his nephew and put his hand on the boy'sshoulder. "There, there, now, don't let this upset you! Your UncleMatthew was telling me the other day that some of the greatest writersin the world had their best stories refused time after time. Don't loseheart over a thing like that!"

"I haven't lost heart, Uncle William. I daresay it isn't as good as Ithought it was, but I'll improve. It wasn't to be expected I'd succeedthe first time!"

"That's the spirit, boy. That's the spirit!"

"Only I'm disappointed all the same. It's likely I don't know enoughyet!"

"Oh, that's very likely, " said Uncle William. "You're only a youngfellow yet, you know!"

"Mebbe that story of mine is full of ignorant mistakes I wouldn't havemade if I'd been about the world a bit and seen more!"

"I daresay you're right! I daresay you're right!. . . "

Mrs. MacDermott came between them. "What are you leading up to?" shedemanded. 

"I must travel a bit before I start writing things, " John answered. "Imust know more and see more. My Uncle Matthew's right. You have to goout into the world to get adventure and romance!. . . "

"Can't you get all the adventure and romance you need in this place, and not go tramping among strangers and foreigners for it?" Mrs. MacDermott retorted angrily. 

"How can I get adventure and romance in a place where I knoweverybody?" John rejoined. 

"Are you proposing to leave home, John!" Uncle William asked. 

"Aye! For a while anyway, " John answered, "I'll go to London!. . . "

"You'll not go to no London, " Mrs. MacDermott retorted, "and yourUncle, Matthew lying on his deathbed!. . . "

"I'm not proposing to go this minute, ma!. . . "

"You'll not go at all, " she insisted. 

"I will!"

"You will not, I tell you. What would a lump of a lad like you do in aplace of that sort, where there's temptation and sin at every corner!Doesn't everyone know that the Devil's roaming up and down the streetsof London day and night, luring young men to their ruin? There's badwomen in London!. . . "

"There's bad women everywhere, " John replied. "You don't need to beyour age to know that!"

She listened angrily while John explained his point of view to hisUncle William. Travel and new experiences were necessary to thedevelopment of his mind. 

"Don't you go up to Belfast every week!" Mrs. MacDermott interrupted. 

"I was in Belfast yesterday, " John retorted, "but there wasn't a thinghappened to me, romantic or anything else!. . . " He stopped abruptly, smitten by the recollection of his meeting with Maggie Carmichael. After all, _that_ was a romantic adventure! Most strange that hehad not thought of his love affair in that way before! Of course, itwas a romantic adventure! He had walked straight out of a dull street, you might say, into an enchanted cafe . . . And had found Maggie incaptivity, waiting for him to deliver her from it. She had beenlonely . . . And he had come to comfort her. He had taken her from thatdull, cheerless . . . Prison . . . You could call it that!. . . And had takenher to a pleasant place and made love to her! Oh, but of course it was aromantic adventure, with love and a beautiful golden-haired girl at theend of it. And here he was, moping over the misadventure of amanuscript and talking of travel in distant places in search ofexciting experiences as if he had not already had the most thrillingand wonderful adventure that is possible to a man! Why, if he were toleave Ballyards and go to London, he would lose Maggie . . . Would notsee her again!. . . By the Holy O, his mother was right after all! Women_were_ right sometimes! There was plenty of romance and adventurelying at your hand, if you only took the trouble to look for it. Mebbe. . . Mebbe a thing was romantic or not romantic, just according tothe way you looked at it. One man could see romance in a grocer's shop, and another man could not see romance anywhere but in places where hehad never been!. . . 

"Mebbe you're right, ma, " he said. 

Mrs. MacDermott looked suspiciously at him. "You changed your mind veryquick, " she said. 

"I always change my mind quick, " he replied. 

They heard the noise of tapping overhead. 

"That's your Uncle Matthew, " said Mrs. MacDermott, rising from herchair. 

"I'll go, " John exclaimed hastily. "It's mebbe me he wants!"

He ran quickly up the stairs and entered his Uncle's room. 

"Yes, Uncle Matthew?" he said. 

"I heard you all talking together, " Uncle Matthew answered. "What'shappened?"

"Oh, nothing! My story's been refused. That's all. "

Uncle Matthew put out his hand and took hold of John's. "Are you verydisappointed?" he said. 

"Yes, I am. I made sure they'd take it!"

"There ought to have been a woman in it. You know, John, I told youthat. There was no love in that story, and people like to read aboutlove. That's natural. Sure, it's the beginning of everything!"

"I didn't know anything about it then, Uncle!. . . "

"No, but you do now . . . A wee bit . . . And you might have imagined it. You'd never be your father's son, if you hadn't a heart brimful oflove. What else were you talking about?"

John told his Uncle of his proposal to go to London in search ofexperience. 

"Aye, you'll have to do that some day, " his Uncle replied, "but there'sno hurry yet awhile. You'd better finish your schooling first, and youcould go on writing here 'til you get more mastery of it. You might tryto write a book, and then when it's done, you could go to London orsomewhere. I'd be sorry if you went just now!. . . "

"I'm not meaning to go yet, Uncle!"

"Very good, son. I'd like you to be here when I . . . When!. . . "

He did not finish his sentence, but the pressure of his hand on John'sincreased. 

"Eh, John?" he said. 

"Yes, Uncle Matthew!" John replied. He quickly changed theconversation. "You're looking a lot better, " he said. 

Uncle Matthew smiled. "Oh, aye, " he replied, "I feel a lot better, too. I'll mebbe beat the doctor yet. He thinks I'm done for, but mebbe I'llteach him different!"

"You will, indeed. And why wouldn't you? You're young yet!"

Uncle Matthew did not reply to this. He turned on his pillow andglanced towards the dressing-table. 

"Are you looking for anything?" John asked. 

"Is there a book there?"

"No, " John said. "Do you want one?"

"Your ma read a wee bit to me in the night, after you went to bed. Ithought mebbe you'd read a wee bit more to me. _Willie Reilly_, itwas. "

"I'll get it for you, " John replied, going to the door. He called tohis mother, and she told him that she had brought the book downstairswith her. 

"Wait a minute and I'll fetch it, " she said. 

She returned in a moment or two, carrying the book in her hand, andmounted half-way up the staircase to meet him. She pointed to a placein the book. "I read up to there to him in the night, " she said. Johnlooked at his mother, as he took the book from her hands, and saw howtired she looked. 

"Did you not get any sleep at all, ma?" he asked with concern. 

"I'm all right, son, " she answered. 

"No, you're not, " he insisted. "You'll just go to your bed this minuteand lie down for a while!. . . "

"And the dinner to cook and all, " she interrupted. 

"Well, after your dinner then. You'll lie down the whole afternoon. Uncle William and me'll get the tea ready, and we'll take it in turnsto look after Uncle Matthew!"

She stood on the step beneath him, looking at him with dark, tiredeyes, and then she put out her hand and touched him on the shoulder. "You'll not leave me, John?" she pleaded. 

"No, ma, " he answered. "Not for a long while yet!"

She turned away from him and went down the stairs again. 

John returned to his Uncle's room, and sat down by the side of the bed. He opened the book and began to read of Willie Reilly and his ColleenBawn. Now and then he glanced at his Uncle and wondered at thechildlike and innocent look on his face. There was a strange simplicityin his eyes . . . Not the simplicity of those who have not gotunderstanding, but of those who have a deep and unchangeable knowledgethat is very different from the knowledge of other men; and once againJohn assured himself that while Uncle Matthew's behaviour might be"quare" when compared with that of other people, yet it was not foolishbehaviour nor the behaviour of the feeble-minded: it was the conduct ofa man who responded immediately to simple and honest emotions, who didnot stop to consider questions of discretion or interest, but did thething which seemed to him to be right. 

"What are you thinking of, Uncle Matthew?" he said suddenly, puttingdown the book, for it seemed to him that his Uncle was no longerlistening. 

"I was thinking I wouldn't have missed my life for the wide world!"Uncle Matthew replied. 

"After everything?" John asked. 

"Aye, in spite of everything, " said Uncle Matthew. "There's great valuein life . . . Great value!"

John picked up the book again, but he did not begin to read, nor didUncle Matthew show any signs that he wished the reading to be resumed. 

"Our minds go this way and that way, " Uncle Matthew went on, "and someof us are not happy 'til we're away here and there!. . . "

"You were always wanting to be off after adventures yourself, UncleMatthew!"

"Aye, John, I was, and I never went. I've oftentimes thought little ofmyself for that, but I'm wondering now, lying here, whether it wasn't agreat adventure to stop at home. I don't know! I don't know! But I'llknow in a wee while! John!"

"Yes, Uncle!"

"I wouldn't change places with the King of England, at this minute, notfor all the money in the mint and my weight in gold!"

"Why, Uncle Matthew?"

"Do you know why? Because in a wee while, I'll know all there is toknow, and he'll be left here knowing no more nor the rest of you. Godis good, John. He shares out his knowledge without favour to anyone. The like of us'll know as much in the next world as the like ofthem!. . . "

IV

When the sharper anxieties concerning Uncle Matthew had subsided, John's mind was filled with thoughts of Maggie Carmichael. It seemed tohim to be impossible that any seven days in the history of the worldhad been so long in passing as the seven days which separated him fromhis next meeting with her. His work at the Ballyards National Schoollost any interest it ever had for him: the pupils seemed to be at oncethe stupidest and laziest and most aggravating children on earth. Lizzie Turley completely lost her power to add two and one together andmake three of them. Strive as he might, he could not make hercomprehend or remember that two and one, when added together, did notamount to five. There was even a dreadful day when she lost her powerto subtract. . . . Miss Gebbie, the teacher to whom he was most oftenmonitor, had always had hard, uncouth manners, but they became almostintolerable before the seven days had passed by . . . And it seemedcertain that there must be a crisis in her life and in his before theclock struck three on Friday afternoon! If she complained again, hesaid to himself, about the way in which he marked the children'sexercise books, he would tell her in very plain language what hethought of her and her big bamboo-cane. When she slapped the children, the corners of her mouth went down and her large lips tightened and acruel glint came into her eyes!. . . 

It was only during the reading half-hour that his mind was at ease inschool that week, for then he could let his thoughts roam fromBallyards to Belfast, and fill his eyes with visions of Maggie. Thedroning voices of the children, reading "Jack has got a cart and candraw sand and clay in it, " were almost soothing, and it was sufficientfor supervision, if now and then, he would call out, "Next!" The childwho was reading would instantly stop, and the child next to her wouldinstantly begin. . . . 

It seemed to him that he had the clearest impressions of MaggieCarmichael, and yet had also the vaguest impressions of her. Heremembered very distinctly that she had bright, laughing eyes, and thather hair was fair, and that she had pretty teeth: white and even. Hehad often read in books of the beauty of a woman's teeth, but he hadnever paid much attention to them. After all, what was the purpose ofteeth? To bite. It was ridiculous, he had told himself, to talk andwrite of beauty in teeth when all that mattered was whether they couldbite well or not. . . . But now, remembering the beauty of MaggieCarmichael's mouth, he saw that the writers had done well when theyinsisted on the beauty of teeth. Any sort of a good tooth would do forbiting and chewing, but there was something more than that to be saidfor good, white, even teeth. If teeth were of no value otherwise thanfor biting and chewing, false teeth were better than natural teeth!. . . And false teeth were so hideous to look at; so smug, so self-conscious. Aggie Logan had false teeth. So had Teeshie McBratney and SadieCochrane. Things with pale gums!. . . 

He had wanted to kiss Maggie Carmichael's teeth, so beautiful werethey. Just her teeth. It had been splendid to kiss her lips, but thenone always kissed lips. Men, according to the books, even kissed hairand ears and eyes. He had read recently of a man who kissed a woman onthe neck, just behind the ear; and at the time he had thought that thiswas a very queer thing to do. Love, he supposed, was responsible for athing like that. He could not account for it in any other way. Heunderstood _now_, of course. When a man loved a woman, every partof her was very dear and beautiful to him, and to kiss her neck justbehind the ear was as exquisite as to kiss her lips. No one, in any ofthe books he had read, had wished to kiss a woman's teeth. There werestill hidden joys in kissing . . . And he had discovered one of them. Hewould kiss Maggie's teeth on Saturday. He would kiss her lips, too, ofcourse, and her hair and her eyes and ears and the part of her neckthat was just behind her ear, but most of all he would kiss herteeth!. . . 

He thought that it was very strange that he should think so ardently ofkissing Maggie. He could have kissed Aggie Logan dozens of times, buthe had never had the slightest desire to kiss her. He remembered howfoolish he had thought her that night at the soiree when someoneproposed that they should play Postman's Knock. Aggie Logan had calledhim out to the lobby. There was a letter for him, she said, with threestamps on it. Three stamps! Did anyone ever hear the like of that? Andhe was to go into the lobby and give her three kisses, one after theother . . . Peck, peck, peck . . . And then it would be his turn to callfor someone, and Aggie would expect him to call for her! . . . WillieLogan had called for a girl. He had a letter for her with fifty stampson it . . . A great roar of laughter had gone up from the others whenthey heard of the amount of the postage, and Willie was thought to be adaring, desperate fellow . . . Until the superintendent of the SundaySchool said that there must be reason in all things and proposed alimit of three stamps on each letter . . . No person to be called formore than twice in succession. Willie, boisterous and very amorous, whispered to John that he did not care what limit they made . . . No onecould tell how many extra stamps you put on your letter out in thelobby. . . . 

John had not answered Aggie's call. He had contrived to get out of theschool-room without being observed, and Aggie had been obliged to callfor someone else. Kissing!. . . Kiss her!. . . Three stamps!. . . Peck, peck, _peck_!. . . 

V

Wednesday dragged itself out slowly and very reluctantly; Thursday wasworse than Wednesday; and Friday was only saved from being as bad asThursday by its nearness to Saturday. On the morrow, he would seeMaggie again. Many times during the week, he had debated with himselfas to whether he should write to her or not, but the difficulty ofknowing what to say to her, except that he loved her and was longingfor the advent of Saturday, prevented him front doing so. In any case, it would be difficult to write to her without questions from hismother, and if Maggie were to reply to him, there would be no end tothe talk from her. After all, a week was only a week. On Monday, a weekhad seemed to be an interminable period of time, but on Friday, it hadresumed the normal aspect of a week, a thing with a definite andreachable end. It was odd to observe how, as the week drew to itsclose, the intolerable things became tolerable. Miss Gebbie seemed tobe a little less inhuman on Friday than she had been on Monday, andLizzie Turley marvellously recovered her power to add two and onetogether and get the correct result. Beyond all doubt, he was in love. There could not be any other explanation of his behaviour and hispeculiar impatience. That any man should conduct himself as he had doneduring the week now ending, for any other reason than that he was inlove, was impossible. Why, he woke up in the morning, thinking ofMaggie, and he went to sleep at night, thinking of Maggie. He thoughtof her when he was at school, and he thought of her in the street, inthe shop, in the kitchen, even in his Uncle Matthew's room. When it washis turn to sit by Uncle Matthew's side, his mind, for more than halfthe time, was in Belfast with Maggie. He had read more than a hundredpages of _Willie Reilly_ to his Uncle, but he had not comprehendedone of them. He had been thinking exclusively of Maggie. 

He wondered whether he would always be in this state of absorption. Other people fell in love, as he knew, but they seemed to be able tothink of other things besides their love. Perhaps they were not so muchin love as he was! He began to see difficulties arising from this greatdevotion of his to Maggie. It would be very hard to concentrate hismind on a story if it were full of thoughts of her. He would probablyspoil any work he attempted to do, because his mind would not be on it, but away with Maggie. In none of the books he had read, had he seen anyaccount of the length of time a pair of lovers took in which to getused to each other and to adjust their affections to the ordinary needsof life. He would never cease to love Maggie, of course, but hewondered how long it would be before his mind would become capable ofthinking of Maggie and of something else at the same time . . . Or evenof thinking of something else without thinking of Maggie at all. . . . 

VI

His mother had looked dubiously at him when he talked of going toBelfast on Saturday. She said that he ought not to leave home while hisUncle Matthew was so ill, but Dr. Dobbs had given a more optimisticopinion on the sick man's condition, and so, after they had argued overthe matter, she withdrew her objection. Uncle William had insisted thatJohn ought to go up to the city for the sake of the change. The lad hadhad a hard week, what with his school work and his writing and hisattention to Uncle Matthew, and the change would be good for him. "Onlydon't miss the train this time, " he added to John. 

Maggie met him outside the theatre. He had not long to wait for her, and his heart thrilled at the sight of her as she came round Arthur'sCorner. 

"So you have come, " she said to him, as she shook hands with him. 

"Did you think I wouldn't?" he answered. 

"Oh, well, " she replied, "you never know with fellows! Some of themmakes an appointment to meet you, and you'd think from the way theytalk about it that they were dying to meet you; and then when the timecomes, you might stand at the corner 'til your feet were frozen to theground, but not a bit of them would turn up. I'd never forgive a boythat treated me that way!"

"I'm not the sort that treats a girl that way, " said John. 

"Oh, indeed you could break your word as well as the next! Many's atime I've give my word to a fellow and broke it myself, just because Ididn't feel like keeping it. But it's different for a girl nor it isfor a fellow. There's no harm in a girl disappointing a fellow. I hearthis piece at the Royal is awfully good this week. It's about a girlthat nearly gets torn to pieces by a mad lion. I don't know whether Ilike that sort of piece or not. It seems terrible silly, and it wouldbe awful if the hero come on a minute or two late and the girl was ateup fornent your eyes!"

John laughed. "There's not much danger of that, " he replied. 

There were very few people waiting outside the Pit Door, and so theywere able to secure good seats with ease. "The best of coming in thedaytime, " John said, "is you have a better chance of the front row thanyou have at night!"

She nodded her head. "But it's better at night, " she answered. "A piecenever seems real to me in the daylight. "

"Where'll we go to-night?" he said to her. 

"Oh, I can't go with you to-night again, " she exclaimed, taking achocolate from the box which he had bought for her. 

"Why?"

"I have another appointment!. . . "

"Break it, " he commanded. 

"I couldn't do that!. . . "

"Oh, yes, you could, " he insisted. "You told me yourself you'ddisappointed fellows many's a time!"

"I daresay I did, but I can't break this one, " she retorted. 

Suspicion entered his mind. "Is it with another fellow?" he asked. 

"Ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies, " she said. 

"Is it?" he demanded. 

"And what if it is?"

"I don't want you to go out with anybody else but me!"

She ate another chocolate. "Have one?" she said, passing the box tohim. He shook his head moodily. "Are you going to do what I ask or areyou not?" he said. 

"Don't be childish, " she replied. "I've promised a friend to go to aconcert to-night, and I'll have to go. That's all about it!"

"Is it a fellow?"

"Mebbe it is and mebbe it's not!" she teased. 

"You know I'm in love with you!" She laughed lightly, and he bent hishead closer to her. "Listen, Maggie, " he went on, "I know I only metyou for the first time last Saturday, but I'm terrible in love withyou. Listen! I want to marry you, Maggie!. . . "

She burst out laughing. 

"Don't make a mock of me, " he pleaded. 

She turned to look at him. "What age are you?" she demanded. 

"I'm near nineteen, " he answered. 

"And I'm twenty-two, " she retorted. "Twenty-two past, I am. Four yearsolder nor you!. . . "

"That doesn't matter, " he insisted. 

"It wouldn't if the ages was the other way round . . . You twenty-two andme nineteen!"

"It doesn't matter what way they are. It's not age that matters: it'sfeeling!"

"You'll feel different, mebbe, when you're a bit older. What wouldpeople say if I was to marry you now, after meeting you a couple oftimes, and you four years younger nor me?"

"It doesn't matter what they'd say, " he replied. "Sure, people arealways saying something!"

She ruminated! "I like going out with you well enough, and you're aqueer, nice wee fellow, but it's foolish talk to be talking of gettingmarried. What trade are you at?"

"I'm a monitor, " he answered. "I'm in my last year!. . . "

"You're still at the school, " she said. 

"I'm a monitor, " he replied, insisting on his status. 

"Och, sure that's only learning. When in the earthly world would you beable to keep a wife?"

"I'm going to write books!. . . "

"What sort of books?"

"Story books, " he said. 

"Have you writ any yet?"

"No, but I wrote a short story once!"

She looked at him admiringly. "How much did you get for it?" she asked. 

"I didn't get anything for it, " he replied. "They wouldn't take it!"

She remained silent for a few moments. Then she said, "Your prospectsaren't very bright!"

"But they'll get brighter, " he said. "They will. I tell you they will!"

"When?" she asked. 

"Some day, " he answered. 

"Some day may be a long day in coming, " she went on. "I might have towait a good while before you were able to marry me. Five or six years, mebbe, and then I'd be getting on to thirty, John. You'd better belooking out for a younger girl nor me!"

"I don't want anybody else but you, " he replied. 

VII

When the play was over, they walked arm in arm towards the restaurantwhere she was employed. "I promised Mrs. Bothwell we'd have our teathere, " Maggie said to John. "It put her in a sweet temper, the thoughtof having two customers for certain. She'll mebbe give up that place. It's not paying her well. She wasn't going to give me the time off atfirst, but I told you were my cousin up from the country for theday!. . . "

"But I'm not your cousin, " John objected. 

"That doesn't matter. Sure, you have to tell a wee bit of a lie now andagain, or you'd never get your way at all. And it saves bother andexplaining!"

They crossed High Street and were soon at the foot of the stairsleading up to Bothwell's Restaurant. "Mind, " said Maggie in a whisper, "you're my cousin!"

He did not speak, but followed her up the stairs and into therestaurant where she introduced him to a plain, stoutly-built, butcheerless woman who came from the small room into the large one as theyentered it. There was one customer in the room, but he finished his teaand departed soon after Maggie and John arrived. In a little while, sheand he were eating their meal. John politely asked Mrs. Bothwell tojoin them, but she declined. 

She sat at a neighbouring table and talked to them of the play. 

"I don't know when I was last at a theatre, " she said, "and I don'tknow when I'll go again. I always say to myself when I come away, 'Well, that's over and my money's spent and what satisfaction have Igot for it?' And when I think it all out, there doesn't seem to be anysatisfaction. You've spent your money, and the play's over, and that'sall. It seems a poor sort of return!'"

"You might say that about anything, " John said. "A football matchor . . . Or one of these nice wee cookies of yours!"

"Oh, indeed, you might, " Mrs. Bothwell admitted. "Sure, there's nopleasure in the world that's lasting, and mebbe if there were wewouldn't like it. You pay your good money for a thing, and you have ita wee while, and then it's all over, and you have to pay more money forsomething else. Or mebbe you have it a long while, only you're notcontent with it. That's the way it always is. There's very littlesatisfaction to be got out of anything. Look at the Albert Memorial!That looks solid enough, but there's people says it'll tumble to theground one of these days with the running water that's beneath it!"

Maggie took a big bite from a cookie. "Oh, now, there's satisfaction ineverything, " she said, "if you only go the right way about getting itand don't expect too much. I always say you get as much in this worldas you're able to take . . . And it's true enough. I know I take all inthe way of enjoyment that I can put my two hands on. There's no use inbeing miserable, and it's nicer to be happy!"

"You're mebbe right. " said Mrs. Bothwell. "But you can't just bemiserable or happy when you like. I can't anyway!"

"You should try, " said Maggie. 

Mrs. Bothwell went to the small room and did not return. John was gladthat her dissatisfaction with the universe did not make her obliviousof the fact that Maggie and he were content enough with each other'scompany and did not require the presence of a third party. 

He leant across the table and took hold of one of Maggie's hands. "You've not answered my question yet?" he said. 

"What question?" she said. 

"About going out with me, " he replied. 

"I'll go to the Royal with you next Saturday, " she said. 

"Ah, but for good! I mean it when I say I want to marry you!. . . "

"You're an awful wee fool, " she exclaimed, drawing her hand from hisand slapping him playfully. 

"Fool!"

"Yes. I thought at first you were having me on, but I think now you'reonly a wee fool. But I like you all the same!"

"Am I a fool for loving you?" he demanded. 

"Oh, no, not for that, but for knowing so little!"

"Marry me, Maggie, " he pleaded. 

"Wheesht, " she said, "Mrs. Bothwell will hear you!. . . "

"I don't care who hears!. . . "

"But I do, " she interrupted. "You're an awful one for not caring. You've said that more nor once to-day!" She glanced at the clock. "I'llhave to be going soon, " she said. 

"No, not yet awhile!. . . "

"But I will. I'll be late if I stop!. . . "

She began to draw on her gloves as she spoke. 

"Well, when will I see you again?" he asked. 

"Next Saturday if you like!. . . "

"Can I not see you before? I could come up to Belfast on Wednesday!. . . "

"I'm engaged on Wednesday, " she said. 

"But!"

"Och, quit butting, " she retorted. "I'll see you on Saturday and nosooner. Pay Mrs. Bothwell and come on!. . . "

VIII

She insisted on leaving him at the Junction, and he moodily watched herclimbing into a tram. She waved her hand to him as the tram drove off, and he waved his in reply. And then she was gone, and he had a sense ofloss and depression. He stared gloomily about him. What should he donow? He might go to the Opera House or to one of the music-halls or hemight just walk about the streets. . . . 

He thought of what Mrs. Bothwell had said earlier in the day. "There'svery little satisfaction in anything!"

"There's a lot in that, " he said to himself. "I'll go home, " hecontinued. "There's no pleasure in mouching round the town byyourself!"

He got into a tram and was soon at the railway station. On theplatform, a little way in front of him, he saw Willie Logan, flushedand excited, with two girls, one on either side of him. Willie had anarm round each girl's waist. 

"That fellow's getting plenty of fun anyway, " John said, as he climbedinto an empty carriage. He did not wish to join Willie's party. He knewtoo well what Willie was like: a noisy, demonstrative fellow, indiscriminately amorous. "Nearly every girl's worth kissing, " Williehad said to him on one occasion. "If you can't get your bit of fun withone woman, sure you can get it with another!"

Willie, in the carriage, would kiss one girl, John knew, and then wouldturn and kiss the other, "just to show there's no ill will. " He mighteven invite John to kiss them in turn . . . So that John might not feeluncomfortable and "out of it. " He would lie back in the carriage, hisbig face flushed and his eyes bright with pleasure, an arm round eachof his companions, and when he was not kissing them, he would bebawling out some song, or, at stations, hanging half out of the windowto chaff the porters and the station-master. "Get all you can, " hewould say, "and do without the rest!"

But John was not a promiscuist: he was a monopolist. He put the wholeof his strength into his love for one woman, and he demanded a similarsingleness of devotion from her. His mind was full of Maggie, but hefelt that she had cast him out of her mind the moment that the trambore her out of his sight. 

"I'll make her want me, " he said, tightening his fists. "I'll make herwant me 'til she's heartsore with wanting!"

THE FIFTH CHAPTER

I

Uncle Matthew died three days later. He slipped out of life withoutostentation or murmur. "The MacDermotts are not afeard to die, " he hadsaid to John at the beginning of his illness, and in that spirit he haddied. In the morning, he had asked Mrs. MacDermott to look for _DonQuixote_ in the attic and bring it to him, and she had done so. Hehad tried to read the book, but it was too heavy for him--his strengthwas swiftly going from him--and it had fallen from his hands on to thequilt and then had rolled on to the floor. 

"I can't hold it, " he murmured. 

"Will I read it to you?" she said to him. 

"Yes, if you please!" he said. 

It was a badly-bound book, printed in small, eye-tormenting type, and it was difficult to hold; but she made no complaint of thesethings, and for an hour or so, she read to Uncle Matthew. She putthe book down when his breathing denoted that he was asleep, butshe did not immediately go from the room. She sat for a time, lookingat the delicate face on the pillow, and then she picked the bookup again and began to examine it, turning the pages over slowly, reading here and reading there, and examining the illustrations closely. There was a puzzled look on her face, and the flesh, between hereyebrows was puckered and deeply lined. She put the book down onher lap and looked intently in front of her, as if she were consideringsome problem. She picked the book up again, and once more turned overthe pages and examined the pictures; but she did not appear to findany solution of her problem as she did so, for she put the book downon the dressing-table and left it there. She bent over the sleepingman for a few moments, listening to his breathing, and then she wentout of the room leaving the door ajar. 

And while she was downstairs, Uncle Matthew died. He had not wakenedfrom his sleep. He seemed to be exactly in the same position as he waswhen she left the room. He was not breathing . . . That was all. Shecalled to Uncle William, and he came quickly up the stairs. 

"Is anything wrong?" he said anxiously. 

"Matt's dead!" she replied. 

He stood still. 

"Shut the shop, " she said, "and send for John and the doctor!"

He did not move. 

She touched him on the shoulder. "Do you hear me, William?"

He started. "Aye, " he said, "I hear you right enough!"

But he still remained in the room, gazing blindly at his brother. Thenhe went over to the bed and sat down and cried. 

"Poor William!" said Mrs. MacDermott, putting her arms around him. 

II

John wrote to Maggie Carmichael to tell her of his Uncle's death. Itwould not be possible for him to keep his engagement with her on thefollowing Saturday. She sent a thinly-written note of sympathy to him, telling him that she would not expect to see him for a while because ofhis bereavement. "_You'll not be in the mood for enjoying yourself atpresent, _" she wrote, "_and I daresay you would prefer to stay athome at present. I expect you'll miss your Uncle terribly!--_"

Indeed, he did miss his Uncle terribly!

There was a strange quietness in the house before the day of theburial, which was natural, but it was maintained after Uncle Matthewhad been put in the grave where John's father lay. Uncle William'squick, loud voice became hushed and slow and sometimes inaudible, andMrs. MacDermott went about her work with few words to anyone. John hadcome on her, an hour or two before the coffin lid was screwed down, putting a book in Uncle Matthew's hands. He saw the title of it . . . _Don Quixote_ . . . And he said to her, "What are you doing, ma?"She looked up quickly and hesitated. "Nothing!" she answered, andsuddenly aware that she did not wish to be observed, he went away andleft her alone. It seemed to him afterwards that she resented hisknowledge of what she had done . . . That she looked at him sometimes asif she were forbidding him ever to speak of it . . . But she did not talkof it. She spoke as seldom as Uncle William did, and it seemed to Johnthat the voice had been carried out of the house when Uncle Matthew hadbeen carried to the graveyard. He felt that he could not endure theoppression of this silence any longer, that he must, speak to someone, and, in his search for comfort, his mind wandered in search of MaggieCarmichael with intenser devotion than he had ever experienced before. If only Uncle Matthew were alive, John could talk to him of Maggie. Uncle Matthew would listen to him. Uncle Matthew always had listened tohim. He had never shown any impatience when John had talked to him ofthis scheme and that scheme, and he would not have mocked his love forMaggie. How queer a thing it was that Uncle Matthew who had seemed tobe the least important person in the house should have so . . . Sostifled the rest of them by his death!

Uncle William, who bore the whole burden of maintaining the family, mourned for Uncle Matthew as if he had lost his support; and Mrs. MacDermott began to talk, when she talked at all, of the things thatMatt had liked. Matt liked this and Matt liked that . . . And yet she hadseemed not merely to disregard Uncle Matthew when he was alive, butactually to dislike him. Uncle Matthew must have had a stronger placein the house than any of them had imagined. John could not bear to goto the attic now, although he wished to turn over the books which werenow his. It was in the attic that Uncle Matthew had found most of hishappiness, in the company of uncomplaining, unreproachful books, andthe memory of that happiness had drawn John to the attic one day whenhe most missed his Uncle. He had handled the books very fondly, turningover pages and pausing now and then to read a passage or two . . . Andwhile he had turned the pages of an old book with faded, yellow leaves, he had found a cutting from a Belfast newspaper. It contained a reportof the police proceedings against Uncle Matthew, and it was headed, STRANGE BEHAVIOUR OF A BALLYARDS MAN!. . . John hurriedly put the bookdown and went out of the room. He had not shed a tear over UncleMatthew. He did not wish to cry over him. He felt that Uncle Matthewwould like his mourners to have dry eyes . . . But it was hard not to crywhen one read that bare, uncomprehending account of Uncle Matthew'schivalrous act. _Strange_ behaviour, the reporter named it, whenevery instinct in John demanded that it should be called _noble_behaviour. Was a man to be called a fool because his heart compelledhim to perform an act of simple loyalty?. . . _Strange behaviour_!John seized the cutting and crumpled it in his hand. Then hestraightened it out again and tore it in pieces. Were people so poor infaith and devotion that they could not recognise the nobility of whatUncle Matthew had done? And for that act of goodness, Uncle Matthew hadgone to his grave under stigma. "Poor sowl, " they said in Ballyards, "it's a merciful release for him. He was always quare in the head!"

John could not stay in the house with his memories of Uncle Matthew, and so he went for walks along the shores of the Lough, to Cubbinferryand Kirklea or turning coastwards, towards Millreagh and Holmesport;but there was no comfort to be found in these walks. He returned fromthem, tired in body, but unrested in mind. He tried to write anotherstory, but he had to put the pen and ink and paper away again, and hetold himself that he had no ability to write a story. Wherever he wentand whatever he did, the loss of Uncle Matthew pressed upon him andleft him with a sense of impotence, until at last, his nature, weary ofits own dejection, turned and demanded relief. And so he set histhoughts again on Maggie Carmichael, and each day he found himself, more and more, thinking of her until, after a while, he began to thinkonly of her. He had written to her a second time, but she had notanswered his letter. He remembered that she had protested against herincompetence as a correspondent. "I'm a poor hand at letter-writing, "she had said laughingly. She could talk easily enough, but she neverknew what to put in a letter, and anyhow it was a terrible bother towrite one. A letter would be a poor substitute for her, he toldhimself. He must see her soon. Mourning or no mourning, he would go toBelfast on the next Saturday and would see her. It would not bepossible for him to take her to a theatre, but she and he could go fora long walk or they could sit together in the restaurant and talk toeach other. This loneliness and silence was becoming unendurable: hemust get away from the atmosphere of loss and mourning into anatmosphere of life and love. Uncle Matthew would wish him to do that. He felt certain that Uncle Matthew would wish him to do that. UncleMatthew would hate to think of his nephew prowling along the roads inmisery and suffering when his whole desire had been that he should haveopportunity and satisfaction. He had bequeathed his property and hismoney "to my beloved nephew John MacDermott, " and John had been deeplymoved by the affection that glowed through the legal phraseology of thewill. It was not yet known how much money there would be, for Mr. McGonigal, the solicitor, had not completed his account of UncleMatthew's affairs; but the amount of it could not be very large. Thatwas immaterial to John. What mattered to him was that his Uncle's lovefor him had never flickered for a moment, but had shone steadily andsurely until the day of his death. 

"I never told anyone but him about Maggie, " John thought. "I'm glad Itold him . . . And I know he'd want me to go to her now!"

And so, late on Friday evening, he resolved that he would go to Belfaston the following day. He sent a short note to Maggie, addressing it tothe restaurant, in which he told her that he would call for her onSaturday. He begged that she would go for a walk with him. "_We mightgo to the Cave Hill_, " he wrote, "_and be back in plenty of timefor tea!_"

III

He crossed the Lagan in the ferry-boat, so impatient was he to getquickly to Maggie, but when he reached the restaurant, Maggie was notthere. He stood in the doorway, looking about the large room, but therewas no one present, for it was too early yet for mid-day meals. Maggiewas probably engaged in the small room at the back of the restaurantand would presently appear. It was Mrs. Bothwell who came to answer hiscall. 

"Oh, good morning!" he said, trying to keep the note of disappointmentout of his voice. 

"Good morning, " she answered. 

"It's a brave day!"

"It's not so bad, " she grudgingly admitted. 

"Is . . . Is Maggie in?" he asked. 

"In!" she exclaimed, looking at him with astonishment plain on herface. 

"Yes. Isn't she in? She's not sick or anything, is she?" he repliedanxiously. 

"Oh, dear bless you, no! She's not sick, " Mrs. Bothwell said. "Do youmean to say you don't know where she is?"

"No, I . . . I don't, Mrs. Bothwell!" There was a note of apprehension inhis voice. "I thought, she'd be here!"

"But haven't you been to the house?"

"No, " he answered. "I've just arrived from Ballyards this minute. What's wrong, Mrs. Bothwell!"

"There's nothing wrong that I know of. Only I don't understand you notknowing about it. Why aren't you at the church?"

"Church!"

"Aye. Sure, I'd be there myself only I can't leave the shop. I'm gladshe's getting a fine day for it anyway!"

John touched her on the arm. "I don't understand what you're talkingabout, Mrs. Bothwell, " he said. "What's happening!"

"Didn't you know she's being married the day on a policeman?. . . "

"Married!" he exclaimed incredulously. 

"Aye. She's been going with him this long while back, and now that he'sbeen promoted . . . They've made him a sergeant . . . They've got married. She's done well for herself. How is it you didn't know about it, andyou and her such chums together?"

"Did I hear you saying she's getting married the day?" he murmured, gazing at her in a stupefied fashion. 

"That's what. I keep on telling you, " she replied, "only you don't payno heed to me. I thought you were her cousin!. . . "

"No, I'm not her cousin, " he answered. "I was . . . I was going with her. That's all. I'm sorry to have bothered you, Mrs. Bothwell!"

"Oh, it's no bother at all. She must have been having you on, for thebanns was up at St. George's this three weeks!. . . "

"St. George's!" he repeated. 

"Aye, these three weeks. She had a fancy to be married in St. George'sChurch, for all it's a ritualistic place, and people says they're goingfast to Popery there. But I don't wonder at her, for it's quare andnice to see the wee boys in their surplices, singing the hymns!. . . "

He interrupted her. "Three weeks ago, " he said, as if calculating. "That must have been soon after I met her for the first time. I met herhere in this room, Mrs. Bothwell. I'd been to the Royal to see a play, and I came in here for my tea, and I struck up to her for I liked herlook!. . . "

"Oh, she's a nice enough looking girl is Maggie, though looks is noteverything, " Mrs. Bothwell interjected. 

"She never told me!. . . "

"Oh, well, if it comes to that, you never told her anything aboutyourself, did you?" Mrs. Bothwell demanded. "I suppose she thought youwere just a fellow out for a bit of fun, and she might as well have abit of fun, too!"

"But I wasn't out for fun, " he exclaimed. "I was in earnest!"

"That's where you made your mistake, " said Mrs. Bothwell. "I'm sorryfor you, but sure you're young enough not to take a thing like that toheart, and she's not the only girl in the world by a long chalk. By thetime you're her age, she'll have a child or two, and'll mebbe befeeling very sorry for herself . . . And you'll have the world fornentyou still! A young fellow like you isn't going to let a wee thing likethat upset you?"

"It isn't a wee thing, Mrs. Bothwell. It's a big thing, " he insisted. 

"Och, sure, everything's big looking 'til you see something bigger. Oneof these days you'll be wondering what in the earthly world made youthink twice about her!"

He turned away from her and moved towards the door, but suddenly heremembered the letter which he had written to Maggie on the previousevening. 

"Did a letter for her come this morning?" he said, turning again toMrs. Bothwell. "I wrote to her last night to tell her I was coming upthe day!"

"One did come, " she answered. "I put it in the kitchen, intending tore-address it when I had a minute to spare. I'll go and get it. Isuppose you don't want it sent on to her now?"

"No, I don't. It was only to tell her I'd meet her here!"

"Well, I'll bring it to you then. " She went into the kitchen andpresently returned, carrying John's letter in her hand. "Is this it?"she said. "It's got the Ballyards postmark on it. "

He took it from her. "Yes, that's it, " he replied, tearing it inpieces. "Could I trouble you to put it in the fire, " he said, handingthe torn paper to her. 

"It's no trouble at all, " she answered, taking the pieces from him. 

"Good morning, Mrs. Bothwell!" he said. 

"Well, good morning to you!"

He opened the door and was about to pass out of the restaurant when shespoke to him again. 

"I wouldn't let a thing like that upset me if I was you, " she said. "Sure, what's one girl more nor another girl! You'll get your pick andchoice before long. A fine fellow like you'll not go begging fornothing!"

"I'm not letting it upset me, " he said, "but it'll be the queer girlthat'll make a fool of me in a hurry!"

"That's the spirit, '"' said Mrs. Bothwell. 

IV

He walked down the stairs and into the street in a state of fury. Hehad been treated as if he were a corner-boy. 

Willie Logan, who was any girl's boy, could not have been treated socontemptuously as he, who had never cared for any other girl, had beentreated. She had married a policeman . . . _a peeler!_ She might aswell have married a soldier or a militia-man. A MacDermott had beenrejected in favour of a peeler! She had gone straight from his embracesto the embraces of a policeman . . . A common policeman. She had refusedto meet him on a Wednesday, he remembered, because, probably, she hadengaged to meet the peeler on that evening. He would be off duty then!While she was yielding her lips to John, she was actually engaged to bemarried to . . . To a policeman! By heaven!. . . 

What a good and fortunate thing it was that he had not spoken of her toanyone except to Uncle Matthew! If anyone were to know that aMacDermott had fallen in love with a girl who had preferred to marry apeeler . . . _a peeler_, mind you! . . . They would split their sideslaughing. What a humiliation! What an insufferable thing to havehappened to him! That was your love for you! That was your romance foryou! . . . Och! Och, och!! This was a lesson for him, indeed. No morelove or romance for him. Willie Logan could run after girls until thesoles dropped off his boots, but John MacDermott would let the girls dothe running after him in future. No girl would ever get the chanceagain to throw him over for . . . For a _peeler!_ If that was theirlove, they could keep their love!. . . 

He walked about the town until, after a while, he found himself at theTheatre Royal. Still raging against Maggie, he paid for a seat in thepit. He had forgotten that he was in mourning, and he remembered onlythat he was a jilted lover, a MacDermott cast aside for a policeman. Hesat through the first act of the play, without much comprehension ofits theme. Then in the middle of the second act, he heard the heroinevowing that she loved the hero, and he got up and walked out of thetheatre. 

"I could write a better play than that with one hand tied behind myback, " he said to himself. "Her and her love!"

He walked rapidly from the theatre, conscious of hunger, for he hadomitted to get a meal before going into the theatre, but he wasunwilling to forego the pleasure of starving himself as a sign of hishumiliation. He made his way towards Smithfield and stopped in front ofa bookstall. A couple of loutish lads were fingering a red-bound bookas he approached the stall, and he heard them tittering in a sneaky, furtive fashion as he drew near. The owner of the stall emerged fromthe back of his premises, and when they saw him, they hurriedly put thebook down and walked away. John glanced at it and read the title on thecover: The Art of Love by Ovid. 

"Love!" he exclaimed aloud. "Ooo-oo-oo!"

The streets were full of young men and women intent on an evening'spleasure, and as he hurried away from Smithfield Market towards therailway station, he received bright glances from girls who were willingto make friends with him. He scowled heavily at them, and when theylooked away to other men, he filled his mind with sneers and bitterthoughts. A few hours before, these young girls would have seemed tohim to be very beautiful and innocent, but now they appeared to him tobe deceitful and wicked. Each evening, he told himself, these girlscame out of their houses in search of "boys" whom they lured intolove-making, teasing and tormenting them, until at last they tired of themand sent them empty away. That was your love for you! Uncle Matthew haddreamed of romantic love, and John had set out to find it, and behold, what was it! A girl's frolic, a piece of feminine sport, in which thegirl had the fun and the boy had the humiliation and pain. Maggie couldgo from him, her lips still warm with his kisses, to her policeman . . . And take kisses from him! There might be other hoaxed lovers . . . If shehad one, why not have two or three or four . . . And his kisses mighthave meant no more to her than the kisses of half-a-dozen other men. Well, he had learned his lesson! No more love for him. . . . 

He crossed the Queen's Bridge, and when he reached the station, he cameupon Willie Logan, moodily gazing at the barriers which were not yetopen. John, undesirous of society, nodded to him and would have goneaway, but Willie suddenly caught hold of his arm. 

"I want to speak to you a minute, John!" he said thickly. 

The smell of drink drifted from him. 

"What about?" John answered sourly. 

"Come over here 'til a quiet place, " Willie said, still holding John'sarm, and drawing him to a seat at the other end of the station. "Sithere 'til the gates is open, " he added, as he sat down. 

"Is there anything up?" John demanded. 

"Aye, " Willie replied in a bewildered voice. "John, man, I'm interrible trouble!"

"Oh!"

"Sore disgrace, John. I don't know what my da and ma'll say to me atall when they hear about it. Such a thing!. . . "

"Well, what is it?"

"Do you know a wee girl called Jennie Roak?" John shook his head. "Heraunt lives in Ballyards . . . Mrs. Cleeland!. . . "

"Oh, yes. Is that her aunt?"

"Aye. Well, me an' her has been going out together for a wee whilepast, and she says now she's goin' to have a child!"

John burst into laughter. 

"What the hell are you laughing at?" Willie demanded angrily. 

"I was thinking it doesn't matter whether it's one girl or a dozenyou're after, you'll get into bother just the same!"

"Aye, but what am I to do, John? I'll have to tell the oul' fella, andhe'll be raging mad when he hears about it. He's terrible against thatsort of thing, and dear knows I'm an awful one for slipping intotrouble. I can not keep away from girls, John, and that's the God'struth of it. And I've been brought up as respectable as anybody. Jennie's in an awful state about it!"

"I daresay, " said John. 

"She says I'll have to marry her over the head of it, but sure I don'twant to get married at all . . . Not yet, anyway. I don't know what todo. I'll have to tell the oul' lad and he'll have me scalded with histongue. I suppose I'll have to marry her. It's a quare thing a fellacan't go out with a girl without getting into bother. I wish to mygoodness I had as much control over myself as you have!"

"Control!" said John. 

"Aye. You'll never get into no bother!"

"Huh!" said John. 

The barriers were opened, and Willie and John passed through on to theplatform, and presently seated themselves in a carriage. 

"This'll be a lesson to me, " said Willie, lying back against thecushions of the carriage. "Not to be running after so many girls infuture!"

John did not make any answer to him. He let his thoughts wander out ofthe carriage. He had loved Maggie Carmichael deeply, and she had servedhim badly; and Willie Logan, who treated girls in a light fashion, wascomplaining now because one girl had loved him too well. And that wasyour love for you! That was the high romantical thing of which UncleMatthew had so often spoken and dreamed. . . 

He came out of his thoughts suddenly, for Willie Logan was shaking him. 

There was a glint in Willie Logan's eye!. . . 

"I say, John, " he said, "come on into the next carriage! There's twoquare nice wee girls just got in!"

"No, " said John. 

"Ah, come on, " Willie coaxed. 

"No, " John almost shouted. 

"Well, stay behind then. I'll have the two to myself, " Willieexclaimed, climbing out of the carriage as he spoke. 

"That lad deserves all he gets, " John thought. 

V

His mother called to him as he passed through the kitchen on his way tothe attic where his Uncle Matthew's books were stored. 

"Your Uncle William's wanting a talk with you, " she said. "Mr. McGonigal's been here about the will!"

"I'll be down in a wee while, " John replied as he climbed the stairs. He wished to sit in some quiet place until he had composed his mindwhich was still disturbed. He had hoped to have the railway compartmentto himself after Willie Logan had left it, but two drovers hadhurriedly entered it as the train was moving out of the station, andtheir noisy half-drunken talk had prevented him from thinking withcomposure. Willie Logan's loud laughter, accompanied by giggles and thesound of scuffling, penetrated from the next compartment. . . . 

In the attic, there would be quietness. 

He entered the room and stood among the disordered piles of books thatlay about the floor. A mania for rearrangement had seized hold of himone day, but he had done no more than take the books from their shelvesand leave them in confused heaps. He had promised that he would makethe attic tidy again, when his mother complained of the room'sdisarray. His mind would become quiet, perhaps, if he were to spend alittle time now in replacing the books on the shelves in the order inwhich he wished them to be. He sat down on the floor and contemplatedthem. Most of these volumes, new and old, were concerned with the loveof men for women. It seemed impossible to escape from the knowledge ofthis passion in any book that one might read. Love made intrusions eveninto the history books, and bloody wars had been fought and many menhad been slain because of a woman's beauty or to gratify her whim. Evenin the Bible!. . . 

He remembered that Uncle Matthew had told him that the Song of Solomonwas a real love song or series of songs, and not, as the headlines tothe chapters insisted, an allegorical description of Christ's love forthe Church. There was a Bible lying near to his hand, and he picked itup and turned the pages until he reached the Song of Songs which iscalled Solomon's, and he hurriedly read through it as if he weresearching for sentences. 

_I am my beloved's, and my beloved is mine: he feedeth among thelilies. Thou art beautiful, O my love, as Tirzah, comely as Jerusalem, terrible as an army with banners!_

So the woman sang. Then the man, less abstract than the woman, sang inhis turn. 

_How beautiful are thy feet with shoes, O Prince's daughter: thejoints of thy thighs are like jewels, the work of the hands of acunning workman. Thy navel is like a round goblet which wanted notliquor: thy belly is like an heap of wheat set about with lilies. Thytwo breasts are like two young roes that are twins!. . . _

John glanced at the headline to this song. "It's a queer thing to callthat 'a further description of the church's graces', " he said tohimself, and then his eye searched through the verses of the song untilhe reached the line, _How fair and how pleasant art thou, O love, for delights!_. . . 

"I daresay, " he murmured to himself. "I daresay! But there's a terriblelot of misery in it, too!"

He read the whole of the last song. 

_Set me as a seal upon thine heart, as a seal upon thine arm: forlove is strong as death: jealousy is cruel as the grave: the coalsthereof are coals of fire, which hath a most vehement flame. Manywaters cannot quench love, neither can the floods drown it_. . . . 

