Chapter II: Part 2

Jim went on his way relieved in mind and uplifted. The Lubber welcomed him warmly, looking very funny, with his swollen foot in a footbath and a huge piece of sticking-plaster across his nose. On his lap lay a battered volume of Livy and a crib.

"I can give you a rare good pie," he said; "if you're hungry, stick your nose into that cupboard!"

Jim declined this hospitable offer, and picked up the Livy.

"These cribs aren't much help," growled the Lubber. "It's the verbs and idioms that flummux me. Eh? What? Oh, done it before! Bless you--a dozen times; but my memory is rotten. As Billy said in pupil-room last week, 'You'll forget your own name some day. West, and sign it North.' Rather bad form making puns on a fellow's name. By gad! I'm glad you came. No, hang the 'con'! I'll chance it. I want to have a yarn with you about the Kid. Awful--wasn't it? And Archie says he won't be allowed to play footer again. Old Archie has taken it hard. Not a bad chap, Archie, but a bit stodgy--like me. It's on my mind that I've had a hand in the overdoin' of the Kid. He's a corker is the Kid. I must be blind as a bat, not to have found that out before. But he must go slow, or he'll break down. Now it wouldn't surprise me if the Kid made a mark. What? A joke? Not I. Never made one in my life--except by accident. I mean he'll turn over some big things some day."

"He seems to have turned over some big things to-day. The three Bashanites weren't small."

The Lubber laughed.

"To relieve your mind," Jim continued, "I don't mind telling you that Billy has his eye on the Kid. He won't break down in his training."

The Lubber accepted this assurance with the faith of a child; then he looked at the cupboard.

"I think," said he, "that if you don't mind hauling out that pie, I'll have a go at it. Somehow, I couldn't tackle my tea. You'll have some too, eh? That's right. I never feel quite myself when my tummy's empty."

Next day, after dinner, Archie saw Mark. He was in bed, and above the bed hung his "fez," placed there by the matron. Archibald tiptoed into the room, feeling rather uncomfortable. Mark, he feared, would be miserable. To his surprise, he was greeted with a grin.

"You don't care----"

"I've thought it out--with Billy. He was here before dinner. I slept like a t-top last night, and when Billy came in I read his face. He was awfully d-decent. It's a pity he has only a daughter, although, perhaps, that makes him extra nice to the sons of other people. He said that I was strong enough to know the truth. And the truth is that footer isn't my game. Well--I knew it. But I wanted to get my 'fez,' and--and there it hangs, and there is this. Billy must have had it engraved the f-first thing this morning."

He put his hand under his pillow, and pulled out a small hunting-flask. Upon it was inscribed his name, and beneath, in small script, the line from Horace:

"_Palmam qui meruit ferat._"

"He gave me this," said Mark, "and with it a jolly good jaw. He m-made me see that w-w-weakness is part of my kit, and the w-weak make the running for the strong; and it's no use messin' about and trying to do what others can do much better. And he s-said that a fellow who rebelled and sulked was a silly ass--and--by Jove!--he's r-right!"

Mark recovered quickly, and was treated as an honoured guest by his kind hostess, who played and sang to him every day. Boys, particularly English boys, are not taught to express their gratitude in happy phrases, but perhaps it is none the less on that account. If the lady who played Strauss's waltzes to Mark Samphire should chance to read these lines, let her believe that the memory of her kindness has ripened with the passing years.

After the Christmas holidays Mark and Jim found themselves in the Sixth, privileged to "fag," and accepted by Billy's as Olympians. It was a pleasant half, and at the end of it Archibald won the school mile. Mark trained him. Most of the boys who trained, trained too hard; and here again Mark's weakness developed his brother's strength: they took their "runs" slowly, but regularly. During these spring afternoons more than fresh air was imbibed. Mark had capacity for absorbing information about places and people. To him an ordinary cottage was a volume of romance; a man asleep by the roadside quickened speculation; a travelling van held inexhaustible material. One day they came upon an encampment of gipsies. Mark insisted upon stopping to speak to an onyx-eyed urchin, who asked for coppers, and while they were talking a handsome girl of sixteen lounged forward, addressing Mark as "my pretty gentleman."

"Go along with you," said Mark. "I'm as ugly as they make 'em."

"You are not," the girl replied, staring impudently into his eyes. "Them eyes of your'n are bits of heaven's own blue; and the women will look into them and love you."

Mark turned scarlet.

"And you," the hussy turned to Archie. "Ah, you're a real beauty, but your brother's eyes are handsomer than your'n."

"How do you know he's my brother?" said Archie.

"We Romanies know many things. Give me half a crown, and I'll tell you both a true fortune."

"Shall we take a bob's worth?" said Archie. "Sixpence each?"

"I'll read your hand for a bob," said the girl, "and his," she nodded at Mark, "for nothing."

Archie produced a shilling. The girl took his hand between her long, slender fingers, and gazed at the lines on it.

"Well," said a harsh voice, "what do you see?"

An old hag, possibly the girl's grandmother, had approached silently.

"Hullo," said Archie, "I suppose you're the queen of the gipsies. Mother Shipton herself," he added _sotto voce_.

"I'm a Stanley," said the old woman, not without dignity. "You're one as looks for queens on thrones. The greatest queens, my pretty sir, don't sit on thrones. Go on--tell his fortune! A child could read that hand and face."

"I see a long life and a full one," droned the girl. "You will get what you want, because you will want it so badly."

"A true fortune," mumbled the old woman.

"Your turn, Mark," said Archie. "Hold out your paw!"

