“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!”