“I have your ring,” Alison said, and she did not try to keep the impatience out of her voice. “You have a train ticket in your jacket pocket with my name on it, and there is a very unfriendly clerk at the marriage bureau who is counting on being unpleasant to the both of us at exactly ten o’clock tomorrow morning. I can’t think of anything else I can do to convince you, but I hope at the least to find you sensible when I come back.” She stepped lightly outside, closing the door behind her.
The waitress did not come back, and David had not felt right moving any farther away from the table than the entrance to the kitchen. The kitchen was full of shadows and flung his own voice back at him when he tried to halloo for attention. He did not have permission to go farther, so he went back and sat down.
There was no reason for him to open the door, because Alison was standing just outside, with Tess beside her, and she would open it and come back inside any minute. It was bad luck for a groom to see a bride on her wedding day; David thought, a trifle hysterically, that perhaps it was bad luck too for a groom to open any doors a bride kept closed the night before. David could just hear the low, warm tones of voices babbling on the other side of the door, and one belonged unmistakably to Alison. One of the voices paused to laugh, and the other swept darkly underneath it. The voices rose and fell together, bowing and nodding graciously to each other in turn, as if they were being continuously introduced. David closed his eyes and pictured Alison’s long hands trailing after her words as she spoke.
Outside, the sun had vanished into the thick bank of clouds that banded the horizon, draining the street of every color but blue and darker blue. Hasty streetlights popped on in succession and threw bright pyramids of yellow against the sidewalk. A dozen footprints muttered past the doorway, but none stopped, and the door still did not open.
David pulled his cigarette case out from his jacket pocket and swung it all the way around the hinges until the sides met in reverse with a tinny little report. He distinctly heard his own name being pronounced in a feminine accent through the wall and jumped up from his seat, setting his ear against the door and straining to hear another “David, David.” Alison was standing just outside—one of her hands was resting lightly on the knob, even now, ready to turn—and she had spoken his name, and Tess had heard it. Her face was already turned back in from the street—it turned, it was turning in his direction—and she was telling Tess that it was time to come inside.
He did not look out the window into the blurring street scene again, and he did not touch the handle of the door; for, he thought rather wildly to himself, if he were to try to look before they were ready to come inside, he might not see them at all; they might flash like birds down the street. He was seized with the notion that perhaps they had done so already, that the coiled, pleased voices hanging just outside were all that remained of either of them, and that soon, soon, now they would dissolve into the thickening night, and he would never see them again.
He suddenly had a picture in his mind of himself, running out the front door and grabbing each passerby in turn, asking if they had please seen his wife, that he was expecting her. Then he saw them spreading their hands, smiling and refusing him gently, denying that she was his wife, that he had ever had a wife to begin with, that he had any right to be out on the street at all, collaring strangers and asking about a woman he had no part in. They might send him back inside, or throw him in prison for disturbing the peace, and so he did not move. She would come back, but not if he went out to find her, not if he stirred in the slightest from where he sat now. He would wait, and he would earn her. She had the ring. She had not liked it, but she wore it on her hand just the same, and that was sign enough. When she came back, he would never let her wear gloves again. He saw a horse’s head, black-eyed and staring, fixed over the door, dripping and speechless.
He flipped his cigarette case open again and rested his chin against the door. There were still voices, softer now, falling every moment into a sweeter, deeper register he could not make out, and he wept a little at the loveliness of the vanishing sound. Soon—soon—now Alison was going to open the door and step inside. Tomorrow they were going to be married.
EIGHT
Some of Us Had Been Threatening Our Friend Mr. Toad
It was a bright morning in the early days of summer. Shortly after breakfast there came a knock at Mole’s door. “See who it is, Mole, like a good fellow,” Rat said. “I am attending to my egg.”
Mole went to the door and uttered a cry of surprise. Then he threw the door open and announced (with an air of great importance), “Mr. Badger, welcome!”