Reluctantly, Mark obeyed. The girl took his hand as she had taken Archie's, very delicately, and smoothed the palm with a touch that was not unlike a caress. A puzzled smile curled her red lips. The old woman peered over her shoulder. Again the girl stroked the boy's palm, and he winced.

"Shrinks from a woman's touch," said the old woman.

"You tell it, mother," said the girl.

The old woman bent down.

"A happy hand," she muttered, "a happy hand, the hand of the free giver, the blessed hand, the kind hand, and the strong hand. Ah, but what is this? Sorrow, suffering, disappointment! And love," her harsh voice softened: "you will love deeply and be loved in return. You are the child of love----"

"I see more," said the girl softly, taking Mark's hand again. "This is the hand of a fighter, mother."

"Ay, so 'tis, so 'tis."

"A fighter and a conqueror."

Before Mark could draw his hand away, she had bent down and kissed it. Then she laughed and tossed her pretty head.

"He'd like a kiss on the mouth," she said, eyeing Archie saucily, "but he won't get one from me."

*CHAPTER IV*

*MISS HAZELBY IS SHOCKED*

Betty Kirtling, when a child, had been heard to say: "I like girls, but I love boys." Perhaps, beneath the smiles of the prim little English misses who came to play with her, she perceived jealousies and meanness, whereas the boys displayed hearts full of love, with no room for anything else where she was concerned. The second Mrs. Samphire maintained Betty to be a spoiled beauty before she was out of pinafores; but Lady Randolph, a finer judge of character, held the contrary opinion. The Admiral, it is true, set his niece upon a pedestal: an action of which the nurse, Esther Gear, took fair advantage. "Lor bless me, Miss Betty! what would your uncle say? You know he thinks you one of the angels," was a phrase often in her mouth, and one not to be disregarded by a child who valued the good opinion of others. "My dear," Lady Randolph would add, "you must never disappoint your uncle. If he knew you had told a fib, it would make him very unhappy." When the time came to choose a governess, she selected a lady of strong character, whose seeming severity was tempered by a sense of humour and justice. Betty hated her at first, and then learned to love her. Almost irredeemably ugly, with a square masculine head surmounting a tall, lean, awkward figure, Miriam Hazelby made the large impression of one hard to please, but for whose affection and esteem it were worth striving. Her manner, however, was repellent. The austerity of feature and deportment chilled a stranger to the marrow; her harsh voice, emphatic in denouncing humbug and vanity and luxury, only softened when she was speaking of suffering; then a quick ear might catch minor harmonies, captivating because elusive.

During the Easter holidays following the term when the Samphires met the gipsies, Mark was set upon procuring some eggs of the stonechat, which nests in certain sheltered spots upon the Westchester downs. Mark had told Betty--now a girl of fourteen--of his proposed expedition, and she expressed an ardent wish to accompany him. Miriam Hazelby, however, permitted nothing to interfere with lessons. Betty said sorrowfully:

"I don't suppose Lanky" (her name for Miss Hazelby) "would let me go alone with you; she thinks you a young man, and I'm told twice a week that I'm a young lady. But what a splendid time we would have had!"

Next day, Mark tramped off alone, taking the lane which leads to the downs, and as he was passing the chalk-pit to the right of the village, Betty sprang into the road with a gay laugh. She carried a basket and wore an old pink linen frock.

"Betty," said Mark, "you've run away."

"Yes. Isn't it fun? Shan't I catch it from Lanky when I get back. I've lunch in this basket. Two big bits of Buszard's cake, some tartlets, sixpennorth of chocolate, four apples, and four bottles of ginger-pop. Catch hold!"

The girl was in wild spirits. It happened to be a day of late April when the sun, pouring its rays into the moist fresh earth, brings forth spring, the Aphrodite of woods and fields, with the foam of milk-white blossoms about her, and a cestus of tender green. As they passed out of the lane on to the soft turf of the downs, the landscape widened till it became panoramic. Behind lay King's Charteris encompassed by hanging woods now bursting into leaf; beyond were rolling downs, wide breezy pastures, sloping southerly and westerly to the sea, which gleamed, a thread of silver, through an opalescent haze.

"Isn't it heavenly?" Betty cried.

"It is r-r-rather jolly!"

"R-r-r-ra--ther jolly," she mimicked him to the life, rounding her shoulders and slouching forward in an attitude which Mark recognised, not without dismay, as his own; "ra--ther jolly, awfully jolly, beastly jolly. How Lanky would love to hear you."

"S-s-shut up, Betty!"

"What! You address a young lady in that manner! I must beg you"--she had caught the accent and intonation of the excellent Miriam--"to speak English. Young people, nowadays, are unintelligible. My father, in whose presence I never ventured to take a liberty with the English language, would not have believed it possible that a gentleman could use such expressions...."

Mark tried to pull her hair, but she ran like Atalanta, Mark following encumbered with the basket. Soon the business of the day began: the finding of the stonechats' nests. Presently they sat down in the shade.

"Let us have a 'beyondy' talk," said Betty.

"A what....?"

"Oh, when talk is about things we can't see, I call it 'beyondy.' I say--tell me, what--what are your besetting sins!" Then she laughed. "We'll play 'swops.' I'll tell you my sins one by one, if you'll tell me yours. Only you must begin. It will be splendid fun, and, as Lanky says--improving. She says one ought to know oneself. I suppose you--a grand Sixth Form boy--know yourself in all your moods and tenses. Give us a lead. It would be so nice to find that you are wickeder than I."

"I am," said Mark.

"No humbug--and 'bar chaff,' as dear Lanky would not say."

