When they told their plan to Eleanor her eyes lit up immediately, and
he saw that she was eager to go to Ballyards, but almost at once, she
turned to him and said, "Oh, but you, John? What about you?"
"I'll be all right," he replied. "Don't worry about me!"
"Couldn't you come, too?"
"You know I can't. How can I give up this job on the _Sensation_
the minute I've got it!"
"Easy enough," Mrs. MacDermott interjected. "If you've only just got
it, there'll be no hardship to you or to them if you give it up now!"
"I have to earn our keep," he insisted.
"There's the shop," Mrs. MacDermott insisted.
"I won't go next or near the shop," he shouted in sudden fury. "I came
here to write books and I'll write them!"
"You're not writing books when you're sitting up half the night in a
newspaper office!"
"I know I'm not. But I must get money to ... to pay for!..."
"Are you worrying yourself about Eleanor's confinement, son? Never
bother your head about that. I'll not let her want for anything!..."
"I know you won't," he replied in a softer voice, "but I'd rather earn
the money myself!"
Mrs. MacDermott tightened her mouth. "Very well," she said.
"I've a good mind to let the flat till you come back," John murmured to
Eleanor.
"What's that?" Mrs. MacDermott demanded.
"I was saying I'd a good mind to let the flat until she comes back. I
could go to Miss Squibb's for a while. It 'ud really be cheaper!..."
"Would you let strangers walk into your house and use your furniture?"
"Yes. Why not? We shall be able to pay the rent and have a profit out
of what we shall get for sub-letting it."
"Making a hotel out of your home," Mrs. MacDermott said in disgust.
"Och, we're not all home-mad," John retorted.
"That's the pity," his mother rejoined.
V
Three weeks later, Eleanor, and Mrs. MacDermott departed for Ballyards.
Eleanor had refused to go away from London until she had seen John
settled in his work and the flat sub-let to suitable tenants. She
arranged for his return to Miss Squibb who, most opportunely, had his
old room vacant, and she made Lizzie promise to take particular care of
his comfort. "I can tyke care of 'im all right," Lizzie said. "I've
tyken care of Mr. 'Inde for years, an' I feel I can tyke care of
anybody after 'im. You leave 'im to me, Mrs. MacDermott, an' I wown't
let 'im come to no 'arm!" She leant forward suddenly and whispered to
Eleanor. "I do 'ope it's a boy," she said.
"Why?" said Eleanor blushing.
"Ow, I dunno. Looks better some'ow to 'ave a boy first go off. You can
always 'ave a girl afterwards. Wot you goin' to call it, if it's a
boy?"
"John, of course!" said Eleanor.
"Um-m-m. Well, I suppose you'll 'ave to, after 'is father, but if I 'ad
a son I'd call 'im Perceval. I dunno why! I just would. It sounds nice
some'ow. I mean it 'as a nice sound. Only people 'ud call 'im Perce, of
course, an' that would be 'orrible. I dessay you're right. It's better
to be called John than to be called Perce!"
"Why don't you get married, Lizzie?" Eleanor said.
"Never been ast. That's why. I'd jump at the chance if I got it. You
down't think I'm 'angin' on 'ere out of love for Aunt. I'm just 'angin'
on in 'ope!..."
But before Eleanor and Mrs. MacDermott went to Ballyards, they realised
that John's sub-editorial work was hard and inconvenient. The unnatural
hours of labour in noisy and insanitary surroundings left him very
tired and crochetty in the morning, and he felt disinclined for other
work. He had written his series of articles on London Streets for the
_Evening Herald_, and Hinde had professed to like them
sufficiently to ask for more of them. Twelve of them had been
printed ... one each day for a fortnight ... and the money had cleared
John of debt and left a little for the coming expense. Cream's two pounds
per week came regularly every Monday morning, and this, with the income
from the _Sensation_, and an occasional article made the prospects
of life seem clearer. "There's no fame in it," he told himself, "but at
least I'm paying my way!" In a little while, his second novel would be
published, and perhaps it would bring a reward which he had
unaccountably missed with his first book and his tragedy. More than
anything else now, he wanted recognition. Money was good and acceptable
and he would gladly have much more of it, but far beyond money he
valued recognition. If he had to make choice between a large income and
a large reputation, he would unhesitatingly choose a large reputation.
He longed to hear Hinde admitting that he had been mistaken in John's
quality. Indeed, in the last analysis, it seemed that more than money
and more than general recognition, he craved for recognition from
Hinde. He wished to see Hinde coming to him in a respectful manner!...
But there was little likelihood of that happening while he performed
sub-editorial work on the _Sensation_. Every night he and the
other sub-editors, young and unhealthy-looking men, sat round a big
table, handling "flimsies" and scribbling rapidly. They invented
head-lines and cross-headings, and they cut down the work of the outside
staff. When a nugget of gold was found in Wales and was pronounced to
be a lump of quartz with streaks of gold in it rather than a nugget of
pure gold, John had headed the paragraph in which the news was
reported, ALL IS NOT GOLD THAT GLITTERS. He glanced at the heading
after he had written it. "I seem to be getting into the way of this
sort of thing," he said with a sigh. He put the paper down and got up
from the table. The baskets lying about, full of "copy" or "flimsies"
or cuttings from other papers; the hard, blinding light from the
unshaded electric globes; the litter of newspapers and torn envelopes;
the incessant _rurr-rurr-rurr_ of the printing machines; and the
hot, exhausted air of the room ... all these seemed disgusting. He shut
his eyes for a moment. "Oh, God," he prayed, "let my book be a success!
Get me out of this, Oh, God, for Jesus Christ's sake!..."
He understood the dislike which speedily grew up in Eleanor for this
work. There would be very little fun for her, less even than for him,
in a life that took him to Fleet Street in the evening and kept him
there until the middle of the night. He must escape from it somehow,
but in what way he was to escape from it he could not imagine. Vaguely,
he felt that a book or a play would lift him out of Fleet Street and
set him down in ease and comfort somewhere in agreeable surroundings;
but it might be many years before that desired bliss was achieved. He
would spend his youth in this atmosphere of neurosis and hasty
judgment, and perhaps when he was old and no longer full of zest for
enjoyment, he would have leisure for the things he could no longer
delight in. And Eleanor, too ... she would have to struggle with penury
until she grew tired and lustreless!... "No, she won't!" he vowed. "I'm
not going to let her down whatever happens. I'll make a position
somehow!..."
Then Eleanor and Mrs. MacDermott went to Ballyards. He stood by the
carriage-door talking to them both while the train filled with
passengers, and as the guard blew a succession of blasts on his
whistle, he leant forward to kiss Eleanor "Good-bye!" A tear rolled
down her cheek.... "I wish I weren't going now," she said, clinging to
him.
"It won't be for long," he murmured. "Will it, mother?" he added to
Mrs. MacDermott.
But his mother did not make any reply. She sat very tightly in her
seat, and he saw that there was a hard look in her eyes and that her
lips were closely joined together.