towards the point where they knew their friend was keeping his lonely
vigil. As they drew near the familiar ford, the Mole took the boat in
to the bank, and they lifted Portly out and set him on his legs on
the tow-path, gave him his marching orders and a friendly farewell pat
on the back, and shoved out into mid-stream. They watched the little
animal as he waddled along the path contentedly and with importance;
watched him till they saw his muzzle suddenly lift and his waddle
break into a clumsy amble as he quickened his pace with shrill whines
and wriggles of recognition. Looking up the river, they could see
Otter start up, tense and rigid, from out of the shallows where he
crouched in dumb patience, and could hear his amazed and joyous bark
as he bounded up through the osiers on to the path. Then the Mole,
with a strong pull on one oar, swung the boat round and let the full
stream bear them down again whither it would, their quest now happily
ended.
"I feel strangely tired, Rat," said the Mole, leaning wearily over his
oars, as the boat drifted. "It's being up all night, you'll say,
perhaps; but that's nothing. We do as much half the nights of the
week, at this time of the year. No; I feel as if I had been through
something very exciting and rather terrible, and it was just over;
and yet nothing particular has happened."
"Or something very surprising and splendid and beautiful," murmured
the Rat, leaning back and closing his eyes. "I feel just as you do,
Mole; simply dead tired, though not body-tired. It's lucky we've got
the stream with us, to take us home. Isn't it jolly to feel the sun
again, soaking into one's bones! And hark to the wind playing in the
reeds!"
"It's like music--far-away music," said the Mole, nodding drowsily.
"So I was thinking," murmured the Rat, dreamful and languid.
"Dance-music--the lilting sort that runs on without a stop--but with
words in it, too--it passes into words and out of them again--I catch
them at intervals--then it is dance-music once more, and then nothing
but the reeds' soft thin whispering."
"You hear better than I," said the Mole sadly. "I cannot catch the
words."
"Let me try and give you them," said the Rat softly, his eyes still
closed. "Now it is turning into words again--faint but clear--_Lest
the awe should dwell--And turn your frolic to fret--You shall look on
my power at the helping hour--But then you shall forget!_ Now the
reeds take it up--_forget, forget_, they sigh, and it dies away in a
rustle and a whisper. Then the voice returns--
"_Lest limbs be reddened and rent--I spring the trap that is set--As I
loose the snare you may glimpse me there--For surely you shall
forget!_ Row nearer, Mole, nearer to the reeds! It is hard to catch,
and grows each minute fainter.
"_Helper and healer, I cheer--Small waifs in the woodland wet--Strays
I find in it, wounds I bind in it--Bidding them all forget!_ Nearer,
Mole, nearer! No, it is no good; the song has died away into
reed-talk."
"But what do the words mean?" asked the wondering Mole.
"That I do not know," said the Rat simply. "I passed them on to you as
they reached me. Ah! now they return again, and this time full and
clear! This time, at last, it is the real, the unmistakable thing,
simple--passionate--perfect--"
"Well, let's have it, then," said the Mole, after he had waited
patiently for a few minutes, half-dozing in the hot sun.
But no answer came. He looked, and understood the silence. With a
smile of much happiness on his face, and something of a listening look
still lingering there, the weary Rat was fast asleep.
VIII
TOAD'S ADVENTURES
When Toad found himself immured in a dank and noisome dungeon, and
knew that all the grim darkness of a medieval fortress lay between him
and the outer world of sunshine and well-metalled high roads where he
had lately been so happy, disporting himself as if he had bought up
every road in England, he flung himself at full length on the floor,
and shed bitter tears, and abandoned himself to dark despair. "This is
the end of everything" (he said), "at least it is the end of the
career of Toad, which is the same thing; the popular and handsome
Toad, the rich and hospitable Toad, the Toad so free and careless and
debonair! How can I hope to be ever set at large again" (he said),
"who have been imprisoned so justly for stealing so handsome a
motor-car in such an audacious manner, and for such lurid and
imaginative cheek, bestowed upon such a number of fat, red-faced
policemen!" (Here his sobs choked him.) "Stupid animal that I was" (he
said), "now I must languish in this dungeon, till people who were
proud to say they knew me, have forgotten the very name of Toad! O
wise old Badger!" (he said), "O clever, intelligent Rat and sensible
Mole! What sound judgments, what a knowledge of men and matters you
possess! O unhappy and forsaken Toad!" With lamentations such as these
he passed his days and nights for several weeks, refusing his meals or
intermediate light refreshments, though the grim and ancient gaoler,
knowing that Toad's pockets were well lined, frequently pointed out
that many comforts, and indeed luxuries, could by arrangement be sent
in--at a price--from outside.
