down the Italian shore, till finally we made Palermo, and there I
quitted for a long, happy spell on shore. I never stick too long to
one ship; one gets narrow-minded and prejudiced. Besides, Sicily is
one of my happy hunting-grounds. I know everybody there, and their
ways just suit me. I spent many jolly weeks in the island, staying
with friends upcountry. When I grew restless again I took advantage of
a ship that was trading to Sardinia and Corsica; and very glad I was
to feel the fresh breeze and the sea-spray in my face once more."
"But isn't it very hot and stuffy, down in the--hold, I think you call
it?" asked the Water Rat.
The seafarer looked at him with the suspicion of a wink. "I'm an old
hand," he remarked with much simplicity. "The captain's cabin's good
enough for me."
"It's a hard life, by all accounts," murmured the Rat, sunk in deep
thought.
"For the crew it is," replied the seafarer gravely, again with the
ghost of a wink.
"From Corsica," he went on, "I made use of a ship that was taking
wine to the mainland. We made Alassio in the evening, lay to, hauled
up our wine-casks, and hove them overboard, tied one to the other by a
long line. Then the crew took to the boats and rowed shorewards,
singing as they went, and drawing after them the long bobbing
procession of casks, like a mile of porpoises. On the sands they had
horses waiting, which dragged the casks up the steep street of the
little town with a fine rush and clatter and scramble. When the last
cask was in, we went and refreshed and rested, and sat late into the
night, drinking with our friends, and next morning I took to the great
olive-woods for a spell and a rest. For now I had done with islands
for the time, and ports and shipping were plentiful; so I led a lazy
life among the peasants, lying and watching them work, or stretched
high on the hillside with the blue Mediterranean far below me. And so
at length, by easy stages, and partly on foot, partly by sea, to
Marseilles, and the meeting of old shipmates, and the visiting of
great ocean-bound vessels, and feasting once more. Talk of
shell-fish! Why, sometimes I dream of the shell-fish of Marseilles,
and wake up crying!"
[Illustration: _"It's a hard life, by all accounts," murmured the
Rat_]
"That reminds me," said the polite Water Rat; "you happened to mention
that you were hungry, and I ought to have spoken earlier. Of course,
you will stop and take your mid-day meal with me? My hole is close by;
it is some time past noon, and you are very welcome to whatever there
is."
"Now I call that kind and brotherly of you," said the Sea Rat. "I was
indeed hungry when I sat down, and ever since I inadvertently happened
to mention shell-fish, my pangs have been extreme. But couldn't you
fetch it along out here? I am none too fond of going under hatches,
unless I'm obliged to; and then, while we eat, I could tell you more
concerning my voyages and the pleasant life I lead--at least, it is
very pleasant to me, and by your attention I judge it commends itself
to you; whereas if we go indoors it is a hundred to one that I shall
presently fall asleep."
"That is indeed an excellent suggestion," said the Water Rat, and
hurried off home. There he got out the luncheon-basket and packed a
simple meal, in which, remembering the stranger's origin and
preferences, he took care to include a yard of long French bread, a
sausage out of which the garlic sang, some cheese which lay down and
cried, and a long-necked straw-covered flask wherein lay bottled
sunshine shed and garnered on far Southern slopes. Thus laden, he
returned with all speed, and blushed for pleasure at the old seaman's
commendations of his taste and judgment, as together they unpacked the
basket and laid out the contents on the grass by the roadside.
The Sea Rat, as soon as his hunger was somewhat assuaged, continued
the history of his latest voyage, conducting his simple hearer from
port to port of Spain, landing him at Lisbon, Oporto, and Bordeaux,
introducing him to the pleasant harbours of Cornwall and Devon, and so
up the Channel to that final quayside, where, landing after winds long
contrary, storm-driven and weather-beaten, he had caught the first
magical hints and heraldings of another Spring, and, fired by these,
had sped on a long tramp inland, hungry for the experiment of life on
some quiet farmstead, very far from the weary beating of any sea.
Spellbound and quivering with excitement, the Water Rat followed the
Adventurer league by league, over stormy bays, through crowded
roadsteads, across harbour bars on a racing tide, up winding rivers
that hid their busy little towns round a sudden turn; and left him
with a regretful sigh planted at his dull inland farm, about which he
desired to hear nothing.
