by Ellen Wood
“Was the man a fool?” asked Rupert.
“Not a bit of it.”
“I’m sure I should say so. Making out that he could foresee people’s funerals before they were dead, or likely to die.”
“Poor Fred was three-parts of a believer in them,” put in Temple, in a dreamy voice, as though his thoughts were buried in that past time.
“Fred was!” exclaimed Rupert, taking his brother up sharply. “Believer in what?”
“MacRae’s superstitions.”
“Nonsense, Slingsby!”
Temple made no rejoinder. In his eye, which chanced to catch mine at the moment, there sat a singular expression. I wondered whether he was recalling that other superstition of Fred’s, that little episode a night or two before he died.
“We had better be turning in,” said Temple, getting up. “It won’t do to sit here too long; and we must be up betimes in the morning.”
So we got to bed at last — if you can call it bed. The farmer’s good straw was strewed thickly underneath us in the tent; we had our rugs; and the tent was fastened back at the entrance to admit air. But there was no air to admit, not a whiff of it; nothing came in but the moonlight. None of us remembered a lighter night, or a hotter one. I and Tod lay in the middle, the Temples on either side, Slingsby nearest the opening.
“I wonder who’s got our sheet?” began Tod, breaking a silence that ensued when we had wished each other good-night.
No one answered.
“I say,” struck in Rupert, by-and-by, “I’ve heard one ought not to go to sleep in the moonlight: it turns people luny. Do any of your faces catch it, outside there?”
“Go to sleep and don’t talk,” said Temple.
It might have been from the novelty of the situation, but the night was well on before any of us got to sleep. Tod and Rupert Temple went off first, and next (I thought) Temple did. I did not.
I dare say you’ve never slept four in a bed — and, that, one of littered straw. It’s all very well to lie awake when you’ve a good wide mattress to yourself, and can toss and turn at will; but in the close quarters of a tent you can’t do it for fear of disturbing the others. However, the longest watch has its ending; and I was just dropping off, when Temple, next to whom I lay, started hurriedly, and it aroused me.
“What’s that?” he cried, in a half-whisper.
I lifted my head, startled. He was sitting up, his eyes fixed on the opening we had left in the tent.
“Who’s there? — who is it?” he said again; and his low voice had a slow, queer sound, as though he spoke in fear.
“What is it, Temple?” I asked.
“There, standing just outside the tent, right in the moonlight,” whispered he. “Don’t you see?”
I could see nothing. The stir awoke Rupert. He called out to know what ailed us; and that aroused Tod.
“Some man looking in at us,” explained Temple, in the same queer tone, half of abstraction, half of fear, his gaze still strained on the aperture. “He is gone now.”
Up jumped Tod, and dashed outside the tent. Rupert struck a match and lighted the lantern. No one was to be seen but ourselves; and the only odd thing to be remarked was the white hue Temple’s face had taken. Tod was marching round the tent, looking about him far and near, and calling out to all intruders to show themselves. But all that met his eye was the level plain we were encamped upon, lying pale and white under the moonlight, and all the sound he heard was the croaking of the frogs.
“What could have made you fancy it?” he asked of Temple.
“Don’t think it was fancy,” responded Temple. “Never saw any man plainer in my life.”
“You were dreaming, Slingsby,” said Rupert. “Let us get to sleep again.”
Which we did. At least, I can answer for myself.
The first beams of the glorious sun awoke us, and we rose to the beginning of another day, and to the cold, shivery feeling that, in spite of the heat of the past night and of the coming day, attends the situation. I could understand now why the nip of whisky, as Duffham called it, was necessary. Tod served it out. Lighting the fire of sticks to boil our tea-kettle — or the round pot that served for a kettle — we began to get things in order to embark again, when breakfast should be over.
“I say, Slingsby,” cried Rupert, to his brother, who seemed very sullen, “what on earth took you, that you should disturb us in the night for nothing?”
“It was not for nothing. Some one was there.”
“It must have been a stray sheep.”