"I'm v-very ambitious, Betty."

She was lying full length on the grass. Now she sat up, opening her eyes very wide.

"Are you really? Ambitious--eh? That's very interesting. I'm not ambitious, not a bit. I'm greedy." As she spoke she set her pretty teeth in an apple. "I'm greedy, and I'm fond of lying in bed. Lanky says these are awful sins. Oh, dear, I've given you two sins to one. Never mind. Lanky says a woman ought to give more than she gets. I say, eat fair with the chocolate. You big boys pretend to despise sweets, but I notice they go jolly quick when you're about. Yes; greediness and sloth. It's horrid, but it's true. You see, I'm bound to be wicked."

"Why?"

"Mother was wicked. I know it. I heard Lady Randolph say--oh, years ago--that she hoped what was bad in the Kirtlings would kill what was worse in the De Courcys. I'm not sure what she meant, and I dared not ask her, because she thought I was looking at some photographs, but it wasn't complimentary--was it?"

"No," said Mark, getting rather red.

"You are blushing," said Betty. "I do believe that you know something. What is it?"

She turned a coaxing face to his, being one of those distracting feminine creatures who have a thousand caresses distinctively their own. Her touch was different to the touch of other girls--more delicate, more subtle--an appeal to the finer, not the grosser side.

"What do you know?" she murmured.

"I c-can't tell you," Mark began bravely, and then ended with a feeble--"m-m-much."

"Boys never can tell much," said Betty disdainfully. "Go on."

"Your m-m-mother ran away."

"Is that all? Why I know more than you. Yes; she ran away. I can't think why she did, because father was so handsome. I often look at his miniature; and he must have been the most fascinating man that ever lived. Uncle calls him sometimes that 'rascal Fred.' Now what does he mean by that?"

"Betty," said Mark desperately, "this talk is too b-b-beyondy for me."

She paid no attention whatsoever.

"I spoke to Lanky about it," she continued gravely. "She was nicer than I had ever seen her. 'Betty,' she said, 'remember that it is not for you to judge your parents. They may not have had your advantages.' Well, that made me think a bit, and then I hoped their sins would not be visited on me."

"W-w-what did she say to that, Betty?"

"She nodded that long head of hers in a terrible way. 'We all suffer,' she growled, 'for the evil that others do.' Do _you_ think I must suffer for what they did?"

"No, no," cried Mark. "Why, Betty, to me you are the princess who l-l-lives for ever and ever, fair and happy."

She smiled.

"I love you when you talk like that," she murmured. "And---- Good gracious me!" She dashed some tears from her eyes and sprang to her feet. "Look here, we have that long strip of gorse to do before lunch. Come on! I'll hop you down the hill. One--two-three--OFF!"

Away she went, laughing gaily, leaving care in the shade, and Mark after her--a boy once more, but with an ache at his heart none the less.

At luncheon Betty speculated upon the nature of the punishment which awaited her, assuring Mark that she did not care a hang, revelling the more joyously in the present, because a cloud lay black upon the future.

Presently they discovered that the sun was declining into the soft haze of the western horizon.

"We must run," cried Betty.

They ran and rested, and then ran again till they came to the sharp incline from the downs into the valley which holds the village. And here bad luck tempted them to link hands and race down a slippery, grassy slope. Perhaps Mark went too fast. Betty fell with a dismal thump, and a poignant note of anguish fluttered up from a crumpled heap of linen.

"Are you hurt, Betty?"

"I have twisted my ankle," she groaned, her face puckering with pain.

Mark took off her boot and stocking. The ankle was already swollen and inflamed. What a catastrophe! But Betty assured him she could limp home leaning on his arm. They started very slowly and in silence. A brook bubbled in front of them, and at Mark's advice Betty thrust her foot into the cool water.

"What a horrid ending," sighed Betty, on the verge of tears. "This is the punishment. Lanky will do nothing now."

"I should think not," said Mark indignantly. Presently he began to dry her foot with his handkerchief. It lay soft and white in his hand. She was sitting higher up on the bank, so that she looked down upon him.

"I like you better than Archie," she said slowly.

"W-w-why?" he stammered.

"You are so much more--sensible."

"Sensible?"

"Yes. Archie," she blushed faintly, "and that stupid old Jim Corrance say they're in love with me! Isn't it absurd?"

Mark grew scarlet. He would have liked to say what Archie and Jim had said, but a lump in his throat made him speechless.

"I feel that you are a real friend," pursued Betty. "Now we must be getting home."

They set out slowly: Betty leaning on Mark's left arm and limping along in silence. Presently Mark became aware that she was leaning more heavily. Then he looked down upon a white, agonised face. They had just reached the small hill whereon The Whim is set. Mark wondered whether he could carry her to the summit of it. A feather-weight, this dainty creature, but Mark was no colossus like Archie. Still, exercise in the gymnasium and elsewhere had hardened his muscles. He bent down, picked her up, and breasted the hill. Her arms were round his neck; his arms held her body. But how heavy she grew with every step upward! How Mark's back and loins and legs ached! How his heart beat! But he reached the front door and set her down. And in the twilight she held up her face and kissed him.

"Now," she commanded, "run home before they open the door."

"Leave you? Not I."

He was proof against persuasion, and simulated anger. The Admiral must hear their misadventure from his lips.

"You obstinate wretch!" said Betty.

When the Admiral did hear the story, some three minutes later, he roared with laughter, although he grew grave enough towards the end, and sent his butler, hot-foot, for the village doctor. Nor was Mark permitted to leave The Whim till that gentleman had pronounced the injury a trifling affair, which time and cold compresses would set right. At parting the Admiral admonished Mark solemnly.

