“I do—I have! I’ve done it ever since we got Johnny’s dreadful letter. Oh, yes, Armine, I’ll try not to mind, for perhaps if we aren’t thankful, I mayn’t keep you at all,” said poor Babie, with her arms round her treasure. “But are you quite sure, Armine? Couldn’t Dr. Lucas get you quite well? You see this Dr. Medlicott is very young,” added the small maiden sapiently.
“Young doctors are all the go. Dr. Lucas said so when mother wrote to ask if she had better bring me home for advice,” said Armine. “He knows all about Dr. Medlicott, and said he was first-rate, and they’ve been writing to each other about me. The doctor stethoscoped me all over, and then he did a map of my lungs, Cecil said, to send in his letter.”
“Oh!” gasped Babie, “didn’t it frighten you?”
“I wanted to know, for I saw mother was in a way. She did talk and whisk about so fast, and made such a fuss, that I thought I must be much worse than I knew. So I told Dr. Medlicott I wished he would tell me right out if I was going to die, in time to see you, and then I shouldn’t mind. So he said not now, and he thought I should get over it in the end, but that most likely I should have a long time, years perhaps, of being very careful. And when I asked if I should be able to go back to Eton, he said he hardly expected it; and that he believed it was kinder to let me know at once than let me be straining and hoping on.”
“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—”