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 related 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."
And somehow I liked to hear Rupert say it.
Quitting Sanbury after the funeral, we came to this little place, Cray
Bay, which was on the sea-coast, a few miles beyond Templemore. Our
pleasure cut short at the beginning of the holiday, we hardly knew what
to do with the rest of it, and felt like a couple of fish suddenly
thrown out of water. Mrs. Temple, taking her son and daughter, went for
change to her brother's, Lord Cracroft.
At Cray Bay we found one small inn, which bore the odd sign of the
Whistling Wind, and was kept by Mrs. Jones, a stout Welshwoman. The
bedroom she gave us enjoyed a look-out upon some stables, and would
not hold much more than the two small beds in it. In answer to Tod's
remonstrances, she said that she had a better room, but it was just now
occupied.
The discomforts of the lodging were forgotten when we strolled out to
look about us, and saw the beauties of the sea and bay. Cray Bay was a
very primitive spot: little else than a decent fishing-place. It had not
then been found out by the tour-taking world. Its houses were built
anyhow and anywhere; its shops could be counted on your fingers: a
butcher's, a baker's, a grocer's, and so on. Fishermen called at the
doors with fish, and countrywomen with butter and fowls. There was no
gas, and the place at night was lighted with oil-lamps. A trout-stream
lay at the back of the village, half-a-mile away.
Stepping into a boat, on this first morning, for the sail proposed by
Tod, we found its owner a talkative old fellow. His name was Druff, he
said; he had lived at Cray Bay most of his life, and knew every inch of
its land and every wave of its sea. There couldn't be a nicer spot to
stop at for the summer, as he took it; no, not if you searched the
island through: and he supposed it was first called Cray Bay after the
cray-fish, they being caught in plenty there.
"More things than one are called oddly in this place," remarked Tod.
"Look at that inn: the Whistling Wind; what's that called after?"
"And so the wind do hoostle on this here coast; 'deed an' it do,"
returned Druff. "You'd not forget it if you heered it in winter."
The more we saw of Cray Bay that day, the more we liked it. Its
retirement just suited our mood, after the experience of only four
or five days back: for I can tell you that such a shock is not to be
forgotten all in a moment. And when we went up to bed that night, Tod
had made up his mind to stay for a time if lodgings could be found.
"Not in this garret, that you can't swing a cat in," said he, stretching
out his hands towards the four walls. "Madame Jones won't have me here
another night if I can help it."
"No. Our tent in the meadow was ten times livelier."
"Are there any lodgings to be had in this place?" asked Tod of the
slip-shod maid-servant, when we were at breakfast the next morning. But
she professed not to know of any.
"But, Tod, what would they say at home to our staying here?" I asked
after awhile, certain doubts making themselves heard in my conscience.
"What they chose," said Tod, cracking his fourth egg.
"I am afraid the pater----"
"Now, Johnny, you need not put in your word," he interrupted, in the
off-hand tone that always silenced me. "It's not your affair. We came
out for a month, and I am not going back home, like a bad sixpence
returned, before the month has expired. Perhaps I shall tack a few weeks
on to it. I am not dependent on the pater's purse."
No; for he had his five hundred pounds lying untouched at the Worcester
Old Bank, and his cheque-book in his pocket.
Breakfast over, we went out to look for lodgings; but soon feared it
might be a hopeless search. Two little cottages had a handboard stuck on
a stick in the garden, with "Lodgings" on it. But the rooms in each
proved to be a tiny sitting-room and a more tiny bedroom, smaller than
the garret at the Whistling Wind.
"I never saw such a world as this," cried Tod, as we paced
disconsolately before the straggling dwellings in front of the bay. "If
you want a thing you can't get it."
"We might find rooms in those houses yonder," I said, nodding towards
some scattered about in the distance. "They must be farms."
"Who wants to live a mile off?" he retorted. "It's the place itself I
like, and the bay, and the---- Oh, by George! Look there, Johnny!"
We had come to the last house in the place--a fresh-looking, charming
cottage, with a low roof and a green verandah, that we had stopped to
admire yesterday. It faced the bay, and stood by itself in a garden that
was a perfect bower of roses. The green gate bore the name "Rose Lodge,"
and in the parlour window appeared a notice "To Let;" which notice, we
both felt sure, had not been there the previous day.
"Fancy their having rooms to let here!" cried Tod. "The nicest little
house in all the place. How lucky!"
In he went impulsively, striding up the short gravel-path, which was
divided from the flower-beds by two rows of sea-shells, and knocked at
the door. It was opened by a tall grenadier of a female, rising six
feet, with a spare figure and sour face. She had a large cooking-apron
on, dusted with flour.
"You have lodgings to let," said Tod; "can I see them?"
"Lodgings to let?" she repeated, scanning us up and down attentively;
and her voice sounded harsh and rasping. "I don't know that we have. You
had better see Captain Copperas."