“Nonsense, Rupert! Could one mistake a sheep for a man?”
“Some benighted ploughman then, ‘plodding his weary way.’”
“If you could bring forward any ploughman to testify that it was he beyond possibility of doubt, I’d give him a ten-pound note.”
“Look here,” said Tod, after staring a minute at this odd remark of Temple’s, “you may put all idea of ploughmen and every one else away. No one was there. If there had been, I must have seen him: it was not possible he could betake himself out of sight in a moment.”
“Have it as you like,” said Temple; “I am going to take a bath. My head aches.”
Stripping, he plunged into the river, which was very wide just there, and swam towards the middle of it.
“It seems to have put Slingsby out,” observed Rupert, alluding to the night alarm. “Do you notice how thoughtful he is? Just look at that fire!”
The sticks had turned black, and began to smoke and hiss, giving out never a bit of blaze. Down knelt Rupert on one side and I on the other.
“Damp old obstinate things!” he ejaculated. And we set on to blow at them with all our might.
“Where’s Temple?” I exclaimed presently; looking off, and not seeing him. Rupert glanced over the river.
“He must be diving, Johnny. Slingsby’s fond of diving. Keep on blowing, lad, or we shall get no tea to-day.”
So we kept on. But, I don’t know why, a sort of doubtful feeling came over me, and while I blew I watched the water for Temple to come up. All in a moment he rose to the surface, gave one low, painful cry of distress, and disappeared again.
“Good Heavens!” cried Rupert, leaping up and overturning the kettle.
But Tod was the quickest, and jumped in to the rescue. A first-rate swimmer and diver was he, almost as much at home in the water as out of it. In no time, as it seemed, he was striking back, bearing Temple. It was fortunate for such a crisis that Temple was so small and slight — of no weight to speak of.
By dint of gently rubbing and rolling, we got some life into him and some whisky down his throat. But he remained in the queerest, faintest state possible; no exertion in him, no movement hardly, no strength; alive, and that was about all; and just able to tell us that he had turned faint in the water.
“What is to be done?” cried Rupert. “We must get a doctor to him: and he ought not to lie on the grass here. I wonder if that farmer would let him be taken to the house for an hour or two?”
I got into my boots, and ran off to ask; and met the farmer in the second field. He was coming towards us, curious perhaps to see whether we had started. Telling him what had happened, he showed himself alive with sympathy, called some of his men to carry Temple to the farm, and sent back to prepare his wife. Their name we found was Best: and most hospitable, good-hearted people they turned out to be.
Well, Temple was taken there and a doctor was called in. The doctor shook his head, looked grave, and asked to have another doctor. Then, for the first time, doubts stole over us that it might be more serious than we had thought for. A dreadful feeling of fear took possession of me, and, in spite of all I could do, that scene at Oxford, when poor Fred Temple had been carried into old Mrs. Golding’s to die, would not go out of my mind.
We got into our reserve clothes, as if conscious that the boating flannels were done with for the present, left one of the farmer’s men to watch our boat and things, and stayed with Temple. He continu
ed very faint, and lay almost motionless. The doctors tried some remedies, but they did no good. He did not revive. One of them called it “syncope of the heart;” but the other said hastily, “No, no, that was not the right name.” It struck me that perhaps they did not know what the right name was. At last they said Mrs. Temple had better be sent for.
“I was just thinking so,” cried Rupert. “My mother ought to be here. Who will go for her?”
“Johnny can,” said Tod. “He is of no good here.”
For that matter, none of us were any good, for we could do nothing for Temple.
I did not relish the task: I did not care to tell a mother that her son, whom she believes is well and hearty, is lying in danger. But I had to go: Rupert seemed to take it as a matter of course.
“Don’t alarm her more than you can help, Ludlow,” he said. “Say that Slingsby turned faint in the water this morning, and the medical men seem anxious. But ask her not to lose time.”
