<SPAN name="IX" id="IX"></SPAN><h2>IX</h2>
<h2>WAYFARERS ALL</h2></div>
<p><!-- Page 220 --><span class="pagenum">
<SPAN name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</SPAN></span>
<!-- Page 221 --><span class="pagenum">
<SPAN name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</SPAN></span>
<br/></p>
<p class="cap">THE Water Rat was restless, and he did
not exactly know why. To all appearance
the summer's pomp was still at fullest
height, and although in the tilled acres green
had given way to gold, though rowans were reddening,
and the woods were dashed here and
there with a tawny fierceness, yet light and
warmth and colour were still present in undiminished
measure, clean of any chilly premonitions
of the passing year. But the constant
chorus of the orchards and hedges had shrunk
to a casual evensong from a few yet unwearied
performers; the robin was beginning to assert
himself once more; and there was a feeling in
the air of change and departure. The cuckoo,
of course, had long been silent; but many another
feathered friend, for months a part of the
familiar landscape and its small society, was
<!-- Page 222 --><span class="pagenum">
<SPAN name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</SPAN></span>
missing too, and it seemed that the ranks thinned
steadily day by day. Rat, ever observant of all
winged movement, saw that it was taking daily
a southing tendency; and even as he lay in bed
at night he thought he could make out, passing
in the darkness overhead, the beat and quiver
of impatient pinions, obedient to the peremptory
call.</p>
<p>Nature's Grand Hotel has its Season, like the
others. As the guests one by one pack, pay,
and depart, and the seats at the <i>table-d'hôte</i>
shrink pitifully at each succeeding meal; as
suites of rooms are closed, carpets taken up,
and waiters sent away; those boarders who are
staying on, <i>en pension</i>, until the next year's full
re-opening, cannot help being somewhat affected
by all these flittings and farewells, this
eager discussion of plans, routes, and fresh quarters,
this daily shrinkage in the stream of comradeship.
One gets unsettled, depressed, and
inclined to be querulous. Why this craving for
change? Why not stay on quietly here, like us,
and be jolly? You don't know this hotel out
<!-- Page 223 --><span class="pagenum">
<SPAN name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</SPAN></span>
of the season, and what fun we have among ourselves,
we fellows who remain and see the whole
interesting year out. All very true, no doubt,
the others always reply; we quite envy you—and
some other year perhaps—but just now we
have engagements—and there's the bus at the
door—our time is up! So they depart, with a
smile and a nod, and we miss them, and feel
resentful. The Rat was a self-sufficing sort of
animal, rooted to the land, and, whoever went,
he stayed; still, he could not help noticing what
was in the air, and feeling some of its influence
in his bones.</p>
<p>It was difficult to settle down to anything
seriously, with all this flitting going on. Leaving
the water-side, where rushes stood thick and
tall in a stream that was becoming sluggish and
low, he wandered country-wards, crossed a field
or two of pasturage already looking dusty and
parched, and thrust into the great sea of wheat,
yellow, wavy, and murmurous, full of quiet
motion and small whisperings. Here he often
loved to wander, through the forest of stiff
strong stalks that carried their own golden sky
away over his head—a sky that was always
<!-- Page 224 --><span class="pagenum">
<SPAN name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</SPAN></span>
dancing, shimmering, softly talking; or swaying
strongly to the passing wind and recovering itself
with a toss and a merry laugh. Here, too,
he had many small friends, a society complete
in itself, leading full and busy lives, but always
with a spare moment to gossip, and exchange
news with a visitor. To-day, however, though
they were civil enough, the field-mice and harvest
mice seemed pre-occupied. Many were
digging and tunnelling busily; others, gathered
together in small groups, examined plans and
drawings of small flats, stated to be desirable
and compact, and situated conveniently near
the Stores. Some were hauling out dusty trunks
and dress-baskets, others were already elbow-deep
packing their belongings; while everywhere
piles and bundles of wheat, oats, barley,
beech-mast and nuts, lay about ready for transport.</p>
<p>"Here's old Ratty!" they cried as soon as
they saw him. "Come and bear a hand, Rat,
and don't stand about idle!"</p>
<p>"What sort of games are you up to?" said
the Water Rat severely. "You know it isn't
<!-- Page 225 --><span class="pagenum">
<SPAN name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</SPAN></span>
time to be thinking of winter quarters yet, by a
long way!"</p>
<p>"O yes, we know that," explained a field-mouse
rather shamefacedly; "but it's always
as well to be in good time, isn't it? We really
<i>must</i> get all the furniture and baggage and
stores moved out of this before those horrid
machines begin clicking round the fields; and
then, you know, the best flats get picked up so
quickly nowadays, and if you're late you have
to put up with <i>anything</i>; and they want such
a lot of doing up, too, before they're fit to
move into. Of course, we're early, we know
that; but we're only just making a start."</p>
<p>"O, bother <i>starts</i>," said the Rat. "It's a
splendid day. Come for a row, or a stroll
along the hedges, or a picnic in the woods, or
something."</p>
<p>"Well, I <i>think</i> not <i>to-day</i>, thank you," replied
the field-mouse hurriedly. "Perhaps some <i>other</i>
day—when we've more <i>time</i>—"</p>
<p>The Rat, with a snort of contempt, swung
round to go, tripped over a hat-box, and fell,
with undignified remarks.
