Big Game: A Story for Girls

  Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England

  Big GameA Story for Girls

  By Mrs George de Horne Vaizey________________________________________________________________________A charming little book. The son of the family aspires to be a poet, muchto his father's annoyance: he ought to have a proper job in the familyfirm.

  His sister hits on a plan to get his work published, which would be astep in the right direction, one that might help to change the father'smind. She discovers that the editor of a poetry magazine always takesa holiday in a very remote hotel in the Scottish highlands, so she booksa holiday for them in the same hotel.

  The woman who runs the hotel hates women guests, and isn't very politeto most people, but they manage to charm her, and get her on their side,until one Sunday they make the fatal mistake of going to the wrongchurch. That eventually passes over. Meanwhile Margot, the heroine,has been wooing the poetry editor. They go fishing together, and oneday they go for a long walk in which the weather turns nasty. Margotcatches pneumonia and is very ill.

  They get back to their homes in London. Margot's lover turns out not tohave been the poetry editor after all, yet somehow young Ron finds thatone of his poems has been published. How this happens is revealed inthe last chapter. An average length book, probably more for girls thanfor boys. N.H.________________________________________________________________________

  BIG GAMEA STORY FOR GIRLS

  BY MRS GEORGE DE HORNE VAIZEY

  CHAPTER ONE.

  PLANS.

  It was the old story of woman comforting man in his affliction; thetrouble in this instance appearing in the shape of a long blue envelopeaddressed to himself in his own handwriting. Poor young poet! He hadno more appetite for eggs and bacon that morning; he pushed aside evenhis coffee, and buried his head in his hands.

  "Back again!" he groaned. "Always back, and back, and back, and theseare my last verses: the best I have written. I felt sure that thesewould have been taken!"

  "So they will be, some day," comforted the woman. "You have only to bepatient and go on trying. I'll re-type the first and last pages, andiron out the dog's ears, and we will send it off on a fresh journey.Why don't you try the _Pinnacle Magazine_? There ought to be a chancethere. They published some awful bosh last month."

  The poet was roused to a passing indignation.

  "As feeble as mine, I suppose! Oh, well, if even you turn against me,it is time I gave up the struggle."

  "Even you" was not in this instance a wife, but "only a sister," soinstead of falling on her accuser's neck with explanations and caresses,she helped herself to a second cup of coffee, and replied coolly--

  "Silly thing! You know quite well that I do nothing of the sort, sodon't be high-falutin. I should not encourage you to waste time if Idid not know that you were going to succeed in the end. I don't think;I _know_!"

  "How?" queried the poet. "How?" He had heard the reason a dozen timesbefore, but he longed to hear it again. He lifted his face from hishands--an ideal face for a poet; clean-cut, sensitive, with deep-seteyes, curved lips, and a finely-modelled chin. "How do you know?"

  "I feel!" replied the critic simply. "Of course, I am prejudiced infavour of your work; but that would not make it haunt me as if it weremy own. I can see your faults; you are horribly uneven. There arelines here and there which make me cold; lines which are put in for thesake of the rhyme, and nothing more; but there are other bits,"--thegirl's eyes turned towards the window, and gazed dreamily intospace--"which sing in my heart! When it is fine, when it is dark, whenI am glad, when I am in trouble, why do your lines come unconsciouslyinto my mind, as if they expressed my own feelings better than I can doit myself? That's not rhyme--that's poetry! It is the real thing; notpretence."

  A glad smile passed over the boy's face; he stretched out his handtowards the neglected cup, and quaffed coffee and hope in one revivingdraught. "But no one seems to want poetry nowadays!"

  "True! I think you may have to wait until you have made a name in theother direction. Why not try fiction? Your prose is excellent, almostas good as your verse."

  "Can't think of a plot!"

  "Bah! you are behind the times, my dear! You don't need a plot. Beginin the middle, meander back to the beginning, and end in the thick ofthe strife. Then every one wonders and raves, and the public--`mostlyfools!'--think it must be clever, because they don't understand whatit's about."

  "Like the lady and the tiger,--which came out first?"

