Soldier now and servant true;
Earth behind and heaven in view.
Isaac Williams.
Marmaduke Alwyn Evelyn, Viscount Fordham, was the fourth bearer of that
title within ten years. His father had not lived to wear it, and his two
elder brothers had both died in early youth. His precarious existence
seemed to be only held on a tenure of constant precaution, and if his
mother ventured to hope that it might be otherwise with the two youngest
of the family, it was because they were of a shorter, sturdier, more
compact form and less transparent complexion than their elders, and
altogether seemed of a different constitution.
More delicate from the first than the two brothers who had gone before
him, Lord Fordham had never been at school, had studied irregularly, and
had never been from under his mother’s wing till this summer, when
she was detained by the slow decay of his grandmother. Languor and
listlessness had beset the youth, and he had been ordered mountain
air, and thus it was that Mrs. Evelyn had despatched both her sons to
Switzerland, under the attendance of a highly recommended physician,
a young man bright and attractive, who had over-worked himself at an
hospital, and needed thorough relaxation. Rightly considering Lucas
Brownlow as the cause of most of Cecil’s Eton follies, she had given her
eldest son a private hint to elude joining forces with the family, and
he was the most docile and obedient of sons. Yet was it the perversity
of human nature that made him infinitely more animated and interested in
John Brownlow’s race and the distressed travellers on the Schwarenbach
than he had been since--no one could tell when?
Perhaps it was the novelty of being left alone and comparatively
unwatched. Certain it was that he ate enough to rejoice the heart of
his devoted and tyrannical attendant Reeves; and that he walked about in
much anxiety all the afternoon, continually using his telescope to look
up the mountain wherever a bit of the track was visible through the pine
woods.
In due time Cecil rode back the pony which John had taken up. The
alacrity with which the long lank bending figure stepped to meet him was
something unwonted, but the boy himself was downcast and depressed.
“I’m afraid you’ve nothing good to tell.”
Cecil shook his head, and after some more seconds broke out--
“It’s awful!”
“What is?”
“Brownlow’s pain. I never saw anything like it!”
“Rheumatism? If that is from the exposure, I hope it will not last
long.”
“No. They’ve sent for some opiates to Leukerbad, and the doctor says
that is sure to put him to sleep.”
“Medlicott stays there?”
“Yes. He says if little Armine is any way fit, he must move him away
to-morrow at all risks from the night-cold up there, and he wants Reeves
to see about men to carry him, that is if--if to-night does not--”
Cecil could not finish.
“Then it is as bad as we heard?”
“Quite,” said Cecil, “or worse. That dear little chap, just fancy!” and
his eyes filled with tears. “He tried to thank me for having been good
to him--as if I had.”
“He was your fag?”
“Yes; Skipjack asked me to choose him because he’s that sort of little
fellow that won’t give into anything that goes against his conscience,
and if one of those fellows had him that say lower boys have no business
with consciences, he might be licked within an inch of his life and
he’d never give in. He did let himself be put under a pump once at some
beastly hole in the country, for not choosing to use bad language, and
he has never been so strong since.”
“Mother would be glad that at least you allowed him the use of his
conscience.”
“I’m glad I did now,” said Cecil, with a sigh, “though it was a great
nuisance sometimes.”
“Was the Monk, as you call him, one of that set?”
“Bless you, no, he’s a regular sap, as steady as old time.”
“I wonder if he is the son of the doctor whom Medlicott talks of.”
“No; his father is alive. He is a colonel, living near their place. The
other two are the doctor’s sons; their mother came into the property
after his death. Their Maximus was in college at first, and between
ourselves, he was a bit of a snob, who couldn’t bear to recollect it.”
“Not your friend?”
“No, indeed. The eldest one, who has left these two years, and is at
Christchurch.”
“I am sure the one who came down here was a gentleman.”
