CHAPTER XXX
THE END OF THE FEUD
Thoroughly satisfied with himself and all the world, Acton had on thelast Saturday of the term--the election for the captaincy was to be heldthat night--left the cricket field to the enthusiasts, and turned hisfeet towards the old Lodestone Farm, the road he knew so well. He wantedto be alone with his happy thoughts. He was more than satisfied withhimself, and, as he walked along, he mowed down with his ash-plantthistles and nettles in sheer joyfulness of heart. His long feud withBourne would come to a joyful end that night. Mivart's election wascertain, and Mivart's election would pay for all--for the loss of the"footer" cap, and for that terrible half-hour after Bourne had knockedhim out, when he felt himself almost going mad from hatred, rage,disgust, and defeat. He had engineered his schemes beautifully; hisrevenge would be as perfect. The loss of the captaincy would be abitter, bitter pill for Bourne to swallow.
Whilst he strode on, engrossed with these pleasant thoughts, he fanciedhe heard shouts and cries somewhere in the distance behind him. Heturned round, and down the long stretch of white road he saw a cloud ofdust rolling with terrific speed towards him. For one moment he wonderedwhatever was the matter, but out of the dust he could see the flashingof carriage-wheels, the glitter of harness, and the shining coats of acouple of horses. The carriage came rocking towards him at a terriblerate, sometimes the wheels on one side off the road altogether; thehorses had their heads up, and Acton could hear their terrified snortingas they thundered towards him.
"A runaway!" said Acton, backing into the hedge. "They'll come a cropperat the little bridge. What a smash there'll be!" As the runaway horses,galloping like the furies, came nearer, Acton saw something which madehis blood run cold. "Jove!" he cried, darting out from the hedge,"there's a lady in the carriage!" Acton was almost frozen with thehorror of the thing. "She'll be smashed to pieces at the bridge."
Acton glanced to the little bridge half a mile down the long white road,where the road narrowed to meet the low stone walls, and he knew as wellas though he saw it that the carriage would catch the bridge and beshivered to match-wood. The horses must be stopped before they reachedit, or the lady would be killed. Now Acton, with all his faults, was nocoward. Without thinking of the terrible risk he ran, he sprang out intothe middle of the road and waved his arms frantically at the horsesmoving like a thunderbolt towards him. But they were too maddened withterror to heed this waving apparition in their path, and Acton, in thevery nick of time, just jumped aside and avoided the carriage-pole,pointed like a living lance at his breast.
AS THE HORSES WHIRLED PAST, HE CLUTCHED MADLY AT THELOOSE REINS.]
As the horses whirled past, he clutched madly at the loose reins,see-sawing in the air. He held them, and the leather slid through hisfrenzied grasp, cutting his palms to the bone. When he reached the loophe was jerked off his feet with a terrible shock, and was whirled alongthe dusty road, the carriage-wheels grinding, crunching, and skiddingwithin a foot of his head. Luckily the reins held, and when, after beingdragged a hundred yards or so, and half choked by the thick dust, hemanaged to scramble to his feet, he pulled with frenzied, convulsivestrength on the off-side rein. The horses swerved to the fearful saw ontheir jaws, and pulled nearly into the left-hand hedge. Acton'sdesperate idea was to overturn the carriage into the hedge before thehorses could reach the bridge, for he felt he could no more pull them upthan he dare let them go. There was just a chance for the lady if shewere overturned into the bank or hedge, but none whatever if she werethrown at the bridge. In a minute or so the carriage lurched horriblysideways: there was a grinding crash, and the carriage overturned bodilyinto the bank. The lady was shot out, and the next minute the horses'hoofs were making tooth-picks of the wrecked carriage.
Acton darted up the bank and found the lady dazed and bruised, but wasoverjoyed to see she wasn't dead. "Are you much hurt?"
"No, I don't think so," she said, with a brave smile; "but I expectedto be killed any moment. You are a brave man, sir, to risk your life fora stranger."
Acton said quietly, "Not at all; but I think I was very lucky to turnthem in time."