  "Ah! if you could think of anything as baffling as that, your futurewould be made. Write a novel, Ron, and take me for the heroine. Youmight have a poet, too, and introduce some of your own love-songs. I'dcoach you in the feminine parts, and you could give me a royalty on thesales."

  But Ronald shook his head.

  "I might try short stories, perhaps--I've thought of that--but not anovel. It's too big a venture; and we can't spare the time. There areonly four months left, and unless I make some money soon, father willinsist upon that hateful partnership."

  The girl left her seat and strolled over to the window. She wasstrikingly like her brother in appearance, but a saucy imp of humourlurked in the corners of her curving lips, and danced in her big browneyes.

  Margot Vane at twenty-two made a delightful picture of youth andhappiness, and radiant, unbroken health. Her slight figure was uprightas a dart; her cheeks were smooth and fresh as a petal of a rose; herhair was thick and luxuriant, and she bore herself with the jaunty,self-confident gait of one whose lines have been cast in pleasantplaces, and who is well satisfied of her own ability to keep thempleasant to the end.

  "Anything may happen in four months--and everything!" she criedcheerily. "I don't say that you will have made your name by September,but if you have drawn a reasonable amount of blood-money, father willhave to be satisfied. It is in the bond! Work away, and don't worry.You are improving all the time, and spring is coming, when even ordinarypeople like myself feel inspired. We will stick to the ordinary methodsyet awhile, but if matters get desperate, we will resort to strategy.I've several lovely plans simmering in my brain!"

  The boy looked up eagerly.

  "Strategy! Plans! What plans? What can we possibly do out of theordinary course?"

  But Margot only laughed mischievously, and refused to be drawn.

  The cruel parent in the case of Ronald Vane was exemplified by anexceedingly worthy and kind-hearted gentleman, who followed theprofession of underwriter at Lloyd's. His family had consisted of threedaughters before Ronald appeared to gratify a long ambition. Now, MrVane was a widower, and his son engrossed a large share in hisaffections, being at once his pride, his hope, and his despair. The ladwas a good lad; upright, honourable, and clean-living; everything, infact, that a father could wish, if only,--but that "if" was themischief! It was hard lines on a steady-going City man, who was famedfor his level-headed sobriety, to possess a son who eschewed fact infavour of fancy, and preferred rather to roam the countryside composingrhymes and couplets, than to step into a junior partnership in anestablished and prosperous firm.

  It is part of an Englishman's creed to appreciate the great singers ofhis race,--Shakespeare, Milton, Tennyson, not to mention a dozen lesserfry; but, strange to say, though he feels a due pride in the row ofpoets on his library shelves, he yet regards a poet by his own firesideas a humiliation and an offence. A budding painter, a sculptor, amusician, may be the boast of a proud family circle, but to give a youththe reputation of writing verses is at once to call down upon his head astorm of ridicule and patronising disdain! He is credited with beingeffeminate, sentimental, and feeble-minded; his failure is taken as apreordained fact; he becomes
a butt and a jest.

  Mr Vane profoundly hoped that none of the underwriters at Lloyd's wouldhear of Ronald's scribbling. It would handicap the boy in his futurework, and make it harder for him to get rid of his "slips"! No onecould guess from the lad's appearances that there was anything wrong,--that was one comfort! He kept his hair well cropped, and wore as highand glossy collars as any fellow in his right mind.

  "You don't know when you are well off!" cried the irate father. "Howmany thousands would be thankful to be in your shoes, with a place keptwarm to step into, and an income assured from the start! I am notasking you to sit mewed up at a desk all day. If you want to use yourgift of words, you couldn't have a better chance than as a writer atLloyd's. There's scope for imagination too,--judiciously applied! Andyou would have your evenings _free_ for scribbling, if you haven't hadenough of it in the daytime."

  Ronald's reply dealt at length with the subject of environment, and hisfather was given to understand that the conditions in which his life wasspent were mean, sordid, demoralising; fatal to all that was true andbeautiful. The lad also gave it as his opinion that, so far fromregarding money as a worthy object for a life's ambition, the true loverof Nature would be cumbered by the possession of more than wasabsolutely necessary for food and clothing. And as for neglecting aGod-given gift--

  "What authority have you for asking me to believe that the gift existsat 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 sofar as I know no human creature can be induced to publish your God-givenrhymes!"