Mr. Best started me on his own horse — a fine hunter, iron-grey. The weather was broiling. Templemore lay right across country, about six miles off by road. It was a beautiful place; I could see that much, though I had but little time to look at it; and it stood upon an eminence, the last mile of the road winding gradually up to its gates.
As ill-luck had it, or perhaps good-luck — I don’t know which — Mrs. Temple was at one of the windows, and saw me ride hastily in. Having a good memory of faces, she recollected mine. Knowing that I had started with her sons in the boat, she was seized with a prevision that something was wrong, and came out before I was well off the horse.
“It is Mr. Ludlow, I think,” she said, her plain dark face (so much like Slingsby’s) very pale. “What ill news have you brought?”
I told her in the best manner I was able, just in the words Rupert had suggested, speaking quietly, and not showing any alarm in my own manner.
“Is there danger?” she at once asked.
“I am not sure that there is,” I said, hardly knowing how to frame my answer. “The doctors thought you had better come, in case — in case of danger arising; and Rupert sent me to ask you to do so.”
She rang the bell, and ordered her carriage to be round instantly. “The bay horses,” she added: “they are the fleetest. What will you take, Mr. Ludlow?”
I would not take anything. But a venerable old gentleman in black, with a powdered bald head — the butler, I concluded — suggested some lemonade, after my hot ride: and that I was glad of.
I rode on first, piloting the way for the carriage, which contained Mrs. Temple. She came alone: her daughter was away on a visit — as I had learnt from Rupert.
Slingsby lay in the same state, neither better nor worse: perhaps the breathing was somewhat more difficult. He smiled when he saw his mother, and put out his hand.
The day dragged itself slowly on. We did not know what to do with ourselves; that was a fact. Temple was to be kept quiet, and we might not intrude into his room — one on the ground-floor that faced the east: not even Rupert. Mr. and Mrs. Best entertained us well as far as meals went, but one can’t be eating for ever. Now down in the meadow by the boat — which seemed to have assumed a most forlorn aspect — and now hovering about the farm, waiting for the last report of Temple. In that way the day crept through.
“Is it here that Mr. Temple is lying?”
I was standing under the jessamine-covered porch, sheltering my head from the rays of the setting sun, when a stranger came up and put the question. An extraordinarily tall, thin man, with grey hair, clerical coat, and white neckcloth.
It was the Reverend Mr. Webster, perpetual curate of the parish around Templemore. And I seemed to know him before I heard his name, for he was the very image of his son, Long Webster, who used to be at Oxford.
“I am so grieved not to have been able to get here before,” he said; “but I had just gone out for some hours when Mrs. Temple’s message was brought to the Parsonage. Is he any better?”
“I am afraid not,” I answered. “We don’t know what to make of it; it all seems so sudden and strange.”
“But what is it?” he asked in a whisper.
“I don’t know, sir. The doctors have said something about the heart.”
“I should like to see the doctors before I go in to Mrs. Temple. Are they here?”
“One of them is, I think. They have been going in and out all day.”
I fetched the doctor out to him; and they talked together in low tones in the shaded and quiet porch. Not a ray of hope sat on the medical man’s face: he as good as intimated that Temple was dying.
“Dear me!” cried the dismayed Mr. Webster.
“He seems to know it himself,” continued the doctor. “At least, we fancy so, I and my brother-practitioner. Though we have been most cautious not to alarm him by any hint of the kind.”
“I should like to see him,” said the parson. “I suppose I can?”
He went in, and was shut up for some time alone with Temple. Yes, he said, when he came out again, Temple knew all about it, and was perfectly resigned and prepared.
You may be sure there was no bed for any of us that night. Temple’s breathing grew worse; and at last we went in by turns, one of us at a time, to prop up the pillows behind, and keep them propped; it seemed to make it firmer and easier for him as he lay against them. Towards morning I was called in to replace Rupert. The shaded candle seemed to be burning dim.
“You can lie down, my dear,” Mrs. Temple whispered to Rupert. “Should there be any change, I will call you.”