By this time their meal was over, and the Seafarer, refreshed and
strengthened, his voice more vibrant, his eye lit with a brightness that
seemed caught from some far-away sea-beacon, filled his glass with the
red and glowing vintage of the South, and, leaning towards the Water Rat,
compelled his gaze and held him, body and soul, while he talked. Those
eyes were of the changing foam-streaked grey-green of leaping Northern
seas; in the glass shone a hot ruby that seemed the very heart of the
South, beating for him who had courage to respond to its pulsation. The
twin lights, the shifting grey and the steadfast red, mastered the Water
Rat and held him bound, fascinated, powerless. The quiet world outside
their rays receded far away and ceased to be. And the talk, the wonderful
talk flowed on--or was it speech entirely, or did it pass at times into
song--chanty of the sailors weighing the dripping anchor, sonorous hum of
the shrouds in a tearing North-Easter, ballad of the fisherman hauling
his nets at sundown against an apricot sky, chords of guitar and
mandoline from gondola or caique? Did it change into the cry of the wind,
plaintive at first, angrily shrill as it freshened, rising to a tearing
whistle, sinking to a musical trickle of air from the leech of the
bellying sail? All these sounds the spellbound listener seemed to hear,
and with them the hungry complaint of the gulls and the sea-mews, the
soft thunder of the breaking wave, the cry of the protesting shingle.
Back into speech again it passed, and with beating heart he was following
the adventures of a dozen seaports, the fights, the escapes, the rallies,
the comradeships, the gallant undertakings; or he searched islands for
treasure, fished in still lagoons and dozed day-long on warm white sand.
Of deep-sea fishings he heard tell, and mighty silver gatherings of the
mile-long net; of sudden perils, noise of breakers on a moonless night,
or the tall bows of the great liner taking shape overhead through the
fog; of the merry home-coming, the headland rounded, the harbour lights
opened out; the groups seen dimly on the quay, the cheery hail, the
splash of the hawser; the trudge up the steep little street towards the
comforting glow of red-curtained windows.
Lastly, in his waking dream it seemed to him that the Adventurer had
risen to his feet, but was still speaking, still holding him fast with
his sea-grey eyes.
"And now," he was softly saying, "I take to the road again, holding on
southwestwards for many a long and dusty day; till at last I reach the
little grey sea town I know so well, that clings along one steep side
of the harbour. There through dark doorways you look down flights of
stone steps, overhung by great pink tufts of valerian and ending in a
patch of sparkling blue water. The little boats that lie tethered to
the rings and stanchions of the old sea-wall are gaily painted as
those I clambered in and out of in my own childhood; the salmon leap
on the flood tide, schools of mackerel flash and play past quay-sides
and foreshores, and by the windows the great vessels glide, night and
day, up to their moorings or forth to the open sea. There, sooner or
later, the ships of all seafaring nations arrive; and there, at its
destined hour, the ship of my choice will let go its anchor. I shall
take my time, I shall tarry and bide, till at last the right one lies
waiting for me, warped out into mid-stream, loaded low, her bowsprit
pointing down harbour. I shall slip on board, by boat or along hawser;
and then one morning I shall wake to the song and tramp of the
sailors, the clink of the capstan, and the rattle of the anchor-chain
coming merrily in. We shall break out the jib and the foresail, the
white houses on the harbour side will glide slowly past us as she
gathers steering-way, and the voyage will have begun! As she forges
towards the headland she will clothe herself with canvas; and then,
once outside, the sounding slap of great green seas as she heels to
the wind, pointing South!
"And you, you will come too, young brother; for the days pass, and
never return, and the South still waits for you. Take the adventure,
heed the call, now ere the irrevocable moment passes! 'Tis but a
banging of the door behind you, a blithesome step forward, and you are
out of the old life and into the new! Then some day, some day long
hence, jog home here if you will, when the cup has been drained and
the play has been played, and sit down by your quiet river with a
store of goodly memories for company. You can easily overtake me on
the road, for you are young, and I am ageing and go softly. I will
linger, and look back; and at last I will surely see you coming, eager
and light-hearted, with all the South in your face!"
The voice died away and ceased as an insect's tiny trumpet dwindles
swiftly into silence; and the Water Rat, paralysed and staring, saw at
last but a distant speck on the white surface of the road.