“So they are, all three of them,” said Cecil, who had never found his
brother so ready to hear anything about his Eton life, since in general
accounts of the world, from which he was debarred, so jarred on his
feelings that he silenced it with apparent indifference, contempt, or
petulance. Now, however, Cecil, with his heart full of the Brownlows,
could not say more of them than Fordham was willing to hear; nay, he
even found an amused listener to some of his good stories of courageous
pranks.
Fordham was not yet up the next morning when there was a knock at his
door, and the doctor came in, answering his eager question with--
“Yes, he has got through this night, but another up in that place would
be fatal. We must get them down to Leukerbad.”
“Over that long precipitous path?”
“It is the only chance. I came down to look up bearers, and rig up a
couple of hammocks, as well as to see how you are getting on.”
“Oh! I’m very well,” said Lord Fordham, in a tone that meant it, sitting
up in bed. “We might ride on to Leukerbad with Reeves, and get rooms
ready.”
“The best thing you could do,” said Dr. Medlicott, joyfully. “When we
are there we can consider what can be done next; and if you wish to go
on, I could look up some one there in whose charge to leave them till
they could get advice from home; but it is touch and go with that little
fellow.”
“I’m in no particular hurry,” said Lord Fordham, answering the doctor’s
tone rather than his words. “I would not do anything hasty or that
might add to their distress. Are there likely to be good doctors at this
place?”
“It is a great watering-place, chiefly for rheumatic complaints, and
that is all very well for the elder boy. As to the little one, he is
in as critical a state as I ever saw, and--His mother is an excellent
linguist, that is one good thing.”
“Yes; it would be very trying for her to have a foreigner to attend the
boy in such a state, however skilled he might be,” said Lord Fordham.
“I think we might make up our minds to stay with them till they can get
some one from England.”
Dr. Medlicott caught at the words.
“It rests with you,” he said. “Of course I am your property and Mrs.
Evelyn’s, but I should like to tell you why this is more to me than
a matter of common humanity. I went up to study in London, a simple,
foolish lad, bred up by three good old aunts, more ignorant of the world
than their own tabby cat. Of course I instantly fell in with the worst
stamp of fellows, and was in a fair way of being done for, body
and soul, if one of the lecturers, after taking us to task for some
heartless, disgusting piece of levity, seeing perhaps that it was more
than half bravado on my part and nearly made me sick, managed to get me
alone. He talked it out with me, found out the innocent-hearted fool I
was, cured me of my false shame at what the good old souls at home had
taught me, showed me what manhood was, found a good friend and a better
lodging for me, in short, was the saving of me. He died three months
after I first knew him, but whatever is worth having in me is owing to
him.”
“Was he the father of these boys?”
“Yes; I saw a likeness in the nephew who came down yesterday, and I see
it in both the others.”
“Of course you would wish to do all that is possible for them?”
“I should feel it the greatest honour. Still my first duty is to you,
and you have told me that your mother wished you to keep your brother
out of the way of his schoolfellow.”
“My mother would not wish to deprive her worst enemy of your care in
such need as this,” said Lord Fordham, smiling. “Besides if this friend
of Cecil’s were ever so bad, he couldn’t do him much harm while he is
ill, poor boy. We will at any rate stay to get them through the next few
days, and then we can judge. I will settle it with my mother.”
“I knew you would say so,” rejoined the doctor. “Thank you. Then it
seems to me that the right course will be to write to Mrs. Evelyn,
inclosing a note to Dr. Lucas--who it seems is Mrs. Brownlow’s chief
reliance--asking him to find someone to send out. She, can send it on
to him if she disapproves of our remaining together longer than is
absolutely necessary, or if Leukerbad disagrees with you. Meantime, I’ll
go and see whether Reeves has found any men to carry the poor boys.”
