IN WHICH GREAT GOOD FORTUNE BEFALLS THE HEROINE
Sweet William had been right when he foretold that Philomène would not
see much of the fairy agent at the Cushats, for Isolde devoted herself
whole-heartedly to the amusement of her godchild, and the days chased
each other in their eagerness to turn into to-morrow, with its fresh
succession of walks and talks and drives and picnics. Yet there were of
necessity times when Philomène was left to amuse herself, and it was
then that Speedwell and Spirea came skimming towards her through the
air, or peeped up at her out of the flowers, or hopped down to her from
the trees. It was not, however, till August that anything of importance
befell.
Philomène was in the stable, feeding the white donkey with sugar, and
begging him to talk to her if he could. “If Balaam’s donkey talked to
him when he was unkind and stupid and hit it,” she reasoned
persuasively, “I think the least you can do is to talk to me when I am
giving you all this sugar. Of course if you really can’t, that is
another thing, but I never feel sure of that these days. Oh, you there,
Spirea?” The last exclamation was due to the sudden appearance of one of
the twins between the donkey’s glossy ears.
“I’m not Spirea, I’m Speedwell,” replied the fairy, “but it’s of no
consequence. Is your godmother likely to want you within the next hour
or so?”
“No,” said Philomène, “she has driven off to pay a call, and won’t be
back till nearly supper-time.”
“That is really very fortunate,” said Speedwell, “because it would have
been a pity for you to miss this chance. There is an old merman in a
little creek about half a mile from here, and if you come with me
quickly, I will introduce you to him.”
[Illustration]
For a moment Philomène’s heart seemed to stand still with the very joy
and marvel of the thing, but the next she had begun to run, and the elf
half ran, half flew, by her side. The beach was of yellow sand, hard and
smooth, stretching for mile upon mile along the coast; the tide was
coming in, blue fringed with white by the shore, but a vague, sad purple
farther out to sea. The little creek was soon reached, and as the sea
ran up into it, smooth and shallow, Philomène took off her shoes and
stockings, and began to paddle; and there, sure enough in the shelter of
a projecting rock, screened from the steady August sunshine, and with
his tail in the water, sat the old merman, gazing out to sea.
“This is Philomène,” said Speedwell, and turning round, she half ran,
half flew, back across the sands, as fast as glistening wings and little
green shoes could carry her.
Philomène sat down on a low boulder, her feet dangling in the warm
caressing water, her wide eyes fixed upon the merman. She had neither
the breath nor the courage to start a conversation. The merman raised
his head and tossed back his sea-green hair from his sea-green eyes;
then passing his fingers through the matted locks, where tiny shells
hung tangled, he turned upon Philomène a rugged, weather-beaten face.
“I am glad to see you,” he said in a deep, musical voice, “the fairies
seem to be your very good friends.”
“I should be very much obliged if you would tell me about the sea,”
suggested Philomène timidly.
The merman laughed a deep, musical laugh. “That would indeed be a long
story,” said he, “it is as if some one were to say to you, ‘Tell me
about the land.’ So you love the sea, do you?”
“Yes, I love it,” replied Philomène, looking away over it towards the
horizon, “it is beautiful in the same sort of way as the deep red of S.
Mary Magdalene’s dress in the chapel, burning red like cherries with the
sun on them, and like the third chord in ‘Lead, kindly Light,’ and like
the smell of the garden early in the morning, and they all make one hurt
inside in just the same way, though they are such very different
things.”
Philomène was wondering if anything were making the merman “hurt
inside,” he was so silent and grave, but then she remembered that the
mer-folk are said to have no souls, and must feel that everything
beautiful is but for a very little while.
“I don’t expect he would marry me even if I asked him to,” she
reflected, “and that is supposed to be the only way of helping a
merperson to a soul. Oh, I do wish I could get one for him! But perhaps
there is another way after all, though no one has found it out yet. I
must not forget to think of him next time I go to church.”
She was not quite sure what particular prayer could be made to fit him,
but at last decided that he might very well count as one of the people
in the Litany who “travel by water.” She had just arrived at this
conclusion, when the merman roused himself from his reverie, and turned
towards her.
“I cannot tell you all about the sea in one conversation,” he said, “but
a little is better than nothing at all, so I will tell you a story. It
is the way of the land-folk to speak of the sea as treacherous, but this
story will show you that she keeps faith with her own.”