"That's true, " he said. "That's very true! I love her just the same, for all she's treated me so bad! _Many waters cannot quench love, neither can the floods drown it. _ Oh, I wish to my God I couldforget things as easy as Willie Logan forgets them!"

He closed the Bible and put it down on the floor beside him, and satwith his hands clutching hold of his ankles. He would have to go awayfrom Ballyards. He would not be able to rest contentedly near Belfastwhere Maggie lived . . . With her peeler! He must go away from home, andthe further away he went, the better it would be. Then he might forgetabout her. Perhaps, after all, it was not true that "_many waterscannot quench love, neither can the floods drown it_. " Poets had aterrible habit of exaggerating things, and perhaps he would forget hislove for Maggie in some distant place!. . . 

There was a copy of _Romeo and Juliet_ perched on top of a pile ofbooks. "That was the cause of all my trouble, " he said, pushing it sothat it fell off the pile on to the floor at his feet. He picked it upand opened it, and as he did so, his eyes rested on Mercutio's speech, _If love be rough with you, be rough with love_. 

Comfort instantly came into his mind. 

"I will, " he said, rising from the floor. 

VI

His Uncle William was in the kitchen when he descended the stairs fromthe attic. 

"Mr. McGonigal was here this morning after you went up to Belfast, " hesaid, as John entered the kitchen. "Everything's settled up. Your UncleMatthew left you L180 and his books. It's more nor I imagined he had, though I knew well he hardly spent a copper on himself, beyond thebooks he bought. He was inclined to be an extravagant man like the restof us before that bother he got into in Belfast over the head of theoul' Queen, but he changed greatly after. The money'll be useful toyou, boy, when you start off in life!"

"I'll come into the shop with you, Uncle William, " John said, glancingtowards the scullery where his mother was. "I want to have a word ortwo with you!"

"Very good, " Uncle William replied, leading the way into the shop. 

They sat down together in the little counting-house while John told hisUncle of his desire to go away from home. 

"And where in the earthly world do you want to go to?" Uncle Williamdemanded. 

"Anywhere. London, mebbe! I'm near in the mind to go to America. Mebbe, I'll just travel the world!"

"A hundred and eighty pounds'll not carry you far, " Uncle Williamexclaimed. 

"It'll take me a good piece of the way, and if I can't earn enough totake me the rest of it, sure, what good am I?"

Uncle William shrugged his shoulders. "You must do as you please, Isuppose, but I'll miss you sore when you do go. It'll be poor pleasurefor me to live on here, with you gone and your Uncle Matthew dead!"

"I'll come back every now and then to see you, " John promised. "I'm notgoing to cut myself off from you altogether. You know that rightly. Ijust want to see a bit of the world. I . . . I want to find out things!"

"What things, John?"

"Oh . . . Everything! Whatever there is to find out!"

"I sometimes think, " said Uncle William, "you can find out all there isto find out at home, if you have enough gumption in you to find outanything at all. Have you told your ma yet?"

John shook his head. 

"It'll want a bit of telling, " Uncle William prophesied. 

"I daresay, but she'll have plenty of time to get used to it. I'm notgoing this minute. I'm going to try and do some writing at home first, 'til I get my hand in. Then when I think I know something about thejob, I'll go and see what I can make out of it. "

Uncle William sat in silence for a few moments, tapping noiselessly onthe desk with his fingers. 

"It's a pity you've no notion of the grocery, " he said. "This shop'llbe yours one of these days!"

"I haven't any fancy for it, " John replied. 

"I know you haven't. It's a pity all the same. I suppose, when I'mdead, you'll sell the shop!"

"You're in no notion of dying yet awhile, Uncle William. A hearty manlike you'll outlive us all!"

"Mebbe, but that's not the point, John. The MacDermotts have owned thisshop a powerful while, as your ma tells you many's a time. When I'mdead, you'll be the last of us . . . And you'll want to give up the shop. That's what I think's a pity. I'm with your ma over that. I suppose, though, the whole history of the world is just one record of change andalteration, and it's no use complaining. The shop'll have to go, andthe MacDermotts, too!. . . " He did not speak for a few moments, and then, in a brisker tone, he said, "Mebbe, one of the assistants'll buy itfrom you. Henry Blackwood has money saved, I know, and by the time youwant to sell it, he'll mebbe have a good bit past him. I'll drop a weehint to him that you'll be wanting to sell, so's to prepare him!"

"Very well, Uncle!" John said. 

"If you do sell the shop, make whoever buys it change the name over thedoor. If the MacDermott family is not to be in control of it, then I'dlike well for the name to be painted out altogether and the new nameput in its place. I'd hate to think of anyone pretending theMacDermotts was still here, carrying on their old trade, and them mebbenot giving as good value as we gave. The MacDermotts have queer pride, John!"

"I know they have, Uncle William. I have, too!"

"And they wouldn't lie content in their graves if they thought theirnames was associated with bad value!"

"You're taking it for granted, Uncle, I'll want to sell the shop. Mebbe, I won't. I'll mebbe not be good at anything else but thegrocery. I'm talking big now about writing books, but who knows whetherI'll ever write one!"

"Oh, you'll write one, John. You'll write plenty. You'll do it becauseyou want to do it. You've got your da's nature. When he wanted a thing, he got it, no matter who had it!"

"There was one thing he wanted, Uncle William, and wanted bad, butcouldn't get!"

"What was that, son?" Uncle William demanded. 

"He wanted to live, but he wasn't let, " John answered. 

Uncle William considered for a few moments. "Of course, " he said, "there's some things that even a MacDermott can't do!"

VII

John left his Uncle in the shop and went into the kitchen to tell hismother of his decision. He felt certain that she would oppose him, andhe braced himself to resist her appeals that he should change his mind. 

But she took his announcement very quietly. 

"I've made up my mind to go to London, ma!" he said to her. 

She did not look up immediately. Then she turned towards him, and said, "Oh, yes, John!"

He paused, nonplussed by her manner, as if he were waiting for her toproceed, but finding that she did not say any more, he continued. "Idaresay it'll upset you, " he said. 

"I'm used to being upset, " she replied, "and I expected it. When willyou be going?"

"I don't know yet. In a wee while. I'll have to speak to Mr. Cairndufffirst about quitting the school, and then I'll stay at home for a bit, writing 'til I'm the master of it. After that I'll go to London . . . Ormebbe to America!"

She sat quite still in the armchair beneath the window that overlookedthe yard. He felt that he ought to say more to her, that she ought tosay more to him, but he could not think of anything to say to her, because she had said so little to him. 

"I hope you're not upset about it, " he said. 

"Upset!" she exclaimed, with a sound of bitterness in her tone. 

"Yes. I know you never approved of the idea!"

"It doesn't make any difference whether I approve or not, does it?. . . "

"That's not a fair way to put it, ma!"

"But it amounts to that all the same, " she retorted. "No, John, I'mnot upset. What would be the good? I had other hopes for you, butthey weren't your hopes, and I daresay you're right. I daresay youare. After all, we . . . We have to . . . To do the best we can forourselves . . . Haven't we?"

"Yes, ma!"

"And if you think you can do better in London . . . Or America nor youcan in Ballyards . . . Well, you're right to . . . To go, aren't you?"

"That's what I think, ma!" John answered. 

She did not say any more, and he sat at the table, tapping on it with apencil. There was no sound in the kitchen but the ticking of the clockand the noise of the water boiling in the kettle and the little tap, tap . . . Tap, tap . . . Tap, tap, tap . . . Of his pencil on the table. Mrs. MacDermott had been hemming a handkerchief when John entered thekitchen, and as he glanced at her now, he saw that her head was bentover it again. He looked at her for a long while, it seemed to him, butshe did not raise her head to return his look. If she would only rebukehim for wishing to go . . . But this awful silence!. . . 

He looked about the kitchen, as if he were assuring himself that theold, familiar things were still in their places. He would be glad, ofcourse, to go away from home, because he wished to adventure intobigger things . . . But he would be sorry to go, too. There was somethingvery dear and friendly about the house. He had experienced much loveand care in it, and had had much happiness here. Nevertheless, he wouldbe glad to go. He needed a change, he wished to have things happeningto him. He remembered very vividly something that his Uncle Matthew hadsaid to him in this very room. "Sure, what does it matter whetheryou're happy and contented or not, so long as things are happening toyou!"

That was the right spirit. Uncle Matthew had known all the time whatwas the right life for a man to lead, even although he had never goneout into the world himself. What if Maggie Carmichael _had_treated him badly? _If love be rough with you, be rough withlove!_ Who was Maggie Carmichael anyway? One woman in a world fullof women! She was only Maggie Carmichael . . . Or Maggie whatever thepoliceman's name was! _If love be rough with you, be rough withlove!_ . . . Oh, he would, he would! There were finer women in theworld than Maggie Carmichael, and what was to prevent him from gettingthe finest woman amongst them if he wanted her. Had it not been said ofhis father that he could have taken a queen from a king's bed, liftedher clean out of a palace in face of the whole court and taken her tohis home, a happy and contented woman?. . . Well, then, what oneMacDermott could do, another MacDermott could do. . . . 

His mother got up from her chair and, putting down her hemmedhandkerchief, said, "It's time I wet the tea!"

VIII

He watched her as she went about the kitchen, making preparations forthe meal, and he wondered why it was that she did not look at him. Verycarefully she averted her eyes from him as she passed from thefireplace to the scullery; and when she had to approach the place wherehe was sitting, she did so with downcast gaze. Suddenly he knew why shewould not look at him. He knew that if she were to do so, she wouldcry, and as the knowledge came to him, a great tenderness for her arosein his heart, and he stood up and putting out his hands drew her to himand kissed her. And then she cried. Her body shook with sobs as sheclung to him, her face thrust tightly against his breast. But she didnot speak. Uncle William, coming from the shop, looked into the kitchenfor a moment, but, observing his sister's grief, went hurriedly back tothe shop. 

"Don't, ma!" John pleaded, holding her as if she were a distressedchild. 

"I can't help it, John, " she cried. "I'll be all right in a wee while, but I can't help it yet!"

After a time, she gained control of herself, and gradually her sobssubsided, and then they ceased. 

"I didn't mean to cry, " she said. 

"No, ma!"

"But I couldn't control myself any longer. I'll not give way again, John!"

She went to the scullery and returned with cups and saucers which sheput on the table. 

"Would you like some soda-bread or wheaten farls?" she asked. 

"I'll have them both, " he answered. He paused for a moment, and then, before she had time to go to the pantry, he went on. "You know, ma, I . . . I _have_ to go. I mean I . . . I _have_ to go!"

"_Have_ to go, John?"

"Yes. I . . . I _have_ to go. I was friends with a girl!. . . "

She came quickly to his side, and put her arms round his neck. Themisery had suddenly gone from her face, and there was a look ofanxiety, mingled with gratification, in her eyes. 

"That's it, is it?" she said. "Oh, I thought you were tired of yourhome. Poor son, poor son, did she not treat you well?"

"She was married this morning on a peeler, ma!"

"And you in love with her?" she exclaimed indignantly. 

"Aye, ma!"

"The woman's a fool, " said Mrs. MacDermott. "You're well rid ofher!. . . "

He saw now that there would be no further objection made by his motheragainst his going from home. As clearly as if she had said so, heunderstood that she now regarded his departure from home as apilgrimage from which in due time he would return, purged of his grief. And she was content. 

"A woman that would marry a peeler when she might marry a MacDermott, is not fit to marry a MacDermott, " she said, almost to herself. 

IX

And so, when three months later, he decided to go to London, she didnot try to hold him back. He had worked hard on a bitter novel thatwould, he imagined, fill men with amazement and women with shame, andwhen he had completed it, he bound the long, loose sheets of foolscaptogether and announced that he was now ready to go to London. Mr. Cairnduff told him of lodgings in Brixton, where an old friend of his, an Ulsterman and a journalist, was living, and Mr. McCaughan gave him avery vivid account of the perils of London life. "Bad women!" he said, ominously, "are a terrible temptation to a young fellow all by himselfin a big town!" and then, brightening a little, he remarked that heneed not tell so sensible a lad as John how to take care of himself. John had only to remember that he was a MacDermott!. . . 

But Mrs. MacDermott did not offer any advice to him. She packed histrunk and his bag on the day he was to leave Ballyards, taking care toput a Bible at the bottom of the trunk, and told him that they wereready for him. He was to travel by the night boat from Belfast toLiverpool, and it was not necessary for him to leave Ballyards untilthe evening, nor did he wish to spend more time in Belfast than wasabsolutely necessary. His Uncle and his mother were to accompany him tothe boat: Mr. McCaughan and Mr. Cairnduff would say good-bye to him atBallyards station. Willie Logan, now safely married to his Jennie and alittle dashed in consequence of the limitations imposed upon him bymarriage, had volunteered to come to the station "and see the last of"him. There was to be a gathering of friends on the platform . . . But hewished in his heart they would allow him to go away in peace andquietness. 

It was strange, he thought, that his mother did not talk to him abouthis journey to London. He had imagined that she would have a great dealto say about it, but it was not until the day of his departure that shespoke of it to him. 

She came to him, after she had packed his trunk and bag, and said, "Come into the return room a wee minute!" and, obediently, he followedher. 

"I want to show you something, " she said in explanation. "Shut the doorbehind you!"

"Is there anything wrong, ma?" he asked, puzzled by the mystery in hermanner. 

"No, " she answered, "only I don't want the whole world to see us!"

She went to the cupboard and took out a bottle of whiskey. 

"Sit down, " she said. 

"Is that whiskey?" he asked as he seated himself. 

She nodded her head and returned to the table. 

"You're not thinking of giving me a drop, are you?" he exclaimedlaughingly. 

There was a look in her eyes that checked laughter. 

"If I had my way, " she said with great bitterness, "I'd take the menthat make this stuff and I'd drown them in it. I'd pour it down theirthroats 'til they choked!. . . " She poured a little of the whiskey into asaucer. "Give me a light, " she demanded. 

He went to the mantel-shelf and brought the box of matches from it. 

"Strike one, " she said, and added when he had done so, "Set fire to thewhiskey!"

He succeeded in making the spirit burn, and for a little while she andhe stood by the table while the cold blue flames curled out of thesaucer, wavering and spurting, until the spirit was consumed and theflame flickered and expired. 

"That's what a drunkard's inside is like, " said Mrs. MacDermott, picking up the saucer and carrying it downstairs to the scullery to bewashed. He heard the water splashing in the sink, and when he had putthe bottle of whiskey back in the cupboard, he went downstairs andwaited until she had finished. She returned to the kitchen, carryingthe washed saucer, and when she had placed it on the dresser, she tookup a Bible and brought it to him. 

"I want you to swear to me, " she said, "that you'll never taste a dropof drink as long as you live!"

"That's easy enough, " he answered. "I don't like it!"

She looked up at him in alarm. "Have you tasted it already, then?" sheasked. 

"Yes. How would I know I didn't like it if I hadn't tasted it? Thesmell of it is enough to knock you down!"

She put the Bible back on the dresser. "It doesn't matter, " she saidwhen he held out his hand for it. "Mebbe you have enough strength ofyour own to resist it. I . . . I don't always understand you, John, andI'm fearful sometimes to see you so sure of yourself. " She came to himsuddenly and swiftly, and clasped him close to her. "I love you withthe whole of my heart, son, " she said, "and I'm desperate anxious aboutyou!"

"You needn't be anxious about me, ma!" he answered. "I'm all right!"

X

The minister said, "God bless you, boy!" and patted him on theshoulder, and the schoolmaster wished him well and begged that now andthen John would write to him. Willie Logan, hot and in a hurry, enteredthe station, eager to say good-bye to him, but the stern anddisapproving eye of the minister caused him to keep in the backgrounduntil John, understanding what was in his mind, went up to him. 

"I'm sure I wish you all you can wish yourself, " Willie said veryheartily. "I wish to my God I was going with you, but sure, I'm one ofthe unlucky ones. Aggie sent her love to you, but I couldn't persuadeher to come and give it to you herself!"

"Thank you, Willie. You might tell her I'm obliged to her. "

"You never had no notion of her, John?"

"I had not, Willie. How's Jennie keeping?"

"Och, she's well enough, " he answered sulkily, "Look at the ministerthere, glaring at me as I was dirt. Sure, didn't I marry the girl, andgot intil a hell of a row over it with the oul' fella! And what's hegot to glare at? There's no need to be giving _you_ good adviceabout weemen, John, for you're well able to take care of yourself asfar as I can see, but all the same, mind what you're doing when you getinto their company or you'll mebbe get landed the same as me!. . . "

"Don't you like being married, then?"

"Ah, quit codding, " said Willie. 

 * * * * *

THE SECOND BOOK OF THE FOOLISH LOVERS

 Whoever loved that loved not at first sight. MARLOWE. 

 "Love is a perfect fever of the mind. I question if any man has been more tormented with it than myself. " JAMES BOSWELL, _in a letter to the Rev. W. J. Temple. _

THE FIRST CHAPTER

I

Mr. Cairnduff's friend, George Hinde, met John at Euston Station. Hewas a stoutly-built, red-haired man, with an Ulster accent that had notbeen impaired in any degree by twenty years of association withCocknies. "How're you!" he said, going up to John and seizing hold ofhis hand. 

"Rightly, thank you! How did you know me?" John replied, laughing andastonished. 

"That's a question and a half to ask!" Hinde exclaimed. "Wouldn't anUlsterman know another Ulsterman the minute he clapped his eyes on him?Boys O, but it's grand to listen to a Belfast voice again. Here you, "he said, turning quickly to a porter, "come here, I want you. Get thisgentleman's luggage, and bring it to that hansom there. Do you hearme?"

"Yessir, " the porter replied. 

"What have you got with you?" he went on, turning to John. 

"A trunk and a bag, " John answered. "They have my name on them. JohnMacDermott!"

"Mac what, sir?" the porter asked. 

"MacDermott. John MacDermott. Passenger from Ballyards to London, viaBelfast and Liverpool!"

"It's no good telling him about Ballyards, " Hinde interrupted. "Thepeople of this place are ignorant: they've never heard of Ballyards. Goon, now, " he said to the porter, "and get the stuff and bring it here!"

The porter hurried off to the luggage-van. "Ill only just be able toput you in the hansom, " said Hinde to John, "and start you off home, I've got to go north, tonight to write a special report of ameeting!. . . "

"What sort of a meeting?" John enquired. 

"Political. An address to Mugs by a Humbug. That's what it ought to becalled. I was looking forward to having a good crack with you thenight, but sure a newspaper man need never hope to have ten minutes tohimself. I've given Miss Squibb orders to have a good warm supper readyfor you. That's a thing the English people never think of having on aSunday night. They're afraid God 'ud send them to hell if they didn'thave cold beef for their Sunday supper. But there'll be a hot supperfor you, anyway. A man that's been travelling all night and all daywants something better nor cold beef in his inside on a cold night!"

"It's very kind of you!. . . "

"Ah, what's kind about? Aren't you an Ulsterman? You've a great accent!Man, dear, but you've a great accent! If ever you lose it I'll neverown you for a friend, and I'll get you the sack from any place you'reworking in. I'll blacken your character!. . . "

"You're a terrible cod, " said John, laughing at him. 

"Damn the cod there's about it! You listen to these Cockney fellowstalking, and then you'll understand me. It's worse nor the Dublinadenoids voice. There's no people in the earthly world talks as fine asthe Ulster people. Here's the man with your luggage!" The porterwheeled a truck, bearing John's trunk and bag, up to them as he spoke. "Is that all you have?"

"Aye, " said John. 

"And enough, too! What anybody wants with more, I never can make out, unless they're demented with the mania of owning things! That's a bitout of Walt Whitman. Ever read any of him?"

"No, " said John. 

"It's about time you begun then. Put this stuff in the hansom, willyou?" he went on to the porter, and while the porter did so, hecontinued his conversation with John. "Miss Squibb . . . That's the nameof the landlady . . . Comic name, isn't it? . . . Like a name out ofDickens . . . And she's a comic-looking woman, too . . . Hasn't got a sparesitting-room to let you have, but you can share mine 'til she has. Mybedroom's on the same floor as the sitting-room, but yours is on thefloor above. We're a rum crew in that house. There's a music-hall manand his wife on the ground-floor . . . A great character altogether . . . Cream is their name . . . And a Mr. And Mrs. Tarpey . . . But you'll seethem all for yourself. I'll be back on Tuesday night. Give this portersixpence, and the cabman's fare'll be three and sixpence, but you'dbetter give him four bob. If he tries to charge you more nor that, because you're a stranger, take his number. Good-bye, now, and don'tforget I'll be back on Tuesday night!"

He helped John into the hansom, and after giving instructions to thecabman, stood back on the pavement, smiling and waving his hand, whilethe cab, with a flourish of whip from the driver and a jingle ofharness, drove out of the station. 

"I like that man, " said John to himself, as he lay back against thecushions and gave himself up to the joy of riding in a hansom cab. 

II

The house to which John was carried was in the Brixton Road, near tothe White House public-house. Fifty years ago it had been a richmerchant's home and was almost a country house, but now, like manysimilar houses, it had fallen to a dingy estate: it was, withoutembroidery of description, a lodging-house. Miss Squibb, who opened thedoor to him, had a look of settled depression on her face that was not, as he at first imagined, due to disapproval of him, but, as he speedilydiscovered, to a deeply-rooted conviction that the rest of humanity wasengaged in a conspiracy to defraud her. She eyed the cabman with somuch suspicion that he became uneasy in his mind and deposited thetrunk and the bag in the hall in silence, nor did he make any commenton the amount of his fare. 

Miss Squibb helped John to carry the luggage to his room. Her niece, Lizzie, who usually performed such work, was spending the week-end withanother aunt in North London, so Miss Squibb said, and she was due toreturn before midnight, but Miss Squibb would expect her when she sawher. It would not surprise her to find that Lizzie did not return toher home until Monday evening. Nothing would surprise Miss Squibb. MissSquibb had long since ceased to be surprised at anything. No one hadhad more cause to feel surprised than Miss Squibb had had in the courseof her life, but now she never felt surprised at anything. Sheprophesied that a time would come when John would cease to feelsurprise at things. . . . 

She stood in the centre of his bedroom in a bent attitude, with herhands folded across her flat chest, and regarded him with large, protruding eyes. "You're Irish, aren't you?" she said, accusingly. 

"Yes, Miss Squibb, " he said, using her name with difficulty, because itcreated in him a desire to laugh. 

"Like Mr. 'Inde?"

"Inde!" he repeated blankly, and then comprehension came to him. "Oh, Mr. Hinde! Yes! Oh, yes, yes!"

"I thought so, " she continued. "You have the syme sort of talk. Funnytalk, I calls it. Wot time du want your breakfis?"

"Eight o'clock, " he said. 

"I s'pose you'll do syme as Mr. 'Inde . . . Leave it to me to get thethings for you, an' charge it up?"

"Oh, yes, " John replied. "I'll do just what Mr. Hinde does!"

He looked around the dingy room, and as he did so, he felt depressioncoming over him; but Miss Squibb misjudged his appraising glance. 

"It's a nice room, " she said, as if she were confirming his judgment onit. 

"Yes, " he said dubiously, glancing at the bed and the table and thericketty washstand. There were pictures and framed mottoes on thewalls. Over his bed was a large motto-card, framed in stained deal, bearing the word: ETERNITY; and on the opposite wall, placed so that heshould see it immediately he awoke, was a coloured picture of Daniel inthe Lions' Den, in which the lions seemed to be more dejected thanDaniel. 

"A gentleman wot used to be a lodger 'ere done that, " said Miss Squibbwhen she saw that he was looking at the picture. "'E couldn't py 'isrent an' 'e offered to pynt the bath-room, but we 'aven't got a bath-roomso 'e pynted that instead. It used to be a plyne picture 'til 'epynted it. 'E sort of livened it up a bit. Very nice gentleman 'e was, only 'e did get so 'orribly drunk. Of course, 'e was artistic!"

The drawing was out of perspective, and John remarked upon the fact, but Miss Squibb, fixing him with her protruding eyes, said that shecould not see that there was anything wrong with the picture. It wastrue, as she admitted, that if you were to look closely at the lion onthe extreme right of the picture, you would find he had two tails, orrather, one tail and the remnant of another which the artist had notcompletely obliterated. But that was a trifle. 

"Pictures ain't meant to be looked at close, " said Miss Squibb, "an'any'ow you can't expect to 'ave everythink in this world. Some people'snever satisfied without they're finding fault in things!"

John, feeling that her final sentence was a direct rebuke to himself, hurriedly looked away from the picture. 

"There's a good view from the window, " he said to console her for hisdepreciation of the picture. 

"That's wot I often says myself, " she replied. "People says it's 'ighup 'ere an' a long way to climb, but wot I says is, it's 'ealthy whenyou get 'ere, _and_ you 'ave a view. I'll leave you now, " sheconcluded. "When you've 'ad a wash, your supper'll be waitin' for you. In Mr. 'Inde's sitting-room. I expect you'll be glad to 'ave it!"

"I shall, " he replied. "I'm hungry!"

"Yes, I expect so, " she said, closing the door. 

He sat down on the bed and again looked about the room, and thedreariness of it filled him with nostalgia. He had not yet unpacked histrunk or his bag, and he felt that he must immediately carry them downthe stairs again, that he must call for a cabman and have his luggageand himself carried back to Euston Station so that he might return tohis home. The clean air of Ballyards and the bright sunlit bedroom overthe shop seemed incomparably lovely when he looked about the dingyBrixton bedroom. If this was the beginning of adventure!. . . He gazed atthe picture of Daniel in the Lions' Den, and wished that a lion wouldeat Daniel or that Daniel would eat a lion!. . . 

Then he went to the washstand and washed his face and hands, and whenhe had done so, he went downstairs and ate his supper. 

III

In the morning, there was a thump on his bedroom door, and before hehad had time to consider what he should do, the door opened and a girlentered, carrying a tray. "Eight o'clock, " she said, "an' 'ere's yourbreakfast! Aunt said you'd better 'ave it in bed 'smornin', after yourjourney!"

She set the tray down on the table so carelessly that she spilled someof the contents of the coffee-pot. 

"Aunt forgot to ask would you have tea or coffee, so she sent upcoffee. Mr. 'Inde always 'as coffee, so she thought you would, too! An'there's a 'addick. Mr. 'Inde likes 'addick. It ain't a bad fish!"

John looked at her as she arranged the table. Her abrupt entry into theroom, while he was in bed, startled him. No woman, except his mother, had ever been in his bedroom before, and it horrified him to think thatthis strange young woman could see him sitting in his nightshirt inbed. He had never in his life seen so untidy a woman as this. Her hairhad been hastily pinned together in a shapeless lump on the top of herhead, and loose ends straggled from it. Her dress was _on_ her . . . That was certain . . . But _how_ it was on her was more than hecould understand. She seemed to bristle with safety-pins!. . . 

Her total lack of shame, in the presence of a man, undressed and inbed, caused him to wonder whether she was one of the Bad Women againstwhom Mr. McCaughan had so solemnly warned him. If she, were, thewarning was hardly necessary!. . . 

"I think you got everythink?" she said briskly, glancing over the tableto see that nothing was missing. 

He saw now that, she bore some facial resemblance to Miss Squibb. Shewas not, as that lady was, ashen-hued, but her eyes, though lessprominently, bulged. This must be Lizzie!. . . 

"Who are you?" he asked, as she turned to leave the room. "Eih?"

"What's your name? I've not seen you before!"

"Naow, " she exclaimed, "I've been awy! I'm Lizzie. 'Er niece!"

She nodded her head towards the door, and he interpreted this to meanMiss Squibb. 

"Oh, yes, " he said. "She told me about you. Were you very late lastnight?"

She laughed. "Naow, " she replied, "I was very early this mornin'!"

She stood with her hand on the knob of the door. "If you want anythinkelse, " she said, "just 'oller down, the stairs for it. An' you needn't'urry to get up. I know wot travellin's like. I've travelled a bitmyself in my time. That 'addick ain't as niffy as it smells!. . . "

She closed the door behind her and he could hear her quick steps allthe way down the stairs to the ground floor. 

"That's a queer sort of woman, " he said to himself. 

As he ate his breakfast, he wondered at Lizzie's lack of embarrassmentas she stood in his bedroom and saw him lying in bed. She had behavedas coolly as if she had been in a dining-room and he had beencompletely clothed. What would his mother say if she knew that a girlhad entered his bedroom as unconcernedly as if she were entering atramcar? Never in all his life had such a thing happened to him before. He had been very conscious of his bare neck, for the collar of hisnight-shirt had come unfastened. He had tried to fasten it again, butin his desire to do so without drawing Lizzie's attention to his state, he had merely fumbled with it, and had, finally, to abandon theattempt. What astonished him was that Lizzie appeared to be totallyunaware of anything unusual in the fact that she was in the bedroom ofa strange man. She did not look like a Bad Woman . . . And surely Mr. Hinde would not live in a house where Bad Women lived!. . . PerhapsEnglishwomen were not so particular about things as Irishwomen!. . . Anyhow the haddock was good and the coffee tasted nice enough, althoughhe would much rather have had tea. 

He finished his meal, and then dressed himself and went downstairs tothe sitting-room which he was to share with Hinde. It was less drearythan the bedroom from which he had just emerged, but what brightness ithad was not due to any furnishing provided by Miss Squibb, but to agreat case full of books which occupied one side of the room. "He's asgreat a man for books as my Uncle Matthew, " John thought, examining avolume here and a volume there. He opened a book of poems by WaltWhitman. "That's the man he was telling me about last night, " he saidto himself, as he turned the pages. He read a passage aloud:

 _Come, Muse, migrate--from Greece and Ionia, Cross out, please, those immensely overpaid accounts, That matter of Troy and Achilles' wrath, and Aeneas', Odysseus' wanderings, Placard "Removed" and "To Let" on the rocks of your snowy Parnassus, Repeat at Jerusalem, place the notice high on Jaffa's gate and on Mount Moriah, The same on the walls of your German, French and Spanish castles, and Italian collections, For know a better, fresher, busier sphere, a wide, untried domain awaits, demands you_. 

"That's strange poetry, " he murmured, turning over more of the pages. "Queer stuff! I never read poetry like that before!" He began to read"The Song of the Broad Axe, " at first to himself, and then aloud:

 _What do you think endures? Do you think a great city endures? Or a teeming manufacturing State? or a prepared Constitution? or the best built steamships? Or hotels of granite and iron? or any chefs d'oeuvre of engineering, forts, armaments? Away! these are not to be cherished for themselves, They fill their hour, the dancers dance, the musicians play for them, The show passes, all does well, of course, All does very well till one flash of defiance. A great city is that which has the greatest men and women, If it be a few ragged huts, it is still the greatest city in the world. How beggarly appear arguments before a defiant deed! How the floridness of the materials of cities shrivels before a man's or woman's look!_

He re-read aloud the last four lines, and then closed the book andreplaced it on the shelf. "That man must have been terribly angry, " hesaid to himself. 

Lizzie came into the room. "I 'eard you, " she said, "syin' poetry toyourself. You're as bad as Mr. 'Inde, you are. 'E's an' awful one forsyin' poetry. Why down't you go out for a walk? You 'aven't seennothink of London yet, an' 'ere you are wystin' the mornin' syin'poetry. If I was you, now, I'd go and see the Tahr of London where theyused to be'ead people. An' the Monument, too! You can go up that forthruppence. An' the view you get! Miles an' miles an' miles! Well, youcan see the Crystal Palace anywy! I do like a view! Or if you down'tlike the Tahr of London, you could go to the Zoo. Ow, the monkeys! Ow, dear! They're so yooman, I felt quite uncomfortable. Any'ow, I shouldgo out if I was you, an' 'ave a look at London. Wot's the good ofcomin' to London if you don't 'ave a look at it!"

"I think I will, " said John. 

"I should, " Lizzie added emphatically. "I don't suppose we'll see youuntil dinner time. Seven o'clock, we 'ave it!"

"I always had my dinner in the middle of the day at home, " Johnreplied. 

"Ow, yes, in Ireland, " said Lizzie tolerantly. "But this is London. London's different from Ireland, you know. You'll find things verydiff'rent 'ere from wot they are in Ireland. I've 'eard a lot aboutIreland. Mr. 'Inde . . . 'e does go on about it. Anybody would think to'ear 'im there wasn't any other plyce in the world!. . . " She changed thesubject abruptly, speaking in a more hurried tone. "I ought reely to bedustin' this room . . . Only of course you're in it!"

John apologised to her. "I'm interfering with your work, " he murmuredin confusion. 

"Ow, no you ain't. It don't matter if it's dusted or not . . . Reely. Only Aunt goes on about it. Mr. 'Inde wouldn't notice if it was neverdusted. I think he likes dust reely. I suppose you're goin' to do somework now you're 'ere, or are you a writer, too, like Mr. 'Inde?"

"I want to be a writer, " John shyly answered. 

"Well, there's no 'arm in it, " Lizzie said, "But it ain't reg'lar. Ibelieve in reg'lar work myself. Of course, there's no 'arm in bein' awriter, but you'd be much better with a tryde or a nice business, Ishould think. Reely!"

"Oh, yes, " John murmured. "Well, I think I'll go out now!"

"Are you goin' to the Tahr, then?" "No, " he answered. "No, I hadn'tthought of that. I want to see Fleet Street!. . . "

"Fleet Street!" Lizzie exclaimed. "Wotever is there to see there. "

"Oh, I don't know. I want to see it. That's all!"

"You 'ave got funny tyste. I should, 'ave thought you'd go to see theTahr reely!. . . " She broke off as she observed him moving to the door. "Mind, be back at seven sharp. I 'ate the dinner kep' 'angin' about. Idon't get no time to myself if people aren't punctual. Mr. 'Inde'sawful, 'e is. 'E don't care about no one else, 'e don't. Comes in anytime, 'e does, an' expects a 'ot dinner just the syme. Never thinksnobody else never wants to go nowhere!. . . "

"I'll be back in time, " said John, hurrying from the room. 

"Well, mind you are, " she called after him. 

IV

In the street, he remembered that he had forgotten to ask Lizzie totell him how to find Fleet Street, but her capacity for conversationprevented him from returning to the house to ask her. The number oftrams and 'buses of different colours bewildered him, as he stoodopposite to the White Horse, and watched them go by: and the accents ofthe conductors, when they called out their destinations, wereunintelligible to him. He heard a man shouting "Beng, Beng, Beng, Beng, Beng, BENGK!" in a voice that sounded like a quick-firing gun, but thenoise had no meaning for him. He saw names of places that were familiarto him through his reading or his talk with Uncle Matthew, painted onthe side of the trams and buses, but he could not see the name of FleetStreet among them. He turned to a policeman and asked for advice, andthe policeman put him in the care of a 'bus-conductor. 

"You 'op on top, an' I'll tell you where to git off, " the 'busconductor said, and John did as he was bid. 

He took a seat in the front of the 'bus, just behind the driver, for hehad often heard stories of the witty sayings of London 'busmen and hewas anxious to hear a 'bus-driver's wit being uttered. 

"That's a nice day, " he said, when the 'bus had gone some distance. 

The driver, red-faced, obese and sleepy-eyed, slowly turned andregarded John, and having done so, nodded his head, and turned awayagain. 

"Nice pair of horses you have, " John continued affably. 

"Yes, " the driver grunted, without looking around. 

John felt dashed by the morose manner of the driver and he remainedsilent for a few moments, but he leant forward again and said, "Iexpect you see a good deal of life on this 'bus?"

"Eih?" said the driver, glancing sharply at him. "Wot you sy?"

"I suppose you've seen a good many queer things from that seat?" Johnanswered. 

"'Ow you mean . . . Queer things?"

"Well, strange things!. . . "

The driver turned away and whipped up the horses. 

"I've never seen anythink strynge in my life, " he said. "Kimmup there!Kimmup!. . . "

"But I thought that 'bus-drivers always saw romantic things!"

"I dunno wot you're talkin' abaht. Look 'ere, young feller, are you areporter, or wot are you?"

"A reporter!"

"Yus. One of these 'ere noospyper chaps?"

"No. "

"Well, anybody'd think you was, you ast so many questions!"

John's face coloured. "I beg your pardon, " he said in confusion. "Ididn't mean to be inquisitive!"

"That's awright. No need to 'pologise. I can see you down't mean no'arm!" His manner relaxed a little, as if he would atone to John forhis former surliness. "That's the 'Orns, " he said, pointing to a largepublic-house. "Well-known 'ouse, that is. Best known 'ouse in SahthLondon, that is. Bert . . . That's the conductor . . . 'e says the White'Orse at Brixton is better-known, an' I know a chep wot says theElephant an' Castle is!. . . "

"It's mentioned in Shakespeare, " John eagerly interrupted. 

"Wot is?"

"The Elephant and Castle. In _Twelfth Night_. My Uncle, who knewShakespeare by heart, told me about it. It was a public-house in thosedays, too. But I never heard of the Horns!"

The 'bus-driver was impressed by this statement, but he would notlightly yield in the argument. "Of course, " he said, "The Elephant my'ave been well-known in them dys, and I don't sy it ain't well-known inthese dys, but I do sy thet it ain't so well-known now as wot the 'Ornsis. There ain't a music-'all chep in London wot down't know the 'Orns. Not one!"

"Shakespeare didn't know it, " John exclaimed. 

"Well, 'e didn't know everythink did 'e?" the driver retorted. "P'rapsthe 'Orns wasn't built then. I dessay not. 'E'd 'ave mentioned it if'e'd 'ave known abaht it. All these actor cheps know it, so of course'e'd 'a' known abaht it, too. We'll be at the Elephant presently. Ialways sy to Bert we 'ave the most interestin' pubs in London on thisroute, White 'Orse, the 'Orns, the Elephant an' the Ayngel. Ever 'eardof the Ayngel at Islington?"

"Yes, " said John, "That's where Paine wrote _The Rights of Man_. "

"Did 'e?" the driver answered. "Well, I dessay 'e did. It's acelebrated 'ouse, it is. Celebrated in 'istory. There's a song abahtit. You know it, down't you!. . . 

 Up and dahn the City Rowd, In at the Ayngel. . . Thet's the wy the money gows, Pop gows the weasel. 

Ever 'eard thet?"

"Oh, yes, " John replied, smiling. "I used to sing that song at home!"

"Did you nah. An' w'ere is your 'ome?"

"In Ireland!"

"Ow! Thet acahnts for it. I couldn't myke aht 'ow it was you never'eard of the 'Orns. Fency you hearin' abaht the Elephant in Ireland!"

"Well, you see, Shakespeare mentions it!. . . "

"I down't tyke much interest in 'im. 'Ere's the Elephant! Thet'sSpurgeon's Tabernacle over there!. . . "

The driver became absorbed in the business of pulling up at thestopping-place and alluring fresh passengers on to the 'bus in place ofthose who were now leaving it, and John had time to look about him. Thepublic-house was big and garish and even at this hour of the morningthe hot odour of spirits floated out of it when a door was swung open. "I don't suppose it was like that in Shakespeare's day, " he said tohimself, as he turned away and gazed at the flow of people and trafficthat passed without ceasing through the circus where the six greatroads of South London meet and cross. It seemed to him that an accidentmust happen, that these streams of carts and trams and 'buses andhurrying people must become so involved that disaster must follow. Hebecame reassured when he observed how imperturbed everyone was. Therewere moments when the whole traffic seemed to become chaotic and theroads were choked, and then as suddenly as the congestion was created, it was relieved. He felt enthralled by this wonder of traffic, of greatcrowds moving with ease through a criss-cross of confusing streets. 

"It's wonderful, " he said, leaning forward and speaking almost in awhisper to the driver. 

"Wot is?"

"All that traffic!"

"Ow, thet's nothink. We think nothink of thet owver 'ere, " the driverreplied. "We down't tyke no notice of a little lot like thet!"

The conductor rang his bell, and the driver whipped up his horses, andthe 'bus proceeded on its way. 

John remembered that he had not heard any witticisms from the driver. Uncle Matthew had told him that one could always depend upon a 'busmanto provide comic entertainment, but this man, although, after a while, he had become talkative enough, had not said one funny thing. He hadnot chaffed a policeman or a footpassenger or another 'busman, and nowthat they had passed away from the Elephant and Castle, hisconversation seemed to have dried up. The 'bus tooled through theNewington Butts, along the Borough High Street (past the very inn whereMr. Pickwick first met Sam Weller, although John was then unaware thathe was passing it) and under the railway bridge at St. Saviour'sCathedral Church of Southwark. 

"What's that place?" John said to the driver, pointing to theCathedral. 

"Eih? Ow, thet! Thet's a cathedral!"

"A cathedral! Hidden away like that!. . . "

A hideous railway bridge cramped St. Saviour's on one side, and hideouswarehouses and offices cramped it on the other. There was a mess ofvegetable debris lying about the Cathedral pavement, the refuse fromthe Borough Market. 

"What cathedral is it?" John demanded. 

"Southwark!" the driver replied, pronouncing it "Suth-ark. " "Suthark!"John said vaguely. "Do you mean Southwark?. . . " He pronounced the nameas it is spelt. 

"We call it Suthark!" said the driver. "Yes, thet's it, SouthwarkCathedral!. . . "

"But that's where Shakespeare used to go to church!" John exclaimed. 

"Ow!" the driver replied. 

"And look at it!. . . "

"Wot's wrong with it?" The 'bus was now rolling over London Bridge, andthe Cathedral could not be seen. 

"They've hidden it. That awful bridge!. . . "

"I down't see nothink wrong with it, " the driver interrupted. 

"Nothing wrong with it! You'd think they were ashamed of it, they'vehidden it so!"

"I down't see nothink wrong with it. Wot you gettin' so excited abaht?"

"_Shakespeare said his prayers there!_" John ejaculated. 

"Well, wot if 'e did?" the driver replied. "We down't think nothink ofCathedrals owver 'ere! We've got 'undreds of 'em!"

John sat back in his seat and stared at the driver. He was incapable ofspeaking, and the driver, busy with his horses, said no more. The 'buscrossed the river, drove along King William Street into Prince'sStreet, and stopped. The conductor climbed to the roof and called toJohn. "You chynge 'ere, " he said, beckoning him. 

"Good-morning, " John said to the driver as he rose from his seat. 

"Goo'-mornin'!" said the driver. He paused while John got out of theseat into the gangway. "You know, " he went on, "you wown't git soexcited abaht things after you bin 'ere a bit. You'll tyke things morecalm. Like me. I down't go an' lose my 'ead abaht Shykespeare!. . . "

"Good-morning, " said John. 

"Ow, goo'-mornin'!" said the driver. 

The conductor was standing on the pavement when John descended. 

"You'll get a 'bus owver there at the Mansion 'Ouse, " he said, "thet'lltyke you right into Fleet Street. Or you can walk it easy from 'ere. 'Long Cheapside, just rahnd the corner!. . . "

"Cheapside!" John said with interest. Uncle Matthew had told him thatHerrick, the poet, was born in Cheapside, and that Richard Whittington, resting in Highgate Woods, had heard Bow Bells pealing from a Cheapsidesteeple, bidding him return to be Lord Mayor of London and marry themercer's daughter. 

"Yus, Cheapside!" the conductor dully repeated. "Go 'long Cheapside, turn to the left pas' St. Paul's, and you'll be in Ludgate 'ill. Afterthet, follow your nowse! See?"

"Thank you!" said John. 

The throng of traffic seemed to be greater here than it had been atElephant and Castle, and John, confused by it, stood looking about him. "Thet's the Benk of England, thet!" the conductor hurriedly continued, pointing across the street to the low, squat, dirty-looking buildingwhich occupied the whole of one side of the street. "An' thet's theRoyal Exchynge owver there, an' this 'ere is the Mansion 'Ouse wherethe Lord Mayor lives. I can't stop to tell you no more. Ayngel, Ayngel, Ayngel! Any more for the Ayngel?. . . "

Several persons climbed on to the 'bus, and then, after attempting topersuade people, anxious to go to Charing Cross, to go to the Angel atIslington instead, the conductor rang his bell. He waved his hand infarewell to John, who smiled at him. The 'bus lumbered off, Johnwatched it roll out of sight and, when it had gone, turned to findCheapside. There was an immense pressure of people in the streets, andfor a few moments he imagined that he had wandered into the middle of aprocession. 

"Is there anything up?" he said to a lounger. 

"Up?" the man repeated in a puzzled tone. 

"Yes. All these people!. . . "

"Oh, no, " the man said, "It's always like this!"

_Always like this!_. . . 

He had never seen so many people or so much traffic before. The crowdof workmen pouring out of the shipyards in Belfast was more impressivethan this London crowd, but not so perturbing, for that was a definitecrowd, having a beginning and an end and a meaning: it was composedentirely of men engaged in a common enterprise; but this crowd had nobeginning and no end and no meaning: there was no common enterprise. Itwas an amorphous herd, and almost it frightened him. If that herd wereto become excited . . . To lose its head!. . . Hardly had the thought comeinto his mind when an accident happened. A four-wheeler cab, trundlingacross Mansion House Place towards Liverpool Street, overbalanced andfell on its side. The driver was thrown into the road, and John, imagining that he must be killed by a passing vehicle, shut his eyes sothat he might not see the horrible thing happen. . . . When he opened hiseyes again, the driver was on his feet and, assisted by policemen andsome passers-by, was freeing his horse from its harness, while twoother policemen dragged an old lady through the window of the cab andplaced her on the pavement. 

"Really, driver!" she said, "you ought to be mere careful. I shall losemy train!"

"You'd think I'd done it a-purpose to 'ear 'er, " the driver mumbled. 

And the traffic swept by on either side of the overturned cab, andthere was no confusion, no excitement, no disaster. The careless, traffic of the streets which seemed so likely to end in disorder neverended otherwise than satisfactorily. There was control over it, but thecontrol was not obtrusive. 

He felt reassured in a measure, but a sense of loneliness filledhim. He stood with his back, against the wall of a large buildingand regarded the scene. Wherever he looked there were masses of peopleand vehicles and tall buildings. Crowds and crowds of people withno common, interest save that of speedily reaching a destination. He might stand there for hours, with his back to this wall, and notsee the end of that crowd. In Belfast, at twelve o'clock on Saturdaymorning, the workmen would hurry over the bridge to their homes:a thick, black, unyielding mass of men; but at thirty minutes aftertwelve, that thick, black, seemingly solid mass would be dissolvedinto the ordinary groupings of a provincial city and there wouldbe no sign of it. This London crowd would never dissolve. The manhad told him that "it's always like this"!. . . There were nearly sevenmillions of men and women and children in London, but he did notknow one of them. He had seen George Hinde for a few moments, andhe had spoken to Miss Squibb, and to Lizzie . . . But he did not knowanyone. He was alone in this seven-million-fold herd, without a relativeor an intimate friend. He might stand at this corner for days, for weeks, on end, viewing the passersby until his eyes were sore with the sightof them, and never see one person whom he knew even slightly. InBallyards, he could not walk a dozen yards without encountering anacquaintance. In Belfast, he was certain to see someone whom he knewin the course of a day. But in this place!. . . He became horrified atthe thought that if he were suddenly to drop dead at that moment, none of the persons who would gather round his body could say whohe was. He would be carried off to a morgue and laid on a marbleslab in the hope that someone would turn up and identify him . . . Andhe might never be identified; he might be buried as "a person unknown. "He determined to keep a note of his name and address in his breast-pocket, together with a note of his mother's name and address. 

"I'm not going to run the risk of them burying me without knowing who Iam. " he murmured to himself. 

Someone jostled him roughly, and mumbling "Sorry!" hurried on. InIreland, John thought to himself, had a man jostled a stranger sorudely, he would have stopped and apologised to him and would haveasked for assurance that he had not hurt him. "I beg your pardon, sir, "he would have said. "I'm very sorry. I hope I haven't hurt you!" Butthis stranger who had roughly shoved against him, had not paused in hisrude progress. He had shouted "Sorry!" at him, but he had barely turnedhis head to do it. 

"Of course, I ought not to be standing here, blocking the way!" Johnadmitted to himself. "I wonder is London always like this, rough and ina hurry!"

He crossed the street, not without alarm, and stood by the entrance tothe Central London Railway. There were some flower-sellers sitting bythe railings, but they had no resemblance to the flower-girls of whomUncle Matthew had often told him. He glanced at them with distaste. "It's queer, " he thought, "how disappointed I am with everything!" andthen, as if he would account for his disappointment, he added, "I'mbitter. That's what's wrong with me! I'm bitter about MaggieCarmichael!"

He turned to a man who was leaning against the iron railings. "What'sdown there?" he asked, pointing to the stairs leading to the CentralLondon Railway. 

"The Toob, " said the man. 

"The what?"

"The Toob. The Tuppeny Toob. Undergrahnd Rylewy!"

"Oh, is that what you call the Tuppeny Tube?" John exclaimed, ascomprehension came to him. He had read of the Underground Railway builtin the shape of two long tubes stretching from the centre of the Cityto Shepherd's Bush, but he had imagined a much more dramatic entranceto it than this dull flight of steps. 

"But you _walk_ into it, " he exclaimed to his informant. 

"There's lifts down below, " the man replied unemotionally. 

"I thought it would be different, " John continued. 

"Different? 'Ow . . . Different?"

"Well . . . Different!"

The man spat. "I down't see wot more you could expect, " he said. "It'sthere, ain't it? Wot more du want?"

"Oh, it's there, of course . . . Only!. . . "

The man interrupted him. "Wot's a toob for?" he said. He answered hisown question. "To travel by. Well, you can travel by it. Wot more duwant?"