"We must have no larks of this sort, my boy. What! _My_ niece gallivanting about the downs with a lively young man! Miss Hazelby is inexpressibly shocked. A rod has been pickling the whole day, you may swear. And she says that you boys make love to the child. Do you?"

"I'd l-l-like to," said Mark abjectedly, "but I haven't--yet."

The Admiral paced the room slowly, as if it were a quarter-deck. His grey beard lay upon his broad chest; his red weather-beaten countenance was heavy with thought.

"Look ye here," said he at length. "This is serious, and I take it seriously. I am tempted to call you a--jackanapes. As it is, I prefer to say--nothing, except this: you ought to be birched."

"I f-feel as if you were b-b-birching me."

His face relaxed.

"My boy, I'm sorry for you. You may not believe it, but when I was seventeen and in the Mediterranean squadron"--the Admiral's voice became reminiscent--"I had the doose of an affair. I suffered like any Romeo, and my Juliet was only eight-and--er--twenty! Well, sir, I fought and conquered, and so must you, by God!"

"I have f-f-fought, sir; and I am c-c-conquered."

"You're glib with your tongue. I daresay Betty thinks you a tremendous fellow."

"She thinks us--very s-s-silly."

"Us? Miriam Hazelby was right. The little baggage! A De Courcy from tip to toe already. Well, my boy, shake hands! You've made a clean breast of it, and I respect you for that. And you're in your salad days, too. So--no more! If you choose to sigh for the moon I can't prevent you. Good night."

Mark went home, humble as Uriah Heap. None the less, he made a tolerable dinner, and felt happy and hopeful after it. And that night he dreamed he was illustrious--a great soldier, a ruler amongst men. But, high though he climbed, aye, even to the Milky Way itself, where honours gleamed innumerable, he could not attain to the object of his dreams--the lovely Moon!

*CHAPTER V*

*VALETE*

It was now definitely decided that Archibald Samphire must go into the Church, and in due time hold the snug family living. The Squire, however, was of the opinion that Her Majesty's scarlet would mightily become his handsome second son, whereas the black of a Clerk in Orders would do well enough for Mark. Archie, to his father's surprise, chose the sable instead of the gules. Amongst the Samphires it was a tradition that the second son always became a parson. Archie had a respect amounting to veneration for tradition.

"Suit yourselves," said the Squire of Pitt Hall to his sons. "I should have liked to have seen Archie on a charger."

"But what a leg for a gaiter," said Mark, hinting at episcopal honours.

Archibald was now a very big fellow indeed, so big that when he went in to bat at Lord's, as captain of the Harrow eleven, a small Eton boy, not far from Lord Randolph's coach, called out shrilly: "I say, Samphire, how's your wife and family?" This was the famous year when Eton was beaten by five wickets, having suffered defeat during four previous summers. And the only thing that marred Archie's triumph was the fact that Mark, despite the services of a professional during the Easter holidays, had not a place in his eleven. On the eve of the great match one vacancy remained to be filled. It became certain that either Mark or Jim Corrance would fill it. Jim has confessed since with shame that he was miserably jealous of Mark, that for a dreadful three weeks this feeling strained their friendship. And he knew that Mark was the better cricketer; more, that he had made his friend a better cricketer, that Jim's understanding of and skill in the game were due to Mark's precept and practice. Mark would whip a cricket-ball out of his pocket, whenever five minutes could be spared, crying, "Come on, old chap, you muffed an easy one yesterday--_catch_!" And the ball would whizz at Jim's toes. But during the last trial match Mark fainted from the heat, and Jim took his place in the slips. That night Archie sent for Jim.

"You can get your 'straw,'" he growled.

"But Mark----"

"Won't take it."

"Won't--take--it?"

"He's right. He hasn't the strength. He might faint at Lord's. We can't run any risks."

Jim went back to his room--confounded. Mark met him and gripped his hands.

"You've g-got it," he cried. "I _am_ glad. Isn't it glorious?"

"_Glorious?_"

Jim sat down and blubbered, like a Fourth Form boy.

However, it seemed certain then that another year would place Mark in the eleven, and also amongst the monitors, but this happy end to his Harrow career was not to be. Archibald, Jim, and he left Billy's at the end of the Easter half. In those days it was hardly possible for a boy to pass into Sandhurst direct from a public school. Billy said that Mark could do it--at the expense of his health; for extra subjects, like geometrical drawing, English literature, history, and so forth, would have had to be learned in addition to the regular school work, which in the Upper Sixth was as stiff as it could be.

"I'm very sorry to lose you," said Billy, when the brothers bade him good-bye. "Samphire major's future I am not concerned about. But I do worry about you, Samphire minor, because you attempt too much, you--er--so to speak--strain at the camel and swallow the gnat. Well, well," he fumbled with his glasses, "I should like to give you the benefit of my experience, but," he pursed up his lips, "I am not sanguine enough to hope that you will profit by it. Some excellent people think I take my duties too lightly. Perhaps I do, per--haps I do. A big house like this represents a force against which one individual is expected to pit his strength. But I realised long ago that what energy I could spare must of necessity prove--er--intermittent, the undisciplined, amorphous resistance would be constant. You--er--take me? Yes. So I governed myself accordingly. The great force which I was invited to control sways hither and thither, veering now to the right, and now--er--to the wrong. The swing of the pendulum, in fine. When it swings to the right I push it, so it swings a little farther; and when it swings the other way I pull behind, and perhaps it does not swing quite so far; but I don't try to stop the swing, because I know that such a feat is beyond my powers. I trust you are following me, Samphire minor. You, I fear, will recklessly expose yourself--and be rolled over, as happened in our house-match against Bashan's. There--I have warned you."