<!-- Page 226 --><span class="pagenum">
<SPAN name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[Pg 226]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>"If people would be more careful," said a
field-mouse rather stiffly, "and look where
they're going, people wouldn't hurt themselves—and
forget themselves. Mind that hold-all,
Rat! You'd better sit down somewhere. In
an hour or two we may be more free to attend
to you."</p>
<p>"You won't be 'free' as you call it, much
this side of Christmas, I can see that," retorted
the Rat grumpily, as he picked his way out of
the field.</p>
<p>He returned somewhat despondently to his
river again—his faithful, steady-going old river,
which never packed up, flitted, or went into
winter quarters.</p>
<p>In the osiers which fringed the bank he spied
a swallow sitting. Presently it was joined by
another, and then by a third; and the birds,
fidgeting restlessly on their bough, talked together
earnestly and low.</p>
<p>"What, <i>already</i>," said the Rat, strolling up
to them. "What's the hurry? I call it simply
ridiculous."</p>
<p>"O, we're not off yet, if that's what you
<!-- Page 227 --><span class="pagenum">
<SPAN name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</SPAN></span>
mean," replied the first swallow. "We're only
making plans and arranging things. Talking it
over, you know—what route we're taking this
year, and where we'll stop, and so on. That's
half the fun!"</p>
<p>"Fun?" said the Rat; "now that's just what
I don't understand. If you've <i>got</i> to leave this
pleasant place, and your friends who will miss
you, and your snug homes that you've just
settled into, why, when the hour strikes I've no
doubt you'll go bravely, and face all the trouble
and discomfort and change and newness, and
make believe that you're not very unhappy.
But to want to talk about it, or even think
about it, till you really need—"</p>
<p>"No, you don't understand, naturally," said
the second swallow. "First, we feel it stirring
within us, a sweet unrest; then back come the
recollections one by one, like homing pigeons.
They flutter through our dreams at night, they
fly with us in our wheelings and circlings by
day. We hunger to inquire of each other, to
compare notes and assure ourselves that it was
all really true, as one by one the scents and
<!-- Page 228 --><span class="pagenum">
<SPAN name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</SPAN></span>
sounds and names of long-forgotten places come
gradually back and beckon to us."</p>
<p>"Couldn't you stop on for just this year?"
suggested the Water Rat, wistfully. "We'll all
do our best to make you feel at home. You've
no idea what good times we have here, while
you are far away."</p>
<p>"I tried 'stopping on' one year," said the
third swallow. "I had grown so fond of the
place that when the time came I hung back and
let the others go on without me. For a few
weeks it was all well enough, but afterwards, O
the weary length of the nights! The shivering,
sunless days! The air so clammy and chill,
and not an insect in an acre of it! No, it was
no good; my courage broke down, and one cold,
stormy night I took wing, flying well inland
on account of the strong easterly gales. It was
snowing hard as I beat through the passes of
the great mountains, and I had a stiff fight to
win through; but never shall I forget the blissful
feeling of the hot sun again on my back as
I sped down to the lakes that lay so blue and
placid below me, and the taste of my first fat
<!-- Page 229 --><span class="pagenum">
<SPAN name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</SPAN></span>
insect! The past was like a bad dream; the
future was all happy holiday as I moved southwards
week by week, easily, lazily, lingering as
long as I dared, but always heeding the call!
No, I had had my warning; never again did I
think of disobedience."</p>
<p>"Ah, yes, the call of the South, of the South!"
twittered the other two dreamily. "Its songs,
its hues, its radiant air! O, do you remember—"
and, forgetting the Rat, they slid into passionate
reminiscence, while he listened fascinated,
and his heart burned within him. In
himself, too, he knew that it was vibrating at
last, that chord hitherto dormant and unsuspected.
