Magnum Bonum

by Шарлотта Мэри Йондж

  "And please, you'll be always mother's other son," said Armine.

  "Won't I? She's been the making of me every way," said John.

  "If ever-she does want anybody-" said Armine, feeling, but not uttering, a vague sense of want of trust in others around her.

  "I will, I will. Why, Armie, I shall never care for any one so much."

  "That's right."

  And again, after an interval, Armine spoke of Jock, saying, "You'll help him, Johnny. You know sometimes he can be put in mind-"

  John promised again, perhaps less hopefully, but he saw that Armine hoped.

  "Would you mind reading me a Psalm," came, after a great struggle for breath. "It was so nice to know Babie was saying her Psalms at night, and thinking of us."

  So the evening wore away and night came on, and John, after full six- and-twenty hours' wakeful exertion and anxiety, began to grow sleepy, and dozed even as he held his cousin whenever the cough did not shake the poor little fellow. At last, with Armine's consent, or rather, at his entreaty, Mr. Graham, though knowing himself a bad substitute, took him from the arms of the outwearied lad, who, in five minutes more, was lying, dressed as he was, in the soundest of dreamless slumbers.

  When he awoke, the sun was up, an almost midsummer sun, streaming on the fast-melting snow with a dazzling brilliancy. Armine was panting under the same deadly oppression on his pillows, and Mother Carey was standing by him, talking to Mr. Graham about despatching a messenger to Leukerbad in search of one of the doctors, who were sure to be found at the baths. How haggard her face looked, and Armine gasped out--

  "Mother, your hair."

  The snow had been there; the crisp black waves on her brow were quite white. Jock had fallen into a sort of doze from exhaustion, but moaning all the time. She could call him no better, and Armine's sunken face told that he was worse.

  John went in search of more hot water, and on the way heard voices which made him call Mr. Graham, who knew more of the vernacular German patois than himself, to understand it. He thought he had caught something about English, and a doctor at Kandersteg. It was true. A guide belonging to the other side of the pass, who had been weather-bound at Kandersteg, had just come up with tidings that an English party were there, who had meant to cross the Gemmi but had given it up, finding it too early in the season for the kranklicher Milord who was accompanied by his doctor.

  "An English doctor! Oh!" cried John, "there's some good in that. Some one must take a note down to him at once."

  But after some guttural conversation of which he understood only a word or two, Mr. Graham said-

  "They declare it is of no use. The carriage was ordered at nine. It is past seven now."

  "But it need not take two hours to go that distance downhill, the lazy blackguards!" exclaimed John.

  "In the present state of the path, they say that it will," said Mr. Graham. "In fact, I suspect a little unwillingness to deprive their countrymen of the job."

  "I'll go," said John, "then there will be no loss of time about writing. You'll look after Armine, sir, and tell my aunt."

  "Certainly, my boy; but you'll find it a stiffish pull."

  "I came in second for the mile race last summer at Eton," said Johnny. "I'm not in training now; but if a will can do it-"

  "I believe you are right. If you don't catch him, we shall hardly have lost time, for they say we must wait an hour or two for the Gemmi road to get clear of snow. Stay; don't go without eating. You won't keep it up on an empty stomach. Remember the proverb."

  Prayer had been with him all night, and he listened to the remonstrance as to provender enough to devour a bit of bread, put another into his pocket, and swallow a long draught of new milk. Mr. Graham further insisted on his taking a lad to show him the right path through the fir woods; and though Johnny looked more formed for strength than speed, and was pale-cheeked and purple-eyed with broken rest, the manner in which he set forth had a purpose-like air that was satisfactory-not over swift at the outset over the difficult ground, but with a steadfast resolution, and with a balance and knowledge of the management of his limbs due to Eton athletics.

  Mr. Graham went up to encourage Mrs. Brownlow. She clasped her hands together with joy and gratitude.

  "That dear, dear boy," she said, "I shall owe him everything."

  Jock had wakened rational, though only to be conscious of severe suffering. He would hardly believe that Armine was really alive till Mr. Graham actually carried in the boy, and let them hold each other's hands for a moment before placing Armine on the other bed.

  Indeed it seemed that this might be the poor boys' last meeting. Armine could only look at his brother, since the least attempt to speak increased the agonised struggle for breath, which, doctor or no doctor, gave Mr. Graham small expectation that he could survive another of these cold mountain nights.

  Their mother was so far relieved to have them together that it was easier to attend to them; and Armine's patient eyes certainly acted as a gentle restraint upon Jock's moans, lamentations, and requisitions for her services. It was one of those times that she only passed through by her faculty of attending only to present needs, and the physical strength and activity that seemed inexhaustible as long as she had anything to do, and which alone alleviated the despair within her heart.

  Meantime John found the rock slippery, the path heavy, and his young guide a drag on him. The path through the fir woods which had been so delightful two days (could it be only two days?) ago, was now a baffling, wearisome zigzag; yet when he tried to cut across, regardless of the voice of his guide, he found he lost time, for he had to clamber, once fell and rolled some distance, happily with no damage as he found when he picked himself up, and plodded on again, without even stopping to shake himself.

