Johnny Ludlow, Fifth Series

Quietly perhaps in one sense, but it was a restless death-bed. He was not still a minute; but he was quite sensible and calm. Waking up out of a doze when I went in, he held out his hand.

“It is nearly over, sir.”

I was sure of that, and sat down in silence. There could be no mistaking his looks.

“I have just had a strange dream,” he whispered, between his laboured breath; and his eyes were wet with tears, and he looked curiously agitated. “I thought I saw mother. It was in a wide place, all light and sunshine, too beautiful for anything but heaven. Mother was looking at me; I seemed to be outside in dulness and darkness, and not to know how to get in. Others that I’ve known in my lifetime, and who have gone on before, were there, as well as mother; they all looked happy, and there was a soft strain of music, like nothing I ever heard in this world. All at once, as I was wondering how I could get in, my sins seemed to rise up before me in a great cloud; I turned sick, thinking of them; for I knew no sinful person might enter there. Then I saw One standing on the brink! it could only have been Jesus; and He held out His hand to me and smiled, ‘I am here to wash out your sins,’ He said, and I thought He touched me with His finger; and oh, the feeling of delight that came over me, of repose, of bliss, for I knew that all earth’s troubles were over, and I had passed into rest and peace for ever.”

Nanny came up, and gave him one or two spoonfuls of wine.

“I don’t believe it was a dream,” he said, after a pause. “I think it was sent to show me what it is I am entering on; to uphold me through the darksome valley of the shadow of death.”

“Mother said she should be watching for us, you know, Charley,” said the child.

A restless fit came over him again, and he stirred uneasily. When it had passed, he was still for awhile and then looked up at me.

“It was the new heaven and the new earth, sir, that we are told of in the Revelation. Would you mind, sir—just those few verses—reading them to me for the last time?”

Nanny brought the Bible, and put the candle on the stand, and I read what he asked for—the first few verses of the twenty-first chapter. The little girl kneeled down by the bed and joined her hands together.

“That’s enough, Nanny,” I whispered. “Put the candle back.”

“But I did not tell all my dream,” he resumed; “not quite all. As I passed over into heaven, I thought I looked down here again. I could see the places in the world; I could see this same Oxford city. I saw the men here in it, sir, at their cards and their dice and their drink; at all their thoughtless folly. Spending their days and nights without a care for the end, without as much as thinking whether they need a Saviour or not. And oh, their condition troubled me! I seemed to understand all things plainly then, sir. And I thought if they would but once lift up their hearts to Him, even in the midst of their sin, He would take care of them even then, and save them from it in the end—for He was tempted Himself once, and knows how sore their temptations are. In my distress, I tried to call out and tell them this, and it awoke me.”

“Do you think he ought to talk, sir?” whispered Nanny. But nothing more could harm him now.

My time was up, and I ought to be going. Poor Charley spoke so imploringly—almost as though the thought of it startled him.

“Not yet, sir; not yet! Stay a bit longer with me. It is for the last time.”

And I stayed: in spite of my word passed to Dr. Applerigg. It seems to me a solemn thing to cross the wishes of the dying.

So the clock went ticking on. Mrs. Cann stole in and out, and a lodger from below came in and looked at him. Before twelve all was over.

I went hastening home, not much caring whether the proctor met me again, or whether he didn’t, for in any case I must go to Dr. Applerigg in the morning, and tell him I had broken my promise to him, and why. Close at the gates some one overtook and passed me.

It was Tod. Tod with a white face, and his hair damp with running. He had come from Sophie Chalk’s.

“What is it, Tod?”

I laid my hand upon his arm in speaking. He threw it off with a word that was very like an imprecation.

“What is the matter?”

“The devil’s the matter. Mind your own business, Johnny.”

“Have you been quarrelling with Everty?”

“Everty be hanged! The man has betaken himself off.”

“How much have you lost to-night?”

“Cleaned-out, lad. That’s all.”

We got to our room in silence. Tod turned over some cards that lay on the table, and trimmed the candle from a thief.

“Tasson’s dead, Tod.”

“A good thing if some of us were dead,” was the answer. And he turned into his chamber and bolted the door.

III

Lunch-time at Oxford, and a sunny day. Instead of college and our usual fare, bread-and-cheese from the buttery, we were looking on the High Street from Mrs. Everty’s rooms, and about to sit down to a snow-white damasked table with no end of good things upon it. Madam Sophie had invited four or five of us to lunch with her.