He nodded, and left the room. Not to lie down. Only to sit over the kitchen fire with Tod, and so pass away the long hours of discomfort.
“Who is this now?” panted Slingsby, as I took my place.
“It is I. Johnny Ludlow. Do you feel any better?”
He made a little sound of dissent in answer.
“Nay, I think you look easier, my dear,” said Mrs. Temple, gently.
“No, no,” he said, just opening his eyes. “Do not grieve, mother. I shall be better off. I shall be with my father and Fred.”
“Oh, my son, my son, don’t lose heart!” she said, with a sob. “That will never do.”
“I saw my father last night,” said Temple.
The words seemed to strike her with a sort of shock. “No!” she exclaimed, perhaps thinking of the Temple superstition, and drawing back a step. “Pray, pray don’t fancy that!”
“The tent was open to give us air,” he said, speaking with difficulty. “I suddenly saw some one standing in the moonlight. I was next the opening; and I had not been able to get to sleep. For a moment I thought it was some man, some intruder passing by; but he took a strange likeness to my father, and I thought he beckoned — —”
“We are not alone, Slingsby,” interrupted Mrs. Temple, remembering me, her voice cold, not to say haughty.
“Ludlow knows. He knew the last time. Fred said he saw him, and I — I ridiculed it. Ludlow heard me. My father came for Fred, mother; he must have come for me.”
“Oh, I can’t — I can’t believe this, Slingsby,” she cried, in some excitement. “It was fancy — nervousness; nothing else. My darling, I cannot lose you! You have ever been dearer to me than my other children.”
“Only for a little while, mother. It is God’s will. That is our true home, you know; and then there will be no more parting. I am quite happy. I seem to be half there now. What is that light?”
Mrs. Temple looked round, and saw a faint streak coming in over the tops of the shutters. “It must be the glimmering of dawn in the east,” she said. “The day is breaking.”
“Ay,” he answered: “my day. Where’s Rupert? I should like to say good-bye to him. Yes, mother, that’s the dawn of heaven.”
And just as the sun rose, he went there.
That was the end of our boating tour. Ridicule has been cast on some of the facts, and will be again. It is a painful subject; and I don’t know that I should have re
lated it, but for its having led to another (and more lively) adventure, which I proceed to tell of.
XVIII.
ROSE LODGE.
It looked the prettiest place imaginable, lying under the sunlight, as we stood that first morning in front of the bay. The water was smooth and displayed lovely colours: now green, now blue, as the clouds passed over the face of the sky, now taking tinges of brown and amber; and towards evening it would be pink and purple. Further on, the waters were rippling and shining in the sun. Fishing-vessels stood out at sea, plying their craft; little cockle-shells, their white sails set, disported on it; rowing boats glided hither and thither. In the distance the grand waves of the sea were ebbing and flowing; a noble merchant-man, all her canvas filled, was passing proudly on her outward-bound course.
“I should like to live here,” cried Tod, turning away at last.
And I’m sure I felt that I should. For I could watch the ever-changing sea from morning to night and not tire of it.
“Suppose we remain here, Johnny?”
“To live?”
“Nonsense, lad! For a month. I am going for a sail. Will you come?”
After the terrible break-up of our boating tour, poor Slingsby Temple was taken home to Templemore, ourselves going back to Sanbury to wait for the funeral, and for our black garments, for which we had sent. Rupert was fearfully cut up. Although he was the heir now, and would be chief of Templemore, I never saw any brother take a death more to heart. “Slingsby liked you much, Ludlow,” said Rupert to me, when he came to us at the inn at Sanbury the day before the funeral, and the hot tears were in his eyes as he spoke. “He always liked you at Oxford: I have heard him say so. Like himself, you kept yourself free from the lawlessness of the place — —”
“As if a young one like Johnny would go in for anything of the kind!” interrupted Tod.
“Young?” repeated Rupert Temple. “Well, I don’t know. When I was there myself, some young ones — lads — went in for a pretty good deal. He liked you much, Ludlow.”