A NIXIE.
My brother tired of his fishing for the nonce, and for an hour we lay
on our backs in the grass chatting desultorily.
“Jason,” said I, suddenly, “what do we live on?”
“What we can get,” said my brother, sleepily.
“But I mean--where does it come from; who provides it?”
“Oh, don’t bother, Renny. We have enough to eat and drink and do as we
like. What more do you want?”
“I don’t know. I want to know, that’s all. I can’t tell why. Where
does the money come from?”
“Tom Tiddler. He was our grandfather.”
“Don’t be a fool. Dad never worked the mill that we remember.”
“But Tom Tiddler did before him.”
“Not to the tune that would keep four loafers in idleness for sixteen
years.”
“Well, I don’t care. Perhaps dad’s a highwayman.”
I kicked at the grass impatiently.
“It must end some day, you know.”
Jason tilted his cap from his eyes and blinked at me.
“What d’ye mean, piggy?”
“Suppose dad died or went mad?”
“We’d sell the mill and have a rare time of it.”
“Oh, you great clown! Sell it for what? Driftwood? And how long would
the rare time last?”
“You’re mighty particular to-day. I hate answering questions. Let me
alone.”
“I won’t,” I said, viciously. “I want your opinion.”
“Well, it’s that you’re a precious fool!”
“What for?”
“To bother your head with what you can’t answer, when the sun’s
shining.”
“I can’t help bothering my head,” I said. “I’ve been bothering it, I
think, ever since dad gave old Crackenthorpe that medal last year.”
Jason sat up.
“So you noticed it, too,” he said. “Renny, there’s depths in the old
man that we sha’n’t plumb.”
“Well, I’ve taken to thinking of things a bit,” said I.
Jason--so named, at any period (I never saw a register of the
christening of any one of us) because of his golden fleece, shook it
and set to whistling softly.
His name--Modred’s, too--mine was Renalt, and more local--were
evidence of my father’s superior culture as compared with most of his
class. They were odd, if you like, but having a little knowledge and
fancifulness to back them, gave proof of a certain sum of desultory
reading on his part; the spirit of which was transmitted to his
children.
I was throwing myself back with a dissatisfied grunt, when of a sudden
a shrill screech came toward us from a point apparently on the river
path fifty yards lower down. We jumped to our feet and raced headlong
in the direction of the sound. Nothing was to be seen. It was not
until the cry was repeated, almost from under our very feet, that we
realized the reason of it.
All about Winton the banks of the main streams are pierced at
intervals to admit runlets of clear water into the meadows below. Such
a boring there was of a goodish caliber at the point where we stopped;
and here the water, breaking through in a little fall, tumbled into a
stone basin, some three feet square and five deep, that was sunk to
its rim in a rough trench of the meadow soil. Into this brimming
trough a young girl had slipped and would drown in time, for, though
she clung on to the edge with frantic hands, her efforts to escape had
evidently exhausted her to such an extent that she could now do no
more than look up to us, as we stood on the bank above, with wild,
beseeching eyes.
I was going to jump to her help, when Jason stayed me with his hand.
“Hist, Renny!” he whispered. “I’ve never seen a body drown.”
“Nor shall,” said I, hoping he jested.
“Let me shove her hands off,” he said, in the same wondering tone. One
moment, with a shock, I saw the horrible meaning in his face; the
next, with a quick movement I had flung him down and jumped. He rose
at once with a slight cut on his lips, but before he could recover
himself I had the girl out by the hands and had stretched her limp and
prostrate on the grass. Then I paused, embarrassed, and he stood above
looking down upon us.
“You’ll have to pay for that, Renny,” he said, “sooner or later”--and,
of course, I knew I should.
“Turn the creature on her face, you dolt!” he continued, “and let the
water run out of her pipes.”
I endeavored to comply, but the girl, always keeping her eyes shut,
resisted feebly. I dropped upon my knees and smoothed away the sodden
tresses from her face. Thus revealed it seemed an oddly pretty one;
the skin half transparent, like rice paper; the forehead rounding from
the nose like a kitten’s. But she never opened her eyes, so that I
could not see what was their color, though the lashes were black.
Presently a horror seized me that she was dead, and I shook her pretty
roughly by the shoulder.
“Oh,” she cried, with a whimper, “don’t!”
I was so rejoiced at this evidence of life that I gave a whoop. Then I
bent over her.
“It’s all right, girl,” I said; “you’re safe; I saved you.”
Her lips were moving again and I stopped to listen. “What did he want
to drown me for?” she whispered.
She was thinking of my brother, not of me. For a flash her eyes
opened, violet, like lightning, and glanced up at him standing above;
then they closed again.
“Come,” I said, roughly; “if you can talk, you can get up.”
The girl struggled into a sitting posture and then rose to her feet.
She was tall, almost as tall as I was, and about my age, I should
think. Her dress, so far as one could judge, it being sopped with
water, was a poor patched affair, and rough country shoes were on her
feet.
“Take me somewhere, where I can dry,” she said, imperiously. “Don’t
let him come--he needn’t follow.”
“He’s my brother,” I said.
“I don’t care. He wanted to drown me; he didn’t know I can’t die by
water.”
“Can’t you?” I said.
“Of course not. I’m a changeling!”
She said it with a childish seriousness that confounded me.
“What made you one?” I asked.
“The fairies,” she said, “and that’s why I’m here.”
I was too bewildered to pursue the subject further.
“How did you fall in there?” I asked.
“I saw some little fish, like klinkents of rainbow, and wanted to
catch them; then I slipped and soused.”
“Well,” I said, “where are you going now?”
“With you,” she answered.
I offered no resistance. I gave no thought to results, or to what my
father would say when this grotesque young figure should break into
his presence. Mechanically I started for home and she walked by my
side, chatting. Jason strode in our rear, whistling.
“What a brute he must be!” she said once, jerking her head backward.
“Leave him alone,” I said, “or we shall quarrel. What’s a girl like
you to him?”
I think she hardly heard me, for the whistle had dropped to a very
mellow note. To my surprise I noticed that she was crying.
“I thought changelings couldn’t cry?” I said.
“I tell you water does not affect me,” she answered, sharply. “What a
mean spy you are--for a boy.”
I was very angry at that and strode on with black looks, whereupon she
edged up to me and said, softly: “Don’t be sore with me, don’t.”
I shrugged my shoulders.
“Let’s kiss and be friends,” she whispered.
For the first time in my life I blushed furiously.
“You beast,” I said, “to think that men would kiss!”
She gave me a sounding smack on the shoulder and I turned on her
furiously.
“Oh, yes!” she cried, “hit out at me, do! It’s like you.”
“I won’t touch you!” I said. “But I won’t have anything more to do
with you,” and I strode on, fuming. She followed after me and
presently I heard her crying again. At this my anger evaporated and I
turned round once more.
“Come on,” I said, “if you want to, and keep a civil tongue in your
head.”
Presently we were walking together again.
“What’s your home, Renny?” she asked, by and by.
“A mill,” I answered, “but nothing is ground there now.”
She stopped and so did I, and she looked at me curiously, with her red
lips parted, so that her teeth twinkled.
“What’s the matter?” said I.
“Nothing,” she said, “only I remember an old, old saying that the
woman told me.”
“What woman?” I asked, in wonder, but she took no notice of my
question, only repeated some queer doggerel that ran somewhat as
follows:
“Where the mill race is
Come and go faces.
Once deeds of violence;
Now dust and silence.
Thither thy destiny
Answer what speaks to thee.”