Big Game Part 15

"I knew it. You are not the sort that could act a lie. What's all the fuss about, then?"

"What I have told you is true, but--but--I have not told you _all_!"

"I should think not, indeed! Who expected that you should? I am not at all sure that I care to hear it."

"Oh, but--I want to tell you!"

The Chieftain chuckled with amus.e.m.e.nt. He was evidently comfortably convinced of the non-importance of the forthcoming revelations, and Margot's courage suffered another ebb as she returned his unsuspicious glance.

"I--we--we knew that you were staying at the Nag's Head!"

The Chieftain c.o.c.ked a surprised eyebrow, startled but unresentful.

"You knew that we were here, before you arrived, and met us in the flesh? Is that so? I wonder how you heard! I make it a rule to keep my holiday plans as secret as possible, for the very good reason that a holiday _is_ a holiday, and one wants a change of companions.h.i.+p as well as scene. How in the world did you hear that we were bound for Glenaire? I'm curious!"

Margot's eyelids fell guiltily, but Nature had generously endowed these same lids with long black lashes, the points of which curled up in a manner distractingly apparent when shown in contrast with a flushed pink cheek; so it happened that instead of being hardened by the sight, the Chieftain drew a few inches nearer, and smiled with genial approval.

"Well, out with it! _How_ did you hear?"

"I--asked!"

"Asked?" The brow became a network of astonished wrinkling. "You asked? Whom did you ask? And why? What did you know about us, to give you interest in our comings or goings? This grows curiouser and curiouser! I imagined that we were as absolute strangers to you as you were to us."

"It--it--there was the magazine--it was because of the magazine."

"Oh, indeed! You knew the name through the magazine! I understand!"

The Chieftain straightened himself, and the laugh died out of his eyes.

For the first time in the history of their short acquaintance Margot saw his face set in firm, hard lines, the business face which had been left at home, together with the black coats and silk hats of City wear, and seeing it, trembled with fear. But it was too late to retreat; for better or worse she was bound to go forward and complete her half- finished revelations.

"I wanted to get to know your brother, because he is the editor of the _Loadstar_, and I had heard people say that he was the most powerful literary man in London; that if he chose to take up any one who was beginning to write he could do more to help than any one else. We know no literary people at home, and I wanted to. Badly!"

"I see! Just so. Written a novel, and want help to get it into print,"

returned the Chieftain slowly. He had drawn down his lips into an expression of preternatural gravity, but the hard look had disappeared.

The murder was out, and he was not angry; he might pretend to be, but Margot was too sharp-witted to be frightened by a pretence.

She drew a sigh of relief as she replied--

"No, indeed. Couldn't to save my life. It's--Ron! I was thinking of him, not of myself. He is a poet!"

The Chieftain groaned aloud, as if in pain.

"Oh, I know you won't believe it, but he is! He writes wonderful poems.

Not rhymes, but poems; beautiful poems that live in your mind. He will be another Tennyson or Browning when he is a little older."

The Chieftain groaned again, a trifle more loudly than before.

"It's true! It really is true. You must have seen yourself that he is different from other boys of his age. You heard him reeling off those impromptu lines the other day, and said how clever they were! I have seen you looking at his face when he has been thinking out some idea. I knew what he was doing, and you didn't; but you guessed that he was different from ordinary people."

"I saw that he was mooning about something, and wondered if he was right in the head! If he'd been my boy, I should have taken care to keep his nose so close to the grindstone that he would have no time to moon!

Poet, indeed! Didn't you tell me that your father was a successful business man? What is he about, to countenance such nonsense?"

"He doesn't!" replied Margot sadly. "No one does but me, and that's why I had to act. Father agrees with you. He doesn't care for books, and looks down upon literary men as poor, effeminate sort of creatures, who know nothing of the world. He is ashamed that his only son writes verses. Ron detests the idea of business, but he has had to promise father that he would go into his office if at the end of a year he had had no encouragement to persevere in literature. But how is a young unknown poet to make himself known? The magazines announce that they can accept no unsolicited poetical contributions; the publishers laugh at the idea of bringing out a book by a man of whom no one has heard. A boy might be a second Shakespeare, but no one would believe in him until they had first broken his heart by their ridicule and unbelief. The year is out in September, so matters were getting desperate, when at last I--thought of this plan! I felt sure that if a man who was a real judge of literary power met Ron face to face, and got to know him, he would realise his gifts, and be willing to give him a chance. It was no use trying in London in the midst of the full pressure of work, but in the country everything is different. I knew a man who knew a man in the office of the _Loadstar_, and asked him to find out your brother's plans--"

As she was speaking Margot was conscious of a succession of stifled chuckles which her companion vainly tried to suppress. The Chieftain's amus.e.m.e.nt had evidently overmastered his threatened displeasure, and when at length she paused, he burst into an irresistible guffaw of laughter, rubbed his hands together, and cried gleefully--

"Stalked him! Stalked him! Poor old George! Big game, and no mistake.

Ran him to earth... Eh, what? Bravo, bravo, Miss Bright Eyes! You are a first-cla.s.s conspirator."

He laughed again and again, with ever-increasing merriment, laughed till his eyes disappeared in wrinkles of fat, till the tears streamed helplessly down his cheeks. His portly form shook with the violence of his merriment; he kicked the air with his short, fat feet.