"But I thought it would be exciting!. . . "

"An' 'oo the 'ell wants excitement in a toob!" the man answered. 

John considered the matter for a moment or two. "I expect you'reright, " he said, and then, more briskly, added, "Yes, of course. Ofcourse, you're right. Travelling in a train would not be pleasant if itwere exciting. "

"It would not, " the man answered. 

"But it sounded such an extraordinary thing, a Tube, when I read aboutit that I expected to see something different, " John continued. 

"Well, it is an extraordinary thing, " the man said. "You walk down themsteps there, an' get into a lift, an' wot'll 'appen to you? You'll bedropped 'undreds of feet into the earth, an' when you get ta thebottom, you'll find trains runnin' by electricity. I call thatextraordinary, if you down't . . . Only I down't want to myke a songabaht it!"

John felt that he had been rebuked for an excess of enthusiasm. TheEnglishman was right about the Tube. It was a wonderful thing, morewonderful, perhaps, because of the quietness of its approach: it wouldnot be any more wonderful if people were to go about the town utteringshouts of astonishment over it, nor was it any less wonderful becausethe English people treated it as if it were an ordinary affair. 

He looked across the road at the Bank of England, devoid equally ofdignity and sensation, and then turned and looked at the RoyalExchange. A pigeon flew up from the ground and perched among thefigures carved over the portico, and as he watched it, he read theinscription beneath the figure of Justice: _The Earth is the Lord'sand the Fullness Thereof_. 

"Dear me!" he said, turning away again. 

He began to feel hungry, and he moved away to search for a place inwhich to find a meal. 

"Good-morning, " he said to the man who had instructed him concerningthe Tube. 

"Oh. Goo'-mornin'!"

V

He walked along Queen Victoria Street and, without considering what hewas doing, turned into a narrow street that ran off it at an angle ofseventy-five degrees. It was a perilous street to traverse for everybuilding in it seemed to have a crane near its roof, and every craneseemed to have a heavy bale dangling from it in mid-air; and from thenarrow pavement cellar flaps were raised so that an unwary person mightsuddenly find himself descending into deep, dark holes in the ground. The roadway was occupied by lorries, and John had to turn and cross, and cross and turn many times before he could extricate himself fromthe labyrinth into which he had so carelessly intruded. While he wascrossing the street at one point, and passing between two lorries, hefound himself in front of a coffee-house, and again aware of hishunger, he entered it. He passed to the back of the L-shaped shop, andsat down at a small marble-topped table and waited for a waitress tocome and take his order. There was a girl sitting on the other side ofthe table, but he did not observe her particularly, for her head wasbent over a letter which she was reading. He looked about him. The roomwas full of men and young women, all eating or waiting to eat, and froma corner of the room came a babble of conversation carried on by agroup of young clerks, and while John looked at them, a waitress cameto him, and said, "Yes, sir?"

He looked up at her hurriedly. "Oh, I want something to eat!" he said. She waited for him to proceed. "What have you?" he asked. She handed abill of fare to him, and he glanced through it, feeling incapable ofchoice. 

"The sausages are very nice, " the waitress suggested. 

"I'll have sausages, " he replied, thankful for the suggestion. 

"Two?"

He nodded his head. 

"Tea or coffee?"

"Tea, please. And a roll and butter!"

The waitress left him, and he sat back in his chair, and now heregarded the bent head of the girl sitting opposite to him, and as hedid so, she looked up and their eyes met. She looked away. 

"What lovely eyes she has, " John said to himself. 

She stood up as he thought this, and prepared to leave the restaurant, and he saw again that her eyes were very beautiful: blue eyes that hada dark look in them; and he said to himself that a woman who hadbeautiful eyes had everything. He wished that he had come earlier tothe restaurant or that she had come later, so that they might have satopposite to each other for a longer time. He listened while she askedthe waitress for her bill. The softness of her voice was like gentlemusic. He thought of the tiny noise of a small stream, of the song of abird heard at a distance, of leaves slightly stirring in a quiet wind, and told himself that the sound of her voice had the quality of allthese. He wondered what it was that brought her to the City of London. Perhaps she was employed in an office. Perhaps she had come up to dosome shopping. . . . She moved away, and as she did so, he saw that shehad left her letter lying on the table. He leant over and picked it up, reading the name written on the envelope: _Miss Eleanor Moore_. Hegot up and hurried after her. 

The restaurant was a narrow cramped one, and it was not easy for him tomake his way through the people who were entering or leaving it, and hefeared that he would not be able to catch up with her before she hadreached the street. Customers in that restaurant, however, had to stopat the counter to pay their bills, and so he reached her in time. 

"Excuse me, " he said. "I think you left this letter behind you. "

She looked up in a startled manner, and then, seeing the letter whichhe held out to her, smiled and said, "Oh, thank you! Thank you verymuch. I left it on the table!"

She took it from him, and put it in a pocket of her coat. 

"Thank you very much, " she said again, and turned to take her changefrom the man behind the counter. 

John stood for a moment, looking at her, and then, remembering hismanners, went back to his seat and began to eat his meal of tea andbread and butter and sausages. 

"Eleanor Moore!" he murmured to himself as he cut off a large piece ofsausage and put it into his mouth. "That's a very nice name!" Hemunched the sausage. "A very nice name, " he thought again. "Much nicerthan Maggie Carmichael. "

VI

He left the restaurant and, having enquired the way, proceeded alongCheapside towards Fleet Street. There was nothing of interest to him inCheapside, and so, in spite of its memories of Richard Whittington andRobert Herrick, he hurried out of it. He turned into St. Paul'sChurchyard, eager to see the Cathedral, but as he did so, his heartfell. The Eastern end of the Cathedral does not impress the beholder. John ought to have seen St. Paul's first from Ludgate Hill, but, comingon it from Cheapside, he could not get a proper view of it. He hadexpected to turn a corner and see before him, immense and wonderful, the great church, rich in tradition and dignity, rearing itself highabove the houses like a strong man rising up from the midst ofpigmies . . . And he had turned a corner and seen only a grimy, blackenedthing, huddled into a corner . . . Jostled almost . . . By greedy shopkeepersand warehousemen. A narrow passage, congested by carts, separated theeastern end of the cathedral from ugly buildings; a narrower passageseparated the railings of the churchyard from shops where men sold babylinen and women's blouses and kitchen ranges and buns and milk. . . . 

His Uncle Matthew had told him that the dome of St. Paul's could beseen from every part of London. "If ever you lose yourself in London, "he had said, "search the sky 'til you see the dome of St. Paul's andthen work your way towards it!" And here, in the very churchyard of theCathedral, the dome was not visible because the shop-keepers had notleft enough of room for a man to stand back and view it properly. Johnwondered whether the whole of London would disappoint him so much asSt. Paul's had done. The English seemed to have very little regard fortheir cathedrals, for they put them into cramped areas and allowedmerchants to encircle them with ugly shops and offices. In Southwark, he had seen the church where Shakespeare prayed, hidden behind ahideous railway bridge, with its pavement fouled by rotting cabbageleaves and the stinking debris of a vegetable market. And here, now, was St. Paul's surrounded by dingy, desolating houses, as if an effortwere being made to conceal the church from view. 

He hurried through the churchyard until he reached the western end ofthe Cathedral, where some of his disappointment dropped out of hismind. The great front of the church, with its wide, deep steps and itsgreat, strong pillars, black and grey from the smoke and fog of London, filled him with a sense of imperturbable dignity. Men might build theirdingy, little shops and their graceless, scrambling warehouses, and tryto crowd the Cathedral into a corner, but the great church would stillretain its dignity and strength however much they might succeed inobscuring it. He walked across the pavement, scattering the pigeons ashe did so, undecided whether to enter the Cathedral or not, until hereached the flagstone on which is chiselled the statement that "HereQueen Victoria Returned Thanks to Almighty God for the SixtiethAnniversary of Her Accession. June 22, 1897. " As he contemplated theflagstone, he forgot about the Cathedral, and remembered only his UncleMatthew. On this spot, a little, old woman had said her thankfulprayers, the little, old woman for whom his Uncle, who had never seenher, had cracked a haberdasher's window and suffered disgrace; and sheand he were dead, and the little, old lady was of no more account thanthe simple-minded man who had nearly been sent to gaol because of hisdevotion to her memory. Many times in his life, had John heard peoplespeak of "the Queen" almost in an awe-stricken fashion, until, now andthen, she seemed to him to be a legendary woman, a great creature in aheroic story, someone of whom he might dream, but of whom he mightnever hope to catch a glimpse. It startled him to think that she hadhuman qualities, that she ate and drank and slept and suffered pain andlaughed and cried like other people. She was "the Queen": she owned theBritish Empire and all that it contained. She owned white men and blackmen and yellow men and red men; she owned islands and continents anddeserts and seas; a great tract of the world belonged to her . . . Andhere he was standing on the very spot where she had sat in hercarriage, offering thanks in old quavering accents to the Almighty Godfor allowing her to reign for sixty years. The fact that he was able tostand on that very spot seemed comical to him. There ought to have beena burning bush on the place where "the Queen" had said her prayers. Uncle Matthew would have expected something of that sort . . . But therewas nothing more dramatic than this plainly-chiselled inscription. Andthe little, old woman was as dusty in her grave as Uncle Matthew was inhis. . . . 

VII

He passed down Ludgate Hill, across Ludgate Circus, into Fleet Street, turning for a few moments to look back at the Cathedral. Again, he hada sense of anger against the English people who could allow a railwaycompany to fling an ugly bridge across the foot of Ludgate Hill anddestroy the view of St. Paul's from the Circus; but he had had too manyshocks that morning to feel a deep anger then, and so, turning his backon the Cathedral, he walked up Fleet Street. He stared about him withinterest, gazing up at the names of the newspapers that were exhibitedin large letters on the fronts of the houses. The street seemed to beshouting at him, yelling out names as if it were afraid to be silent. It was a disorderly street. It seemed to straggle up the hill to theStrand, as if it had not had time to put its clothes on properly. Allalong its length, he could see, at intervals, scaffold-poles andbuilders' hoardings. Houses and offices were being altered or repairedor rebuilt. He felt that the street had been constructed for a greatgame of hide-and-seek, for the flow of the buildings was irregular:here, a house stood forward; there, a house stood back. In one of thesebays, a player might hide from a seeker!. . . Somewhere in this street, John remembered, Dr. Johnson had lived, and he tried to imagine thescene that took place on the night of misery when Oliver Goldsmith wentto the Doctor and wept over the failure of _The Good Natured Man_, and was called a ninny for his pains. But he could not make the scenecome alive because of the noise and confusion in the street. The air ofimmediacy which enveloped him made quiet imagination impossible. Hishead began to ache with the sounds that filled his ears, and he wishedthat he could escape from the shouting herd into some little soundlessplace where his mind could become easy again and free from pain. Hestared around him, glancing at the big-lettered signs over thenewspaper offices, at the omnibuses, at the crowds of men and women, and once his heart leaped into his throat as he saw a boy on a bicycle, carrying a bag stuffed with newspapers on his back, ride rapidly out ofa side street into the middle of the congested traffic as if there werenothing substantial to hinder his progress . . . And as he stared abouthim, it seemed to him that Fleet Street was on the verge of a nervousbreakdown. . . . 

"I must get out of this, " he said to himself, turning aimlessly out ofthe street. 

He found himself presently in a narrow lane, and, looking up at thesign, saw that it was called "Hanging Sword Alley. " He looked at thebye-way, a mere gutter of a street, and wondered what sort of a man hadgiven it that romantic name; and while he wondered, it seemed to himthat his mind had suddenly become illuminated. His Uncle Matthew hadhad romantic imaginings all his life about everything except the thingsthat were under his nose. He had never seen Queen Victoria, but he hadsuffered for her sake. He had never seen London, but he had declared itto be a city of romance and colour and vivid happenings. Perhaps UncleMatthew was like the man who had named this dull, grimy, narrowpassage, "Hanging Sword Alley"! Perhaps Queen Victoria was notquite . . . Not quite all that Uncle Matthew had imagined her to be. Thethought staggered him, and he felt as if he had filled his mind withtreason and sedition!. . . He could not say what Queen Victoria was, butwith his own eyes he had seen London, and London had as little ofromance in it as Hanging Sword Alley had. There were noise and scuffleand dingy distraction and mobs of little white-faced, nervous men andwomen, and a drab content with blotched beauty . . . But none of thesethings had romance in them. He had been told that London flower-girlswere pretty . . . And he had seen only coarse and unclean women, withtowsled hair. He had been told that London 'busdrivers were cheerful, witty men . . . But the driver to whom he had spoken had been surly atthe beginning and witless to the end. If Uncle Matthew had come intothis dirty bye-way, he would have seen only the name of Hanging SwordAlley, but John had seen more than the name: he had seen the inadequacyof the bye-way to the name it bore. 

"Perhaps, " he said to himself, "I can't see the romance in things. Mebbe, Uncle Matthew could see more than I can!. . . "

His head ached more severely now, and he wandered into Tudor Street. Agreat rurr-rurr came from the cellars of the houses, and glancing intothem, he could see big machines working, and he guessed that these werethe engines that printed the newspapers. The thump of the presses, asthey turned great rolls of white paper into printed sheets, seemed tobeat inside his head, causing him pain with every stroke. He pressedhis fingers, against his temples in an effort to relieve the ache, butit would not be relieved. "Oh!" he exclaimed aloud after one very sharptwinge, and then, as he spoke, he found himself before a gate and, heedless of what he was doing, he passed through it . . . And foundhimself in an oasis in a desert of noise. The harsh sounds died down, the _rurr-rurr-rurr_ of the machines ceased to trouble him, thescuffle and haste no longer offended his sense of decency. He was in aplace of cool cloisters and wide green lawns. He could see young men inwhite flannels playing tennis . . . In Ballyards it was called "bat andball" . . . And beyond the tennis-courts, he saw the shining river. 

"What place is this?" he said to a man who went by. 

"Temple Gardens!" the man replied. 

He walked about the Gardens, delighting in the quiet and the coolness. Pigeons flew down from the roof of a house and began to pick bread-crumbsalmost at his feet. There was a sweet noise of birds. . . . 

He looked at the names of the barristers painted on the doorways of thehouses, and wondered which of them were judges. He wished he could seea judge in his crimson robes and his long, curly wig, coming out of thechambers, and while he wished for this splendid spectacle, he saw abarrister in his black gown and horse-hair wig, come down a narrowpassage from the Strand and enter the doorway of one of the houses. Hewalked on into Pump Court and watched the sparrows washing themselvesin the fountain where Tom Pinch met Ruth . . . And while he watched them, his sense of loneliness returned to him. His head still ached and nowhis heart ached, too. Disappointment had come to him all day. He wasalone in a city full of people who knew nothing of him and carednothing for him. And his heart was aching. The peace of Pump Court onlyserved to make him more aware of the ache in his head. As he dipped hishand in the water of the fountain, he wished that he could go round acorner and meet Uncle William or Mr. Cairnduff or the minister or evenAggie Logan . . . Meet someone whom he knew!. . . 

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

He looked about him in an indeterminate way. Then he moved from thefountain 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 oppositeto her. He looked at her as he sat down, but she gave no sign ofrecognition. He had hoped that their encounter earlier in the day wouldhave entitled him to a smile from her, but her features remainedunrelaxed, although he knew that she was aware of him and rememberedhim. Her eyes and his had met, and he had been ready to answer hersmile with another smile, but she averted her eyes from his stare andlooked down at her plate. What eyes she had . . . Grey at one moment andblue at another as her face turned in the light! When she lookeddownwards, he could see long lashes fringing her eyelids, and when shelooked up, the changing colour of her irises and the blue tinge thatsuffused 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 pathosthat made him feel that he must instantly offer comfort to her, and hewould have done so had not her nervous reticence prevented him. Whatwould she do if he were to speak to her? There was an illustrated paperlying close to her plate. He leant across the table and, pointing tothe paper, said, "Are you using that?"

She started, and then, without a smile, said, "No, " and passed thepaper 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 topretend to be interested in it, for the girl showed no desire to offerany more than the casual civilities of one stranger to another. Hehoped that he might suddenly look up and find that she was regardinghim intently . . . She would hurriedly glance away from him with an airof pretty confusion . . . But although he looked up at her many times, henever 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 ridiculousit was of women to sit at meals with hats on!. . . He could just see awave of dark brown hair under the brim of her hat, flowing across herbroad brow. Her eyebrows were dark and level and very firm, and hethought how wonderfully the darkness of her eyebrows and her eyelidsand the pallor of her skin served to enrich the beauty of her eyes. Maggie Carmichael's eyes had had laughter in them . . . They seemedalways to be sparkling with merriment . . . But this girl's eyes hadtears in them. She might often smile, John told himself, but she wouldseldom laugh. Her air of listening for an alarm and the nervousmovement of her fingers made him imagine that a magician had changedsome swift and beautiful and timid animal into a woman. The magiciansin the _Arabian Nights_ frequently turned men and women intohounds and antelopes, but the process had been reversed with this girl:an antelope had been turned into a woman. . . . If only she would give himan opportunity of speaking to her, of making friends with her! Hesuddenly 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 tableso that it upset a spoon on to the floor with a noise that seemed loudenough to wake the dead; and as he stooped to pick it up, he pushed thepaper 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 warmflush of it spreading over his cheeks. "That was a cut, " he said tohimself, and wondered what he should do or say next. What a fool hemust appear to her! . . . It would be ridiculous to ask her to tell himthe time, for there was a large and palpable clock over her head sofixed 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 tospeak to her. She had finished her meal and he knew that in a moment ortwo she would rise and go out of the restaurant. He leant across thetable. 

"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 herface 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 mustbe looking at him and condemning him for his behaviour. He had spokento a girl who did not know him, and he had frightened her. The look ofalarm in her face was unmistakable. What must she think of him? Wouldshe ever believe that he had no wish to frighten her, that he wishedonly to be her friend, to talk to her? If he had told her that he didnot know anyone in London and was feeling miserably lonely, perhaps shewould have been kind to him . . . But what opportunity had he had to tellher anything. Well, that was the end of that! He was not likely to seeEleanor Moore again, and even if he were, he could hardly hope, aftersuch a rebuff, to win her friendship unless a miracle were tohappen . . . And he had begun to feel dubious about miracles since he hadarrived in London. Perhaps, if he were to follow her and explainmatters to her!. . . 

He hurried out of the restaurant, and stood for a moment or two on thepavement glancing up and down the street. She was turning out of thelane into Queen Victoria Street, and as he stood looking at her, sheturned 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 wasdifficult in the press of people to distinguish a single person, butfortunately the street was fairly clear of traffic, and he saw hercrossing the road near the Mansion House. He hastened after her and sawher enter a block of offices in Cornhill. He reached the door of thisbuilding in time to see her being carried out of sight in the lift. Heentered 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 tothe 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 'erselfnext 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'llgive 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 youare! Comin' 'round 'ere, annoyin' girls! I know you! I seen fellerslike 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 'opit, 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 elseI'll 'it you on the jawr, see, an' then I'll 'and you over to thepolice. 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'tmean to say no more. 'Op it. That's all. Or it'll be the worse foryou!"

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 thewell of the lift. 

"I've a good mind to break that chap's skull, " he said to himself as heturned 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'llcome again to-morrow, " he said, "and try and find her. She'll have tolisten to me. I'm really in love this time!"

He had been provided with a latch-key before leaving Miss Squibb'shouse in the morning, and, with an air of responsibility, he lethimself in. Lizzie, carrying a tray of dishes, came into the hall as heopened 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. Theygone to the Oxford now. I wish you'd seen 'em start off in theirbroom!"

"Broom?"

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

"Well, you are innercent, " she replied. "'Aven't you never 'eard of noone livin' together without bein' married?"

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

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

The bluntness of Lizzie's speech disconcerted him, and yet thesimplicity of it reassured him. He did not now feel, as he has felt inthe morning, that she was a Bad Woman; but he could not completelycomprehend her. Girls in Ballyards did not speak as she spoke. One knewthat there were Bad Women in the world and that there was much sin inlove-making, but one did not speak of it, except in shudderingwhispers. Lizzie, however, spoke of it almost as if she were talking ofthe weather. Evidently, life and habit in England were very differentfrom 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 tothink that he was living in the same house with guilty sinners, but hehad 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'llbe '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 loveto you, will it?" he said sarcastically. "You seem to have taken italready!"

She was unaware of his sarcasm. "So I 'ave, " she said. "I'll tell 'imthat 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!" Shecontemplated him for a moment. "You got nice 'air, " she said, "only itwants 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 ashe proceeded to his room. 

THE SECOND CHAPTER

I

He had gone to bed before the Creams returned from their round of themusic-halls, but in the morning, when Lizzie had removed the remnantsof his breakfast, John heard a tap on the door of the sitting-room, andon 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 Creamfrom 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 tothe wife. She'd like to meet you!" Mr. Cream said, entering thesitting-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 hadmy 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 fewmoments he began to recite a list of the things that had disappointedhim. 

"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 tohelp yourself. I've been all over the world, the wife and me, and I'veseen some of the loveliest places on earth, but London's got me. You'llbe the same. You see!" He glanced about the room, casting his eyescritically at the books. "I hear you're a writer, too?" he said, lessas an assertion than as a question. 

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

"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 brassfarthing. 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. "Isuppose 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. Creamcontinued, as they descended the stairs. "As a matter of fact, the wifeand me are in need of a new piece for the halls, and it struck me thismorning when I heard you were a writer, that mebbe you could do a piecefor 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 ajournalist, and a journalist can only work when he's excited. Put himdown to something that needs thought and care, and he's lost. And healways says he's writing a tragedy about St. Patrick and can't think ofanything else!"

John smiled, without quite understanding why he was smiling, andfollowed Mr. Cream into the ground floor sitting-room where Mrs. Creamwas 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 cannever remember Irish names somehow!"

Mrs. Cream extended a limp hand to John. "You must excuse me for notgetting up, " she said, "but I'm always very tired in the morning!"

"You see, Mac, " Mr. Cream explained, "Dolly is a very intenseactress . . . I think she's the most intense actress on the stage . . . Andshe 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 beentoo great an exertion for her, she lay back on the sofa and closed hereyes. 

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

"Oh, no, no! She's always like that. All right in the afternoon. Won'tyou, Dolly?"

Dolly waved her hand feebly. 

"Her acting takes a lot out of her, " Mr. Cream said. "Very exhaustingall that emotional work. Bound to be . . . _bound_ to be! Now, comicwork's different. I can be as comic as you like, and all that happensis I'm nicely tired about bedtime, and I sleep like a top. In fact, Imight say I sleep like two tops, for the wife's so unnerved, as youmight say, by her own acting that it takes her half the night to settledown. Nerves, my boy. That's what it is! Nerves! I tell you, Mac, oldchap, 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. Nervesall on edge. Overwrought. Terrible thing, tragedy! Isn't it, Dolly?"

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

"All right, my dear, all right. Suppose we just go up to your roomagain, 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 thatthe situation made such a solemnity necessary. 

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

"Evidently, " John answered. 

"I may as well warn you that Dolly'll make love to you when she'srecovered 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 knowyou 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 alot of satisfaction to pretend she's doing something. Lot of women likethat, Mac. Not nice women, really . . . Except Dolly, of course . . . Andyou 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 mearen't married. I'd like to be regular myself, but Dolly says she'dfeel respectable if she was married . . . And she thinks you can't betragic if you're respectable. She always says that she's at her bestwhen she feels that I've ruined her life. I daresay she's right, oldchap, only I'd like to be regular myself. As I tell her, if it's hardto be tragic when you're respectable, it's damn hard to be comic whenyou'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 thehell she'd do for gossip if we were to get married. I can't think howshe found out . . . Unless Dolly told her . . . But you can be certain ofthis, Mac, if there's a skeleton in your cupboard, Lizzie'll discoverit. Dolly's the skeleton in my cupboard. Of course, old chap, I don'twant it talked about. I wouldn't have told you anything about it, onlyI guessed that Lizzie'd told you. Not that I mind _you_ or Hindeknowing . . . You're writers . . . But music-hall people are so particularabout things of that sort. You wouldn't believe how narrow-minded andold-fashioned they are about marriage . . . Not like actors. That'sreally why I mentioned the matter. I don't want you to think I'mbragging about it or anything!"

"Oh, no, no, " said John. "No, of course not. I wouldn't dream of sayinga 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 ofmine for a play!"

"Play?"

"Yes, for me and Dolly. Why shouldn't you do one for us? The minute Iheard 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 beendoing it twice-nightly for four years . . . _The Girl Gets Left_, wecall it . . . And we want new stuff. See? We'd like a good dramaticpiece . . . 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'tgot it in me, and people aren't always in the mood for it either. Inthe 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 theaudience has had time to pull itself together. See? We'd treat theauthor very handsome if we could get hold of a good piece with a bigemotional part for the wife . . . And although I'm her husband . . . In thesight of God, anyway . . . I will say this for her, Mac, there's notanother woman on the stage . . . Ellen Terry, Mrs. Pat or Sarah Bernhardtherself . . . 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 muchabout that. I always make up my own part to a certain extent. Just giveme the bare outline: I'll do the rest. You see, I understand thepublic . . . It's a knack, of course . . . And I can always improve theauthor'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 deplume or leave the name out altogether. _Our_ audience doesn't payany attention to authors, so that won't matter. And it'll be a startfor you, Mac!"

"Oh, yes!"

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

"No, " John replied. 

"Somehow it's homely when you can call a chap Mac, somehow! Now, if youwas to do a play for us, and it went well, it'd put heart into you forsomething better. If you can find your way to the heart of a music-hallaudience, Mac, my boy, you can find your way anywhere. Now, what aboutit, 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 youhaven'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 intolaughter 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'llgive 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_ . . . Poorchap, he died of drink about six weeks ago . . . Couldn't keep away fromit . . . Signed the pledge . . . Ate sweets . . . Did everything . . . Nogood . . . Always thought out his best jokes when he was drunk . . . Well, wegave him thirty bob a week for _The Girl Gets Left_ . . . And mindyou he was an experienced chap, too . . . But Dolly and me, we've decidedyou have to pay a bit extra for classy stuff, and we'll give you twoquid a week for the piece if it suits us. Two quid a week as long asthe play runs, Mac. _The Girl Gets Left_ has been played for fouryears . . . Four years, Mac . . . All over the civilised globe. If yourpiece 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! Andall 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, thesehigh-class chaps like Barrie and Bernard Shaw, they've never had a playrun for four years anywhere, and yet old Hookings, that nobody never knewnothing about and died of drink, his play was performed all over thecivilised world for four years. That's something to be proud of, thatis. 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, orBernard Shaw . . . Columns, pages! Barrie . . . Well, he's all right, ofcourse . . . Not bad . . . But compare him with Hookings. Why, he doesn'tknow 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 ofBarrie's, _The Twelve Pound Look_. Not bad. . . Not a bad play, atall . . . But where's the feeling heart in it? Play that piece in frontof 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 upand take a bit of notice is to hit him a punch on the jaw, and the bestway to make the public feel sympathetic is to hit it a punch in theheart!. . . "

The little man broke off suddenly and glanced towards the door. "I musttoddle down to Dolly now. She gets fretful if I'm out of her sight forlong. I'll see you later on . . . Seven o 'clock, old chap!"

"Very good, " John answered. 

"Aw reservoir, then!" said Cream, as he left the room and hurrieddownstairs. 

II

He told himself that he ought to do some work, but the desire to seemore of London overcame his good resolution, and so he left the houseand set out again for the town. He hoped that he might see EleanorMoore. If he were to go to the tea-shop at the same hour as she hadentered it yesterday, he might contrive to seat himself at her tableagain, and this time perhaps she would listen to him. When he reachedthe City, he found that he was too early for the mid-day meal, and sohe resolved to go and stand about the entrance to the office whereEleanor Moore was employed. He would see her coming out of it and couldfollow discreetly after her. . . . But although he waited for an hour, shedid not appear, nor was she to be seen in the tea-shop, when, tired anddisappointed, he took his place in it. He dallied over his meal, hopingevery moment that she would turn up, but at length he had to go awaywithout seeing her. At teatime, he told himself, he would come againand wait for her. He climbed on to a 'bus and let himself be taken toCharing Cross, where he enquired the way to the National Gallery. Hewandered through the rooms until his eyes ached with looking at thepictures and his feet were sore with walking on the polished floors. Hefelt self-conscious when he looked at the nudes, and he blushed when hefound a woman standing by his side as he looked at the portrait of JeanArnolfini and Jeanne his wife by van Eyck. He turned hotly away, andwondered that there was no blush on the face of the woman. InBallyards, a man always pretended not to see a woman about to have achild . . . Unless, of course, he was with other men and the woman couldnot see him, when he would crack jokes about her condition!. . . Here, however, people actually exhibited pictures of pregnant women in apublic place where all sorts, old and young, male and female, couldlook at them . . . And no one appeared to mind. It might be all right, ofcourse, and after all a woman in that way was natural enough . . . But hehad been brought up to be ashamed of seeing such things, and he couldnot very well become easy about them in a moment. . . . And he became verytired of Holy Families and Crucifixions!. . . 

"I'll walk back to the place, " he said to himself as he left theGallery and crossed Trafalgar Square. He dappled his fingers in thewater of one of the fountains, and listened to two little Cocknieswrangling together. . . . 

"They've a queer way of talking, " he said to himself. 

. . . And then he started off down the Strand towards Fleet Street and theCity. Eleanor Moore was not in the tea-shop when he entered it, nor didshe come into it while he remained there. He finished his meal andwalked in the direction of the Royal Exchange and just as he wasrunning out of the way of a 'bus, he saw her going towards the stairsleading into the Tube. 

"There she is, " he murmured and hurried after her. 

She was at the foot of the stairs when he reached the top of them, andwhen he had got to the foot of them, she was almost at the entrance tothe booking-office of the Tube. He tried to get near her so that hemight speak to her, but the press of people going home prevented himfrom doing so. He saw her go down the steps and take her place in thequeue of people purchasing tickets, and he walked across to thebookstall and stood there until she had obtained her ticket. Then asshe walked to the lift, he moved towards her. She was examining herchange as she walked along, and did not see him until he was close toher. He meant to say, "Oh, Miss Moore, may I speak to you for amoment!" but suddenly he became totally inarticulate, and while he wasstruggling to say something, she looked up and saw him. She startedslightly, then her face became flushed, and she hurried forward andjoined the group of wedged people in the lift. He determined to followher, but while he was resolving to do so, the lift attendant shouted, "Next lift, please!" and pulled the gates together. He watched thelight disappear from the little windows at the top of the gates!. . . 

"I've missed her again, " he said. 

III

He was just in time to swallow a hurried meal and set off to thetheatre with the Creams. Mrs. Cream, recovered from the devastatingeffects of a tragical temperament, was very vivacious as they sat inthe brougham; and she rallied him on his authorship. She told him thatwhen he was a celebrated writer, she would be able to say that she haddiscovered him. . . . 

"As a matter of fact, Dolly, " said her husband, "it was me that thoughtof the idea!"

She ignored her husband. She pretended that John would become too proudto know the poor little Creams!. . . 

"I'm not too proud to know anyone, " he interrupted. 

She burbled at him, and pressed closer to him. "You're quitecomplimentary, " she said. 

Cream had given John a note to the manager of the theatre which inducedthat gentleman to admit him, free of charge, to the stalls. He wouldtravel home by himself, for the Creams had to play at other music-halls, and would not be able to take him back to Brixton in their brougham. "We finish up at Walham Green, " said Cream, as John left the carriage. 

He waited impatiently for the performance of _The Girl Gets Left_, and he had an extraordinary sense of pleasure when he saw Cream'swistful face peering through a window immediately after the curtainwent up. The little man was remarkably funny. His look, his voice, hisgestures, all compelled laughter from the audience without the audienceunderstanding quite why it was amused. He had the pathetic appearancethat all great comedians have, the look of appeal that one saw in theface of Dan Leno, in the face of James Welch, and it seemed that hemight as easily cry as laugh. The words he had to say were poor, vapidthings, but when he said them, he put some of his own life into themand gave them a greater value than they deserved. The turn of his headwas comic; a queer little helpless movement of his hands was comic; theway in which he seemed to stop short and gulp as if he were bracinghimself up was comic; the swift downward and then upward glance of hiseyes, followed by an assumption of complete humility and resignation, these were comic. And when he appeared on the stage, the audience, knowing something of his quality, collectively lifted itself into anattitude of attention. 

A dismal young woman, singing a dreary lecherous song and showing animmense quantity of frilled underclothing, had occupied five or sixminutes in boring the audience before _The Girl Gets Left_ began;and an air of lassitude had enveloped the men who were sitting inrelaxed attitudes in the theatre. Their eyes seemed to become dull, andthey paid more attention to their pipes and their cigarettes than theypaid to the young woman's underclothing. . . . But when _The Girl GetsLeft_ began, and the whimsical face of Cream was seen peeringthrough the window of the scene, the lassitude was lifted and the men'seyes began to brighten again. The first words, the first gesture ofcomic helplessness, from Cream sent a ripple of laughter round thetheatre, and immediately the place was full of that queer, uncontrollable thing, personality. 

John laughed heartily at the acting of his new friend, and he decidedthat he would certainly try to write a play for him. How good Mrs. Cream must be if she were better than her husband, as he so proudlydeclared she was. It would be a privilege to write a play for people soclever. . . . Then Mrs. Cream, magnificently dressed, appeared, and as shedid so, some of the atmosphere that enveloped the stage and theauditorium and made them one and very intimate, was dispelled. Johnwatched her as she moved about the stage, and wondered why it was thatthe audience had suddenly become a little fidgetty. His eyes were fullof astonishment. He gazed at Mrs. Cream as if he were trying tounderstand some ineluctable mystery. . . . He remembered how enthralled hehad been by the acting of the girl who had played Juliet. He had beencaught up and transported from the theatre to the very streets ofVerona. He had felt that he was one of the crowd that followed theMontagues or the Capulets, and had been ready to bite his thumb withthe best. . . . But here was something that left him uneasy and alien. Hefelt as if he were prying into private affairs, that at any momentsomeone, a policeman, perhaps, might come along and seize him fortrespassing. He did not then know that bad acting always leaves anaudience with a sensation of having intruded upon privacies . . . That anactor who is incompetent leaves the people who see him acting badlywith the feeling that they have vulgarly peeped into his dressing-roomand seen him taking off his wig and wiping the paint from his face. Mrs. Cream acted with great vigour; her voice roared over thefootlights; and she seemed to hurl herself about the scene as if shewere determined either to smash the furniture or to smash herself. Shemade much noise. Her gestures were lavish. Her dresses were very costlyand full of glitter. She worked hard. . . . 

"But she can't act, " said John to himself, sighing with relief when atlast she left the stage to her husband. 

The little man's small, fragile voice, with its comic hesitation andits puzzled note, sounded very restful after the torrential noises madeby his wife, and in a few moments he had the minds of the audiencefused again into one mind and made completely attentive. When the playwas ended, there was very hearty applause, but none of it so hearty asthe applause from John. The last few moments of the piece had beengiven to Mr. Cream, and he had left the audience with the pleasedimpression of himself and forgetful of the jar it had received from hiswife. . . . 

"That wee man can act all right, " said John, clapping his hands untilthey were sore. 

IV

Hinde was waiting for him in the sitting-room when he returned to thelodging-house. 

"What did you think of the Creams?" the journalist asked when they hadgreeted each other and had ended their congratulations on beingUlstermen. 

"He's very good, " John began. . . . 

"And she's rotten?" Hinde interrupted. 

"Well!. . . "

"Oh, my dear fellow, you needn't be afraid of telling me what youthink. There's only one person in the world who doesn't realise thatMrs. Cream can't act and never will be able to act . . . And that'spoor old Cream himself. He's as good a comedian as there is in theworld--that little man: the essence of Cockney wit; and he does not knowhow good he is. He thinks that she is much better than he can ever hope tobe, and she thinks so, too; but if it were not for him, MacDermott, shewouldn't get thirty shillings a week in a penny gaff!"

"They've asked me to write a play for them, " John said. 

"Are you going to do it?"

"I don't know. That play to-night was a very common sort of a piece. It's not the style of play I want to do!. . . "

"What style of play _do_ you want to do?" Hinde asked. 

"Good plays. Plays like Shakespeare wrote. "

Hinde looked at him quickly. "Oh, well, " he said, "there's no harm inaiming high!"

John told him of the book he had written at Ballyards, and of the storyhe had sent to _Blackwood's Magazine_. 

"I've a great ambition to do big things, " he said. 

"There's no harm in that either, " Hinde replied. "In the meantime, whatare you going to do? It'll be a wheen of years yet before you can hopeto get anything big done!"

"Oh, I don't know about that, " John answered confidently. "TheMacDermotts are great people for getting their own way!"

"Mebbe they are . . . In Ballyards, " Hinde retorted, "but this isn'tBallyards. And you can't spend all your time writing masterpieces. You'll have to do a wee bit of ordinary common work. What about tryingto get a job on a paper?"

"I don't mind taking a job if there's one to be got. Only what sort ofa job?. . . "

Hinde teased him. "They'll not let you edit the _Times_ yetawhile, " he said. 

"I don't want to edit it, " John replied. 

"Well, that's a lucky thing for the man that's got the job now!"

John felt aggrieved at once. "You're coddin' me, " he complained. 

"Say that again, " Hinde exclaimed enthusiastically. 

"Say what again?"

"Say I'm coddin' you. I haven't heard that word for years. Gwon! Sayit!"

"You're coddin' me!. . . "

"Isn't it lovely? Isn't it a grand word, that? Good Ulster talk!. . . "

The door opened and Lizzie entered the room. 

"Mr. 'Inde!. . . " she said. 

"Don't call me 'Inde, " he shouted, jumping up from his chair. "What doyou think the letter _h_ was put in the alphabet for? For you toleave it out?"

Lizzie smiled amiably at him. "Ow, go on, " she said, "you're always'avin' me on!" She turned to John. "'E's a 'oly terror, 'e is. Talksabout me speakin' funny, but wot about 'im? I think Irish is thecomicest way of talkin' I ever heard. Wot'll you 'ave for yourbreakfis, Mr. 'Inde?"

"_H_inde, woman, _H_inde!. . . "

"Well, wot'll you 'ave for your breakfis?"

"One of these days I'll have you fried and boiled and stewed!. . . "

Lizzie giggled. 

"Ow, you are a funny man, Mr. 'Inde, " she said between her titters. 

Hinde gaped at her as if he were incapable of expressing himself inadequate language. 

"That female, " He said turning to John, "always tells me I'm a funnyman!. . . "

"Well, so you are, Mr. 'Inde!" Lizzie interrupted. 

"Get out, " he roared at her. 

Lizzie addressed John. "You'll get used to 'is comic ways when you know'im as well as I do. Wot'll you 'ave for breakfis?" she continued, speaking again to Hinde. 

"Anything, " he replied. "Anything on God's earth, so long as you getout!"

"That's all I wanted to know, " said Lizzie. "It'll be 'am an' eggs. Goo'-night, Mr. MacDermott!"

"Good-night, Lizzie, " John murmured. 

"Goo'-night, Mr. 'Inde!"

"Come here!" said Hinde. 

She came across the room and stood beside him. He took hold of herchin. "If you hadn't such a rotten accent, " he said, "I'd marry you!"

She giggled. "You do myke me laugh, Mr. 'Inde!" she said. 

"_H_inde, woman, _H_inde!. . . "

She moved away from him as if he had uttered some perfectly commonplaceremark. "Very well, " she said, "it'll be 'am an' eggs for breakfis. I'mglad you chose them, because we ain't got nothink else in the 'ouse. Goo'-night, all!"

She went out of the room, but hardly had she shut the door behind her, when she opened it again. 

"'Ere's the Creams 'ome again!" she said. "Goo'-night all!"

V

A few minutes later, Cream tapped on their door and, in response toHinde's "Come in!" entered. He greeted Hinde lavishly, and then turnedto John. 

"Well, my boy, " he said, "what do you think of her? Great, isn't she?Absolute eye-opener, that's what she is, I knew you'd be struck dumb byher. That's the effect she has on people. Paralyses them. Lays 'em out. By Gum, Mac, that woman's a wonder!. . . "

"How is she?" John asked. 

Cream shook his head. "All in bits, as usual, Mac. I ought not to lether do the work . . . It's wearing her out . . . But you can't keep a greatartist away from the stage. She'd die quicker if she weren't doing herwork than she will while she's doing. That's Art, Mac. Extraordinarything, Art!. . . "

"Have a drink, Cream, " Hinde exclaimed. 

"I don't mind if I do, Hinde, old chap. Did you notice how she held theaudience, Mac? The minute she stepped on to the stage, she got 'em. Absolute! She played with 'em . . . Did what she liked with 'em!. . . Iwish I could get hold of 'em like that. By Heaven, Mac, it must bewonderful to have that woman's power to make an audience do just whatyou want it to do!. . . "

Hinde handed a glass of whiskey and soda to him. "Thanks, old chap!" hesaid, taking it from him. He raised the glass. "Well, here's health!"he murmured, swallowing some of the drink. He put the glass down on thetable beside him. "When do you think you'll be able to let us have themanuscript of the play, Mac?"

John started. "Well, " he began nervously, "well, I haven't thought muchabout it yet!. . . "

"Look here, " said Cream, "I've been talking to Dolly about the matter, and this is her idea. She wants to play in a piece about a navallieutenant. See? In a submarine or something. Something with a bit ofsnap in it. She'd like to be an Irish girl called Kitty in love withthe lieutenant. See? Make it so's he can wear his uniform and a cockedhat and a sword. See? The audience likes to see a bit of style. Youcould put a comic stoker in . . . That 'ud do for me, but of course as Itold you, you needn't worry much about my part. I'll look after myself. Now, do you think you could do anything with that idea? Dolly's deadset on playing an Irish girl, and of course, you being Irish and allthat, you'd know the ropes!"

"I'll think about it, " said John. 

"Do. That's a good chap. And perhaps you can let me have the manuscriptat the end of the week . . . In the rough anyhow!"

He finished his whiskey and soda. 

"Have another?" Hinde said. 

"No, thanks, no. You know. Mac, the stage is a funny place. The averageauthor doesn't realise what a funny place it is. I've met a few authorsin my time, high-brow and low-brow and no-brow-at-all, and they're allthe same: think they know more about the theatre than the actor does. But they don't. They all want to be littery. And that's no good . . . Inthe music-halls anyhow. If you've got anything to say to a music-hallaudience, don't waste time in being littery or anything like that. BungIt At 'Em, Mac!" He pronounced the last injunction with enormousemphasis. "An audience is about the thickest thing on earth. Got nobrains to speak of, and doesn't want to have any. Mind you, each personin the audience may be as clever as you like, but as an audience . . . See? . . . They're simply thick. And if you want 'em to understandanything, you've got to Bung It At 'Em. No use being delicate or prettyor anything like that. That's what authors don't understand. Now, youheard those back-chat-comedians at the Oxford to-night?"

John nodded his head. "They weren't much good, " he said. 

"Why?" Cream demanded, and then, before John could speak, he went on togive the answer to his question. "Because they don't know how to gettheir stuff over the footlights. That's why! They had good stuff towork with, but they didn't know what to do with it. _I_ could havetold 'em. Do you remember that joke about the dog that swallowed thetape-measure and died?"

"Yes. It sounded rather silly!. . . "

"And it didn't get a laugh. The silliness of a thing doesn't matter ifit makes you laugh. This is how they said it. The tall chap says to thelittle one, 'How's your dog, Joe?' and the little one answered, 'Oh, hedied last week. He swallowed a tape-measure and died by inches!. . . '"

Hinde laughed. "Do people pay good money to listen to that sort ofstuff?"

"You're a journalist, " Cream replied, "and you ought to know they paymoney to _read_ worse than that!"

"So they do, " Hinde admitted. 

"When I heard those two duffers ruining that joke, " Cream continued, "Ifelt as if I wanted to run on to the stage and tell 'em how to get itover to the audience. This is how they ought to have done it!"

He stood up and enacted the characters of the two back-chat comedians, and as John watched him and listened to him, he realised what a greatactor the little man was. 

_"Say, Joe, what're you in mourning for?"

"I'm in mourning for my little dog!"

"Your little dog. Why, your little dog ain't dead, is it?"

"Yes, my little dog's dead!"

"Well, Joe, I'm sorry to hear your little dog's dead. What was thematter with your little dog?"

"My little dog died last week. "

"Yes, your little dog died last week?. . . "

"He swallowed a tape-measure!. . . "

"Good heavens, your little dog swallowed a tape-measure?"

"Yes, my little dog swallowed a tape measure, and HE DIED BYINCHES!"_

Cream sat down when he had finished giving his performance. "That's howthey ought to have done it, " he said. 

"It makes me angry to see men ruining a good story. You see, Mac, you've got to lead up to things. Everything in this world has to be ledup to. You can't rush bald-headed at anything. And you've got to get aclimax. These back-chat chaps hadn't got a climax. The joke was overbefore the audience had time to realise it was a joke. See?"

"I see, " said John. 

A few minutes later, Cream went downstairs to his own room. 

"That little man knows just how to get an effect, " said Hinde. "Theamazing thing about him is that he doesn't know that he can act andthat his wife can't!. . . "

"Why do you call her his wife?" John replied. 

"Out of civility, " said Hinde. "I don't see that it matters muchwhether she is or not!"

"That's what Lizzie says. "

"Lizzie is an intelligent woman. I hope you don't think I was rude toLizzie just now?. . . "

"Oh, no, " John answered insincerely. 

"I wouldn't hurt Lizzie's feelings for the world, " said Hinde. "I'mgoing to bed now, but you needn't hurry unless you want to. I'm tired, and I shall have a busy day to-morrow. I'll see if there's any workthat would suit you on my paper. You ought to have some sort of a jobbesides scribbling masterpieces. I suppose you left a girl behind youin Ballyards?"

John's face flushed. "No, " he replied. 

"That's good, " Hinde said. "You'll be able to get on with your workinstead of wasting time writing letters to a girl. Good-night!"

"Good-night. Mr. Hinde!" said John, suddenly ceremonious. 

"Not so much of the Mister. Call me Hinde. I think I'll follow Cream'sexample and call you Mac!"

"Very well, Hinde, " said John. 

"We'll go up to town in the morning together, if you like!"

"I would, " said John. 

VI

John's dreams that night were queerly complicated. Eleanor Mooreflitted through a scene on a submarine in which a dog was dying byinches while a naval lieutenant made passionate love to an Irish girlcalled Kitty; and while Eleanor passed vaguely from side to side of thesubmarine, a gigantic piece of red tape came and enveloped her andenveloped John, too, when, unaccountably, he appeared and tried to saveher. He felt himself being strangled by red tape, and he knew thatEleanor was being strangled, too. He felt that if only the dog wouldeat the red tape, both Eleanor and he would be delivered from it, butsomehow the Irish girl called Kitty prevented the dog from eating it. And in the dream, he called pitifully to Eleanor, "She won't let uswork up to a climax! She's preventing us from working up to aclimax!. . . "

THE THIRD CHAPTER

I

At the end of a month from the day on which he arrived in London, John MacDermott began to consider his position and ended by findingit in a very unsatisfactory state. He had spent much of his time insight-seeing, and would have spent more of it, had not Hinde informed himthat the only way in which to know a city is to live in it, not as atourist, but as an ordinary citizen. "Change your lodgings every twelvemonths, " he said, "and go and live in a different part of the townevery time you change them. Then you'll get to know London. It's no usetearing round the place like an American . . . Half an hour here and acouple of minutes there, and a Baedeker never out of your hands. Americans think they're getting an impression of a country when they'reonly getting a sick-headache; and when they go home again, they cannever remember whether Mont Blanc was a picture they saw in Paris or aLondon chop-house where they had old English fare at modern Englishprices. If you want to _know_ St. Paul's Cathedral, don't go therewith a guide-book in your hand. Go as one of the congregation!. . . "

He had sent the manuscript of his novel to a publisher who had not yetexpressed any eagerness to accept it, and he had made a half-heartedeffort to write a play for the Creams, but had not been very successfulwith it, chiefly because he felt contempt for _The Girl Gets Left_and had little liking for Mrs. Cream. She came to the sitting-room onemorning when Hinde was away and her husband was interviewing his agent, and went straight to John, nibbling a pen at the writing desk, and puther arms about his neck. 

"Don't do that, " he said, disengaging her arms from about him. 

"I love you, " she replied very intensely. 

"I daresay, but I'm not in love with you, Mrs. Cream, and I never willbe. I don't like you. I like your wee man, but I don't like you. Ithink you're an awful humbug of a woman!. . . "

Mrs. Cream stood still as if she had been suddenly paralysed. 

"You don't like me!. . . " she said at last, utterly incredulous. 

"No, I don't. "

"Oh!"

She raised her hands, and for a few moments he imagined that she wasabout to strike him. Then she dropped them to her side again andlaughed. 

"I don't know whether to hug you or slap you, " she said. "You impudentbrat!"

"I wouldn't advise you to do either the one or the other, " he answered. 

She came nearer to him, and laid her hand on his sleeve. 

"You're very cold and hard, " she said, and then, in a softer voice, sheadded his name, "John!"

"What's cold about me? Or hard?" he asked. 

"Everything. You must know that I feel more for you than for myhusband!. . . "

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself for saying such a thing, Mrs. Cream. I want you to understand that I'm not that sort. I come fromBallyards, and we don't do things like that there. Forby, I'm not inlove with you. I'm in love with somebody else . . . A nice girl, not amarried woman . . . And I've no time to think of anybody else but her. I'm very busy the day, Mrs. Cream!. . . "

"Is she an Irish girl?"

