He had been enormously relieved when his mother returned to Ireland.
Eleanor and he had seen her off from Euston ... Hinde had come for
a few moments snatched from an important job ... and he had been
very conscious of some understanding between the two women which
was not expressible. It was as if his mother were not his mother,
but Eleanor's mother ... as if he were simply Eleanor's young man
come to say good-bye to Eleanor's mother ... and she were being polite
to him, because Eleanor would like her to be polite to him. He felt
that things were being taken out of his control, that he had ceased
to have charge of things and was now himself being ordered and controlled;
but he could not definitely say what caused him to feel this nor
could he think of any notable incident which would confirm him in his
fear that control had passed out of his hands. All he knew was that
he was glad his mother had resisted his importunities to her to stay
for a longer time in London. This state of uncertainty had not begun
until Mrs. MacDermott suddenly and without warning had arrived at his
lodgings. He hoped that it would end with her departure from Euston.
Eleanor's attitude towards him during the week of his mother's visit had
been 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 to
consent 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 waved
his hat to his mother until she was no longer distinguishable, and then
he 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 and
selfish!..."
"Selfish! Me? Because I try hard to get what I want?" he indignantly
exclaimed.
"Oh, we won't argue about it. You'll never understand. I don't know
whether I love you or not. But I like you. I like you very much. Of
course, we may be making a mistake. It's foolish of me to marry you
when I know so little about you ... and that little scares me!..."
"What scares you!"
"Your selfishness scares me. You are selfish. You're frightfully
selfish. 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 man
have for thinking of a woman?" he asked.
"That's just it," she replied. "You can't think of any other reason for
thinking 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 know
you'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 I
shall get to love you quite well ... but I don't now. Why should I? I
haven't known you very long ... and you've rather pestered me, haven't
you?"
"No, I haven't!"
"Yes, you have. But I don't mind that. Being pestered by you is somehow
different 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 her
arm was securely held in his.
"Of course they have," she answered. "Do you think a girl can walk
about London without some man pestering her. Old men!..." She shuddered
and 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 ought
to be killed before they get nasty ... but never mind that. Being
pestered by you is very different from that sort of thing. I know very
well that you won't stop asking me to marry you until I either say I
will or I run away from London altogether and hide myself from you; and
I 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 came
over about. She wanted to have a look at you!"
"Yes, I suppose I ought to have guessed that. I did in a way, but I
didn'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 along
Oxford Street.
"You don't seem very pleased now that I've said I'll marry you," she
murmured, 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're
living 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 long
time 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's
unmarried, so, of course we call her a girl ... and she says that most
of us can live fairly happily with quite a number of people. She says
that a person has one supreme love affair ... which may not come to
anything ... and enough liking for about a hundred people to be able to
marry and live happily with anyone of them. I think that's true. I've
known plenty of men that I think I could have married and been happy
enough with. You're one of them!..."
"This is a nice thing to be telling me when my heart's bursting for
you. I tell you, Eleanor, I love you till I don't know what I'm doing
or thinking, and all you tell me is that I'm one out of a hundred and
you like me well enough to put up with me!..."
"You don't want me to tell you that I'm in love with you ... like
that ... 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 a
little cry of rebuke. "I love you so much," he said, "that I'm thankful
glad for the least bit of liking you have for me. I wish I'd known
sooner. 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 her
myself!"
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 up
with another. You lose your job on the _Sensation,_ and then you
get engaged to be married. I daresay your wife'll have a child just
about the time you've spent every ha'penny you possess. I suppose that
was her at the station to-night?" John nodded his head. "Well, you're a
lucky 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 letter
from 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. "Now
that you're going to get married, the money he'll pay you for a sketch
will be useful. I suppose you'll begin to be serious when you're
married?"
"I'm serious now," John replied.
"At present, Mac, you're merely bumptious. I was like that when I first
came to London. I had noble ideals, but I very soon discovered that the
other high-minded men were not quite so idealistic as I was. I know one
high-souled fellow who went into a newspaper office and asked to be
allowed to review a novel with the express intention of damning it
because he had some grudge against the author. Half the exalted
scribblers in London are busily employed scratching each other's backs,
and if you aren't in their little gang, you either are not noticed at
all in their papers or you are unfairly judged or very, very faintly
praised. You've either got to be in a gang in London or to be so
immeasurably great or lucky that you can disregard gangs ... otherwise
there's very little likelihood of you getting a foothold in what you
call good papers. I know these papers. Mr. Noblemind is editor of one
paper and Mr. Greatfellow is a regular contributor to another and Mr.
PraisemeandI'llpraiseyou is the literary editor of a third, and they
employ each other; and Mr. Noblemind calls attention to the beauty of
his pals' work in his paper, and they call attention to the beauty of
his in theirs. My dear Mac, if you really want to know what dishonesty
in journalism is, worm yourself into the secrets of the highbrow Press
and the noble poets. I'm a Yellow Journalist and a failure, but by
heaven, I'm an honest Yellow Journalist and an honest failure. I'm not
an 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't
anything to do with you. You're quite right. I'm in a bad temper
to-night. I'm glad you're engaged to that girl. She looks a sensible
sort 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," John
said.
"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. But
you'll see it some day. Good-night!"
"Good-night, Mac!"