Unfortunately it was too early in the season for the hotels to have
marshalled their full establishment, and such careful and surefooted
bearers as the sufferers needed could not be had in sufficient numbers,
so that Dr. Medlicott was forced to decide on leaving the elder patient
for a night at Schwarenbach. The move might be matter of life or death
to Armine; but Jock was better, the pain could be somewhat allayed by
anodynes, the fever was abating, and he would rather gain than lose by
another day of rest, provided he would only accept his fate patiently,
and also if he could be properly attended to. If Mr. Graham would stay
with him--
So breakfast was eaten, bills were paid, horses hired, and the whole
cavalcade started from Kandersteg in time to secure the best part of a
bright hot day for the transit.
They met Mr. Graham, who had been glad to escape as soon as Mrs.
Brownlow had found other assistance, so that the doctor was disappointed
in his hope of a guardian for Jock. Lord Fordham offered to lend Reeves,
but that functionary absolutely refused to separate himself from his
charge, observing--
“I am responsible for your lordship to your mamma, and it does not lie
within my province to leave you on any account.”
Reeves always called Mrs. Evelyn “your mamma” when he wished to be
particularly authoritative with his young gentlemen. If they were
especially troublesome he called her “your ma.”
“And after all,” said the doctor, “I don’t know what sort of
preparations the young gentlemen would make if we let them go by
themselves. A bare room, perhaps--with no bed-clothes, and nothing to
eat till the table d’hote”
Reeves smiled. He had found the doctor much less of a rival than he had
expected, and he was a kind-hearted man, so long as his young lord was
made the first object; so he declared his willingness to do anything
that lay in his power for the assistance of the poor lady and her sons.
He would gladly sit up with them, if it were in the same house with his
lordship.
No one came out to meet the party. John was found with Armine, who had
been taken back at night to his own room; Mrs. Brownlow, as usual, with
Jock, who would endure no presence but hers, and looked exceedingly
injured when, sending Cecil in to sit with him, the doctor called her
out of the room.
It was a sore stroke on her to hear that her charges must be separated;
and there was the harrowing question whether she should stay with one or
go with the other.
“Please, decide,” she said.
“I think you should be with the most serious case.”
“And that, I fear, means my little Armine. Yes, I will do as you tell
me. But what can be done for Jock?--poor Jock who thinks he needs me
most. And perhaps he does. You know best, though, Dr. Medlicott, and you
shall settle it.”
“That is a wise nurse,” said he, kindly; “I wish I could take your place
myself, but I must be with the little fellow myself; and I am afraid we
can only leave his brother to your nephew for this one night. Should you
be afraid to be sole nurse?” he added, as Johnny came to Armine’s door.
“I think I know what to do, if Jock can stand having me,” said Johnny,
stoutly, as soon as he understood the question.
“Mother!” just then shouted Jock, and as Johnny obeyed the call, he
began--“I want my head higher--no--I say not you--Mother Carey!”
“She is busy with the doctor.”
“Can’t she come and do this? No, I say,” and he threw the nearest thing
at hand at him.
“Come,” said Cecil, “I’m glad you can do such things as that.”
But Jock gave a cry of pain, and protested that it was all John’s fault
for making him hurt himself instead of fetching mother.
“You had better let me lift you,” said John, “you know she is tired, and
I _really_ am stronger.”
“No, you shan’t touch me--a great clumsy lout.”
In the midst of these amenities, the doctor appeared, and Jock looked
slightly ashamed, especially when the doctor, instead of doing what
was wanted, directed John where to put an arm, and how to give support,
while moving the pillow, adding that he was a handy fellow, more so than
many a pupil after half a year’s training at the hospital, and smiling
down Jock’s growls and groans, which were as much from displeasure as
from pain. They were followed by some despairing sighs at the horrors of
the prospect of being moved.
“Ah! what will you give me for letting you off?” said the Doctor.
Jock uttered a sound of relief, then, rather distrustfully,
asked--“Why?”
“We can only get bearers enough for one; and as it is most important to
move your brother, while you will gain by a night’s rest, he must have
the first turn.”
“And welcome,” said Jock; “my mother will stay with me.”
