Chapter 4. Mark In A Hole

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_ CHAPTER FOUR. MARK IN A HOLE

"Hullo, thick-head! loafing again."

It was a dark, olive-complexioned young fellow, of Sir Richard's age, who swung into the opening noisily, cigarette in mouth.

"Not loafing, Mr Frayne, sir," said the man in an injured tone, as he fixed his eyes on the rather handsome student who had entered the room, and took in at a glance his white flannels and yellow-striped blazer, from the breast-pocket of which a thick gold chain was hanging. "Beg pardon, sir; you'll be losing your watch-chain's out o' buttonhole."

"Well, what business is it of yours, idiot? If I lose it, you might find it. Perquisites--eh, Jerry?"

"There, S'Richard," said the man, flushing. "Now, ain't that as good as sayin' I'd steal a watch? I'd take my oath I never--"

"That will do, Jerry," said Sir Richard, sternly. "You needn't wait.-- Why can't you leave the fellow alone, Mark?"

"Why can't you act like a gentleman, and not be always making friends with the servants?" retorted the young fellow addressed. "So that's it, is it? The confounded sneak comes tattling to you, does he?"

"No!" cried Sir Richard, rather gruffly; "but he did complain of your forgetting yourself and throwing things at him."

"Oh, did he?" cried Mark Frayne, catching up the nearest thing, which was the model his cousin had been making, and hurling it at the offender, but without effect, for Jeremiah Brigley already had the door open and darted out; the panel receiving the model instead of his head.

Sir Richard Frayne sprang to his feet to save his model, but too late; it fell, shivered, to the carpet, and the new-comer burst into a roar of laughter.

"I don't see anything to grin at," said his cousin, indignantly.

"Not you!" said the other, letting himself down on to the keyboard of the piano with a loud musical crash, and laughing heartily all the time. "Why don't you get on with your work? Anyone would think you were in training for a cat-gut scraper at a low theatre instead of for an officer and a gentleman."

"Mark, old chap," said Sir Richard, good-humouredly, as, with rather a rueful look, he picked up his broken model, "every man to his taste. I like music; you like dogs."

"Yes; and they make a precious sight better music than ever you do. Soldier! Pooh! You haven't the heart of a cockroach in you. Thank goodness, you'll soon have to do your exam. That'll open your eyes, and I shall be glad of it. If I were you, I'd try for an engagement in a band somewhere, for you'll never get a commission."

"Perhaps not," said Sir Richard, quietly. "But what's the matter with you, old chap? Been having a row with Draycott?"

"Draycott's a bumptious, pedantic old fool. Fancies he knows everything. A brute!"

"Take a couple of pills, Mark; your liver's out of order."

"Put an angel's liver out of order to be here! I won't put up with much more of it, and so I'll tell him. I shall dress as I like, and do as I like, even if I haven't got a handle to my name. Sir Richard, indeed!-- a pattern for me to follow! Next time the fat old idiot say's that to me, I'll throw the books at his head."

"Oh, that's it, is it?"

"Yes; that's it, is it!" cried Mark Frayne in an angry tone. "I tell you I'm sick of it!"

"Nonsense! What had you been doing?" said Richard, fighting down a feeling of resentment, and looking smilingly at his cousin.

"What's that to you?" growled Mark.

"Not much; but I wanted to help the lame dog over the stile."

"Look here," cried Mark, fiercely; "none of that. If you want to insult me, say so right out, and then I shall know what you mean. None of your covert allusions."

Richard Frayne laughed outright, and his cousin took a step forward menacingly.

"Why, what has come to you?" cried the former. "Don't be so peppery. I want to help you, if I can."

"Do you?" cried Mark, eagerly. "There, I'm sorry I spoke so sharply. That brute Simpson has been writing to Draycott."

"Simpson, the tailor? What has he got to write about?"

Mark Frayne scowled, and gave a kick out with his leg, but did not answer.

"Have you been running a bill with him?"

Mark nodded.

"Then why don't you pay it?"

"Why don't I pay it?" snarled Mark. "Am I a baronet with plenty of money?"

"No; but you have as good an allowance as I. You ought to be able to pay your tailor's bill."

"'Tisn't a bill for clothes," said Mark, sulkily, and he picked up a book, opened it, and threw it impatiently across the room, making his cousin wince a little.

"What then? Surely you haven't been such a fool as to borrow money of him?"

"Yes, I have been such a fool as to borrow money of him," cried Mark, savagely. "I couldn't help being short; he offered it to me, and, of course, I took it. So would you."

"No, I shouldn't," said Richard, quietly. "He did write to offer me money once--when I first came, and I refused it, and haven't been in his shop since."

"But then we're not all such good young men as you are, Dick," sneered Mark. "I did take it, and the brute has been running up interest and renewing, as he calls it, and gammoning me into ordering fresh clothes. He made this beastly jacket, and all sorts of things that don't fit; and now, because I'm not ready to pay his swindling bill and the wretched paper, he has been threatening, and ended by writing to old Draycott."

"Pay him then, and have done with him."

"Will you help me?"

"Of course, if I can."

"If you can! Why, you can, if you like."

"I don't know about that," said the other, good-humouredly; "I've been spending a good deal of money in music things lately."

"Bosh! you can get me out of the hole, if you like."

"How much do you owe him?"

Mark threw the end of his cigarette with all his force into the fireplace, and ground his teeth for a few moments before muttering between them--

"Eighty-four pounds, or so!"

"What?"

"Eighty-four pounds," snarled Mark. "Do you want me to shout it for everyone to know?"

