Out of sympathy and respect for Mr and Mrs Macalister, nothing more
was said about the next picnic party for several days after their tragic
departure from the Glen, but the intervening time was, to Margot at
least, full of interest and excitement. One morning, for instance, as
she strolled from the breakfast-room to the road, as was the easy custom
of the hour, a hurried step followed in the same direction, and George
Elgood, staring hard in an opposite direction, advanced an opinion that
one lesson in fishing was mere waste of time, whereas two, or perhaps
three, might possibly convey some real knowledge of the art. Er--did
Miss Vane feel inclined to pay another visit to the river?
Miss Vane, poking the gravel with the points of her shoes, was--er--yes!
quite inclined, if Mr Elgood was sure she would not interrupt his sport
Mr Elgood, with equal eagerness and incoherence, assured Miss Vane that
she would do nothing of the kind, and hurried back to the inn, murmuring
vaguely concerning eleven o'clock.
In the quiet of the riverside, however, he regained his self-possession,
and once more proved himself to be the most interesting of companions,
the most patient of instructors. Margot thought fishing a delightful
and absorbing pursuit, which was the more remarkable as she was rather
stupid than otherwise in mastering the initial movements. Mr Elgood
encouraged her, however, by saying that some of the cleverest "rods" of
his acquaintance had been the slowest in picking up the knack. The
great thing was to have plenty of practice! She ought to come up every
morning for as much time as she could spare; meantime, as she had been
standing so long, would she not like to sit down, and rest awhile before
walking home?
Then they sat down side by side on the grassy bank, and talked together
as a man and a maid love to talk in the summer of their youth,
exchanging innocent confidences, comparing thoughts and opinions,
marvelling that they are so much alike.
Margot faithfully observed her promise to make no references to her
ambitions on her brother's behalf, and, truth to tell, her silence
involved little effort, for she was guiltily conscious of being so much
engrossed in her own affairs that even Ron's ambitions had faded into
the background. As for the lad himself, he was happy enough, wandering
about by himself studying "effects" to transcribe to paper, or scouring
the countryside with the Chieftain, whom he frankly adored, despite the
many exceedingly plain-spoken criticisms and exhortations received from
his lips.
"Your sister has been telling me about that rhyming craze of yours," the
little man said suddenly one day. "Likewise about her own very pretty
little scheme for the subjugation of my brother. Told you that she'd
told me, eh? Expect she did! She is pleased to believe she is a
designing little adventuress, whereas as a matter of fact she's as clear
as crystal, and any one with half an eye could see through her schemes.
Well! I laid down the law that neither she nor you are to worry my
brother about business matters during his holiday, for, to tell you the
truth, he has had his full share of worry of late. But what about me?
I'm a plain, common-sense, steady-going old fellow, who might perhaps be
able to give you a word or two of advice! What's all this nonsense
about throwing aside a post that's waiting for you, and which means an
income for life, in order to live in an attic, and scribble verses for
magazines? If you knew the world, young man, you would understand that
you are blessedly well off, to have your way made smooth, and would not
be in such a hurry to meet disappointments half way. They will come
soon enough! At the best of it, you will have a hard row to hoe. Why
make it worse?"
Ronald flushed in sensitive fashion, but there was no hint of offence in
his manner, as he replied--
"It is hardly a question of an attic, sir. My father would not
disinherit me because I preferred literature to business. I might have
a pittance instead of a fortune, but I should not have to fear want.
And why should I not live my own life? If I am bound to meet troubles,
surely it is only right to provide what compensations I can, and my best
compensation would be congenial work! I don't want to be rich. Let
some other fellow take the post, and get his happiness out of it; it
would be slavery to me."
"Humph! No boy likes the idea of putting his nose to the grindstone.
They all kick a bit at the thought of an office desk, but nine out of
ten enjoy the life when they get into the swing. It's a great secret of
happiness in this world, to be kept so busy that we have not time to
think of ourselves. We need work for its own sake, even more than for
what it brings; but our work must be worthy. There's no real success
away from that... About those verses now! It's a pleasant occupation
for you to sling them together--I haven't a word to say against it as a
recreation--but that's a different thing from serious work. There's
only one thing which justifies a man in cutting himself adrift from the
world, in opposition to the wishes of those who have his interests most
at heart, and that is, a strong and solemn conviction of a special
mission in life. Very well then! If you agree so far, let us proceed
to consider the mission of a poet. There's only one justification for
his existence--only one thing that distinguishes him from the
professional rhymester whom nobody wants, and who is the bane and terror
of society, and that is--_that he has something to say_! Now take your
own case--a lad without as much as a moustache on his face; the son of a
rich father, who has lain soft all his life, and had the bumps rolled
flat before him. What do you imagine that you are going to teach the
world? Do you fondly believe that you have anything to say that has not
been said before, and a thousand times better into the bargain?"
Ronald looked up and gazed dreamily ahead. He had taken off his cap, as
his custom was in these moorland tramps, which were becoming of daily
occurrence, and his hair was ruffled on his forehead, giving an air of
even more than ordinary youth to his face. The hazel eyes were dark,
and the curved lips trembled with emotion; he was searching his soul for
the reply to a question on which more than life seemed to depend, and
while he gazed at the purple mountains with unseeing eyes the Chieftain
gazed at his illumined face, and felt that he had received his answer.
The words of Wordsworth's immortal ode rushed into his brain, and he
recognised that this ignorant lad possessed a knowledge which was hidden
from the world. Heaven, with its clouds of glory, lay close around him,
ignorant of worldly wisdom though he might be. God forbid that the one
should ever be exchanged for the other!