"I don't know what nationality she is. I've not managed to get speakingto her yet. It'll be an advantage if she is Irish, but I'll overlook itif she isn't. I'm terrible busy, Mrs. Cream!"

She stood before him in an indecisive attitude. . . . "You're really afool, " she said, turning away. "I thought you were clever, but you'resimply thick-headed!. . . "

"Because I won't start making love to you, I suppose?"

"Oh, no, Mr. MacDermott. You're thick apart from that. You're so thickthat you'll never know how thick you are. I can't think why I wasted aminute's thought on you!. . . "

John sat down at his desk again. "_Sticks an' stones'll break mybones, but names'll never hurt me_, " he quoted at her. "_Whenyou're dead and in your grave, you'll suffer for what you calledme!_"

She came behind him and put her arms tightly round his neck and forcedhis head back so that she could conveniently kiss him. 

"There!" she exclaimed, hurrying from the room, "I've kissed youanyhow!"

He leaped up and ran to the top of the stairs and leant over thebanisters. 

"If you do that again, " he shouted at her, "I'll give you in charge!"

"Bogie-bogie!" she mocked. 

Soon after that time, the Creams had gone on tour again, and John, witha vague promise to Mr. Cream that he would try and do a play for him, let Mrs. Cream slip out of his mind altogether. She had not attemptedto make love to him again, and her attitude towards him became morenatural, almost, he thought, more friendly. She appeared to bear him nomalice, and her friendliness caused him to shed some of his antagonismto her. When they bade goodbye to Hinde and John, she turned to herhusband as they were leaving, and said, "I kissed him one morning, anddo you know what he did?"

"No, " her husband answered. 

"He said he'd give me in charge if I tried to do it again, " sheexclaimed, laughing as she spoke. 

"Goo' Lor'!" said Cream. "That's the first time that's ever been saidto you, Dolly!" He turned to John. "You're a funny sort of a chap, youare! Fancy not letting Dolly kiss you. Goo' Lor'!"

II

He had tried hard to see Eleanor Moore again, but without success. Every day for a fortnight he went to lunch in the tea-shop where he hadfirst seen her, and in the evening he would hang about the entrance tothe offices where she was employed; but he did not see her either thereor in the tea-shop, and when a fortnight of disappointment had gone by, he concluded that he would never see her again. He imagined that shewas ill, that she had left London, that she had obtained workelsewhere, that he had frightened her . . . For he remembered herstartled look when she hurried from him into the Tube lift . . . Andfinally and crushingly that she had married someone else. In the moodof bitterness that followed this devastating thought, he planned atragedy, and in the evenings, when Hinde was engaged for his paper, heworked at it. But the bitterness which he put into it failed to relievehim of any of the bitterness that was in his own mind. He felt doublybetrayed by Eleanor Moore because he had had so little encouragementfrom her. It hurt him to think that he had only succeeded in alarmingher. Maggie Carmichael had responded instantly when he spoke to her andhad accepted his embraces and his kisses as amiably as she had acceptedhis chocolates he had bought for her; but this girl with the tenderblue eyes that changed their expression so frequently, had made noresponse to his offer of affection, had run away from it. If only shehad listened to him! He was certain that he could have persuaded her to"go out" with him. He had only to tell her that he loved her, and shewould realise that a man who could fall in love with her so immediatelyas he had done must be acceptable!. . . The affair with Maggie Carmichaelhad considerably dashed his belief in romantic love, but he toldhimself now that it would be ridiculous to condemn his Uncle Matthew'sideals because one girl had fallen short of them. If Maggie Carmichaelhad behaved badly, that was not a sign that Eleanor Moore would alsobehave badly. Besides, Eleanor was different from Maggie. There was nocomparison between the two girls. After all, he had not really caredfor Maggie: he had only fancied that he cared for her. But there was nofancying or imagination about his love for Eleanor, and if he had thegood fortune to meet her again, he would not let anything prevent himfrom telling her plump and plain that he wanted to marry her. Wheneverhe left the house, he looked about, no matter where he went, in thehope that he might see her. 

III

Hinde urged him to do journalism and advised him to make a study of theLondon newspapers so that he might discover which of them he could mosthappily work for. "You could do a few articles, perhaps, and then itwouldn't matter whether you agreed with the paper or not, but I'dadvise you to try and get a job on one paper for a while. You'll learna lot from journalism if you don't stay at it too long. It'll be a goodwhile yet before you can make a living at writing books, and you'llwant something to keep you going until you can. Journalism's as good asanything, and in some ways, it's a lot better than most things, and letme tell you, Mac, anybody can make a decent living out of newspapers ifhe only takes the trouble to earn it. Half the fellows in Fleet Streettreat journalism as if it were a religious vocation, and they lie aboutin pubs all day waiting for the Holy Ghost to come down and inspirethem with a scoop!"

John studied the London newspapers, as Hinde advised him, but he didnot feel drawn towards them. He considered that the morning papers werevery inferior to the _Northern Whig_, and he was certain that the_North Down Herald_ was far more interesting than the_Times_. The London evening papers, he said to Hinde, gave lessvalue for a half-penny than the _Belfast Evening Telegraph_, andhe complained that there was nothing to read in them. 

"You'll have to start a paper yourself, Mac, " said Hinde. "All the bestpapers were started by men who couldn't find anything to read in otherpapers. It would be a grand notion now to set up a paper for Ulstermenwho can't find anything in London that's fit to read. By the Hokey O, that would be a grand notion. We could call the paper _To Hell Withthe Pope or No Surrender!_. . . "

"Ah, quit your codding, " John interrupted. "You know rightly what'swrong with these London papers. They're not telling the truth!"

"And do you think the _Whig_ and the _Telegraph_ are?" Hindedemanded. 

"Well, it's what _we_ call the truth anyway, " John stoutlyretorted. 

Hinde slapped him on the back. "That's right, " he said. "Ulster againstthe whole civilised world!"

"If I was to take a job on one of these papers, " John continued, "I'dinsist on telling the truth to the people!"

"You would, would you? And do you know what 'ud happen to you? Thepeople 'ud cut your head off at the end of a fortnight. "

"I wouldn't let them. "

Hinde sat in silence for a few minutes. Then he leant forward andtapped John on the shoulder, "The editor of the _Daily Sensation_is a Tyrone man, " he said. "He comes from Cookstown!. . . "

"I never was in it, " John murmured. 

"Mebbe not, but it exists all the same. Go up the morrow evening to hisoffice and tell him you want a job on his paper so's you can starttelling everybody the truth. And see what happens to you. "

John answered angrily. "You think you're having me on, " he said, "butyou're queerly mistaken. I will go, and we'll see what happens!"

"That's what I'm bidding you do, " Hinde continued. "And listen! There'sa couple I know, called Haverstock, living out at Hampstead. They havediscussions every month at their house on some subject or other, andthere's to be one next Wednesday. Will you come with me if I go to it?"

John nodded his head. 

"Good! The Haverstocks'll be glad to welcome you as you're a friend ofmine, but it's not them I'm wanting you to see. It's the crowd they getround them. All the cranks and oddities and solemn mugs of London seemto go to that house one time or another, and I'd just like you to havea look at some of them. The minute they find out you're Irish, they'llplaster you with praise. They'll expect you to talk like a clown, oneminute, and weep bitter tears over England's tyranny the next. They'reall English, most of them, and they'll tell you that England is theworst country in the world, and that Ireland would be the greatest ifit weren't for the fact that some piffling Balkan State is greater. Andthey'll ram Truth down your throat till you're sick of it. You've onlyto bleat about Ireland's woes to them, and call yourself a member of asubject race, and they'll be all over you before you know where youare. There's only one other man has a better chance of shining in theirsociety than an Irishman, and that's an Armenian. "

"Well, that's great credit to them, " John, replied. "I must say itmakes me think well of the English!. . . "

"Don't do that. Never acknowledge to an Englishman that you think wellof him. He'll think little of you if you do. Tell him he's a fool, thathe's muddle-headed, that he's a tyrant, that he's a materialist and acompromiser and a hypocrite, and he'll pay you well for saying it. Butif you tell the truth and say he's the decent fellow he is, he'll landyou in the workhouse!. . . "

IV

It had not been easy to interview the editor of the _DailySensation_. A deprecating commissionaire, eyeing him suspiciously, had cross-examined him in the entrance hall of the newspaper office, and then had compelled him to fill in a form with particulars ofhimself . . . His name and his address . . . And of his business. "Isuppose, " John said sarcastically to the commissionaire, "you don'twant me to swear an affidavit about it?"

The commissionaire regarded him contemptuously, but did not reply tothe sarcasm. 

After a lengthy wait and much whistling and talking through rubberspeaking-tubes, John was conducted to a lift, given into the charge ofa small boy in uniform who treated him as a nuisance, and taken to theoffice of the editor. Here he had to wait in the society of theeditor's secretary for another lengthy period. He had almost resolvedto come away from the office without seeing the editor, when a bellrang and the secretary rising from her desk, bade him to follow her. Hewas led into an inner room where he saw a man seated at a large desk. The editor glared at him for a moment or two as if he were accusing himof an attempt to commit a fraud. Then he said "Sit down" and began tospeak on the telephone. John glanced interestedly about him. There wasa portrait of Napoleon . . . _The Last Phase_ . . . On one wall, and, on the wall opposite to it, a portrait of the proprietor of the_Daily Sensation_ in what might fairly be described as the firstphase. On the editor's desk was a framed card bearing the legend: SAYIT QUICK. . . . 

The telephonic conversation ended, and Mr. Clotworthy . . . Theeditor . . . Put down the receiver and turned to John, frowning heavily athim. "Well?" he said so shortly that the word was almost unintelligible. "I can give you two minutes, " he added, pulling out his watch and placingit on the desk. 

"That'll be enough, " John, replied. "I want a job on this paper!"

"Everybody wants a job on this paper. The people who are most anxiousto get on our staff are the people who are never tired of running usdown!. . . "

"I daresay, " said John. 

"Ever done any newspaper work before?" the editor demanded. 

"No!"

"Then what qualifications have you for the work?. . . "

"I've written a novel!. . . "

"That's not a qualification!" Mr. Clotworthy exclaimed. 

"But it's not been published yet, " John replied. 

"Oh, well!. . . Anything else?"

"I've written several articles which have not been printed, but they'reas good as the stuff that's printed in any paper in London. . "

"Quite so!"

"And I come from Ulster where all the good men come from, " Johnconcluded. 

"I've seen some poor specimens from Ulster, " Mr. Clotworthy said. 

"Mebbe you have, but I'm not one of them. "

The editor remained silent for a few moments. He tapped on his deskwith an ivory paper-knife and glanced quickly now and then at John. 

"What part of Ulster do you come from?" he demanded. 

"Ballyards. "

"I've heard of it, " Mr. Clotworthy continued. "It's not much of aplace, is it?"

John flared up angrily. "It's better than Cookstown any day, " he said. 

"Who told you I came from Cookstown?"

"Never mind who told me. If you don't want to give me a job on yourpaper, you needn't. There's plenty of other papers in this town!. . . "

"That temper of yours'll get you into serious bother one of these days, young fellow, " said Mr. Clotworthy. "I'm willing to give you work onthe paper if you're fit to do it, but don't run away with the notionthat you've only to walk in here and say you're an Ulsterman, andyou'll immediately get a position. What sort of work do you want to do?You know our paper, I suppose? Well, how would you improve it?"

John opened his mouth to speak, but before he could say a word, theeditor stopped him. 

"Don't, " he exclaimed, "say it doesn't need improvement. A lot ofthird-rate fellows have tried that tack with me, as if they'd flatter meinto giving them a job. The fools never seemed to realise that whenthey said the paper didn't need improvement they were giving the bestreason that could be given why they shouldn't be employed on it. If youweren't a plain-spoken and direct young fellow I wouldn't give you thatwarning. Go on!"

"In my opinion, " John replied, "what's wrong with your paper is that itdoesn't tell the truth. It tells lies to its readers. My idea is totell them the truth instead!"

Mr. Clotworthy laughed at him. "You won't do it on this paper, " hesaid. 

"Why not?"

"Because it can't be done. There's no such thing as truth. Therenever was, and there never will be such a thing as truth. There's onlypoint-of-view!. . . "

"Well, I've got my point-of-view, " John interrupted. 

"Yes, but on this paper we express the point-of-view of the man thatowns it. That's him there!" He pointed to the companion picture tothe portrait of Napoleon. "If you imagine that we spend hundredsof thousands of pounds every year to express your point-of-view, you're making a big mistake, young fellow my lad. What you want isa soap-box in Hyde Park. You can express your own point-of-view thereif you can get anybody to listen to you. Or you can start a paperof your own. But this paper is the soap-box of that chap, and hisis the only point-of-view that'll be expressed in it. Do you understandme?"

"I do, " said John "All the same, I believe in telling the people thetruth!"

The editor touched the bell on his desk. "Are you quite sure, " said he, "that you know what the truth is?"

"Of course I'm sure. " John began, but before he could finish hissentence, the door of the editor's room was opened by the lady-secretary. 

"Good-morning, Mr. MacDermott!" said the editor, reaching for thetelephone receiver. 

"But I haven't finished yet, " John protested. 

"I have. " He tapped the handle of the telephone. 

"You can come and see me again when you've learned sense, " he added, after he had given an instruction to the telephone operator. "Goodmorning!"

"Ah, but wait a minute!. . . "

"We've no use for John the Baptists here. Good morning!"

"All the same!. . . "

The editor impatiently waved him aside. 

"This way, please!" the lady secretary commanded. 

John glared at her, half in the mood to ask her what she meant byinterrupting him and half in the mood to tell her that it little becamea woman to intrude herself into the conversation of men, but the moodsdid not become complete, and, sulkily calling "Good morning!" to Mr. Clotworthy, he left the office. 

"One of these days, " he said to the lady secretary when they were inthe outer office, "I'll be your boss. And his, too. And I'll sack thepair of you!"

"You'll find the lift at the end of the passage, " she replied. 

V

Hinde mocked him for his failure to make the editor of the _DailySensation_ accept his view of the universe. 

"That man sized you up the minute he clapped his eyes on you, " he said. "He's seen hundreds of young fellows like you. We've all seen them. They come down from Oxford and Cambridge with their heads stuffed withideas pinched from Bernard Shaw and H. G. Wells, and they try tostampede old Clotworthy. 'By God, I'm a superman!' is their cry, andthey say that night and morning and before and after every meal untileven they get sick of listening to it. Then they say 'Oh, damn!' and gointo the Civil Service, and in three years' time an earthquake wouldn'trouse them. All you youngsters want to go about telling the truth, especially when it's disagreeable, but there isn't one in a million ofyou is fit to be let loose with the truth, and there isn't one in tenmillion of men or women wants to be bothered by the truth. Lord alive, Mac, can't you young fellows leave us a few decent lies to comfortourselves with?. . . "

"You'll get no lies from me, " John replied. 

"I can see very well you're going to be a nice cheerful chum to have inthe house, " Hinde said. "However, I'll bear it. The Haverstocks' 'AtHome' is to-night. I don't suppose you have a dress suit?"

"No, I haven't!"

"It doesn't matter. Half the people who go to the Haverstocks don'twear evening dress on principle. That's their way of showing theircontempt for conventionality. I suppose you'll come with me?" Johnnodded his head. "Good! We'll start off immediately after we've had ourdinner. You'll get a good dose of Truth to-night, my son. There was acouple went there once . . . The rummest couple I ever saw in my life. They thought they must do something for Progress and Advanced Thought, so they pretended they weren't married, but were living in sin!. . . "

"Like the two downstairs?" said John. 

"Aye, only they were legally married all right. You'll observe in time, Mac, that the people who make changes are never the advanced people whotalk about them, but the ordinary, conventional people who have notheories about things, but just alter them when they becomeinconvenient. Butter wouldn't melt in the mouth of the man who is adevil of a fellow in print. This couple went to live at a Garden Cityand made an enormous impression on the Nut-eaters; and every Sundayevening crowds went to see them, living in sin. I went myself onenight: it was terribly dull, and I thought if that's the best sin cando for a man, I'm going to join the Salvation Army. The woman took offher wedding-ring and hid it in the clock, and the man made a point ofsnorting every time he passed a parson. They had a grand time, as Itell you, until a terrible thing happened. A jealous nut-eater . . . AndI can tell you there's nothing on earth so fearful and vindictive as ajealous vegetarian . . . Discovered that these two were really marriedall the time, and he exposed them to their admirers. He produced a copyof their marriage-certificate at a public meeting which the man wasaddressing on the subject of Intolerable Bonds, and the meeting brokeup in disorder. They had to leave the Garden City after that, andthey're now hiding somewhere in the north of England and leading a lifeof shameful matrimony!. . . "

John giggled. "Are there really people like that?" he asked. 

"Lots of them. You'll see some of them, mebbe, at the Haverstocks thenight. I think there's to be some sort of a discussion, but I'm notsure. Mrs. Haverstock is a great woman for discussions, but I will saythis for her, she doesn't humbug herself over them. She told me oncethat it was better to talk about adultery than to commit it!. . . "

John blushed frightfully. He felt the hot blood running all over hisbody. This casual way of speaking of things that were only acknowledgedin the Ten Commandments had a very disturbing effect upon him. He hopedthat Hinde would not observe his confusion, and he put his hand infront of his eyes so that he might conceal his red cheeks. If Hindenoticed that John was embarrassed, he did not make any comment aboutthe matter. 

"And I daresay it is, " he went on. "As long as you're letting offsteam, there's no danger of the engine bursting. I've often noticedthat there's less misbehaviour in places where people are alwayschattering as if they had never conducted themselves with decency intheir lives than there is in places where they never say a word aboutit. _You'll_ notice that too, when you've learned to use your eyesbetter!. . . "

VI

The Haverstocks lived in an old creeper-covered and slightly decrepithouse in the Spaniards' Road. It was without a bathroom until theHaverstocks took possession of it, for it had been built in the dayswhen the middle-classes had not yet contracted the habit of frequentlywashing their bodies. From the front windows of the house one sawacross Hampstead Heath towards London, and from the back windows onesaw across the Heath towards Harrow. The house, in spite of its slightdecrepitude and the clumsiness of its construction--the stairs wereobviously an afterthought of the architect--had that air of comfortablekindliness which is only to be seen in houses which have been occupiedby several generations of human beings. Mr. Haverstock was vaguelyknown as a sociologist. He investigated the affairs of poor people, andwas constantly engaged in inveigling labourers into filling large_questionnaires_ with particulars of the wages they earned, themanner in which they spent those wages, the food they ate, the numberof children they procreated, and other intimate and personal matters. He was anxious to discover exactly how much proteid was necessary tothe maintenance of a labouring man in health and efficiency, and heconducted the most elaborate experiments with beans and bananas forthat purpose. It was one of the most discouraging features of moderncivilisation, he often said, that the spirit of research anddisinterested enquiry was less prevalent among the labouring classesthan was desirable. He could not induce a labouring man to liveexclusively on beans and bananas for six months in order that he mightcompare his physical condition at the end of that period with hisphysical condition after a period spent in flesh-eating. He told sadstories of the reception that had been accorded to some of hisassistants at the time that they were obtaining data from workmen onthe question of the limitation of the family!. . . 

He was a kindly, solemn man, with large, astonished eyes, and he wore abeard, less as a decoration than as a protest. The beard was really aserious nuisance to him, for he had dainty manners and he disliked tothink of soup dribbling down it; but someone had convinced him that aman who wore a beard early in life was definitely bidding defiance tothe conventions of the time, and so he sacrificed his sense of nicenessto his desire to _epater les bourgeois_. He said that a beard wasa sign of Virility!. . . Mrs. Haverstock and he were childless. Mrs. Haverstock, a quick-witted and merry-minded American, had married herhusband in the days when she believed that a man who wrote books ofsufficient dullness must be a distinguished and desirable man; andsince she brought a considerable fortune to England with her, sheenabled him to write more dull books than he could otherwise have hadpublished. Much of her awe of her husband had disappeared in the courseof time, but it had, fortunately, been replaced by deep affection: forhis generosity and kindliness appealed to her increasingly as herrespect for his learning and solemnity declined. She often said of himthat he would do more for his friends than his friends would do forthemselves . . . And indeed many of them were willing to allow him to doanything and everything for them . . . But so long as knight-errantrywith an entirely sociological intent made him happy, she did not mindhow he spent her money. He had many moments of dubiety about herfortune . . . He frequently threatened to cross the Atlantic in order todiscover whether the money was justly earned . . . But he invariablycomforted himself with the reflection that even if the money wereill-gained, he could at least put it to better use than anyone else; andso he refrained from crossing the Atlantic, not without a sensation ofrelief, for he was an unhappy sailor. 

He loved discussions and arguments about Deep Things, and Mrs. Haverstock had invented her series of At Homes in order that herhusband might get rid of some of his noble principles at them. She feltthat if he could dissipate part of them in argument with other veryhigh-minded men, life, between the At Homes, would be a little morehuman and livable for her. She secured a regular supply of attendantsat these discussions by the simple method of supplying an excellentsupper to those who came to them. 

"I first met Haverstock, " Hinde said to John as they walked along theSpaniards' Road, "during a strike at Canning Town. He was trying topersuade the police to remember that the strikers were men andbrothers, and he was trying also to persuade the strikers that forcewas no argument and that they ought to use constitutional means ofsettling their disputes with their employers. And between the two, hewas in danger of getting his eye knocked out, until I hauled him out ofthe crowd and shoved him into a cab and took him home. Mrs. Haverstockwas so grateful to me that she's invited me to her house ever since . . . But the people I meet there make me feel murderous. I like her, asensible, sonsy woman, and I like him too, although his solemn, priggish airs make me tired, but I cannot bear the crowd they get roundthem: all the cranks and oddities and smug, self-sufficient, interfering people seem to get into their house, and they're allreforming something or uplifting something else or generally bleatingagainst this country. Things done in England are always inferior tothings done elsewhere. English cooking is inferior to French cooking:English organisation is inferior to German organisation. Whatever isdone in England is wrongly done. The English are hypocrites, theEnglish are sordid and materialistic, the English are everlastinglycompromising, the English are this, that and the other that isunpleasant and objectionable!. . . I tell you, Mac, there's nobody makesme feel so sick as the Englishman who belittles England!"

"Well, we make little of the English, don't we?" John protested. 

"I know we do, and perhaps it is natural that we should, but it's apoor, cheap thing at the best, and does very little credit to ourintelligence. The English ideal of life is as good an ideal as there isin the world. I think it is far the finest ideal there is, chieflybecause it does not make impossible demands on human beings. Wheneverything that can be alleged against the English is alleged andadmitted, it remains true that they love freedom far more constantlythan other people, and that without them, freedom would have a verythin time in the world. You ask any liberty-loving American whichcountry has more freedom, his country or this country, and he'll tellyou very quickly, England! Englishmen don't argue about freedom: theyjust are free, and on the whole, they carry freedom with them. AnAmerican will argue about liberty even while he is clapping you intogaol for asserting your right to freedom!. . . Here's the house!"

They turned into the front garden of the Haverstocks' house as hespoke. 

"In a way, " he said, as they walked along the gravel path leading tothe door, "the English Radical is the strongest testimony to theEnglish ideal of freedom that you could have. He is so jealous of hiscountry's good name that he is always ready to shout out if he is notsatisfied with her behaviour. That's a good sign, really! Only they'reso smug about it!. . . "

Most of the guests were already assembled when they entered thedrawing-room where Mr. And Mrs. Haverstock bade them welcome. Hindeintroduced John to them, mentioning that he had only lately arrivedfrom Ireland. Mrs. Haverstock smiled and hoped he would often cometo see them, and Mr. Haverstock looked pontifical and said, "Ah, yes. Poor Ireland! _Poor_ Ireland! Tragic! Tragic!" He waved hishand in a vague fashion, and then turned to greet the representativeof another distressed nation. John could hear him murmuring, "Ah, yes. Poor Georgia! _Poor_ Georgia! Tragic! Tragic!" but was unableto hear any more because Mrs. Haverstock led him up to a lean, staringyouth with goggle eyes who, she said, had promised to read severalof his poems to the guests and to open a discussion on Marriage. Thegoggle-eyed poet informed John that Homer, Dante, Shakespeare, Milton, Shelley and Browning were comic old gentlemen who entirely misunderstoodthe nature and function of poetry. He had founded a new school of poetry. It appeared from his account of this school that the important thingwas not what was said in a poem, but what was left out of it. Heillustrated his meaning by allowing John to read the manuscript of oneof the poems he proposed to read that evening. It was entitled "Life, "and it contained two lines!. . . 

LIFE

 Big, black crows on bare, black branches, Cawing!. . . 

"Where's the rest of it!" said John innocently. 

The poet looted at him with such contempt that he felt certain he hadcommitted an indiscretion. "Is that the whole of it?" he hurriedlyasked. 

"That fact that you ask such a question, " said the poet, "shows thatyou have no knowledge of the completeness of life!. . . "

"Well, I only came here about a fortnight ago, " John humbly replied . . . But the poet had moved away and would not listen to him any longer. "Iseem to have put my foot in it, " John murmured to himself. 

He made his way to Hinde's side, resolved that he would not budge fromit for the rest of the evening. The people present frightened him, particularly after his experience with the poet, and he determined thathe would keep himself as inconspicuous as possible. He felt that allthese people were terribly clever and that his ignorance would beimmediately apparent if he opened his mouth in their presence. He triedhard to realise the magnitude of "Life, " but he could not convincehimself that it was either an adequate description of existence or thatit was a description of anything; and, in his innocence, he believedthat he was mentally deficient. Hinde named some of the guests to him. This one was a novelist and that one had written a play . . . And in theexcitement of seeing and listening to men who had actually done thingsthat he wished to do, John forgot some of his humiliation. 

"I saw you talking to Palfrey, " Hinde said to him. 

"The poet chap?" John replied. 

Hinde nodded his head. "What did you think of him?" he continued. 

"He showed me one of his poems. I couldn't understand it, and when Isaid so, he walked away!"

Hinde laughed. "That's as good a description of him as you couldinvent, " he said. "He always walks away when you can't understand whathe's getting at. The reason why he does that is he's afraid someone'lldiscover he isn't getting at anything. He's just an impertinent person. He thinks he's being great when he's only being cheeky!"

John repeated the poem entitled "Life" to Hinde. "What do you think ofthat?" he asked. 

"I don't think anything of it, " Hinde replied. 

John felt reassured. "I asked him where the rest of it was, and henearly ate the face off me, " he said. "I was afraid he'd think me aterrible gumph!. . . "

"If you let a humbug like that impose upon you, Mac, I'll never own youfor my friend. Any intelligent office-boy could write poems like thatall day long!"

There was a movement in the room, and the guests began to settle intheir seats or on the floor, and after a short while, Mr. Haverstock, who acted as chairman of the meeting, took his place in front of asmall table, and Mr. Palfrey sat down beside him. The poet, said thechairman, would honour them by reading some new poems to them, afterwhich he would open a discussion on Marriage. They all knew thatMarriage was an important matter, affecting the lives of men and womento a far greater extent, probably, than anything else in the world, andit was desirable therefore that they should discuss it frankly andfrequently. Problems would remain insoluble so long as people remainedsilent about them. He could not help expressing his regret to thosepresent at the extraordinary reluctance which the average person had torevealing experiences of matrimony. He had initiated an importantenquiry into the question of marital relationships with a view todiscovering exactly what it was that caused so many marriages to fail, and he had had to abandon the enquiry because very few people werewilling to tell anything about their marriages to him. There was agreat deal of foolish reticence in the world . . . At this point Mr. Palfrey emphatically said, "Hear! Hear!". . . And he trusted that thosepresent that evening would cast away false modesty and would say quiteopenly what their experiences had been. He would not detain them anylonger . . . He was quite certain that they were all very anxious to hearMr. Palfrey . . . And so without any more ado he would call upon him toread his poems and then to discuss the great and important question ofMarriage. 

VII

Mr. Palfrey read his poems in a curious sing-song fashion, beating timewith his right hand as he did so. He seemed to be performing physicalexercises rather than modulating his own accents, and on two occasionshis gesture was longer than his poem. He read "Life" very slowly andvery deliberately, saying the word "cawing" in a high-pitched tone, andprolonging it until his breath was exhausted. He recited a dozen ofthese poems, obtaining his greatest effect with, the last of them, which was entitled, "The Sea":

 Immense, incalculable waste, The dribblings from a giant's beard. . . . 

"Isn't it wonderful?" said an ecstatic girl sitting next to John. 

"No, " he replied. 

She looked at him interrogatively, and he added, very aggressively, "Ithink it's twaddle!"

"Oh, _do_ you?" she exclaimed as if she could scarcely believe herears. 

"I do, " said John. 

He would have said more, but that Mr. Haverstock was on his feetproposing that they should now have supper and take the more importantbusiness of the evening afterwards, namely, the discussion of thisgreat problem of Marriage. They had all been deeply moved by Mr. Palfrey's beautiful verses and would no doubt like an opportunity ofdiscussing them in an informal manner. . . . 

Mrs. Haverstock led John to a girl who was sitting at the back of theroom, and introduced him to her. Miss Bushe was the daughter of theeditor of the _Daily Groan_, and Mrs. Haverstock desired that Johnwould take her into supper. 

"Mr. MacDermott is Irish--he has only just arrived from Ireland, " Mrs. Haverstock said to Miss Bushe by way of explanation or possibly as ameans of providing them with conversation. 

"I've always wanted to go to Ireland, " said Miss Bushe, taking his armand allowing him to lead her to the dining-room. 

"Well, why don't you go?" he asked. 

All evening people had been telling him that they had always wanted togo to Ireland, but had somehow omitted to do so. 

"Well, mother likes Bournemouth, " Miss Bushe replied, "and so we alwaysgo there. She says that she knows there'll be a bathroom atBournemouth, and plenty of hot water and she can't bear the thought ofgoing to some place where hot water isn't laid on. I suppose I shall goto Ireland some day!"

"There's plenty of hot water in Ireland, " said John. 

Miss Bushe giggled. "You're so satirical, " she said. 

"Satirical?" he exclaimed. 

"Yes. About the hot water in Ireland!"

He gazed blankly at her. "I don't understand you, " he replied. "I meantjust what I said. You can get hot water in Ireland as easily as you canin England. Some people have it laid on in pipes, and other people haveto boil it on the fire; but you can get it all right!"

There was a look of disappointment on Miss Bushe's face. "I thought youwere making a reference to politics, " she said. 

John stared at her. Then he turned away. "Will I get you something toeat?" he murmured as he did so. He had observed the other men gallantlywaiting upon the ladies. 

"Oh, thank you, " she said. She glanced towards the table. "I wonder ifthat trifle has got anything intoxicating in it?" she added. 

"I daresay, " he answered. "Trifles usually have drink of some sort inthem!"

"I couldn't take it if it has anything intoxicating in it, " sheburbled. 

"Why not?" John demanded. "It'll do you no harm!"

"Oh, I couldn't. I simply couldn't if it has anything intoxicating init. We're very strict about intoxicants. They do so much harm!"

John did not know what to do or say next. She still stared longingly atthe trifle, and it was clear that she would greatly like to eat some ofit. 

"Well?" he said vaguely. 

"I wonder, " she replied, "whether you'd mind tasting it first, just tosee whether it has anything intoxicating in it?"

John thought that this was a strange sort of young woman to take intosupper, but he did as she bid him. He took a large portion of thetrifle on to a plate and tasted it. She gazed at him in a very anxiousmanner. 

"It has, " he said, "and it's lovely!"

The light went out of her eyes. "Then I think I'll just have someblanc-mange, " she said. 

"There's nothing intoxicating in that, " he replied, going to get it forher. 

"Do you know, " she murmured when he had returned and she was eating theblanc-mange, "I almost wish you had said there was nothing intoxicatingin the trifle!. . . "

"That would have been a lie, " John interrupted. 

"Yes, but!. . . Oh, well, this blanc-mange is quite nice!"

John tempted, her. "Taste the trifle anyway, " he said. 

"Oh, no, " she replied, shrinking back. "I couldn't. We're verystrict!. . . "

VIII

After supper, Mr. Palfrey opened the discussion on Marriage. Hedeclared that Marriage was the coward's refuge from Love. He said thatMarriage had been invented by lawyers and parsons for the purpose ofobtaining fees and authority. These unpleasant people, the lawyers andthe parsons, had contrived to make Love an impropriety and had reducedHoly Passion to the status of a schedule to an act of parliament. Cupidhad been furnished with a truncheon and a helmet and had been robbed ofhis wings in order that he might more suitably serve as a policeman. Hedemanded Free Love, and pleaded for the chaste promiscuity of thebirds!. . . After he had said a great deal in the same strain, he satdown amid applause, and Mr. Haverstock invited discussion. He wouldlike to say, however, that he strongly believed in regulation. In hisopinion there was something beautiful in the sight of a bride and abridegroom signing the parish register in the presence of theirfriends. The young couple, he said, asked for the approval and sanctionof the community in their love-making. Love without Law was License, and he trusted that Mr. Palfrey was not inviting them to approve ofLicentiousness. . . . 

Mr. Palfrey created an enormous sensation and some laughter by sayingthat that was precisely what he did invite them to do. All law wascomposed of hindrances and obstacles and forbiddings, and therefore hewas entirely opposed to Law. This statement so nonplussed Mr. Haverstock that he abruptly sat down, and for a few moments the meetingwas in a state of chaotic silence. Then a large man rose from the floorwhere he had been lying almost at full length and announced that in hisopinion the world would cease to have any love in it at all if thepresent craze for vegetable diet increased to any great extent. Howcould a bean-feaster, he demanded, feel passion in his blood? Meat, hedeclared, excited the amorous instincts. All the great lovers of theworld were extravagantly carnivorous, and all poetry, in the lastresort, rested on a foundation of beef-steak puddings. What sort oflover would Romeo have been had he lived on a diet of lentils? WouldJuliet have had the power to move the sympathies of generations of menand women if she had nourished her love on haricot beans?. . . 

Immediately he sat down, a lean and bearded youth sprang to his feetand announced in vibrant tones that he had been a practising vegetarianfrom birth and could affirm from personal experience that a vegetablediet, so far from suppressing the passions, actually stimulated them;and he offered to prove from statistics that vegetarians, in proportionto their number, had been more frequently engaged in romanticphilandering than carnivorous persons had. Look at Shelley!. . . Hecould assure those present that he was as amorous and passionate as anymeat-eater in the room. . . . 

The discussion went to pieces after that, and became a wrangle aboutproteid and food values. There was an elderly lady who insisted ontelling John all about the gastric juices!. . . Hinde rescued him on theplea that they had a long journey in front of them, and very gratefullyJohn accepted the suggestion that they should set off at once in orderto reach their lodgings at a reasonable hour. Mr. And Mrs. Haverstockconducted them to the door . . . A chilly and contemptuous nod had beenaccorded to John by Mr. Palfrey . . . And pressed them to come againsoon. "Every Wednesday evening, " said Mr. Haverstock, "we're at home, and we discuss . . . Everything!. . . "

They hurried along the Spaniards' Road towards the Tube Station, and asthey did so, John told Hinde of his encounter with Miss Bushe over thetrifle. 

"That accounts for it, " Hinde exclaimed aloud. 

"Accounts for what?" John demanded. 

"The _Daily Groan_. I've often wondered what was the matter withthat paper, and now I know. They're always wondering whether there'sanything intoxicating in the trifle!. . . I don't mind a boy talking inthat wild way. A clever, intelligent lad ought to talk revolutionarystuff, but when a man reaches Palfrey's age and is still gabbling thatsilly-cleverness, then the man's an ass. There's no depth in him!. . . "

IX

They sat in the sitting-room for a long while after they had returnedto Brixton, and Hinde related some of his reminiscences to John. 

"I'm one of the world's failures, " he said. "I came to London to tryand do great work, and I'm still a journalist. I can recognise a finebook when I see it, but I can't create one. I'm just a journalist, anda journalist isn't really a man. He has no life of his own . . . He goeshome on sufferance, and may be called up by his editor at any minute togo galloping off in search of a 'story. ' We go everywhere and seenothing. We meet everybody and know nobody. A journalist is a manwithout beliefs and almost without hope. The damned go to Fleet Streetwhen they die. It's an exciting life . . . Oh, yes, quite exciting, butit's horrible to see men merely as 'copy' and to think of the littlesecret, intimate things of life only as materials for a good 'story. ' Iwish I were a grocer!. . . "

"Why?" John demanded. 

"Well, at least a grocer does not look upon human beings merely asconsumers of sugar!"

"I could have been a grocer if I'd wanted to, " John continued. "Mymother wanted me to be a clergyman!"

"What put it into your head to turn scribbler?"

"I just wanted to write a book. I can't make you out, Hinde. One minuteyou're advising me to go on a paper, and the next minute you're tellingme a journalist isn't a man!. . . "

"When you know more of us, " Hinde interrupted, "you'll know that alljournalists belittle journalism. It's the one consolation that's leftto them. Unless you're prepared to associate only with journalists, Mac, you'd much better keep out of Fleet Street. Newspaper men alwaysfeel like fish out of water when they're in the company of other men. They must be near the newspaper atmosphere . . . They can't breathewithout the stink of ink in their nostrils!. . . "

"All the same I'll have a try at the life, " said John. 

X

But at the end of his first month in London, John had no more to hisaccount than this, that he had begun but had not completed a music-hallsketch, that he had begun but had not made much progress with atragedy, that he had tried to obtain employment on the staff of the_Daily Sensation_ and had failed to do so, and, worst of all, thathe had fallen in love with Eleanor Moore but could not find heranywhere. His novel supplied the one element of hope that lightened histhoughts on his month's work. He wished now that he had asked Hinde toread it before it had been sent to the publisher. Perhaps it wouldredeem the month from its dismal state. 

THE FOURTH CHAPTER

I

It was Hinde who brought the good news to John. Mr. Clotworthy, theeditor of the _Daily Sensation_, had met Hinde in Tudor Streetthat afternoon and when he had heard that John and Hinde were livingtogether, he said, "Tell him I'll take him on the staff if he'llpromise to keep the Truth well under control!" and had named thefollowing morning for an appointment. 

"It's a queer thing, " said Hinde as he related the news to John, "thatI'm advising you to take the job when I was telling you the other nightthat journalism's no work for a man; but that only shows what ajournalist I am. No stability . . . Carried off my feet by anyexcitement. And mebbe the life'll disgust you and you'll go homeagain!. . . "

"With my tail between my legs?" John demanded. "No, I'll not do that. I'd be ashamed to go home and admit I hadn't done what I set out to do. What time does Mr. Clotworthy want me?"

Hinde told him. 

"I'll write to my mother at once, " said John, "and tell her he's sentfor me. That'll impress her. Shell be greatly taken, with the notionthat he sent for me instead of me running after him!. . . "

"The great fault in an Ulsterman, " said Hinde, "is his silly pride thatwon't let him acknowledge his mistake when he's made one. You'll getinto a lot of bother, John MacDermott, if you go about the worldletting on you've done right when you've done wrong, and pretending amistake is not a mistake!"

"I'll run the risk of that, " John replied. 

II

Mr. Clotworthy spoke very sharply to him. "You understand, " he said, "that you're here to write what we want you to write, and not to writewhat you think. If you start any of your capering about Truth andReforming the world, I'll fire you into the street the minute I catchyou at it. You're here to interest people. That's all. You're not hereto elevate their minds or teach them anything. You're here to keep upour sales and increase them if you can. D'you understand me?"

"I do, " said John. 

"Well?"

"I'll try the job for a while and see how I like it!"

Mr. Clotworthy sat back in his chair and rubbed his glasses with hishandkerchief. "You've a great nerve, " he said, smiling. "I don't knowwhether you talk like that because you're sure of yourself or juststupid!"

"I always knew my own mind, " John replied. 

Mr. Clotworthy turned him over to Mr. Tarleton, the news-editor, whowas instructed to give him hints on his work and introduce him to othermembers of the staff. 

For two days John did very little in the office, beyond finding his wayabout, but on the third day of his employment, Tarleton suddenly calledhim into his room and told him that the musical critic had telephonedto say he was unwell and would not be able to attend a concert at theAlbert Hall that evening. 

"You'll have to go instead, " said Tarleton. 

"But I don't know anything about music, " John protested. 

"What's that got to do with it?"

"Well, I thought one was supposed to know something about music beforeyou wrote a criticism of it!"

"Look here, young fellow, " said Tarleton. "Let me give you a piece ofadvice. Never admit that there's anything in this world that you don'tknow. A _Daily Sensation_ man knows everything! . . . "

"But I have no ear for music. I hardly know a minim from a semi-quaver!. . . "

"Well, that doesn't matter. Get a programme. Mark on it the songs andpieces that get the most applause. Those are the best things. See?Anybody can criticise music when he knows a tip or two like that. Ifthe singer is a celebrated person, like Melba or Tetrazzini, you sayshe was in her usual brilliant form. If the singer isn't celebrated, just say that she shows promise of development!. . . "

"But supposing I don't like her?"

"Then say nothing about her. If we can't praise people on this paper, we ignore them. Get your stuff in before eleven, will you? Here's theticket!"

Tarleton thrust the card into John's hand and, a little dazed and alittle excited, John went out of the room. This was his first importantjob. Words that he had written would appear in print in the morning, and hundreds of thousands of people would read them. The _DailySensation_ had an enormous circulation . . . A million people boughtit every morning, so Tarleton said, and that meant, he explained, thatabout three or four million people read it. Each copy of a paper wasprobably seen by several persons. The thought that some judgment of hiswould be read by a million men and women in the morning caused John tofeel tremendously responsible. He must be careful to give his praisejudiciously. All of the persons present at the concert that night, butmore especially the singers and instrumentalists, would turn first ofall to his notice. There might be a great political crisis or asensational murder reported in the morning's news, but these peoplewould turn first to his notice to see what he had said about the music. And it would not do to let them have a wrong impression about theconcert. Tarleton had told him not to dispraise anything . . . "it'll becut out if you do" . . . But at all events he would take care that hispraise was justly given. He would send copies of the papers, markedwith blue pencil, to his mother and Mr. McCaughan and Mr. Cairnduff. Hecould imagine the talk there would be in Ballyards about his criticismof the concert. The minister and the schoolmaster would be greatlyimpressed when they realised that the paper with the largestcirculation in the world had asked him to say what he thought of MadameTetrazzini. Mr. McCaughan had never heard anything greater than acantata sung by the church choir in the church room, and he had beendeeply impressed by the statements made about it by a reporter from the_North Down Herald_ who declared that the rendering of the sacredwork reflected great credit on all concerned in it, but particularly onthe Reverend Mr. McCaughan to whose sterling instruction in theprinciples of true religion, the young people engaged in singing thecantata clearly owed the sincerity and fervour with which they sangtheir parts. If he were so greatly impressed by a report in the_North Down Herald_, would he not be overwhelmed by the fact thatone of his congregation had been chosen to pronounce judgment on thegreatest singer in the world in the greatest newspaper in the world . . . For John was now satisfied that the _Daily Sensation_ wasenormously more important than any other paper that was published. Hewent to a tea-shop in Fleet Street where he knew he could hope to meetHinde, and found him sitting in a corner with a friend who, soon afterJohn's arrival, went away. 

"You needn't go to the concert if you're not desperately keen on it, "Hinde said when John had told him of his job. "You can write yournotice now!. . . "

"Write it now! . . . But I haven't been to the concert!"

"I wouldn't give much for the man who couldn't write a criticism of aconcert without going to it, " Hinde contemptuously replied. "Say thatTetrazzini's wonderful voice enthralled the audience and that therewere scenes of unparalleled enthusiasm as the diva graciously respondedto the clamorous demands for encores. Add a few words about the man whoplayed her accompaniments and the number of floral tributes shereceived, and there you are. That's all that's necessary!"

"I couldn't do it, " said John. It wouldn't be honest!"

"Don't be a prig, " Hinde exclaimed. 

"Prig! Is it being a prig to do your work fairly?"

"No, but it's being a prig to treat a thing as important that isn'timportant at all. I wanted you to come to a music-hall with me to-night!"

"I'm sorry, " John replied stiffly, "I'd like to go with you, but Icouldn't think of doing such a thing as you suggest to me!"

"I wonder how long you'll feel like that, Mac?" Hinde laughed. 

"All my life, I hope!"

"Well, have it your own way, then. But you're wasting your time!"

"And another thing, " John continued, "I want to hear the woman singing. I've never heard anybody great at the music yet!"

III

He entered the great circular hall, and sat, very solemnly, in his seaton the ground floor. He felt nervous and uneasy and certain that hewould not be able to write adequately of the concert. He tried to thinkof suitable words to great music, but it seemed to him that he couldnot think at all. He glanced about the Hall, hoping that perhaps hewould find inspiration in the ceiling, but there was no inspirationthere. He could see wires stretched across the roof from side to side, and there were great pieces of canvas radiating from the centralcluster of lights in the dome. He wondered why the wires were there. Blondin, he remembered, had walked across a wire, as thin-looking asthose, which was stretched high up in the roof of the Exhibition at theOld Linen Hall in Belfast; but he could scarcely believe that thesewires were intended for tight-rope performances. He turned to a man athis side. "Would you mind telling me what those things are for?" heasked, pointing to them. 

"To break the echoes, " the man replied, entering into an involvedaccount of acoustics. "It's all humbug really, " he added. "They don'tbreak the echoes at all, but we all imagine that they do, and so we'requite happy!"

The warm, comfortable look of the red-curtained boxes in the softenedelectric light pleased him, and he liked the effect of the tiers risingup to the high roof, and the great spread of floor, and the giganticmagnificence of the organ. 

"How many people does this place hold?" he demanded of his neighbour. 

"About ten thousand, " his neighbour answered, glancing at himquizzically. "Is this the first time you've been here?"

"Yes. I'm new to London. They must take a great deal of money in anight at a place like this. An immense amount!"

"They do. It's part of the Albert Memorial, this hall. The other partis in the Park across the road. Have you seen it?"

"No, " said John. "Is it any good?"

"Well, " said the stranger, "we've tried to overlook it . . . Butunfortunately it's too big. There are some excellent bits in it, butthe whole effect!. . . Poor dear Queen Victoria . . . She was a littlewoman, and so, of course, she believed in magnitude. She liked Bigness. She's out of fashion, nowadays . . . People titter behind their handswhen they speak of her . . . And there's a tendency to regard her as asomewhat foolish and sentimental old woman . . . But really, she was avery capable old girl in her narrow way, and there was nothing softabout her. She was as hard as nails . . . Almost a cruel woman . . . She'dcompel her maids-of-honour to stand in her presence until the poorgirls fainted with fatigue. . . . I'm sure she'd have made Queen Elizabethfeel uncomfortable in some ways. This hall is a memorial to herhusband. "

"Yes, " said John. "There's a Memorial in Belfast to him. What did hedo?"

"He was Queen Victoria's husband!"

"I suppose, " said John, "it wasn't much fun being her man?"

"Fun!" exclaimed the stranger. "Well, of course, it depends on what youcall fun!"

There was a bustling sound from the platform and some applause, andthen a dark-looking man emerged from the sloping gangway underneath theorgan and sat down at the piano. He played Mascagni's _Pavana delleMaschere_, and while he played it, John took some writing paper fromhis pocket and prepared to note down his opinions of the evening'sentertainment. 

"Hilloa, " said the stranger in a whisper, "are you a critic?"

John, feeling extraordinarily important, nodded his head and continuedto listen to the music. It sounded quite pleasant, but it conveyednothing to him. All he could think of was the contortions of thepianist as he played his piece, and he wished that all pianists couldbe concealed behind screens so that their grimaces and gyrations shouldnot be seen. He ought to say something about the man, but he had noidea of what was fitting!. . . The solo ended and was followed by anotherone, and then the pianist stood up to acknowledge the applause. 

"What do you think of it?" the stranger respectfully asked, and John, aware of the respect in his voice and conscious that he did not knowwhat to think of it, murmured, "Um-m-m! Not bad!"

"Coldish, I think, " the stranger continued. "Technically skilful, buthardly any feeling!"

John considered for a moment or two, and then answered very judicially. "Yes! Yes, I think that's a fair description of him!"

He waited until the stranger was engaged in reading the programme, andthen he jotted down on his writing-paper, "Mr. Pietro Mancinelli playedMascagni's _Pavana delle Maschere_ with great technical ability, but with hardly any emotional quality!"

"I'm very glad I sat down beside this chap, " he murmured to himself, asthe accompanist played the opening bars of Handel's _Droop not, younglover_, and then he settled down to listen to the man who sang it. He was happier here, for singing was more easy to judge thaninstrumental music. Either a song was well sung, he told himself, or itwas not well sung, and the gentleman who was singing _Droop not, young lover_ certainly had a voice that sounded well in that greathall. . . . He wrote in his report that "Mr. Albert Luton's magnificentvoice was heard to great advantage in Handel's charming aria. . . " andwas exceedingly glad that he had lately read some musical notices inone of the newspapers, and could remember some of the phrases that hadbeen used in them. 

"Now for a treat, " said the stranger, as a burst of hearty applauseopened out from the platform and went all round the hall. 

John glanced towards the passage leading to the artist's room and saw asmiling, plump lady, with very bright, dark eyes and dark hair come onto the platform. She was clad in white that made her Italian looks morepronounced. 

"Tetrazzini!" the stranger whispered in John's ear. 