"But how could you get into his debt to that extent?"

"Didn't I tell you, stupid? Half of it was lent, and I gave him an I.O.U., and he has been piling it up somehow. I don't know what he has done. He was civil and smooth as butter till he had me tight, and now he's showing his teeth."

"But he would not have written to Draycott unless you had been disagreeable to him."

"Oh! wouldn't he? He threatened to a year ago, when it wasn't so much. It was when he found out I'd been getting some togs from London. I expect he pumped it out of that idiot Jerry Brigley. But I'm not going to sit here exposing my affairs. Will you help me to get out of the hole?"

Richard Frayne was silent for a time, and then he said quietly--

"I can't, Mark."

"What? Why, you said you would."

"Yes, but I thought it meant lending you four or five pounds. I have no more till my quarter comes round."

"Till your quarter comes round," sneered Mark; "anyone would think he had his wages then. Here, no nonsense, Dick; you said you would help me."

"I did, but I can't."

Mark made an angry gesture, but he mastered himself and turned to his cousin.

"Look here, it doesn't mean money. Simpson knows that you'll have Quailmere some day, and he said he wouldn't mind waiting if he had good security. It only means putting your name to a bit of paper."

"Did Simpson suggest that?" said Richard.

"Of course he did, and it means making an end to the trouble. I shall only have to go on paying the interest."

"Till Mr Simpson chooses to come down upon me and make me pay," said Richard, with a laugh full of annoyance.

"No, he won't; he said he wouldn't. It's such a little sum, too-- nothing to you! Here, come on with me at once, and let's settle it."

Richard Frayne sat back in his chair, looking straight before him, unconscious of the fact that his cousin was watching him narrowly, and who now went on with forced gaiety--

"Wish I hadn't been such a fool as to keep it to myself. Here it has been worrying my very life out for months, and made me as irritable as a wasp. You are a good fellow, Dick! But, honour bright, I didn't like to ask you."

Richard remained silent.

"There, don't think about it any more. Come on."

"But it wants thinking about, Mark."

"What nonsense! You don't know how easy these things are."

"I've often heard," said Richard, drily.

"Yes, of course you have," said Mark, with a feeble laugh. "There, put me out of my misery, old chap. Sudden death, you know. Come on."

"No," said Richard, quietly. "I promised my poor father that I would never put my name to paper in that way, and I never will."

"What?"

"You heard, Mark."

"Do you mean to tell me that, after what you have said, you will not help me out of this bit of trouble?"

"No, I do not mean to tell you that. I want to help you."

"Then, come on."

"Yes, come on to Mr Draycott, and let's ask him what is to be done."

Mark Frayne leaped up from where he had rested in a sitting position upon the keyboard of the piano, giving his hands a bang down on either side, and producing fresh jangling discords, which seemed to fit with the harsh, mocking laugh he uttered.

"Good boy!" he cried. "What an excellent son! That old cock-o'-wax, the Admirable Crichton, was nowhere. You'd have beaten him into fits, Dick. Go on, say something else; it does me good; only be gentle. I couldn't bear to be made such a saint as you are all at once."

"Of course, I know it will be very painful for you," continued Richard, gravely; "but it is the only thing you can do, and Draycott has over and over again said to me, 'If ever you find yourself in any trouble, Frayne, forget that we are tutor and pupil, and come to me as a friend.'"

"You miserable sneak!" growled Mark, in a hard, husky voice.

"No, I'm not; I'm your cousin, and I want to help you, Mark," said Richard. "I spend so much time at the music that I know very little about these money matters; but I do know that this fellow Simpson has been working to get you under his thumb, and running up an account twice as much as you justly owe him."

"Go on," said Mark, "preach away! I won't quarrel with you; because, prig as you are, Dick, I don't believe you will refuse to help me. Look here, it's only signing your name. Will you do it?"

"I'll give you all I've got, and undertake to let you have three-quarters of my next allowance from the lawyers. I can't do any more than that."

"Once more," said Mark, huskily, "will you help me?"

"I have told you," was the reply, "I'll lend you all I can scrape together, or go with you straight to Mr Draycott."

"Once more," said Mark, with an ugly, vicious look in his eyes, "will you come in to old Simpson's and sign?"

Richard Frayne sat looking firmly at his cousin, but made no reply.

"All right," said Mark, with a laugh; "then the game's up! I shall make a bolt of it, and go to sea. No: every cad does that. I'll take my dearly beloved, sanctified cousin for a model, and be very good and saving. I won't waste all old Draycott's military teaching; it would be a pity!"

"What do you mean?" cried Richard.

"To go over to Ratcham and take the shilling. Perhaps I shall rise from the ranks."

"Go and think about what I've said, and come back when you get cool. I won't go out all day, and--"

_Bang_, _rattle_, and a crash!

Mark Frayne had gone out and closed the door with so much violence that the dragoon officer's helmet was shaken from the peg upon which it hung, and fell, bringing with it the cavalry sabre.

Richard sprang from his chair to pick them up, a frown gathering upon his face as he saw that an ugly dint had been made in the helmet which resisted all his efforts to force it out.

Then he stood gazing down at it and the sabre, which he had raised and carefully laid upon the table beneath where it had hung.

It was a fancy, he knew. He told himself that it was a silly piece of superstition; but, all the same, a strange feeling troubled him; and it seemed as if the fall of these old mementoes of the gallant officer, his dead father, was a kind of portent of trouble to come--trouble and disaster that would be brought about by his cousin. _

Read next: Chapter 5. Right Forward

Read previous: Chapter 3. Two Paces To The Rear

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