THE STORM IN THE NIGHT.
When the fox, after humbling himself in the dust, was rudely dismissed
by King Kapchack, he was so mortified, that as he slunk away his brush
touched the ground, and the tip of his nostrils turned almost white.
That he, whose ancestors had once held regal dignity, should thus be
contemned by one who in comparison was a mere upstart, and that, too,
after doing him a service by means of the gnat, and after bowing
himself, as it were, to the ground, hurt him to his soul. He went away
through the fern and the bushes to his lair in the long grass which grew
in a corner of the copse, and having curled himself up, tried to forget
the insult in slumber.
But he could not shut his eyes, and after a while he went off again down
the hedgerow to another place where he sometimes stayed, under thick
brambles on a broad mound. But he could not rest there, nor in the osier
bed, nor in the furze, but he kept moving from place to place all day,
contrary to his custom, and not without running great danger. The sting
lingered in him, and the more so because he felt that it was true--he
knew himself that he had not shown any ability lately. Slowly the long
day passed, the shadows lengthened and it became night. Still
restlessly and aimlessly wandering he went about the fields noticing
nothing, but miserable to the last degree. The owl flew by on his errand
to King Kapchack; the bats fluttered overhead; the wind blew and the
trees creaked; but the fox neither saw, nor heard, nor thought of
anything except his own degradation. He had been cast forth as
unworthy--even the very mouse had received some instructions, but he,
the descendant of illustrious ancestors, was pointedly told that the wit
for which they had been famous did not exist in him.
As the night drew on, the wind rose higher, the clouds became thicker
and darker, the branches crashed to the earth, the tempest rushed along
bearing everything before it. The owls, alarmed for their safety, hid in
the hollow trees, or retired to their barns; the bats retreated into the
crevices of the tiles; nothing was abroad but the wildfowl, whose cries
occasionally resounded overhead. Now and then, the fall of some branch
into a hawthorn bush frightened the sleeping thrushes and blackbirds,
who flew forth into the darkness, not knowing whither they were going.
The rabbits crouched on the sheltered side of the hedges, and then went
back into their holes. The larks cowered closer to the earth.
Ruin and destruction raged around: in Choo Hoo's camp the ash poles beat
against each other, oaks were rent, and his vast army knew no sleep that
night. Whirled about by the fearful gusts, the dying hawk, suspended
from the trap, no longer fluttered, but swung unconscious to and fro.
The feathers of the murdered thrush were scattered afar, and the leaves
torn from the boughs went sweeping after them. Alone in the scene the
fox raced along, something of the wildness of the night entered into
him; he tried, by putting forth his utmost speed, to throw off the sense
of ignominy.
In the darkness, and in his distress of mind, he neither knew or cared
whither he was going. He passed the shore of the Long Pond, and heard
the waves dashing on the stones, and felt the spray driven far up on the
sward. He passed the miserable hawk. He ran like the wind by the camp of
Choo Hoo, and heard the hum of the army, unable to sleep. Weary at last,
he sought for some spot into which to drag his limbs, and crept along a
mound which, although he did not recognise it in his stupefied state of
mind, was really not far from where he had started. As he was creeping
along, he fancied he heard a voice which came from the ground beneath
his feet; it sounded so strange in the darkness that he started and
stayed to listen.
He heard it again, but though he thought he knew the voices of all the
residents in the field, he could not tell who it was, nor whence it
came. But after a time he found that it proceeded from the lower part or
butt of an elm-tree. This tree was very large, and seemed perfectly
sound, but it seems there was a crack in it, whether caused by lightning
or not he did not know, which did not show at ordinary times. But when
the wind blew extremely strong as it did to-night, the tree leant over
before the blast, and thus opened the crack. The fox, listening at the
crack, heard the voice lamenting the long years that had passed, the
darkness and the dreary time, and imploring every species of vengeance
upon the head of the cruel King Kapchack.
After a while the fox came to the conclusion that this must be the toad
who, very many years ago, for some offence committed against the state,
was imprisoned by Kapchack's orders in the butt of an elm, there to
remain till the end of the world. Curious to know why the toad had been
punished in this terrible manner, the fox resolved to speak to the
prisoner, from whom perhaps he might learn something to Kapchack's
disadvantage. Waiting, therefore, till the crack opened as the gust
came, the fox spoke into it, and the toad, only too delighted to get
some one to talk to at last, replied directly.