The term had gone on, and Easter was not far off. Tod had not worked much: just enough to keep him out of hot-water. His mind ran on Sophie Chalk more than it did on lectures and chapel. He and the other fellows who were caught by her fascinations mostly spent their spare time there. Sophie dispersed her smiles pretty equally, but Tod contrived to get the largest share. The difference was this: they had lost their heads to her and Tod his heart. The evening card-playing did not flag, and the stakes played for were high. Tod and Gaiton were the general losers: a run of ill-luck had set in from the first for both of them. Gaiton might afford this, but Tod could not.

Tod had his moments of reflection. He’d sit sometimes for an hour together, his head bent down, whistling softly to himself some slow dolorous strain, and pulling at his dark whiskers; no doubt pondering the question of what was to be the upshot of it all. For my part, I devoutly wished Sophie Chalk had been caught up into the moon before an ill-wind had wafted her to Oxford. It was an awful shame of her husband to let her stay on there, turning the under-graduates’ brains. Perhaps he could not help it.

We sat down to table: Sophie at its head in a fresh-looking pink gown and bracelets and nicknacks. Lord Gaiton and Tod sat on either side of her; Richardson was at the foot, and Fred Temple and I faced each other. What fit of politeness had taken Sophie to invite me, I could not imagine. Possibly she thought I should be sure to refuse; but I did not.

“So kind of you all to honour my poor little table!” said Sophie, as we sat down. “Being in lodgings, I cannot treat you as I should wish. It is all cold: chickens, meat-patties, lobster-salad, and bread-and-cheese. Lord Gaiton, this is sherry by you, I think. Mr. Richardson, you like porter, I know: there is some on the chiffonier.”

We plunged into the dishes without ceremony, each one according to his taste, and the lunch progressed. I may as well mention one thing—that there was nothing in Mrs. Everty’s manners at any time to take exception to: never a word was heard from her, never a look seen, that could offend even an old dowager. She made the most of her charms and her general fascinations, and flirted quietly; but all in a lady-like way.

“Thank you, yes; I think I will take a little more salad, Mr. Richardson,” she said to him with a beaming smile. “It is my dinner, you know. I have not a hall to dine in to-night, as you gentlemen have. I am sorry to trouble you, Mr. Johnny.”

I was holding her plate for Richardson. There happened at that moment to be a lull in the talking, and we heard a carriage of some kind stop at the door, and a loud peal at the house-bell.

“It’s that brother of mine,” said Fred Temple. “He bothered me to drive out to some confounded place with him, but I told him I wouldn’t. What’s he bumping up the stairs in that fashion for?”

The room-door was flung open, and Fred Temple put on a savage face, for his brother looked after him more than he liked; when, instead of Temple major, there appeared a shining big brown satin bonnet, and an old lady’s face under it, who stood there with a walking-stick.

“Yes, you see I was right, grandmamma; I said she was not gone,” piped a shrill voice behind; and Mabel Smith, in an old-fashioned black silk frock and tippet, came into view. They had driven up to look after Sophie.

Sophie was equal to the occasion. She rose gracefully and held out both her hands, as though they had been welcome as is the sun in harvest. The old lady leaned on her stick, and stared around: the many faces seemed to confuse her.

“Dear me! I did not know you had a luncheon-party, ma’am.”

“Just two or three friends who have dropped in, Mrs. Golding,” said Sophie, airily. “Let me take your stick.”

The old lady, who looked like a very amiable old lady, sat down in the nearest chair, but kept the stick in her hand. Mabel Smith was regarding everything with her shrewd eyes and compressing her thin lips.

“This is Johnny Ludlow, grandmamma; you have heard me speak of him: I don’t know the others.”

“How do you do, sir,” said the old lady, politely nodding her brown bonnet at me. “I hope you are in good health, sir?”

“Yes, ma’am, thank you.” For she put it as a question, and seemed to await an answer. Tod and the rest, who had risen, began to sit down again.

“I’m sure I am sorry to disturb you at luncheon, ma’am,” said the old lady to Mrs. Everty. “We came in to see whether you had gone home or not. I said you of course had gone; that you wouldn’t stay away from your husband so long as this; and also because we had not heard of you for a month past. But Mabel thought you were here still.”

“I am intending to return shortly,” said Sophie.