The Chieftain was answered, but like Ron he remained silent. They
walked on over the short, springy grass, breathed the clear, fresh
breeze, and thought their own thoughts. It was not until nearly a mile
had been traversed that Ron turned his head and said simply, as if
answering a question put but a moment before--
"I sing, because I must! It is my life. I have not thought of other
people, except in so far as their approval would justify me in my
father's eyes. You could no doubt judge better than I if what I have to
say has value or not. Will you read some of my lines?"
A curious sound broke from the Chieftain's lips, a sound something
between a groan and a laugh. He frowned, pursed his lips, swung his
short arms vigorously to and fro, shook his head with an air of
determined opposition, then suddenly softened into a smile.
"It's a strange world, my masters! A strange world! You never know
your luck! In the middle of my holiday, and a Scotch moor into the
bargain! I'll try Timbuctoo another year! Nothing else for it. Where
does my brain-rest come in, I want to know! You and your verses--be
plagued to the pair of you! Got some about you now, I suppose? Hand
them over, then,--the first that come to the surface--and let me get
through with it as soon as possible!"
He plumped down on the grass as he spoke, took out a large bandana
handkerchief and mopped his brow with an air of resignation, while
Ronald fumbled awkwardly in his pocket.
"I have several pencil copies. I think you can make them out. This is
the latest. A Madrigal--`To my Lady.'"
"Love-song?"
"Yes."
"Ever been in love?"
"No."
"What a pity when charming--poets--sing of things they don't understand!
Well, well, hand it over! I'll bear it as bravely as I may--"
Ron winced, and bit his lower lip. It was agony to sit by and watch the
cool, supercilious expression on the critic's face, the indifferent
flick of the fingers with which the sheet was closed and returned.
"Anything more?"
"You don't care for that one?"
"Pretty platitudes! Read them before a score of times--and somewhat
more happily expressed. If I were a poet--which I'm not, thank
goodness!--I could turn 'em out by the score. Ten shillings each,
reduction upon taking a dozen. Suitable for amateur tenors, or the
fashion-magazines. Alterations made if required... Anything else in
the lucky bag?"
"There's my note-book. They are all in there--the new ones, I mean,
written since I came up here. You can read which you please."
Ron took the precious leather book from his pocket, and handed it over
with an effort as painful as that of submitting a live nerve to the
dentist's tool. As he sat on the ground beside his critic he dug his
heels into the grass, and the knuckles of his clenched hands showed
white through the tan. The beginning had not been propitious, and he
knew well that no consideration for his feelings would seal the lips of
this most honest of critics. For a few moments he had not courage to
look at his companion's face, but even without that eloquent guide it
was easy to follow his impressions.
A grunt, a groan, a long incredulous whistle, a sharp intake of breath--
these were but too readily translated as adverse criticisms, but between
these explosions came intervals of silence less easy to explain. Ron
deliberately rolled over on his side, turning his back on his companion,
thereby making it impossible to see his face. Those who have never
trusted their inmost thoughts to paper can hardly imagine the acute
suffering of the moment when they are submitted to the cold criticism of
an outsider. Life and death themselves seemed to hang in the balance
for the young poet during the half-hour when he lay on the heather
listening to each sound and movement of his critic. At the end of half
an hour the interruption came. A yawn, a groan, the pressure of a heavy
hand on his shoulder.
"Now then, wake up, over there! Time to move on!"
Awake! As if it were possible that he could be asleep! Never in his
life had he been more acutely, painfully conscious of his surroundings.
Ron rose to his feet, casting the while a tense glance at his
companion's face. What verdict would he see written on eye and mouth as
the result of that half-hour's study? He met a smile of bland good-
humour; the cheery, carelessly complacent smile of the breakfast-table,
the smoke-room, the after-dinner game; with not one trace of emotion, of
kindled feeling, or even ordinary appreciation! The black note-book was
tossed into his hands, as carelessly as if it had been a ball; even a
commonplace word of comment was denied.
It was a bitter moment, but, to the lad's credit be it said, he met it
bravely. A gulp to a tiresome lump in the throat, a slight quivering of
the sensitive lips, and he was master of himself again, hastily stuffing
the precious note-book out of sight, and striving to display the right
amount of interest in his companion's conversation. It was not until
the inn was within sight that Mr Elgood made the slightest allusion to
the verses which he had read.
"Ah--about those rhymes!" he began casually. "Don't take yourself too
seriously, you know. It's a strange thing that young people constitute
themselves the pessimists of the world, while the old ones, who know
what real trouble is, are left to do the optimism by themselves. If you
are bound to sing, sing cheerfully! Try to forget that `sad' rhymes
with `glad,' and don't feel it necessary to end in the minor key. That
rhyming business has a lot to answer for. I like you best when you are
content to be your natural, cheerful self!"
"You think, then--you do think--some of them a little good?"
Ron's wistful voice would have melted a heart of stone. The Chieftain
laid a hand on his arm with a very kindly pressure.
"There are some of 'em," he said cheerfully, "which are a lot better
than others. I'm not partial to amateur verses myself, but I don't mind
telling you for your comfort that I've seen worse, before now--
considerably worse!"
Poor Ron! It was bitter comfort. In the blessed privacy of his own
room he sat himself down to read over the pages of the little black book
with painful criticism, asking himself miserably if it were really true
that they were feeble amateur efforts, tinged with pretence and
unreality. Here and there a flush and a wince proved that the
accusation had gone home, when a vigorous pencil mark on the side of the
page marked the necessity for correction, but on the whole he could
honestly refute the charge; could declare, with the bold yet humble
conviction of the true craftsman, that it was good work; work well done;
work worth doing!
The dreamy brown eyes sent out a flash of determination.
"I _can_!" said Ron to himself. "And I _will_!"