“No, no, I don’t mean that. It was all right for him.”
“If you think you’re a better fellow than old Farquharson was, my young friend, you’re jolly well mistaken,” said the other, strumming excruciatingly on the piano, for he was growing annoyed.
“I never said I was better. I never think, or care either, whether I am good, bad, or indifferent. Can’t you see how hideously ugly these songs are? Jingling tunes and Bank Holiday verses! They’re like the smell of withered cabbages and naphtha lamps.”
This was not very courteous to the kindly composer of the said tunes.
“Oh, well,” said he, rather sharply, “as you please. Er—I’m rather busy, Mr. Garth.”
“Oh, I beg your pardon,” said Fletewode, starting and colouring. “I’m afraid I’ve been very rude. I’m sorry. Good morning, and—thank you.”
That evening he sat alone as usual, and tried to write his thoughts. He was cold and tired and half-starved. There was only a shilling left. He had written a sonnet, perhaps one of the most difficult forms of poetry, needing the greatest perfection of execution. He read it, sitting near the window, where a streak of the dying sunlight could fall on his numbed frame. The lines halted, they did not even scan; the thoughts were feeble, confused. His work was bad; it was fatally, irredeemably bad. He crushed the paper in his hands, fell on his knees on the floor, and rested his head on the seat of his one wooden chair. There are some agonies of the soul into which it is sacrilege to pry; this was one of them; we will not try to gauge it.
At last Fletewode stood up, went out, spent his last shilling on a meal, and came back penniless. That was no matter, to-morrow Scottie would give him five, perhaps ten shillings.
He sat at the table and wrote; as he wrote he became absorbed in his work, he found himself laughing over it. When it was finished he read it through, he dropped it on the table, rested his head upon it and cried like a child. He had sold his birthright for a mess of pottage, and his life died within him for very shame. The dawn found him asleep in his chair, his head still resting upon the paper.
The next day he sought his patron, apologised for his folly, was easily forgiven by the most placable and kindly of slip-knot-principled men, and tendered his verses. The amiable Scottie took them, read, and chuckled over them appreciatively.