Johnny Ludlow, Second Series

Tod carried his point. He turned so restive and obstinate over it as to surprise and vex the Squire, who of course knew nothing about the long-standing debt to Mr. Brandon. The Squire had no legal power to keep the money, if Tod insisted upon having it. And he did insist. The Squire put it down to boyish folly, self-assumption; and groaned and grumbled all the way to Worcester, when Tod was taking the five-hundred-pound cheque, paid to him free of duty, to the Old Bank.

“We shall have youngsters in their teens wanting to open a banking account next!” said the pater to Mr. Isaac, as Tod was writing his signature in the book. “The world’s coming to something.”

“I dare say young Mr. Todhetley will be prudent, and not squander it,” observed Mr. Isaac, with one of his pleasant smiles.

“Oh, will he, though! You’ll see. Look here,” went on the Squire, tapping the banker on the arm, “couldn’t you, if he draws too large a cheque at any time, refuse to cash it?”

“I fear we could not do that,” laughed Mr. Isaac. “So long as he does not overdraw his account, we are bound to honour his cheques.”

“And if you do overdraw it, Joe, I hope the bank will prosecute you!—I would, I know,” was the Squire’s last threat, as we left the bank and turned towards the Cross, Tod with a cheque-book in his pocket.

But Mr. Brandon could not be paid then. On going over to his house a day or two afterwards, we found him from home. The housekeeper thought he was on his way to one of the “water-cure establishments” in Yorkshire, she said, but he had not yet written to give his address.

“So it must wait,” remarked Tod to me, as we went home. “I’m not sorry. How the bank would have stared at having to pay a hundred pounds down on the nail! Conclude, no doubt, that I was going to the deuce headlong.”

“By Jove!” cried Tod, taking a leap in the air.

About a week had elapsed since the journey to the Old Bank, and Tod was opening a letter that had come addressed to him by the morning post.

“Johnny! will you believe it, lad? Temple asks me to be of the boating lot, after all.”

It was even so. The letter was from Slingsby Temple, written from Templemore. It stated that he had been disappointed by some of those who were to have made up the number, and if Todhetley and Ludlow would supply their places, he should be glad.

Tod turned wild. You might have thought, as Mrs. Todhetley remarked, that he had been invited to Eden.

“The idea of Temple’s asking you, Johnny!” he said. “You are of no good in a boat.”

“Perhaps I had better decline?”

“No, don’t do that, Johnny. It might upset the party altogether, perhaps. You must do your best.”

“I have no boating-suit.”

“I will treat you to one,” said Tod, munificently. “We’ll get it at Evesham. Pity but my things would fit you.”

So it was, for he had loads of them.

The Squire, for a wonder, did not oppose the scheme. Mrs. Todhetley (like Lady Whitney) did, in her mild way. As Bill said, all mothers were alike—always foreseeing danger. And though she was not Tod’s true mother, or mine either, she was just as anxious for us; and she looked upon it as nearly certain that one of us would come home drowned and the other with the ague.

“They won’t sleep on the bare ground, of course,” said Duffham, who chanced to call that morning, while Tod was writing his letter of acceptance to Slingsby Temple.

“Of course we shall,” fired Tod, resenting the remark. “What harm could it do us?”

“Give some of you rheumatic-fever,” said Duffham.

“Then why doesn’t it give it to the gipsies?” retorted Tod.

“The gipsies are used to it—born to it, as one may say. You young men must have a waterproof sheet to lie upon, or a tarpaulin, or something of the sort.”

Tod tossed his head, disdaining an answer, and wrote on.

“You will have plenty of rugs and great-coats with you, of course,” went on Duffham. “And I’ll give you a packet of quinine powders. It is as well to be prepared for contingencies. If you find any symptoms of unusual cold, or shivering, just take one or two of them.”