But the chink was so small that his voice was scarcely audible; the
chink, too, only opened for a second or two during the savage puffs of
the gale, and then closed again, so that connected conversation was not
possible, and all the fox heard was that the toad had some very
important things to say. Anxious to learn these things, the fox tried
his hardest to discover some way of communicating with the toad, and at
last he hit upon a plan. He looked round till he found a little bit of
flint, which he picked up, and when the elm bent over before the gale,
and the chink opened, he pushed the splinter of flint into the crevice.
Then he found another piece of flint just a trifle larger, and, watching
his opportunity, thrust it in. This he did three or four times, each
time putting in a larger wedge, till there was a crack sufficiently open
to allow him to talk to the toad easily. The toad said that this was the
first time he had spoken to anybody since his grandson, who lived in the
rhubarb patch, came to exchange a word with him before the butt of the
tree grew quite round him.
But though the fox plied him with questions, and persuaded him in every
way, he would not reveal the reason why he was imprisoned, except that
he had unluckily seen Kapchack do something. He dared not say what it
was, because if he did he had no doubt he would be immediately put to
death, and although life in the tree was no more than a living death,
still it was life, and he had this consolation, that through being
debarred from all exercise and work, and compelled to exist without
eating or drinking, notwithstanding the time passed and the years went
by, still he did not grow any older. He was as young now as when he was
first put into the dungeon, and if he could once get out, he felt that
he should soon recover the use of his limbs, and should crawl about and
enjoy himself when his grandson who lived in the rhubarb patch, and who
was already very old and warty, was dead.
Indeed by being thus shut up he should survive every other toad, and he
hoped some day to get out, because although he had been condemned to
imprisonment till the end of the world, that was only Kapchack's
vainglorious way of pronouncing sentence, as if his (Kapchack's)
authority was going to endure for ever, which was quite contrary to
history and the teachings of philosophy. So far from that he did not
believe himself that Kapchack's dynasty was fated to endure very long,
for since he had been a prisoner immured in the earth, he had heard many
strange things whispered along underground, and among them a saying
about Kapchack. Besides which he knew that the elm-tree could not exist
for ever; already there was a crack in it, which in time would split
farther up; the elm had reached its prime, and was beginning to decay
within. By-and-by it would be blown over, and then the farmer would have
the butt grubbed up, and split for firewood, and he should escape. It
was true it might be many years hence, perhaps a century, but that did
not matter in the least--time was nothing to him now--and he knew he
should emerge as young as when he went in.
This was the reason why he so carefully kept the secret of what he had
seen, so as to preserve his life; nor could the fox by any persuasion
prevail upon him to disclose the matter.
"But at least," said the fox, "at least tell me the saying you have
heard underground about King Kapchack."
"I am afraid to do so," said the toad; "for having already suffered so
much I dread the infliction of further misery."
"If you will tell me," said the fox, "I will do my very best to get you
out. I will keep putting in wedges till the tree splits wide open, so
that you may crawl up the chink."
"Will you," said the toad, excited at the hope of liberty, "will you
really do that?"
"Yes, that I will," said the fox; "wait an instant, and I will fetch
another flint."
So he brought another flint which split the tree so much that the toad
felt the fresh air come down to him. "And you really will do it?" he
said.
"Yes," repeated the fox, "I will certainly let you out."
"Then," said the toad, "the saying I have heard underground is this:
'When the hare hunts the hunter in the dead day, the hours of King
Kapchack are numbered'. It is a curious and a difficult saying, for I
cannot myself understand how the day could be dead, nor how the hare
could chase the sportsman; but you, who have so high a reputation for
sagacity, can no doubt in time interpret it. Now put in some more wedges
and help me out."
But the fox, having learnt all that the toad could tell him, went away,
and finding the osiers, curled himself up to sleep.