“That’s well: for I want to send up Mabel. And I brought in a letter that came to my house this morning, addressed to you,” continued the old lady, lugging out of her pocket a small collection of articles before she found the letter. “Mabel says it is your husband’s handwriting, ma’am; if so, he must be thinking you are staying with me.”

“Thanks,” said Sophie, slipping the letter away unopened.

“Had you not better see what it says?” suggested Mrs. Golding to her.

“Not at all: it can wait. May I offer you some luncheon?”

“Much obleeged, ma’am, but I and Mabel took an early dinner before setting out. And on which day, Mrs. Everty, do you purpose going?”

“I’ll let you know,” said Sophie.

“What can have kept you so long here?” continued the old lady, wonderingly. “Mabel said you did not know any of the inhabitants.”

“I have found it of service to my health,” replied Sophie with charming simplicity. “Will you take a glass of sherry, Mrs. Golding?”

“I don’t mind if I do. Just half a glass. Thank you, sir; not much more than half”—to me, as I went forward with the glass and decanter. “I’m sure, sir, it is good of you to be attentive to an old lady like me. If you had a mind for a brisk walk at any time, of three miles, or so, and would come over to my house, I’d make you welcome. Mabel, write down the address.”

“And I wish you had come while I was there, Johnny Ludlow,” said the girl, giving me the paper. “I like you. You don’t say smiling words to people with your lips and mock at them in your heart, as some do.”

I remembered that she had not been asked to take any wine, and I offered it.

“No, thank you,” she said with emphasis. “None for me.” And it struck me that she refused because the wine belonged to Sophie.

The old lady, after nodding a farewell around and shaking hands with Mrs. Everty, stood leaning on her stick between the doorway and the stairs. “My servant’s not here,” she said, looking back, “and these stairs are steep: would any one be good enough to help me down?”

Tod went forward to give her his arm; and we heard the fly drive away with her and Mabel. Somehow the interlude had damped the free go of the banquet, and we soon prepared to depart also. Sophie made no attempt to hinder it, but said she should expect us in to take some tea with her in the evening: and the lot of us filed out together, some going one way, some another. I and Fred Temple kept together.

There was a good-natured fellow at Oxford that term, who had come up from Wales to take his degree, and had brought his wife with him, a nice kind of young girl who put me in mind of Anna Whitney. They had become acquainted with Sophie Chalk, and liked her; she fascinated both. She meant to do it too: for the companionship of staid irreproachable people like Mr. and Mrs. Ap-Jenkyns, reflected credit on herself in the eyes of Oxford.

“I thought we should have met the Ap-Jenkynses, at lunch,” remarked Temple. “What a droll old party that was with the stick! She puts me in mind of—I say, here’s another old party!” he broke off. “Seems to be a friend of yours.”

It was Mrs. Cann. She had stopped, evidently wanting to speak to me.

“I have just been to put little Nanny Tasson in the train for London, sir,” she said; “I thought you might like to know it. Her eldest brother, the one that’s settled there, has taken to her. His wife wrote a nice letter and sent the fare.”

“All right, Mrs. Cann. I hope they’ll take good care of her. Good-afternoon.”

“Who the wonder is Nanny Tasson?” cried Temple as we went on.

“Only a little friendless child. Her brother was our scout when we first came, and he died.”

“Oh, by Jove, Ludlow! Look there!”

I turned at Temple’s words. A gig was dashing by as large as life; Tod in it, driving Sophie Chalk. Behind it dashed another gig, containing Mr. and Mrs. Ap-Jenkyns. Fred Temple laughed.

“Mrs. Everty’s unmistakably charming,” said he, “and we don’t know any real harm of her, but if I were Ap-Jenkyns I should not let my wife be quite her bosom companion. As to Todhetley, I think he’s a gone calf.”

Whitney came to our room as I got in. He had been invited to the luncheon by Mrs. Everty, but excused himself, and she asked Fred Temple in his place.

“Well, Johnny, how did it go off?”

“Oh, pretty well. Lobster-salad and other good things. Why did not you go?”

“Where’s Tod?” he rejoined, not answering the question.

“Out on a driving-party. Sophie Chalk and the Ap-Jenkynses.”

Whitney whistled through the verse of an old song: “Froggy would a-wooing go.” “I say, Johnny,” he said presently, “you had better give Tod a hint to take care of himself. That thing will go too far if he does not look out.”

“As if Tod would mind me! Give him the hint yourself, Bill.”

“I said half a word to him this morning after chapel: he turned on me and accused me of being jealous.”