“Look here, Mr. Duffham,” said Tod, dashing his pen down on the table. “Don’t you think you had better attend us yourself with a medicine-chest? Put up a cargo of rhubarb—and magnesia—and castor oil—and family pills. A few quarts of senna-tea might not come in amiss. My patience! I believe you take us for delicate infants.”

“And I should recommend you to carry a small keg of whisky amongst the boat stores,” continued Duffham, not in the least put out. “You’ll want it. Take a nip of it neat when you first get up from the ground in the morning. It is necessary you should, and it will ward off some evils that might otherwise arise. Johnny Ludlow, I’ll put the quinine into your charge: mind you don’t forget it.”

“Of all the old women!” muttered Tod to me. “Had the pater been in the room, this might have set him against our going.”

On the following day we went over to Whitney Hall, intending to take Evesham on our way back, and buy what was wanted. Surprise the first. Bill Whitney was not at home, and was not to be of the boating party.

“You never saw any one in such a way in your life,” cried Helen, who could devote some time to us, now Temple was gone. “I must say it was too bad of papa. He never made any objection while Mr. Temple was here, but let poor William anticipate all the pleasure; and then he went and turned round afterwards.”

“Did he get afraid for him?” cried Tod, in wonder. “I wouldn’t have thought it of Sir John.”

“Afraid! no,” returned Helen, opening her eyes. “What he got was a fit of the gout. A relapse.”

“What has the gout to do with Bill?”

“Why, old Featherston ordered papa to Buxton, and papa said he could not do without William to see to him there: mamma was laid up in bed with one of her bad colds—and she is not out of it yet. So papa went off, taking William—and you should just see how savage he was.”

For William Whitney to be “savage” was something new. He had about the easiest temper in the world. I laughed, and said so.

“Savage for him, I mean,” corrected Helen, who was given to talking at random. “Nothing puts him out. Some cross fellows would not have consented, and have told their fathers so to their faces. It is a shame.”

“I don’t suppose Bill cares much; he is no hand at rowing,” remarked Tod. “Did he write to Temple and decline?”

“Of course he did,” was Helen’s resentfully spoken answer; and she seemed, to say the least, quite as much put out as Bill could have been. “What else could he do?”

“Well. I am sorry for this,” said Tod. “Temple has asked me now. Johnny also.”

“Has he!” exclaimed Helen, her eyes sparkling. “I hope you will go.”

“Of course we shall go,” said Tod. “Where’s Anna?”

“Anna? Oh, sitting up with mamma. She likes a sick-room. I don’t.”

“You’d like a boat better—if Temple were in it,” remarked Tod, with a saucy laugh.

“Just you be quiet,” retorted Helen.

From Whitney Hall we went to Evesham, and hastily procured what we wanted. The next day but one was that fixed for our departure, and when it at last dawned, bright and hot, we started amidst the good wishes of all the house. Tod with a fishing-rod and line, in case the expedition should afford an opportunity for fishing, and I with Duffham’s quinine powders in my pocket.

Templemore, the seat of the Temples, was on the Welsh borders. We were not going there, but to a place called Sanbury, which lay within a few miles of the mansion. Slingsby Temple and his brother Rupert were already there, with the boat and the tent and all the rest of the apparatus, making ready for our departure on the morrow. Our head-quarters, until the start, was at the Ship, a good, old-fashioned inn, and we found that we were expected to be Temple’s guests there.

“I would have asked you to Templemore to dine and sleep,” he observed, in cordial tones, “and my mother said she should have been pleased to see you; but to get down here in the morning would have been inconvenient. At least, it would take up the time that ought to be devoted to getting away. Will you come and see the boat?”

It was lying in a locked-up shed near the river. A tub-pair, large of its kind. Three of them were enough for it: and I saw that, in point of fact, I was not wanted for the working; but Temple either did not like to ask Tod without me, or else would not leave me out. The Temples might have more than their share of pride, but it was accompanied by an equal share of refined and considerate feeling.

“We shall make you useful, never fear,” said he to me, with a smile. “And it will be capital boating experience for you.”

