"No, indeed. Couldn't to save my life. It's--Ron! I was thinking of
him, not of myself. He is a poet!"
The Chieftain groaned aloud, as if in pain.
"Oh, I know you won't believe it, but he is! He writes wonderful poems.
Not rhymes, but poems; beautiful poems that live in your mind. He will
be another Tennyson or Browning when he is a little older."
The Chieftain groaned again, a trifle more loudly than before.
"It's true! It really is true. You must have seen yourself that he is
different from other boys of his age. You heard him reeling off those
impromptu lines the other day, and said how clever they were! I have
seen you looking at his face when he has been thinking out some idea. I
knew what he was doing, and you didn't; but you guessed that he was
different from ordinary people."
"I saw that he was mooning about something, and wondered if he was right
in the head! If he'd been my boy, I should have taken care to keep his
nose so close to the grindstone that he would have no time to moon!
Poet, indeed! Didn't you tell me that your father was a successful
business man? What is he about, to countenance such nonsense?"
"He doesn't!" replied Margot sadly. "No one does but me, and that's why
I had to act. Father agrees with you. He doesn't care for books, and
looks down upon literary men as poor, effeminate sort of creatures, who
know nothing of the world. He is ashamed that his only son writes
verses. Ron detests the idea of business, but he has had to promise
father that he would go into his office if at the end of a year he had
had no encouragement to persevere in literature. But how is a young
unknown poet to make himself known? The magazines announce that they
can accept no unsolicited poetical contributions; the publishers laugh
at the idea of bringing out a book by a man of whom no one has heard. A
boy might be a second Shakespeare, but no one would believe in him until
they had first broken his heart by their ridicule and unbelief. The
year is out in September, so matters were getting desperate, when at
last I--thought of this plan! I felt sure that if a man who was a real
judge of literary power met Ron face to face, and got to know him, he
would realise his gifts, and be willing to give him a chance. It was no
use trying in London in the midst of the full pressure of work, but in
the country everything is different. I knew a man who knew a man in the
office of the _Loadstar_, and asked him to find out your brother's
plans--"
As she was speaking Margot was conscious of a succession of stifled
chuckles which her companion vainly tried to suppress. The Chieftain's
amusement had evidently overmastered his threatened displeasure, and
when at length she paused, he burst into an irresistible guffaw of
laughter, rubbed his hands together, and cried gleefully--
"Stalked him! Stalked him! Poor old George! Big game, and no mistake.
Ran him to earth... Eh, what? Bravo, bravo, Miss Bright Eyes! You
are a first-class conspirator."
He laughed again and again, with ever-increasing merriment, laughed till
his eyes disappeared in wrinkles of fat, till the tears streamed
helplessly down his cheeks. His portly form shook with the violence of
his merriment; he kicked the air with his short, fat feet.
Margot stared at this strange exhibition in an amazement, which
gradually changed into annoyance and outraged dignity; so that when at
last the Chieftain sat up to mop his eyes with a large silk pocket-
handkerchief, he beheld a very dignified young lady sitting by his side
in a position of poker-like rigidity, with her head tilted to an
expressive angle.
"Sorry!" he panted hastily. "Sorry I smiled. A compliment, you know,
if you look at it in the right light. It's such an uncommonly good
idea, and so original. `The Stalking of the Editor'--eh? Well, now
that you have made such a rattling good beginning, why don't you go on
and prosper? Here you are; there he is; the field is your own. Why
don't you go in and win?"
Margot's face fell, and her haughty airs vanished, as she turned towards
him a pair of widely-opened eyes, eloquent with plaintive surprise.
"But I can't! How can I, when he runs away the moment I appear? I made
Ron go fishing with him one day, but he went off and left him alone, and
now it's no use persuading any more. Ron says it is only waste of time!
As for me, I have hardly spoken a word to him all this time, though I
feel that if I did really know him, I--" she hesitated, knitting her
brows, and pursing her soft red lips--"I could make him understand! I
decided at last to confide in you, because you have been so kind and
friendly to us from the first that I felt sure you would be willing to
help. You will, won't you? Even if personally you don't approve of a
literary career, will you give Ron a chance of living his life in his
own way? If your brother approved of his writings, and helped him to a
beginning, even the very smallest beginning, father would be satisfied
that he was not wasting his time."
The Chieftain clasped his hands around his knees, and sat staring at her
with thoughtful gaze. His eyes rested upon the clear childlike eyes,
the sweet lips, the broad, honest brow, as though studying them in a new
light, and with regard to some problem suddenly presented to the mind.
Whatever was the question waiting to be decided, the answer was self-
evidently favourable, for his eyes lightened, he stretched out an
impetuous hand, and laid it upon her arm.
"Right!" he cried heartily. "Right! I'll help you! The lad's a good
lad, and a clever lad; but what I do will be for your sake, not his!
You are a dear girl! The dearest girl I have ever met--save one! For
the sake of the bit of her that lives again in you, I am at your
service. You shall have your chance. From to-day forward I will see to
it that George makes a member of our party wherever we go. He has done
enough writing; it is time that he began to play. Make him play, Miss
Vane! He has been old all his life; teach him to be young! He is the
best fellow in the world, but he is fast asleep. Wake him up! There is
just one condition, and that is, that you leave your brother and his
scribblings alone for the time being! Don't mention them, or any
question of the sort, but be content just to show yourself to George,
your own bright, natural girl-self, as you have shown it to me. Learn
to know one another, and forget all about the boy. His turn will come
later on! You promise?"
"Ye-es!" faltered Margot shyly. "Yes, I do; but you must promise too--
that you will, that you won't, won't let your brother think--"
The Chieftain touched her arm once more, with a gesture of kindly
reassurement.
"Don't you worry, little girl! He shall have no thoughts about you that
are not altogether chivalrous and true. It's not you who are going to
move in this matter, remember! You've given it over into my hands; it
is I who am to pull the strings. No, you needn't thank me. It strikes
me that we are going to work out pretty even over this business. If you
want help for your brother, I need it just as badly for mine. I have
realised for a long time that he needed a medicine which no doctor could
supply." He looked into her face with a sudden radiant smile. "It
strikes me I might have searched a very long time before finding any one
so eminently fitted to undertake his cure!"