She threw open the door of the parlour: a small, square, bright-looking
room, rather full of furniture; a gay carpet, a cottage piano, and some
green chairs being among the articles.
Captain Copperas came forward: a retired seaman, as we heard later; tall
as the grenadier, and with a brown, weather-beaten face. But in voice
and manners he, at any rate, did not resemble her, for they were just as
pleasant as they could be.
"I have no lodgings," said he; "my servant was mistaken. My house is to
let; and the furniture to be taken too."
Which announcement was of course a check to Tod. He sat looking very
blank, and then explained that we only required lodgings. We had been
quite charmed with Cray Bay, and would like to stay in it for a month or
so: and that it was _his_ misapprehension, not the servant's.
"It's a pity but you wanted a little house," said Captain Copperas.
"This is the most compact, desirable, perfect little dwelling mortal man
ever was in. Rent twenty-six pounds a-year only, furniture to be bought
out-and-out for a hundred and twenty-five. It would be a little Eden--a
paradise--to those who had the means to take it."
As he spoke, he regarded us individually and rather pointedly. It looked
as much as to doubt whether we had the means. Tod (conscious of his five
hundred pounds in the bank) threw his head up.
"Oh, I have the means," said he, as haughtily as poor Slingsby Temple
had ever spoken. "Johnny, did you put any cards in your pocket? Give
Captain Copperas one."
I laid one of Tod's cards on the table. The captain took it up.
"It's a great grief to me to leave the house," he remarked. "Especially
after having been only a few months in it!--and laying in a stock of the
best furniture in a plain way, purchased in the best market! Downright
grief."
"Then why do you leave it?" naturally asked Tod.
"Because I have to go afloat again," said the sailor, his face taking a
rueful expression. "I thought I had given up the sea for good; but my
old employers won't let me give it up. They know my value as a master,
and have offered me large terms for another year or two of service. A
splendid new East Indiaman, two thousand tons register, and--and, in
short, I don't like to be ungrateful, so I have said I'll go."
"Could you not keep on the house until you come back?"
"My sister won't let me keep it on. Truth to say, she never cared for
the sea, and wants to get away from it. That exquisite scene"--extending
his hand towards the bay, and to a steamer working her way onwards near
the horizon--"has no charms for Miss Copperas; and she intends to betake
herself off to our relatives in Leeds. No: I can only give the place up,
and dispose of the furniture to whomsoever feels inclined to take it. It
will be a fine sacrifice. I shall not get the one half of the money I
gave for it: don't look to. And all of it as good as new!"
I could read Tod's face as a book, and the eager look in his eyes. He
was thinking how much he should like to seize upon the tempting bargain;
to make the pretty room we sat in, and the prettier prospect yonder, his
own. Captain Copperas appeared to read him also.
"You are doubting whether to close with the offer or not," he said, with
a frank smile. "You might make it yours for a hundred and twenty-five
pounds. Perhaps--pardon me; you are both but young--you may not have the
sum readily at command?"
"Oh yes, I have," said Tod, candidly. "I have it lying at my banker's,
in Worcester. No, it's not for that reason I hesitate. It is--it
is--fancy me with a house on my hands!" he broke off, turning to me with
a laugh.
"It is an offer that you will never be likely to meet with again, sir."
"But what on earth could I do with the house and the things
afterwards--allowing that we stayed here for a month or two?" urged Tod.
"Why, dispose of them again, of course," was the ready answer of Captain
Copperas. "You'd find plenty of people willing to purchase, and to
take the house off your hands. Such an opportunity as this need not go
begging. I only wish I had not to be off all in a jiffy; I should make
a very different bargain."
"I'll think of it," said Tod, as we got up to leave. "I must say it is
a nice little nest."
In the doorway we encountered a tall lady with a brown face and a
scarlet top-knot. She wore a thick gold chain, and bracelets to match.
"My sister, Miss Copperas," said the captain. And he explained to her
in a few words our business, and the purport of what had passed.
"For goodness' sake, don't lose the opportunity!" cried she,
impressively affectionate, as though she had known us all our lives. "So
advantageous an offer was never made to any one before: and but for my
brother's obstinately and wickedly deciding to go off to that wretched
sea again, it would not be made now. Yes, Alexander," turning to him,
"I do call it quite wicked. Only think, sir"--to Tod--"a house full of
beautiful furniture, every individual thing that a family can want; a
piano here, a table-cloth press in the kitchen; plate, linen, knives,
forks; a garden full of roses and a roller for the paths; and all to go
for the miserably inadequate sum of a hundred and twenty-five pounds!
But that's my brother all over. He's a true sailor. Setting himself up
in a home to-day, and selling it off for an old song to-morrow."
"Well, well, Fanny," he said, when he could get a word in edgeways to
stem the torrent of eloquence, "I have agreed to go, and I must go."