The same night, the weasel, having had a very pleasant nap upon his
divan in the elm in the squirrel's copse, woke up soon after midnight,
and started for the farm, in order to enjoy the pleasure of seeing the
rat in the gin, which he had instructed Bevis how to set up. Had it not
been for this he would not have faced so terrible a tempest, but to see
the rat in torture he would have gone through anything. As he crept
along a furrow, not far outside the copse, choosing that route that he
might be somewhat sheltered in the hollow from the wind, he saw a wire
which a poacher had set up, and stayed to consider how he could turn it
to his advantage.
"There is Ulu, the hare," he said to himself, "who lives in the
wheat-field; I had her son, he was very sweet and tender, and also her
nephew, who was not so juicy, and I have noticed that she has got very
plump of late. She is up on the hill to-night I have no doubt,
notwithstanding the tempest, dancing and flirting with her disreputable
companions, for vice has such an attraction for some minds that they
cannot forego its pleasures, even at the utmost personal inconvenience.
Such revels, at such a time of tempest, while the wrath of heaven is
wreaked upon the trees, are nothing short of sacrilege, and I for one
have always set my mind against irreverence. I shall do the world a
service if I rid it of such an abandoned creature." So he called to a
moor-hen, who was flying over from the Long Pond at a tremendous pace,
being carried before the wind, and the moor-hen, not without a great
deal of trouble, managed to wheel round (she was never very clever with
her wings) to receive his commands, for she did not dare to pass over or
slight so high a personage.
"Moor-hen," said the weasel, "do you go direct to the hills and find
Ulu, the hare, and tell her that little Sir Bevis, of whom she is so
fond, is lost in the copse, and that he is crying bitterly because of
the darkness and the wind, and what will become of him I do not know. I
have done my very best to show him the way home, but he cherishes an
unfortunate prejudice against me, and will not listen to what I say.
Therefore if the hare does not come immediately and show him the way I
greatly fear that he will be knocked down by the branches, or cry his
dear pretty darling heart out; and tell her that he is at this minute
close to the birches. Go quickly, Moor-hen."
"I will, my lord," said the moor-hen, and away she flew.
Then the weasel proceeded on his way, and shortly afterwards arrived at
the farm. As he came quietly down from the rick-yard, he said to
himself: "I will keep a good way from the wall, as it is so dark, and I
do not know the exact place where Bevis has put the trap. Besides, it is
just possible that the rat may not yet have passed that way, for he does
most of his business in the early morning, and it is not yet dawn."
So he crossed over to the wood-pile and listened carefully, but could
hear no groans, as he had expected; but, on consideration, he put this
down to the wind, which he observed blew the sound away from him. He
then slipped over to the grass by the cart-house wall, intending to
listen at the mouth of the drain to hear if the rat was within, and then
if that was not the case, to go on along towards the wall of the
pig-sty, for he began to think the rat must have been stunned by the
trap, and so could not squeak.
If that was the case, he thought he would just bite off the end of the
rat's tail, in revenge for the terrible meal he had once been obliged to
make upon his own, and also to wake up the rat to the misery of his
position. But just as he approached the mouth of the drain, sniffing and
listening with the utmost caution, it happened that a drop of rain fell
through a chink in the top of Pan's tub, and woke him from his slumber.
Pan shook himself and turned round, and the weasel, hearing the
disturbance, dreaded lest Pan was loose, and had caught scent of him. He
darted forwards to get into the drain, when the trap, which the bailiff
had so carefully removed from where Bevis had set it, snapped him up in
a second. The shock and the pain made him faint; he turned over and lay
still.
About the same time the moor-hen, borne swiftly along by the wind on her
way to the river, reached the hills, and seeing the hare, flew low down
and delivered the weasel's message as well as she could. The hare was
dreadfully alarmed about Sir Bevis, and anxious to relieve him from his
fright in the dark copse, raced down the hill, and over the fields as
fast as she could go, making towards that part of the copse where the
birches stood, as the weasel had directed, knowing that in running there
she would find her neck in a noose.
It happened just as he had foreseen. She came along as fast as the wind,
and could already see the copse like a thicker darkness before her, when
the loop of the wire drew up around her neck, and over she rolled in the
furrow.
