He looked round the table with his tired, angry eyes. Jack Martin sat
with bent head and lips pressed tightly together, repressing himself for
his wife's sake. Edith struggled against tears. Agnes served the salad
dressing and grunted approval. Margot, usually so pert and ready of
retort, stared at the cloth with a frown of strained distress. Only
Ronald faced him with steady eyes.
"That is not true, father, and you know it yourself!"
"I know nothing, it appears! That's just what I say. Why don't you
undertake my education? You never show me your work; you take the
advice of a child like Margot, and leave me out in the cold, and then
expect me to have faith enough to believe you a genius without a word of
proof. You want to become known to the public? Very well, bring down
some of that precious poetry and read it aloud to us now! You can't say
then that I haven't given you a chance!"
It was a frightful prospect! The criticism of the family is always an
ordeal to the budding author, and the moment was painfully unpropitious.
It would have been as easy for a bird to sing in the presence of the
fowler. Ronald turned white to the lips, but his reply came as
unwavering as the last.
"Do you think you would care to hear even the finest poetry in the world
read aloud to-night? Mine is very far from the best. I will read it to
you if you wish, but you must give me a happier opportunity."
Agnes laughed shortly.
"Shilly-shally! I can't understand what opportunity you want. If it's
good, it can't be spoilt by being read one day instead of another; if
it's bad, it won't be improved by waiting. This is cherry-pie, and
there is some tipsy cake. Edith, which will you have?"
Edith would have neither. She was still trembling with wounded
indignation against her father for that cruel hit at her husband. She
sat pale and silent, vowing never to enter the house again until Jack's
fortunes were restored; never to accept another penny from her father's
hands. She was comparatively little interested in the discussion about
poetry. Ron was a dear boy; she would be sorry if he were disappointed,
but Jack was her life, and Jack was working for bread!
If she had followed the moment's impulse, she would have risen and left
the room, and though better counsel prevailed, she could not control the
spice of temper which made the cherry-pie abhorrent.
Jack, as a man, saw no reason why he should deny himself the mitigations
of the situation; he helped himself to cream and sifted sugar with
leisurely satisfaction, and sensibly softened in spirit. After all,
there was a measure of truth in what the old man said, and his bark was
worse than his bite. If his own boy, Pat, took it into his head to go
off on some scatter-brain prank when he came of age, it would be a big
trouble, or if later on he came a cropper in business-- Jack waited for
a convenient pause, and then deftly turned the conversation to politics,
and by the time that cheese was on the table, he and his father-in-law
were discussing the mysteries of the last Education Bill with the
satisfaction of men who hold similar views on the inanities of the
opposite party. Later on they bade each other a friendly good-night;
but Edith went straight from the bedroom to the street, and clung
tightly to her husband's arm as they walked along the pavement opposite
the Park, enjoying the quiet before entering the busy streets.