“That’s the very point,” said Dr. Medlicott. “I want you not only to
give her up, but to do so cheerfully.”
“I’m sure mother wants to stay with me. Armine does not need her half so
much.”
“He does not require the same kind of attention; but he is in so
critical a state that I do not think I ought to separate her from him.”
“Why, what is the matter with him?” asked Jock, startled.
“Congestion of the right lung,” said the doctor, seeing that he was
strong enough to bear the information, and feeling the need of rousing
him from his monopolising self-absorption.
“People get over that, don’t they?” said Jock, with an awestruck
interrogation in his voice.
“They _do_; and I hope much from getting him into a warmer atmosphere,
but the child is so much reduced that the risk is great, and I should
not dare not to have his mother with him.” Then, as Jock was silent, “I
have told you because you can make a great difference to their comfort
by not showing how much it costs you to let her go.”
Jock drew the bed clothes over his face, and an odd stifled sound was
heard from under them. He remained thus perdu, while directions were
being given to John for the night, but as the doctor was leaving the
room, emerged and said--
“Bring him in before he goes.”
In a short time, for it was most important not to lose the fine weather,
the doctor carried Armine in swathed in rugs and blankets, a pale,
sunken, worn face, and great hollow eyes looking out at the top.
The mother said something cheerful about a live mummy, but the two poor
boys gazed at one another with sad, earnest, wistful eyes, and wrung one
another’s hands.
“Don’t forget,” gasped Armine, labouring for breath.
And Jock answered--
“All right, Armie; good-bye. I’m coming to morrow,” with a choking,
quivering attempt at bravery.
“Yes, to-morrow,” said poor Mother Carey, bending over him. “My boy--my
poor good boy, if I could but cut myself in two! I can’t tell you how
thankful I am to you for being so good about it. That dear good Johnny
will do all he can, and it is only till tomorrow. You’ll sleep most of
the time.”
“All right, mother,” was again all that Jock could manage to utter, and
the kisses that followed seemed to him the most precious he had known.
He hid his face again, bearing his trouble the better because the lull
of violent pain quelled by opiates, so that his senses were all as in
a dream bound up. When he looked up again at the clink of glass, it was
Cecil whom he saw measuring off his draught.
“You!” he exclaimed.
“Yes, Medlicott said I might stay till four, and give the Monk a chance
of a sleep. That fellow can always snooze away off hand, and he is as
sound as a top in the next room; but I was to give you this at two.”
“You’re sure it’s the right stuff?”
“I should think so. We’ve practice enough in the family to know how to
measure off a dose by this time.”
“How is it you are out here still? This is Thursday, isn’t it? We meant
to have been half way home, to be in time for the matches.”
“I’m not going back this half, worse luck. They were mortally afraid
these measles would make me get tender in the chest, like all the rest
of us, so I’ve got nothing to do but be dragged about with Fordham after
churches and picture galleries and mountains,” said Cecil, in a tone of
infinite disgust. “I declare it made me half mad to look at the Lake of
Lucerne, and recollect that we might have been in the eight.”
“Not this year.”
“No, but next.”
In this contemplation Cecil was silent, only fondling Chico, until Jock,
instead of falling asleep again, said, “Evelyn, what does your doctor
really think of the little chap?”
Cecil screwed up his face as if he had rather not be asked.
“Never you think about it,” he said. “Doctors always croak. He’ll be all
right again soon.”
“If I was sure,” sighed Jock; “but you know he has always been such a
religious little beggar. It’s a horrid bad sign.”
“Like my brother Walter,” said Cecil gravely. “Now, Duke can be ever so
snappish and peevish; I’m not half so much afraid for him.”
“You never heard anything like the little fellow that night,” said Jock,
and therewith he gave his friend by far the most connected account
of the adventure that had yet been arrived at. He even spoke of the
resolution to which he had been brought, and in a tone of awe described
how he had pledged himself for the future.