  At last came an opening where he could see down into the Kandersteg valley. There was the hotel in clear sunshine, looking only too like a house in a German box of toys, and alas! there was also a toy carriage coming round to the front!

  Like the little foot-page of old ballads, John "let down his feet and ran," ran determinately on, down the now less precipitous slope-ran till he was beyond the trees, with the summer sun beating down on him, and in sight of figures coming out from the hotel to the carriage.

  Johnny scarce ventured to give one sigh. He waved his hat in a desperate hope of being seen. No, they were in the carriage. The horses were moving!

  But he remembered a slight steep on the further road where they must go slower. Moreover, there were a few curves in the horse-road. He set his teeth with the desperate resolution of a moment, clenched his hands, intensified his mental cry to Heaven, and with the dogged determination of Kencroft dashed on, not daring to look at the carriage, intent only on the way.

  He was past the inn, but his breath was short and quick; his knees were failing, an invisible hand seemed to be on his chest making him go slower and slower; yet still he struggled on, till the mountain tops danced before his eyes, cascades rushed into his ears, the earth seemed to rise up and stop him; but through it all he heard a voice say, "Hullo, it's the Monk! What is the matter?"

  Then he knew he was on the ground on his face, with kind but tormenting hands busy about him, and his heart going so like a sledge hammer, that the word he would have given his life to utter, would not come out of his lips, and all he could do was to grasp convulsively at something that he believed to be a garment of the departing travellers.

  "Here, the flask! Don't speak yet," said a man's voice, and a choking stimulant was poured into his mouth. When the choking spasm it cost him was over, his eyes cleared, and he could at least gasp. Then he saw that it was his housemate, Evelyn, at whom he was clutching, and who asked again in amaze-

  "What is up, old fellow?"

  "Hush, not yet," said the other voice; "let him alone till he gets his breath. Don't hurry, my boy," he added, "we will wait."

  Johnny, however, felt altogether absorbed in getting out one panting whisper, "A doctor."
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  "Yes, yes, he is," cried Evelyn. "What's the matter? Not Brownlow!"

  "Both-oh," sobbed John in the agony of contending with the bumping, fluttering heart which _would_ not let him fetch breath enough to speak.

  "You will tell us presently. Don't be afraid. We will wait," said the voice of the man who, as John now felt, was supporting him. "Hush, Cecil, another minute, and he will be able to tell us."

  Indeed the rushing of every pulse was again making it vain for Johnny to try to utter anything, and he shut his eyes in the realisation that he had succeeded and found help. If his heart would have not bumped and fluttered so fearfully, it would have been almost rest, as he was helped up by those kind, strong arms. It was really for little more than five seconds before he gathered his powers to say, still between gasps-

  "Out all night-the moraine-fog-snow-Jock-very bad-Armine- worse-up there."

  "At Schwarenbach ?"

  "Yes. Oh, come! They are so ill."

  "I am sure Dr. Medlicott will do all he can for them," said another voice, which John saw proceeded from a very tall, slight youth, with a fair, delicate, girlish face. "Had he not better get into the carriage and return to the hotel?"

  "By all means."

  And John found himself without much volition lifted and helped into the carriage, where Cecil Evelyn scrambled up beside him, and put an arm round him.

  "Poor old Monk, you are dead beat," he said, as the carriage turned, the other two walking beside it. "Did you come that pace all the way down?"

  "Only after the wood."

  "Well, 'twas as plucky a thing as I ever saw. But is Skipjack so bad?"

  "Dreadful! Light-headed all yesterday-horrid pain! But not so bad as Armine. If something ain't done soon-he'll die."

  "Poor little Brownlow! You've come to the right shop. Medlicott is first rate. Did you know it was we?"

  "No-only-an English doctor," said John.

  "Mother sent us abroad with him, because they said Fordham must have Swiss air; and poor old Granny still goes on in the same state," said Cecil. "We got here on Tuesday evening, and saw your names; but then the fog came, and it snowed all yesterday, and the doctor said it would not do for Fordham to go so high. And the more I wanted them to come up with you, the more they would not. Were they out in that snow?"

  Here came an order from the doctor not to make his friend talk, and Johnny was glad to obey, and reserve his breath for the explanation. He did not hear what passed between the other two, as they walked behind the carriage.

  "A fine fellow that! Is he Cecil's friend?"

  "No, I wish he were. However, it can't be helped now, in common humanity; and my mother will understand."

  "You mean that it was her wish that we should avoid them."

  "She thinks the influence has not been good for Cecil."

  "That was the reason you gave up the Gemmi so easily."

  "It was. But, as I say, it can't be helped now, and no harm can be done by going to see whether they are really so ill."

  "Brownlow is the name. I wonder if they are any relation to a man I once knew-a lecturer at one of the hospitals?"

  "Not likely. These are very rich people, with a great house in Hyde Park regions, and a place in the country. They are always asking Cecil there; only my mother does not fancy it. It is not a matter of charity after the first stress. They can easily have advice from England, or anywhere they like."

  By this time they reached the hotel, and John alighted briskly enough, and explained the state of affairs in a few words.

