Big Game: A Story for Girls

by Mrs. George de Horne Vaizey

  CHAPTER TWENTY.

  CRITICISM.

  Out of sympathy and respect for Mr and Mrs Macalister, nothing morewas said about the next picnic party for several days after their tragicdeparture from the Glen, but the intervening time was, to Margot atleast, full of interest and excitement. One morning, for instance, asshe strolled from the breakfast-room to the road, as was the easy customof the hour, a hurried step followed in the same direction, and GeorgeElgood, staring hard in an opposite direction, advanced an opinion thatone lesson in fishing was mere waste of time, whereas two, or perhapsthree, might possibly convey some real knowledge of the art. Er--didMiss 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 sportMr Elgood, with equal eagerness and incoherence, assured Miss Vane thatshe would do nothing of the kind, and hurried back to the inn, murmuringvaguely 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 delightfuland absorbing pursuit, which was the more remarkable as she was ratherstupid than otherwise in mastering the initial movements. Mr Elgoodencouraged her, however, by saying that some of the cleverest "rods" ofhis acquaintance had been the slowest in picking up the knack. Thegreat thing was to have plenty of practice! She ought to come up everymorning for as much time as she could spare; meantime, as she had beenstanding so long, would she not like to sit down, and rest awhile beforewalking home?

  Then they sat down side by side on the grassy bank, and talked togetheras 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 herambitions on her brother's behalf, and, truth to tell, her silenceinvolved little effort, for she was guiltily conscious of being so muchengrossed in her own affairs that even Ron's ambitions had faded intothe background. As for the lad himself, he was happy enough, wanderingabout by himself studying "effects" to transcribe to paper, or scouringthe countryside with the Chieftain, whom he frankly adored, despite themany exceedingly plain-spoken criticisms and exhortations received fromhis lips.

  "Your sister has been telling me about that rhyming craze of yours," thelittle man said suddenly one day. "Likewise about her own very prettylittle scheme for the subjugation of my brother. Told you that she'dtold me, eh? Expect she did! She is pleased to believe she is adesigning little adventuress, whereas as a matter of fact she's as clearas 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 mybrother about business matters during his holiday, for, to tell you thetruth, 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 beable to give you a word or two of advice! What's all this nonsenseabout throwing aside a post that's waiting for you, and which means anincome for life, in order to live in an attic, and scribble verses formagazines? If you knew the world, young man, you would understand thatyou are blessedly well off, to have your way made smooth, and would notbe in such a hurry to meet disappointments half way. They will comesoon enough! At the best of it, you will have a hard row to hoe. Whymake it worse?"

  Ronald flushed in sensitive fashion, but there was no hint of offence inhis manner, as he replied--

  "It is hardly a question of an attic, sir. My father would notdisinherit me because I preferred literature to business. I might havea 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 bestcompensation would be congenial work! I don't want to be rich. Letsome other fellow take the post, and get his happiness out of it; itwould 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 often enjoy the life when they get into the swing. It's a great secret ofhappiness in this world, to be kept so busy that we have not time tothink of ourselves. We need work for its own sake, even more than forwhat it brings; but our work must be worthy. There's no real successaway from that... About those verses now! It's a pleasant occupationfor you to sling them together--I haven't a word to say against it as arecreation--but that's a different thing from serious work. There'sonly one thing which justifies a man in cutting himself adrift from theworld, in opposition to the wishes of those who have his interests mostat heart, and that is, a strong and solemn conviction of a specialmission in life. Very well then! If you agree so far, let us proceedto consider the mission of a poet. There's only one justification forhis existence--only one thing that distinguishes him from theprofessional rhymester whom nobody wants, and who is the bane and terrorof society, and that is--_that he has something to say_! Now take yourown case--a lad without as much as a moustache on his face; the son of arich father, who has lain soft all his life, and had the bumps rolledflat before him. What do you imagine that you are going to teach theworld? Do you fondly believe that you have anything to say that has notbeen said before, and a thousand times better into the bargain?"

  Ronald looked up and gazed dreamily ahead. He had taken off his cap, ashis custom was in these moorland tramps, which were becoming of dailyoccurrence, and his hair was ruffled on his forehead, giving an air ofeven more than ordinary youth to his face. The hazel eyes were dark,and the curved lips trembled with emotion; he was searching his soul forthe reply to a question on which more than life seemed to depend, andwhile he gazed at the purple mountains with unseeing eyes the Chieftaingazed at his illumined face, and felt that he had received his answer.