  At this point matters became decidedly strained, and a serious quarrelmight have developed, had it not been for the diplomatic intervention ofMargot, 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 turbulentheir. "You ought to be thankful that he has such good tastes, insteadof drinking and gambling, like some other young men. Really and truly Ibelieve he is a genius, but even if he is not, there is nothing to begained 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 andcommon sense--and you will never drive him into doing a thing againsthis will. Now just suppose you let him go his own way for a time! Sixmonths or a year can't matter so very much out of a lifetime, and youwill never regret erring on the side of kindness."

  "Since when, may I ask, have you set yourself up as your father'smentor?" cried that gentleman with a growl; but he was softeningobviously, 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. Ifyou wanted a thing, how _badly_ you wanted it, and how _soon_, and howterribly cruel every one seemed who interfered! Give Ron a chance, likethe 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. Evennow--if I went round with the slips, and coaxed the underwriters, don'tyou think it might be a striking and lucrative innovation?"

  Mr Vane laughed at that, and reflected with pride that not a man in theroom could boast such a taking little witch for his daughter. Then hegrew grave, and returned to the subject in hand.

  "In what way do you propose that I shall give the boy a chance?"

  "Continue his allowance for a year, and let him give himself up to hiswork! If at the end of the year he has made no headway, it should be anunderstanding that he joins you in business without any more fuss; butif he _has_ received real encouragement,--if even one or two editorshave accepted his verses, and think well of them--"

  "Yes? What then?"

  "Then you must consider that Ron has proved his point! It is really astiff test, for it takes mediocre people far longer than a year to makea footing on the literary ladder. You would then have to continue hisallowance, and try to be thankful that you are the father of a poet,instead of a clerk!"

  Mr Vane growled again, and, what was worse, sighed into the bargain, asigh of real heartache and disappointment.

  "I have looked forward for twenty years to the time when my son shouldbe old enough to help me! I have slaved all my life to keep a place forhim, and now he despises me for my pains! And you will want to be offwith him, I suppose, rambling about the country while he writes hisrhymes. I shall have to say good-bye to the pair of you! It doesn'tmatter how dull or lonely the poor old father may be."

  Margot looked at him with a reproving eye.

  "That's not true, and you know it isn't! I love you best of any one onearth, and I am only talking to you for your own good. I'd like to stayin the country with Ronald in summer, for he does so hate the town, butI'll strike a bargain with you, too! Last year I spent three months invisiting friends. This year I'll refuse all invitations, so that youshan't be deprived of any more of my valuable society."

  "And why should you give up your pleasures, pray? Why are you soprecious anxious to be with the boy? Are you going to aid and abet himin his efforts?"

  "Yes, I am!" answered Margot bravely. "He has his life to live, and Iwant him to spend it in his own way. If he becomes a great writer, I'llbe prouder of him than if he were the greatest millionaire on earth.I'll move heaven and earth to help him, and if he fails I'll move themagain to make him a good underwriter! So now you know!"

  Mr Vane chewed his moustache, disconsolately resigned.

  "Ah well! the partnership will have to go to a stranger, I suppose. Ican't get on much longer without help. I hoped it might be one of myown kith and kin, but--"

  "Don't be in a hurry, dear. I may fall in love with a pauper, and thenyou can have a son-in-law to help you, instead of a son."

  Mr Vane pushed her away with an impatient hand.

  "No more son-in-laws, thank you! One is about as many as I can tackleat a time. Edith has been at me again with a sheaf of bills--"

  His eldest daughter's husband had recently failed in business, inconsequence of which he himself was at present supporting a secondestablishment. He sighed, and reflected that it was a thankless task torear a family. The infantine troubles of teething, whooping-cough, andscarlatina were trifles as compared with the later annoyance anddifficulties of dealing with striplings who had the audacity to imaginethemselves grown-up, and competent to have a say in their own lives!

  If things turned out well, they took the credit to themselves! If ill,then papa had to pay the bills! Mr Vane was convinced that he was anill-used and much-to-be-pitied martyr.