The mere chatter of these southern-bound
birds, their pale and second-hand reports,
had yet power to awaken this wild new sensation
and thrill him through and through with
it; what would one moment of the real thing
work in him—one passionate touch of the real
southern sun, one waft of the authentic odour?
With closed eyes he dared to dream a moment
in full abandonment, and when he looked again
the river seemed steely and chill, the green
<!-- Page 230 --><span class="pagenum">
<SPAN name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[Pg 230]</SPAN></span>
fields grey and lightless. Then his loyal heart
seemed to cry out on his weaker self for its
treachery.</p>
<p>"Why do you ever come back, then, at all?"
he demanded of the swallows jealously. "What
do you find to attract you in this poor drab
little country?"</p>
<p>"And do you think," said the first swallow,
"that the other call is not for us too, in its due
season? The call of lush meadow-grass, wet
orchards, warm, insect-haunted ponds, of browsing
cattle, of haymaking, and all the farm-buildings
clustering round the House of the
perfect Eaves?"</p>
<p>"Do you suppose," asked the second one,
"that you are the only living thing that craves
with a hungry longing to hear the cuckoo's note
again?"</p>
<p>"In due time," said the third, "we shall be
home-sick once more for quiet water-lilies swaying
on the surface of an English stream. But
to-day all that seems pale and thin and very
far away. Just now our blood dances to other
music."
<!-- Page 231 --><span class="pagenum">
<SPAN name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[Pg 231]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>They fell a-twittering among themselves once
more, and this time their intoxicating babble
was of violet seas, tawny sands, and lizard-haunted
walls.</p>
<p>Restlessly the Rat wandered off once more,
climbed the slope that rose gently from the
north bank of the river, and lay looking out
towards the great ring of Downs that barred
his vision further southwards—his simple horizon
hitherto, his Mountains of the Moon, his
limit behind which lay nothing he had cared to
see or to know. To-day, to him gazing South
with a new-born need stirring in his heart, the
clear sky over their long low outline seemed to
pulsate with promise; to-day, the unseen was
everything, the unknown the only real fact of
life. On this side of the hills was now the real
blank, on the other lay the crowded and coloured
panorama that his inner eye was seeing so
clearly. What seas lay beyond, green, leaping,
and crested! What sun-bathed coasts, along
which the white villas glittered against the olive
woods! What quiet harbours, thronged with
gallant shipping bound for purple islands of
<!-- Page 232 --><span class="pagenum">
<SPAN name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[Pg 232]</SPAN></span>
wine and spice, islands set low in languorous
waters!</p>
<p>He rose and descended river-wards once more;
then changed his mind and sought the side of
the dusty lane. There, lying half-buried in the
thick, cool under-hedge tangle that bordered it,
he could muse on the metalled road and all the
wondrous world that it led to; on all the wayfarers,
too, that might have trodden it, and the
fortunes and adventures they had gone to seek
or found unseeking—out there, beyond—beyond!</p>
<p>Footsteps fell on his ear, and the figure of
one that walked somewhat wearily came into
view; and he saw that it was a Rat, and a very
dusty one. The wayfarer, as he reached him,
saluted with a gesture of courtesy that had
something foreign about it—hesitated a moment—then
with a pleasant smile turned from
the track and sat down by his side in the cool
herbage. He seemed tired, and the Rat let
him rest unquestioned, understanding something
of what was in his thoughts; knowing, too, the
value all animals attach at times to mere silent
<!-- Page 233 --><span class="pagenum">
<SPAN name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[Pg 233]</SPAN></span>
companionship, when the weary muscles slacken
and the mind marks time.</p>
<p>The wayfarer was lean and keen-featured,
and somewhat bowed at the shoulders; his
paws were thin and long, his eyes much wrinkled
at the corners, and he wore small gold ear rings
in his neatly-set well-shaped ears. His knitted
jersey was of a faded blue, his breeches, patched
and stained, were based on a blue foundation,
and his small belongings that he carried were
tied up in a blue cotton handkerchief.</p>
<p>When he had rested awhile the stranger
sighed, snuffed the air, and looked about him.</p>
<p>"That was clover, that warm whiff on the
breeze," he remarked; "and those are cows we
hear cropping the grass behind us and blowing
softly between mouthfuls. There is a sound of
distant reapers, and yonder rises a blue line of
cottage smoke against the woodland. The river
runs somewhere close by, for I hear the call
of a moorhen, and I see by your build that