In a minute or two there was a small crowd. Half a dozen stray cyclistshad wheeled up, and with their help Acton got out the horses, dreadfullycut about the legs and shivering with terror, from the wreckage. Downthe dusty road were men running for dear life, and ahead of all Actoncaught sight of a well-known athletic figure running like a deer, and inanother moment Phil Bourne was asking the lady in panting bursts if shewere not really hurt.
"No, Phil; not in the least. I owe my life to this gentleman, who pulledthe horses into the bank before they could reach the bridge."
Phil wheeled round, his face beaming with gratitude, but when he sawActon, pale to the lips, the words of thankfulness froze on his lips.For one instant he stared at his old enemy with wonder and amazement,then, with a gesture of utter gratitude, he said--
"Acton, I can never tell you how much I owe you for saving my mother'slife, but will you shake hands?"
Acton looked at Bourne, whose face beamed with admiration and gratitude,and then he put out his hand. In that moment, so honourable to themboth, the feud was stamped out for ever. Fresh as he was from asglorious a deed as any Amorian had ever done, he realized that he hadbeen a blackguard towards Bourne the moment Phil begged him to shakehands.
Phil murmured almost inarticulate words of gratitude; but Acton, morethan a trifle disturbed at his own thoughts, interrupted hastily--
"Say no more about it, please, Bourne. You'd have done as much for anyone."
"Your hands are bleeding," said Phil, with immense concern.
"Nothing at all. I think the reins cut them."
Mrs. Bourne _would_ bind them. "Of course!" said she. "How blind of menot to see that this gentleman is one of your schoolfellows, Phil."
"Mother," said Phil, "this is John Acton."
"I've heard Phil talk about your wonderful win at Aldershot. I supposeyou're great friends?"
The "great friends" looked on the ground rather guiltily, but Phil cutin with--
"I say, Acton, you must come and have tea with mother and me in my den.Can you?"
Acton said quietly, "All right, Bourne. Thanks, awfully." Then he addedunder his breath to Phil, "If I can come as a friend?"
"On that condition," said Phil, "I'd like you to come."
The trio walked back along the road--a happy trio they were, too--and amelancholy procession of injured horses and an angry coachman closedtheir rear. The tea in Bourne's room was very successful, and I shouldfancy that Hinton did more hard thinking and hard staring when he sawActon amicably seated with his feet under Bourne's table than he everdid before. The minute he had permission, he flew down the corridor, andexploded bombshell after bombshell among wondering Amorians.
"Acton and Bourne teaing together like two birds on a bough!" he gasped.
"That would be a funny sight," said Cherry. "Birds don't take tea."
"Write an epilogue, Fruity. Teaing together as friendly as Grim and Imight."
"Only that," said W.E. Grim, with a genial wink, "my opinion is, thatHinton's been on the drink, and seen double."
Incredulity and wonder were the dominant notes among Amorians for thenext two hours.
Acton and Phil walked to the station with Mrs. Bourne, and when she hadgone to town, and the pair were returning schoolwards, Acton saidthoughtfully--
"Look here, Bourne. Don't know quite what it was that made me feel socheap when you rushed to thank me for helping your mater. I felt verysmall."
"If that's so, you'll feel cheaper and smaller when pater sees you. I'dhave those hands cured first."
"Bourne," said Acton, very seriously, "I've been an arrant cad sinceI've come to St. Amory's, and if those horses hadn't bolted with yourmater I should never have seen in you anything but a strait-laced prig,as I've all along thought you. I have, really. But that's all changednow, and I'm going to dry up. I suppose you know you aren't popula
ramong the fellows generally?"
"Rather!" said Phil, gloomily.
"And you know that you owe all this to me?"
"Only too well, Acton."
"Well, I'm going to make what amends I can. Have you any objection to myproposing you as captain to-night?"
"Acton, you are a brick," said Phil, "but you're too late now. I don'tstand a ghost of a chance against Mivart."