He signed to Archibald to remain behind. For a moment there was silence. Billy leaned back in his chair polishing the lenses of his pince-nez with a fine cambric handkerchief.

"If Mark had your body," he began absently, then, faintly smiling, he added: "Ah, what possibilities lie in that 'if,' which it were vain, quite vain to consider. Well, I hope that nothing will come between you and him, that your brotherly love, which has been a pleasant thing to witness, will continue to grow in strength. Mark has an extravagant affection for you--the greater because he does not wear it on his sleeve. Your success here has sweetened the bitterness of his many disappointments. You will get more from him than you give."

Archibald felt his cheek beginning to burn.

"Don't distress yourself on that account," said Billy kindly; "only take what he gives, _generously_, and so you will best help him to play his part in life."

After this interview followed the farewell supper in the common-room, with its toasts and speeches. Archie made certain that he would break down in his speech. And before the fags! He could see and hear the heartless little beasts snickering! As captain of the eleven and of the Philathletic Club, he was expected to speak about games; as a monitor, it was no less a duty to mention work. Finally he wrote out his speech and submitted it to Mark.

"Just what they'll expect," Mark observed. "You j-j-jolly well crack 'em up, and then let 'em down a peg or two. You tell 'em what they know already--that Billy's is the best house in the school; and then you hope that it will remain so after you have left. No doubt without your moral and physical support, Billy's is likely to go to p-p-pot."

"You make me out an ass."

"Most Englishmen either grunt or bray when they get on to their legs to m-m-make a speech."

"And what are you going to say?"

"Nothing. Mum's the word for a stammerer. I shall bid 'em good-bye, that's all."

Thanks to Mark's criticism, Archie saw and seized an opportunity. He told the house he was convinced that its present prosperous condition was entirely due to his personal exertions, that he trembled for its future after he had left, that, if possible, he promised to run down from time to time for the purpose of giving advice to the Doctor, which he was sure would be appreciated--and so forth. Billy's roared with laughter, although the sneering voice of Nixon minimus was heard: "I say, he's trying to be funny!" When Archie sat down, the head of the house proposed Mark's health. The old common-room rocked with cheers. None doubted his popularity, but this deafening roar of applause lent it extraordinary significance, because such tributes were reserved for famous athletes, and for them alone.

"Thank you," he began; "thank you very much. I suppose you have believed all the p-pleasant things that the head of the house has just told you about me..." Here a dozen voices interrupted, "Yes, we do"; "He didn't lay it on thick enough"; "You're a beast to leave us," and the like. Mark continued, and in his voice there was a curious minor inflection which held attention and silence in thrall: "I am glad you believe them, although he has laid it on too thick. You see we can't get away from f-f-facts, can we? And the fact is I've been a f-f-failure." He paused. "I wanted to play in a cockhouse m-match at footer; I w-wanted to w-win a school race; and I w-w-wanted--by Jove! how b-badly I w-wanted that--I wanted my 'straw.'"

"It was offered him," said Archie.

"It was offered me," repeated Mark. "And if I'd taken it, it might have p-proved the straw which breaks the camel's back. Jim Corrance got it, and we know what back he broke--eh? The b-b-back of the Eton bowling." (A terrible din followed, during which Billy appeared, holding up a protesting hand: "My dear fellows, unless you are more careful you will destroy this ramshackle house!")

Meantime Mark had sat down, but every boy in Billy's respected his silence. He did not wish them good-bye, because he couldn't.

*CHAPTER VI*

*AT BURLINGTON HOUSE*

You may divide the world into those who pipe and those who dance. The pipers, for the most part, envy the dancers; but many a dancer has confessed that the piper, after all, has the best of it.

Mark and Jim Corrance, at this period of their lives, were dancers to lively measures. They lived at home for a year, emancipated youths, enjoying the pleasures of Arcadia. Three times a week they rode across the grey, green downs, "that melt and fade into the distant sky," into Westchester, where a scholar of repute undertook their preparation for Sandhurst. Other days they worked at home, not too hard, and played much tennis--a new game then--and practised arts which please country maidens, amongst whom Betty Kirtling was not. For the Admiral, having no stomach for immature Romeos, sent his niece abroad (in the company of Miss Hazelby) to Dresden and Lausanne, whence letters came describing queer foreign folk with sprightliness and humour, and always ending "your most affectionate--Betty."

As the months passed, Jim became aware how strenuously Mark's heart was set on a soldier's career. One night, for instance, the young fellows were dining with the Randolphs at Birr Wood, when a famous general was present. Mark confessed himself aflame to meet the hero; and the hero, when he met Mark, became interested in him. Who shall say there is not some subtle quality, undetected by the common herd, which reveals itself to genius, because it is part, and not the least part, of genius? And you will notice that if a great man be speaking in general company, his eyes will wander here and there in search of the kindred soul, and when that is found, they wander no more. On this occasion a chance remark led the talk to India. Lord Randolph regretted that so brilliant a soldier as Hodson should have slain the Taimur princes with his own hand. The hero, who had known Hodson intimately, said that the princes had been given no assurance that their lives would be spared, and that their escape would have proved an immeasurable calamity. As he went on to speak of Nicholson and the siege of Delhi, the buzz of prattle round the big table ceased.

