"Was it?" said Babie.
"I thought not," said Armine, "when I shut my eyes and the playing- fields and the trees and the river stood up before me. I thought if I could have hoped ever so little, it would have been nice. And then to think of never being able to run, or row, or stay out late, and always to be bothering about one's stockings and wraps, and making a miserable muff of oneself just to keep in a bit of uncomfortable life, and being a nuisance to everybody."
Babie fairly shrieked and sobbed her protest that he could never be a nuisance to her or mother.
"You are Babie, and mother is mother, I know that; but it did seem such a long burthen and bore, and when-oh, Babie-don't you know-"
"How we always thought you would go on and be something great, and do something great, like Bishop Selwyn, or like that Mr. Denison that Miss Ogilvie has a book about," said Babie. "But you will get well and do it when you are a man, Armie! Didn't you think about it when you heard all about the golden life in the sermon to-day? I thought, "That's going to be Armie's life," and I looked at you, but you were looking down. Were you thinking how it was all spoilt, Armie, poor dear Armie. For perhaps it isn't."
"No, I know nobody can spoil it but myself," said Armine. "And you know he said that one might make weakliness and sickness just as golden, by that great Love, as being up and doing. I was going to tell you, Babie, I was horridly wretched and dismal one day at Leukerbad when I thought mother and all were out of the way-gone out driving, I believe-and then Fordham came in. He had stayed in, I do believe, on purpose--"
"But, but," said Babie, not so much impressed as her brother wished; "isn't he rather a spoon? Johnny said he ought to have been a girl."
"I didn't think Johnny was such a stupid," said Armine, "I only know he has been no end of a comfort to me, though he says he only wants to hinder me from getting like him."
"Don't then," said Babie, "though I don't understand. I thought you were so fond of him."
"So must you be," said Armine; "I never got on with anybody so well. He knows just how it is! He says if God gives one such a life, He will help one to find out the way to make the best of it for oneself and other people, and to bear to see other people doing what one can't, and we are to help one another. Oh, Babie! you must like Fordham!"
"I must if you do!" said Babie. "But he is awfully old for a friend for you, Armie."
"He is nineteen," said Armine, "but people get more and more of the same age as they grow older. And he likes all our books, and more too, Babie. He had such a delicious book of French letters, that he lent me, with things in them that were just what I wanted. If we are to be abroad all the winter, he will get his mother to go wherever we do. Suppose we went to the Holy Land, Babie!"
"Oh! then we could find Jotapata! Oh, no," she added, humbly, "I promised Miss Ogilvie not to talk of Jotapata on a Sunday."
"And going to the Holy Land only to look for it would be much the same thing," said Armine. "Besides, I expect it is up among the Druses, where one can't go."
"Armie," in the tone of a great confession, "I've told Sydney all about it. Have you told Lord Fordham?"
"No," said Armine, who was less exclusively devoted to the great romance. "I wonder whether he would read it?"
"I've brought it. Nineteen copybooks and a dozen blank ones, though it was so hard to make Delrio pack them up."
"Hurrah for the new ones! We did so want some for the 'Traveller's Joy,' the paper at Leukerbad was so bad. You should hear the verses the Doctor wrote on the mud baths. They are as stunning as 'Fly Leaves.' Mr. Editor, I say," as Lord Fordham's tall figure strode towards them, "she has brought out a dozen clean copybooks. Isn't that a joy for the 'Joy'?"
"Had you no other intentions for them?" said Fordham, detecting something of disappointment in Babie's face. "You surely were not going to write exercises in them?"
"Oh, no!" said Babie, "only-"
"She can't mention it on Sunday," said Armine, a little wickedly. "It's a wonderful long story about the Crusaders."
"And," explained Babie, "our governess said we-that is I-thought of nothing else, and made the Lessons at Church and everything else apply to it, so she made me resolve to say nothing about it on Sunday."
"And she has brought out nineteen copybooks full of it," added Armine.
"Yes," said Babie, "but the little speckled ones are very small, and have half the leaves torn out, and we used to write larger when we began. I think," she added, with the humility of an aspirant contributor towards the editor of a popular magazine, "if Lord Fordham would be so kind as to look at it, Armie thought it might do what people call, I believe, supplying the serial element of fiction, and I should be happy to copy it out for each number, if I write well enough."
The word "happy," was so genuine, and the speech so comical, that the Editor had much ado to keep his countenance as he gave considerable hopes that the serial element should be thus supplied in the MS. magazine.
Meantime, the two mothers were walking about and resting together, keeping their young people in some degree in view, and discussing at first the subject most on their minds, their sons' bodily health, and the past danger, for which Caroline found a deeply sympathetic listener, and one who took a hopeful view of Armine.
Mrs. Evelyn was indeed naturally disposed to augur well whenever the complaint was not hereditary, and she was besides in excellent spirits at the very visible progress of both her sons, the one in physical, the other in moral health, and she could not but attribute both to the companionship that she had been so anxious to prevent. She had never seen Duke look so well, nor seem so free from languor and indifference since he was a mere child, and all seemed due to his devotion to Armine; while as to Cecil, he seemed to have a new spring of improvement, which he ascribed altogether to his friend.
"It is strange to me to hear this of my poor Jock," said Caroline, "always my pickle and scapegrace, though he is a dear good-hearted boy. His uncle says it is that he wants a strong hand, but don't you think an uncle's strong hand is much worse than any mother's weakness?"
"Not than her weakness," said Mrs. Evelyn. "It is her love, I think, that you mean. There are some boys with whom strong hands are vain, but who will guide themselves for love, and that we mothers are surely the ones to infuse."
"My boys are affectionate enough, dear fellows," said Caroline proudly, forgetting her sore disappointment that neither Allen nor Robert had chosen to come to her help.
"I did not only mean love of oneself," said Mrs. Evelyn, gently. "I was thinking of the fine gold we heard of this morning. When our boys once have found that secret, the chief of our work is done."
"Ah! and I never understood how to give them that," said Caroline. "We have been all astray ever since their father left us."
"Do you know," said Mrs. Evelyn, with a certain sweet shyness, "I can't help thinking that your dear Lucas found that gold among the stones of the moraine, and will help my poor weak Cecil to keep a fast hold of it."
Mrs. Evelyn's opinion was confirmed, when a few days later came the answer to Jock's letter to his tutor, pleasing and touching both friends so much that each showed it to his mother. Another important piece of intelligence came in a letter from John to his cousin, namely that the present Captain of the house, with two or three more "fellows," were leaving Eton at the Midsummer holidays, and that his tutor had been talking to him about becoming Captain.