"And I'll get Mivart to second you. I can put all the fellows straightconcerning you, and, by Jove, it's the least I can do! I'll make a cleanbreast of it to them all to-night before the election comes on."
"Oh no, you won't! I'd rather lose the captaincy than that. Besides,Aspinall asked me not to do anything bar refuse you your cap."
"I've been an insufferable cad," said Acton, with a hot blush, "but youshall be captain in any case."
Acton saw Mivart, and whether he told him the whole history of hisquarrel with Bourne or not, I cannot say; anyhow, Acton prevailed on himto second Phil. Mivart was a very good fellow, as I said before, and hethoroughly believed that Bourne would make a better captain than hehimself would, so he said he would be delighted to back Phil up to anyextent, since Phil was not now the jealous bounder he had so long beenconsidered.
I myself, as the retiring captain, took the chair in the Sixth Formroom to see the election of my successor through with all due solemnity.Acton got up, and though he was very nervous, he said out straight whathe had resolved to say.
"I propose Phil Bourne for captain in place of Carr, and I'll tell youwhy. I consider him the most suitable fellow to take our old captain'splace. Many of you may be--will be--surprised to hear me propose Bourne,for between us two, as you all know, there has been no love lost. But inall the dreary business I have been the utter cad and Bourne the otherthing. He brought upon himself any amount of bad feeling because hewould not give me my 'footer' cap. I did not deserve it"--some one heresaid "rot!" emphatically--"not because I wasn't good enough a player,but for another reason, which, much as I should shy at telling you, Iwould tell, only Bourne begged me not to. It is his and Carr's andanother fellow's secret as much as mine, so I feel I had better not sayit. But, believe me, in the business I was an utter cad, and instead ofbringing all that row about my cap upon Bourne's head, I ought to haveburned my boots, and never kicked a football again. There's anothermatter, this time strictly between Bourne and self, in which I did himas big an injury as one fellow can do another. He gave me a soundthrashing for it on the morning that you fellows went away last term,and Carr and Vercoe here assisted us in our little mill. No one everdeserved a thrashing as I deserved that one, and now I'm glad I got it.It was Bourne's only score against me. Fact is," said Acton, with a grimsmile, "I'd rather meet another Jarvis than Bourne."
The fellows opened their eyes, and wondered what next.
"This term I've worked the whole school, and especially you monitors,against Bourne, to make his chance of getting the captaincy a very rockyone. And I think I pretty well succeeded. You all liked Bourne before Iappeared on the scene, with good reason, and I do hope you will all givehim your votes, for, and I say it absolutely sure of its truth, the bestfellow in St. Amory's is Bourne. That is all I can say."
Mivart got up before the fellows had time to recover from theirastonishment, and said--
"I have great pleasure in seconding Acton's proposal. I, too, considerBourne out and out the best fellow to take Carr's place. Whilst Phil wasunder a cloud I was willing to stand for captain, but since we all knownow that he stands where he did, the only proper thing to do is to givehim the unanimous vote, for I do not mean to stand at all."
The fellows blankly voted for Bourne, and, as Grim would be sure to say,"the proposition was carried _nem. con_."
That evening Corker confirmed Phil's appointment, and I spent as happyan evening as I can remember. Acton said he should not come back to St.Amory's again, as his record was too black to be used as a convenientreference, but Phil and I and all the fellows told him we should beonly too glad to let bygones be bygones, and that he had really done thesquare thing at the last.
He did come back, and Phil's letters to me tell me that his old enemy isone of the most popular--deservedly--in the school, and his best friend.They are inseparable, play back together at "footer," and are variouslycalled Gemini, Damon and Pythias, David and Jonathan, as the case maybe.
Biffen's are still cock-house at "footer;" Acton is going in again forthe "heavy"--this time without the Coon's help--and those "niggers,"Singh Ram and Runjit Mehtah, to Worcester's intense disgust, are therepresentatives of St. Amory's in gymnastics; and, altogether, Biffen'sHouse is, thanks to Acton's help, perhaps the most distinguished in theschool.