you're a freshwater mariner. Everything seems
asleep, and yet going on all the time. It is a
goodly life that you lead, friend; no doubt the
<!-- Page 234 --><span class="pagenum">
<SPAN name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[Pg 234]</SPAN></span>
best in the world, if only you are strong enough
to lead it!"</p>
<p>"Yes, it's <i>the</i> life, the only life, to live," responded
the Water Rat dreamily, and without
his usual whole-hearted conviction.</p>
<p>"I did not say exactly that," replied the
stranger cautiously; "but no doubt it's the
best. I've tried it, and I know. And because
I've just tried it—six months of it—and
know it's the best, here am I, footsore and
hungry, tramping away from it, tramping southwards,
following the old call, back to the old life,
<i>the</i> life which is mine and which will not let
me go."</p>
<p>"Is this, then, yet another of them?" mused
the Rat. "And where have you just come
from?" he asked. He hardly dared to ask where
he was bound for; he seemed to know the
answer only too well.</p>
<p>"Nice little farm," replied the wayfarer,
briefly. "Upalong in that direction—" he nodded
northwards. "Never mind about it. I
had everything I could want—everything I
had any right to expect of life, and more; and
<!-- Page 235 --><span class="pagenum">
<SPAN name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[Pg 235]</SPAN></span>
here I am! Glad to be here all the same,
though, glad to be here! So many miles further
on the road, so many hours nearer to my heart's
desire!"</p>
<p>His shining eyes held fast to the horizon,
and he seemed to be listening for some sound
that was wanting from that inland acreage,
vocal as it was with the cheerful music of
pasturage and farmyard.</p>
<p>"You are not one of <i>us</i>," said the Water Rat,
"nor yet a farmer; nor even, I should judge, of
this country."</p>
<p>"Right," replied the stranger. "I'm a seafaring
rat, I am, and the port I originally hail
from is Constantinople, though I'm a sort of
a foreigner there too, in a manner of speaking.
You will have heard of Constantinople, friend?
A fair city and an ancient and glorious one.
And you may have heard too, of Sigurd, King
of Norway, and how he sailed thither with sixty
ships, and how he and his men rode up through
streets all canopied in their honour with purple
and gold; and how the Emperor and Empress
came down and banqueted with him on board
<!-- Page 236 --><span class="pagenum">
<SPAN name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[Pg 236]</SPAN></span>
his ship. When Sigurd returned home, many of
his Northmen remained behind and entered the
Emperor's body-guard, and my ancestor, a Norwegian
born, stayed behind too, with the ships
that Sigurd gave the Emperor. Seafarers we
have ever been, and no wonder; as for me, the
city of my birth is no more my home than any
pleasant port between there and the London
River. I know them all, and they know me.
Set me down on any of their quays or foreshores,
and I am home again."</p>
<p>"I suppose you go great voyages," said the
Water Rat with growing interest. "Months
and months out of sight of land, and provisions
running short, and allowanced as to water, and
your mind communing with the mighty ocean,
and all that sort of thing?"</p>
<p>"By no means," said the Sea Rat frankly.
"Such a life as you describe would not suit
me at all. I'm in the coasting trade, and rarely
out of sight of land. It's the jolly times on
shore that appeal to me, as much as any seafaring.
O, those southern seaports! The smell
of them, the riding-lights at night, the glamour!"
<!-- Page 237 --><span class="pagenum">
<SPAN name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[Pg 237]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>"Well, perhaps you have chosen the better
way," said the Water Rat, but rather doubtfully.
"Tell me something of your coasting, then, if
you have a mind to, and what sort of harvest
an animal of spirit might hope to bring home
from it to warm his latter days with gallant
memories by the fireside; for my life, I confess
to you, feels to me to-day somewhat narrow
and circumscribed."</p>
<p>"My last voyage," began the Sea Rat, "that
landed me eventually in this country, bound
with high hopes for my inland farm, will serve
as a good example of any of them, and, indeed,
as an epitome of my highly-coloured life. Family
troubles, as usual, began it. The domestic
storm-cone was hoisted, and I shipped myself
on board a small trading vessel bound from Constantinople,
by classic seas whose every wave
throbs with a deathless memory, to the Grecian
Islands and the Levant. Those were golden
days and balmy nights! In and out of harbour
all the time—old friends everywhere—sleeping
in some cool temple or ruined cistern during
the heat of the day—feasting and song after
<!-- Page 238 --><span class="pagenum">
<SPAN name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[Pg 238]</SPAN></span>
sundown, under great stars set in a velvet sky!
