She took the Returns Sheet from him. "No," she said after she had
examined it, "there doesn't appear to be any mistake. It seems to be
all 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 little
left!"
"Of course, there's the London season to come yet," he said to comfort
her.
"Not for a very long time," she answered, "and it may not be any better
than 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 the
money 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 agree
to that. What sort of a husband would I look like if people heard that
I couldn't maintain my wife. Oh, Eleanor, I couldn't think of such a
thing!...
"I don't see why not. You're not going to make money easily, so far as
I can see, and either you or I must get work of some sort. I know you
want to finish your book, so why shouldn't I earn something to help us
to keep going?"
"No," he said, "that's my job. I daresay Hinde would give me work if I
asked 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 him
to-morrow."
He told her of his encounter with Hinde that day and of Hinde's
proposal to boom _The Enchanted Lover_. "I don't like the idea
much, but perhaps it'll be useful!" He picked up the cheque from the
Cottenham Repertory Theatre. "I'm actually out of pocket over this
affair," he said. "What with the cost of typing the play and my
expenses 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 tail
between 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 that
I'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 I
have 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 can
write. I feel the stuff inside me. The book I'm doing now, isn't that
good?"
"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's
good. That's why I want to get a job, so that you can finish it in
peace. Let me try ... just until you've finished the book. Then perhaps
things will be all right. I'd like to be able to say that I helped
you!"
"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 such
a 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 to
say what I did!..."
"But, my dear," she exclaimed, "you didn't say much, and if you did it
was because you were upset about the play and the novel. Don't worry
about 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. He
told me he had never had a secretary so useful as I was, and that he
wished 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 to
my old job for a while!..."
"No. No, no!"
She stood up, half turned away from him, and said, "Well, I'm going to
ask for it anyhow!"
"You're what?"
"Yes, John, I'm going to ask for it. Don't shout at me! You really must
listen to sense. I'm not going to run into debt or have trouble with
tradesmen about money just because of your pride. I want you to finish
that 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 to
keep his wife ... she had to go out to work again soon after he married
her!' 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 to
keep you decently!"
"That's all very fine, John, but you're not doing it. Your novel hasn't
brought you any money at all, and you've spent as much on the play as
you've got so far. You've had one or two articles printed, and that's
all. The rest of the money we've lived on has come from your Uncle
William!..."
"Uncle William! None of it came from him. Uncle Matthew left me his
money and my mother gave me the rest!"
"Yes, and how did they get it? From your Uncle William, of course. His
work has kept them, hasn't it? And you? We're sponging on your Uncle
William, and I hate to think we're sponging on him. You're very proud
about not letting me go out to work, but you're not so proud about
letting Uncle William keep you!"
This was a blow between the eyes for him. "That's a bitterly unkind
thing 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 the
thought 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 if
one 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 the
present. You'll be able to get on with your book at home, and any other
writing you want to do, and then perhaps things will get straight and
we'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 I
don't much care for. I liked _The Enchanted Lover_--it was quite
good--but I don't much care for the one you're doing now. I can't help
that. 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 good
writers. If I can't be a great writer, I don't want to be a writer at
all. 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 feel
like that about me," he said.
"I don't know anything about greatness. All I know is that I like some
things and that I don't like others. I don't know why a book is great
or why it isn't. You can't judge things by what I say. It's quite
possible that you are a great writer, and that's why I want you to let
me get a job, so that you can go on with your work and be able to show
the world what you can do. I'd hate to think you'd been prevented from
doing your best work because you'd had to use up your energy doing
other 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's
finished, _The Enchanted Lover_ may have earned a lot of money for
us ... and the play, too ... and then we can just laugh at our troubles
now!..."