“The hour has come!” declared Badger with great solemnity—or with as much solemnity as one could muster while wielding a boathook—as he stepped over the threshold.
“What hour?” asked Rat, looking over at the clock on the mantelpiece.
“Whose hour, you should rather say,” replied Badger. “Why, Mr. Toad’s hour! The hour of Toad! We said we would take him in hand as soon as the winter was well over, and we are going to take him in hand today!”
“Toad’s hour—of course!” cried Mole in delight. “Hooray! I remember now! We’ll teach him to be sensible!”
“How right you are,” said Rat. “We’ll rescue the poor, unhappy animal! We’ll convert him—why, he’ll be the most converted Toad there ever was by the time we’re done with him.”
“This very morning,” continued Badger, settling into an armchair, “as I learned last night from a trustworthy source, another new and exceptionally powerful motorcar will arrive at Toad Hall. At this very moment, perhaps, Toad is busy readying himself to take a trip, without any of his friends. He may even now be preparing to run away from his friends who love him.”
“Even now,” Mole said, “he may be arraying himself in those disgusting motoring clothes which transform him from a comparatively bearable-looking Toad into an Object that throws any decent-minded person who comes across it into a violent fit.”
“A most violent fit,” Rat said. “Violent violent violent.”
“Shall I bring a boathook, too?” Mole asked.
“I don’t think so,” Badger said. “You might bring a heavy blanket, or a tarpaulin, in case we have to Drown him.”
“I don’t believe we have ever Drowned Toad before,” Mole said. “I suppose Helping is a bit like Drowning.”
“Whatever you’re going to bring along with you,” Badger said, “you’d better fetch it quick. We must be up and about, before it is too late and Toad gets away without any Help at all. You two had better come with me to Toad Hall, and we can start the work of rescuing him.”
“A most violent fit,” Rat said again. “A violent violent fit.”
They set off up the road at once, Badger leading the way and Rat dancing along behind, singing out, “A violent fit, a violent fit, a most violent violent violent fit,” with every step. They made for a very merry crew.
“I should like to Help Toad first,” Mole said. “Since I have known him the longest.”
“Hello, fellows,” Otter said, flinging his head above the riverbank and shaking the water from his muzzle. “What a noise you’re making! All the world seems out on the river today. What news?”
“We are going to Help our friend Toad,” Rat explained. “If I see him in his new motoring clothes, I am going to have a most violent fit. Then Mole is going to have a most violent fit. Then Badger is going to have a most—”
“Yes, I think I follow,” Otter said politely. “May I join you?”
“We already have a boathook, a tarpaulin, a shovel, two steering poles, a mattock, a garden fork, and a luncheon basket,” Badger said. “Have you got anything useful?”
“Just my net and fishing spear and a few lures,” Otter said. “Will that do?”
“It might,” Badger said.
“The more the merrier,” Rat said.
“Can’t be too prepared,” Mole said. “Come along.” Otter scampered up the bank, ri
ver water scattering off his back, and joined the line. Rat resumed his song as they walked to Toad Hall.
When they reached Toad Hall’s carriage house they found—just as Badger had said they would—a shiny new motorcar, gleaming all over, painted blue, sitting just out front. As they drew near the front door it flew wide open and Mr. Toad came down the steps, already decked out in his motoring goggles, trim little brown cap, and duster, drawing on his driving gloves. He caught sight of them on the third step and stopped neatly in his tracks.
“Oh, hullo, fellows,” he said. “I— Hullo. You’re just in time—just in time to come with me for a jolly—to come for a jolly—for a—” The invitation faltered and fell away as he looked at all the friendly faces around him.
“Toad, what time do you suppose it is?” Mole asked.
“I don’t know,” Toad said. He smiled very brightly at each one of his friends. “I don’t know. My head aches all of a sudden. I don’t suppose I will go out today after all. I don’t know.”