The applause died down, and the singer stood rigidly in front of theplatform while the pianist played the opening of Verdi's _Caronome_. Then her voice sounded very clear and bell-like in the deepsilence of the great hall. . . . She sang _Solveig's Song_ by Greigand _A Pastoral_ by Veracini, and then the satiated audienceallowed her to retire from the platform. 

John sat back in his seat in a dazed fashion. All round him wereapplauding men and women . . . And he could not applaud. There was a buzzof admiring talk, and he could hear the words "wonderful" and"magnificent" . . . And he had not been moved at all. The great voice hadnot caused him to feel any thrill or emotion whatever. It waswonderful, indeed, but that was all that it was. There was no generousglow in her music; she did not cause him to feel any emotion other thanthat of astonishment at the perfection of her vocal organs. He hadimagined that the great singer's voice would compel him to jump out ofhis seat and wave his hands wildly and shout and cheer . . . But insteadhe had sat still and wondered at the marvellous way in which her throatfunctioned. 

"Well?" said his neighbour, in the tone of one who would say that onlywords of an extremely adulatory character were conceivable after such aperformance. 

"She's a very remarkable woman, " John replied. 

"Remarkable!" his neighbour indignantly exclaimed. "She's amiracle!. . . "

John disregarded his ecstatics. "I kept on thinking of a clevermachine, " he said. "The wheels went round without a hitch. She's agrand invention, that woman! She can sing her pieces without thinkingabout them. She hardly knows the notes are coming out of her mouth . . . She doesn't know where they come from or why they come at all, and Idon't suppose it matters to her where they go. There's a grand machinein our place that prints the papers. You put a big roll of white paperon to it, and you turn a wee handle, and the machine sends the rollspinning round and round until it's done, and a lot of folded papers, nicely printed, come tumbling out in counted batches, all ready to betaken away and sold in the shops and streets. It's a wonderfulmachine . . . But it can't read its own printing and it doesn't know what'sin the papers after it's done with them. That's what she's like; awonderful machine!. . . "

"My dear sir, " the stranger exclaimed, but John prevented him fromsaying any more. 

"That's my opinion anyway, " he went on, "and I can only think thethings I think. I can't think what other people think!"

"A limitation, " said the stranger. "A distinct limitation!"

"Mebbe it is, but I don't see what that matters!"

After Tetrazzini had left the platform and the applause of her admirershad died away, there was a violin solo, and then came an interval offifteen minutes. John determined to write part of his notice in thevestibule of the Hall, and he got up from his seat to do so. He mountedthe stairs that led to the first tier of boxes, and as he approachedthem, he saw Eleanor Moore sitting in the box nearest the exit throughwhich he was about to pass. There were other people in the box . . . Girls, he thought . . . But he hardly saw them. As he came nearer to her, she raised her eyes from her programme and looked straight at him, andfor a few moments neither of them averted their eyes. Then she lookedaway, and he passed through the curtained exit. 

IV

He had found her again! She had not flown away from London . . . She wasnot ill, as he had so alarmingly imagined, nor, as he had horriblyimagined for one dreadful moment, was she dead. She lived . . . She waswell . . . She was here in this very hall, separated from him only by athin partition of wood . . . And she had looked at him without fear inher eyes. He mounted the short flight of stairs leading to the corridoron to which the doors of the boxes opened, and read the name written onthe card underneath the number painted on the door of the box in whichEleanor was sitting. "The Viscountess Walbrook. " The name puzzled him, and he turned to an attendant, a lugubrious man in a dingy frock-coatlooking extraordinarily like a dejected image of Albert the Good, andasked for an explanation. 

"It means that she owns that box, " he explained. "Lots of the seats andboxes 'ere belong to private people. That one belongs to theViscountess Walbrook. She in'erited it from 'er father. Very kind-'eartedwoman . . . Always gives 'er box to orphans and widders and peoplelike that!"

"Then the ladies in the box now are not friends of hers?" John asked, meaning by "friends, " relatives. 

"I shouldn't think so, " the attendant answered. "I noticed the partycomin' in. They come in a 'ired carriage. No, they're orphans orwidders or somethin'. There's always a lot of orphans an' widders aboutthis 'All, partic'lar on a Sunday afternoon when they're doin' 'Andel's_Messiar_. And the _Elijiar_, too! You know! Mendelssohn'sbit! Reg'lar fascination for orphans an' widders that 'as. I call itdepressin' meself, but some 'ow it seems to fit in with orphans an'widders!. . . "

John thanked the attendant and moved down the corridor. He must notlose sight of Eleanor now that he had found her again. If only he coulddiscover where she lived . . . He stood where he could see the door ofthe Viscountess Walbrook's box, and brooded over the chances ofdiscovering Eleanor's home. He must not lose sight of her . . . That wasimperative. The luckiest thing in the world had brought him into hercompany again, and he might never have such an opportunity again if helet this one slip away from him. He could look round every now and thenfrom his seat to assure himself that she was still in the box, butsupposing she were to go away in the interval between his assuringglances? Even if he were to see her leaving the box, he would have somedifficulty in getting to her in time to keep her in sight!. . . No, no, he must not run the risk of losing her again. He must stay in someplace from which he could immediately see her leaving the box and fromwhich he could easily follow her without ever missing her. He lookedabout him, and felt inclined to sit down in the corridor and wait thereuntil Eleanor emerged from the Viscountess Walbrook's private property!But the corridor was a draughty and conspicuous and depressing place inwhich to loiter, and he felt that the cheerless attendant might suspecthim of some felonious or other criminal intent if he were to stay thereduring the whole of the second part of the programme. He peered throughthe curtains which separated the corridor from the auditorium and sawan empty seat on the opposite side of the gangway to that on which LadyWalbrook's box was situated; and when the interval was ended and theviolinist began to play the first movement of Beethoven's _Romance inG_, he slipped into the seat, and sat so that he could see everymovement that Eleanor made. How very beautiful she looked! She seemedmore beautiful to him in her blue evening dress even than she hadseemed on the first day that he saw her. Until he had come to London, he had never seen a woman in evening dress, except in photographs andin illustrated papers, and when, for the first time, he had seen realwomen in real evening clothes in a theatre, the sight of their barewhite shoulders and bosoms had appeared to him both beautiful andimproper. Eleanor's shoulders were bare, and as he looked at her, hecould see her bosom very gently rising and falling with her breathing, but he felt no confusion in seeing her in that bare state. She wasbeautiful . . . He could think of nothing else but her beauty. Hershapely head was perfectly poised upon her strong neck, and he wasaware instantly of the graceful line of her shoulders. If she had notbeen in those pretty evening clothes, he would not have known that herneck and shoulders were so beautiful. Her soft, dark hair, looselydressed over her ears, glowed with loveliness, and the narrow goldenband that bound it was no brighter than her eyes. How lovely she is, hesaid to himself, indifferent to the applause that was offered to theviolinist, and then he fell to admiring the way in which she clappedher gloved hands together, slowly but firmly. Her applause was notlanguid applause, neither was it without discrimination. She seemed toJohn to be telling the violinist that he had played well, but mighthave played better. . . . 

"She's the great wee girl, " he said to himself. 

He saw now that she shared the box with two other girls, but he had nofurther interest in them than that they were in her company and thatthey were not men. He wished that her hands were not gloved so that hemight see whether she wore rings on her fingers, and if so, on whichfingers they were worn. Supposing she were engaged to some other man. . . Or worse still, supposing she were married! It was possible for herto have been married since he last saw her!. . . An agony of doubt anddespair came upon him as he brooded over the thought of her possiblemarriage, and although he was aware that Tetrazzini was singingMazzone's _Sogni e Canti_ and Benedict's _Carnevale diVenezia_, the music was no more than a noise in the air to him. Whatshould he do if Eleanor were married? Bad enough if she were engaged, but married!. . . An engagement was not an irrefragable affair, and hecould woo her so ardently that his rival would swiftly vanish from herthoughts . . . But a marriage!. . . He knew that marriages were not soirrefragable as they might be, and that a very desperate couple mightgo to the length of running away together even though one of them weremarried to someone else . . . But he did not like the thought of runningaway with a married woman. Eleanor might not wish to run away withhim . . . His agony of mind was such that he stooped to that humility ofimagination . . . She might very dearly love her husband!. . . 

Lord alive, why couldn't that Italian woman stop singing! Why was notthis silly music ended so that he could settle his doubts aboutEleanor's freedom to marry him! Why could the audience not be contentwith two songs from the woman instead of demanding encores from her!. . . 

And then the concert ended after what seemed an interminable time, andthe audience began to emerge from the Hall. John went quickly into thecorridor and waited until the door of the Viscountess Walbrook's boxopened and Eleanor, followed by her friends, came out of it. She had along coat with a furry collar over her pretty blue frock, and as shegathered her skirts about her, he could see that she was wearing bluesatin shoes and blue silk stockings. One hand firmly grasped her skirtsand the other hand held the furry collar in front of her mouth. Shepassed so close to him that he could have touched her glowing cheekswith his hands, but she did not see him. The crush of people madeprogress slow and difficult, but he was glad of this for it enabled himto be near to her much longer than he could otherwise have hoped to be. As she passed him, he had fallen in behind her, and now he could touchher very gently without her being aware that his touch was any morethan the unavoidable contact of people in the crowd. There was a faintsmell of violets about her clothes, and he snuffed up the delicateodour eagerly. Mrs. Cream had smelt strongly of perfume, anoverpowering hothouse-smelling perfume that had made him feel as if hewere stifling, but this delicate odour pleased him. How natural, howvery obvious even, that Eleanor should use the scent of violets!

When they reached the front of the Hall, Eleanor turned to her friendsand made some remark about a carriage. He supposed they had hired avehicle to bring them to the Hall and take them home again, and when hediscovered that his supposition was right, a sense of disappointmentfilled him. He had hoped that they would walk home or that they wouldget on to a 'bus!. . . 

He watched them climb into the shabby hired brougham, and when the doorwas closed upon them and the driver had whipped up his horse, hefollowed it into the Kensington Road. The traffic was so congested thatthe horse had to move at a walking pace, and John was easily able tokeep close to it; but in a few moments, he told himself, the driverwould get clear of the congestion and then the horse would begin totrot; and while the thought passed through his mind, the driver crackedhis whip and the slow, spiritless horse began to move more rapidly . . . And as it gathered speed, resolution suddenly came to John out of asudden vision of a boy's pleasure. 

"Fancy not thinking of this before, " he said, as he swung himself on tothe back of the carriage and balanced uncomfortably on the bar. 

V

The brougham drove along Kensington Road and then turned sharply intoChurch Street along which it was drawn at an ambling pace to NottingHill. It turned to the right, and went along the Bayswater Road, andthen John lost his bearings. He was in one of the streets off theBayswater Road, but in the darkness he could not tell what its namewas. Presently the driver shouted "Whoa!" to his horse and drew up infront of a dreary, tall house, with a pillared portico, and John hadonly sufficient time in which to drop from the back of the carriage andskip across the street to the opposite pavement before the three girlsalighted from the brougham and stood for a few moments in front of thehouse. The driver drove off, and John, lurking in the shadow of adoorway, watched the girls as they stood talking together. Then he sawtwo of them climb up the steps leading to the house, and Eleanor, calling out "Good-night!" to them, went round the corner. He hurriedafter her, and saw her going up the steps of a similar houseimmediately round the corner from the one into which her friends hadentered. She was fumbling at the keyhole with her key as he cameopposite the house, and she did not see him until he spoke to her. 

"Miss Moore, " he said in a hesitating manner, taking off his hat as hespoke. 

She started and turned round. "What is it?" she said in an alarmedmanner. 

"I . . . I've been trying to find you for a long time!. . . "

She shrank away from him. "I don't know you, " she said. "You've made amistake. Please go away!"

"Don't be afraid of me, " he pleaded. "I know you don't know me, but Iknow you. You're Eleanor Moore!. . . "

She came forward from the shadow. "Yes, " she said, half in alarm, halfout of curiosity. "Yes, that's my name, but I don't know you!. . . " Thenshe recognised him. "Oh, you're that man!" she said, now whollyalarmed. 

"I saw you at the tea-shop, " he replied hastily. "You remember you lefta letter behind and I picked it up and gave it to you. That's how Iknow your name!"

"Why are you persecuting me?" she demanded, almost tearfully. 

He was daunted by her tone. "Persecuting you!" he said. 

"Yes. You follow me about in the street, and stare at me. I saw youthis evening at the Albert Hall, and you stared at me!. . . "

"Because I love you, Eleanor!" He went nearer to her, and as he did so, she retreated further into the shadow. "Don't be afraid of me, please, "he said. "I fell in love with you the moment I saw you, but I'm astranger in this town and I had no way of getting to know you. I triedhard, Eleanor!. . . "

"Don't call me Eleanor!"

"I can't help it. I think of you as Eleanor. I always call you Eleanorto myself. You see, dear, I'm in love with you!"

"But you don't know me. I wish you'd go away. I shall ring the bell ortell the policeman at the corner!. . . "

"Let me tell you about myself, " he pleaded. 

"I don't want to hear about you. I don't like you. You stare so hard, and you're always looking at my stockings!. . . "

"Oh, no!"

"Yes, you are. You're looking at them now!"

"Only because you mentioned them. I won't look at them if you tell menot to!. . . "

"I don't want to tell you anything, " she murmured. "I only want you togo away!. . . "

"I know that, dearest, but just let me tell you this. My name is JohnMacDermott!. . . "

"I don't care what your name is, " she interrupted. "It doesn't interestme in the least!. . . "

"But it will, Eleanor, darling. When you're married to me!. . . "

She burst out laughing, "I think you're mad, " she said. 

"I was very lonely, Eleanor, when I saw you. I have not got a friend inLondon!. . . " He omitted to remember the existence of Hinde. "I come fromIreland!. . . "

"Oh!"

"And I had not been in London more than a day when I saw you. I fell inlove with you at once!. . . "

"Absurd!" she said. 

"It's true. After you'd gone back to your office, I went for a longwalk, but all the time, I was thinking of you, and I hurried back tothe shop at teatime, hoping I'd see you. And you were there, lookinglovelier than you looked in the middle of the day. Do you remember?"

"Yes, " she said. "You looked so ridiculous!. . . "

"Perhaps I did, but I didn't care how I looked so long as I was nearyou. I felt miserable and lonely, and you were the only person inLondon I knew!. . . "

"But you didn't know me!" she insisted. 

"I knew your name, and I was in love with you. That was enough. I triedto speak to you, but you would not let me. I asked you to be friendswith me, and you got up and walked away. I felt ashamed of myselfbecause I thought I had frightened you, and I hurried out of the shopand followed you so that I might tell you how sorry I was and how muchI loved you, but I lost you at your office, and the man at the liftnearly had a fight with me!. . . "

"Then it _was_ you who had been asking for me? He told me that asuspicious character had been hanging about the hall, enquiring for me. I thought it might be you!"

"I don't look suspicious, do I?"

"You behave suspiciously. You speak to people whom you do not know, andyou follow them in the street!. . . "

"Only you, Eleanor. Not anybody else!"

There was a silence for a few moments, and then she turned to the doorand inserted the key in the lock. 

"Well, please go away now, " she said. "You can't do any good here!. . . "

"Let me come in and tell your father and mother I want to marry you!"

She opened the door and gazed at him as if she could not believe herears. 

"This is a residential club for women, " she said. "I have no parents, Ithink you're the silliest man I've ever encountered. Please go away!You'll get me talked about!. . . "

She shut the door in his face. 

He stared blankly at the glass panels of the door for a few moments andthen went down the steps into the street, and as he did so, he saw alight suddenly illuminate the room immediately above the pillaredportico. He stared up at it, and saw that the window was open, andwhile he looked, he saw Eleanor come to it and begin to draw it down. 

He called out to her. "Eleanor!" he said, "Hi, Eleanor!"

She peered out of the window, and then leant her head through theopening. "There's a policeman at the corner, " she said, "I shall callhim if you don't go away!"

"Very well, " he replied. "They can't put a man in gaol for loving awoman!"

"They can put him in gaol for annoying her!"

"I'm not annoying you. How can I annoy you when I'm in love with you?No, don't interrupt me. You haven't let me get a word out of my mouthall night!" He could hear her laughing at him. "Are you codding me?" hesaid. 

"What?" she replied in a puzzled voice. 

"Are you codding me?" he repeated. "Are you making fun of me?"

She leant out of the window as if she were trying to see him moreclosely. "You really are funny, " she said. "I was afraid of you . . . Youstared so . . . But I'm not afraid of you now. You're a funny littlefellow, but I do wish you'd go away!"

"Come down and talk to me, and I'll go home content!. . . "

"You're being silly again!"

"No, I'm not. I tell you, girl, I'm mad in love with you, and I'll siton your doorstep all night 'til you agree to go out with me!"

"The policeman would lock you up if you were to do that, " she replied. "I'm not in love with you . . . I don't even like you . . . I think you'rea horrid man, staring at people the way you do . . . And I won't 'go outwith you, ' as you call it. I'm not a servant girl!. . . "

"What does it matter to me what sort of a girl you are, if I'm in lovewith you. You must like me . . . You can't help it!. . . "

"Oh, can't I?"

"No. I never heard tell yet of a man loving a woman the way I love you, and her not to fall in love with him!"

"Don't talk so loudly, please, " she said in a lowered tone. "Peoplewill hear you, and there's someone coming down the street. "

"I don't care!. . . "

"But I do. Now listen to me, Mr. . . . Mr. . . . I can't remember your name!"

"My name's MacDermott, but you can call me John. "

"Thank you, Mr. MacDermott, but I don't wish to call you John. Nowlisten to me. I think you're a very romantic young man!. . . No, pleaselet me finish one sentence! You're a very romantic young man, and Idaresay you think that all you've got to do is to tell the first girlyou meet that you're in love with her, and she'll say, 'Oh, thank you!'and fall into your arms. Well you're wrong! You may think you're veryromantic, but I think you're just a tedious fool!. . . "

"A what?"

"A tedious fool. You've made me feel exceedingly uncomfortable morethan once. I had to stop going to that tea-shop because I couldn't eatmy food without your eyes staring at me all the time. Fortunately, thework I was doing in the City was only a temporary job, and I got apermanent post elsewhere and was able to move away from the Cityaltogether!. . . "

"But Eleanor!. . . "

"How dare you call me Eleanor!"

"Because I love you!" he said. 

She seemed to be nonplussed by his reply. She did not speak for a fewmoments. Then, altering her tone, she said, "Oh, well, I daresay youthink you do!"

"I don't think. I know. I'll not be content till I marry you. Now, Eleanor, do you hear that?"

"I know nothing whatever about you!. . . "

"Come down to the doorstep and I'll tell you. Will you?"

"No, of course not!"

"Well, how can you blame me then if you won't listen to me when I offerto tell you about myself. You know my name. John MacDermott. And I'mIrish!. . . "

"Yes, " she interrupted, "I'm making big allowances for that!"

"My family's the most respected family in Ballyards!. . . "

"Where's that?" she asked. 

"Do you not know either? You're the second person I've met in Londondidn't know that. It's in County Down. My mother lives there, and sodoes my Uncle William. I've come here to write books!. . . "

"Are you an author?" she exclaimed with interest. 

"I am, " he said proudly. "I've written a novel and I'm writing aplay!. . . Come down and I'll tell you about them!"

"Oh, no, I can't. It's too late. And you must go home. Where do youlive?"

"At Brixton, " he answered. 

"That's miles from here. And you'll miss the last bus if you don'thurry!. . . "

"I can walk. Come down, will you!"

"No. No, no. It's much too late, " she said hurriedly. "And I can't stayhere talking to you any longer. Someone will make a complaint about me. You'll get me into trouble!. . . "

"Well, will you meet me to-morrow somewhere? Wherever you like!"

"No!. . . "

"Ah, do!"

"No, I won't. Why should I?"

"Because I'm in love with you and want you to meet me. "

"No!. . . "

"Then I'll sit here all night then. I'll let the peeler take me up, andI'll tell the whole world I'm in love with you!"

"You're a beast. You're really a beast!"

"I'm not. I'm in love with you. That's all. Will you meet me themorrow?"

"I don't know!. . . "

"Well, make up your mind then. "

She remained silent for a few moments. 

"Well?" he said. 

"I don't see why I should meet you!. . . "

"Never mind about that. Just meet me!"

"Well . . . Perhaps . . . Only perhaps, mind you . . . I don't promisereally . . . I might meet you . . . Just for a minute or two!. . . "

"Where?"

"At the bookstall in Charing Cross station. Do you know it?"

"I'll soon find it. What time?"

"Five o'clock!"

"Right. I'll be there to the minute!. . . "

"Go home now. You've a long way to go, and I'm very tired!"

"All right, Eleanor. I wish you'd come down, though. Just for a weewhile!"

"I can't. Good-night!"

"Good-night, my dear. You've the loveliest eyes!. . . "

She closed the window, but he could see her standing behind the glasslooking at him. 

He kissed his hand to her and then, when she had moved away, he walkedoff. 

"Good night, constable!" he said cheerily to the policeman at thecorner. 

The policeman looked suspiciously at him. 

"How do you get to Brixton from here?" John continued. 

"First on the right, first on the left, first on the right again, andyou're in the Bayswater Road. Turn to the left and keep on until youreach Marble Arch. You'll get a 'bus there, if you're lucky. If you'retoo late, you'll have to walk it. Go down Park Lane and ask again. Makefor Victoria!"

"Thanks, " said John. 

He walked along the Bayswater Road, singing in his heart, and after awhile, finding that the street was almost empty, he began to singaloud. The roadway shone in the cold light thrown from the highelectric lamps, and there was a faint mist hanging about the trees inKensington Gardens. He looked up at the sky and saw that it was full offriendly stars. All around him was beauty and light. The gleamingroadway and the gleaming sky seemed to be illuminated in honour of histriumphant love, for he did not doubt that his love was triumphant. Thenight air was fresh and cool. It had none of the exhausted taste thatthe air seems always to have in London during the day. It was new, clean air, fresh from the sea or from the hills, and he took off hishat so that his forehead might be fanned by it. He glanced about him asif in every shadow he expected to see a friend. London no longer seemedtoo large to love. 

"I like this place, " he said, waving his hat in the air. 

A policeman told him of a very late 'bus that went down Whitehall andwould take him as far as Kensington Gate, and he hurried off to CharingCross and was lucky enough to catch the 'bus. 

"How much?" he said to the conductor. 

"Sixpence on this 'bus, " the conductor replied. 

John handed a shilling to him. "You can keep the change, " he said. 

VI

Hinde was lying on the sofa in the sitting-room when John, slightlytired, but too elated to be aware of his fatigue, got home. 

"Hilloa, " he said sleepily, "how did the concert go?"

John suddenly remembered. 

"Holy O!" he exclaimed, clapping his hand to his head. 

"What's that?" Hinde said. 

"I forgot all about it, " John replied. 

"Forgot all about it! Do you mean you didn't go to it?"

"I went all right, but I forgot to take my notice to the office!"

Hinde sat up and stared at him. "You _forgot_!. . . " He could notsay any more. 

John told him of the encounter with Eleanor. 

"You mean to say you let your paper down for the sake of a girl, " Hindeexclaimed incredulously. 

"I'll go back now, " John said, turning to leave the room. 

"Go back _now_! What's the good of that? The paper's been put tobed half an hour and more ago. My God Almighty . . . You let the paperdown. For the sake of a girl!"

He seemed to have difficulty in expressing his thoughts, and he satback and gaped at John as if he had just been informed that the LastDay had been officially announced. 

"You needn't show your nose in _that_ office again, " he saidagain. "I never heard of such a reason for letting a paper down! Goodheavens, man, don't you realise what you've done? _You've let thepaper down_!"

"I'm in love with this girl!. . . "

Hinde almost snarled at him. "Ach-h-h, _love_!" he shouted. "Andyou propose to be a journalist. Let your paper down. For a girl. Yousloppy fellow!. . . My heavens above, I never heard of such a thing. Letting your paper down!. . . "

He walked about the room, repeating many times that John had "let hispaper down. "

"And I recommended you to Clotworthy, too. I told him you had the stuffin you. I thought you had. I thought you could do a job decently, butby the Holy O, you're no good. You let your own feelings come betweenyou and your work. Oh! Oh, oh! Oh, go to bed quick or I'll knock thehead off you. I'll not be responsible for myself if you stand there anylonger like a moonstruck fool!"

"If you talk to me like that, " said John, "I'll hit you a welt on thejaw. I'm sorry I forgot about the paper, but sure what does it matteranyway?. . . "

"What does it matter!" Hinde almost shrieked at him. "Your paper willbe the only paper in London which won't have a report of that concertin it to-morrow. That's what it matters? I'd be ashamed to let my paperdown for any reason on earth. If my mother was dying, I wouldn't lether prevent me from doing my job!. . . If you can't understand that, JohnMacDermott, you needn't try to be a journalist. You haven't got it inyou. Your paper's your father and your mother and your wife and yourchildren! Oh, go to bed, out of my sight, or I'll forget myself!. . . "

John walked towards the door. 

"I'd rather love a woman any day than a paper, " he said. 

"Well, go and love her then, and don't try to interfere with a paperagain! Don't come down Fleet Street pretending you're a journalist!"

"Good-night!"

"Yah-h-h!" said Hinde. 

THE FIFTH CHAPTER

I

It had been exceedingly difficult for John to explain his defection toMr. Clotworthy and to Tarleton. The only mitigating feature of thebusiness was that the matter to be reported was only a concert. BothMr. Clotworthy and Tarleton trembled when they thought of the calamitythat would have befallen the paper if the forgotten report had been ofa murder! They hardly dared contemplate such a devastating prospect. They invited John to think of another profession and wished him a verygood morning. Tarleton quitted the room, leaving John alone with theeditor, and as he went he showed such contempt towards him as is onlyshown towards the meanest of God's creatures. 

"Well, where's your Ulster now?" said Mr. Clotworthy very sardonicallywhen they were alone together. 

"I know rightly I'm in the wrong from your point of view, Mr. Clotworthy, " John replied, "but I'd do the same thing again if twentyjobs depended on it. It's hard to make you understand, and mebbe I'm afool to try, but there it is. The minute I clapped my eyes on her, Iforgot everything but her. I'm sorry I've lost my post here, but I'd besorrier to have lost her. That's all about it. You were very kind togive me the work, and I wish I hadn't let your paper down the way Hindesays I did, but it's no good me pretending about it. I'd do it again ifthe same thing happened another time. That's the beginning and end ofit all. I'd rather be her husband than edit a dozen papers like yours. I'd rather be her husband than be anything else in the world!"

"Well, good afternoon!" said Mr. Clotworthy. 

"Good afternoon!" said John, turning away. 

He moved towards the door of the room, feeling much less assurance thanhe had felt when he came into it. 

"If you care to send in some articles for page six, " Mr. Clotworthyadded, "I'd be glad to see them!"

"Thank you, " said John. 

"Not at all, " the editor replied without glancing up. 

He left the _Daily Sensation_ office, and walked towards CharingCross. A queer depression had settled upon his spirits. Hinde hadtreated him as if he were mentally deficient, and he knew that Mr. Clotworthy and Tarleton, particularly Tarleton, regarded him withcoldness, but he was not deeply affected by their disapproval. Nevertheless, depression possessed him. He felt that Eleanor would failto keep her appointment. Quietly considered, there seemed to be noreason why she should keep it. She knew absolutely nothing of himexcept what he had told her while she leaned out of the window. How wasshe to know that he was speaking the truth? What right had he to expecther to pay any heed to him at all? Dreary, drizzling thoughts pouredthrough his mind. He felt as certain that his novel would not bepublished as he felt that Eleanor would not be at the bookstall atCharing Cross station when he arrived there. The tragedy on which hewas working had seemed to him to be a very marvellous play, but now hethought it was too poor to be worth finishing. He had been in Londonfor what was quite a long time, but he had achieved nothing. He had noteven written the music-hall sketch for the Creams. He had not earned afarthing during the time that he had been in London. All the exaltationwhich had filled him as he walked along the Bayswater Road on theprevious night, with his mind full of Eleanor and love and starshineand moonlight and gleaming streets and trees hanging with mist andfriendliness for all men, had gone clean out of him. Fleet Street was adirty, ill-ventilated alley full of scuffling men and harassed women. London itself was a great angry thing, a place of distrust andcontention, where no one ever offered a friendly greeting to astranger. He would go to Charing Cross station and he would standpatiently in front of the bookstall, but Eleanor would not come to meethim. He would stand there, dumb and uncomplaining, and no one of thehurrying crowd of people would turn to him and say, "You're in trouble. I'm sorry!" They would neither know nor care. They would be too busycatching trains. He would stand there for an hour, for two hours . . . Until his legs began to ache with the pain of standing in one place fora long time . . . And then, when it was apparent that waiting was uselessand he had, perhaps, aroused the suspicions of policemen and railwayporters concerning his purpose in loitering thus so persistently infront of the bookstall, he would go home in his misery to acontemptuous Hinde!. . . 

II

And while these bitter thoughts poured through his mind, he enteredCharing Cross station, and there in front of the bookstall was EleanorMoore. The bitter thoughts poured out of his mind in a rapid flood. Hefelt so certain that his novel would be published that he could almostsee it stacked on the bookstall behind Eleanor. He would finish thetragedy that week and in a short while England would be acclaiming himas a great dramatist!. . . He hurried towards her and held out his hand, and she shyly took it. 

"Have you been here long?" he anxiously asked. 

"No, " she answered, "I've only just come!"

"Let's go and have some tea, " he went on. 

"I've had mine, thanks!. . . "

"Well, have some more. I've not had any!. . . "

"I don't think I can, thanks. I've really come to say that I can't!. . . "

"There's a little place near here, " he interrupted hurriedly, "wherethey give you lovely home-made bread. I found it one day when I waswandering about. We'll just go there and talk about whatever you wantto say. Give me that umbrella of yours!" He took it from her hand as hespoke. "This is the way, " he said, leading her from the station. Asthey crossed the road, he took hold of her arm. "These streets areterribly dangerous, " he said. "You never know what minute you're goingto be run over!"

He still held her arm when they were safely on the pavement, butshe contrived to free herself without making a point of doing so. He tried to bring her back to the mood in which they were when sheleaned out of the window to listen to him . . . "like Romeo and Juliet, "he told himself . . . But the congestion of the streets made suchintimacies impossible. They were constantly being separated by thehurrying foot-passengers, and so they could only speak in short, dull sentences. He brought her at last to the quiet tea-shop wherehe ordered tea and home-made bread and honey!. . . 

"Eleanor, " he said, when the waitress had taken his order and haddeparted to fulfil it, "it's no good, you telling me that you can't goout with me. You must, my dear. I want to marry you!. . . "

"But it's absurd, " she expostulated. "How can you possibly talk likethat when we're such strangers to each other!"

"You're no stranger to me. I've loved you for two months now. I'vehardly ever had you out of my mind. I was nearly demented mad when Ilost you. I used to go and hang about that office of yours day afterday in the hope that you'd come out!. . . And if ever I get the chance, I'll break that liftman's neck for him. He insulted me the day I askedhim what office you were in. He called me a Nosey Parker!"

She laughed at him. "But that was right, wasn't it?" she said. "Youwouldn't have him give information about me to any man who chooses toask for it?"

"He should have known that I was all right. A child could have seenthat I wasn't just playing the fool. But you're mebbe right. I'll thinkno more about him. Do you know what happened last night?"

"No. "

He told her of his relationship with the _Daily Sensation_. 

"Then you've lost your work?" she said. 

He nodded his head, and they did not speak again for a few moments. Thewaitress had brought the tea and bread and honey, and they waited untilshe had gone. 

"I'm so sorry, " she said. 

"It doesn't bother me, " he replied. "I only told you to show you howmuch I love you. I'm not codding you, Eleanor. You matter so much to methat I'd sacrifice any job in the world for you. I told Clotworthy that. . . He's the editor of the paper . . . I told him I'd rather be yourhusband than have his job a hundred times over. And so I would. Willyou marry me, Eleanor?"

"I've never met anyone like you before!. . . "

"I daresay you haven't but I'm not asking you about that. Will youmarry me? We can fix the whole thing up in no time at all. I looked itup in a book this morning, and it says you can get married after threeweeks' notice. If I give notice the morrow, we can be married in amonth from to-day!"

"Oh, stop, stop, " she said. "Your mind is running away with you. Ispoke to you for the first time last night!. . . "

"Beg your pardon, " he said, "you spoke to me the first day we met. Ihanded you your letter!. . . "

"Oh, but that doesn't count. That was nothing. I really only spoke toyou last night, and I don't know you. I'm not in love with you . . . No, please be sensible. How can I possibly love you when I don't knowyou!. . . "

"I love you, don't I?" he demanded. 

"You say so!"

"Well, if I love you, you can love me, can't you. That's simpleenough!"

She passed a cup of tea to him. "Do all Irishmen behave like this?" shesaid. 

"I don't know and I don't care. It's the way I behave. I know my mindqueer and quick, Eleanor, and when I want a thing, I don't need to gohumming and hahhing to see whether I'm sure about it. I want you. Iknow that for a fact, and there's no need for me to argue about it. I'll not want you any more this day twelvemonth than I want you now, and I won't want you any less. Will you marry me?"

"No!"

"How long will it be before you will marry me, then?"

She threw her hands with a gesture of comical despair. "Really, " shesaid, "you're unbelievable. You seem to think that I must want to marryyou merely because you want to marry me. I take no interest whatever inyou!. . . "

"No, but you will!"

She shrugged her shoulders. "It isn't any use talking, " she said. "Yourmind is made up!. . . "

"It is. I want to marry you, Eleanor, and I'm going to marry you. Ihave a lot to do in the world yet, but that's the first thing I've gotto do, and I can't do anything else till I have done it. So you mightas well make up your mind to it, and save a lot of time arguing aboutit when it's going to happen in the end!"

She pushed her cup away, and rose from her seat. "I'm going home, " shesaid. "This conversation makes me feel dizzy!"

"There's no hurry, " he exclaimed. 

She spoke coldly and deliberately, "It's not a question of hurry, " shereplied. "It's a question of desire, I _wish_ to go home. Yourconversation bores and annoys me!"

"Why?"

"Because you treat me as if I were not human, and had no desires of myown. I'm to marry you, of whom I know absolutely nothing, merelybecause you want me to marry you. I don't know whether you are agentleman or not. You have a very funny accent!. . . "

"What's wrong with my accent?" he demanded. 

"I don't know. It's just funny. I've never heard an accent like thatbefore, and so I can't tell whether you're a gentleman or not. If youwere an Englishman, I should know at once, but it's different withIrish people. Your very queer manners may be quite the thing inIreland!"

He put out his hand to her, but she drew back. "Sit down, " he said. "Just for a minute or two till I talk to you. I'll let you go then!"

She hesitated. Then she did as he asked her. "Very well!" she saidprimly. 

"Listen to me, Eleanor, I know very well that my behaviour is strangeto you. It's strange to me. Till last night we'd never exchanged adozen words. I know that. But I tell you this, if you live to be ahundred and have boys by the score, you'll never have a man that'lllove you as I love you. I'm in earnest, Eleanor. I'm not codding you. I'm not trying to humbug you. I love you. I'm desperate in love withyou!. . . "

She leant forward a little, moved by his sincerity. "But, " she said, and then stopped as if unable to find words, adequate to her meaning. 

"There's no buts about it, " he replied. "I love you. I don't know why Ilove you, and I don't care whether I know or not. All I know is thatthe minute I saw you, I loved you. I wanted to see you again, and Ischemed to make you talk to me!. . . "

"Yes, and very silly your schemes were. Asking me if I wanted the_Graphic_ back again!. . . "

"You remember that, do you?" he asked. 

"Well, it was so obvious and so stupid, " she answered. 

"Listen. Tell me this. Do you believe me when I tell you I love you?It's no use me telling you if you don't believe me!"

"It's so difficult to say!. . . "

"Do you believe me, " he insisted. "Do I look like a man that would telllies to a girl like you. Answer me that, now?"

She raised her eyes, and gazed very straightly at him. "No, " she said;"I don't think you would. I . . . I think you mean what you say!. . . "

"I do, Eleanor. As true as God's in heaven, I do. Will you not believeme?"

"But I don't love you, " she burst out. 

"Well, mebbe you don't. That's understandable!" he admitted. 

"And the whole thing's so unusual, " she protested. 

"What does that matter? If I love you and you get to love me, does itmatter about anything else? Have wit, woman, have wit!"

"Don't speak to me like that. You're very abrupt, Mr. MacDermott!. . . ""My name's John to you! Now, don't flare up again. You were nice andamenable a minute ago. You can stop like that. You and me are going tomarry some time. The sooner the better. All I want you to do now, asyou say you don't love me, is to give me a chance to make you love me. Come out with me for a walk . . . Or we'll go to a theatre, if you like!Anyway, let's be friends. I don't know anybody in this town except oneman, and him and me's had a row over the head of the _DailySensation!_. . . " "Yes, " she interrupted, "you've lost your workthrough your foolishness. What are you going to do now? It isn't veryeasy to get work. " "I'll get it all right if I want it, I've enoughmoney to keep me easy for a year without doing a hand's turn, and Idaresay my mother and my Uncle William 'ud let me have more if I wantedit. I don't want to be on a paper much. I want to write books!" Herinterest was restored. "Tell me about the book you've written. Is itprinted yet?" she said. He told her of his work, and of the Creams andof Hinde. He told her, too, of his life in Ballyards. "Where do youcome from?" he said. "Devonshire, " she answered. "My father was rectorof a village there until he died. Then mother and I lived in Exeteruntil she died!. . . " "You're alone then?" he asked. "Yes. My motherhad an annuity. That stopped when she died. My cousin . . . He's a doctorin Exeter . . . Settled up her affairs for me, and when everything wasarranged, there was just enough money to pay for my secretarialtraining and keep me for a year. I trained for six months and then Iwent as a stop-gap to that office where you saw me. I'm in an office inLong Acre now--a motor place!" "And have you no friends here--relations, I mean?" "Some cousins. I don't often see them. And one ortwo people who knew father and mother!" "You're really alone then . . . Like me?" he said. "Yes, " she answered. "Yes, I suppose I am!" Heleant back in his chair. "It seems like the hand of God, " he said, "bringing the two of us together!" "I wish, " she said, "you wouldn'ttalk about God so much!"

III

When he went home that evening, he wrote to his mother. _DearMother_, he wrote, _I've got acquainted with a girl here calledEleanor Moore, and I've made up my mind I'm going to marry her. She'sgreatly against it at present, but I daresay she'll change hermind_. . . . There was more than that in the letter, but it is notnecessary to repeat the remainder of it here. He also wrote to Eleanor. _My dearest_, the letter ran, _I'm looking forward to meetingyou again tomorrow night at the same place. I know you said youwouldn't meet me, but I'm hoping you'll change your mind. I'll bewaiting for you anyway, and I'll wait till seven o'clock for you. Remember that, Eleanor! If you don't turn up, it'll be hard for you tosit in comfort and you thinking of me waiting for you. You'll neverhave the heart to refuse me, will you? We can have our tea together, and then go for a walk or a ride on a 'bus till dinner-time, and then, if you like, after we've had something to eat, we'll go to a theatre. Don't disappoint me, for I'm terribly in love with you. Yours only, John MacDermott. P. S. Don't be any later than you can help. I hatewaiting about for people. _

IV

She came, reluctantly so she said, to the bookstall at CharingCross station, but only to tell him that she could not do as he wishedher to do. She would take tea with him for this once, but it wasuseless to ask her to go for a walk with him or for a 'bus-ride either, and she certainly would not dine with him nor would she go to atheatre. Yet she went for a walk on the Embankment with him, and theypaced up and down so long that she saw the force of his argument thatshe might as well have her dinner in town as go back to her club wherethe food would be tepid, if not actually cold, by the time she wasready to eat it. She need not go to a theatre unless she wished to do, but he could not help telling her that a great deal of praise had beengiven to a piece called _Justice_ by a man called Galsworthy. Mebbe she would like to see it. She was not to imagine that he wasforcing her to go to the theatre. . . . And so she went, and they sattogether in the pit, hearing with difficulty because of the horribleacoustics of the Duke of York's Theatre; and when the play was over, hehad to comfort her, for the fate of Falder had pained her. They climbedon to the top of a 'bus at Oxford Circus and were carried along OxfordStreet to the Bayswater Road. They sat close together on the back seatof the 'bus, with a waterproofed apron over their knees because thenight was damp and chilly; and as the 'bus drove along to Marble Archthey did not speak. The rain had ceased to fall before they quittedthe theatre, but the streets were still wet, and John found himselfagain realising their beauty. Trees and hills and rivers in the countryand flowers and young animals were beautiful, but until this momenthe had never known that wet pavements and wooden or macadamised roadswere beautiful, too, when the lamps were lit and the cold grey gleamof electric arcs or the soft, yellow, reluctant light of gas lampsfell upon them. He could see a long wet gleam stretching far aheadof him, past the Marble Arch and the darkness of Hyde Park and KensingtonGardens into a region of which he knew nothing; and as he contemplatedthat loveliness, he remembered that the sight of tramlines shining atnight had unaccountably moved him more than once. Once, at Ballyards, he had stood still for a few moments to look at the railway trackglistening in the sunshine, and he remembered how puzzled he had beenwhen, in some magazine, he had read a complaint of trains, that theymarred the beauty of the fields. He had seen trains a long way off, moving towards him and sending up puffs of thick white smoke thattrailed into thin strips of blown cloud, and had waited until thesilence of the distant engine, broken once or twice by a shrill, sharpwhistle, had become a stupendous noise, and the great machine, masterfully hauling its carriages behind it, had galloped past him, roaring and cheering and sending the debris swirling tempestuouslyabout it! . . . The sight of a train going at a great speed had alwaysseemed to him to be a wonderful thing, but now he realised that itwas more than wonderful, that it was actually beautiful. . . . He turnedhis head a little and looked past Eleanor to the Park. Little vagueyellow lights flickered through the trees, all filmy with the eveningmists, and he could smell the rich odour of wet earth. He lookedat Eleanor and as he did so, they both smiled, and he realised thatsuddenly affection for him had come to life in her. Beneath theprotection of the waterproofed apron, his hand sought for hers andheld it. Half-heartedly she tried to withdraw her fingers from his grasp, but he would not let them go, and so she did not persist in her effort. 

"Look!" he said, snuggling closer to her. 

She turned towards the Park, and then, after a little while, turnedback again. "I've always loved the Park, " she said. "It's the mostfriendly thing in London!"

He urged his love for her again. He had seen affection for him in hereyes and had felt that her hand was not being firmly withdrawn fromhis. 

"No, no, " she protested, "don't let's talk about it any more. I don'tlove you!. . . "

"Well, marry me anyhow!"

Backwards and forwards their arguments passed, returning always to thatpoint: _But I don't love you! Well, marry me anyhow!. . . _

He took her to the door of her club, and for a while, they stood at thefoot of the steps talking of the play they had seen that evening and ofhis love for her. 

"It's no good, " she said, trying to leave him, but unable to do sobecause he had taken hold of her hand and would not release it. 

"Don't go in yet, " he pleaded. "Wait a wee while longer!"

"What's the use?" she exclaimed. 

"You'll meet me again to-morrow?. . . "

"I can't meet you _every _night!"

"Why not?" he demanded. "Tell me why not!"

"Well. . . Well, because I can't. It's ridiculous. You're so absurd. Youkeep on saying the same thing over and over. . . And it's so silly. If Iwere in love with you, I might go out with you every evening, but!. . . "

"Do you like me!"

"I don't know. I. . . I suppose I must or I wouldn't go out with you atall. Really, I'm sorry for you!. . . "

"Well, if you're sorry for me, come out with me tomorrow night. We'llhave our dinner in town again!"

"No, no! Don't you understand, Mr. MacDermott!. . . "

"John, John, John!" he said. 

"I can't call you by your Christian name!. . . "

"Why not? I call you by yours, don't I?"

"Yes, but you oughtn't to. I've asked you not to call me Eleanor, butit doesn't seem to be any good asking you to do anything that you don'twant to do. But even you must understand that I can't let you take meout every evening. I can't let you pay for things!. . . "

"Oh, " he said, as if his mind were illuminated. "Is that your trouble?We can soon settle that. If you won't let me pay for things, pay forthem yourself . . . Only let me be with you when you're doing it. Youhave to have food, haven't you? Well, so have I. We have no friendsin London that matter to us, and you like me . . . You admitted ityourself . . . And I love you . . . So why shouldn't we have our mealstogether even, if you do pay for your own food?"

"Of course, it sounds all right as you put it, " she answered, "but itisn't all right. I can't explain things. I don't know how to explainthem, but I know about them all the same. And I know it isn't allright. You'll begin to think I'm in love with you!. . . "

"I hope you will be, but you'll never be certain unless you see me fairand often. You'll come again to-morrow, won't you?"

"Oh, good-night, " she said impatiently, suddenly breaking from him. "You're like a baby. You think you've only got to keep on asking forthings and people will get tired of saying 'No!' I won't go out withyou again. You make me feel tired and cross!. . . "

"Well, if you won't meet me to-morrow night, will you meet me the nextnight?"

"No!"

"Then will you stay a wee while longer now?"

She turned on the top step and looked at him, and he saw with joy thatthe anger had gone out of her eyes and that she was smiling at him. "You really are!. . . " she said, and then she stopped. He waited for herto go on, but she shrugged her shoulders and said only, "I don't know!It simply isn't any good talking to you!"

He went up the steps and stood beside her and took hold of her hand. "Let me kiss you, Eleanor, " he said. 

She started away from him. "No, of course I won't!"

"Just once!"

"No!"

"Well, why not? You've let me hold your hand. What's the difference?"

"There's every difference. Besides I didn't let you hold my hand. Youtook it. I couldn't prevent you. You're so rough!. . . "

"No, my dear, not rough. Not really rough. Eleanor, just once!. . . "

"No, " she said again, this time speaking so loudly that she startledherself. "Please go away. I shan't go out with you again. I was sillyto go out with you at all. You don't know how to behave!. . . "

She broke off abruptly and turned to open the door, but she haddifficulty with the key because of her anger. 

"Let me open it for you, " he said, taking the key from her hand andinserting it in the lock. "There!" he added, when the door was open. 

"Thank you, " she said, taking the key from him. "Good-night!"

"Good-night, Eleanor!" he replied very softly. 

They did not move. She stood with, her hand on the door and he stood onthe top step and gazed at her. 

"Well--good-night, " she said again. 

"Dear Eleanor, " he replied. "My dear Eleanor!"

She gulped a little. "Goo--good-night!" she said. 

"I love you, my dear, so much. I shall never love anyone as I love you. I have never loved anybody else but you, never, never!. . . Well, Ithought I loved someone else, but I didn't!. . . "

"It's no good, " she began, but he interrupted her. 

"Well, meet me again to-morrow night at the same place!. . . "

"No, I won't!"

"At five o'clock. I'll be there before you . . . Long before you. You'llmeet me, won't you?"

"No. "

"Please, Eleanor!"

She hesitated. Then she said, "Oh, very well, then! But it'll be thelast time. Good-night!"

She pushed the door to, but before she could close it, he whispered"Good-night, my darling!" to her, and then the door was between them. 

He waited until he saw the flash of the light in her room, and hopedthat she would come to the window; but she did not do so, and after awhile he went away. 

V

Up in her room, she was staring at her reflection in the mirror, whilehe was waiting below on the pavement for her to come to the window, andas he walked away, she began to talk to the angry, baffled girl she sawbefore her. 

"I won't marry him, " she said. "I won't marry him. I don't love him. Idon't even like him. I _won't_ marry him!. . . "

THE SIXTH CHAPTER

I

Now that he had found Eleanor again, he was able to settle down towork. It was necessary, he told himself, that he should have somesubstantial achievements behind him before she and he were married, particularly as he had lost his employment on the _DailySensation_. The money he possessed would not last for ever and hecould hardly hope to sponge on his Uncle William . . . Even if he wereinclined to do so . . . For the rest of his life. He must earn money byhis own work and earn it quickly. In one way, it was a good thing thathe had lost his work on the newspaper . . . For he would have all themore time to write his tragedy. The sketch for the Creams had beenhurriedly finished and posted to them at a music-hall in Scotland wherethey were playing, so Cream wrote in acknowledging the MS. , to"enormous business. Dolly fetching 'em every time!. . . " Two pounds perweek, John told himself, would pay for the rent and some of the fooduntil he was able to earn large sums of money by his serious plays. Thetragedy would establish him. It would not make a fortune for him, fortragedians did not make fortunes, but it would make his name known, andHinde had assured him that a man with a known name could easily earn areasonable livelihood as an occasional contributor to the newspapers. It was Hinde who had proposed the subject of the tragedy to him. Foryears he had dallied with the notion of writing it himself, he said, but now he knew that he would never write anything but newspaperstuff!. . . 

"Do you know anything about St. Patrick?" he said to John. 

"A wee bit. Not much. "

"Well, you know he was a slave before he was a saint?" John nodded hishead. "A man called Milchu, " Hinde continued, "was his master. AnUlsterman. He was the chieftain of a clan that spread over Down andAntrim. Our country. He had Patrick for six years, and then he losthim. Patrick escaped. He returned to Ireland as a missionary and sentword to Milchu that he had come to convert him to Christianity, andMilchu sent word back that he'd see him damned first. Milchu wasn'tgoing to be converted by his slave. No fear. And he destroyedhimself . . . Set fire to his belongings and perished in his own flamesrather than have it said that an Ulster chieftain was converted by his ownslave. That's a great theme for a tragedy. I suppose you're aChristian, Mac?"

