I
Three months after Mrs. MacDermott departed from London, Eleanor and
John were married. They walked into St. Chad's Church in the Bayswater
Road, accompanied by Mr. Hinde and Mrs. MacDermott (who had come
hurriedly to London again for the ceremony) and Lizzie and a cousin of
Eleanor's who excited John's wrath by using the marriage ceremony for
propaganda purposes in connexion with Women's Suffrage; and there,
prompted by an asthmatic curate, they swore to love and cherish each
other until death did them part. Mrs. MacDermott had begged for a
Presbyterian marriage in Ballyards ... "where your da and me were
married"... but there were difficulties in the way of satisfying her
desire, and she had consented to see them married in what, to her mind,
was an imitation of a Papist church. Eleanor had stipulated for at
least a year's engagement, partly so that they might become more
certain of each other and partly to enable John to prove that he could
earn enough money to maintain a home, but John had worn down her
opposition to an immediate marriage by asserting repeatedly that he
could easily earn money for her, would, in fact, be better able to do
so because of his marriage which would stimulate him to greater
activity, and, finally, by his announcement that his tragedy had been
accepted for production by the Cottenham Repertory Theatre. The manager
had written to him to say that the Reading Committee were of opinion
that his interesting play should be performed, and he enclosed an
agreement which he desired John to sign and return to him at his
convenience. He had not been able to restrain his joy when he received
the letter, and he had hurried to the nearest post office so that he
might 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. He
thought the play was a very ordinary one, but this proves that it
isn't, doesn't it, Eleanor?"
"Yes, dear!"
"It's a well-known theatre, the Cottenham Repertory. One of the best-known
in the world. Can you get off for the day, do you think, and we'll
go out and celebrate it?..."
"Don't be silly, John!..."
"Well, we'll have lunch together. We'll have wine for lunch!... Oh, my
dear, I'm nearly daft with joy. We ought to make enough money out of
the play to set up house at once. I don't know how much you make out of
plays, 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't
you just aching for a wee house of your own, the same way that I
am!..."
And after a struggle for time to think, Eleanor had consented to be
married much sooner than she had ever meant to be. They were married in
June, and the play was to be performed at the Cottenham Repertory
Theatre in the following September. The manager had written to John,
after the business preliminaries were settled, to say that if the play
were successful in Cottenham, he would include it in the Company's
repertoire of pieces to be performed in London during their annual
season. "And of course, it'll be successful," said John when he had
read the letter to Eleanor. "I should think we'd easily make several
hundred pounds out of the play ... and there's always the chance that
it may be a popular success!" His high hopes were dashed by the return
of his novel from Messrs. Gooden and Knight who regretted that the
novel was not suitable for publication by them; but he recovered some
of them when he reflected that the fame he would achieve with his play
would cause Messrs. Gooden and Knight to feel exceedingly sorry that
they had not jumped at the chance of publishing his book. Hinde had
read it and thought it was as good as most first novels. "Nothing very
great about it," he said, "but it isn't contemptible!" That seemed very
chilly praise to John, and he was grateful to Eleanor for her
enthusiasm about the book. "Of course, it has faults," she admitted. "I
daresay it has, but then it's your _first book_. You wouldn't be
human 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 on
its third adventure, this time to Mr. Claude Jannissary, who called
himself "The Progressive Publisher."