“It’s the hour of Toad!” Rat cried out merrily. “It’s your hour, my precious darling, and we’ve all been having the most violent fits.”
“Toad,” Badger said, resting against his boathook, “what do you suppose we’ve come to Help you with?”
“I think my head aches too much to answer questions,” Toad said, and if he was a little cross when he said it, we must excuse him, for his head did ache, a very great deal. “I think I’d better go back inside and lie down. Will you please excuse me?”
“No,” Mole said.
“Yes,” Rat said.
“I don’t think—” Toad began.
“Listen to your friend Rat,” Mole said.
“Listen to your friend Mole,” Rat said.
“Thank you, Rat,” Mole said.
“Thank you, Mole,” Rat said.
“There are so many things we want to Help you with, Toad,” said Badger.
Otter made a small noise in the back of his throat and shuffled gently up the stairs. “When are you going to invite us inside, Toad? We’ve come an awfully long way just to see you, and we’ve been carrying a great many heavy things.”
Rat danced happily up to the chauffeur sitting in the driver’s seat of the motorcar. “I’m afraid that nobody is going to need you today,” he said. “Mr. Toad has changed his mind, and will not require the car. You needn’t wait for him to change his mind, either. Mr. Toad never changes his mind but once.”
“Think of what fun we’ll have, Toady,” Mole said, “once you’ve quite gotten over this painful attack of yours. We’ll take great care of everything for you until you’re well again.”
After a few minutes everyone—with the exception of the chauffeur, who was no longer wanted by anybody—went inside the house. Mole was a little out of breath, and Badger had the slightest of cuts over his right eye, but otherwise the entire rescue party was in fine spirits.
Toad spent a lot of time with his friends Badger, Mole, Rat, and Otter in the Wild Woods where they all lived. Here are a few of the things that happened to him.
The Noise
One day Toad went walking out in the Wild Woods to be by himself. As he was walking, he came to an empty place in the middle of the forest. But the middle of the empty place wasn’t empty at all—there was a hole in the ground. And from inside the hole came a heavy sort of humming noise. Toad didn’t mind the noise. He sat down at the edge of the hole, hung his head between his knees, and closed his eyes. He would only be by himself for a minute. He was never alone for very long in the Wild Woods, because the Wild Woods were full of Mr. Toad’s friends, and you are never alone, as long as you have friends.
Then Toad said to himself: “That humming noise has to mean something. I’ve never heard a noise like that without something making it. If there is a humming noise, then something is making a humming noise, and the only thing I know of that makes a humming noise like that is a motorcar.” So Toad dropped his legs over the side and swung round and grasped the edge of the hole with his forefeet, lowering himself bit by bit into the darkness.
Eventually Mole wandered into the clearing and took an interest. “Hello, Toad,” he called down into the hole. “What are you doing down there?”
“I heard a noise,” came a voice from very deep within the hole. “And I thought there might be something making the noise.”
“I don’t think you’ll find anything down there but more noise,” Mole said. “Why don’t you climb back up to where I am?”
“I can do it,” Toad said.
“No, you can’t,” Mole said in a sorrowful voice. “Your hands are tired. Your wrists are aching. Your head hurts. There’s dirt in your mouth and the stones are cutting your feet. And the farther down you go, the worse it gets.”
“I can do it,” Toad said.
“I have to tell you something about the humming noise, Toad,” Mole said. “It knows your name and doesn’t like it. It knows who you are, and it doesn’t like that either.”
Toad kept climbing down.
“It knows that you’re trying to get to it,” Mole said, “and it likes that least of all. It’s a gray sort of buzzing, isn’t it, heavy and dull, and it makes your head spin, doesn’t it?”
Toad said nothing, because his head was spinning. Mole was always right about that sort of thing.
“Why don’t you come back up, where all your friends are here to see you?” Mole said.
“I haven’t got any friends up there,” Toad said.
“How can you say that,” Rat asked, stepping out from behind Mole and peering down past the edge of the hole, “when you know we’re the best friends you have in the whole world?”
