Big Game. Mrs. George de Horne Vaizey
of angelic tenderness, when every tiger was a “good, good tiger,” and naughty children “never did it any more,” and a condition of frank cannibalism, when he literally wallowed in atrocities. His mother forbode to lecture, but judiciously turned the conversation.
“Kings can do much nicer things than that, Patsy boy. Our kind King Edward doesn’t like cutting off heads a bit. He is always trying to prevent men from fighting with each other.”
“Is he?”
“Yes, he is. People call him the Peace-maker, because he prevents so many wars.”
“Bother him!” cried Pat fervently.
Margot giggled helplessly. Mrs. Martin stared fixedly out of the window, and Jim in his turn took up the ball of conversation.
“Mummie, will you die before me?”
“I can’t tell, dear; nobody knows.”
“Will daddy die before me?”
“Probably he will.”
“May I have his penknife when he’s dead?”
“I think it’s about time to cut up that lovely new cake!” cried Margot, saving the situation with admirable promptitude. “We bought it for you this afternoon, and it tastes of chocolate, and all sorts of good things.”
The bait was successful, and a silence followed, eloquent of intense enjoyment; then the table was cleared and various games were played, in the midst of which Jack’s whistle sounded from without, and his wife and sons rushed to meet him. They looked a typical family group as they re-entered the room, Edith happily hanging on to his arm, the boys prancing round his feet, and the onlooker felt a little pang of loneliness at the sight.
John Martin was a tall, well-made man, with a clean-shaven face and deep-set grey eyes. He was pale and lined, and a nervous twitching of the eyelids testified to the strain through which he had passed, but it was a strong face and a pleasant face, and, when he looked at his wife, a face of indescribable tenderness. At the moment he was smiling, for it was always a pleasure to see his pretty sister-in-law, and to-night Edith’s anxious looks had departed, and she skipped by his side as eager and excited as the boys themselves.
“Dad, dad, has there been any more ’splosions?”
“Hasn’t there been no fearful doings on in the world, daddy?”
“Jack! Jack! I’ve got a new tonic. It has done me such a lot of good!”
Jack turned from one to the other.
“No, boys, no—no more accidents to-day! What is it, darling? You look radiant. What is the joke?”
“Look out of the window for a minute! Margot, you talk to him, and don’t let him look round.”
Edith pinned on the new hat before the mirror, carefully adjusting the angles, and pulling out her cloudy hair to fill in the necessary spaces. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes sparkled; it was no longer the worn white wife, but a pretty, coquettish girl, who danced up to Jack’s side with saucy, uplifted head.
“There! What do you think of that?”
The answer of the glowing eyes was more eloquent than words. Jack whistled softly beneath his breath, walking slowly round and round to take in the whole effect.
“I say, that is fetching! That’s something like a hat you wore the summer we were engaged. You don’t look a day older. Where did you run that to earth, darling?”
“Can’t you see Bond Street in every curve? I should have thought it was self-evident. Margot said I was shabby, and that a new hat would do me good, so we went out and bought it. Do you think I am extravagant? It’s better to spend on this than on medicine, and three guineas isn’t expensive for real lace, is it?”
She peered in her husband’s face with simulated anxiety, but his smile breathed pleasure unqualified.
“I’m delighted that you have bought something at last! You have not spent a penny on yourself for goodness knows how long.”
“Goose!” cried Edith. “He has swallowed it at a gulp. Three guineas, indeed—as if I dare! Four and eleven-pence three-farthings in Edgware Road, and my old lace veil, and one of the paste buttons you gave me at Christmas, and some roses off last year’s hat, and Margot’s clever fingers, and my—pretty face! Do you think I am pretty still?”
“I should rather think I do!” Jack framed his wife’s face in his hands, stooping to kiss the soft flushed cheeks as fondly as he had done in the time of that other lace-wreathed hat six years before. Pat and Jim returned to their dominoes, bored by such foolish proceedings on the part of their parents, while Margot covered her face with her hands, with ostentatious propriety.
“This is no place for me! Consider my feelings, Jack. I’m like a story I once read in an old volume of Good Words, ‘Lovely yet Unloved!’ When you have quite finished love-making, I want a private chat with you, while Edie puts the boys to bed. They will hate me for suggesting such a thing, but it is already past their hour, and I must have ten minutes’ talk on a point of life and death!”
“Come away, boys; we are not wanted here. Daddy will come upstairs and see you again before you go to sleep.”
Mother and sons departed together, and Jack Martin sat down on the corner of the sofa and leant his head on his hand. With his wife’s departure the light went out of his face, but he smiled at his sister-in-law with an air of affectionate camaraderie.
“You are a little brick, Margot! You have done Edie a world of good. What can I do for you in return? I am at your service.”
Margot pulled forward the chair that her sister had chosen as the least lumpy which the room afforded, and seated herself before him, returning his glance with an odd mixture of mischief and embarrassment.
“It’s about Ron. The year of probation is nearly over.”
“I know it.”
“Two months more will decide whether he is to be a broker or a poet. It will mean death to Ronald to be sent into the City.”
“You are wrong there. If he is a poet, no amount of brokering will alter the fact, any more than it will change the colour of his eyes or hair. It is bound to come out sooner or later. You will probably think me a brute, if I suggest that a little discipline and knowledge of the world might improve the value of his writings.”
“Yes, I will! What does a poet want with a knowledge of the world, in the common, sordid sense? Let him keep his mind unsullied, and be an inspiration to others. When we were children, we used to keep birds in the nursery, in a very fine cage with golden bars, and we fed them with every bird delicacy we could find. They lived for a little time, and tried to sing, poor brave things! We threw away the cage in a fury, after finding one soft dead thing after another lying huddled up in a corner. No one shall cage Ronald, if I can prevent it! It’s no use pretending to be cold-blooded and middle-aged, Jack, for I know you are with us at heart. This means every bit as much to Ron as your business troubles do to you.”
Jack drew in his breath with a wince of pain.
“Well, what is it you wish me to do? I am afraid I have very little influence in the literary world, and I have always heard that introductions do more harm than good. An editor would soon ruin his paper if he accepted all the manuscripts pressed upon him by admiring relatives.”
“But you see I don’t ask you for an introduction. It’s just a piece of information I want, which I can’t get for myself. You know the Loadstar Magazine?”
“Certainly I do.”
“Well, the Loadstar is—the Loadstar! The summit of Ron’s ambition. It’s the magazine of all others which he likes and admires, and the editor is known to be a man of great power and