Part 3

The brave shout rolled over the playing-fields and up Harrow Hill, past the Music Schools which recorded it; past the Chapel, where its subtle vibrations were enshrined; past the Yard, which gave back the glad acclaim of valour; past the Vaughan Library, startling, perhaps, some bookworm too intent upon what has been to care greatly for what is and may be; down the familiar street, where countless generations of ardent boys had hastened to work or play; on and on till it reached Billy's--Billy's with its hoary traditions of innumerable battles fought and won, Billy's shabby and battered, scarred within and without, Billy's--dear old Billy's--where it became merged but not lost, in the whole of which every valiant word or deed or thought is an imperishable part!

*CHAPTER III*

*WHICH CONTAINS A FORTUNE*

At lock-up Billy announced that Mark's injuries, albeit severe, were not such as to cause his friends serious anxiety. And so, when Archie came to Jim's room with a face as long as the catalogue of ships in the _Iliad_, and when the two boys present got up and left hurriedly at his impatient nod of dismissal, you may believe that Jim's heart began to thump and his eyes to pop out of his head with interrogation.

"I dropped in to tell you, you could get your 'fez,'" said Archie.

"Oh, thanks awfully. And--and Mark?"

"I bought one for him and sent it in. He got it after his arm was set."

Jim's heart warmed to the big fellow. "I'm glad you thought of that."

"His advice saved the match, and--and--and--" his voice had a curious quaver in it--"and it's no good. Mark can never play footer again."

He sat down and laid his curly head upon a Greek lexicon.

"You see," Archie continued heavily, "I thought Mark would step into my shoes."

"Good Lord!" said Jim, seeing Mark's foot. "He'd lose himself in 'em."

"The Lubber says he'd have made a great player, a great captain."

"So he will--yet. Footer's not the only game."

"That's true. There's cricket." Archie's face brightened. "I must push him on at that. The governor might get a 'pro' to bowl to him during the Easter holidays. He shall, by Jove! Yes, you're right. I was a fool not to think of that. And when he leaves there will have been three Samphires of Pitt Hall in the school eleven. I'll go now. I've got to tackle a nasty bit of AEschylus. You played up like fun to-day. I told the Doctor you came from our part of Slowshire. He said something in Greek which I couldn't make head or tail of; but I grinned, because I made certain it was complimentary. I say--don't be in too much of a hurry to get into the Sixth. A fellow can't work and play too. And I didn't come to Harrow to be killed by Greek tragedians. By-the-by, if you could go down and give the old Lubber a 'con,' he'd be grateful. He'd come up, as usual, only he doesn't want to climb these stairs. Good night. We're to see Mark to-morrow, if he has a decent sleep."

After Archie had left the room, Jim rose to go downstairs to the Lubber, and in rising his eye caught a picture of Mark's mother, which hung to the right of the head of the nine-pointer. On the other side was a picture of the Squire, a capital portrait of that fine specimen of the country gentleman. From time immemorial the owners of Pitt Hall had sought wives in Slowshire; but Mark's father went a-wooing in London and married a delicate creature of sensibility, refinement, and culture, the daughter of an eloquent and impecunious member of Parliament, a friend of Cobden and Bright, with some of Sheridan's wild blood in his veins, tempered, however, by a tincture of John Wesley's. This lady bore her husband three sons: George, cut to the old Samphire pattern (whose fortunes do not concern us), Archibald, and Mark, the stammerer. Then she died, and in due time the Squire of Pitt Hall married again, selecting Miss Selina Lamb, of Cranberry-Orcas, of whom mention has been made.

Jim stared at both portraits, seeing dimly the gulf between husband and wife, realising that Mark was his mother's child, even as Archie was as truly the son of his burly father. Mrs. Samphire's pathetic eyes seemed to pierce his heart, so poignant was the reflection that the mother's fine qualities of head and heart had been reproduced faithfully, and with them her infirmity of body. Then he blundered out into the dimly lit passage and stumbled against Nixon minimus going to supper, although he was as full of tea and potted meat, and hot buttered toast, and strawberry jam as a Fourth Form boy could be.

"I say," whined Nixon minimus, "I wish you'd look and see whom you're shovin' into."

"I am looking," said Jim. "Unless I'm vastly mistaken, I heard you say to me this afternoon: 'Why don't you run, you silly fool?' I'm going to answer that question now. I didn't run because I was playing to orders. Later, when I was lying flat on my back, with the wind squeezed out of me, you specially urged me to get up and play up. Yes, you didn't mean it, of course, but I happen to want to kick somebody, and I'm going to kick you, you spoiled infant, you! Take that, and that!"

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.