“It’s very sad that he would say that to us,” Mole said to Rat.
“Very sad indeed,” Rat said. “I’m going to cry unless Toad climbs out of that hole right now.”
Finally Toad came back out. His head hurt, and his wrists were aching, and the stones cut his feet, and it didn’t get any better when he reached the ground. And he was still hungry. He was so hungry that he fell over, and he tasted the dirt in his mouth.
“What a mess you look,” Rat said.
“I’m hungry,” said Toad. “I’m sorry. It’s because I’m hungry.”
“How can you be hungry,” Mole said, “when you’ve just eaten every bite of the picnic lunch that Rat and I brought to share between ourselves?”
“I haven’t had any picnic,” Toad said, and tried to lift his arm to wipe his mouth. “I haven’t had anything at all.”
“It was very rude of you,” Rat said, “to take all the picnic lunch for yourself and not to offer even a little tiny bite to your friends.”
“I’m sorry,” Toad said to the dirt.
“We don’t want you to be sorry,” Mole said. “We just wish you would think of someone else once in a while. Toad, there’s a picnic basket in that motorcar sitting at the bottom of that hole just below us. Why don’t you climb down and bring it up?”
“All right,” Toad said after a minute, and slowly lowered himself back down into the hole.
After Toad had begun to climb down, Rat shouted down after him, “Now, Toady, I don’t want to give you pain—not after all you’ve been through already—but don’t you see what a terrible ass you’ve been making of yourself? Handcuffed, imprisoned, starved, beaten, chased, jeered at, insulted, and terrified half out of your wits—where’s the fun in that?”
“And all because you must go around stealing motorcars,” Mole said. “You know you’ve never had anything but trouble from motorcars from the moment you first set eyes on one.”
“If you must be mixed up with them,” Rat said, “why steal them? Be a madman, if you think it’s exciting; be bankrupt for a change, if you really set your mind to it; but why choose to be a convict? When are you going to be sensible and think of your friends, and try to be a credit to them? Do you suppose it’s any pleasure for me, for instance, to hear people saying, as I go about, that I’m the
chap that keeps company with gaolbirds?”
There was no answer from the hole at their feet except for the humming sound. Rat picked up a rock in his hand and weighed it thoughtfully. He shook his head.
“He brings it on himself,” Mole said tragically.
Mr. Toad Gets a New House
It was a very commendable point of Toad’s character that he never minded being jawed by any of his friends, who really did have his best interests at heart, and always forgave them after each episode. After the business with the humming sound in the hole (“And what a time we had taking care of you after that,” Rat had said), Toad spent a few days lying very quietly on the floor with a cold washcloth over his eyes at Mole’s house.
After about a week had passed, Toad began to speak of going home. “You’ve been quite right, Mole—I’ve been terribly conceited, I can see that now—but I’m going to be quite a good Toad from now on, and not go bothering with motorcars or holes in the ground or anything of the sort. I’m not so keen at all on motorcars now.” He spoke very rapidly and without sitting up. “The fact is, I had the idea that I might take a nice quiet trip on a riverboat and— There, there! Don’t take on so, Mole, and stamp and upset things; it was only an idea, and we won’t talk any more about it now. We’ll have our coffee, and a smoke, and then I’ll go on home to Toad Hall, and back into my own clothes, and set things going again along the old lines. I’ve had quite enough of adventures, I can assure you. I shall lead a quiet, steady, respectable life, one that would make any of you proud to own me to anyone who asked. I shall potter about the property, making little improvements—nothing out of sorts, of course—doing a little gardening, and always having a bit of dinner ready for my friends when they come to see me, just as I used to in the good old days, before I got restless and wanted to do things.”
“Go on home to Toad Hall?” asked Mole, quite excited. “What are you talking of? Do you mean to say you haven’t heard?”
The Merry Spinster Page 11