Now the gaoler had a daughter, a pleasant wench and good-hearted, who
assisted her father in the lighter duties of his post. She was
particularly fond of animals, and, besides her canary, whose cage hung
on a nail in the massive wall of the keep by day, to the great
annoyance of prisoners who relished an after-dinner nap, and was
shrouded in an antimacassar on the parlour table at night, she kept
several piebald mice and a restless revolving squirrel. This
kind-hearted girl, pitying the misery of Toad, said to her father one
day, "Father! I can't bear to see that poor beast so unhappy, and
getting so thin! You let me have the managing of him. You know how
fond of animals I am. I'll make him eat from my hand, and sit up, and
do all sorts of things."
Her father replied that she could do what she liked with him. He was
tired of Toad, and his sulks and his airs and his meanness. So that
day she went on her errand of mercy, and knocked at the door of Toad's
cell.
"Now, cheer up, Toad," she said, coaxingly, on entering, "and sit up
and dry your eyes and be a sensible animal. And do try and eat a bit
of dinner. See, I've brought you some of mine, hot from the oven!"
It was bubble-and-squeak, between two plates, and its fragrance filled
the narrow cell. The penetrating smell of cabbage reached the nose of
Toad as he lay prostrate in his misery on the floor, and gave him the
idea for a moment that perhaps life was not such a blank and desperate
thing as he had imagined. But still he wailed, and kicked with his legs,
and refused to be comforted. So the wise girl retired for the time, but,
of course, a good deal of the smell of hot cabbage remained behind, as it
will do, and Toad, between his sobs, sniffed and reflected, and gradually
began to think new and inspiring thoughts: of chivalry, and poetry, and
deeds still to be done; of broad meadows, and cattle browsing in them,
raked by sun and wind; of kitchen-gardens, and straight herb-borders, and
warm snap-dragon beset by bees; and of the comforting clink of dishes set
down on the table at Toad Hall, and the scrape of chair-legs on the floor
as every one pulled himself close up to his work. The air of the narrow
cell took a rosy tinge; he began to think of his friends, and how they
would surely be able to do something; of lawyers, and how they would have
enjoyed his case, and what an ass he had been not to get in a few; and
lastly, he thought of his own great cleverness and resource, and all
that he was capable of if he only gave his great mind to it; and the
cure was almost complete.
[Illustration: _He lay prostrate in his misery on the floor_]
When the girl returned, some hours later, she carried a tray, with a
cup of fragrant tea steaming on it; and a plate piled up with very hot
buttered toast, cut thick, very brown on both sides, with the butter
running through the holes in it in great golden drops, like honey from
the honeycomb. The smell of that buttered toast simply talked to Toad,
and with no uncertain voice; talked of warm kitchens, of breakfasts on
bright frosty mornings, of cosy parlour firesides on winter evenings,
when one's ramble was over, and slippered feet were propped on the
fender; of the purring of contented cats, and the twitter of sleepy
canaries. Toad sat up on end once more, dried his eyes, sipped his tea
and munched his toast, and soon began talking freely about himself,
and the house he lived in, and his doings there, and how important he
was, and what a lot his friends thought of him.
The gaoler's daughter saw that the topic was doing him as much good
as the tea, as indeed it was, and encouraged him to go on.
"Tell me about Toad Hall," said she. "It sounds beautiful."
"Toad Hall," said the Toad proudly, "is an eligible, self-contained
gentleman's residence, very unique; dating in part from the fourteenth
century, but replete with every modern convenience. Up-to-date
sanitation. Five minutes from church, post-office, and golf-links.
Suitable for--"
"Bless the animal," said the girl, laughing, "I don't want to _take_
it. Tell me something _real_ about it. But first wait till I fetch you
some more tea and toast."