"He suffered excruciating pain" (the general was alluding to Nicholson), "but not a complaint, not a sigh, leaked from his lips. During nine awful days of agony, his heroic mind fixed itself upon the needs of his country, to the very last he gave us sound and clear advice. When he died, the grim frontier chiefs, who had witnessed unmoved the most frightful atrocities, stood by his dead body with the tears streaming down their cheeks...."

"What a man!" exclaimed Mark.

"Ay," said the general. He stared at Mark, and continued, giving details of what followed the fall of Delhi: then unpublished history. The speaker had marched with the column despatched to the relief of Cawnpore. "We could only spare," said he, "seven hundred and fifty British and one thousand nine hundred native soldiers, and--let me see--how many field-guns?" He paused with his eyes still on Mark.

"Sixteen field-guns," said Mark.

"Yes, you are right. Sixteen field-guns." Then as he realised from whom he had received this piece of information, he broke into an exclamation: "God bless me! How did _you_ know that?"

"I've read the d-despatches," said Mark, blushing.

After dinner the general came up to Mark and asked him if he were going to be a soldier. On Mark's eager affirmative, he said deliberately: "When you are gazetted, my boy, come to see me. I'd like to make your better acquaintance."

For a week Mark could talk of nothing save the Indian Mutiny.

"You're too keen," said Jim. "Suppose we don't pass?"

"Not p-p-pass? That's a dead certainty."

"If we did not pass----"

"We could enlist, Jim. I say, you're not going into the Service because, b-b-because I am?"

"You lit the match," Jim admitted. "A fellow must do something. Soldiering's as good as anything else."

"Ten times as good as anything else," Mark exclaimed.

Jim nodded, sensible that Mark cast a glamour over the future. As a child Jim could never listen to tales of smuggling, of hidden treasure, of Captain Kidd and the Spanish Main, without feeling a titillation of the marrow. And now that he was eighteen, with fluff on his lip, Mark could provoke this agreeable sensation whenever he pleased. That he could fire Jim was not surprising, for Jim was tinder to many sparks, but he could fire Archibald also.

"I back you to win big stakes," he would say. "W-w-what did the gipsy predict? You will g-get what you want, because you want it so badly. You've a leg for a g-g-gaiter. And your voice, your v-voice is amazing. I'd sooner hear you sing r-rot than listen to Lord Randolph talking s-sense. You must have the best of singing lessons. Why--you'll charm the b-birds off the trees."

Archie did take lessons; and began to warble at many houses ballads such as "'Twas in Trafalgar's Bay," "Sally in our Alley," and "I saw from the Beach when the Morning was Shining." He grew bigger and stronger and handsomer every day, and Mark's pride in and affection for this splendid elder brother became something of a thorn in the side of his friend Jim. Mark had an ingenuous habit of putting wise words into the mouth of this Olympian. "Old Archie," he would observe, with a beaming face, "thinks so-and-so...." Jim was sorely tempted to retort: "If old Archie thinks that, why the deuce doesn't he say it?" It was plain to Jim that Archie's brains were of a quality inferior to Mark's, but Mark would not allow this, and always waxed warm if anyone dared to speak slightingly of the colossus. Archie, for his part, returned his minor's affection, and not only sought for, but accepted graciously that minor's advice.

A year later Mark and Jim went up to London for the competitive examination, lodging at a family hotel in Down Street, an old-fashioned inn where the name of Samphire was known and respected. The Squire offered to accompany them, but Mark begged him to stay at Pitt Hall. Mark and Jim unpacked their traps, and then looked out of the window over the great world of London.

"Too much smoke for me," said Jim, seeing nothing but dun-coloured roofs and chimney-pots innumerable.

"But think of the f-f-fires," said Mark, "and of the faces round the fires. I am sure I should learn to like London, if it were not so beastly dirty. Why, there are smuts on my cuffs already."

They had a luncheon such as boys love: chops fizzing and sputtering from the gridiron, a couple of tankards of stout, a tart with Devonshire cream, and some Stilton cheese.

"Are you nervous?" said Mark.

Jim admitted a qualm or two.

"We ought to come out amongst the first twenty."

"If I am dead lag, I shall be jolly thankful," said Jim.

After lunch they took a turn down Piccadilly. Mark talked: "I say, what a glorious b-buzzing, like a swarm o' bees in June, and we're in the hive--eh?"

Presently they entered the Burlington Arcade, exchanging greetings with old school-fellows; some of them forlorn of countenance; others bubbling over with self-assurance. The Medical Board had to be passed that afternoon. Disjointed phrases flitted in and out of Mark's ear. "Not got a chance, I tell you, but it pleases my people to see me make an ass of myself--Fancy a rank outsider like that wanting to go into the Service--Yes; seventy-nine, not out--and first-class cricket--Who are those fellows with dirty collars?--If you try to crib and get nailed, you're done--Hullo, Samphire minor! you're going to pass in first, I know--I say, I saw your aunt the other day--What dead?--And a jolly good thing, too--One of the biggest duffers in the school, I tell you--With windgalls and an awful splint--Played for the 'Varsity--And, as luck 'd have it, he hit her favourite cat----"

Outside the Arcade, they shook themselves free of the chatterers.

"I am in a beastly funk," said Jim, as they went up the stairs of Burlington House.

"Funk of what?" Mark answered impatiently.

"I don't know," Jim muttered vaguely.

They entered a long, ill-lighted room, and waited their turn. Boy after boy came out grinning, and buttoning up coat and waistcoat.

"Rather a farce this medical exam," whispered Mark; and then, as he spoke, his voice broke into a stammer: "I s-s-say--w-w-who's this?"

A fellow they had known at Harrow was coming through the great double doors. His face was white as a sheet and his lips blue. He was hurrying by, when Mark called him by name.