“I am sure I shall like it,” I answered. And I liked him better than I ever had in my life.

Numerous articles were lying ready with the boat. Temple seemed to have thought of every needful thing. A pot to boil water in, a pan for frying, a saucepan for potatoes, a mop and towing-rope, stone jugs for beer, milk, and fresh water, tins to hold our grog, and the like.

Amongst the stores were tea, sugar, candles, cheese, butter, a ham, some tinned provisions, a big jar of beer, and (Duffham should have seen it) a two-gallon keg of whisky.

“A doctor up with us said we ought to have whisky,” remarked Tod. “He is nothing but an old woman. He put some quinine powders in Johnny’s pocket, and talked of a waterproof sheet to sleep on.”

“Quite right,” said Temple. “There it lies.”

And there it did lie, wrapped round the folded tent. A large waterproof tarpaulin to cover the ground, at night, and keep the damp from our limbs.

“Did you ever make a boating tour before, Temple?” asked Tod.

“Oh yes. I like it. I don’t know any pleasure equal to that of camping out at night on a huge plain, where you may study all the stars in the heavens.”

As Temple spoke, he glanced towards a small parcel in a corner. I guessed it was one of his night telescopes.

“Yes, it is,” he assented; “but only a small one. The boat won’t stretch, and we can only load it according to its limits.”

Rupert Temple came up as we were leaving the shed. I had never seen him before. He was the only brother left, and Slingsby’s heir presumptive. Why, I know not, but I had pictured Rupert as being like poor Fred—tall, fair, bright-looking as a man can be. But there existed not a grain of resemblance. Rupert was just a second edition of Slingsby: little, dark, plain, and proud. It was not an offensive pride—quite the contrary: and with those they knew well they were cordial and free.

Those originally invited by Temple were his cousin Arthur Slingsby; Lord Cracroft’s son; Whitney; and a young Welshman named Pryce-Hughes. All had accepted, and intended to keep the engagement, knowing then of nothing to prevent them. But, curious to say, each one in succession wrote to decline it later. Whitney had to go elsewhere with his father; Pryce-Hughes hurt his arm, which disabled him from rowing: and Arthur Slingsby went off without ceremony in somebody’s yacht to Malta. As the last of the letters came, which was Whitney’s, Mrs. Temple seemed struck with the coincidence of all refusing, or being compelled to refuse. “Slingsby, my dear,” she said to her son, “it looks just as though you were not to go.” “But I will go,” answered Temple, who did not like to be baulked in a project more than anybody else likes it; “if these can’t come, I’ll get others who can.” And he forthwith told his brother Rupert that there’d be room for him in the boat—he had refused him before; and wrote to Tod. After that, came another letter from Pryce-Hughes, saying his arm was better, and he could join the party at Bridgenorth or Bewdley. But it was too late: the boat was filled up. Temple meant to do the Severn, the Wye, and the Avon, with a forced interlude of canals, and to be out a month, taking it easily, and resting on Sundays.

“Catch Slingsby missing Sunday service if he can help it!” said Rupert aside to me.

We started in our flannel suits and red caps, and started well, but not until the afternoon, Temple steering, his brother and Tod taking the sculls. The water was very shallow: and by-and-by we ran aground. The stern of the boat swung round, and away went our tarpaulin; and it was carried off by the current before we could save it.

Well, that first afternoon there were difficulties to contend with, and one or other of the three was often in the water; but we made altogether some five or six miles. It was the hottest day I ever felt; and about seven o’clock, on coming to a convenient meadow, nearly level with the river, none of us were sorry to step ashore. Making fast the boat for the night, we landed the tent and other things, and looked about us. A coppice bounded the field on the left; right across, in a second field, stood a substantial farm-house, surrounded by its barns and ricks. Temple produced one of his cards, which was to be taken to the house, and the farmer’s leave asked to encamp on the meadow. Rupert Temple and Tod made themselves decent to go on the errand.