We both laughed.

“I had a letter from home yesterday,” Bill went on, “ordering me to keep clear of Madam Sophie.”

“No! Who from?”

“The mother. And Miss Deveen, who is staying with them, put in a postscript.”

“How did they know Sophie Chalk was here?”

“Through me. One wet afternoon I wrote a long epistle to Harry, telling him, amidst other items, that Sophie Chalk was here, turning some of our heads, especially Todhetley’s. Harry, like a flat, let Helen get hold of the letter, and she read it aloud, pro bono publico. There was nothing in it that I might not have written to Helen herself; but Mr. Harry won’t get another from me in a hurry. Sophie seems to have fallen to a discount with the mother and Miss Deveen.”

Bill Whitney did not know what I knew—the true story of the emeralds.

“And that’s why I did not go to the lunch to-day, Johnny. Who’s this?”

It was the scout. He came in to bring in a small parcel, daintily done up in white paper.

“Something for you, sir,” he said to me. “A boy has just left it.”

“It can’t be for me—that I know of. It looks like wedding-cake.”

“Open it,” said Bill. “Perhaps one of the grads has gone and got married.”

We opened it together, laughing. A tiny paste-board box loomed out with a jeweller’s name on it; inside it was a chased gold cross, attached to a slight gold chain.

“It’s a mistake, Bill. I’ll do it up again.”

Tod came back in time for dinner. Seeing the little parcel on the mantelshelf, he asked what it was. So I told him—something that the jeweller’s shop must have sent to our room by mistake. Upon that, he tore the paper open; called the shop people hard names for sending it into college, and put the box in his pocket. Which showed that it was for him.

I went to Sophie’s in the evening, having promised her, but not as soon as Tod, for I stayed to finish some Greek. Whitney went with me, in spite of his orders from home. The luncheon-party had all assembled there with the addition of Mr. and Mrs. Ap-Jenkyns. Sophie sat behind the tea-tray, dispensing tea; Gaiton handed the plum-cake. She wore a silken robe of opal tints; white lace fell over her wrists and bracelets; in her hair, brushed off her face, fluttered a butterfly with silver wings; and on her neck was the chased gold cross that had come to our rooms a few hours before.

“Tod’s just a fool, Johnny,” said Whitney in my ear. “Upon my word, I think he is. And she’s a syren!—and it was at our house he met her first!”

After Mr. and Mrs. Ap-Jenkyns left, for she was tired, they began cards. Sophie was engrossing Gaiton, and Tod sat down to écarté. He refused at first, but Richardson drew him on.

“I’ll show Tod the letter I had from home,” said Whitney to me as we went out. “What can possess him to go and buy gold crosses for her? She’s married.”

“Gaiton and Richardson buy her things also, Bill.”

“They don’t know how to spend their money fast enough. I wouldn’t: I know that.”

Tod and Gaiton came in together soon after I got in. Gaiton just looked in to say good-night, and proposed that we should breakfast with him on the morrow, saying he’d ask Whitney also: and then he went up to his own rooms.

Tod fell into one of his thinking fits. He had work to do, but he sat staring at the fire, his legs stretched out. With all his carelessness he had a conscience and some forethought. I told him Bill Whitney had had a lecture from home, touching Sophie Chalk, and I conclude he heard. But he made no sign.

“I wish to goodness you wouldn’t keep up that tinkling, Johnny,” he said by-and-by, in a tone of irritation.

The “tinkling” was a bit of quiet harmony. However, I shut down the piano, and went and sat by the fire, opposite to him. His brow looked troubled; he was running his hands through his hair.

“I wonder whether I could raise some money, Johnny,” he began, after a bit.

“How much money?”

“A hundred, or so.”

“You’d have to pay a hundred and fifty for doing it.”

“Confound it, yes! And besides–”

“Besides what?”

“Nothing.”

“Look here, Tod: we should have gone on as straightly and steadily as need be but for her. As it is, you are wasting your time and getting out of the way of work. What’s going to be the end of it?”

“Don’t know myself, Johnny.”

“Do you ever ask yourself?”

“Where’s the use of asking?” he returned, after a pause. “If I ask it of myself at night, I forget it by the morning.”

“Pull up at once, Tod. You’d be in time.”

“Yes, now: don’t know that I shall be much longer,” said Tod candidly. He was in a soft mood that night; an unusual thing with him. “Some awful complication may come of it: a few writs or something.”