"I am. I'm a Presbyterian!"

"Oh, well, you won't see the tragedy of it as well as I see it. Thinkof a slave trying to convert a free man to a slave religion. There's atragedy for you!. . . "

"I don't understand you, " said John. 

"No? Well, it doesn't matter. There's a theme for you to write about. Afree man killing himself rather than be conquered by a slave! Ofcourse, the real tragedy is that St. Patrick converted the rest ofIreland to Christianity! . . . Milchu escaped: the others surrendered. Itwasn't the English that beat the Irish, Mac. They were beaten beforeever the English put their feet on Irish ground. St. Patrick beat them. The slave made slaves of them!. . . "

"Is that what you call Christians?" John indignantly demanded. "Slaves?"

Hinde shrugged his shoulders. "The Irish people are the most Christianpeople on earth, " he said. "That's all!. . . "

They put the subject away from them, because they felt that if they didnot do so, there must be antagonism between them. But John determinedthat he would write a play about St. Patrick and the Pagan Milchu. Hinde lent him his ticket for the London Library, and he spent hismornings reading biographies of the saint: Todd and Whitley, Stokes andZimmer and Professor J. B. Bury; and accounts of the ancient Irishchurch. Slowly there came into his mind a picture of the saint that wasnot very like the picture he had known before and was very differentfrom Hinde's conception of the relationship between Milchu and St. Patrick. To him, the wonderful thing was that the slave had triumphedover his owner. Milchu, in his conception, had not been sufficientlymanly to stand before Patrick and contend with him, and to own himselfthe inferior of the two. He had run away from St. Patrick! With thatconception of the two men in his mind, he began to write his play. 

"You're wrong" said Hinde. "Milchu was a gentleman and Patrick was aslave!. . . "

"The son of a magistrate!" John indignantly interrupted. 

"A lawyer's son!" Hinde sneered. "And Milchu, being a gentleman, wouldnot be governed by a slave. Think of an Irish gentleman being governedby an Irish peasant!" There was a wry look on his face, "And a littlecommon Irish priest to govern a little common Irish peasant!. . . Theywon't get gentlemen to live in a land like that!"

"I'm a peasant, " said John. "There's not much difference between ashopkeeper and a peasant!. . . "

"I'm talking of minds, " said Hinde, "not of positions. I believe inmaking peasants comfortable and secure, but I believe also in keepingthem in their place. I'm one of the world's Milchus, Mac. I'd ratherset fire to myself than submit to my inferiors!"

John sat in his chair in silence for a few moments, trying tounderstand Hinde's argument. "Then why do you write for papers like the_Daily Sensation_?" he asked at last. 

Hinde winced. "I suppose because I'm not enough of a Milchu, " hereplied. 

II

John had met Eleanor at their customary trysting-place, in front of thebookstall at Charing Cross Road, and they had walked along theEmbankment towards Blackfriars. The theme of his tragedy was verypresent in his mind and he told the story to Eleanor as they walkedalong the side of the river in the glowing dusk. They stood for awhile, with their elbows resting on the stone balustrade, and lookeddown on the dark tide beneath them. The great, grim arches of WaterlooBridge, made melancholy by the lemon-coloured light of the lamps whichsurmounted them, cast big, black shadows on the water. They could hearlittle lapping waves splashing against the pillars, and presently a tugwent swiftly down to the Pool. Neither of them spoke. Behind them thetramcars went whirring by, and once when John looked round, he felt asif he must cry because of the beauty of these swift caravans of light, gliding easily through the misty darkness of a London night. He hadturned quickly again to contemplate the river, and as he did so, Eleanor stirred a little, moving more closely to him, demanding, so itseemed, his comfort and protection, and instantly he put his arm abouther and drew her tightly to him. He did not care whether anyone sawthem or not. It was sufficient for him that in her apprehension she hadturned to him. Both his arms were about her, and his lips were on herlips. "Dear Eleanor, " he said. . . . 

Then she released herself from his embrace. "I felt frightened, " shesaid. "I don't know why. It's so lovely to-night . . . And yet I feltfrightened!"

"Will we go?" he asked. 

"Yes!"

He put his arm in hers and she did not resist him. "You're mysweetheart now, aren't you, Eleanor?" he whispered to her, as theywalked along towards Westminster. 

She did not answer. 

"My dear sweetheart, " he went on, "and presently you'll be my dearwife, and we'll have a little house somewhere, and we'll love eachother for ever and ever. Won't we?" He pressed her arm in his. "Won'twe, Eleanor? Every night when I come home from work and we have had oursupper, we'll go for a walk like this, and I'll talk and you'll listen, and we'll be very happy, and we'll never be lonely again. Oh, I pitythe poor men who don't know you, Eleanor!. . . "

She smiled up at him, but still she did not speak. 

"I couldn't have believed I should be so happy as I am, " he continued. "I wonder if it's right for one woman to have so much power over aman . . . To be able to make him happy or miserable just as the fancy takesher . . . But I don't care whether it's right or wrong. I'm content solong as I have you. We're going to be married, aren't we, Eleanor?Aren't we?"

He stopped and turned her round so that they were facing each other. 

"Aren't we, Eleanor?" he repeated. 

"Don't let's talk about that, " she murmured. "I'm so happy to-night, and I don't want to think about what's past or what's to come. I onlywant to be happy now!"

"With me?"

"Yes, " she replied. 

"Then you do love me?. . . "

"I don't know. I can't tell. But I'm frightfully happy. I expect Ishall feel that I've made a fool of myself . . . In the morning, but justnow I don't care whether I'm fool or not. I'm like you. I'm content. Let's go on walking!"

They turned back at Boadicea's statue, and when they were in theshadows again, he took his arm from hers and put it about her waist. "Let's pretend there's nobody else here but us, " he said. 

III

They dined in Soho, and when they had finished their meal, they walkedto Oxford Circus and once more climbed to the top of a 'bus that wouldtake them along the Bayswater Road. 

"You must like me, Eleanor, " he said to her, as they sat huddledtogether on the back seat, "or you wouldn't come out with me as youdo!"

"Yes, " she answered, "I think I do like you. It seems odd that I shouldlike you, and I made up my mind that I shouldn't ever like you. But Ido. You're very likeable, really. It's because you're so silly, Isuppose. And so persistent!"

"Then why can't we get married, my dear? Isn't it sickening for you tobe living in that club and me to be living at Brixton, when we might beliving in our own home? I hate this beastly separation every night. Let's get married, Eleanor!"

"I suppose we will in the end, " she said, "but I don't feel likegetting married to you. After all, John!. . . " She called him by hisChristian name now. "After all, John, if I were to marry you now, whenwe know so little of each other, it would be very poor fun for me, ifyou discovered after we were married that you did not care for me asmuch as you imagined. And suppose I never fell in love with you?"

"Yes, " he said gloomily. 

"How awful!"

"But I'd have you. I'd have the comfort of being your husband and ofhaving you for my wife!"

"It mightn't be a comfort. Oh, no, it's too risky, John. We must wait. We must know more of each other!. . . "

"Will you get engaged to me then?" he suggested. 

"But that's a promise. No. Let's just go on as we are now, beingfriends and meeting sometimes!"

"Supposing we were engaged without anybody knowing about it?" he said. "Would that do?"

"I don't want either of us to be bound . . . Not yet. Oh, not yet. Do besensible, John!"

"I am sensible. I know that I want to marry you. That's sensible, isn'tit?"

"Yes, I suppose it is, " she replied, laughing. 

"Well, isn't it sensible to want to be sensible as soon as possible?You needn't laugh. I mean it. It's just foolishness to be going on likethis. I'm as sensible as anybody, and I can't see any sense in our notmarrying at once. Get engaged to me for a while anyway!"

"But what would be the good of that?"

"All the good in the world. I just want the comfort of knowing there'sa chance of you marrying me!"

"It seems so unsatisfactory to me . . . And so risky!" she protested. 

"I'm willing to take the risk. I'll wait as long as you like. "

"I'll think about it. But if I do get engaged to you, we won't getmarried for a long time!"

"How long?"

"Oh, a long time. A very long time. "

"What do you mean? Six months?"

"No, years. Oh, five years, perhaps!"

"My God Almighty!" he said. "Do you know what you're saying! Fiveyears? We might all be dead and buried long before then. What age willI be in five years time. Oh, wheesht with you, Eleanor, and don't betalking such balderdash. Five years! Holy O!"

"What does 'Holy O!' mean?" she demanded. 

"I don't know. It's just a thing to say when you can't think ofanything else. Five years! Five minutes is more like it!"

"We're too young to be married yet, and in five years' time we'll knoweach other much better!"

"I should think so, too, " he said. "It's a lifetime, woman! Whateverput that idea into your head!"

"If I get engaged to you at all, " she replied, "and I'm not sure that Iwill, it'll be for five years or not at all. You may be willing to takerisks, but I'm not. Risks are all right for men . . . They can afford totake them . . . But women can't. If you don't agree to that, you'll haveto give up the idea altogether!"

"Then you'll get engaged to me?"

"No, I didn't say that. I said that if I got engaged to you at all, itwould be for five years. I'm not sure that I shall get engaged to you. I don't think I really like you. I think I'd just get tired of saying'No' to you!. . . " She could see that his face had become glum, and shehurriedly reassured him. "Yes, I do like you! I like you quite well . . . But I'm not going to marry you . . . If I ever marry you . . . Till I'msure about you!"

They descended from the 'bus and walked towards her club. 

"Anyway, " he said, "I consider myself engaged to you. And I'll buy youa ring the morrow morning!"

"Indeed, you won't, " she said. 

"Indeed, I will, " he replied. "I'll have it handy for the time youagree to have me!"

"You won't be able to get one until you know the size, and I won't tellyou that!. . . "

They wrangled on the doorstep until it was late, but she would notyield to him. He could consider himself engaged to her if he liked . . . She could not prevent him from considering anything he chose toconsider . . . But she would not consider herself engaged to him norwould she wear a ring until she was sure of her feelings. 

He kissed her when they parted, and she did not resist him. It wasuseless to try to resist an accomplished thing. His childlikeinsistence both attracted and irritated her. She felt drawn to himbecause his mind seemed to be so completely centred upon her, andrepelled by him because his own wishes appeared to be the onlyconsiderations he had. She could not decide whether the love he had forher . . . And she believed that he loved her . . . Was complete devotion orcomplete selfishness. Love at first sight was a perfectly credible, though unusual thing. It was possible that he had fallen in love withher . . . Her vanity was pleased by the thought that he had done so . . . But she certainly had not fallen in love with him either at first or atsecond sight. She was not in love with him now. She felt certain ofthat. He was likeable and kind and a very comforting person, and therewas much more pleasure to be had from a walk with him than from anevening spent in the club!. . . Ugh, that club, that dreadfulconglomeration of isolated women! Oh, oh, oh! She gave little shuddersas she reflected on her club-mates. Most of them were girls likeherself, working as secretaries either in offices or in other places. . . To medical men or writers . . . And, like her, they had few friendsin London. Their homes were in the country. Among them were a number ofaimless spinsters, subsisting sparely on private means . . . Poor, wilting women without occupation or interest. They were of an earliergeneration than Eleanor, the generation which was too genteel to workfor its living, and they had survived their friends and their familiesand were left high and dry, without any obvious excuse for existing, among young women who were profoundly contemptuous of a woman who couldnot earn a living for herself. They sat about in the drawing-room andsizzled! They knew exactly at what hour this girl came in on Mondaynight, and at exactly what hour the other girl came in on Tuesdaynight. They whispered things to each other! They thought it was verypeculiar behaviour for a girl to come back to the club alone with a manat twelve o'clock . . . "midnight, my dear!" they would say, as if"midnight" had a more terrible sound than twelve o'clock . . . And theywere certain that Miss Dilldall's parents should be informed of thefact that on Saturday evening she went off in a taxi-cab with a man whowas wearing dress-clothes and a gibus-hat. Miss Dilldall publiclyboasted of the fact that she had smoked a cigarette in a restaurant inSoho!. . . 

Ugh! Even if John were selfish, he was preferable to these drab women, these pitiful females herded together. Women in the mass were verydispleasing to look at, and they frightened you. They turned down thecorners of their mouths and looked coldly and condemningly at you. Itwas extraordinary how unanimous the girls were in their dislike ofworking under women. The woman in authority was more hateful to womeneven than to men. Eleanor had done some work for an advanced woman, aneminent suffragette, who had crept about the house in rubber-soledshoes so that she might come unexpectedly into the room where Eleanorwas working and assure herself that she was getting value for hermoney!. . . She was always spying and sneaking round! What an experiencethat had been! How impossible it had been to work with that woman! Agirl in the club had worked for a royal princess . . . Not at all anadvanced woman . . . And she, too, had had to seek for employment under aman. The princess was a foolish, spoilt, utterly incompetent person whodid not know her own mind for two consecutive hours. She sneakedaround, too, and spied!. . . All these women in authority seemed to spendhalf their day peering through keyholes. . . . Perhaps it was because theclub was such a dingy, cheerless hole that she liked to go out withJohn. The food was meagre and poor in quality and vilely cooked. Somehow, women living together seemed unable to feed themselvesdecently. Miss Dilldall, gay little woman of the world, had solemnlyproposed that a man should be hired to _growse_ about the meals. "We'll never get good food in this damned compound, " she said, "untilwe get some men into it. Bringing them as guests isn't any good. They're too polite to their hostesses to say anything, but I'm surethat every man who has a meal in this place goes away convinced thatthe food we are content to eat is a strong argument against votes forwomen! And so it is. What a hole!"

"That's really why I like going out with him, " Eleanor confided to herreflection in the looking-glass as she brushed her hair. "It's reallyto escape from this dreary club! But I can't marry him for that reason. It wouldn't be fair to him. It would be much less fair to me. Ofcourse, I _like_ him!. . . Oh, no! No, no!. . . "

IV

Lizzie was in the hall when John let himself into the house that night. 

"Hilloa, " he said, "not gone to bed yet?"

"I never 'ave time to go to bed, " she said. "'Ow can I get any sleepwhen I 'ave to look after men! You an' Mr. 'Inde!" She came nearer tohim. "You'll get a bit of a surprise when you go upstairs, " she saidvery knowingly. 

"Me!"

She nodded her head and giggled. 

"What sort of a surprise?" he demanded. 

"You'll see when you get upstairs. It's been, waitin' for you 'eresince seven o'clock!. . . "

"Seven o'clock! What is it? A parcel?"

Lizzie could not control her laughter when he said "parcel. " "Ow!" shegiggled. "Ow, dear, ow, dear! A parcel! Ow, yes, it's a parcel allright! You'll see when you get up!. . . "

He began to mount the stairs. "You're an awful fool, Lizzie, " he saidcrossly, leaning over the banisters. 

"Losin' your temper, eih?" she replied, bolting the street door. 

He hurried up to the sitting-room and as he climbed the flight ofstairs that led directly to it, Hinde called out to him, "Is that you, Mac?"

"Yes, " he answered. 

Hinde came to the door and opened it fully. "There's someone here tosee you, " he said. 

"To see me! At this hour?"

He entered the room as he spoke. His mother was sitting in front of thefire. 

"Mother!" he exclaimed, remembering just in time not to say "Ma!" whichwould have sounded very childish in front of Hinde. 

"This is a nice hour of the night to be coming home, " she said, tryingto speak severely, but she could not maintain the severity in hervoice, for his arms were about her and she was hugging him. 

"You never told me you were coming, " he said. "What brought you over?"

"I've come to see this girl you've got hold of, " she answered. 

V

"But why didn't you tell me you were coming?" he asked. "I'd have metyou at the station!"

She ignored his question. "This is a terrible town, " she said. "Mr. Hinde says there's near twice as many people in this place as there isin the whole of Ireland. How in the earthly world do they manage to getabout their business?"

"Oh, quite easily, " he said nonchalantly, and as he spoke he realisedthat he had come to be a Londoner. 

"When I got out at the station, " Mrs. MacDermott continued, "I called aporter and said to him, 'Just put that bag on your shoulder and carryit for me!' 'Where to, ma'am?' says he, and then I gave him youraddress. I thought the man 'ud drop down dead. 'Is it far?' says I. 'Far!' says he. 'It's miles!' By all I can make out, John, you live asfar from the station as Millreagh is from Ballyards. I had to come herein one of them things that runs without horses . . . What do you callthem?"

"Taxi-cabs!"

"That's the name. It's a demented mad place this. Such traffic! Worsenor Belfast on the fair-day!"

"It's like that every day, Mrs. MacDermott!" Hinde interjected. 

"What bothers me, " she went on, "is how ever you get to know yourneighbours!"

"We don't get to know them, " Hinde replied. "I've lived in this housefor several years, but I don't know the names of the people on eitherside of it!"

"My God, " said Mrs. MacDermott, "what sort of people are you at all!Are you all fell out with each other?"

"No. We're just not interested!"

"I wouldn't live in this place for the wide world, " she exclaimed. "Andyou, " she continued turning to her son, "could come here where you knownobody from a place where you knew everybody. The world's queer! Whatwas that water I passed on the way out?. . . "

"Water!"

"Aye. We went over it on a bridge!"

"Oh, the river!"

"What river!" she said. 

"Why, the Thames, of course!"

"Is that what you call it?"

Hinde smiled at John. "So you've learned to call it the river, haveyou? Mrs. Hinde, in this town we always talk as if there were only oneriver in the world. A Londoner always says he's going up the river ordown the river or on the river. He always speaks of it as the river. Henever speaks of it as the Thames. In Belfast, you speak of theLagan . . . Never of the river. The same in Dublin. They speak of theLiffey . . . Never of the river. John's become a Londoner. He knows theproper way to speak of the Thames!"

"London seems to be full of very conceited and unneighbourly people, "Mrs. MacDermott said. 

John demanded information of his mother. How were Uncle William and Mr. Cairnduff and the minister and Willie Logan?. . . 

"His wife's got a child, " Mrs. MacDermott replied severely. 

"A boy or a girl?"

"A boy, and the spit of his father, God help him. Thon lad Logan'llcome to no good. Aggie's courting hard. Some fellow from Belfast thattravels in drapery. She told me to remember her to you!"

"Thank you, mother!"

Hinde rose to leave them. "You'll have a lot to say to each other, andI'm tired, " he explained, as he went off to bed. 

"I like that man, " said Mrs. MacDermott when he had gone. "And now tellme about this girl you've got. Are you in earnest?"

"Yes, ma!" John answered, using the word "ma, " now that he was alonewith his mother. 

"Will she have you?"

"I hope so. She hasn't said definitely yet, but I think she will!"

"Who is she? Moore you said her name was. That's an Irish name!"

"But she's not Irish. She's English. Her father was a clergyman, buthe's dead. So is her mother. She has hardly any friends!"

"Does she keep herself?"

"Yes, ma. She works in a motor-place . . . In the office, typing letters. She's an awful nice girl, ma! I'm just doting on her, so I am!"

"Do you like her better nor that Belfast girl that married thepeeler?. . . "

"Och, that one, " John laughed. "I never think of her now . . . Never fora minute. Eleanor's the one I think about!"

"Are you sure of yourself?. . . "

"As sure as God's in heaven, ma!"

"Oh, yes, we know all about that, but are you sure you're sure? Youwere queerly set on that Belfast girl, you know!"

He pledged himself as convincingly as he could to Eleanor, and told hismother that he could never be happy without her. 

"And how do you propose to keep her?" she said, when he had finished. 

"Work for her, of course!"

"How much have you earned since you came here?"

"Nothing!"

"And you've no work fornent you?"

"No, not at the minute. I had a job, but I lost it!"

He gave an account of his relationship with the _Daily Sensation. _

"You'll not be able to buy much with that amount of work, " sheinterrupted. 

He told her of the sketch for the Creams and of the tragedy of St. Patrick. 

"What's the use of writing about him, " she said. "Sure, he's been deadthis long while back!"

He did not attempt to make her understand. "And then there's the novelI wrote when I was at home, " he concluded. 

"But you've heard nothing of it yet. As far as I can see you've donelittle here that you couldn't have done at home!"

"Oh, yes I have. I've learned a great deal more than I could ever havelearned in Ballyards. And I've met Eleanor!"

"H'm!" she said, rising from her seat. "I'm going to my bed now. Thatgirl Lizzie seems a good-natured sort of a soul. Where does Eleanorlive?"

"Oh, a long way from here!. . . "

"Give me her address, will you?"

"Yes, ma, but why?"

"I'm going to see her the morrow!"

He had to explain that Eleanor could not be seen in the day-timebecause of her employment, and he proposed that his mother should gowith him in the evening to meet her at the bookstall at Charing Crossstation. 

"Very well, " she said as she kissed him, "Good-night!"

THE SEVENTH CHAPTER

I

Mrs. MacDermott had remained in London for a week. John, eager to showthe sights to her, had tried to persuade her to stay for a longerperiod, but she was obstinate in her determination to return to Irelandat the end of the week. "I don't like the place, " she said; "it's notneighbourly!" She repeated this objection so frequently that John beganfor the first time in his life to understand something of his mother'spoint of view. He remembered how she had insisted upon the fact thatthe MacDermotts had lived over the shop in Ballyards for severalgenerations; and now, with her repetition of the statement that Londonwas an unneighbourly town, he realised that Ballyards in her mind was aplace of kinsmen, that the people of Ballyards were members of onefamily. She was horrified when she discovered that Hinde had beenstating the bare truth when he said that he had lived in Miss Squibb'shouse for several years, but still was ignorant of the names of hisneighbours. Miss Squibb had told her that people in London made a habitof taking a house on a three-years' lease. "When it expires, they gosomewhere else, " she had said. Miss Squibb had never heard of a familythat had lived in the same house in London for several generations. Shedid not think it was a nice idea, that. She liked "chynge" herself, andwas sorry she could not afford to get as much of it as she would liketo have. 

"I do not understand the people in this place, " Mrs. MacDermott hadcomplained to Hinde. "They've no feeling for anything. They don't lovetheir homes!. . . "

But although she had stayed in London for a week only, she had seenmuch of Eleanor Moore in that time. It had not occurred to John, untilthe moment his mother and he entered Charing Cross station, that Mrs. MacDermott and Eleanor might not like each other. He imagined that hismother must like Eleanor simply because he liked her, but as he held aswing-door open so that his mother might pass through, a sudden dubietytook possession of him and he became full of alarm. Supposing they didnot care for each other?. . . The doubt had hardly time to enter his mindwhen it was resolved for him. Eleanor arrived at the bookstall almostsimultaneously with themselves. (It struck him then that Eleanor was aremarkably punctual girl. ) "This is my mother, Eleanor!" he had said, and stood anxiously by to watch their greeting. The old woman and thegirl regarded each other for a moment, and then Mrs. MacDermott hadtaken Eleanor's outstretched hand and had drawn her to her and hadkissed her; and John's dubiety disappeared from his mind. They haddined together in Soho that night, but Mrs. MacDermott had not enjoyedthe meal. The number of diners and the clatter of dishes and knives andthe foreign look and the foreign language of the waiters disconcertedher and made her feel as if she were a stranger. Above all else in theworld, Mrs. MacDermott hated to feel like a stranger! She demandedfamiliar surroundings and faces, and was unhappy when she found herselfwithout recognition. The menu made her suspicious of the food becauseit was written in French. She distrusted foreigners. London appeared tobe full of all sorts of people from all parts of the world. Never inher life had she seen so many black men as she had seen in London thatday. John had taken her to St. Paul's Cathedral in the afternoon andhad shown her the place where Queen Victoria returned thanks toAlmighty God for her Diamond Jubilee . . . And there, standing on thevery steps of a Christian church, was a Chinaman! There were noChinamen in Ballyards, thank God, nor were there any black men either. She realised, of course, that God had made black men and Chinamen andevery other sort of men, but she wished that they would stay in theland in which God had put them and would not go trapesing about theworld!. . . 

"What about us, then?" said John. "We don't stay in the one place!"

"I know that, " she replied. "That's what's wrong with the world. Everyone should stay in his own country!"

The dinner had not entirely pleased John. Somehow, in a way that hecould not understand, he found himself being edged out of theconversation, not altogether, but as a principal. His mother andEleanor addressed each other primarily; they only addressed him now andthen and in a way that seemed to indicate that they had suddenlyremembered his presence and were afraid he might feel hurt at beingleft out of their talk. He was glad, of course, that his mother andEleanor were getting on so well together, but after all he was incharge of this affair. . . . When his mother proposed to Eleanor that theyshould meet on the following evening and go somewhere for a quiet talk, he could hardly believe his ears. 

"But what about me?" he said. 

"Oh, you! You'll do rightly!" his mother replied. 

"But!. . . "

"You can come and bring me home from wherever we go, " Mrs. MacDermottcontinued. 

Eleanor had suggested that Mrs. MacDermott should meet her at thebookstall and go to her club from which John would fetch her at teno'clock. 

"That'll do nicely, Eleanor!" Mrs. MacDermott said. 

John hardly noticed that his mother had called Eleanor by her Christianname: it seemed natural that she should do so; but he was vaguelydisturbed by the arrangement that had just been made. 

"I wonder what she's up to?" he said to himself as he moodily examinedhis mother's face. 

He sat back in his chair and listened while Eleanor and his mothertalked together. He was not accustomed to taking a subsidiary part indiscussions and he greatly disliked his present position, but he couldnot think of any way of altering it. 

"Do you like living in London?" Mrs. MacDermott had suddenly said toEleanor. 

"No, I hate it, " Eleanor vehemently answered. 

"Then why do you stay?" Mrs. MacDermott continued. 

"I have to. A girl gets better-paid work in London than in theprovinces. That's the only reason!"

"Would you rather live in the country, then?"

"Yes!" Eleanor said. 

"I wonder would you like Ballyards!" Mrs. MacDermott said almost as ifshe were speaking to herself. Then she began to talk of something else. 

II

He had taken his mother to Charing Cross station on the following day, hoping that they would relent and allow him to go to Eleanor's clubwith them, but neither of them made any sign of relenting. His mother, indeed, turned to him immediately after Eleanor had arrived and said, "Well, we'll say 'Good-bye' for the present, John. We'll expect you atten!" and very sulkily he had departed from them. He saw Eleanor leadhis mother out of the station. She had taken hold of Mrs. MacDermott'sarm and drawn it into hers, and linked thus, they had gone out, butneither of them had turned to look back at him. He had not known how tofill in the time between then and ten o'clock . . . Whether to go to atheatre or walk about the streets . . . And had ended by spinning out hisdinner-time as long as possible, and then walking from Soho toEleanor's club. He had arrived there before ten o'clock, but theyallowed him to sit with them!. . . He had an overwhelming sense of being_allowed_ to do so. Suddenly and unaccountably all his power hadgone from him, his instinctive insistence upon his own will, hisimmediate assumption that what he desired must be acceptable to othersand his complete indifference to whether what he desired was acceptableor not to others. . . Suddenly and unaccountably these things had gonefrom him and he was submitting to the will of his mother and ofEleanor. His mother's conversation, too, had been displeasing to him. She talked of Ballyards and of the shop all the time. She talked of theprosperity of the business and of the respect in which the MacDermottswere held in their town. Mr. Hinde had told her of the harsh conditionsin which journalists and writers had to work, particularly thejournalists. They had no settled life. . . They went here, there andeverywhere, but their wives stayed always in the one place. . . Andsometimes money was not easily obtainable. Anything might happen to puta journalist out of employment!. . . 

"But I don't want to be a journalist, mother!" John had testilyinterrupted. "I want to write books and plays!"

"That's even worse. " she had said. "It takes a man years and yearsbefore he can earn a living out of books. Mr. Hinde told me that!. . . "

"He seems to have told you a fearful lot, " John sarcasticallyexclaimed. 

"I asked him a lot, " Mrs. MacDermott replied. "If you ever get thatbook of yours printed at all, he says, you'll not get more nor thirtypounds for it, if you get that much. And there's little hope of youmaking your fortune with the tragedy you're wasting your time over. Now, your Uncle William has a big turnover in the shop!. . . "

"I daresay he has, " John snapped, "but I'm not interested in the shop, and I am interested in books!"

"Oh, well, " Mrs. MacDermott murmured, "It's nice to have work thattakes your fancy, but if you get married I'm thinking your wife'll havea poor job of it making ends meet on the amount of interest you take inyour work, if that's all the reward you get for it. You were a yearwriting that story of yours, and you haven't had a penny-farthing forit yet. However, you know best what suits you. I suppose it's time wewere thinking about the road!" She rose as she spoke, and Eleanor rosetoo. "Come up to my room, " Eleanor said, "and we'll get your things!"

They left John sitting in the cheerless room. "That's a queer way forher to be talking, " he said to himself. "Making little of me likethat!"

He maintained a sulky manner towards his mother as they returned toBrixton, but Mrs. MacDermott paid no heed to him. 

"Fancy having to go all this way to see your girl, " she said, as theyclimbed the steps of Miss Squibb's house. "In Ballyards you'd only haveto go round the corner!"

"I daresay, " he replied, "but you wouldn't find Eleanor's match thereif you went!"

"No, " she agreed. "Eleanor's a fine girl. I like her queer and well. She was very interested to hear about Ballyards and the shop. Veryinterested!"

She turned to him at the top of the stairs. 

"Good-night, son, " she said. "I'm away to my bed. I'm tired!"

She put her arms round him. "You're a queer headstrong wee fellow, " shesaid. "Queer and headstrong! Good-night, son!"

"Good-night, ma!" he replied as he kissed her. 

He held her for a moment. "I can't make out what you and Eleanor had totalk about, " he said. "What were you talking about?"

"Oh, nothing!" she replied. "Just about things that interest women. Youwouldn't be bothered with such talk. And you know, son, women likes tohave a wee crack together when there's no men about. It's just a weecomfort to them. Good-night!"

"Good-night, ma!"

She went up the stairs, and when she had disappeared round the bend ofthe bannisters, John went into the sitting-room. There was a postalpacket for him lying on the table. It contained the MS. Of his novel. Messrs. Hatchway and Seldon informed him that they had read his storywith great interest, but they were sorry to have to inform him thatconditions of the publishing trade at present were such that they sawno hope of a return for the money they would be obliged to spend on thebook. They would esteem it a favour if he would permit them to seefuture work of his and they begged to remain his faithfully per proHatchway and Selden, J. P. T. 

"Asses!" he said, as he wrapped the MS. Up again in the very paper inwhich Messrs. Hatchway and Selden had returned it to him. Then he tiedthe parcel securely and addressed it to Messrs. Gooden and Knight, who, he told himself, were much better publishers than Messrs. Hatchway andSelden. He would post it in the morning. 

III

And then a queer thing happened to him. He had been about to extinguishthe light and go to bed, when he remembered that the parcel of MS. Waslying on the table and that his mother would see it in the morning. Shewould probably ask questions about it . . . And he would have to tell herthat Messrs. Hatchway and Selden had refused to publish it. He seizedthe parcel and tucked it under his arm. He would keep it in his roomand post it without saying anything to her about it. He did not wishher to know that it had been declined. Messrs. Hatchway and Selden hadgiven a very good excuse for not publishing it--conditions of thepublishing trade--and they had manifested a desire to see other work ofhis. That could hardly be said to be a refusal to print the book . . . Atall events, it could not be called an ordinary, condemnatory refusal. No doubt, had the conditions of the publishing trade been easier, Messrs. Hatchway and Selden would have been extremely pleased to printthe book. It was not their fault that the conditions of the publishingtrade were so difficult!. . . Anyhow, he did not wish his mother to knowthat the book had been refused, even though the conditions of thepublishing trade were so difficult. So he took the MS. Up to hisbedroom with him. 

IV

He had been enormously relieved when his mother returned to Ireland. Eleanor and he had seen her off from Euston . . . Hinde had come fora few moments snatched from an important job . . . And he had beenvery conscious of some understanding between the two women whichwas not expressible. It was as if his mother were not his mother, but Eleanor's mother . . . As if he were simply Eleanor's young mancome to say good-bye to Eleanor's mother . . . And she were being politeto him, because Eleanor would like her to be polite to him. He feltthat things were being taken out of his control, that he had ceasedto have charge of things and was now himself being ordered and controlled;but he could not definitely say what caused him to feel this norcould he think of any notable incident which would confirm him in hisfear that control had passed out of his hands. All he knew was thathe was glad his mother had resisted his importunities to her to stayfor a longer time in London. This state of uncertainty had not begununtil Mrs. MacDermott suddenly and without warning had arrived at hislodgings. He hoped that it would end with her departure from Euston. Eleanor's attitude towards him during the week of his mother's visit hadbeen very odd. She accepted him now without any qualms, but not, he felt, as her husband to be, hardly even as her lover. She accepted him, instead, as one who might become her lover if she could persuade herself toconsent to allow him to do so. Once, in a moment of dreadful humility, he imagined that she accepted him merely as Mrs. MacDermott's son!. . . He had watched the train haul itself out of the station and had wavedhis hat to his mother until she was no longer distinguishable, and thenhe had turned to Eleanor with a curiously determined look in his eye. 

"Are you going to marry me?" he demanded. 

"Yes, " she said, "I think I will. I like your mother awf'lly, John!. . . "

"It's me you're going to marry. Not her. Do you like me?"

"Yes, I like you . . . Though you're frightfully conceited andselfish!. . . "

"Selfish! Me? Because I try hard to get what I want?" he indignantlyexclaimed. 

"Oh, we won't argue about it. You'll never understand. I don't knowwhether I love you or not. But I like you. I like you very much. Ofcourse, we may be making a mistake. It's foolish of me to marry youwhen I know so little about you . . . And that little scares me!. . . "

"What scares you!"

"Your selfishness scares me. You are selfish. You're frightfullyselfish. You think of nothing and no one but yourself!. . . "

"Amn't I always thinking of you?"

"Oh, yes, but only because you want me to marry you. That's all!"

He was very puzzled by this statement. "What other reason would a manhave for thinking of a woman?" he asked. 

"That's just it, " she replied. "You can't think of any other reason forthinking about a woman . . . And I can think of a whole lot of reasons. But I shall marry you in spite of your selfishness because I knowyou're as good as I'm likely to get!. . . "

"That's a queer reason for marrying a man!"

"I suppose it is. You're really rather a dear, John, and I daresay Ishall get to love you quite well . . . But I don't now. Why should I? Ihaven't known you very long . . . And you've rather pestered me, haven'tyou?"

"No, I haven't!"

"Yes, you have. But I don't mind that. Being pestered by you is somehowdifferent from being pestered by other men. . . . "

"Have any other men bothered you?" he interrupted. 

They were walking towards Tottenham Court Road as they spoke, and herarm was securely held in his. 

"Of course they have, " she answered. "Do you think a girl can walkabout London without some man pestering her. Old men!. . . " She shudderedand said "Oh!" in tones of disgust. "Why are old men so beastly?"

"Are they?"

"Oh, yes, of course they are. Beastly old things. I think old men oughtto be killed before they get nasty . . . But never mind that. Beingpestered by you is very different from that sort of thing. I know verywell that you won't stop asking me to marry you until I either say Iwill or I run away from London altogether and hide myself from you; andI don't want to do that. So I'll marry you!"

He glanced at her in a wrathful manner. 

"Is that what my mother told you to say?" he asked. 

"Your mother? She never said anything at all about it!"

John laughed. "I told her about it, " he said. "That's what she cameover about. She wanted to have a look at you!"

"Yes, I suppose I ought to have guessed that. I did in a way, but Ididn't know you'd said anything definite about it!"

"I'm always definite, " said John. 

"Yes. M' yes, I suppose you are!"

They walked down Tottenham Court Road and caught a 'bus going alongOxford Street. 

"You don't seem very pleased now that I've said I'll marry you, " shemurmured, as they sat together on the back seat on top of the 'bus. 

"I believe you're only marrying me to get away from that club you'reliving in!" he replied. 

"That's one reason, but it isn't the only reason. I _do_ like you, John. Really, I do!"

"I want you to love me, love me desperately, the way I love you. "

"But you've no right to expect that. Women don't love men for a longtime after men love them . . . And sometimes they never love them. There's a girl in our club . . . Well, she's not a girl, but she'sunmarried, so, of course we call her a girl . . . And she says that mostof us can live fairly happily with quite a number of people. She saysthat a person has one supreme love affair . . . Which may not come toanything . . . And enough liking for about a hundred people to be able tomarry and live happily with anyone of them. I think that's true. I'veknown plenty of men that I think I could have married and been happyenough with. You're one of them!. . . "

"This is a nice thing to be telling me when my heart's bursting foryou. I tell you, Eleanor, I love you till I don't know what I'm doingor thinking, and all you tell me is that I'm one out of a hundred andyou like me well enough to put up with me!. . . "

"You don't want me to tell you that I'm in love with you . . . Likethat . . . When I'm not?"

"No, of course not . . . Only!. . . "

"Perhaps you don't want to marry me now!"

He put his arm round her and pressed her so tightly that she gave alittle cry of rebuke. "I love you so much, " he said, "that I'm thankfulglad for the least bit of liking you have for me. I wish I'd knownsooner. I'd have told my mother before she went back to Ballyards!"

"I'll write and tell her myself, " said Eleanor. "I'd like to tell hermyself!"

V

"I'm going to be married, " John said to Hinde that night. 

"I thought as much, " Hinde replied. 

"Why?"

"Well, when a man does one dam-fool thing, he generally follows it upwith another. You lose your job on the _Sensation, _ and then youget engaged to be married. I daresay your wife'll have a child justabout the time you've spent every ha'penny you possess. I suppose thatwas her at the station to-night?" John nodded his head. "Well, you're alucky man!"

"Thank you, " said John. 

"I don't know whether she's a lucky woman or not!"

"_Thank_ you, " said John. "If you've no more compliments to pay, I'll go to my bed!"

"Good-night. Cream's coming back to-morrow. Miss Squibb had a letterfrom him this evening!"

But John took no interest in the Creams. 

"If I were you, I wouldn't fall out with the Creams, " said Hinde. "Nowthat you're going to get married, the money he'll pay you for a sketchwill be useful. I suppose you'll begin to be serious when you'remarried?"

"I'm serious now, " John replied. 

"At present, Mac, you're merely bumptious. I was like that when I firstcame to London. I had noble ideals, but I very soon discovered that theother high-minded men were not quite so idealistic as I was. I know onehigh-souled fellow who went into a newspaper office and asked to beallowed to review a novel with the express intention of damning itbecause he had some grudge against the author. Half the exaltedscribblers in London are busily employed scratching each other's backs, and if you aren't in their little gang, you either are not noticed atall in their papers or you are unfairly judged or very, very faintlypraised. You've either got to be in a gang in London or to be soimmeasurably great or lucky that you can disregard gangs . . . Otherwisethere's very little likelihood of you getting a foothold in what youcall good papers. I know these papers. Mr. Noblemind is editor of onepaper and Mr. Greatfellow is a regular contributor to another and Mr. PraisemeandI'llpraiseyou is the literary editor of a third, and theyemploy each other; and Mr. Noblemind calls attention to the beauty ofhis pals' work in his paper, and they call attention to the beauty ofhis in theirs. My dear Mac, if you really want to know what dishonestyin journalism is, worm yourself into the secrets of the highbrow Pressand the noble poets. I'm a Yellow Journalist and a failure, but byheaven, I'm an honest Yellow Journalist and an honest failure. I'm notan indifferent journalist pretending to be a poet!. . . "

"I don't see what all this has got to do with me, " John said. 

"No, " Hinde replied in a quieter tone. "No, I suppose it hasn'tanything to do with you. You're quite right. I'm in a bad temperto-night. I'm glad you're engaged to that girl. She looks a sensiblesort of woman. Heard any more about your book?"

"Yes. It's been returned to me!. . . "

"Oh, my dear chap, I'm very sorry!"

"I've sent it out again. It's sure to be printed by someone, " Johnsaid. 

"I hope so. I wish you'd let me read it!"

"Yes, I'd like you to read it. I wish I'd kept it back a while. Butyou'll see it some day. Good-night!"

"Good-night, Mac!"

VI

The Creams returned to Miss Squibb's on the following evening, andCream came to see Hinde and John soon after they arrived. Dolly, hesaid, was too tired after her journey to do more than send a friendlygreeting to them. 

"I wanted to have a talk to you about that sketch, " he said to John. "It's very good, of course, quite classy, in fact, but it wantstightening up. Snap! That's what it wants. And a little bit ofvulgarity. Oh, not too much. Of course not. But it doesn't do tooverlook vulgarity, Mac. We've all got a bit of it in us, andpers'nally, I see no harm in it, _pro_-vided . . . _pro-vided_, mind you . . . That it's comic. That's the only excuse for vulgarity . . . That it's comic. Now, the first thing is the title!"

Mr. Cream took the MS. Of John's sketch from his pocket and spreadit on the table. "This won't do at all, " he said, pointing to thetitle-page of the play. "_Love's Tribute!_ My dear old Mac, what thehell's the good of a title like that? Where's the snap in it? Where'sthe attraction, the allurement? Nowhere. A title like that wouldn'tdraw twopence into a theatre. _Love's Tribute!_ I ask you!. . . " Hisfeelings made him inarticulate and he gazed round the room in ahelpless manner. 

"Well, what would you call it?" John demanded. 

"Something snappy. I often say a title's half the play. Now, take apiece like _The Girl Who Lost Her Character_ or _The Man WithTwo Wives_ . . . There's a bit of snap about that. Titles like thosesimply haul 'em into the theatre. _Snap! Go! Ginger!_ Somethingthat sounds 'ot, but isn't . . . That's the stuff to give the Britishpublic. You make 'em think they're going to see something . . . Well, _you_ know . . . And they'll stand four deep in the snow waiting toget into the theatre. If you were to put the Book of Genesis on thestage and call it _The Girl Who Took The Wrong Turning_, people'ud think they'd seen something they oughtn't to . . . And they'd tellall their friends. Now, how about _The Guilty Woman_ for yoursketch, Mac?"

John looked at him in astonishment. "But the woman in it isn't guiltyof anything, " he protested. 

"That doesn't matter. The title needn't have anything to do with it. Very few titles have anything to do with the piece. So long as they'resnappy, that's all you need think about. Pers'nally, I like _TheGuilty Woman_ myself; but Dolly's keen on _The Sinful Woman_. And that just reminds me, Mac! Here's a tip for you. Always have_Woman_ in your title if you can. _A Sinful Woman_'ll drawbetter than _A Sinful Man_. People seem to expect women to be moresinful than men when they are sinful . . . Or p'raps they're more used tomen being sinful than women. I dunno. But it's a fact . . . _Woman_in the title is a bigger draw than _Man_. And you got to think ofthese little things. If you want to make a fortune out of a piece, takemy advice and think of a snappy adjective to put in front of_Woman_ or _Girl!_ Really, you know, play-writing's verysimple, if you only remember a few tips like that!. . . "

"But my play isn't about sin at all, " John protested. 

"Well, what's the good of it then?" Cream demanded. "All plays areabout sin of some sort, aren't they? If people aren't breaking a ruleor a commandment, there's no plot, and if there's no plot, there's noplay. Of course, Bernard Shaw and all these chaps, they don't believein plots or climaxes or anything, and they turn out pieces that soundas if they'd wrote the first half in their Oxford days and the secondhalf when they were blind drunk. You've got to have a plot, Mac, and ifyou've got to have a plot, you've got to have sin. What 'ud Hamlet bewithout the sin in it? Nothing! Why, there wasn't any drama in theworld 'til Adam and Eve fell! You take it from me, Mac, there'll be nodrama in heaven. Why? Because there'll be no sin there. But there'll bea hell of a lot in hell! Now, I like _The Guilty Woman_. It's notquite so bare-faced as _The Sinful Woman_, but as Dolly likes itbetter . . . She's more intense than I am . . . We'll have to have it, Iexpect!"

"I don't like either of those titles, " John said, gulping as he spoke, for he felt that there was a difference of view between Cream and himthat could not be overcome. 

"Well, think of a better one then, " Cream good-naturedly answered. "There's another thing. As I said, the piece wants overhauling, but youcan leave that to me. When I've had a good go at it!. . . "

"But!. . . "

"Now, look here, Mac, " Cream firmly proceeded, "you be guided by me. You're a youngster at the game, and I'm an old hand. I never met ayoung author yet that didn't imagine his play had come straight fromthe mind of God and mustn't have a word altered. The tip-top chapsdon't think like that. They're always altering and changing their playsduring rehearsal . . . And sometimes after they've been produced, too. Look at Pinero! He's altered the whole end of a play before now. He hada most unhappy end to _The Profligate_ . . . The hero committedsuicide in the last act . . . But the public wouldn't have it. They saidthey wanted a happy end, and Pinero had the good sense to give it tothem. In my opinion the public was right. The happy end was the rightend for that piece!. . . "

"But artistically!. . . " John pleaded. 

"Artistically!" Cream exclaimed in mocking tones to Hinde. "I ask you!Artistically! What's Art? Pleasing people. That's what Art is!"

"Oh, no, " John protested. "Pleasing yourself, perhaps!. . . "

"And aren't you most pleased when you feel that people are pleased withyou, I ask you! What do you publish books for if you only want toplease yourself? Why don't you keep your great thoughts to yourself ifyou don't want to please anybody else? Yah-r-r, this Art talk makes mefeel sick. You'd rather sell two thousand copies of a book than twohundred, wouldn't you? Of course, you would. I've heard these highbrowchaps talking about the Mob and the Tasteful Few. I acted in a playonce by a fellow who was always bleating about the Tasteful Few . . . Andyou should have heard the way he went on when his play only drew theTasteful Few to see it. If his piece had had a chance of a long run, doyou think he'd have stopped it at the end of a month because heobjected to long runs as demoralizing to Art? Not likely, my lad!. . . Now, this piece of yours, Mac, has too much talk in it and not enoughincident, see! You'll have to cut some of it. The talk's good, but inplays the talk mustn't take the audience off the point, no matter howgood it is. See! You don't want long speeches: you want short ones. Thetalk ought to be like a couple of chaps sparring . . . Only not too muchfancy work. I've seen a lot of boxing in my time. There's boxers thatgoes in for what's called pretty work . . . Nice, neat boxing . . . Butthe spectators soon begin to yawn over it. What people like to seeis one chap getting a smack on the jaw and the other chap getting ablack eye. And it's the same with everything. Ever seen Cinquevallibalancing a billiard ball on top of another one? Took him years to learnthat trick, but he'll tell you himself . . . He lives round the corner fromhere . . . That his audiences take more interest in some flashy-lookingthing that's dead easy to do. When he throws a cannon-ball up into theair and catches it on the back of his neck . . . They think that'swonderful . . . But it isn't half so wonderful as balancing one billiardball on top of another one. See? So it's no good being subtle beforesimple people. They don't understand you, and they just get up and walkout or give you the bird!. . . "

"I'm going to tell you something, " he continued, as if he had not saida word before. "I've noticed human nature a good deal, and I think Iknow something about it. There was a sketch we did once, called _TheTwiddley Bits_. It was written by the same chap that did _The GirlWho Gets Left_ . . . He had a knack, that chap . . . Only he took todrink and died. There was a joke in _The Twiddley Bits_ that wentdown everywhere. Here it is. I played the part of a comic footman, andI had to say to the villain, 'What are you looking at, guv'nor?' and hereplied, 'I'm wondering what on earth that is!' and then he pointed tomy face. That got a laugh to start with. Then I had to say, 'It's myface. What did you think it was? A sardine tin?' That got a roar. Brought the house down, that did. We played that piece all over theworld, Mac, and that joke never failed once. Not once. We played it inEngland, Ireland, Scotland, Wales, America, New Zealand, South Africaand Australia, and it never missed once. Fetched 'em every time. Humannature's about the same everywhere, once you get to understand it, Mac, and if you like you can put that joke in your play. It'll help it out abit in the middle!. . . "

VII

"Well?" said Hinde to John when Cream had left them. 

"I'd rather sell happorths of tea and sugar than write the kind of playhe wants, " John replied. 

Hinde paused for a few moments. Then he said, "Why don't you sell teaand sugar. You've got a shop, haven't you?"

"Because I'm going to write books, " John answered tartly. 

"I see, " said Hinde. 

THE EIGHTH CHAPTER

I

Three months after Mrs. MacDermott departed from London, Eleanor andJohn were married. They walked into St. Chad's Church in the BayswaterRoad, accompanied by Mr. Hinde and Mrs. MacDermott (who had comehurriedly to London again for the ceremony) and Lizzie and a cousin ofEleanor's who excited John's wrath by using the marriage ceremony forpropaganda purposes in connexion with Women's Suffrage; and there, prompted by an asthmatic curate, they swore to love and cherish eachother until death did them part. Mrs. MacDermott had begged for aPresbyterian marriage in Ballyards . . . "where your da and me weremarried". . . But there were difficulties in the way of satisfying herdesire, and she had consented to see them married in what, to her mind, was an imitation of a Papist church. Eleanor had stipulated for atleast a year's engagement, partly so that they might become morecertain of each other and partly to enable John to prove that he couldearn enough money to maintain a home, but John had worn down heropposition to an immediate marriage by asserting repeatedly that hecould easily earn money for her, would, in fact, be better able to doso because of his marriage which would stimulate him to greateractivity, and, finally, by his announcement that his tragedy had beenaccepted for production by the Cottenham Repertory Theatre. The managerhad written to him to say that the Reading Committee were of opinionthat his interesting play should be performed, and he enclosed anagreement which he desired John to sign and return to him at hisconvenience. He had not been able to restrain his joy when he receivedthe letter, and he had hurried to the nearest post office so that hemight telephone the news to Eleanor. 