Now the weasel had hoped that the wire would not hang her at once. He
intended to have come back from the farm, and from taunting the rat in
the trap, in time to put his teeth into her veins, before, in her
convulsive efforts to get free, she tightened the noose and died.
And this, too, happened exactly as the weasel had intended, but in a
different manner, and with a different result; for it had chanced that
the wind, in the course of its ravages among the trees, snapped off a
twig of ash, which rolling over and over before the blast along the
sward, came against the stick which upheld the wire, and the end of the
twig where it had broken from the tree lodged in the loop. Thus, when
Ulu kicked, and struggled, and screamed, in her fear, the noose indeed
drew up tight and half-strangled her, but not quite, because the little
piece of wood prevented it. But, exhausted with pain and terror, and
partially choked, the poor hare at last could do nothing else but crouch
down in the furrow, where the rain fell on and soaked her warm coat of
fur. For as the dawn came on the wind sank, and the rain fell.
In this unhappy plight she passed the rest of the night, dreading every
moment lest the fox should come along (as she could not run away), and
not less afraid of the daybreak, when some one would certainly find her.
After many weary hours, the bailiff coming to his work in the morning
with a sack over his shoulders to keep out the rain, saw something on
the grass, and pounced upon the wretched hare. Already his great thumb
was against the back of her neck--already she was thrown across his
knee--already she felt her sinews stretch, as he proceeded to break her
neck, regardless of her shrieks--when suddenly it occurred to him how
delighted Bevis would be with a living hare. For the bailiff was very
fond of Bevis, and would have done anything to please him. So he took
the hare in his arms, and carried her down to the farm.
When Bevis got up and came to breakfast, the bailiff came in and brought
him the hare, expecting that he would be highly pleased. But Bevis in an
instant recognised his friend who had shown him his way in the cowslips,
and flew into a rage, and beat the bailiff with his fist for his
cruelty. Nothing would satisfy him but he must let the hare go free
before he touched his breakfast. He would not sit down, he stamped and
made such a to-do that at last they let him have his own way.
He would not even allow the bailiff to carry the hare for him; he took
her in his arms and went with her up the footpath into the field. He
would not even permit them to follow him. Now, the hare knew him very
well but could not speak when any one else was near, for it is very well
known to be a law among hares and birds, and such creatures, that they
can only talk to one human being, and are dumb when more than one are
present. But when Bevis had taken her out into the footpath, and set her
down, and stroked her back, and her long ears, black at the tip, and had
told her to go straight up the footpath, and not through the long
grass, because it was wet with the rain, the hare told him how she came
in the wire through the wicked weasel telling her that he was lost in
the copse.
"I was not lost," said Bevis; "I went to bed, and saw the owl go by. The
weasel told another of his stories--now, I remember, he told me to set
the trap for the rat."
"Did he?" said the hare; "then you may depend it is some more of his
dreadful wickedness; there will be no peace in the world while he is
allowed to go roaming about."
"No," said Bevis, "that there will not: but as sure as my papa's gun,
which is the best gun in the country, as sure as my papa's gun I will
kill him the next time I see him. I will not listen to the squirrel, I
will cut the weasel's tree down, and chop off his head."
"I hope you will, dear," said the hare. "But now I must be gone, for I
can hear Pan barking, and no doubt he can smell me; besides which, it is
broad daylight, and I must go and hide; good-bye, my dear Sir Bevis."
And away went the hare up the footpath till Bevis lost sight of her
through the gateway.
Then he went to his breakfast, and directly afterwards, putting on his
greatcoat, for it still rained a little, he went up to the wall by the
pig-sty expecting to find the rat in the trap. But the trap was gone.
"There now," said he, falling into another rage, twice already that
morning; "I do believe that stupid bailiff has moved it," and so the
bailiff trying to please him fell twice into disgrace in an hour.
