I
It had been exceedingly difficult for John to explain his defection to
Mr. Clotworthy and to Tarleton. The only mitigating feature of the
business was that the matter to be reported was only a concert. Both
Mr. Clotworthy and Tarleton trembled when they thought of the calamity
that would have befallen the paper if the forgotten report had been of
a murder! They hardly dared contemplate such a devastating prospect.
They invited John to think of another profession and wished him a very
good morning. Tarleton quitted the room, leaving John alone with the
editor, and as he went he showed such contempt towards him as is only
shown towards the meanest of God's creatures.
"Well, where's your Ulster now?" said Mr. Clotworthy very sardonically
when 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 twenty
jobs depended on it. It's hard to make you understand, and mebbe I'm a
fool to try, but there it is. The minute I clapped my eyes on her, I
forgot everything but her. I'm sorry I've lost my post here, but I'd be
sorrier to have lost her. That's all about it. You were very kind to
give me the work, and I wish I hadn't let your paper down the way Hinde
says I did, but it's no good me pretending about it. I'd do it again if
the same thing happened another time. That's the beginning and end of
it 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 than
he had felt when he came into it.
"If you care to send in some articles for page six," Mr. Clotworthy
added, "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 Charing
Cross. A queer depression had settled upon his spirits. Hinde had
treated him as if he were mentally deficient, and he knew that Mr.
Clotworthy and Tarleton, particularly Tarleton, regarded him with
coldness, but he was not deeply affected by their disapproval.
Nevertheless, depression possessed him. He felt that Eleanor would fail
to keep her appointment. Quietly considered, there seemed to be no
reason why she should keep it. She knew absolutely nothing of him
except what he had told her while she leaned out of the window. How was
she to know that he was speaking the truth? What right had he to expect
her to pay any heed to him at all? Dreary, drizzling thoughts poured
through his mind. He felt as certain that his novel would not be
published as he felt that Eleanor would not be at the bookstall at
Charing Cross station when he arrived there. The tragedy on which he
was working had seemed to him to be a very marvellous play, but now he
thought it was too poor to be worth finishing. He had been in London
for what was quite a long time, but he had achieved nothing. He had not
even written the music-hall sketch for the Creams. He had not earned a
farthing during the time that he had been in London. All the exaltation
which had filled him as he walked along the Bayswater Road on the
previous night, with his mind full of Eleanor and love and starshine
and moonlight and gleaming streets and trees hanging with mist and
friendliness for all men, had gone clean out of him. Fleet Street was a
dirty, ill-ventilated alley full of scuffling men and harassed women.
London itself was a great angry thing, a place of distrust and
contention, where no one ever offered a friendly greeting to a
stranger. He would go to Charing Cross station and he would stand
patiently in front of the bookstall, but Eleanor would not come to meet
him. He would stand there, dumb and uncomplaining, and no one of the
hurrying 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 busy
catching 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 for
a long time ... and then, when it was apparent that waiting was useless
and he had, perhaps, aroused the suspicions of policemen and railway
porters concerning his purpose in loitering thus so persistently in
front of the bookstall, he would go home in his misery to a
contemptuous Hinde!...