Mechanically he rose and proceeded to repack the luncheon-basket,
carefully and without haste. Mechanically he returned home, gathered
together a few small necessaries and special treasures he was fond of,
and put them in a satchel; acting with slow deliberation, moving about
the room like a sleep-walker; listening ever with parted lips. He
swung the satchel over his shoulder, carefully selected a stout stick
for his wayfaring, and with no haste, but with no hesitation at all,
he stepped across the threshold just as the Mole appeared at the door.
"Why, where are you off to, Ratty?" asked the Mole in great surprise,
grasping him by the arm.
"Going South, with the rest of them," murmured the Rat in a dreamy
monotone, never looking at him. "Seawards first and then on shipboard,
and so to the shores that are calling me!"
He pressed resolutely forward, still without haste, but with dogged
fixity of purpose; but the Mole, now thoroughly alarmed, placed
himself in front of him, and looking into his eyes saw that they
were glazed and set and turned a streaked and shifting grey--not his
friend's eyes, but the eyes of some other animal! Grappling with him
strongly he dragged him inside, threw him down, and held him.
The Rat struggled desperately for a few moments, and then his strength
seemed suddenly to leave him, and he lay still and exhausted, with
closed eyes, trembling. Presently the Mole assisted him to rise and
placed him in a chair, where he sat collapsed and shrunken into
himself, his body shaken by a violent shivering, passing in time into
an hysterical fit of dry sobbing. Mole made the door fast, threw the
satchel into a drawer and locked it, and sat down quietly on the table
by his friend, waiting for the strange seizure to pass. Gradually the
Rat sank into a troubled doze, broken by starts and confused
murmurings of things strange and wild and foreign to the unenlightened
Mole; and from that he passed into a deep slumber.
Very anxious in mind, the Mole left him for a time and busied himself
with household matters; and it was getting dark when he returned to
the parlour and found the Rat where he had left him, wide awake
indeed, but listless, silent, and dejected. He took one hasty glance
at his eyes; found them, to his great gratification, clear and dark
and brown again as before; and then sat down and tried to cheer him up
and help him to relate what had happened to him.
Poor Ratty did his best, by degrees, to explain things; but how could
he put into cold words what had mostly been suggestion? How recall,
for another's benefit, the haunting sea voices that had sung to him,
how reproduce at second-hand the magic of the Seafarer's hundred
reminiscences? Even to himself, now the spell was broken and the
glamour gone, he found it difficult to account for what had seemed,
some hours ago, the inevitable and only thing. It is not surprising,
then, that he failed to convey to the Mole any clear idea of what he
had been through that day.
To the Mole this much was plain: the fit, or attack, had passed away,
and had left him sane again, though shaken and cast down by the
reaction. But he seemed to have lost all interest for the time in the
things that went to make up his daily life, as well as in all pleasant
forecastings of the altered days and doings that the changing season
was surely bringing.
Casually, then, and with seeming indifference, the Mole turned his
talk to the harvest that was being gathered in, the towering wagons
and their straining teams, the growing ricks, and the large moon
rising over bare acres dotted with sheaves. He talked of the reddening
apples around, of the browning nuts, of jams and preserves and the
distilling of cordials; till by easy stages such as these he reached
midwinter, its hearty joys and its snug home life, and then he became
simply lyrical.
By degrees the Rat began to sit up and to join in. His dull eye
brightened, and he lost some of his listening air.
Presently the tactful Mole slipped away and returned with a pencil and
a few half-sheets of paper, which he placed on the table at his
friend's elbow.
"It's quite a long time since you did any poetry," he remarked. "You
might have a try at it this evening, instead of--well, brooding over
things so much. I've an idea that you'll feel a lot better when you've
got something jotted down--if it's only just the rhymes."
The Rat pushed the paper away from him wearily, but the discreet Mole
took occasion to leave the room, and when he peeped in again some time
later, the Rat was absorbed and deaf to the world; alternately
scribbling and sucking the top of his pencil. It is true that he
sucked a good deal more than he scribbled; but it was joy to the Mole
to know that the cure had at least begun.
X
THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF TOAD
The front door of the hollow tree faced eastwards, so Toad was called
at an early hour; partly by the bright sunlight streaming in on him,
partly by the exceeding coldness of his toes, which made him dream
that he was at home in bed in his own handsome room with the Tudor
window, on a cold winter's night, and his bed-clothes had got up,
grumbling and protesting they couldn't stand the cold any longer, and
had run downstairs to the kitchen fire to warm themselves; and he had
followed, on bare feet, along miles and miles of icy stone-paved
passages, arguing and beseeching them to be reasonable. He would
probably have been aroused much earlier, had he not slept for some
weeks on straw over stone flags, and almost forgotten the friendly
feeling of thick blankets pulled well up round the chin.
