"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.