“So you see I’m in for it,” he concluded; “I must give up all our jolly
larks.”
“Then I shan’t get into so many rows with my mother and uncle,” said
Cecil, by no means with the opposition his friend had anticipated.
“Then you’ll stand by me?” said Jock.
“Gladly. My mother was at me all last Easter, telling me my goings on
were worse to her than losing George or Walter, and talking about my
Confirmation and all. She only let me be a communicant on Easter Day,
because I did mean to make a fresh start--and I did mean it with all my
heart; only when that supper was talked of, I didn’t like to stick out
against you, Brownlow; I never could, you know, and I didn’t know what
it was coming to.”
“Nor I,” said Jock; “that’s the worst of it. When a lark begins one
doesn’t know how far one will get carried on. But that night I thought
about the Confirmation, and how I had made the promise without really
thinking about it, and never had been to Holy Communion.”
“I meant it all,” said Cecil, “and broke it, so I’m worst.”
“Well!” said Jock, “if I go back from the promise little Armie made me
make about being Christ’s faithful soldier and servant I could never
face him again--no, nor death either! You can’t think what it was like,
Evelyn, sitting in the dead stillness--except for an awful crack and
rumbling in the ice, and the solid snow fog shutting one in. How ugly,
and brutish, and horrid all those things did look; and how it made me
long to have been like the little fellow in my arms, or even this
poor little dog, who knew no better. Then somehow came now and then a
wonderful sense that God was all round us, and that our Lord had done
all that for my forgiveness, if I only meant to do right in earnest. Oh!
how to go on meaning it!”
“That’s the thing,” said Cecil. “I mean it fast enough at home, and when
my mother talks to me and I look at my brothers’ graves, but it all
gets swept away at Eton. It won’t now, though, if you are different,
Brownlow. I never liked any fellow like you I knew you were best, even
when you were worst. So if you go in for doing right, I shan’t care for
anyone else--not even Cressham and Bulford.”
“If they choose to make asses of themselves they must,” said Jock. “It
will be a bore, but one mustn’t mind things. I say, Evelyn, suppose we
make that promise of Armine’s over again together now.”
“It is only the engagement we made when we were sworn into Christ’s army
at our baptism,” said the much more fully instructed Cecil. “We always
were bound by it.”
“Yes, but we knew nothing about it then, and we really mean it now,”
said Jock. “If we do it for ourselves together, it will put us on our
honour to each other, and to Christ our Captain, and that’s what we
want. Lay hold of my hand.”
The two boys, with clasped hands, and grave, steadfast eyes, with one
voice, repeated together--
“We, John Lucas Brownlow and Cecil Fitzroy Evelyn, promise with all
our hearts manfully to fight under Christ’s banner, and continue His
faithful soldiers and servants to our lives’ end. Amen.”
Then Cecil touched Lucas’s brow with his lips, and said--
“Fellow-soldiers, Brownlow.”
“Brothers in arms,” responded Jock.
It was one of those accesses of deep enthusiasm, and even of sentiment,
which modern cynicism and false shame have not entirely driven out of
youth. Their hearts were full; and Jock, the stronger, abler, and more
enterprising had always exercised a fascination over his friend, who was
absolutely enchanted to find him become an ally instead of a tempter,
and to be no longer pulled two opposite ways.
“Ought we not to say a prayer to make it really firm? We can’t stand
alone, you know,” he said, diffidently.
“If you like; if you know one,” said Jock.
Cecil knelt down and said the Lord’s Prayer and the collect for the
Fourth Epiphany Sunday.
“That’s nice,” was Jock’s comment. “How did you know it?”
“Mother made us learn the collects every Sunday, and she wrote that in
my little book. I always begin the half with it, but afterwards I can’t
go on.”
“Then it doesn’t do you much good,” was the not unnatural remark.