"My dear!" she said proudly over the telephone. 

"Didn't I tell you I could do it, " he exclaimed. "Didn't I?"

"Yes, darling, you did!"

"Wait till Hinde conies back! This'll be one in the eye for him. Hethought the play was a very ordinary one, but this proves that itisn't, doesn't it, Eleanor?"

"Yes, dear!"

"It's a well-known theatre, the Cottenham Repertory. One of the best-knownin the world. Can you get off for the day, do you think, and we'llgo out and celebrate it?. . . "

"Don't be silly, John!. . . "

"Well, we'll have lunch together. We'll have wine for lunch!. . . Oh, mydear, I'm nearly daft with joy. We ought to make enough money out ofthe play to set up house at once. I don't know how much you make out ofplays, but you make a great deal. We'll get married at once!. . . "

"But we can't!. . . "

"Och, quit, woman! This makes all the difference In the world. Aren'tyou just aching for a wee house of your own, the same way that Iam!. . . "

And after a struggle for time to think, Eleanor had consented to bemarried much sooner than she had ever meant to be. They were married inJune, and the play was to be performed at the Cottenham RepertoryTheatre in the following September. The manager had written to John, after the business preliminaries were settled, to say that if the playwere successful in Cottenham, he would include it in the Company'srepertoire of pieces to be performed in London during their annualseason. "And of course, it'll be successful, " said John when he hadread the letter to Eleanor. "I should think we'd easily make severalhundred pounds out of the play . . . And there's always the chance thatit may be a popular success!" His high hopes were dashed by the returnof his novel from Messrs. Gooden and Knight who regretted that thenovel was not suitable for publication by them; but he recovered someof them when he reflected that the fame he would achieve with his playwould cause Messrs. Gooden and Knight to feel exceedingly sorry thatthey had not jumped at the chance of publishing his book. Hinde hadread it and thought it was as good as most first novels. "Nothing verygreat about it, " he said, "but it isn't contemptible!" That seemed verychilly praise to John, and he was grateful to Eleanor for herenthusiasm about the book. "Of course, it has faults, " she admitted. "Idaresay it has, but then it's your _first book_. You wouldn't behuman if you could write a great book at the first attempt, would you?"

That had consoled him for much, and very hopefully he sent the book onits third adventure, this time to Mr. Claude Jannissary, who calledhimself "The Progressive Publisher. "

II

On the night before he was married, John, vaguely nervous, left hismother at Miss Squibb's and went for a walk. All day, he had been "onpins and needles, " and now, although it was nine o'clock, he could notremain in the house any longer. He felt that his head would burst if hestayed indoors. The house seemed to be unusually stuffy, and thespectacle of Lizzie gazing at him with mawkish interest, made him wishto rise up and assault her. He had fidgetted about the room, taking abook from its shelf and then, without reading in it, replacing it, until his mother, observing him with cautious eyes, proposed that heshould go for a walk. "I won't wait up for you, " she said, "so youneedn't hurry back!"

"Very well, ma!" he said, getting ready to go out. 

He left the house and started to walk towards Streatham, but before hehad gone very far, he felt drawn away from Streatham, and he turned andwalked past his home and on towards Kennington. At the Horns, he pausedindecisively. There were more light and stir towards the Elephant andCastle than there was in the Kennington Road, and light and stir wereattractive to him, but to-night he ought to be in quiet places and inshadows. He was beginning to feel dubious about himself. Marriage, after all, was a very serious business, but here he was thrustinghimself into it with very little consideration. Eleanor had protestedall along that they were insufficiently acquainted with each other andhad pleaded for a long engagement, but he had overruled her: they kneweach other well enough. The best way for a man and woman to get to knoweach other, he said, was to marry. Eleanor had exclaimed against thatdoctrine because, she said, if the couple discovered that they did notcare for each other, they could not get free without misery andpossibly disgrace. 

"You have to run the risk of that, " said John. 

That always had been his determining argument: that one must takerisks. Now, on this night before his marriage, the risk he was about totake alarmed him. The fidgettiness, the nervous irritability which hadbeen characteristic of him all day now concretely became fright. Whowas this woman he was about to marry? What did he know of her? She wasa pleasant, nice-looking girl and she had an extraordinary power overhim . . . But what did he _know_ of her? Nothing. Nothing whatever. He liked kissing her and holding her in his arms, but he had likedkissing Maggie Carmichael and holding her in his arms; and now he wasvery thankful he had not married Maggie. How was he to know that hewould feel any more for Eleanor in six months' time than he now feltfor Maggie . . . For whom he had once felt everything? Eleanor had toldhim that she only liked him . . . Was not in love with him . . . That hewas one of a hundred men, anyone of whom she might have married andlived with in tolerable happiness!. . . 

A cold shiver ran through his body as he thought that he might be aboutto make the greatest mistake that any man could make . . . Marry thewrong woman. Ought he to postpone the marriage so that Eleanor and heshould have more time in which to consider things? Postponement wouldmean terrible inconvenience to everybody, but it would be better tosuffer such inconvenience than to enter into a dismal marriage becauseone was reluctant to upset arrangements. This marrying was a terribleaffair!. . . He walked steadily along the Kennington Road and presentlyfound himself in Westminster Bridge Road, and then he crossed the riverand turned on to the Embankment. There was a cool breeze blowing fromthe sea, and he took his hat off and let the air play about his head. He leant against the parapet and gazed across the water to the darkwarehouses on the Lambeth side and wondered why they were so beautifulat night when they were so hideous by day. Even the railway bridge atCharing Cross seemed to be beautiful in the dusk, and when a trainrumbled across it, sending up clouds of lit smoke from the funnel ofthe engine and making flickering lights as the carriages rolled pastthe iron bars of the bridge-side, it seemed to him to be a verywonderful and appealing spectacle. His fidgettiness fell from him as hecontemplated the swift river and the great dark shapes of warehousesand the black hulks of barges going down to the Pool and the immutableloveliness of Waterloo Bridge. He had walked along the Embankment pastHungerford Bridge, and then had stopped to look at Waterloo Bridge fora few moments. Even the moving lights of the advertisements of tea andwhiskey on the Lambeth side of the river made beauty for him as theywere reflected in the water. There were little crinkled waves of greenand red and gold on the river as the changing lights of theadvertisements ran up and down. . . . He had seen articles in thenewspapers protesting against these illuminated signs . . . "the uglysymbols of commercialism" . . . But to-night they had the look ofloveliness in his eyes. Very often since he had come to London had hefound himself in disagreement with the views of men who wrote as ifAlmighty God had committed Beauty to their charge . . . He had never beenable to understand or agree with their arguments against great enginesand the instruments of power and energy . . . And it seemed to him thatmany of these writers were querulous, fractious people who had not thecapacity to make themselves at ease in a striving world. That poetfellow . . . What was his name? . . . Whom he had met at Hampstead . . . Palfrey, that was the man's name . . . Had sneered at Commerce! John hadnot been able to make head or tail of his arguments against Commerce, and he had found himself defending it against the Poet . . . "the veryword is beautiful!" he had asserted several times . . . Mainly on hisrecollection of his Uncle William. Palfrey had had the best of theargument, because Palfrey could use his tongue more effectively, but John had felt certain that the truth was not in Palfrey, and hereto-night, in this place where Commerce was most compactly to be seen, heknew that there was Beauty in the labours of men, that bargaining andcompetition and striving energies and rivalry in skill were elements ofloveliness. "These little poets sitting in their stuffy atticsscribbling about the moon!. . . Yah-rr-r!" he said, putting his hat on tohis head again. 

His mind was quieter now. He was certain of his love for Eleanor. Howwise 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. Itwas a great comfort to have his mother by him now. That morning he hadlooked at her, sitting in the light of the window, and had seen for thefirst time the great depth of her eyes and the wonderful patience inher face. . . . He must consider her more in future. Eleanor liked her, and she liked Eleanor. That was all to the good!. . . He must go homenow. He would walk to Blackfriars Bridge, cross the river and go homeby the Elephant and Castle. He started to walk briskly along theEmbankment, but he had not gone very far on his way when he heard hisname called. 

"Oh, John!" the call was, and looking round, he saw Eleanor rising fromone 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, Iwonder 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 upVilliers Street to the Strand, and as they walked along he told her ofhis 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'dpostponed 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 certainthat I wanted you, Eleanor, and no one else but you. My dear, I'mterribly happy!"

"Are you?"

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

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

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

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

III

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

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

They spent the day quietly together until the time came for Eleanor andJohn to go to the railway station. Mrs. MacDermott took him out of theroom. "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 weddingpresent 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 thatmatters. It'll be useful to you sometime!"

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

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

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

"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 herthings. 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 ofwhat 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 atelegram from the Creams to wish them happiness that Eleanor insistedon taking with her although she had never seen the Creams; and MissSquibb mournfully insisted on giving a packet of sandwiches to them toeat on the journey. She told them that they knew what these trains andboats were like, and that they would be lucky if they got anything atall to sustain them during their travels. "Though you probably won'twant 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 backagainst 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. UncleWilliam had immediately surrendered to her, making, indeed, no pretenceto resist her. She had demanded his company on a boating excursion onthe Lough, and when he had turned to her, sitting behind him in the bowof the boat, and had said, "This is great health! It's the first timeI've been in a boat these years and years!" she had retortedindignantly, "The first time! But why?"

"Och . . . Busy!" he had explained. 

She had called to John, sitting with his mother in the stern, anddemanded an explanation of the causes which prevented Uncle Williamfrom 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 doit, " she said. "Uncle Matthew had his head full of romantic dreams andJohn fancied himself in other ways, so Uncle William had to do it allby himself!"

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

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

"Ah, quit blethering about hard work, " Uncle William exclaimed, bendingto the oars. "Sure, I'd be demented mad if I hadn't my work to do. Whatwould an old fellow like me do gallivanting up and down the shore in mybare feet, paddling like a child in the water! Have sense, do, all ofyou. 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 intothe bottom of the boat. "We'll all be drowned, " he shouted. "I'll cowpthe 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, " sheretorted. 

"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 andCarson!. . . "

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

She had changed places with Uncle William, and John felt very proud ofher as he observed the skilful way in which she handled the oars. Herstrokes were clean and strong and deliberate. She did not thrust theoars too deeply into the water nor did she pull them, impotently alongthe surface nor did she lean too heavily on one oar so that the boatwas drawn too much to one side or sent ungainly to this side and tothat in an exhausting effort to keep a straight course. He lay backagainst his mother and regarded Eleanor out of half-shut eyes. Shemystified him. Her timidity when he had first spoken to her had seemedto him then to be her chief characteristic and it had caused him tofeel tenderly for her: he would be her protector. But she was notalways timid. He had discovered courage in her and something uncommonlylike obstinacy of mind. She uttered opinions which startled him, lessbecause of the flimsy grounds on which they were built, than because ofthe queer chivalry that made her utter them. She defended the weakbecause they were weak, whereas he would have had her defend the truthbecause it was the truth. The attacked had her sympathy, whether theywere in the right or in the wrong, and John demanded that sympathyshould be given only to those who were in the right even if theyhappened also to be the stronger of the contestants. He had seen herbehaving with extraordinary calmness at a time when he had been certainthat she would show signs of hysteria, and while he was marvelling ather imperturbability, he had heard her screaming with fright at thesight of an ear-wig. He had rushed to her help, imagining that she wasin terrible danger, and had found her trembling and shuddering becausethis pitiful insect had crawled on to her dressing-gown. . . . He had beenvery frightened when he heard her screaming to him for help, and hesuffered so strange a reaction when he discovered that her trouble wastrivial 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 ifsomeone had been murdering you!"

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

And here was another aspect of her: her skill in doing things thatrequired effort and thought. She handled a boat better than he couldhandle it. He was more astonished at this feat than he had been when hediscovered that she had great skill in managing a house and in cookingfood, for he assumed that all women were inspired by Almighty God witha genius for housekeeping and that only a deliberately sinful natureprevented a woman from serving her husband with an excellently-prepareddinner. In a vague way, he had imagined that Eleanor would needinstruction in housekeeping, but that she would "soon pick it up. " Anywoman could "soon pick it up. " His mother, he decided, would give tipsto Eleanor while they were at Ballyards, and thereafter things would govery smoothly. He had determined that the flat at Hampstead which theyhad rented should be furnished according to his taste so that thereshould be no mistake about it; but when they began to choose furniture, he found that Eleanor had better judgment than he had, and he wiselydeferred to her opinion. He was inclined, he discovered, to acceptthings which he disliked or did not want rather than take the troubleto get only the things he desired and appreciated; but Eleanor had nocompunction in making a disinterested shop-assistant run about andfetch and carry until she had either obtained the thing for which shewished or was satisfied that it was not in the shop. John always had asense of shame at leaving a shop without making a purchase when theassistant had been given much bother in their behalf; but Eleanor saidthat this was silliness. "That's what he's there for, " she said of theshop-assistant. "I'm not going to buy things I don't want just becauseyou're afraid of hurting his feelings!"

He began to feel, while they were furnishing their flat, that she knewher own mind at least as well as he knew his, and a fear haunted histhoughts that perhaps this adequacy of knowledge might bring trouble tothem. Gradually he found himself consulting her as an equal, evenaccepting her advice, and seldom instructing her as one instructs abeloved pupil. When she required advice, she asked for it. AtBallyards, he had seen his mother quickening into zestful life becauseof Eleanor's desire to be informed of things. One evening he had comehome from a visit to Mr. Cairnduff to find Eleanor seated on the highstool in the "Counting House" of the shop while Uncle William explainedthe 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, myson. She's a well-brought-up girl . . . A girl with a family . . . Andthat'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 badaltogether . . . Drinking and gambling and worse . . . And Aggie gotmarried on a traveller from Belfast, and two hours after she marriedthe 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 toEleanor. I'm thankful glad you've married a sensible woman with herhead on the right way, and not one of these flyaway pieces you seeknocking around these times. I'd die of despair to see you married to awoman with no more gumption than an old hen!. . . "

II

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

III

Mrs. MacDermott had begged him to stay beyond the stipulated time inBallyards, and Uncle William, with a glance towards Eleanor, hadreinforced her appeal; but John had refused to yield to it. There waswork to be done in London, and Eleanor and he must return to town to doit. In a short while, his play would be produced . . . He must attend therehearsals of it . . . And then there was his novel for which he had yetto find a publisher; and he must write another book. Eleanor hadhesitated 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 remainin Ballyards, and so she had not asked John to stay away from Londonany longer. The flat was a small and incommodious one, but it was in aquiet street and not very far from Hampstead Heath. They had spent moremoney on furnishing it than they had intended to spend, but John hadsoothed Eleanor's mind by promising that his play would more than makeup for their extravagance; and when, a fortnight after their return totown, Mr. Claude Jannissary, "the Progressive Publisher, " wrote to Johnand invited him to call on him, they felt certain that their anxietieshad been very foolish. John visited Mr. Jannissary on the morning afterhe had received that enlightened gentleman's letter, and wasoverwhelmed by the praise paid to his book. Mr. Jannissary said that hewas not merely willing, but actually eager to publish it. He feltcertain that its author had a great future before him, and he wished tobe able to say in after years that he had been the first to recognizeJohn's genius. He did not anticipate that he would make any profitwhatever out of _The Enchanted Lover_ . . . The title of thestory . . . At all events for several years, partly because John still hadto create a reputation for himself and partly because of the appallingconditions with which enlightened publishers had to contend. In time, no doubt, John would attract a substantial body of loyal readers, butin the meantime there was, if John would forgive the grosscommercialism 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 publishingJohn's book, he would still feel compensated for his loss merelythrough having introduced the world to so excellent a novel. Idealismwas not very popular, he said, but thank God he was an idealist. Hebelieved in Art _and_ Literature _and_ Beauty, and he wasprepared to make sacrifices for his beliefs. He could not offer anypayment in advance on account of royalties to John . . . Much as he wouldlike to do so . . . For the conditions with which an enlightenedpublisher who tried to preserve his ideals intact had to contend weretruly appalling; but he would publish the book immediately if Johnwould 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 excessof that number, the royalty to rise to fifteen per cent when the copiessold exceeded two thousand. Mr. Jannissary would put himself to thegreat inconvenience of trying to find a publisher for the book inAmerica, and would only expect to receive twenty-five per cent of theauthor's proceeds for his trouble. . . . 

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

"Oh, no, " John vaguely answered. 

"The world is too much for us . . . Poor, bewildered idealists, searchingfor the gleam and so often losing it. Rent has to be paid, butchersdemand 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 bodyhas us, and we have to compromise. Ah, yes! But at the bottom ofPandora's box, Mr. MacDermott, there is always. . . . Hope! This way, please, and _good_ afternoon! It's been very nice indeed to meetyou!. . . "

Hinde had disturbed John's complacency very considerably when he sawthe agreement which John had signed. Eleanor had begun the process byfailing to understand why the first five hundred copies of the novelshould be published free of royalty. If Mr. Jannissary was to makemoney out of these five hundred copies why was John not to make any? Hequelled her doubts momentarily by informing her that she was totallyignorant of the conditions of publishing. If she only knew howappalling they were!. . . Mr. Jannissary had so impressed John with theterrible state of the publisher's business that he had gone away fromthe office feeling exceedingly fortunate to have his book published atall without being asked to pay for it. Eleanor's doubts, however, hadrevived when Hinde, who dined with them on the evening of the day onwhich the agreement had been signed, declared with extraordinaryemphasis that Mr. Jannissary was a common robber and would, if he hadhis way, be enduring torture in gaol. 

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

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

"I know him, the greasy little bounder!" Hinde exclaimed. "You'll neverget one farthing from that book of yours, for he won't print more thanfive 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 yourhope. 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 thatHinde 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'sadvertised well. Lots of good books don't sell even when they areadvertised. But Jannissary doesn't advertise. He hasn't got enoughmoney to advertise. Look at the newspapers! How many times do you seeJannissary's list in the advertisements?" John could not remember. "Very seldom, " said Hinde. "His books get less attention from reviewersthan other people's because the reviewers know that he's a rascal andthat nine out of ten of his books aren't worth the paper they'reprinted on. Booksellers will hardly stock them. He makes his living byselling copies to the libraries and persuading mugs to pay for thepublication 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 beforeyou signed this thing?"

"I want the book published as soon as possible. I have to make my nameand 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 hismind. 

"You'll see it some day!"

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

"Well, it ought to be. It was written afterwards, " John said, tryinghard 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 quiteeasily 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 seessomeone 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 theplay. That's good. I know it's good. The novel was bound to have somefaults. All first books have!"

IV

Then came the disappointment of the tragedy. The manager of theCottenham Repertory Theatre wrote to say that they were compelled topostpone the production of it for a few weeks because their season hadbeen unfortunate and they were eager to replenish their treasury by theproduction of popular pieces. They all admired John's play very muchand were quite certain that it would be a great artistic success, butits tragical nature made it unlikely to be profitable to any of themjust at present. . . . 

"It's funny how these people keep on talking about _artistic_success when they think a thing isn't going to be any good, " Eleanorsaid when he had finished reading the letter to her. 

"No good!" he exclaimed. "What do you mean, no good!"

"Well . . . Of course I don't mean that your play isn't any good . . . OnlyI begin to feel doubtful about things when I hear the word_artistic_ mentioned. "

"They're only postponing the play for a short while until they've gotenough money together to keep on. That's reasonable, isn't it?"

"Oh, yes. It's reasonable. I'm not saying anything about that . . . Onlyit's a disappointment!"

"I'm disappointed myself, " he said, ruefully contemplating the letter. 

"How much do you think you'll make out of it, John?" Eleanor askedpensively. 

"Make? Oh, I don't know. About a hundred pounds or so on the firstperformances . . . And then there's the London season . . . And of courseif the play's a great success, we shall make our fortune. But I thinkwe can reckon on a hundred pounds anyhow. I don't want to expect toomuch. Why do you ask?"

"Well, I'm getting anxious about money. You see, dear, you haven'tearned much since we got married, have you?"

"No, not much. One or two articles in the _Sensation. _ But youneedn't worry about that. I'll look after the money part. Don't youworry!"

"Perhaps you could get a regular job on the _Evening Herald_ nowthat Mr. Hinde's in charge of it, " she suggested. 

Hinde had recently been appointed editor of the _Evening Herald. _

"Oh, no, Eleanor, I don't want a journalist's job. I'm a writer . . . Anartist . . . Not a reporter. Besides, I shouldn't have time to work atthe book I'm doing now. Look at Hinde. He never has time to do anythingbut journalism. The worst of work like that is that after a time youcan't do anything else. You think in paragraphs!. . . "

"Supposing the play isn't a success . . . I mean a financial success?"she asked. 

"Well, I'll make money for you some other way. Leave it to me, Eleanor, I'm pretty confident about myself. I feel convinced that the play_and_ the novel will be successful financially as well asartistically. I've always been confident about myself!"

"Yes. "

"And I feel quite confident about this. So don't worry your head anymore like a good girl!"

The receipt of the proofs and the excitement of correcting them causedEleanor to forget her anxiety about their finances. John and she sat infront of the fire, she with one batch of galley sheets in her lap, hewith another; and he read the story to her, correcting misprints andmaking alterations as he went along, while she copied the correctionson to her proofs. 

"Do you like it?" he asked, eager for her praise. 

"Yes, " she said, leaning her head against his shoulder, "I do like it. It's . . . It's quite good, isn't it?"

He imagined that there was a note of dubiety in her voice, but he didnot press her for greater praise, and they finished the correction ofthe proofs and sent them to Mr. Claude Jannissary as quickly as theycould. 

"What does it feel like to have written a book?" Eleanor said to himwhen the proofs had been dispatched. 

"Fine, " he replied. "I wish my Uncle Matthew were alive. He'd feel veryproud of me!"

"I'm proud of you, " she said, drawing nearer to him. 

"Are you?" he exclaimed, his eyes brightening. He put his arm round herneck and she took hold of his hand. "Do you like me better now, Eleanor, than you did when we were married?"

"Oh, yes, dear, of course I do. "

"Do you remember that night on the Embankment when we were both soscared of getting married?"

"Yes. Weren't we silly? I very nearly ran away that night . . . Only Ididn't know where to run to. I was awfully frightened, John. I thoughtwe were both making terrible mistakes!. . . "

"Well, we haven't regretted it yet, have we?"

"No, not yet. So far our marriage has been successful!"

"I told you it would be all right, didn't I? I knew I could make youhappy. You're such a darling . . . How could I help loving you?"

V

The novel was published in the same week that the tragedy was producedat the Cottenham Repertory Theatre. John had intended to be present atall the rehearsals of his play, but the manager of the theatre informedhim that this was hardly necessary. It would be sufficient if he wereto attend the last two and the dress rehearsal, and when Johnconsidered the state of his work on the second novel, he decided toaccept the manager's advice. "After all, " he said to Eleanor, "I don'tknow anything at all about producing plays and this chap spends hislife at the job, so I can safely leave it to him!"

The complimentary copies of his novel reached him on the evening beforehe was to travel to Cottenham to attend his first rehearsal. He openedthe parcel with trembling fingers and took out the six red-coveredvolumes and spread them on the table. He liked the bold black lettersin which the title of the book and his name were printed on the covers:THE ENCHANTED LOVER by JOHN MACDERMOTT. It seemed incredible to himthat a book should bear his name, but there, in big, black letters on ared ground, was his name. He turned the pages, reading a sentence hereand a sentence there until Eleanor, who had been out when the parcelarrived, came in. 

"Look!" he said, holding one of the books towards her. She exclaimedwith delight and ran forward to take the book from him. "Oh, my dear, "she said, clasping the novel with one hand while she embraced him withthe other. "I'm so proud of you, you clever creature!"

He was greatly moved by her affection, and he felt that he wanted tocry. There were very queer sensations in his throat, and he hadtremendous difficulty in keeping his eyes from blinking. 

"It's rather nice?" he said, touching the book. 

"It's lovely, " she said. She went to the table. "Are these the others?"She drew a chair forward and sat down. "Let's send them out to-night. This one to your mother and this one to Uncle William. I'll keep thisone!" She opened the book at the dedication "To Eleanor. " "Here, " shesaid, "write your name in it!" He found a pen and ink and wrote underthe dedication, "from her devoted husband, " and when she saw what hehad written, she hugged him and told him again that she was proud ofhim. 

"What about the others? Are you going to send them out, too?" sheasked, and he proposed to her that one should be sent to Hinde, one toMr. Cairnduff and one to Mr. McCaughan. . . . 

"We shan't have any left, except my copy, if you do that!" sheobjected. 

"We can easily get some more, " he replied. 

"I'd like to send one to that beastly cousin in Exeter just to let himsee how clever you are. He hadn't the decency to send us a weddingpresent, the stingy miser!"

They packed up the books after John had inscribed them, and went off tothe post-office together to send them off. 

"Won't it be fun reading the reviews?" said John as they walked up HighStreet. 

"I hope they'll like it, the people who review it, " she answered. "Don't let's go in just yet. Let's walk along the Spaniards' Road alittle while!"

They walked up Heath Street, and when they came to the railings aboveThe Vale of Health, they stood against them and looked towards London. A blue haze had settled over the city and the trees were like longhanging veils through which little, yellow lights from the street-lampsshone like tiny jewels. The air was full of drowsy sounds, as if theearth were happily tired and were resting for a while before thepleasures of the night began. 

"Would you like to go back to your club, Eleanor?" John said. 

"Silly old silly!" she replied, pinching his arm. 

"I feel as if I want to tell everybody that you've written a book and aplay, " she said, as they walked on. "It doesn't seem right that allthese people don't know about you!"

He went to Cottenham on the next day, carrying with him an earlyedition of the _Evening Herald_ in which Hinde had printed a veryflattering review of _The Enchanted Lover. _ Eleanor had beenpuzzled by the promptness with which the review had appeared until Johnexplained to her that review copies of books were sent to thenewspapers a week or a fortnight before the date of publication. 

"It's a very good review, " she said. "I thought he didn't like the bookmuch!"

"So did I. I hope he isn't just writing like this to please me. I don'twant insincere reviews!. . . "

"I expect, " said Eleanor, "he didn't tell you how much, he really likedit!"

"Hmmm! Perhaps that's it, " John replied. 

He put the paper in his pocket, and as the train drew out of Easton andstarted on its journey to Cottenham, he speculated on the sincerity ofHinde's review. He took the paper out of his pocket and read it again. The review was headed, "A REMARKABLE FIRST NOVEL" and was full ofphrases that seemed fulsome even to John. "We prophesy that thisnotable novel will have a very great success among the reading public. It is certainly the finest story of its kind that has been _publishedin this country for a generation_. "

"I wouldn't have said that about it myself, " John reflected. "Ofcourse, I'd like to think it's true, but!. . . I hope this isn't justlogrolling!" He remembered how fiercely Hinde had described theback-scratching, high-minded poets who boomed each other in their papers. "I don't want to get praise that way, " he thought, putting the paper backinto his pocket. "I'll order half-a-dozen copies of the _Herald_when I get back from Cottenham. My Uncle William will be glad of acopy, and so will Mr. Cairnduff and the minister!. . . "

VI

The Cottenham Repertory Theatre was a dingy, ill-built house in a backstreet in Cottenham. It had been a music-hall of a low class until theearnest playgoers of Cottenham, extremely anxious about the conditionof the drama, formed themselves into a society to improve the theatre. By dint of agitation and much hard work, they contrived to get enoughmoney together to take the music-hall over from its owner who wasunable to compete against the syndicate halls and was steadily drinkinghimself to death in consequence, and turned it into a repertorytheatre. Their success had been moderate, for they united to their goodintentions a habit of denunciation of all plays that were not"repertory" plays which had the effect partly of irritating the commonplaygoer and partly of frightening him. All the plays that werelabelled "repertory" plays were praised by these earnest students ofthe drama without any sort of discrimination, and when, as oftenhappened, a very poor play was produced at the Repertory Theatre, anycommon playgoer who saw it and was bored by it, went away in the beliefthat he was not educated up to the standard of such austere work andresolved that he would seek his entertainment elsewhere in future. Itwas to this theatre that John went on the day after his arrival inCottenham. The town itself depressed him immeasurably. It was the mostshapeless, nondescript, undignified town he had ever seen, and yet itwas one of the richest places in England. There was no seemliness inits main streets; little huckstering shops hustled larger and morepretentious shops, but all of them had an air of vivacious vulgarity. They had not been given the look of sobriety which age gives even tougly streets in ugly towns. They seemed to be striving against eachother in a competition to decide which was the commonest and shoddiestshop in the city. It seemed to John that all these Cottenham shopsdropped their aitches!. . . The clouds were grey when he arrived inCottenham, dirty-grey and very cheerless; they were still dirty-greywhen he went to the theatre, and rain fell before he reached it; andthe clouds remained in that dismal state until he quitted Cottenhamafter the first performance of _Milchu and St. Patrick: ATragedy_. It seemed to John that they would never be otherwise thandirty-grey, that the streets would always be wet and the shops alwaysclamantly vulgar. 

"I wouldn't live in this place for the wide world, " he said, as heturned into the stage-door of the Repertory Theatre. 

He was directed to the manager's office by the doorkeeper. The Managerwas on the stage, so the girl secretary informed him, and if Mr. MacDermott would kindly follow her she would take him there at once. Hehad never seen the stage side of the proscenium before, and althoughthe place was dark and he stumbled over properties, he felt enormouslyinterested in what he saw. 

"Is that the scenery?" he said to the secretary as they passed sometawdry looking flats lying against the walls of the scene-dock. 

"Yes, " she answered. "It looks awful in the daylight, doesn't it? Butwhen the footlights are on and the limes are lit, you'd be surprised tosee how fine it looks. They say that common materials look better inlimelight than good things do. Funny, isn't it?"

She led him on to the stage and brought him to the manager. 

"This is Mr. MacDermott, " she said to a tall, lean, worried man who wasstanding immediately in front of the footlights, directing therehearsal which was then beginning. 

"Oh, ah, yes!" said the manager, and then he turned to John. "I'mGidney, " he said. 

John murmured a politeness. 

"Now, let me introduce you to people!" He turned to the players, all ofwhom had that appearance of depression which actors habitually wear indaylight, as if they felt naked and ashamed without their grease-paint. "This is the author of the play, " he exclaimed to them. "Mr. MacDermott!" He led John to each of the players, naming them as he didso, and each of them murmured that he or she was delighted to have thepleasure!. . . 

"I think if you were to sit in the front row of the stalls, Mr. MacDermott!" said Gidney, "while the rehearsal proceeds, that would bebest. You can tell me at the end of each act what alterations orsuggestions you wish to propose!"

"Very good, " said John, feeling his spirits running rapidly into hisboots. What were these cheerless people going to do with the play overwhich he had laboured and sweated for weeks and weeks?. . . 

They went through their parts with a lifeless facility that turned histragedy, he imagined, into a neat piece of machinery and left itwithout any glow of emotion whatever. Now and then the ease with whichthey recited their words was interrupted by forgetfulness and theplayer, whose memory had failed him, would snap his fingers and call tothe prompter, "What is it?" or "Give me that line, will you?"

"How do you think it's going?" said the manager to John at the end ofthe first act. 

"Well, I don't know, " he answered with a nervous laugh. "They aren'tputting much enthusiasm into it, are they?"

"Ah, but this is only a rehearsal. Wait till you see the dressrehearsal!"

He felt considerably relieved. A rehearsal, of course, must be verydifferent from a performance. But on the night of the dressrehearsal . . . It took place on Sunday, for the stage was occupied onweek-nights by regular performances . . . The players seemed to goto pieces. All of them had difficulty in remembering their lines, and when at the end of the last act, a piece of the scenery collapsedupon St. Patrick, John felt that he could have cheerfully seen theentire theatre collapse on everybody concerned with it. He went tothe grubby Temperance hotel in which he had taken a room, and gavehimself completely to gloom and despair. He felt that his play wasnot quite so brilliant as he had imagined it to be, but he was notsure that his dissatisfaction with it ought not really to be displayedagainst the actors. Any play, treated as his had been treated, must seemto be a poor piece. Gidney had appeared to be pleased with the dressrehearsal and had wrung John's hand with great heartiness when theyseparated. "Going splendidly!" he murmured. "Congratulate you. Excellentpiece!. . . " On the way to his hotel, he had seen a play-bill in thewindow of a tobacconist's shop, and a thrill of pleasure had quickenedhim as he stood in front of the glass and read his name beneath thetitle of the play. He must remember to ask Gidney for a copy of theplay-bill to hang up in his flat! Now, in the dull and not very cleanbedroom of the Temperance Hotel, he felt indifferent to play-bills andthe thrill of seeing his name in print. He wished that Eleanor werewith him. They had decided that she should not be present at the firstnight in Cottenham because of the expense of hotel bills and railwayfares. 

"I'll see it in London, " she had said bravely, trying to conceal herdisappointment. Now, however, he wished that she were with him. She hadremarkable powers of comforting. If he were depressed, Eleanor woulddraw his head down to her shoulder and would soothe him into a goodtemper again. There had been times since their marriage when he hadbeen dubious about her . . . When it seemed to him that she had only akindly affection for him and still had not got love for him . . . And thethought filled him with resentment against her. Why could she not lovehim? He was lovable enough and he loved her. A woman ought to love aman who loved her!. . . Then some perception of the self-sufficiency andthe smugness of these thoughts went through his mind and he would abasehimself in spirit before her and reproach himself for unkindnesses thathe imagined he had shown to her . . . Hasty words that hurt her. Histemper was quick to rise, but equally quick to fall; and sometimes hefailed to realise that in the sudden outburst of anger he had saidcruel, hurting things which made no impression on him because they weresaid without any feeling, but left a hard impression on those to whomthey were addressed. He had seen pain in Eleanor's eyes when he hadspoken some swift and biting word to her, and then, all repentance, hehad tried to kiss the pain from her. . . . 

To-night, in this grubby bedroom, smelling of teetotallers and grim, forbidding people in whom are to be found none of the genial foibles ofordinary, hearty men, he felt an excess of remorse for any unkind thinghe had ever said to Eleanor. His pessimism about his play caused him toexaggerate the enormity of his offences. He pictured her, looking athim with that queer air of puzzled pathos that had so impressed himwhen he first saw her, and intense shame filled him when he thoughtthat he had done or said anything to make her look at him in that way. Well, he would compensate her for any pain that he had caused her. Hewould love her so dearly that her life would be passed in continualsunshine and comfort. Even if she were never to return his love or toreturn only a slight share of it, he would devote himself to her justas completely as if she gave everything to him. His play might bemiserably acted and be a failure, apart from the acting, but whatmattered that! While he had Eleanor he had everything. 

VII

He went down to the theatre on the evening of the first performance ina state of calm and quietness which greatly astonished him. He hadexpected to tremble and quake with nervousness and to be reluctant togo near the theatre. He remembered to have read somewhere an account ofthe way in which some melodramatist of repute behaved on a first night. He walked up and down the Embankment while his play was beingperformed, mopping his fevered brow and groaning in agony. Someone hadfound the melodramatist on one occasion, sitting at the foot ofCleopatra's Needle, howling into his handkerchief. . . . John, however, had no terrors whatever when he entered the theatre, and he toldhimself that the melodramatist was either an extremely emotionalman or a very considerable liar. There was a moderate number of peoplein the auditorium, enough to preserve the theatre from seeming sparsely-occupied, but not enough to justify anyone in saying that the house wasfull. The atmosphere resembled that of a church. People spoke, whenthey spoke at all, in whispers, and John was so infected by the air ofsolemnity that when a small boy in the gallery began to call out "Aciddrops or cigarettes!" he felt that a sidesman must appear from a pewand take the lad to the police-station for brawling in a sacrededifice. He waited for the orchestra to appear, but the play beganwithout any preliminary music. The lights were lowered, and soonafterwards someone beat the floor of the stage with a wooden mallet . . . Sending forth three sepulchral sounds that seemed to hammer out of theaudience any tendency it might have had to enjoy itself. Then thecurtain ascended, and the play began. 

VIII

The actors were much better than they had promised to be at the dressrehearsal, but they were still far from being good. It was very plainthat they had been insufficiently rehearsed and there were some badcases of mis-casting. Nevertheless, the performance was better than hehad anticipated, and his spirits rose almost as rapidly as they hadfallen on the previous night; and when at the end of the performancethere were calls for the author, he passed through the door that gaveaccess from the auditorium to the stage with a great deal of elation. He was thrust on to the stage by Gidney, and found himself standingbetween two of the actresses. There was a great black cavern in frontof him which, he realised, was the auditorium, and he could hearapplause rising out of it. The curtain rose and fell again, and thebuzz of voices calling praise to him grew louder. Then the curtain fellagain, and this time it remained down. He realised that he had grippedthe actresses by the hand and that he was holding them very tightly. . . . "I beg your pardon!" he said, releasing them. 

"Awf'lly good!" said one of the actresses, smiling at him as she movedacross the stage. How horrible actors and actresses in their make-uplooked close to! He could not conceive of himself kissing that womanwhile she had so much paint on her face. . . . He turned to walk off thestage, and found that walking was very difficult. He was trembling sothat his knees were almost knocking together and when he moved, hereeled slightly. 

"I say, " he said to one of the actors, "my nerve's gone to pieces. Funny thing . . . I . . . Felt nothing at all . . . Nothing . . . Until justnow!"

The actor took hold of his arm and steadied him. "Queer how nervesaffect people, " he said, as John and he left the stage. "I knew aman who got stage fright two days before the first night of a playin which he had a big part. Nearly collapsed in the street. All rightafterwards . . . Never turned a hair on the stage. Must congratulate you onyour play . . . Jolly good, I call it. Tragedy, of course!. . . "

He had expected some sort of festivity after the performance, but therewas none. The players were eager to get home, and Gidney had aheadache, so John thanked each of them and went back to his hotel. 

"Thank goodness, " he said, "I shall be at home tomorrow. "

He got into bed and lay quietly in the darkness, but he could notsleep, and so he turned on the light again and tried to read; but hishead was thumping, thumping and the words had no meaning for him. Heput the book down. How extraordinary is the common delusion, hethought, that actors and actresses lead gay lives! Could anything bemore dull than the life of an actor in a repertory theatre? Dailyrehearsals in a dingy and draughty theatre and nightly performances inhalf-rehearsed plays!. . . "Give me the life of a bank clerk for realgaiety, " he murmured. "An actor's just a drudge . . . And a dull drudge, too! Very uninteresting people, actors!. . . Why the devil did I leaveEleanor behind?"

IX

He returned to London on the following morning, carrying copies of the_Cottenham Daily Post_ and the _Cottenham Mercury_ with him. The notices of his play were mildly appreciative . . . That of the_Post_ being so mild as to be almost denunciatory. The criticasserted that John's play, while interesting, showed that its authorhad no real understanding of the meaning of tragedy. He found noevidence in _Milchu and St. Patrick_ that John appreciated theimportance of the pressure of the Significant Event. The SignificantEvent decided the development of a tragedy, but in Mr. MacDermott'splay there was no Significant Event. The play just happened, so tospeak, and it ought not to "just happen. " It was an excellent discursuson the drama from the time of the morality plays to the time of theIrish Players, and it included references to Euripides, Ibsen, the Nohplays of Japan, Mr. Bernard Shaw (in a patronising manner), Synge andMr. Masefield; but John felt, when he had read it, that most of it hadbeen written before its author had seen his play. The other notice wasless learned, but it left no doubt in the mind of the readers thatalthough _Milchu and St. Patrick_ was an interesting piece . . . Theword "interesting, " after he had read these notices, seemed to John tobe equivalent to the word "poor" . . . It was not likely to mark anyepochs. 

"I don't think much of Cottenham anyhow!" said John, putting, thepapers in his pocket. 

Eleanor met him at Euston. The fatigue which settles on a traveller inthe last hour of a long railway journey had raised the devil ofdepression in John. He had reread the notices in the Cottenham papers, and as he considered their very restrained praises of his play, heremembered that Hinde had said _The Enchanted Lover_ was anordinary novel. 

"I wonder am I any good, " he said to himself as the train hauled itselfinto Euston. 

He looked out of the window and saw Eleanor standing on the platform, scanning the carriage as she sought for him. 

"Well, she thinks I am, " he thought, as he alighted from the train. "Eleanor!" he called to her, and she turned and when she saw him, hereyes lit and she hurried to him. 

THE SECOND CHAPTER

I

Hinde's enthusiastic review of _The Enchanted Lover_ had not beenfollowed by other reviews equally enthusiastic or nearly so. Manypapers failed to do more than include it in the List of Books Received. _The Times Literary Supplement_ gave six lines of small type to acold account of it. The reviewer declared that "this first novel is notwithout merit" but either had not been able to discover the merit orhad not enough space in which to describe it, for he omitted to saywhat it was. John had paid a visit to the local lending library everymorning for a week in order that he might see all the London newspapersand such of the provincial papers as were exhibited, and had searchedtheir columns eagerly for references to his book; but the referenceswere few and slight. Mr. Claude Jannissary, when John visited him, wagged his head dolefully and uttered some mournful remarks on the sadstate of idealism in England. He regretted to say that the book was notselling so well as he had hoped it would sell. The appalling conditionsof the publishing trade were accentuated by the extraordinaryreluctance of the booksellers to take risks or to show any enthusiasmfor new things. Between Mr. Jannissary and John, he might say thatbooksellers were a very unsatisfactory lot. Most of them were quiteuncultured men. Hardly any of them read books. Mr. Jannissary longedfor the day when booksellers would look upon their shops as places ofadventure and romance!. . . 

A curious sensation of distaste for these words passed through Johnwhen he heard them spoken by Mr. Jannissary. The booksellers, said thepublishers, should be ambitious to earn the title of the newElizabethans . . . Hungering and thirsting after dangerous experiences. He would like to see a bookseller turning disdainfully from "bestsellers" and eagerly purchasing large quantities of books by unknownauthors. "Think of the thrill of it, " said Mr. Jannissary; and John, perturbed in his mind, tried hard to think of the thrill of it. Hismental perturbation was due to the lean look of his bank balance. Moneywas going out of his house more rapidly than it was coming in, andEleanor had been full of anxiety that morning. He had not yet receiveda cheque from the Cottenham Repertory Theatre for the royalties due onthe week's performance of _Milchu and St. Patrick_, but he hadsoothed Eleanor's fears by assuring her that there would be the betterpart of a hundred pounds to come to them from Cottenham in a few days. In the meantime, he told her, he would call on Jannissary and seewhether he could not obtain some money from him. "He must have soldmuch more than five hundred copies by this time, " he said. "If all thebookshops in the country only took one copy each, he'd have sold morethan five hundred, and I'm sure they'd all take two or three each. Perhaps more!"

The suggestion that he might make a small advance to John on accountof accrued royalties had a very chilling effect upon Mr. Jannissary. "My dear fellow, " he said, putting up his hands in a benedictorymanner and then dropping them as if to say that even he found difficultyin believing in the nobility of man, "impossible! Absolutely impossible!I've sunk . . . Money . . . Much Money . . . In your book . . . I don't regretit . . . Not for a moment . . . I believe in you, MacDermott . . . Strongly. . . But it will be a long time before I recover any of that . . . Money. . . If I ever recover it. I'm sorry!. . . "

John had come away from the publisher in a cheerless state of mind, andas he turned into the Strand, he collided with Hinde. 

"How's the book getting on?" Hinde demanded when they had greeted eachother. 

John told him of what Jannissary had said. 

"I tell you what I'll do. " said Hinde. "I'll work up a boom for it inthe _Evening Herald_. I'll turn one of my chaps on to writing halfa dozen letters to the Editor about it!. . . "

"But you don't like the book, " John expostulated. "You told me itwasn't much good!"

"Och, I know that, " Hinde replied, "but that doesn't matter. I'd liketo do you a good turn. There's a smart chap working for me now . . . Hecan put more superlatives into a paragraph than any other man in FleetStreet, and he isn't afraid of committing himself to anything. Mostuseful fellow to have on your staff. He does our Literary article, andhe's discovered a fresh genius every week since he came to me. He'llget on, that chap! I'll turn him on to your book!"

"I don't want praise that I don't deserve, " John said, thrusting outhis lower lip. 

"Oh, you'll deserve it all right. Everybody deserves some praise. How'sEleanor?"

"All right!"

Then Hinde hurried away, and John went home. There was a letter fromthe Cottenham Repertory Theatre awaiting him, and he eagerly opened theenvelope. 

"You needn't worry any longer, " he said to Eleanor as he took out thecontents of the envelope. . . . 

He gaped at the cheque and the Returns Sheet. 

"How much is it?" Eleanor asked. 

"There must be a mistake!. . . "

"How much is it?" she repeated. 

"Sixteen pounds, nine shillings and sevenpence! But!. . . "

II

She took the Returns Sheet from him. "No, " she said after she hadexamined it, "there doesn't appear to be any mistake. It seems to beall right!"

She put the paper and the cheque down, and turned away. 

"It's queer, isn't it?" he said. 

"Yes. Yes, very! We shall have to do something, John. We've very littleleft!"

"Of course, there's the London season to come yet, " he said to comforther. 

"Not for a very long time, " she answered, "and it may not be any betterthan this!" She hesitated for a moment, then she hurriedly said, "John, why shouldn't I go on with my work!"

"On with your work! What do you mean?"

"Why shouldn't I get a job again? We could manage, I think, and themoney I'd earn would be useful. You could finish your new book!. . . "

His pride was hurt. "Oh, no, " he said at once. "No, no, I can't agreeto that. What sort of a husband would I look like if people heard thatI couldn't maintain my wife. Oh, Eleanor, I couldn't think of such athing!. . . 

"I don't see why not. You're not going to make money easily, so far asI can see, and either you or I must get work of some sort. I know youwant to finish your book, so why shouldn't I earn something to help usto keep going?"

"No, " he said, "that's my job. I daresay Hinde would give me work if Iasked for it!"

"But you've always been against doing journalism. "

"I know. I'm still against it, but one can't always resist things. He might let me do literary work for him. I'll go in and see himto-morrow. "

He told her of his encounter with Hinde that day and of Hinde'sproposal to boom _The Enchanted Lover_. "I don't like the ideamuch, but perhaps it'll be useful!" He picked up the cheque from theCottenham Repertory Theatre. "I'm actually out of pocket over thisaffair, " he said. "What with the cost of typing the play and myexpenses in Cottenham. . . . "

"I wish we could go back to Ballyards, " Eleanor said. 

"Go back to Ballyards!" he exclaimed, staring at her in astonishment. 

"Yes, we'd be much better off there!"

"Go back and admit I've failed in London! Crawl home with my tailbetween 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 thatI'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 Ihave 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 canwrite. I feel the stuff inside me. The book I'm doing now, isn't thatgood?"

"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'sgood. That's why I want to get a job, so that you can finish it inpeace. Let me try . . . Just until you've finished the book. Then perhapsthings will be all right. I'd like to be able to say that I helpedyou!"

"You're a lot too good for me. "

"Oh, no, I'm not. Any girl who _is_ a girl would want to help, wouldn't she?"

His temper had subsided now, and the reproach he always felt after sucha 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 tosay what I did!. . . "

"But, my dear, " she exclaimed, "you didn't say much, and if you did itwas because you were upset about the play and the novel. Don't worryabout 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. Hetold me he had never had a secretary so useful as I was, and that hewished 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 tomy old job for a while!. . . "

"No. No, no!"

She stood up, half turned away from him, and said, "Well, I'm going toask for it anyhow!"

"You're what?"

"Yes, John, I'm going to ask for it. Don't shout at me! You really mustlisten to sense. I'm not going to run into debt or have trouble withtradesmen about money just because of your pride. I want you to finishthat 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 tokeep his wife . . . She had to go out to work again soon after he marriedher!' 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 tokeep you decently!"

"That's all very fine, John, but you're not doing it. Your novel hasn'tbrought you any money at all, and you've spent as much on the play asyou've got so far. You've had one or two articles printed, and that'sall. The rest of the money we've lived on has come from your UncleWilliam!. . . "

"Uncle William! None of it came from him. Uncle Matthew left me hismoney and my mother gave me the rest!"

"Yes, and how did they get it? From your Uncle William, of course. Hiswork has kept them, hasn't it? And you? We're sponging on your UncleWilliam, and I hate to think we're sponging on him. You're very proudabout not letting me go out to work, but you're not so proud aboutletting Uncle William keep you!"

This was a blow between the eyes for him. "That's a bitterly unkindthing 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 thethought 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 ifone 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 thepresent. You'll be able to get on with your book at home, and any otherwriting you want to do, and then perhaps things will get straight andwe'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 Idon't much care for. I liked _The Enchanted Lover_--it was quitegood--but I don't much care for the one you're doing now. I can't helpthat. 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 goodwriters. If I can't be a great writer, I don't want to be a writer atall. 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 feellike that about me, " he said. 

"I don't know anything about greatness. All I know is that I like somethings and that I don't like others. I don't know why a book is greator why it isn't. You can't judge things by what I say. It's quitepossible that you are a great writer, and that's why I want you to letme get a job, so that you can go on with your work and be able to showthe world what you can do. I'd hate to think you'd been prevented fromdoing your best work because you'd had to use up your energy doingother 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'sfinished, _The Enchanted Lover_ may have earned a lot of money forus . . . And the play, too . . . And then we can just laugh at our troublesnow!. . . "

III

He remained obdurate for a while, but in the end she wore hisopposition down. Mr. Crawford gladly welcomed her back to her old job, and even offered her a larger salary than she had been receiving beforeher 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 theyoung women who go out to offices nowadays would be dear at ninepence aweek. The last girl we had here caused me to imperil my immortal soultwice a day through her incompetence. I've sworn more in a week sinceyou left us, than I ever swore in my life before!. . . "

Eleanor insisted that John should not inform his mother of her returnto work. Intuitively she knew that Mrs. MacDermott's pride would beoutraged by this knowledge, and that she would make bitter complaint toJohn 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 toMrs. MacDermott or to Uncle William. He had made no comment on thematter, but she knew that he had been relieved by her request. 

