'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.'
'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.'