Looking about to see where the bailiff had put the trap, he remembered
what the weasel had told him, and going to the cart-house wall by the
drain, found the trap and the weasel in it: "Oh! you false and
treacherous creature!" said Bevis, picking up a stone, "now I will smash
you into seventy thousand little pieces," and he flung the stone with
all his might, but being in too much of a hurry (as the snail had warned
him) it missed the mark, and only knocked a bit of mortar out of the
wall. He looked round for a bigger one, so that he might crush the
wretch this time, when the weasel feebly lifted his head, and said:
"Bevis! Bevis! It is not generous of you to bear such malice towards me
now I am dying; you should rather----"
"Hold your tongue, horrid thing," said Bevis; "I will not listen to
anything you have to say. Here is a brick, this will do, first-rate, to
pound you with, and now I think of it, I will come a little nearer so as
to make quite sure."
"Oh, Bevis!" said the weasel with a gasp, "I shall be dead in a minute,"
and Bevis saw his head fall back.
"Tell the hare I repented," said the weasel. "I have been very wicked,
Bevis--oh!--but I shall never, never do it any more--oh!----"
"Are you dead?" said Bevis. "Are you quite dead?" putting down the
brick, for he could not bear to see anything in such distress, and his
rage was over in a minute.
"I am," said the weasel, "at least I shall be in half-a-minute, for I
must be particular to tell the exact truth in this extremity. Oh! there
is one thing I should like to say----"
"What is it?" said Bevis.
"But if you smash me I can't," said the weasel; "and what is the use of
smashing me, for all my bones are broken?"
"I will not smash you," said Bevis, "I will only have you nailed up to
the stable door so that everybody may see what a wretch you were."
"Thank you," said the weasel, very gratefully, "will you please tell the
hare and all of them that if I could only live I would do everything I
could to make up to them, for all the wickedness I have
committed--oh!--I have not got time to say all I would. Oh! Bevis,
Bevis!"
"Yes, poor thing," said Bevis, now quite melted and sorry for the
wretched criminal, whose life was ebbing so fast, "what is it you want?
I will be sure to do it."
"Then, dear Sir Bevis--how kind it is of you to forgive me, dear Sir
Bevis; when I am dead do not nail me to the door--only think how
terrible that would be--bury me, dear."
"So I will," said Bevis; "but perhaps you needn't die. Stay a little
while, and let us see if you cannot live."
"Oh, no," said the weasel, "my time is come. But when I am dead, dear,
please take me out of this cruel trap in which I am so justly caught,
as I set it for another; take me out of this cruel trap which has broken
my ribs, and lay me flat on the grass, and pull my limbs out straight,
so that I may not stiffen all in a heap and crooked. Then get your
spade, my dear Sir Bevis, and dig a hole and bury me, and put a stone on
top of me, so that Pan cannot scratch me up--oh! oh!--will you--oh!"
"Yes, indeed I will. I will dig the hole--I have a capital spade," said
Bevis; "stay a minute."
But the weasel gave three gasps and fell back quite dead. Bevis looked
at him a little while, and then put his foot on the spring and pressed
it down and took the weasel out. He stroked down his fur where the trap
had ruffled it, and rubbed the earth from his poor paws with which he
had struggled to get free, and then having chosen a spot close by the
wood-pile, where the ground was soft, to dig the hole, he put the weasel
down there, and pulled his limbs out straight, and so disposed him for
the last sad ceremony. He then ran to the summer-house, which was not
far, and having found the spade came back with it to the wood-pile. But
the weasel was gone.
There was the trap; there was the place he had chosen--all the little
twigs and leaves brushed away ready for digging--but no weasel. He was
bewildered, when a robin perched on the top of the wood-pile put his
head on one side, and said so softly and sadly: "Bevis, Bevis, little
Sir Bevis, what have you done?" For the weasel was not dead, and was not
even very seriously injured; the trap was old, and the spring not very
strong, and the teeth did not quite meet. If the rat, who was fat, had
got in, it would have pinched him dreadfully, but the weasel was
extremely thin, and so he escaped with a broken rib--the only true thing
he had said.
So soon as ever Sir Bevis's back was turned, the weasel crawled under
the wood-pile, just as he had done once before, and from there made his
way as quickly as he could up the field sheltered by the aftermath,
which had now grown long again. When Bevis understood that the weasel
had only shammed dying, and had really got away, he burst into tears,
for he could not bear to be cheated, and then threw his spade at the
robin.