Hinde had fulfilled his promise to boom _The Enchanted Lover_ inthe _Evening Herald_, and Mr. Jannissary reluctantly admitted thatthe book was selling. "Slowly, of course, but still . . . Selling! Ithink 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 isimpossible to say!"

The second book moved in a leisurely manner to its close, and Mr. Jannissary declared that he was delighted to hear that _The EnchantedLover_ would shortly have a successor. He thought that perhaps hecould promise to pay royalties from the first copy of the new novel!. . . 

"How do writers manage to live, Mr. Jannissary?" John said to him atthis point, and Mr. Jannissary murmured that there was a divinity whichshapes our ends, rough-hew them how we may. 

"Oh, is that it?" said John. 

"Some men have been very hungry, MacDermott because they served theirArt faithfully. Think of the garrets, the lonely attics in whichbeautiful 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 avoluptuary or self-indulgent in any way, but I too would dislike to beexcessively hungry. Still, I think it must be a great consolation to aman to think that he had made a great work out of . . . His pain, so tospeak!"

John reflected for a moment on this. Then he said, "How do you manageto keep going, Mr. Jannissary, when you publish so many books thatdon't bring you any return?"

Mr. Jannissary glanced very interrogatively at John. Then he waved hishands, and murmured vaguely. "Sacrifices, " he said. "We all have tomake sacrifices!. . . "

John left the publisher and went on to the office of the _EveningHerald_ where he saw Hinde. "I've brought an article I thought you'dlike 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 into-morrow. I suppose, " he continued, "you wouldn't like to do a job forme?"

"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 youto-night!"

He felt much happier when he left the Herald offices than he had feltwhen he entered them. He had sold an article and had been commissionedto do an interesting job. Eleanor would be pleased. He hurried home sothat 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 beimagination!"

He sat down beside her. "Imagination!. . . " She looked at him verysteadily, and he found himself remembering how beautiful he had thoughther eyes were that day when he saw her for the first time. They werestill very beautiful. 

"I'm not sure, " she said. "I don't know . . . But I . . . I think I'm goingto 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 shedismayed him by bursting into tears. 

"Eleanor!" he exclaimed, not knowing what to say or to do, and she letherself subside into his arms and lay there, half laughing and halfcrying. 

"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 eachother and whispering explanations and hopes and fears. A queer sense ofresponsibility settled upon John, a feeling that he must bear burdensand be glad to bear them. Eleanor seemed to him now to be a veryfragile and timid creature, turning instinctively to him for care andprotection. Immeasureable love for her surged in his heart. This verydear and gentle girl, so full of courage and yet so full of alarm, hadbecome inexpressibly precious to him. She had come to him in doubt andhad entrusted her life to him, not certain that she cared for himsufficiently to be entirely happy with him. He had tried to make herhappy, and slowly he had seen her liking for him growing into some sortof affection. Perhaps now she loved him as he loved her. Soon she wouldbe the mother of a child . . . His child!. . . How very extraordinary itseemed! A few months ago, Eleanor and he had been strangers to eachother . . . 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 tellher!"

He remembered the commission from Hinde, and while he was telling herof it, the postman delivered a letter from the Herald in which was theinvitation card for the ceremony in Westminster Abbey. 

She examined it with interest. "But it says Morning Dress must beworn, " 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 asilk hat!"

"What shall I do then?" he asked. 

"We must think of something. Perhaps Mrs. Townley's husband would lendyou his silk hat!" The Townleys were their neighbours. "He hardly everwears 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 theTownleys' flat, and after a little while, she returned carrying a silkhat that was much in need of ironing. 

"She lent it quite willingly, " Eleanor said. "She says Mr. Townley'sonly 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 makeit sit better!"

She lined the hat with, tissue paper and then, put it on his headagain. "That's a lot better, " she exclaimed. "Look at yourself in theglass!"

"I feel an awful fool in it, " he murmured, glancing at his reflectionin the mirror. 

"Oh, well, I suppose all men do feel like fools when they put on silkhats . . . At first anyhow . . . But it isn't any worse than a bowler hator one of those awful squash-hats that Socialists wear. Men's hats arehideous whatever shape they are. I don't know what we're to do about amorning coat for you. I didn't like to ask Mrs. Townley to lend herhusband'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 wecould get a morning-coat for you!" She paused as if she were reflectingon the problem. "I know, " she said at last. "It's sure to rain, in themorning. King George is going to the thing, so it's sure to rain. Wearyour overcoat . . . Then you won't need a morning coat . . . And the silkhat 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'vesolved 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. Crawfordwhy she was not returning to her employment, but she had insisted thatshe was well enough now and must treat Mr. Crawford as fairly as he hadtreated her. "I'll give notice to him at once, " she said, "and he canget someone else as soon as possible . . . But I can't leave him in thelurch!"

They travelled by Tube to town together, and John went on toWestminster Abbey. He was very early and when he arrived at theentrance nominated on the Invitation Card he found that he was thefirst arrival. Ten minutes afterwards, a grubby-looking man in a slouchhat ambled up the asphalt path to the narrow door against which Johnwas leaning. "Good morning!" John said, glancing at the slouch hat andthe shabby reefer coat and the brown boots. "Have you come to do thisceremony, too?" The man nodded his head. He was very uncommunicativeand had a surly look. "But they won't let you in, like that!" saidJohn. 

"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, " Johnanswered, showing his card as he spoke. 

"That's all bunkum! They'd let me in if I were naked. I'm here toreport the performance, not to display my elegance, and these peoplewant the thing reported as much as possible. I don't suppose you knowme?"

"No, I don't, " said John. 

"Well, I'm known as the Funeral Expert in Fleet Street. My paper alwayssends me out on special occasions to report big funerals. I'm very goodat 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 persuademyself to believe that there's a corpse about, I'll do it better thananybody else. I make a specialty of quoting the more literary parts ofthe 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 arule. Shocking doggerel most of 'em!. . . "

They were joined by other reporters, and John observed that he aloneamong them was wearing a silk hat. He commented on the fact to theFuneral Expert. 

"There's only one silk hat in the whole of Fleet Street, " the FuneralExpert replied, "and it belongs to the man who specialises in Murders. He never investigates a murder without wearing his silk hat. He saysit's in keeping with the theme!"

The door was opened by a verger and the journalists entered the Abbeyand were led up some very narrow and dark and damp stone stairs untilat last they emerged on to a rude platform of planks high up in theroof. At one end of the platform a pole had been placed breast-highbetween two pillars, and against this the journalists were invited tolean. Far below, the ceremony was to take place. John felt giddy as helooked down on the floor of the Cathedral. 

"We shan't be able to see anything up here, " he said to the FuneralExpert. 

"What do you want to see?" was the reply he received. "You've got aprogramme of the ceremony, haven't you, and an imagination. That's allyou 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 therose-coloured window just as the King entered the Abbey. That alwaysgoes 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'tclash. Is that agreed?"

"All right!"

Half the journalists retreated from the pole-barrier and sat on a pileof planks at the back of the platform. Like John, they suffered fromgiddiness. They had their writing-pads open, however, and were busilyengaged in inventing accounts of the ceremonial that was presently tobe performed. John glanced over a man's shoulder and caught sight ofthe words, "As His Majesty entered the ancient abbey, a burst ofsunlight fell through the old rose window and cast a glorious crimsonlight on his beautiful regalia!. . . . "

"Lord!" said John, moving away. 

He went to the end of the platform, and then, moved by some feelingwhich he could not explain, descended the dark, stone stairs which hehad lately mounted. He could hear the music of the organ, and presentlythe choir began to sing an anthem. 

"I suppose it's beginning, " he thought. 

He reached the ground-floor, and presently found himself standingbehind a stone-screen in the company of selected persons and officialsin brilliant uniforms. There were three special reporters here, to whoman official in a gorgeous green garb, looking very like a figure on apack of cards, was giving information. John edged nearer to them, andas he did so, he saw that some ceremony was proceeding in one of thechapels. 

"What's happening?" he asked in a whisper. 

His neighbor whispered back that this was to be the chapel of the Orderof the Bath, and that the King was about to conduct some ceremonialwith the Knights of the Order. He raised himself on the edge of a tomband saw two lines of old men in rich claret-coloured robes facing eachother, with a broad space between them, and while he looked, the Kingpassed between the Knights who bowed to him as he passed towards thealtar. He heard the murmur of old, feeble voices as the Knights sworeto protect the widow and the orphan and the virgin from wrong andinjury!. . . 

"They haven't the strength to protect a fly, " John whispered to hisneighbour. 

"Ssh!" his neighbour whispered back, "it's a symbolical promise!. . . "

VI

He hurried to the offices of the _Evening Herald_ and wrote hisaccount of the ceremony he had seen. He described the old and venerablemen who had sworn to protect the widow and the orphan and thedistressed virgin, and demanded of those in authority by what rightthey degraded an ancient and honourable Order by allowing feebleoctogenarians to make promises they were incapable of fulfilling. Heaven help the distressed virgin who depended on these totteringknights for succour!. . . He had written half a column of veryvituperative 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 andasked 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 onwhich the report of the ceremony in the Abbey was being written. Heread the first two sheets and then uttered a sharp exclamation. 

"Anything wrong?" John asked. 

"Wrong!" Hinde gaped at him, incapable of expressing himself withsufficient force. He swallowed and then, with a great effort, spokevery calmly. "My dear chap, " he said, "I regard it as a merciful act ofGod that I came into this room when I did. What the!. . . Oh, well, it'sno 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 tolet this sort of thing go into the paper. Haven't you any sense ofproportion at all?"

"But the whole thing was ridiculous!. . . "

"What's that got to do with it? Half the world is ridiculous, butthere's no need to run about telling everybody!"

"But if you'd seen them . . . _old_ fellows swearing to draw theirswords in defence of women and children, and them not fit to do morethan draw their pensions!. . . "

"Yes, yes, we know all about that. But a certain amount of humbug isdecent and necessary!" He turned to a young man who had just enteredthe room. "Here, Chilvers, I want you to do a couple of columns on thatstunt 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'tneed to be there. Just give the programme to him, will you?" Johnhanded the order of proceedings to Chilvers, and Hinde added a fewinstructions. "Write up the King, " he said. "Every inch a sovereign andthat sort of stuff. Royal dignity!. . . Was Kitchener there?" he saidturning 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 asvenerable wiseacres!. . . "

"No, don't rub their age in. Venerable's not a nice word to use aboutanything except a cathedral. You can call the Abbey a venerable edificeor 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 madeus miss the Home Edition with your desire to tell the truth!"

John turned away. The sense of failure that had been in possession ofhim since the production of _Milchu and St. Patrick_ filled himnow and made him feel terribly desolate. Whatever he did seemed tofail. He set off with high hopes and fine intentions, but when hereached his destination, his arrival seemed to be of very littleimportance and his small boat seemed to be very small and his cargo ofslight value. Almost mechanically he opened Cream's letter. Hinde, having discussed other matters with Chilvers, called to John. "Come andsee me in my room, will you, before you go!" and John answered, "Verygood!" 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 WolverhamptonColiseum. _"It went with a bang, my boy! Absolutely knocked 'em cleanoff their perch! I wish you'd do another!. . . "_

He enclosed postal orders for two pounds, the fee for one week'sperformance. John put the letter into his pocket and, nodding toChilvers, now busily writing up the King and Lord Kitchener, he leftthe room and went to Hinde's office. 

"I'm. Sorry, Mac, " Hinde said to him, "I'm sorry I let out at you justnow, but you gave me a fright. I'd have been fired if I'd let yourthing go to press!"

"I quite understand, " John answered. "I see that I'm not fit for thissort 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 thingall right anyhow, " Hinde said when he had read the letter. 

"Cream re-wrote it, " John murmured. "And even if he hadn't, it's notmuch of an achievement, is it? I wanted to write good stuff, and Ican'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 lowmusic-hall sketch, and even that has to be rewritten!"

"Come, come!" said Hinde. "You're feeling depressed now. You'll changeyour mind presently. I daresay there's plenty of good stuff in you andone of these days it'll come out. You needn't get into the dumpsbecause you've failed to make good as a journalist. God knows that's notriumphant career! Plenty of good writers have tried to make a livingat journalism and failed hopelessly. Haven't had half the successyou'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 youngauthors!"

"I don't know, " said John. "I'm too busy wondering how young authorsmanage to live!"

THE THIRD CHAPTER

I

The money derived from Cream's sketch had compensated them for the lossof the money earned by Eleanor; but two pounds per week wasinsufficient for their needs, and, now that the bank balance wasexhausted and they were dependent upon actual earnings, John had lesstime for creative work. Free lance journalism seemed likely to providean adequate income for them, but he soon discovered that if he were tomake a reasonable livelihood from it, he must give up the greater partof his time and thought to it. He could not depend upon certain orimmediate acceptance of any article he wrote for the newspapers. Sometimes a topical article was sent to the wrong newspaper and keptthere until too late for publication in another newspaper. Regularly-employed journalists, engaged to choose contributions from outsidewriters, were extraordinarily inconsiderate in their relationships withhim. They would hold up a manuscript for a long time and thenarbitrarily return it; they would return a manuscript in a dirty state, even scribbled over, because they had capriciously changed their mindsabout it, and he would waste time and money in having it re-typed; theyeven mislaid manuscripts and offered neither compensation nor apologyfor so doing. . . . In a very short while, John discovered that the morehigh-minded were the principles professed by a newspaper, the worse wasthe payment made to its contributors and the longer was the timeconsumed in making the payment. The low-minded journals paid forcontributions well and quickly, but the noble-minded journals kepttheir contributors waiting weeks for small sums. . . . He could not dependupon the publication of one article each week. Could he have done so, his financial position, while meagre, would have been fairly easy andregular. There were weeks when no money was earned, and there wereweeks when he earned ten or twelve guineas . . . Gay, exhilarating weekswere those . . . And there were even weeks when he could not think of asuitable theme for an acceptable article. In this state of uncertaintyand constant effort to get enough money to pay for common needs, thesecond novel became neglected, and it was not until several monthsafter the adventure at Westminster Abbey that the manuscript wascompleted and sent to Mr. Jannissary. By that time, John was in debt totradesmen and to a typewriting company from which he had purchased atypewriter on the hire system. The Cottenham Repertory Theatre hadfailed to arrange a London season, consequently he had had no furtherincome from _Milchu and St. Patrick, _ and Mr. Jannissary, whenJohn talked about royalties from _The Enchanted Lover_, neverfailed to express his astonishment at the fact that the sales of thatexcellent book had not exceeded five hundred copies. He had beencertain that at least a thousand copies would have been sold as aresult of the boom in the _Evening Herald. _

"Why don't you put a chartered accountant on his track?" said Hindewhen John told him of what Mr. Jannissary had said. 

John shrugged his shoulders. His experience with the CottenhamRepertory Theatre had cured him of all desire to send good money afterbad. He wished now that he had taken Hinde's advice and had kept awayfrom Mr. Jannissary, but it was useless to repine over that. He turnedinstinctively to Hinde for advice, and Hinde was generous with it. Hewas generous, too, with more profitable things. He put work in John'sway as often as he could, and in spite of the fiasco over the Abbeyceremony, had offered employment on the _Herald_ to him, but Johnhad refused it, feeling that his novel would never reach its end if hewere tied to a newspaper. When, however, the book was completed, hewent to Hinde again and consulted him about the prospect of obtainingregular work. His immediate needs were important, but overshadowingthese was the need that would presently come upon him. Eleanor in a fewmonths would be brought to bed . . . And he had no money saved for thattime. 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 ofmoney, " 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 ofarticles for us? Write six or seven articles on London Streets. TakeFleet Street, Piccadilly, Bond Street, the Strand and the Mile EndRoad, and write about their characteristics, showing how different theyare from each other. That kind of stuff. I'll give you three guineaseach for them, and I'll take six for certain if they're good. Ifthey'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 forheaven'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 thatyou are sensible now and so he consented!" John had taken the news toEleanor, expecting that she would be elated by it, but when he told herthat his work would keep him in Fleet Street half the night, she showedvery little enthusiasm for it. Her normal dislike of being alone wasintensified now, and the thought of being in the flat by herself untilone or two in the morning frightened her. "I shan't see anything ofyou, " she complained. 

"I shall be at home in the daytime, " he replied. 

"Yes . . . Writing, " she said bitterly. "People like you have no right toget 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 attendto the house and cook his meals as well as look after the shop? Itlooks as if someone has got to be left alone through this work ofyours . . . Either me or Uncle William . . . And you don't care much who itis!. . . "

"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 beleft alone half the night!. . . "

He remembered that she was overwrought, and made no answer to hercomplaint. He would write to his mother and ask her to think of asolution of their problem that would not involve Uncle William indifficulties. It was useless to talk to Eleanor while she was in thisnervous state of mind. He could see quite plainly that decisions mustbe made by him even against her desire. Poor Eleanor would realise allthis after the baby was born, and would thank him for not showing signsof weakness!. . . He wrote to Mr. Clotworthy, as Hinde had suggested, about the sub-editorial work, and to his mother about the problem thatpuzzled them. 

III

Mrs. MacDermott solved the problem, not by letter, but by word ofmouth. She telegraphed to John to meet her at Euston, and on the wayfrom the station to Hampstead, she told him of her plan. 

"I'd settled this in my mind from the beginning, " she said, "and you'veonly just advanced things a week or two by your letter. I'm going totake Eleanor back to Ballyards with me!. . . "

"What for?"

"What for!" she exclaimed. "So's your child can be born in the housewhere you were born and your da and his da!. . . That's why! Where elsewould 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 monthsyet 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 twiceyour age would have to do, if you had your way!"

"I don't see that at all. He could easily give Cassie McClurg a fewshillings a week to come and look after him while you stay here withus!. . . "

"I'm not thinking about you or your Uncle William. I'm thinking aboutEleanor 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 inher voice as John had never heard in any voice before. She turned awayand would not speak to him again. He lay back against the cushions ofthe cab and considered Eleanor would certainly be well cared for athome, but . . . "what about me?" he asked. He supposed he could manage byhimself. Of course, he could. That was not the point that was worryinghim. 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'swhat's going to happen!" She turned on him furiously. "Have you nonature or pride? Where else would Eleanor be so well-tended as athome?. . . "

"It isn't her home, " he objected. 

"It _is_ her home. She's a MacDermott now, and anyway the childis. You'd keep her here in this Godforsaken town, surrounded bystrangers, and no relation of her own to be near her when her troublecomes!. . . There's times, John, when I wonder are you a man at all? Yourmind is so set on yourself that you're like a lump of stone. You andyour old books . . . As if they matter a tinker's curse to anybody!. . . "

"I know you never thought anything of my work, " he complained, "andEleanor doesn't think much of it either. I get little encouragementfrom any of you!"

"You get encouragement, " Mrs. MacDermott retorted, "when you've earnedit. It's no use pulling a poor mouth to me, my son. I come from afamily that never asked for pity, and I married into one that neverasked 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 amurmur out of us when we got hurt. There were times when I thought itwas 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 headhigh and never to let nothing downcast you. I'd be ashamed to be acry-ba!. . . "

"I'm no cry-ba!" he muttered sulkily. 

"Well, prove it then. Let Eleanor come without making a sour face overit. 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 thehard tone went out of her voice. She leant towards him, touching him onthe arm. "Persuade her, son!" she said. "My heart's hungry to have herchild born in its own home among its own people!"

She looked at him so pleadingly that he was deeply moved. He felt hisblood calling to him, and the ties of kinship stirring strongly in hisheart. Pictures of Ballyards passed swiftly through his mind, and inrapid succession he saw the shop and Uncle Matthew and Uncle Williamand Mr. McCaughan and Mr. Cairnduff and the Logans and the Square andthe Lough, and could smell the sweet odours of the country, the smellof wet earth and the reek of turf fires and the cold smell of brackishwater. . . . 

"Have your own way, " he said to his mother, and she drew him to her andkissed him more tenderly than she had kissed him for many years. 

IV

When they told their plan to Eleanor her eyes lit up immediately, andhe saw that she was eager to go to Ballyards, but almost at once, sheturned 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 gotit, 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 camehere to write books and I'll write them!"

"You're not writing books when you're sitting up half the night in anewspaper office!"

"I know I'm not. But I must get money to . . . To pay for!. . . "

"Are you worrying yourself about Eleanor's confinement, son? Neverbother 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 earnthe 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 toEleanor. 

"What's that?" Mrs. MacDermott demanded. 

"I was saying I'd a good mind to let the flat until she comes back. Icould 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 outof 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 Johnsettled in his work and the flat sub-let to suitable tenants. Shearranged for his return to Miss Squibb who, most opportunely, had hisold room vacant, and she made Lizzie promise to take particular care ofhis comfort. "I can tyke care of 'im all right, " Lizzie said. "I'vetyken care of Mr. 'Inde for years, an' I feel I can tyke care ofanybody after 'im. You leave 'im to me, Mrs. MacDermott, an' I wown'tlet 'im come to no 'arm!" She leant forward suddenly and whispered toEleanor. "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 canalways 'ave a girl afterwards. Wot you goin' to call it, if it's aboy?"

"John, of course!" said Eleanor. 

"Um-m-m. Well, I suppose you'll 'ave to, after 'is father, but if I 'ada son I'd call 'im Perceval. I dunno why! I just would. It sounds nicesome'ow. I mean it 'as a nice sound. Only people 'ud call 'im Perce, ofcourse, an' that would be 'orrible. I dessay you're right. It's betterto 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. Youdown'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 realisedthat John's sub-editorial work was hard and inconvenient. The unnaturalhours of labour in noisy and insanitary surroundings left him verytired and crochetty in the morning, and he felt disinclined for otherwork. He had written his series of articles on London Streets for the_Evening Herald_, and Hinde had professed to like themsufficiently to ask for more of them. Twelve of them had beenprinted . . . One each day for a fortnight . . . And the money had clearedJohn of debt and left a little for the coming expense. Cream's two poundsper week came regularly every Monday morning, and this, with the incomefrom the _Sensation_, and an occasional article made the prospectsof life seem clearer. "There's no fame in it, " he told himself, "but atleast I'm paying my way!" In a little while, his second novel would bepublished, and perhaps it would bring a reward which he hadunaccountably missed with his first book and his tragedy. More thananything else now, he wanted recognition. Money was good and acceptableand he would gladly have much more of it, but far beyond money hevalued recognition. If he had to make choice between a large income anda large reputation, he would unhesitatingly choose a large reputation. He longed to hear Hinde admitting that he had been mistaken in John'squality. Indeed, in the last analysis, it seemed that more than moneyand more than general recognition, he craved for recognition fromHinde. He wished to see Hinde coming to him in a respectful manner!. . . 

But there was little likelihood of that happening while he performedsub-editorial work on the _Sensation_. Every night he and theother sub-editors, young and unhealthy-looking men, sat round a bigtable, handling "flimsies" and scribbling rapidly. They inventedhead-lines and cross-headings, and they cut down the work of the outsidestaff. When a nugget of gold was found in Wales and was pronounced tobe a lump of quartz with streaks of gold in it rather than a nugget ofpure gold, John had headed the paragraph in which the news wasreported, ALL IS NOT GOLD THAT GLITTERS. He glanced at the headingafter he had written it. "I seem to be getting into the way of thissort of thing, " he said with a sigh. He put the paper down and got upfrom the table. The baskets lying about, full of "copy" or "flimsies"or cuttings from other papers; the hard, blinding light from theunshaded electric globes; the litter of newspapers and torn envelopes;the incessant _rurr-rurr-rurr_ of the printing machines; and thehot, exhausted air of the room . . . All these seemed disgusting. He shuthis 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 thiswork. 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 himthere 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 andset him down in ease and comfort somewhere in agreeable surroundings;but it might be many years before that desired bliss was achieved. Hewould spend his youth in this atmosphere of neurosis and hastyjudgment, and perhaps when he was old and no longer full of zest forenjoyment, he would have leisure for the things he could no longerdelight in. And Eleanor, too . . . She would have to struggle with penuryuntil she grew tired and lustreless!. . . "No, she won't!" he vowed. "I'mnot going to let her down whatever happens. I'll make a positionsomehow!. . . "

Then Eleanor and Mrs. MacDermott went to Ballyards. He stood by thecarriage-door talking to them both while the train filled withpassengers, and as the guard blew a succession of blasts on hiswhistle, he leant forward to kiss Eleanor "Good-bye!" A tear rolleddown her cheek. . . . "I wish I weren't going now, " she said, clinging tohim. 

"It won't be for long, " he murmured. "Will it, mother?" he added toMrs. MacDermott. 

But his mother did not make any reply. She sat very tightly in herseat, and he saw that there was a hard look in her eyes and that herlips were closely joined together. 

VI

He wandered out of the station. . . It was Saturday night and thereforehe had not to go to the _Sensation_ office . . . And entered theHampstead Tube railway. On Monday, the agent would make an inventory ofthe furniture, and John would move to Brixton. Until then, he wouldstay at the flat, taking his meals at restaurants. He left the Tube atHampstead and walked home. The flat seemed very dark and cheerless whenhe entered it, and he wandered from room to room in a disturbed stateas if he were searching for something and had forgotten for what he wassearching. A petticoat of Eleanor's, flung hastily on to the bed, caught his eye, a blue silk petticoat that he remembered her buyingsoon 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 itmade. Dear Eleanor! Most sweet and precious Eleanor!. . . He left thebedroom and went into the combined sitting and dining-room and theninto the kitchen. At the door of the tiny spare bedroom, he stopped andturned away. What was the use of wandering about the house in thisdisconsolate manner? Eleanor had gone and it was idle to pretendthat he might suddenly come to her in some corner of the flat. Itwas much too early to go to bed and, since he could not sit stillindoors, he resolved to go out and walk off his mood of depressionand loneliness. The trees on Hampstead Heath stood up in deep darkness, and overhead he saw the innumerable stars shining coldly. In thedusk and shadow he could hear the murmur of subdued voices and nowand then a peal of girlish laughter, or the deeper sound of a man'smirth. 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 wonderfulfulfilment. And no shadow fell upon their happiness to darken it ormake it cold. . . . He could feel his heart singing within him, and he askedhimself why it was that he should feel happy in this street, in whichEleanor and he had walked in love together, when he had felt restlessand unhappy in the flat where they had lived and loved. He stood undera lamp to look at his watch, and wondered where Eleanor was now . . . Whatstage of her journey she had reached. The train had left Euston athalf-past eight, and now the hour was twenty minutes past ten. Nearlytwo hours since she had gone away from him. Sixty or eighty miles, perhaps a hundred, separated them, and every moment the distance betweenthem was lengthening. He could stand here, leaning against these rails andlooking over the hollows of the Heath towards the softened glare ofLondon, and almost tell off the miles that were consumed by therushing, roaring train!. . . One mile . . . Two miles . . . Three miles!. . . 

The laughter and the shining eyes of the young lovers made him feelold, now that Eleanor was not with him to make him feel young. He feltold, though he was not old, because he was lonely again, more lonelythan he had been before he saw Eleanor at the Albert Hall. He hadfollowed her as a man lost in a desert follows a star, and she hadbrought him home at last . . . And now she was gone from him, bearing ababy. Soon, though, very soon, the time would pass and she would returnto him and they would never be separated again. He would fulfil hisdesires. He would write great books and great plays, and Eleanor wouldgrow in loveliness and dignity, and his son . . . For he was certain thatthe child would be a boy . . . Would reach up from childhood to manhoodin strength and beauty!. . . 

VII

The last post had brought the proofs of his second novel to him. Hetore the packet open, and began to correct them at once. _Hearts ofControversy_ was the title of the book, and it was dedicated:

To the Memory of my Uncle Matthew. 

THE FOURTH CHAPTER

I

When Eleanor's son was born, John was still in London. He had intendedto be with her, but Mr. Clotworthy would not give leave to him becauseof illness among the staff. "I'm sorry, " he had said, "but I can't letyou go. You'd only be in the way anyhow. A man's a cursed nuisance at atime like that. When Corcoran comes back, I'll see if I can manage afew days for you!" John murmured thanks and turned to go. "I hear goodaccounts of you, " Mr. Clotworthy continued. "Tarleton says you'reworking splendidly. I'm glad you've learned sense at last!" John smiledrather drearily, and then left the editor's room. So he was learningsense, was he?. . . A few months ago, had Mr. Clotworthy told him thatleave 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, thoughhe ached to go to Eleanor, he was remaining in London. Tarleton . . . Themost common-minded man John had ever encountered . . . Said that he wasworking splendidly. They were all pleased with him. He could inventheadlines and cross-headings and write paragraphs to the satisfactionof Tarleton, whose conception of a romantic love story was some dull, sordid intrigue heard in the Divorce Court. Tarleton always described astreet accident as a tragedy. Tarleton referred . . . In print . . . To thegreedy amours of a chorus girl as a "Thrilling Romance of the Stage, "though he had other words to describe them in conversation. And Johnwas giving satisfaction to Tarleton. . . . 

He wrote to his mother and to Eleanor explaining why he could notimmediately go to Ballyards. Eleanor could not reply to his letter, butMrs. MacDermott wrote that she was recovering rapidly from her illnessand that the baby was a fine, healthy child. _"A MacDermott to thebackbone, "_ she wrote. _"It's queer work that keeps a man out ofhis bed half the night and won't let him go to his wife when she'shaving a child! Your Uncle William isn't looking well . . . He feels theweight of his years and the work on him . . . And he is worried about theshop. But he's greatly pleased with Eleanor being here. Him and hergets 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 tothe 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 bewrong with it?"

"It's so ugly-looking!. . . "

She stared incredulously at him. "Ugly, " she said, "it's a beautifulbaby. One of the loveliest children I've ever clapped my eyes on. Lookat 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 answeredindignantly. 

He went back to Eleanor's room . . . She was out of bed now, but becausethe day was cold was sitting before a fire in her bedroom . . . And satwith her while she talked of little things that had happened to herduring their separation. "You know, John, " she said, "you're notlooking 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 lastnight, 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 thinkyou'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 flatfirst. I thought mebbe you'd come to Miss Squibb's with me till theflat was ready!"

"I don't think I should like that, " she answered. 

"No, mebbe not, but I'm terribly lonesome without you, Eleanor. It'sbeen 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 uglychild, " she said to Eleanor, glancing angrily at her son. 

"Oh, John!" Eleanor exclaimed reproachfully. "He isn't ugly. He'shandsome!. . . "

"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 knowwhat 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 thecovering about its head. "Eight pounds he weighed when he was born, "she said. "Eight pounds! And then you say he isn't beautiful! And himyour 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, " shesaid in a whisper, coming closer to them. She held the child so thatthey 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 thechild. 

"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 tinymouth. "Five generations in the one house, " she said. "I bless God forthis 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 threemonths 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 wellyet. Can't you stay on a while longer, John? You know you're tired andneed a rest, and it'll do you a lot of good to stay on for a week ortwo!"

"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. MacDermottexclaimed. "Your home's here and there's no necessity for you to gotramping 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 mybooks. It's no use arguing, ma. My mind's made up on that subject. Itwas made up long ago!" Constraint fell upon them, and John, feelingthat he must make conversation again, turned to his Uncle. "How's theshop doing?" he asked. 

"Middling . . . Middling, " Uncle William replied. "We're having a wee bitof opposition to fight against. One of these big firms has just openeda branch here. Pippin's! They're causing me a bit of anxiety, the waythey'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 shopsonly pretends to do that. But it's anxious work!"

"A MacDermott ought to be ready to fight for the good name of hisfamily, " 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 Johnturned to Eleanor and tried to settle a date on which she should returnto town, but on each occasion something interrupted them, and Eleanorshowed no inclination to be definite. "There's no hurry for a day ortwo, is there?" she said at last, and then, pleading fatigue, she wentto bed. 

"I can't see what you want to go back to London for, " Mrs. MacDermottsaid when Eleanor had gone. "The neither of you don't look well on thatlife, and you could write your books here just as well as you canthere. Better, mebbe! Eleanor likes Ballyards. She doesn't care muchfor London. "

Suspicion entered John's mind. "Have you been putting notions into herhead?" he demanded. 

"Notions! What notions?" she answered innocently. 

"You know rightly what notions. Have you been trying to persuade her tostay here?"

"It's well you know, my son, I never try to persuade no one to doanything. I just let them find things out for themselves. It's the bestway 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 backto 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 otherbook, " Mrs. MacDermott said. 

IV

There was a letter for John in the morning. His subtenant wrote to saythat he liked the flat and found it so convenient that he was veryanxious to know whether there was a chance of John giving up possessionof it. He was willing to buy the furniture at a fair valuation!. . . 

"Damned cheek, " said John. He told the others of the contents of theletter. 

"If we were to stay here, " Eleanor said, "that offer would be veryuseful, 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 toreturn to London immediately. "Will you come with me or come later byyourself?" John said to Eleanor. 

She hesitated for a few moments, then going quickly to him and puttingher arms about his neck, she whispered, "I don't want to go back toLondon, John. I want to stay here!"

"You what?"

"I want to stay here. Oh, give up this work and stay at home. YourUncle is getting old and needs help, and I'll be much happier here thanin 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 towrite 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 alot. 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 theMacDermotts and the shop, but she has not asked me to stay here. It'smy own idea. I like this little town, John, and its quiet ways and thecomfort of this house. I've always wanted comfort and quietness, andI'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 togive in!. . . "

"I'm not asking you to give in!"

"You are. You're asking me to come back here where everybody knows meand knows what I went out to do, and you're asking me to admit to themthat I've failed!"

"No, no, dear!. . . "

"Yes, you are. Because I haven't made a fortune at the start, you allthink I'm a failure. Hasn't every man had to struggle and fight for hisposition, and amn't I fighting and struggling for mine? If you caredfor 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 takerisks with the baby!. . . "

"What's he got to do with it?"

She turned on him angrily. "Are you willing to let him suffer for yourbooks, too? Do you think I'm going to let my child go without things tofeed your pride?. . . "

"He won't have to go without things. I'll earn enough for him and foryou. "

"Yes, I know. We've seen something of that already. Well, I'm not goingback to London, John. I'm simply not going back. You can't expect me togo from this house where I'm happy to that little poky flat inHampstead and sit there night after night while you are at theoffice!. . . "

"Other women do it, don't they?"

"Other women can do what they like. If they're content to live likethat, they can, but I'm not content. I don't like that life, and Iwon't live it. You must make up your mind to that. It isn't necessaryfor you to go back to the _Sensation_ office--you can stay hereand 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 orencouragement at all. My ma and you and Hinde!. . . "

"If you were good at that work, you would not need encouragement, wouldyou?"

"I don't need it. I can do without it. I'll prove to you yet that I canwrite 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 talkingabout 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 youthink I'm going to throw up everything now when I've made a start? I'vea new book coming out soon. You know that well . . . The whole of you. Iknow 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 ifit does well. I'll be able to leave the _Sensation_ office, and wecan live happily together . . . But you'll have to come to me. I won'tcome here to you!. . . "

He turned to his mother. "Mebbe you're content now, " he said. "You'vegot your way. There's a MacDermott in the house to carry on thebusiness when he's old enough. You'll not need me now!"

He went out of the room, slamming the door behind him, and a littlewhile later, they heard him leaving the house. 

"Wait, daughter, " said Mrs. MacDermott, taking hold of Eleanor by thehand. "Don't fret yourself, daughter, dear. I lived with hisfather!. . . "

"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 bloodclings to its home. Content yourself a wee while!"

V

He met Uncle William crossing the Square, and suddenly he realised howold Uncle William was, and how tired he looked. 

"Come a piece of the road with me, " he said, putting his arm in hisUncle's. "Eleanor and me have just have a fall-out, and I want to walkmy anger off. I'm going back to London to-night!. . . "

"You're going soon, aren't you?"

"Yes. I had a telegram from the office a while ago. Eleanor doesn'twant to go home. She wants to stay here!"

"Aye, she's well content with us!"

"But her place is with me. I'm her husband!. . . "

"Indeed, you are. A wife's place is with her husband. It's a pity youcan't agree to be in the same place!

"Listen, John, " he went on, as they came away from the town andstrolled along the road leading to the Lough, "there's a thing I'mgoing to tell you that I've never said to no one before. It's this. Thething that destroyed your father and your Uncle Matthew was their pridein themselves. They never stopped to consider other people. They didwhat they wanted to do regardless of how it affected their neighboursor their friends. And nothing came out of their work. Your father diedand left an angry memory behind him. Your Uncle Matthew died and leftnothing but a wrong view of things to you. Your mother . . . Well, Ihardly know what to say about her. She's had much to thole, and it'smade her bitter in her mind, and many's a time I think she's dementedabout the pride of the MacDermotts. I'm proud of my name, too, andproud of the respect we've earned for ourselves, but I'm old and tired, John, and I've nothing to comfort me, and the pride of the MacDermottsgives me little consolation for the things I've missed. I'd give thetwo eyes out of my head to have a wife like your wife, and a wee childfor my own, but I've had to do without the both of them. You see, John, I had to keep the family going when the others failed to support it, I'd be a glad and happy man if I had my wife and my child in theshop!. . . "

"Do you want me to come home too, then?"

"Every man must do the best for himself, I'm only telling you not toeat up other people's lives when you're holding on to your own opinion. I daresay you know what's best for yourself, but I wonder whetheryou'll think that in ten years' time. Or twenty years' time. If you cancomfort your mind with the thought that this world is a romance, theway your Uncle Matthew did, then you'll mebbe be content, but I neversaw any romance in it, and the only comfort I get from it is thethought that I'm keeping up a good name. The MacDermotts always gavegood value for the money. I wouldn't mind if they put that on mygravestone!" He changed his tone abruptly. "Do you think you're a goodwriter, John?" he asked. 

"I don't know, Uncle William. I try hard to believe I am, but I'm notsure. Do you think I am?"

"How can I tell? I've no knowledge of these things, and I can'tdistinguish between my pride in you and my judgment. I liked your bookwell enough, but I'm doubtful would I have bothered my head about it ifsomeone else had written it. Is your next book a good one?"

"_I_ think so, but Eleanor doesn't!"

"The position isn't very satisfactory, is it? You're going to leavethat young girl for the sake of something that you're uncertain of?"

"I want to prove my worth to her!"

"You mean you want to content yourself. You want to make her think youwere right and she was wrong!"

"I have my pride!. . . "

"Aye, you have your pride, but I'm wondering would you rather have thatthan Eleanor?"

They sat down on the edge of the Lough and did not speak for a longtime. John picked up pebbles and threw them into the water, while hisUncle gazed at the opposite shore. They sat there until it was time togo home to tea. 

"We'd better be moving, " said Uncle William. "Are you settled in yourmind that you're going back to London?"

"Yes, " said John. 

VI

"Good-bye, Eleanor!" he said when the time came to catch the train toBelfast. 

"Good-bye, John!"

He took hold of her hand and waited for her to offer her lips to him, but she did not offer them. 

"If you change your mind, " he said, but she interrupted him quickly. 

"I shan't change my mind, " she said. 

"Very well. Good-bye!"

She did not speak. She was afraid to speak. 

"Well, good-bye again!" he said. 

He turned to his mother. Her eyes were very bright, but there were notears in them. She looked steadily at him. 

"It's a pity, " she said. 

Her hand sought Eleanor's and pressed it. "We must all do what's forthe best, " she said. "None of us can do any more!"

THE FIFTH CHAPTER

I

He oscillated between an almost uncontrollable desire to return toEleanor and a cold rage against her. Women, he told himself, alwaysstepped between men and their work. Women drew men away from greatlabours and made creatures of comfort of them. They took an aspiringangel and made a domestic animal of him. He was prepared to endurehunger and thirst for righteousness' sake, but Eleanor demanded thatfirst of all he should provide comfort and security for her and herchild. She would gladly turn a creative artist into a small tradesmanfor the sake of the greater profit that was made by the smalltradesman. He would not be seduced from his proper work . . . And yet, when he went back to Miss Squibb's after the _Sensation_ had goneto bed, walking sometimes all the way from Fleet Street, overBlackfriars Bridge, he would spend the time of the journey in dreamingof Eleanor as he first saw her or as he saw her in the box at theAlbert Hall when Tetrazzini sang. He would conjure up pictures of herstanding at the bookstall at Charing Cross, waiting for him, or sayinggoodbye to him at the steps of the Women's Club in Bayswater orkneeling beside him in St. Chad's Church as the priest blessed theirmarriage or sitting before the fire in Ballyards holding her baby inher arms. And when these visions of her went through his mind, he feltan intense longing to go away from London at once and stay contentedlywith her wherever she chose to be. Sometimes his mind was full ofthoughts about his child. He had not felt much emotion about it when hewas at Ballyards . . . He had thought of it mostly with amazement andwith some dislike of its shapeless face . . . But now there werestirrings in his heart when he thought of it, and he wished that hecould be with Eleanor and watch the gradual growth of the baby into arecognising being. His work at the _Sensation_ office had becomemechanical, and he worked at the table in the sub-editors' room withoutany consciousness of it; but he consoled himself for the fatigue andthe dullness by promising himself a swift and brilliant release fromFleet Street when his second book was published. Even if his book werenot to make money, it would establish his reputation, and when that wasdone, he could surely persuade Eleanor to believe that his life must belived elsewhere than behind the counter of the shop. He had written toher several times since his return to London, and she had written tohim, but there were signs of restraint in his letters and in hers. Hetold her that he had made arrangements for the sub-tenants to remain inthe flat for the present. He wrote "for the present" deliberately. Thephrase that shaped itself in his mind as he wrote the letter was "untilyou come back to London, " but he changed it before he put his thoughtsinto written words. She gave long accounts of the baby to him, anddescribed her life in Ballyards. She was helping Uncle William who saidthat her help was very useful to him. They were going to fight Pippin'smultiple shops and beat them. She had suggested some alterations in theshop to Uncle William, and he, agreeing that one must move with thetimes, had consented to make the alterations. She did not ask John tocome back, but when he read her letters, he felt that she waspreventing herself, with difficulty, from doing so. 

II

A month after his return to London, _Hearts of Controversy_ waspublished. He took the complimentary copies out of their parcel andfingered them, turning the leaves backward and forward, and looking fora long while at the dedication "To the Memory of my Uncle Matthew. " Howpleased and proud Uncle Matthew would have been of this book, but howlittle pleasure John was deriving from it. He hardly cared now whetherit failed or succeeded. If only something would happen that wouldenable him to return to Ballyards and Eleanor with some sort of prideleft! . . . Uncle Matthew's romantic dreams had remained romantic dreamsbecause he had never left Ballyards; but John had gone out into theworld to seek adventures, and all of them had ended dismally . . . Excepthis adventure with Eleanor. He had pursued her and won her and made herhis wife and the mother of his son, and she was still his, evenalthough he had left her and was living angrily away from her. Heremembered how he had wandered into Hanging Sword Alley when he firstcame to London, and had been bitterly disappointed to find that thisromantically-named lane was a dirty, grimy gutter of a street. . . . 

"I've been living a fool's life, " he said to himself. "I had one greatadventure, finding Eleanor, and I did not realise that that was theonly romance I could hope for!"

He put the book down. "I'm not a writer, " he said mournfully, "I'm agrocer. I'm not even a grocer. I'm . . . A hack journalist!"

He had written a tragedy that was dead. He had written a novel that wasdead. This second novel . . . In a little while it, too, would be dead. Perhaps it was dead already. Perhaps it had never been alive. And hehad written a music-hall sketch . . . That lived. He had done no otherwork than his sub-editing on the _Sensation_ since his return toLondon, and he realised that he would never do any more while heremained in Fleet Street. . . . 

Hinde entered the room while these thoughts were in his mind. "When'sEleanor coming back?" he asked, throwing himself into a chair in frontof the fire. 

"She's not coming back, " John answered. 

Hinde looked up sharply. "Oh?" he said in a questioning manner. 

"I'm going to her . . . As soon as I can. I've had my fill of this life. Do you remember asking me why I didn't sell happorths of tea andsugar?" Hinde nodded his head. "Well, I'm going back to sell them. Theauthor of _The Enchanted Lover_ and _Hearts of Controversy_has retired from the trade of writing and will now . . . Now devotehimself to . . . Selling happorths of tea and sugar!" He laughednervously as he spoke. 

Hinde did not make any reply. 

"I shall go and see the man who has the flat to-morrow. He wants to buyour furniture. It's a piece of luck, isn't it? The only piece of luckI've had. . . . By God, Hinde, this serves me right. Eleanor always said Iwas selfish, and I am. I'm terribly self-satisfied and thick-skinned. Ihad no qualification for this work . . . Nothing but my conceit . . . AndI've been let down. I'm a failure!. . . "

"We're all failures, " said Hinde. "The only thing we can do, all of us, is to lull ourselves to sleep and hope for forgetfulness. Compared withyou, I suppose I'm a success . . . As a journalist anyhow . . . But this isthe end of my work . . . This room, with Lizzie and Miss Squibb andsometimes the Creams. You've got Eleanor and a son . . . What more do youwant? Isn't it enough luck for a man to have a wife that he loves andwho loves him, and to have a child? What's a book anyway? Paper withwords on it. All over the world, there are thousands and thousands ofbooks . . . With millions and millions of words in them. What's the goodof them? We make a little stir and then we die . . . We poor scribblers. And that's all. It's much better to marry and breed healthy babies thanto live in an attic making songs about the stars. The stars don't care, but the babies may!"

"You're a cheerful fellow, Hinde, " said John, rallying a little. 

"Don't pay any heed to me. I was always a dismal devil at the best oftimes. You see, Mac, I've got ink in my veins. I'm not a man . . . I'mpart of a printing press. That's what you'd become if you were to stayin Fleet Street. Go home, my lad, and get more babies!. . . "

III

He wrote to Eleanor that night, telling her that he would capitulate. Immediately he had settled about the flat and had arranged for hiswithdrawal from the office of the _Sensation_, he would return toBallyards. He would write no more books!. . . In the morning, there was aletter from Eleanor. She could hold out no longer. If he would come andfetch her and the little John, she would do whatever he asked of her. She loved him so much that she could not keep up this pretence ofstrength!. . . 

He laughed to himself as he read her letter. "She wrote before Idid, " he said. "I suppose I've won. I suppose I held out longer thanshe did . . . But I don't feel that I've gained anything!"

The copies of _Hearts of Controversy_ were lying where he had leftthem on the previous night. "I don't care what the papers say aboutthem, " he said to himself picking one of them up. "What's a book anywaywhen I've got Eleanor!"

He was able to arrange the sale of his furniture to the sub-tenant andget his release from the _Sensation_ in less than a week, and hewired to Eleanor to say that he was coming home and would arrive atBallyards on Sunday. "I'm going home with my tail between my legs, " hesaid to himself, as he walked down the gangway from the Liverpool boaton to the quay at Belfast. He was too early for the Ballyards train, and he went for a walk to fill the time of waiting. He passed therestaurant where Maggie Carmichael had been employed, and saw that anew name was on the lintel of the door. "Well, I hope she's happy withher peeler!" he said to himself. He went on, and presently foundhimself before the Theatre Royal, and when he glanced at the playbills, he saw that a Shakespearian Company were in possession of it. _Romeoand Juliet_ had been performed on Saturday night, and he rememberedthe line that had sustained him after his love-making with MaggieCarmichael:

_If love be rough with you, be rough with love. _

"How can you?" he said aloud. "You can't, no matter what it does toyou!"

He went at last to the station and caught his train to Ballyards. Eleanor was waiting on the platform for him. She did not speak when hearrived. She ran to him and put her arms about him and hugged him andcried over him. "My dear, my dear!" she said when she had recoveredherself. He took her arm and led her out of the station, and theywalked home together. 

"It was terrible. " she said. "I had to fight hard to keep myself fromgoing to you. We've been very foolish, John, haven't we?"

He nodded his head. 

They entered the house by the side-door and went into the kitchen whereMrs. MacDermott was preparing the mid-day meal. She waited for him tospeak to her. 

"I've come home, mother!" he said, going to her and kissing her. 

"I'm thankful glad, son!" she replied. 

IV

Uncle William took him into the shop, and they sat together on stoolsin the "Counting House. "

"I'm troubled, John, " he said, "about the shop. Pippin's have offeredto buy the business!. . . "

"Buy the business. But we don't want to sell it!"

"I know that. They're threatening me. They say they'll undercut me tillmy trade's gone. I'm too old to fight them!. . . "

John called to his mother and Eleanor. "Come here a minute, " he said, and when they had done so, he told them of Pippin's offer and threat. "What do you think of that?" he demanded. 

"I think we should fight them, " said Eleanor. 

"So we will, " John replied. "The MacDermotts had a name in this townbefore ever a Pippin was heard of, and the MacDermotts'll still have aname when the Pippins are dead and damned!" He stopped suddenly, andthen began to laugh. "By the Hokey O, " he exclaimed, "there's a romanceat the end of it all!"

He looked at his mother. "I'm going to carry on the shop, mother!" hesaid. 

She did not answer. She put out her hands to him, and he saw that shewas smiling with great content. And yet she was crying, too.