"They won't have me," he gasped. "I--I thought I was all right," he added piteously, "but I ain't."

"What's wrong?" said Mark.

"Heart. I asked 'em to tell me. They were rather decent, but I'm done. If you don't mind, I'll hook it now. No, don't come with me. I'm not as bad as that. Only it will, it may--grow worse."

He shambled away with the step of an old man. Mark's face was working with sympathy.

"How b-b-beastly!" he said. "And it m-m-might be one of us."

They passed through the doors into a larger room beyond. Here a score or more boys in all stages of dressing and undressing were dotting the floor. Near the window a big, burly man was testing the sight of a slender, round-shouldered youth. "How many fingers do I hold up?" Jim heard him say; and the unhappy youth replied: "Three!" The big man laughed grimly. "Wrong. Come a little nearer, and try again."

Jim was confoundedly pale.

"Pinch your cheeks," Mark whispered.

They were told to strip, and did so, but waited for some time, while the wind from an open window blew cold on their bare backs.

"Let's slip on our coats," Jim suggested.

"The others don't do it," said Mark, glancing at a row of shivering boys, "and we won't."

After what seemed an interminable interval, Jim's name was called. The doctor into whose hands he fell made short work of him. He clapped a stethoscope to his chest and back, looked at his legs, asked a few questions, and smiled pleasantly. "If you can see and hear, you're all right," said he. "_Next!_" Jim went back to where his clothes lay in a heap on the chair. He knew that his sight and hearing were excellent; but why in the name of all that was hateful did not Mark come back? Half-way down the room Jim could see him, standing in front of a small, ferret-faced man, who was talking quickly. Now, Jim had not been asked to run round a table or to perform any other strange exercises, but Mark was treated less kindly. Jim saw him jump on and off a bench; then he began to run, and Jim caught the quick command: "Faster, sir, faster!" And then the stethoscope was laid upon his heaving chest. Jim watched the doctor's impassible face. Suddenly the doctor looked up and beckoned to the man who had examined Jim. The second doctor put his ear to the stethoscope.

"Catch him!" yelled Jim.

A hush fell upon the big room as Jim sprang forward, half clothed and choking with excitement. He had seen Mark quiver and reel, but the tall, thin doctor had seen it too. When Jim reached them, Mark was on his back on the big table. The ferret-faced man was smiling disagreeably, and tapping the palm of his hand with the end of his stethoscope.

"Absolutely unfit," Jim heard him say. "Not a surgeon in London would pass him."

"Not pass him?" Jim said furiously. "He's only fainted; he's done that before, that's nothing."

"Isn't it?" said the little man drily. Then he added malevolently: "When I am ready to receive instruction from you, young sir, I will let you know."

When they got back to the hotel and were alone, Mark flung himself into an armchair. Presently he said quietly: "Let's get seats for the play"; so they walked as far as Mitchell's in Bond Street, and bought two stalls for the _Colleen Bawn_, in which Dion Boucicault was acting. Then they strolled on to Regent's Park. Not a word was said about what passed in Burlington House till they were crossing Portland Place, where a cousin of Mark's had a house.

"I shan't go back to Pitt Hall till your exam is over," Mark said. "I'd sooner stop up here with you."

"I don't care a hang about the exam now," Jim blurted out.

"I know you don't," Mark replied. "All the same, you must do your level best."

This calmness surprised Jim. But after the play, as they were strolling home through the crowded, gas-lit streets, Mark whispered fiercely: "I'd like to get drunk to-night."

"Let's do it," said Jim.

"Good old chap! Do you think I'd let you do it?" He glanced at a handsome roysterer, who was reeling by on the arm of a girl as reckless-looking as her companion. "I can guess how _they_ feel, poor devils!"

"We'll have a nightcap, anyhow," said Jim.

So they turned into one of the Piccadilly bars, full of men and women, and ablaze with light reflected from a thousand glasses and mirrors. Mark had never set foot in a London bar at midnight. The roar of the voices, interpenetrated by the shrill laughter of the women, the clinking of glasses, the swish of silk petticoats, the white glare, the overpowering odours of the liquors and perfumes, the atmosphere hot on one's cheek--these smote him. Yet the sensation of violence was not unpleasant. He was sensible that he might yell if he liked, and that no one would heed him. They edged up to the bar, squeezing through the mob till they were opposite a young woman whose plain black dress and immaculate apron were crowned by a mop of chestnut hair.

"Why it's--it's Squeak," Jim said to Mark.

She recognised them at once.

"Hullo, Mr. Samphire minor--why ain't you in bed?"

They demanded whiskies and sodas.

"You can tell that 'andsome brother of yours that I'm here," said Squeak, as she pushed the drinks across the bar.

"I'll mention it to him," said Mark.

"I want to see him, to thank him. He got me this job. Don't worry! I mean that if I'd not got the chuck from Brown's I shouldn't be 'ere, but there. I've not seen 'im. He's one of the kind that loves and runs away."

She laughed shrilly, staring with angry eyes at the young men. Her complexion had lost its freshness and delicacy; her eyes were no longer clear and bright. Mark's impassive face exasperated her.

"Tell 'im to send back all the 'air I gave 'im," she continued viciously.

"You have not quite so much left," said Mark.

"Don't look at me like that, you kid, you! I know you're thinking," she spoke very low, bending across the bar, "that I'm not any younger, or prettier, or better be'aved. Well--I ain't. And that's why I want to thank your brother."

"I shall not forget to tell him to come to see you. It will be safe enough--now."