"Have you been over the house?" she resumed, in the same voluble
manner. "No? Then do pray come and see it. Oh, don't talk of trouble.
This is the dining-room," throwing open a door behind her.
It was a little side-room, looking up the coast and over the fields;
just enough chairs and tables in it for use. Upstairs we found
three chambers, with their beds and other things. It all looked very
comfortable, and I thought Captain Copperas was foolish to ask so
small a sum.
"This is the linen closet," said Miss Copperas, opening a narrow door
at the top of the stairs, and displaying some shelves that seemed
to be well-filled. "Sheets, table-cloths, dinner-napkins, towels,
pillow-cases; everything for use. Anybody, taking the house, has only to
step in, hang up his hat, and find himself at home. Look at those plates
and dishes!" she ran on, as we got down again and entered the kitchen.
"They are very nice--and enough to dine ten people."
They were of light blue ware, and looked nice enough on the dresser
shelves. The grenadier stood at the table, chopping parsley on a
trencher, and did not condescend to take any notice of us.
Out in the garden next, amidst the roses--which grew all round the
house, clustering everywhere. They were of that species called the
cabbage-rose: large, and fragrant, and most beautiful. It made me think
of the Roses by Bendemeer's stream.
"I should like the place of all things!" cried Tod, as we strolled
towards the bay for a sail; and found Druff seated in his boat, smoking.
"I say, Druff, do you know Captain Copperas? Get in, Johnny."
"Lives next door to me, at Rose Lodge," answered Druff.
"Next door! What, is that low whitewashed shanty your abode? How long
has Copperas lived here?"
"A matter of some months," said Druff. "He came in the spring."
"Are they nice kind of people?"
"They be civil to me," answered Druff. "Sent my old missis a bottle o'
wine in, and some hot broth t' other day, when she was ill. The
captain----"
A sudden lurch put a stop to the discourse, and in a few minutes we
glided out of the bay, Tod sitting in a brown reverie, his gaze fixed on
the land and on Rose Lodge.
* * * * *
"My mind's made up, Johnny. I shall take the place."
I dropped my knife and fork in very astonishment. Our sail over, we were
at dinner in the bar-parlour of the Whistling Wind.
"Surely you won't do it, Tod!"
"Surely I shall, lad. I never saw such a nice little nest in all my
life. And there's no risk; you heard what Copperas said; I shall get my
money back again when we want to leave it."
"Look here, Tod: I was thinking a bit whilst we sat in the boat. Does it
not seem to you to be too good to be genuine?"
It was Tod's turn now to drop his knife and fork: and he did it angrily.
"Just tell me what you mean, Johnny Ludlow."
"All that furniture, and the piano, and the carpets, and the plate
and linen: it looks such a heap to be going for only a hundred and
twenty-five pounds."
"Well?"
"I can't think that Copperas means it."
"_Not mean it!_ Why, you young muff? _There are the things_, and he has
offered them to me. If Copperas chooses to part with them for half their
value, is it my place to tell him he's a fool? The poor man is driven
into a corner through want of time. Sailors are uncommonly improvident."
"It is such an undertaking, Tod."
"It is not your undertaking."
"Of course it is a tremendous bargain; and it is a beautiful little
place to have. But I can't think what the pater will say to it."
"I can," said Tod. "When he hears of it--but that will not be yet
awhile--he will come off here post-haste to blow me up; and end by
falling in love with the roses. He always says that there is no rose
like a cabbage-rose."
"He will never forgive you, Tod; or me either. He will say the world's
coming to an end."
"If you are afraid of him, Johnny, you can take yourself off. Hold up
your plate for some more lamb, and hold your tongue."
There was no help for it; anything I could say would have no more weight
with Tod than so much wasted water; so I did as he bade me, and held
my tongue. Down he went to Captain Copperas ere his dinner was well
swallowed, and told him he would take the house. The Captain said he
would have a short agreement drawn up; and Tod took out his cheque-book,
to give a cheque for the money there and then. But the Captain, like an
honest man, refused to receive it until the agreement was executed; and,
if all the same, he would prefer money down to a cheque. Cheques were
all very good, no doubt, he said; but sailors did not much understand
them. Oh, of course, Tod answered, shaking him by the hand; he would
get the money.
Inquiring of our landlady for the nearest bank, Tod was directed to a
town called St. Ann's, three miles off; and we started for it at once,
pelting along the hot and dusty road. The bank found--a small one, with
a glazed bow-window, Tod presented a cheque for a hundred and fifty
pounds, twenty-five of it being for himself, and asked the clerk to
cash it.
The clerk looked at the cheque then looked at Tod, and then at me. "This
is not one of our cheques," he said. "We have no account in this name."
"Can't you read?" asked Tod. "The cheque is upon the Worcester Old Bank.
You know it well by reputation, I presume?"