She tripped away, and presently returned with a fresh trayful; and Toad,
pitching into the toast with avidity, his spirits quite restored to
their usual level, told her about the boat-house, and the fish-pond, and
the old walled kitchen-garden; and about the pig-styes and the stables,
and the pigeon-house and the hen-house; and about the dairy, and the
wash-house, and the china-cupboards, and the linen-presses (she liked
that bit especially); and about the banqueting-hall, and the fun they
had there when the other animals were gathered round the table and Toad
was at his best, singing songs, telling stories, carrying on generally.
Then she wanted to know about his animal-friends, and was very
interested in all he had to tell her about them and how they lived, and
what they did to pass their time. Of course, she did not say she was
fond of animals as _pets_, because she had the sense to see that Toad
would be extremely offended. When she said good-night, having filled his
water-jug and shaken up his straw for him, Toad was very much the same
sanguine, self-satisfied animal that he had been of old. He sang a
little song or two, of the sort he used to sing at his dinner-parties,
curled himself up in the straw, and had an excellent night's rest and
the pleasantest of dreams.
They had many interesting talks together, after that, as the dreary
days went on; and the gaoler's daughter grew very sorry for Toad, and
thought it a great shame that a poor little animal should be locked
up in prison for what seemed to her a very trivial offence. Toad, of
course, in his vanity, thought that her interest in him proceeded from
a growing tenderness; and he could not help half-regretting that the
social gulf between them was so very wide, for she was a comely lass,
and evidently admired him very much.
One morning the girl was very thoughtful, and answered at random, and
did not seem to Toad to be paying proper attention to his witty
sayings and sparkling comments.
"Toad," she said presently, "just listen, please. I have an aunt who
is a washerwoman."
"There, there," said Toad, graciously and affably, "never mind; think
no more about it. _I_ have several aunts who _ought_ to be
washerwomen."
"Do be quiet a minute, Toad," said the girl. "You talk too much,
that's your chief fault, and I'm trying to think, and you hurt my
head. As I said, I have an aunt who is a washerwoman; she does the
washing for all the prisoners in this castle--we try to keep any
paying business of that sort in the family, you understand. She takes
out the washing on Monday morning, and brings it in on Friday evening.
This is a Thursday. Now, this is what occurs to me: you're very
rich--at least you're always telling me so--and she's very poor. A few
pounds wouldn't make any difference to you, and it would mean a lot to
her. Now, I think if she were properly approached--squared, I believe
is the word you animals use--you could come to some arrangement by
which she would let you have her dress and bonnet and so on, and you
could escape from the castle as the official washerwoman. You're very
alike in many respects--particularly about the figure."
"We're _not_," said the Toad in a huff. "I have a very elegant
figure--for what I am."
"So has my aunt," replied the girl, "for what _she_ is. But have it
your own way. You horrid, proud, ungrateful animal, when I'm sorry for
you, and trying to help you!"
"Yes, yes, that's all right; thank you very much indeed," said the
Toad hurriedly. "But look here! you wouldn't surely have Mr. Toad, of
Toad Hall, going about the country disguised as a washerwoman!"
"Then you can stop here as a Toad," replied the girl with much spirit.
"I suppose you want to go off in a coach-and-four!"
Honest Toad was always ready to admit himself in the wrong. "You are a
good, kind, clever girl," he said, "and I am indeed a proud and a
stupid toad. Introduce me to your worthy aunt, if you will be so kind,
and I have no doubt that the excellent lady and I will be able to
arrange terms satisfactory to both parties."
Next evening the girl ushered her aunt into Toad's cell, bearing his
week's washing pinned up in a towel. The old lady had been prepared
beforehand for the interview, and the sight of certain gold sovereigns
that Toad had thoughtfully placed on the table in full view practically
completed the matter and left little further to discuss. In return for
his cash, Toad received a cotton print gown, an apron, a shawl, and a
rusty black bonnet; the only stipulation the old lady made being that
she should be gagged and bound and dumped down in a corner. By this not
very convincing artifice, she explained, aided by picturesque fiction
which she could supply herself, she hoped to retain her situation, in
spite of the suspicious appearance of things.
Toad was delighted with the suggestion. It would enable him to leave the
prison in some style, and with his reputation for being a desperate and
dangerous fellow untarnished; and he readily helped the gaoler's
daughter to make her aunt appear as much as possible the victim of
circumstances over which she had no control.