Sitting up, he rubbed his eyes first and his complaining toes next,
wondered for a moment where he was, looking round for familiar stone wall
and little barred window; then, with a leap of the heart, remembered
everything--his escape, his flight, his pursuit; remembered, first and
best thing of all, that he was free!
Free! The word and the thought alone were worth fifty blankets. He was
warm from end to end as he thought of the jolly world outside, waiting
eagerly for him to make his triumphal entrance, ready to serve him and
play up to him, anxious to help him and to keep him company, as it
always had been in days of old before misfortune fell upon him. He
shook himself and combed the dry leaves out of his hair with his
fingers; and, his toilet complete, marched forth into the comfortable
morning sun, cold but confident, hungry but hopeful, all nervous
terrors of yesterday dispelled by rest and sleep and frank and
heartening sunshine.
He had the world all to himself, that early summer morning. The dewy
woodland, as he threaded it, was solitary and still: the green fields
that succeeded the trees were his own to do as he liked with; the road
itself, when he reached it, in that loneliness that was everywhere,
seemed, like a stray dog, to be looking anxiously for company. Toad,
however, was looking for something that could talk, and tell him
clearly which way he ought to go. It is all very well, when you have a
light heart, and a clear conscience, and money in your pocket, and
nobody scouring the country for you to drag you off to prison again,
to follow where the road beckons and points, not caring whither. The
practical Toad cared very much indeed, and he could have kicked the
road for its helpless silence when every minute was of importance to
him.
The reserved rustic road was presently joined by a shy little brother in
the shape of a canal, which took its hand and ambled along by its side in
perfect confidence, but with the same tongue-tied, uncommunicative
attitude towards strangers. "Bother them!" said Toad to himself. "But,
anyhow, one thing's clear. They must both be coming _from_ somewhere,
and going _to_ somewhere. You can't get over that, Toad, my boy!" So
he marched on patiently by the water's edge.
Round a bend in the canal came plodding a solitary horse, stooping
forward as if in anxious thought. From rope traces attached to his
collar stretched a long line, taut, but dipping with his stride, the
further part of it dripping pearly drops. Toad let the horse pass, and
stood waiting for what the fates were sending him.
With a pleasant swirl of quiet water at its blunt bow the barge slid
up alongside of him, its gaily painted gunwale level with the
towing-path, its sole occupant a big stout woman wearing a linen
sun-bonnet, one brawny arm laid along the tiller.
"A nice morning, ma'am!" she remarked to Toad, as she drew up level
with him.
"I dare say it is, ma'am!" responded Toad politely, as he walked along
the tow-path abreast of her. "I dare say it is a nice morning to them
that's not in sore trouble, like what I am. Here's my married
daughter, she sends off to me post-haste to come to her at once; so
off I comes, not knowing what may be happening or going to happen, but
fearing the worst, as you will understand, ma'am, if you're a mother,
too. And I've left my business to look after itself--I'm in the
washing and laundering line, you must know, ma'am--and I've left my
young children to look after themselves, and a more mischievous and
troublesome set of young imps doesn't exist, ma'am; and I've lost all
my money, and lost my way, and as for what may be happening to my
married daughter, why, I don't like to think of it, ma'am!"
"Where might your married daughter be living, ma'am?" asked the
barge-woman.
"She lives near to the river, ma'am," replied Toad. "Close to a fine
house called Toad Hall, that's somewheres hereabouts in these parts.
Perhaps you may have heard of it."
"Toad Hall? Why, I'm going that way myself," replied the barge-woman.
"This canal joins the river some miles further on, a little above Toad
Hall; and then it's an easy walk. You come along in the barge with
me, and I'll give you a lift."
She steered the barge close to the bank, and Toad, with many humble
and grateful acknowledgments, stepped lightly on board and sat down
with great satisfaction. "Toad's luck again!" thought he. "I always
come out on top!"
"So you're in the washing business, ma'am?" said the barge-woman
politely, as they glided along. "And a very good business you've got
too, I dare say, if I'm not making too free in saying so."
