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 club
with 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 at
ten!" and very sulkily he had departed from them. He saw Eleanor lead
his mother out of the station. She had taken hold of Mrs. MacDermott's
arm and drawn it into hers, and linked thus, they had gone out, but
neither of them had turned to look back at him. He had not known how to
fill in the time between then and ten o'clock ... whether to go to a
theatre or walk about the streets ... and had ended by spinning out his
dinner-time as long as possible, and then walking from Soho to
Eleanor's club. He had arrived there before ten o'clock, but they
allowed him to sit with them!... He had an overwhelming sense of being
_allowed_ to do so. Suddenly and unaccountably all his power had
gone from him, his instinctive insistence upon his own will, his
immediate assumption that what he desired must be acceptable to others
and his complete indifference to whether what he desired was acceptable
or not to others... suddenly and unaccountably these things had gone
from him and he was submitting to the will of his mother and of
Eleanor. His mother's conversation, too, had been displeasing to him.
She talked of Ballyards and of the shop all the time. She talked of the
prosperity of the business and of the respect in which the MacDermotts
were held in their town. Mr. Hinde had told her of the harsh conditions
in which journalists and writers had to work, particularly the
journalists. They had no settled life... they went here, there and
everywhere, but their wives stayed always in the one place... and
sometimes money was not easily obtainable. Anything might happen to put
a journalist out of employment!...
"But I don't want to be a journalist, mother!" John had testily
interrupted. "I want to write books and plays!"
"That's even worse." she had said. "It takes a man years and years
before he can earn a living out of books. Mr. Hinde told me that!..."
"He seems to have told you a fearful lot," John sarcastically
exclaimed.
"I asked him a lot," Mrs. MacDermott replied. "If you ever get that
book of yours printed at all, he says, you'll not get more nor thirty
pounds for it, if you get that much. And there's little hope of you
making 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 that
takes your fancy, but if you get married I'm thinking your wife'll have
a poor job of it making ends meet on the amount of interest you take in
your work, if that's all the reward you get for it. You were a year
writing that story of yours, and you haven't had a penny-farthing for
it yet. However, you know best what suits you. I suppose it's time we
were thinking about the road!" She rose as she spoke, and Eleanor rose
too. "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 for
her to be talking," he said to himself. "Making little of me like
that!"
He maintained a sulky manner towards his mother as they returned to
Brixton, but Mrs. MacDermott paid no heed to him.
"Fancy having to go all this way to see your girl," she said, as they
climbed the steps of Miss Squibb's house. "In Ballyards you'd only have
to go round the corner!"
"I daresay," he replied, "but you wouldn't find Eleanor's match there
if 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. Very
interested!"
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," she
said. "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 to
talk about," he said. "What were you talking about?"
"Oh, nothing!" she replied. "Just about things that interest women. You
wouldn't be bothered with such talk. And you know, son, women likes to
have a wee crack together when there's no men about. It's just a wee
comfort to them. Good-night!"
"Good-night, ma!"
She went up the stairs, and when she had disappeared round the bend of
the bannisters, John went into the sitting-room. There was a postal
packet for him lying on the table. It contained the MS. of his novel.
Messrs. Hatchway and Seldon informed him that they had read his story
with great interest, but they were sorry to have to inform him that
conditions of the publishing trade at present were such that they saw
no hope of a return for the money they would be obliged to spend on the
book. They would esteem it a favour if he would permit them to see
future work of his and they begged to remain his faithfully per pro
Hatchway and Selden, J.P.T.
"Asses!" he said, as he wrapped the MS. up again in the very paper in
which Messrs. Hatchway and Selden had returned it to him. Then he tied
the parcel securely and addressed it to Messrs. Gooden and Knight, who,
he told himself, were much better publishers than Messrs. Hatchway and
Selden. He would post it in the morning.