"Now it's your turn, Toad," said the girl. "Take off that coat and
waistcoat of yours; you're fat enough as it is."
Shaking with laughter, she proceeded to "hook-and-eye" him into the
cotton print gown, arranged the shawl with a professional fold, and
tied the strings of the rusty bonnet under his chin.
"You're the very image of her," she giggled, "only I'm sure you never
looked half so respectable in all your life before. Now, good-bye,
Toad, and good luck. Go straight down the way you came up; and if any
one says anything to you, as they probably will, being but men, you
can chaff back a bit, of course, but remember you're a widow woman,
quite alone in the world, with a character to lose."
With a quaking heart, but as firm a footstep as he could command, Toad
set forth cautiously on what seemed to be a most hare-brained and
hazardous undertaking; but he was soon agreeably surprised to find how
easy everything was made for him, and a little humbled at the thought
that both his popularity, and the sex that seemed to inspire it, were
really another's. The washerwoman's squat figure in its familiar
cotton print seemed a passport for every barred door and grim gateway;
even when he hesitated, uncertain as to the right turning to take, he
found himself helped out of his difficulty by the warder at the next
gate, anxious to be off to his tea, summoning him to come along sharp
and not keep him waiting there all night. The chaff and the humourous
sallies to which he was subjected, and to which, of course, he had to
provide prompt and effective reply, formed, indeed, his chief danger;
for Toad was an animal with a strong sense of his own dignity, and the
chaff was mostly (he thought) poor and clumsy, and the humour of the
sallies entirely lacking. However, he kept his temper, though with
great difficulty, suited his retorts to his company and his supposed
character, and did his best not to overstep the limits of good taste.
It seemed hours before he crossed the last courtyard, rejected the
pressing invitations from the last guardroom, and dodged the outspread
arms of the last warder, pleading with simulated passion for just one
farewell embrace. But at last he heard the wicket-gate in the great
outer door click behind him, felt the fresh air of the outer world
upon his anxious brow, and knew that he was free!
Dizzy with the easy success of his daring exploit, he walked quickly
towards the lights of the town, not knowing in the least what he
should do next, only quite certain of one thing, that he must remove
himself as quickly as possible from the neighbourhood where the lady
he was forced to represent was so well-known and so popular a
character.
As he walked along, considering, his attention was caught by some red
and green lights a little way off, to one side of the town, and the
sound of the puffing and snorting of engines and the banging of
shunted trucks fell on his ear. "Aha!" he thought, "this is a piece of
luck! A railway station is the thing I want most in the whole world at
this moment; and what's more, I needn't go through the town to get it,
and shan't have to support this humiliating character by repartees
which, though thoroughly effective, do not assist one's sense of
self-respect."
He made his way to the station accordingly, consulted a time-table,
and found that a train, bound more or less in the direction of his
home, was due to start in half-an-hour. "More luck!" said Toad, his
spirits rising rapidly, and went off to the booking-office to buy his
ticket.
He gave the name of the station that he knew to be nearest to the
village of which Toad Hall was the principal feature, and mechanically
put his fingers, in search of the necessary money, where his waistcoat
pocket should have been. But here the cotton gown, which had nobly stood
by him so far, and which he had basely forgotten, intervened, and
frustrated his efforts. In a sort of nightmare he struggled with the
strange uncanny thing that seemed to hold his hands, turn all muscular
strivings to water, and laugh at him all the time; while other
travellers, forming up in a line behind, waited with impatience, making
suggestions of more or less value and comments of more or less
stringency and point. At last--somehow--he never rightly understood
how--he burst the barriers, attained the goal, arrived at where all
waistcoat pockets are eternally situated, and found--not only no money,
but no pocket to hold it, and no waistcoat to hold the pocket!
To his horror he recollected that he had left both coat and waistcoat
behind him in his cell, and with them his pocket-book, money, keys,
watch, matches, pencil-case--all that makes life worth living, all
that distinguishes the many-pocketed animal, the lord of creation,
from the inferior one-pocketed or no-pocketed productions that hop or
trip about permissively, unequipped for the real contest.