  "My dear boy," said Dr. Medlicott, "I'll go up at once, as soon as I can get at our travelling medicine-chest. Luckily we have what is most likely to be useful."

  "Thank you," said Johnny, and therewith he turned dizzy, and reeled against the wall.

  "It is nothing-nothing," he said, as the doctor having helped him into a sitting-room, laid his hand on his pulse. "Don't delay about me! I shall be all right in a minute."

  "They are getting down the boxes. No time is lost," said the doctor, quietly. "See whether they can let us have some soup, Cecil."

  "I couldn't swallow anything," said Johnny, imploringly.

  "Have you had any breakfast this morning?"

  "Yes, a bit of bread and a drink of milk. There was not time for more."

  "And you had been searching all one night, and nursing the next?"

  "Most of it," was the confession. "But I shall be all right-if there is any pony I could ride upon."

  "You shall by-and-by; but first, Reeves," as a servant with grizzled hair and moustache brought in a neatly-fitted medicine-chest, "I give this young gentleman into your care. He is to lie down on my bed for half an hour, and Mr. Evelyn is not to go near him. Then, if he is awake-"

  "If-" ejaculated John.

  "Give him a basin of soup-Liebig, if you can't get anything here."

  "Liebig!" broke out John. "Oh, please take some. There's nothing up there but old goat, and nothing to drink but milk and lemonade, like beastly hair-oil; and Jock hates milk."

  "Never fear," said Dr. Medlicott; "Liebig is going, and a packet of tea. Mrs. Evelyn does not send us out unprovided. If you eat your soup like a good boy, you may then ride up-not walk-unless you wish to be on your mother's hands too."

  "She's my aunt; but it is all the same. Tell her I'm coming."

  "I shall go with you, doctor," said Cecil. "I must know about Brownlow."

  "Much good you'll do him! But I'd rather leave this fellow in Fordham's charge than yours."

  So Johnny had no choice but to obey, growling a little that it was all nonsense, and he should be all right in five minutes, but that expectation continued, without being realised, for longer than Johnny knew. He awoke with a start to find the Liebig awaiting him; and Lord Fordham's eyes fixed on him, with (though neither understood it) the generous, though melancholy envy of an invalid youth for a young athlete.

  "Have I been asleep?" he asked, looking at his watch. Only ten minutes since I looked last? Well, now I am all right."

  "You will be when you have eaten this," said Lord Fordham.

  Johnny obeyed, and ate with relish.

  "There!" said he; "now I am ready for anything."

  "Don't get up yet. I'll go and order a horse for you."

  When Lord Fordham came back from doing so, he found his patient really fast asleep, and with a little colour coming into the pale cheeks. He stole back, bade that the pony should wait, went on writing his letter, and waited till one hour, two, three hours had passed, and at last the sleeper woke, greatly disgusted, willing to accept the bath which Lord Fordham advised him to take, and which made him quite himself again.

  "You'll let me go now," he said. "I can walk as well as ever."

  "You will be of more use now, if you ride," said Lord Fordham. "There, I hear our luncheon coming in. You must eat while the pony is coming round."

  "If it won't lose time-thank you," said Johnny, recovered enough now to know how hungry he was, "But I ought not to have stayed away. My aunt has no one but me."

  "And you can really help her?" said Lord Fordham, with some experience of his brother's uselessness.

  "Not well, of course," said Johnny; "but it is better than nobody; and Armine is so patient and so good, that I'm the more afraid. Is not it a very bad sign," he added, confidentially; for he was quite won by the youth's kind, considerate way, and evident liking and sympathy.

  "I don't know," faltered Lord Fordham. "My brother Walter was like that! Is this the little fellow who is Cecil's fag?"

  "Yes; Jock asked him to take him, because he was sure never to bully him or lick him when he wouldn't do things."

  This not very lucid description rejoiced Lord Fordham.

  "I am glad of that," he said. "But I hope the little boy will get over this. My mother had a very excellent account of Dr. Medlicott's skill; and you know an illness from a misadventure is not like anything constitutional."

  "No; but Armine is always delicate, an
d my aunt has had to take care of him."

  "Do you live with them?"

  "O no; I have lots of people at home. I only came with them because I had had these measles at Eton; and my aunt is-well, the very jolliest woman that ever was."

  Lord Fordham smiled.

  "Yes, indeed she is. I don't mean only kind and good-natured. But if you just knew her! The whole world and everything else have just been something new and glorious ever since I knew her. I seem to myself to have lived in a dark hole till she made it all light."

  "Ah! I understand that you would do anything for her."

  "_That_ I would, if there was anything I could do," said Johnny, hastily finishing his meal.

  "Well, you've done something to-day."

  "That-oh, that was nothing. I shouldn't have made such a fool of myself if I hadn't been seedy before. I hear the pony," he added. "Excuse me." And, with a murmured grace, he rose. Then, recollecting himself, "No end of thanks. I don't know how to thank you enough."

  "Don't; I've done nothing," said Lord Fordham, wringing his hand. "I only hope-"

  The words stuck in his throat, and with a sigh he watched the lad ride off.

  CHAPTER XXI. AN ACT OF INDEPENDENCE.

  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.