“I don’t know,” said Cecil, hesitating; “may be all this--your getting
right, I mean, is the coming round of prayers--my mother’s, I mean, for
if you take this turn, it will be much easier for me! Poor mother! it’s
not for want of her caring and teaching.”
“My mother doesn’t bother about it.”
“I wish she did,” said Cecil. “If she had gone on like mine, you would
have been ever so much better than I.”
“No, I should have been bored and bothered into being regularly
good-for-nothing. You don’t know what she’s really like. She’s nicer
than anyone--as jolly as any fellow, and yet a lady all over.”
“I know that,” said Cecil; “she was uncommonly jolly to me at Eton, and
I know my mother and she will get on like a house on fire. We’re too old
to have a scrimmage about them like disgusting little lower boys,” he
added, seeing Jock still bristling in defence of Mother Carey.
This produced a smile, and he went on--
“Look here, Skipjack, we will be fellow-soldiers every way. My Uncle
James can do anything at the Horse Guards, and he shall have us set down
for the same regiment. I’ll tell him you are my good influence.”
“But I’ve been just the other way.”
“Oh, but you will be--a year or two will show it. Which shall it be? Do
you go in for cavalry or infantry? I like cavalry, but he’s all for the
other.”
Jock was wearied enough not to have much contribution to make to the
conversation, and he thus left Cecil such a fair field as he seldom
enjoyed for Uncle James’s Indian and Crimean campaigns, and for the
comparative merits of the regiments his nephew had beheld at reviews.
He was interrupted by a message from the guide that there was a cloud
in the distance, and the young Herr had better set off quickly unless he
wished to be weather-bound.
Johnny was on his feet as soon as there was a step on the stairs, and
was congratulated on his ready powers of sleeping.
“It’s in the family,” said Jock. “His brother Rob went to sleep in the
middle of the examination for his commission.”
“Then I should think he could sleep on the rack,” said Cecil.
“I’m sure I wish I could,” rejoined Jock.
“What a sell for the torturers, to get some chloroform!” said John. And
so Cecil departed amid laughter, which gave John little idea how serious
the talk had been in his absence.
The rain came on even more rapidly than the guide had foretold, and it
was a drenched and dripping object that rode into the court of the tall
hotel at Leukerbad, and immediately fell into the hands of Dr. Medlicott
and Reeves, who deposited him ignominiously in bed, in spite of all his
protestations and murmurs. However, he had the comfort of hearing that
his little fag was recovering from the exhaustion of the journey. He
had at first been so faint that the doctor had watched, fearing that he
would never revive again, and he had not yet attempted to speak; but
his breathing was certainly already less laboured, and the choking,
struggling cough less frequent. “He really seems likely to have a little
natural sleep,” was Lord Fordham’s report somewhat later, on coming in
to find Cecil sitting up in bed to discuss a very substantial supper. “I
hope that with Reeves and the doctor to look to him, his mother may get
a little rest to-night.”
“Have you seen her?”
“Only for a moment or two, poor thing; but I never did see such eyes or
such a wonderful sad smile as she tried to thank us with. Medlicott is
ready to do anything for her husband’s sake; I am sure anyone would do
the same for hers. To get such a look is something to remember!”
“Well done, Duke!” ejaculated Cecil under his breath, for he had never
seen his senior so animated or so enthusiastic. “Then you mean to stay,
and let Medlicott look after them?”
“Of course I do,” said Fordham, in a much more decided tone than he had
used in the morning. “I’m not going to do anything so barbarous as to
leave them to some German practitioner; and when we are here, I
don’t see why they should have advice out from home--not half so good
probably.”
“You’re a brick, Duke,” uttered Cecil; and though Fordham hated slang,
he smiled at the praise.
“And now, Duke, be a good fellow, and give me some clothes. That brute
Reeves has not brought me in one rag.”
“Really it is hardly worth while. It is nearly eight o’clock, and I
don’t know where your portmanteau was put. Shall I get you a book?”
“No; but if you’d get me a pen and ink, I want to write to mother.”
