It is part of an Englishman’s creed to appreciate the great singers of his race,—Shakespeare, Milton, Tennyson, not to mention a dozen lesser fry; but, strange to say, though he feels a due pride in the row of poets on his library shelves, he yet regards a poet by his own fireside as a humiliation and an offence. A budding painter, a sculptor, a musician, may be the boast of a proud family circle, but to give a youth the reputation of writing verses is at once to call down upon his head a storm of ridicule and patronising disdain! He is credited with being effeminate, sentimental, and feeble-minded; his failure is taken as a preordained fact; he becomes a butt and a jest.
Mr Vane profoundly hoped that none of the underwriters at Lloyd’s would hear of Ronald’s scribbling. It would handicap the boy in his future work, and make it harder for him to get rid of his “slips”! No one could guess from the lad’s appearances that there was anything wrong,—that was one comfort! He kept his hair well cropped, and wore as high and glossy collars as any fellow in his right mind.
“You don’t know when you are well off!” cried the irate father. “How many thousands would be thankful to be in your shoes, with a place kept warm to step into, and an income assured from the start! I am not asking you to sit mewed up at a desk all day. If you want to use your gift of words, you couldn’t have a better chance than as a writer at Lloyd’s. There’s scope for imagination too,—judiciously applied! And you would have your evenings free for scribbling, if you haven’t had enough of it in the daytime.”
Ronald’s reply dealt at length with the subject of environment, and his father was given to understand that the conditions in which his life was spent were mean, sordid, demoralising; fatal to all that was true and beautiful. The lad also gave it as his opinion that, so far from regarding money as a worthy object for a life’s ambition, the true lover of Nature would be cumbered by the possession of more than was absolutely necessary for food and clothing. And as for neglecting a God-given gift—
“What authority have you for asking me to believe that the gift exists at all, except in your own imagination? Tell me that, if you please!” cried the father. “You spend a small income in stamps and paper, but so far as I know no human creature can be induced to publish your God-given rhymes!”
At this point matters became decidedly strained, and a serious quarrel might have developed, had it not been for the diplomatic intervention of Margot, the youngest and fairest of Mr Vane’s three daughters.
Margot pinched her father’s ears and kissed him on the end of his nose, a form of caress which he seemed to find extremely soothing.
“He is only twenty-one, darling,” she said, referring to the turbulent heir. “You ought to be thankful that he has such good tastes, instead of drinking and gambling, like some other young men. Really and truly I believe he is a genius, but even if he is not, there is nothing to be gained by using force. Ron has a very strong will—you have yourself, you know, dear, only of course in your case it is guided by judgment and common sense—and you will never drive him into doing a thing against his will. Now just suppose you let him go his own way for a time! Six months or a year can’t matter so very much out of a lifetime, and you will never regret erring on the side of kindness.”
“Since when, may I ask, have you set yourself up as your father’s mentor?” cried that gentleman with a growl; but he was softening obviously, and Margot knew as much, and pinched his nose for a change.
“You must try to remember how you felt yourself when you were young. If you wanted a thing, how badly you wanted it, and how soon, and how terribly cruel every one seemed who interfered! Give Ron a chance, like the dear old sportsman as you are, before you tie him down for life! It’s a pity I’m not a boy—I should have loved to be at Lloyd’s. Even now—if I went round with the slips, and coaxed the underwriters, don’t you think it might be a striking and lucrative innovation?”