"Finest business in the whole country," said Toad airily. "All the
gentry come to me--wouldn't go to any one else if they were paid, they
know me so well. You see, I understand my work thoroughly, and attend
to it all myself. Washing, ironing, clear-starching, making up gents'
fine shirts for evening wear--everything's done under my own eye!"
"But surely you don't _do_ all that work yourself, ma'am?" asked the
barge-woman respectfully.
"O, I have girls," said Toad lightly: "twenty girls or thereabouts,
always at work. But you know what _girls_ are, ma'am! Nasty little
hussies, that's what _I_ call 'em!"
"So do I, too," said the barge-woman with great heartiness. "But I
dare say you set yours to rights, the idle trollops! And are you
_very_ fond of washing?"
"I love it," said Toad. "I simply dote on it. Never so happy as when
I've got both arms in the wash-tub. But, then, it comes so easy to me!
No trouble at all! A real pleasure, I assure you, ma'am!"
"What a bit of luck, meeting you!" observed the barge-woman,
thoughtfully. "A regular piece of good fortune for both of us!"
"Why, what do you mean?" asked Toad, nervously.
"Well, look at me, now," replied the barge-woman. "_I_ like washing,
too, just the same as you do; and for that matter, whether I like it
or not I have got to do all my own, naturally, moving about as I do.
Now my husband, he's such a fellow for shirking his work and leaving
the barge to me, that never a moment do I get for seeing to my own
affairs. By rights he ought to be here now, either steering or
attending to the horse, though luckily the horse has sense enough to
attend to himself. Instead of which, he's gone off with the dog, to
see if they can't pick up a rabbit for dinner somewhere. Says he'll
catch me up at the next lock. Well, that's as may be--I don't trust
him, once he gets off with that dog, who's worse than he is. But
meantime, how am I to get on with my washing?"
"O, never mind about the washing," said Toad, not liking the subject.
"Try and fix your mind on that rabbit. A nice fat young rabbit, I'll
be bound. Got any onions?"
"I can't fix my mind on anything but my washing," said the barge-woman,
"and I wonder you can be talking of rabbits, with such a joyful prospect
before you. There's a heap of things of mine that you'll find in a corner
of the cabin. If you'll just take one or two of the most necessary
sort--I won't venture to describe them to a lady like you, but you'll
recognise them at a glance--and put them through the wash-tub as we go
along, why, it'll be a pleasure to you, as you rightly say, and a real
help to me. You'll find a tub handy, and soap, and a kettle on the stove,
and a bucket to haul up water from the canal with. Then I shall know
you're enjoying yourself, instead of sitting here idle, looking at the
scenery and yawning your head off."
"Here, you let me steer!" said Toad, now thoroughly frightened, "and
then you can get on with your washing your own way. I might spoil your
things, or not do 'em as you like. I'm more used to gentleman's things
myself. It's my special line."
"Let you steer?" replied the barge-woman, laughing. "It takes some
practice to steer a barge properly. Besides, it's dull work, and I
want you to be happy. No, you shall do the washing you are so fond of,
and I'll stick to the steering that I understand. Don't try and
deprive me of the pleasure of giving you a treat!"
Toad was fairly cornered. He looked for escape this way and that, saw
that he was too far from the bank for a flying leap, and sullenly
resigned himself to his fate. "If it comes to that," he thought in
desperation, "I suppose any fool can _wash_!"
He fetched tub, soap, and other necessaries from the cabin, selected a
few garments at random, tried to recollect what he had seen in casual
glances through laundry windows, and set to.
A long half-hour passed, and every minute of it saw Toad getting
crosser and crosser. Nothing that he could do to the things seemed to
please them or do them good. He tried coaxing, he tried slapping, he
tried punching; they smiled back at him out of the tub unconverted,
happy in their original sin. Once or twice he looked nervously over
his shoulder at the barge-woman, but she appeared to be gazing out in
front of her, absorbed in her steering. His back ached badly, and he
noticed with dismay that his paws were beginning to get all crinkly.
Now Toad was very proud of his paws. He muttered under his breath
words that should never pass the lips of either washerwomen or Toads;
and lost the soap, for the fiftieth time.
A burst of laughter made him straighten himself and look round. The
barge-woman was leaning back and laughing unrestrainedly, till the
tears ran down her cheeks.