“We shall want a bundle or two of straw,” said Temple; “it won’t do to lie on the bare ground. And some milk. You must ask if they will accommodate us, and pay what they charge.”

They went off, carrying also the jar to beg for fresh water. Temple and I began to unfurl the tent, and to busy ourselves amongst the things generally.

“Halloa! what’s to do here?”

We turned, and saw a stout, comely man, in white shirt-sleeves, an open waistcoat, knee-breeches and top-boots; no doubt the farmer himself. Temple explained. He and some friends were on a boating tour, and had landed there to encamp for the night.

“But who gave you leave to do it?” asked the farmer. “You are trespassing. This is my ground.”

“I supposed it might be necessary to ask leave,” said Temple, haughtily courteous; “and I have sent to yonder house—which I presume is yours—to solicit it. If you will kindly accord the permission, I shall feel obliged.”

That Temple looked disreputable enough, there could be no denying. No shoes on, no stockings, trousers tucked up above the knee: for he had been several times in the water, and, as yet, had done nothing to himself. But two of our college-caps chanced to be lying exposed on the boat: and perhaps, Temple’s tone and address had made their due impression. The farmer looked hard at him, as if trying to remember his face.

“It’s not one of the young Mr. Temples, is it?” said he. “Of Templemore.”

“I am Mr. Temple, of Templemore. I have sent my card to your house.”

“Dash me!” cried the farmer, heartily. “Shake hands, sir. I fancied I knew the face. I’ve seen you out shooting, sir—and at Sanbury. I knew your father. I’m sure you are more than welcome to camp alongside here, and to any other accommodation I can give you. Will you shake hands, young gentleman?” giving his hand to me as he released Temple’s.

“My brother and another of our party are gone to your house to beg some fresh water and buy some milk,” said Temple, who did not seem at all to resent the farmer’s familiarity, but rather to like it. “And we shall be glad of a truss or two of fresh straw, if you can either sell it to us or give it. We have had the misfortune to lose our waterproof sheet.”

“Sell be hanged!” cried the farmer, with a jovial laugh. “Sell you a truss or two of straw! Sell you milk! Not if I know it, Mr. Temple. You’re welcome, sir, to as much as ever you want of both. One of my men shall bring the straw down.”

“You are very good.”

“And anything else you please to think of. Don’t scruple to ask, sir. Will you all come and take supper at my house? We’ve a rare round o’ beef in cut, and I saw the missis making pigeon-pies this morning.”

But Temple declined the invitation most decisively; and the farmer, perhaps noting that, did not press it. It was rare weather for the water, he observed.

“We could do with less heat,” replied Temple.

“Ay,” said the farmer, “I never felt it worse. But it’s good for the corn.”

And, with that, he left us. The other two came back with water and oceans of milk. Sticks were soon gathered from the coppice, and the fire made; the round pot, filled with water, was put on to boil for tea, and the tent was set up.

Often and often in my later life have I looked back to that evening. The meal over—and a jolly good one we made—we sat round the camp fire, then smouldering down to red embers, and watched the setting sun, Rupert Temple and Tod smoking. It was a glorious sunset, the west lighted up with gold and purple and crimson; the sky above us clear and dark-blue.

But oh, how hot it was! The moon came up as the sun went down, and the one, to our fancy, seemed to give out as much heat as the other. There we sat on, sipping our grog, and talking in the bright moonlight, Temple with his elbows on the grass, his face turned up towards the sky and the few stars that came out. The colours in the west gave place to a beautiful opal, stretching northwards.

It was singular—I shall always think so—that the conversation should turn on MacRae, the Scotchman who used to make our skin creep at Oxford with his tales of second-sight. We were not talking of Oxford, and I don’t know how MacRae came up. Temple had been talking of astronomy; from that we got to astrology; so perhaps it was in that way. Up he came, however, he and his weird beliefs; and Rupert Temple, who had not enjoyed the honour of Mac’s acquaintance, and had probably never heard his name before, got me to relate one or two of Mac’s choice experiences.

“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.