Thence we turned and coasted up the Adriatic,
its shores swimming in an atmosphere of amber,
rose, and aquamarine; we lay in wide landlocked
harbours, we roamed through ancient and
noble cities, until at last one morning, as the sun
rose royally behind us, we rode into Venice down
a path of gold. O, Venice is a fine city, wherein
a rat can wander at his ease and take his pleasure!
Or, when weary of wandering, can sit at
the edge of the Grand Canal at night, feasting
with his friends, when the air is full of music
and the sky full of stars, and the lights flash
and shimmer on the polished steel prows of the
swaying gondolas, packed so that you could
walk across the canal on them from side to side!
And then the food—do you like shell-fish?
Well, well, we won't linger over that now."</p>
<p>He was silent for a time; and the Water Rat,
silent too and enthralled, floated on dream-canals
and heard a phantom song pealing high
between vaporous grey wave-lapped walls.</p>
<p>"Southwards we sailed again at last," continued
the Sea Rat, "coasting down the Italian
<!-- Page 239 --><span class="pagenum">
<SPAN name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[Pg 239]</SPAN></span>
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."</p>
<p>"But isn't it very hot and stuffy, down in the—hold,
I think you call it?" asked the Water
Rat.</p>
<p>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."</p>
<p>"It's a hard life, by all accounts," murmured
the Rat, sunk in deep thought.</p>
<p>"For the crew it is," replied the seafarer
gravely, again with the ghost of a wink.</p>
<p>"From Corsica," he went on, "I made use of
<!-- Page 240 --><span class="pagenum">
<SPAN name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[Pg 240]</SPAN></span>
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
<!-- Page 241 --><span class="pagenum">
<SPAN name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[Pg 241]</SPAN></span>
of shell-fish! Why, sometimes I dream of the
shell-fish of Marseilles, and wake up crying!"</p>
<p><SPAN name="Pge240pic" id="Pge240pic"></SPAN></p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illus07.jpg" width-obs="420" height-obs="570" alt=""It's a hard life, by all accounts," murmured the Rat" title=""It's a hard life, by all accounts," murmured the Rat" /> <span class="caption">"It's a hard life, by all accounts," murmured the Rat</span></div>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"That is indeed an excellent suggestion," said
the Water Rat, and hurried off home. There
<!-- Page 242 --><span class="pagenum">
<SPAN name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[Pg 242]</SPAN></span>
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.</p>
<p>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
<!-- Page 243 --><span class="pagenum">
<SPAN name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[Pg 243]</SPAN></span>
inland, hungry for the experiment of life on
some quiet farmstead, very far from the weary
beating of any sea.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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
<!-- Page 244 --><span class="pagenum">
<SPAN name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[Pg 244]</SPAN></span>
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
<!-- Page 245 --><span class="pagenum">
<SPAN name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[Pg 245]</SPAN></span>
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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"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
<!-- Page 246 --><span class="pagenum">
<SPAN name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[Pg 246]</SPAN></span>
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
<!-- Page 247 --><span class="pagenum">
<SPAN name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[Pg 247]</SPAN></span>
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!</p>
<p>"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!"</p>
<p>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.
<!-- Page 248 --><span class="pagenum">
<SPAN name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[Pg 248]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"Why, where are you off to, Ratty?" asked
the Mole in great surprise, grasping him by
the arm.</p>
<p>"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!"</p>
<p>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
<!-- Page 249 --><span class="pagenum">
<SPAN name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[Pg 249]</SPAN></span>
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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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
<!-- Page 250 --><span class="pagenum">
<SPAN name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[Pg 250]</SPAN></span>
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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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
<!-- Page 251 --><span class="pagenum">
<SPAN name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[Pg 251]</SPAN></span>
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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>By degrees the Rat began to sit up and to
join in. His dull eye brightened, and he lost
some of his listening air.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"It's quite a long time since you did any
poetry," he remarked. "You might have a try
<!-- Page 252 --><span class="pagenum">
<SPAN name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[Pg 252]</SPAN></span>
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."</p>
<p>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.
<!-- Page 253 --><span class="pagenum">
<SPAN name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[Pg 253]</SPAN></span></p>
<div class="bbox">
<div style="break-after:column;"></div><br />