“Sophie Chalk can’t do you any good, Tod.”

“She has not done me any harm.”

“Yes she has. She has unsettled you from the work that you came to Oxford to do; and the play in her rooms has caused you to run into debt that you don’t know how to get out of: it’s nearly as much harm as she can do you.”

“Is it?”

“As much as she can do any honest fellow. Tod, if you were to lapse into crooked paths, you’d break the good old pater’s heart. There’s nobody in the world he cares for as he cares for you.”

Tod sat twitching his whiskers. I could not understand his mood: all the carelessness and the fierceness had quite gone out of him.

“It’s the thought of the father that pulls me up, lad. What a cross-grained world it is! Why should a bit of pleasure be hedged in with thorns?”

“If we don’t go to bed we shall not be up for chapel.”

“You can go to bed.”

“Why do you drive her out, Tod?”

“Why does the sun shine?” was the lucid answer.

“I saw you with her in that gig to-day.”

“We only went four miles. Four out and four in.”

“You may be driving her rather too far some day—fourteen, or so.”

“I don’t think she’d be driven. With all her simplicity, she knows how to take care of herself.”

Simplicity! I looked at him; and saw he spoke the word in good faith. He was simple.

“She has a husband, Tod.”

“Well?”

“Do you suppose he would like to see you driving her abroad?—and all you fellows in her rooms to the last minute any of you dare stop out?”

“That’s not my affair. It’s his.”

“Any way, Everty might come down upon the lot of you some of these fine days, and say things you’d not like. She’s to blame. Why, you heard what that old lady in the brown bonnet said—that her husband must think Sophie was staying with her.”

“The fire’s low, and I’m cold,” said Tod. “Good-night, Johnny.”

He went into his room, and I to mine.

A few years ago, there appeared a short poem called “Amor Mundi.”1 While reading it, I involuntarily recalled this past experience at Oxford, for it described a young fellow’s setting-out on the downward path, as Tod did. Two of life’s wayfarers start on their long life journey: the woman first; the man sees and joins her; then speaks to her.

“Oh, where are you going, with your love-locks flowing,And the west wind blowing along the narrow track?”“This downward path is easy, come with me, an it please ye;We shall escape the up-hill by never turning back.”So they two went together in the sunny August weather;The honey-blooming heather lay to the left and right:And dear she was to dote on, her small feet seemed to float onThe air, like soft twin-pigeons too sportive to alight.

And so they go forth, these two, on their journey, revelling in the summer sunshine and giving no heed to their sliding progress; until he sees something in the path that startles him. But the syren accounts for it in some plausible way; it lulls his fear, and onward they go again. In time he sees something worse, halts, and asks her again:

“Oh, what’s that in the hollow, so pale I quake to follow?”“Oh, that’s a thin dead body that waits the Eternal term.”

The answer effectually arouses him, and he pulls up in terror, asking her to turn. She answers again, and he knows his fate.

“Turn again, oh my sweetest! Turn again, false and fleetest!This way, whereof thou weetest, is surely Hell’s own track!”“Nay, too late for cost counting, nay too steep for hill-mounting,This downward path is easy, but there’s no turning back.”

Shakespeare tells us that there is a tide in the affairs of man, which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune: omitted, all the voyage of the after life is spent in shoals and miseries. That will apply to other things besides fortune. I fully believe that after a young fellow has set out on the downward path, in almost all cases there’s a chance given him of pulling up again, if he only is sufficiently wise and firm to seize upon it. The opportunity was to come for Tod. He had started; there was no doubt of that; but he had not got down very far yet and could go backward almost as easily as forward. Left alone, he would probably make a sliding run of it, and descend into the shoals. But the chance for him was at hand.

Our commons and Whitney’s went up to Gaiton’s room in the morning, and we breakfasted there. Lecture that day was at eleven, but I had work to do beforehand. So had Tod, for the matter of that; plenty of it. I went down to mine, but Tod stayed up with the two others.

Bursting into our room, as a fellow does when he is late for anything, I saw at the open window somebody that I thought must be Mr. Brandon’s ghost. It took me aback, and for a moment I stood staring.

“Have you no greeting for me, Johnny Ludlow?”

“I was lost in surprise, sir. I am very glad to see you.”

“I dare say you are!” he returned, as if he doubted my word. “It’s a good half-hour that I have waited here. You’ve been at a breakfast-party!”