Such a desire was not too frequent in Cecil, and Fordham was glad enough
to promote it, bringing in his own neat apparatus, with only a mild
entreaty that his favourite pen might be well treated, and the sheets
respected. He had written his own letter of explanation of his first act
of independence, and he looked with some wonder at his brother’s rapid
writing, not without fear that some sudden pressure for a foolish debt
might have been the result of his tete-a-tete with his dangerous friend.
Cecil’s letters were too apt to be requests for money or confessions of
debts, and if this were the case, what would be Mrs. Evelyn’s view of
the conduct of the whole party in disregarding her wishes?
Had he been with his mother, he would have probably been called into
consultation over the letter, but he was forced to remain without the
privilege here offered to the reader:--
“Baden Hotel, Leukerbad, June 14.
“Dearest Mother,--Duke has written about our falling in with the
Brownlows, and how pluckily Friar caught us up. It was a regular mercy,
for the little one couldn’t have lived without Dr. Medlicott, and most
likely Lucas is in for a rheumatic fever. He has been telling me all
about it, and how frightful it was to be all night out on the edge
of the glacier in a thick fog with his ankle strained, and how little
Armine went on with his texts and hymns and wasn’t a bit afraid, but
quite happy. You never would believe what a fellow Brownlow is. We have
had a great talk, and you will never have to say again that he does me
harm.
“Mammy, darling, I want to tell you that I was a horrible donkey last
half, worse than you guessed, and I am sorrier than ever I was before,
and this is a real true resolution not to do it again. Brownlow and
I have promised to stand by one another about right and wrong to our
lives’ end. He means it, and what Brownlow means he does, and so do I.
We said your collect, and somehow I do feel as if God would help us now.
“Please, dearest mother, forgive me for all I have not told you.
“Duke is very well and jolly. He is quite smitten with Mrs. Brownlow,
and, what is more, so is Reeves, who says she is ‘such a lady that it is
a pleasure to do anything for her.’
“Your loving son,
“C. F. E.”
Cecil’s letter went off with his brother’s in early morning; but it was
such a day as only mails and postmen encounter. Mountains, pine-woods,
nay, even the opposite houses, were blotted out by sheets of driving
rain, and it was impossible to think of bringing Jock down! Dr.
Medlicott heard and saw with dismay. What would the mother say to
him--nay, what ought he to have done? He could hardly expect her not to
reproach him, and he fairly dreaded meeting her eyes when they turned
from the streaming window.
But all she said was, “We did not reckon on this.”
“If I had--” began the doctor.
“Please don’t vex yourself,” said she; “you could not have done
otherwise, and perhaps the move would have hurt him more than staying
there. You have been so very kind. See what you have done here!”
For Armine, after some hours that had been very distressing, had sunk
into a calm sleep, and there was a far less oppressed look on his wan
little face.
The doctor would have had her take some rest, but she shook her head.
The only means of allaying the gnawing anxiety for Jock, and the
despairing fancies about his suffering and Johnny’s helplessness, was
the attending constantly to Armine.
“Anyway, I will see him to-day,” said Dr. Medlicott, impelled far more
by the patient silence with which she sat, one hand against her beating
heart, than he would have been by any entreaty. But how she thanked him
when she found him really setting forth! She insisted on his taking a
guide, as much for his own security as to carry some additional comforts
to the prisoners, and she committed to him two little notes, one to each
boy, written through a mist of tears. Yes; tears, unusual as they were
with her, were called forth as much by the kindness she met with as
by her sick yearning after the two lonely boys. And when she knew the
doctor was on his way, she could yield to Armine’s signs of entreaty,
lie back in her chair and sleep, while Reeves watched over him.