They dropped back into the crowd. By this time Mark was able to take note of his surroundings. Squeak, so to speak, had given him bearings. The faces, in relation to hers, had a certain resemblance, as if those present belonged to the same family. Next to Jim stood an obese Israelite, puffy of face, with thick, red lips shining through an oily, black beard. Jim felt a mad impulse to kick him on the shins. Beside him was a tall, thin youth of the type known in the seventies as the la-di-da young man. His pallid, clean-shaven face, his light-blue eyes, his closely cropped flaxen hair, his delicate features were all in striking contrast to the Jew's gross, corpulent person. The hands of each were as different as could be: the Jew's short and thick, and none too clean, with a couple of big yellow diamonds blazing on them; the youth's long and thin, very white and bony, with polished nails. And yet the pair were as twins, for the same evil spirit leered out of their eyes.

"Come on," said Mark.

Outside the air was delightfully fresh and cool, but the crowd seemed to have thickened. A tremendous human tide ebbed and flowed between the tall, dark houses. Jim's eye caught a white feather in the hat of a girl, which tossed like foam upon troubled waters. Suddenly the fascination of the scene gripped him. This was London--_London_, the city of millions; and he stood on the pavement of its most famous thoroughfare, of it and in it, whether he loved it, feared it, or hated it. And at the moment, so overpowering was the sense of something new and strange and terrible that he could not determine whether his feeling for the capital of the world was one of attraction or repulsion.

Mark and he moved slowly on, till they came to the wall which encompasses Devonshire House. At the corner stood a huge policeman, grimly impassive, one of London's hundred thousand warders, and an epitome of all.

"When is closing time?" said Mark to the constable.

"Quarter-past twelve, sir."

Mark looked at his watch.

"Five minutes more. I'm going back."

"Where?"

"To that girl--Squeak."

"What on earth for?"

"I spoke brutally. I shall beg her p-pardon. Don't come with me!"

"You're as mad as a hatter."

Jim went on to Down Street, ascended the stairs, and began to undress, thinking of two things which obliterated all others--the slender figure of Mark when it reeled back into the arms of the tall, thin surgeon, and the white feather wavering hither and thither above the turbulent crowd.

Half an hour passed, and Mark did not return. Jim grew apprehensive. If Mark had fainted--if he had fallen into coarse, gross hands such as those of the Jew. Then he thought of the colossus at the corner of Devonshire House, and took comfort in him--the Argus-eyed, the omnipresent and omnipotent.

"Not in bed yet?" said Mark.

"By Jove, here you are! I saw you trampled under foot."

"I'm glad I went back. The girl's a good sort--silly, vain, terribly ignorant, but not without heart. I promised to see her again. It wouldn't be a b-bad bit of work to get her out of that--hell."

"You're a rum 'un," said Jim, for since they had parted Mark's face had resumed its natural expression--that look of joyousness which redeemed the harsh features and sallow skin.

"A rum 'un--why?"

"Well, I supposed, you know, that you'd be thinking just now of--of yourself."

"I'm rather s-sick of that subject."

He flung off his clothes and turned out the gas. Jim slipped into bed in the adjoining room. He couldn't sleep for an hour or two, wondering whether Mark would break down when he found himself alone, listening with ears attuned to catch the lightest sigh. To his astonishment, Mark breathed quietly and regularly. He must be--asleep! Jim waited for another ten minutes; then he slipped out of bed. The moon was throwing a soft radiance upon Mark's figure. He lay flat on his back, with his arms straight at his side. _He was smiling_! But his fists were clenched, and the jaw below the parted lips stood out firm, square, and aggressive....

Jim watched him lying thus for several minutes; then he stole back to bed--no longer a boy, but a man. By many, doubtless, the step between boyhood and manhood is taken at random, and forgotten as soon as taken; or it escapes observation altogether. But Jim was shown, as in a vision, the past and the future: the green playing-fields, the happy lanes of childhood, and beyond--the hurly-burly, the high winds and whirling dust-clouds, the inexorable struggle for and of Life!

*CHAPTER VII*

*THE HUNT BALL*

At Harrow, Mark had been told by the drawing-master that he had great talent as a draughtsman, and possibly something more. The vague "something more" kindled possibilities which smouldered, and burst into flame when the doctors at Burlington House pronounced him unfit to serve his sovereign. The Squire suggested the Bar, a bank, or a junior partnership in a brewery. Mark shook his head. Briefs--supposing they came to him--bullion, beer, left fancy cold. But to paint a great picture, to interpret by means of colour a message vital to the world, this indeed would be worth while!

Mrs. Samphire bleated dismay and displeasure; but much to the Squire's surprise, Lady Randolph sustained Mark's choice of art as an avenue to success.

"Fame's temple," she said, "lies in the heart of a maze to which converge a thousand paths--most of 'em blind alleys. Mark may try one path after another, but in the end--in the end, mind you--he will choose the right one."

After a few months' work in South Kensington, Mark went to Paris, where he became a pupil of the famous Saphir at the Ecole des Beaux Arts. Saphir looked at his studies and shook his head. He was of opinion that Mark had better join Julian's for a year; the standard at the Beaux Arts was very high. Mark showed his disappointment.

"Oh, monsieur, I am so anxious to be under you."

"Have you no better reason than that?" said the great man.

"Our n-n-names are alike," stammered Mark.

"_Tiens_! Any reason is better than none. _Samphire et Saphir_."

"And the l-l-less," said Mark, "includes the g-g-greater."

Saphir laughed at the compliment, and told Mark he might join his _atelier_. "Only you must work--work--work. That is my first word to you--work!"