  The words of Wordsworth's immortal ode rushed into his brain, and herecognised that this ignorant lad possessed a knowledge which was hiddenfrom the world. Heaven, with its clouds of glory, lay close around him,ignorant of worldly wisdom though he might be. God forbid that the oneshould ever be exchanged for the other!

  The Chieftain was answered, but like Ron he remained silent. Theywalked on over the short, springy grass, breathed the clear, freshbreeze, and thought their own thoughts. It was not until nearly a milehad been traversed that Ron turned his head and said simply, as ifanswering a question put but a moment before--

  "I sing, because I must! It is my life. I have not thought of otherpeople, except in so far as their approval would justify me in myfather's eyes. You could no doubt judge better than I if what I have tosay has value or not. Will you read some of my lines?"

  A curious sound broke from the Chieftain's lips, a sound somethingbetween a groan and a laugh. He frowned, pursed his lips, swung hisshort arms vigorously to and fro, shook his head with an air ofdetermined opposition, then suddenly softened into a smile.

  "It's a strange world, my masters! A strange world! You never knowyour luck! In the middle of my holiday, and a Scotch moor into thebargain! I'll try Timbuctoo another year! Nothing else for it. Wheredoes my brain-rest come in, I want to know! You and your verses--beplagued to the pair of you! Got some about you now, I suppose? Handthem over, then,--the first that come to the surface--and let me getthrough with it as soon as possible!"

  He plumped down on the grass as he spoke, took out a large bandanahandkerchief and mopped his brow with an air of resignation, whileRonald fumbled awkwardly in his pocket.

  "I have several pencil copies. I think you can make them out. This isthe 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 thecool, supercilious expression on the critic's face, the indifferentflick 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 somewhatmore happily expressed. If I were a poet--which I'm not, thankgoodness!--I could turn 'em out by the score. Ten shillings each,reduction upon taking a dozen. Suitable for amateur tenors, or thefashion-magazines. Alterations made if required... Anything else inthe 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 overwith an effort as painful as that of submitting a live nerve to thedentist's tool. As he sat on the ground beside his critic he dug hisheels into the grass, and the knuckles of his clenched hands showedwhite through the tan. The beginning had not been propitious, and heknew well that no consideration for his feelings would seal the lips ofthis most honest of critics. For a few moments he had not courage tolook at his companion's face, but even without that eloquent guide itwas 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 betweenthese explosions came intervals of silence less easy to explain. Rondeliberately rolled over on his side, turning his back on his companion,thereby making it impossible to see his face. Those who have nevertrusted their inmost thoughts to paper can hardly imagine the acutesuffering of the moment when they are submitted to the cold criticism ofan outsider. Life and death themselves seemed to hang in the balancefor the young poet during the half-hour when he lay on the heatherlistening to each sound and movement of his critic. At the end of halfan hour the interruption came. A yawn, a groan, the pressure of a heavyhand 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 hislife had he been more acutely, painfully conscious of his surroundings.Ron rose to his feet, casting the while a tense glance at hiscompanion's face. What verdict would he see written on eye and mouth asthe 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, ofkindled feeling, or even ordinary appreciation! The black note-book wastossed into his hands, as carelessly as if it had been a ball; even acommonplace word of comment was denied.

  It was a bitter moment, but, to the lad's credit be it said, he met itbravely. A gulp to a tiresome lump in the throat, a slight quivering ofthe sensitive lips, and he was master of himself again, hastily stuffingthe precious note-book out of sight, and striving to display the rightamount of interest in his companion's conversation. It was not untilthe inn was within sight that Mr Elgood made the slightest allusion tothe verses which he had read.

  "Ah--about those rhymes!" he began casually. "Don't take yourself tooseriously, you know. It's a strange thing that young people constitutethemselves the pessimists of the world, while the old ones, who knowwhat real trouble is, are left to do the optimism by themselves. If youare bound to sing, sing cheerfully! Try to forget that `sad' rhymeswith `glad,' and don't feel it necessary to end in the minor key. Thatrhyming business has a lot to answer for. I like you best when you arecontent 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 Chieftainlaid a hand on his arm with a very kindly pressure.

  "There are some of 'em," he said cheerfully, "which are a lot betterthan others. I'm not partial to amateur verses myself, but I don't mindtelling 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 ownroom he sat himself down to read over the pages of the little black bookwith painful criticism, asking himself miserably if it were really truethat they were feeble amateur efforts, tinged with pretence andunreality. Here and there a flush and a wince proved that theaccusation had gone home, when a vigorous pencil mark on the side of thepage marked the necessity for correction, but on the whole he couldhonestly refute the charge; could declare, with the bold yet humbleconviction 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_!"