When the doctor, by a strong man’s determination, had made his way
up the pass, he found matters better than he had dared to expect. The
patient was certainly not worse, and the medicine had kept him in a
sleepy, tranquil state, in which he hardly realised the situation. His
young attendant was just considering how to husband the last draught,
when the welcome, dripping visitor appeared. The patient was not in bad
spirits considering, and could not but feel himself reprieved by the
weather. He was too sleepy to feel the dulness of his present position,
and even allowed that his impromptu nurse had done tolerably well.
Johnny had been ready at every call, had rubbed away an attack of pain,
hurt wonderfully little in lifting him, and was “not half a bad lot
altogether”--an admission of which doctor and nurse knew the full worth.
Johnny himself was pleased and grateful, and had that sort of
satisfaction which belongs to the finding out of one’s own available
talent. He had done what was pronounced the right thing; and not only
that, but he had liked the doing it, and he declared himself not afraid
to encounter another night alone with his cousin. He had picked up
enough vernacular German to make himself understood, and indeed was a
decided favourite with Fraulein Rosalie, who would do anything for her
dear young Herr. It was possible to get a fair amount of sleep, and Dr.
Medlicott felt satisfied that the charge was not too much for him, and
indeed there was no other alternative. The doctor stayed as long as he
could, and did his best to enliven the dulness by producing a pocketful
of Tauchnitzes, and sitting talking while the patient dozed. Johnny
showed such intelligent curiosity as to the how and why of the symptoms
and their counteraction, that after some explanation the doctor said,
“You ought to be one of us, my friend.”
“I have sometimes thought about it,” said John.
“Indeed!” cried the doctor, like an enthusiast in his profession; and
John, though not a ready speaker, was drawn on by his notes of interest
to say, “I don’t really like anything so much as making out about man
and what one is made of.”
“Physiology?”
“Yes,” said the boy, who had been shy of uttering the scientific term.
“There’s nothing like it for interest, it seems to me. Besides, one is
more sure of being of use that way than in any other.”
“Capital! Then what withholds you? Isn’t it _swell_ enough?”
Johnny laughed and coloured. “I’m not such a fool, but I am not sure
about my people.”
“I thought your uncle was Joseph Brownlow.”
“My aunt would be delighted, but it is my own people. They would say my
education--Eton and all that--was not intended for it.”
“You may tell them that whatever tends to make you more thoroughly a
man and gentleman, and less of a mere professional, is a benefit to your
work. The more you are in yourself, the higher your work will be. I hope
you will go to the university.”
“I mean to go up for a scholarship next year; but I’ve lost a great deal
of time now, and I don’t know how far that will tell.”
“I think you will find that what you may have lost in time, you will
have gained in power.”
“I do want to go in for physical science, but there’s another
difficulty. One of my cousins does so, but the effect on him has not
made my father like it the better--and--and to tell the truth--” he half
mumbled, “it makes me doubt--”
“The effect on his faith?”
“Yes.”
“If faith is unsettled by looking deeper into the mysteries of God’s
works it cannot have been substantial faith, but merely outward,
thoughtless reception,” said the doctor, as he met two thoughtful dark
eyes fixed on him in inquiry and consideration.
“Thank you, sir,” after a pause.
“Had this troubled you?”
“Yes,” said John; “I couldn’t stand doubt there. I would rather break
stones on the road than set myself doubting!”
“Why should you think that there is danger?”
“It seems to be so with others.”
“Depend upon it, Doubting Castle never lay on the straight road. If men
run into it, it is not simple study of the works of creation that leads
them there; but either they have only acquiesced, and never made their
faith a living reality, or else they are led away by fashion and pride
of intellect. One who begins and goes on in active love of God and man,
will find faith and reverence not diminished but increased.”
“But aren’t there speculations and difficulties?”
“None which real active religion, and love cannot regard as the mere
effects of half-knowledge--the distortions of a partial view. I speak
with all my heart, as one who has seen how it has been with many of my
own generation, as well as with myself.”
Johnny bent his head, and the young physician, somewhat surprised at
finding himself saying so much on such points, left that branch of the
subject, and began to talk to him about his uncle.