Margot stared at this strange exhibition in an amazement, which gradually changed into annoyance and outraged dignity; so that when at last the Chieftain sat up to mop his eyes with a large silk pocket- handkerchief, he beheld a very dignified young lady sitting by his side in a position of poker-like rigidity, with her head tilted to an expressive angle.

"Sorry!" he panted hastily. "Sorry I smiled. A compliment, you know, if you look at it in the right light. It's such an uncommonly good idea, and so original. 'The Stalking of the Editor'--eh? Well, now that you have made such a rattling good beginning, why don't you go on and prosper? Here you are; there he is; the field is your own. Why don't you go in and win?"

Margot's face fell, and her haughty airs vanished, as she turned towards him a pair of widely-opened eyes, eloquent with plaintive surprise.

"But I can't! How can I, when he runs away the moment I appear? I made Ron go fis.h.i.+ng with him one day, but he went off and left him alone, and now it's no use persuading any more. Ron says it is only waste of time!

As for me, I have hardly spoken a word to him all this time, though I feel that if I did really know him, I--" she hesitated, knitting her brows, and pursing her soft red lips--"I could make him understand! I decided at last to confide in you, because you have been so kind and friendly to us from the first that I felt sure you would be willing to help. You will, won't you? Even if personally you don't approve of a literary career, will you give Ron a chance of living his life in his own way? If your brother approved of his writings, and helped him to a beginning, even the very smallest beginning, father would be satisfied that he was not wasting his time."

The Chieftain clasped his hands around his knees, and sat staring at her with thoughtful gaze. His eyes rested upon the clear childlike eyes, the sweet lips, the broad, honest brow, as though studying them in a new light, and with regard to some problem suddenly presented to the mind.

Whatever was the question waiting to be decided, the answer was self- evidently favourable, for his eyes lightened, he stretched out an impetuous hand, and laid it upon her arm.

"Right!" he cried heartily. "Right! I'll help you! The lad's a good lad, and a clever lad; but what I do will be for your sake, not his!

You are a dear girl! The dearest girl I have ever met--save one! For the sake of the bit of her that lives again in you, I am at your service. You shall have your chance. From to-day forward I will see to it that George makes a member of our party wherever we go. He has done enough writing; it is time that he began to play. Make him play, Miss Vane! He has been old all his life; teach him to be young! He is the best fellow in the world, but he is fast asleep. Wake him up! There is just one condition, and that is, that you leave your brother and his scribblings alone for the time being! Don't mention them, or any question of the sort, but be content just to show yourself to George, your own bright, natural girl-self, as you have shown it to me. Learn to know one another, and forget all about the boy. His turn will come later on! You promise?"

"Ye-es!" faltered Margot shyly. "Yes, I do; but you must promise too-- that you will, that you won't, won't let your brother think--"

The Chieftain touched her arm once more, with a gesture of kindly rea.s.surement.

"Don't you worry, little girl! He shall have no thoughts about you that are not altogether chivalrous and true. It's not you who are going to move in this matter, remember! You've given it over into my hands; it is I who am to pull the strings. No, you needn't thank me. It strikes me that we are going to work out pretty even over this business. If you want help for your brother, I need it just as badly for mine. I have realised for a long time that he needed a medicine which no doctor could supply." He looked into her face with a sudden radiant smile. "It strikes me I might have searched a very long time before finding any one so eminently fitted to undertake his cure!"

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

RASPBERRY-PICKING.

Margot awoke the next morning with the pleasant feeling that something was going to happen, and as she dressed, curiosity added an additional savour to the antic.i.p.ation. What would happen? How would the Chieftain set to work? Would the Editor consider himself a victim, or yield readily to the temptation? Certainly he had so far manifested no anxiety to enjoy her society, had, indeed, seemed to avoid her at all points; and yet, and yet-- Margot possessed her full share of a woman's divination, and, despite appearances, the inward conviction lingered that if the first natural shyness could be overcome, he would soon become reconciled to her companions.h.i.+p, and might even--she blushed at her own audacity!--_enjoy_ the change from his usual solitude.

Like a true daughter of Eve, Margot did her best to help on this happy _denouement_ by taking special pains with her toilette, putting on one of her prettiest was.h.i.+ng frocks, and coiling her chestnut locks in the most becoming fas.h.i.+on, and the consciousness of looking her best sent her down to breakfast in the happiest of spirits.

Other countries may carry off the palm for the cooking of the more elaborate meals of the day, but surely no breakfast can touch that served in a well-ordered Scottish household. The smoothly boiled porridge, with its accompaniment of thick yellow cream; the new-laid eggs; the grilled trout, fresh from the stream; the freshly baked "baps"

and "scones," the crisp rolls of oatcake; and last, but not least, the delectable, home-made marmalade, which is as much a part of the meal as the coffee itself. He must be difficult to please who does not appreciate such a meal as Mrs McNab served each morning to her guests in the dining-room of the Nag's Head!

It was when Margot had reached the marmalade stage, and George Elgood, a persistent late-comer, was setting to work on his ham and eggs, that the Chieftain fired the first gun of the a.s.sault.

"When are you going to invite us all to come up and have tea with you in your fairy dell, George?" he demanded suddenly. "What do you think of this fellow, Mrs Macalister, finding a veritable little heaven below, and keeping it to himself all this time? There's an easy ascent by the head of the glen for those who object to the steeper climb; there's shade, and water and everything that the most exacting person could want for an ideal picnic. To be in the country on a day like this, and not to go for a picnic seems to me a deliberate waste of opportunity, What about this afternoon, eh? That will suit you as well as any other time, I presume?"