In his misery he made one desperate effort to carry the thing off,
and, with a return to his fine old manner--a blend of the Squire and
the College Don--he said, "Look here! I find I've left my purse
behind. Just give me that ticket, will you, and I'll send the money on
to-morrow? I'm well-known in these parts."
The clerk stared at him and the rusty black bonnet a moment, and then
laughed. "I should think you were pretty well known in these parts,"
he said, "if you've tried this game on often. Here, stand away from
the window, please, madam; you're obstructing the other passengers!"
An old gentleman who had been prodding him in the back for some
moments here thrust him away, and, what was worse, addressed him as
his good woman, which angered Toad more than anything that had
occurred that evening.
Baffled and full of despair, he wandered blindly down the platform
where the train was standing, and tears trickled down each side of
his nose. It was hard, he thought, to be within sight of safety and
almost of home, and to be baulked by the want of a few wretched
shillings and by the pettifogging mistrustfulness of paid officials.
Very soon his escape would be discovered, the hunt would be up, he
would be caught, reviled, loaded with chains, dragged back again to
prison and bread-and-water and straw; his guards and penalties would
be doubled; and O, what sarcastic remarks the girl would make! What
was to be done? He was not swift of foot; his figure was unfortunately
recognisable. Could he not squeeze under the seat of a carriage? He
had seen this method adopted by schoolboys, when the journey-money
provided by thoughtful parents had been diverted to other and better
ends. As he pondered, he found himself opposite the engine, which was
being oiled, wiped, and generally caressed by its affectionate driver,
a burly man with an oil-can in one hand and a lump of cotton-waste in
the other.
"Hullo, mother!" said the engine-driver, "what's the trouble? You
don't look particularly cheerful."
"O, sir!" said Toad, crying afresh, "I am a poor unhappy washerwoman,
and I've lost all my money, and can't pay for a ticket, and I _must_
get home to-night somehow, and whatever I am to do I don't know. O
dear, O dear!"
"That's a bad business, indeed," said the engine-driver reflectively.
"Lost your money--and can't get home--and got some kids, too, waiting
for you, I dare say?"
"Any amount of 'em," sobbed Toad. "And they'll be hungry--and playing
with matches--and upsetting lamps, the little innocents!--and
quarrelling, and going on generally. O dear, O dear!"
"Well, I'll tell you what I'll do," said the good engine-driver.
"You're a washerwoman to your trade, says you. Very well, that's that.
And I'm an engine-driver, as you well may see, and there's no denying
it's terribly dirty work. Uses up a power of shirts, it does, till my
missus is fair tired of washing of 'em. If you'll wash a few shirts
for me when you get home, and send 'em along, I'll give you a ride on
my engine. It's against the Company's regulations, but we're not so
very particular in these out-of-the-way parts."
The Toad's misery turned into rapture as he eagerly scrambled up into
the cab of the engine. Of course, he had never washed a shirt in his
life, and couldn't if he tried and, anyhow, he wasn't going to begin;
but he thought: "When I get safely home to Toad Hall, and have money
again, and pockets to put it in, I will send the engine-driver enough
to pay for quite a quantity of washing, and that will be the same
thing, or better."
The guard waved his welcome flag, the engine-driver whistled in
cheerful response, and the train moved out of the station. As the
speed increased, and the Toad could see on either side of him real
fields, and trees, and hedges, and cows, and horses, all flying past
him, and as he thought how every minute was bringing him nearer to
Toad Hall, and sympathetic friends, and money to chink in his pocket,
and a soft bed to sleep in, and good things to eat, and praise and
admiration at the recital of his adventures and his surpassing
cleverness, he began to skip up and down and shout and sing snatches
of song, to the great astonishment of the engine-driver, who had come
across washerwomen before, at long intervals, but never one at all
like this.
They had covered many and many a mile, and Toad was already considering
what he would have for supper as soon as he got home, when he noticed
that the engine-driver, with a puzzled expression on his face, was
leaning over the side of the engine and listening hard. Then he saw him
climb on to the coals and gaze out over the top of the train; then he
returned and said to Toad: "It's very strange; we're the last train
running in this direction to-night, yet I could be sworn that I heard
another following us!"
Toad ceased his frivolous antics at once. He became grave and depressed,
and a dull pain in the lower part of his spine, communicating itself to
his legs, made him want to sit down and try desperately not to think of
all the possibilities.