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Wet Magic
“Good-bye,” said Francis, firmly.
“Not at all,” said the lady. “You must come with me in case there are any places where I can’t exercise the elegant and vermiform accomplishment you spoke about. Now, one on each side, and one behind, and don’t walk on my tail. You can’t think how annoying it is to have your tail walked on.”
“Oh, can’t I,” said Mavis. “I’ll tell you something. My mother has a tail too.”
“I say!” said Francis.
But the Spangled Child understood.
“She don’t wear it every day, though,” he said; and Mavis is almost sure that he winked. Only it is so difficult to be sure about winks in the starlight.
“Your mother must be better born than I supposed,” said the Mermaid. “Are you quite sure about the tail?”
“I’ve trodden on it often,” said Mavis – and then Francis saw.
Wriggling and sliding and pushing herself along by her hands, and helped now and then by the hands of the others, the Mermaid was at last got to the edge of the water.
“How glorious! In a moment I shall be quite wet,” she cried.
In a moment everyone else was quite wet also – for with a movement that was something between a squirm and a jump, she dropped from the edge with a splashing flop.
And disappeared entirely.
CHAPTER FIVE
Consequences
THE three children looked at each other.
“Well!” said Mavis.
“I do think she’s ungrateful,” said Francis.
“What did you expect?” asked the Spangled Child.
They were all wet through. It was very late – they were very tired, and the clouds were putting the moon to bed in a very great hurry. The Mermaid was gone; the whole adventure was ended.
There was nothing to do but to go home, and go to sleep, knowing that when they woke the next morning it would be to a day in the course of which they would have to explain their wet clothes to their parents.
“Even you’ll have to do that,” Mavis reminded the Spangled Boy.
He received her remark in what they afterward remembered to have been a curiously deep silence.
“I don’t know how on earth we are to explain,” said Francis. “I really don’t. Come on – let’s get home. No more adventures for me, thank you. Bernard knew what he was talking about.”
Mavis, very tired indeed, agreed.
They had got over the beach by this time, recovered the wheelbarrow, and trundled it up and along the road. At the corner the Spangled Boy suddenly said:
“Well then, so long, old sports,” and vanished down a side lane.
The other two went on together – with the wheelbarrow, which, I may remind you, was as wet as any of them.
They went along by the hedge and the mill and up to the house.
Suddenly Mavis clutched at her brother’s arm.
“There’s a light,” she said, “in the house.”
There certainly was, and the children experienced that terrible empty sensation only too well known to all of us – the feeling of the utterly-found-out.
They could not be sure which window it was, but it was a downstairs window, partly screened by ivy. A faint hope still buoyed up Francis of getting up to bed unnoticed by whoever it was that had the light; and he and his sister crept around to the window out of which they had crept; but such a very long time ago it seemed. The window was shut.
Francis suggested hiding in the mill and trying to creep in unobserved later on, but Mavis said:
“No. I’m too tired for anything. I’m too tired to live, I think. Let’s go and get it over, and then we can go to bed and sleep, and sleep, and sleep.”
So they went and peeped in at the kitchen window, and there was no one but Mrs. Pearce, and she had a fire lighted and was putting a big pot on it.
The children went to the back door and opened it.
“You’re early, for sure,” said Mrs. Pearce, not turning.
This seemed a bitter sarcasm. It was too much. Mavis answered it with a sob. And at that Mrs. Pearce turned very quickly.
“What to gracious!” she said – “whatever to gracious is the matter? Where’ve you been?” She took Mavis by the shoulder. “Why, you’re all sopping wet. You naughty, naughty little gell, you. Wait till I tell your Ma – been shrimping I lay – or trying to – never asking when the tide was right. And not a shrimp to show for it, I know, with the tide where it is. You wait till we hear what your Ma’s got to say about it. And look at my clean flags and you dripping all over ’em like a fortnight’s wash in wet weather.”
Mavis twisted a little in Mrs. Pearce’s grasp. “Oh, don’t scold us, dear Mrs. Pearce,” she said, putting a wet arm up toward Mrs. Pearce’s neck. “We are so miserable.”
“And so you deserve to be,” said Mrs. Pearce, smartly. “Here, young chap, you go into the washhouse and get them things off, and drop them outside the door, and have a good rub with the jack-towel; and little miss can undress by the fire and put hern in this clean pail – and I’ll pop up softlike and so as your Ma don’t hear, and bring you down something dry.”
A gleam of hope fell across the children’s hearts – a gleam wild and watery as that which the moonlight had cast across the sea, into which the Mermaid had disappeared. Perhaps after all Mrs. Pearce wasn’t going to tell Mother. If she was, why should she pop up softlike? Perhaps she would keep their secret. Perhaps she would dry their clothes. Perhaps, after all, that impossible explanation would never have to be given.
The kitchen was a pleasant place, with bright brasses and shining crockery, and a round three-legged table with a clean cloth and blue-and-white teacups on it.
Mrs. Pearce came down with their nightgowns and the warm dressing gowns that Aunt Enid had put in in spite of their expressed wishes. How glad they were of them now!
“There, that’s a bit more like,” said Mrs. Pearce; “here, don’t look as if I was going to eat you, you little Peter Grievouses. I’ll hot up some milk and here’s a morsel of bread and dripping to keep the cold out. Lucky for you I was up – getting the boys’ breakfast ready. The boats’ll be in directly. The boys will laugh when I tell them – laugh fit to bust their selves they will.”
“Oh, don’t tell,” said Mavis, “don’t, please don’t. Please, please don’t.”
“Well, I like that,” said Mrs. Pearce, pouring herself some tea from a pot which, the children learned later, stood on the hob all day and most of the night; “it’s the funniest piece I’ve heard this many a day. Shrimping at high tide!”
“I thought,” said Mavis, “perhaps you’d forgive us, and dry our clothes, and not tell anybody.”
“Oh, you did, did you?” said Mrs. Pearce. “Anything else – ?”
“No, nothing else, thank you,” said Mavis, “only I want to say thank you for being so kind, and it isn’t high tide yet, and please we haven’t done any harm to the barrow – but I’m afraid it’s rather wet, and we oughtn’t to have taken it without asking, I know, but you were in bed and – ”
“The barrow?” Mrs. Pearce repeated. “That great hulking barrow – you took the barrow to bring the shrimps home in? No – I can’t keep it to myself – that really I can’t – ” she lay back in the armchair and shook with silent laughter.
The children looked at each other. It is not pleasant to be laughed at, especially for something you have never done – but they both felt that Mrs. Pearce would have laughed quite as much, or even more, if they had told her what it really was they had wanted the barrow for.
“Oh, don’t go on laughing,” said Mavis, creeping close to Mrs. Pearce, “though you are a ducky darling not to be cross any more. And you won’t tell, will you?”
“Ah, well – I’ll let you off this time. But you’ll promise faithful never to do it again, now, won’t you?”
“We faithfully won’t ever,” said both children, earnestly.
“Then off you go to your beds, and I’ll dry the things when your Ma’s out. I’ll press ’em tomorrow morning while I’m waiting for the boys to come in.”
“You are an angel,” said Mavis, embracing her.
“More than you are then, you young limbs,” said Mrs. Pearce, returning the embrace. “Now off you go, and get what sleep you can.”
It was with a feeling that Fate had not, after all, been unduly harsh with them that Mavis and Francis came down to a very late breakfast.
“Your Ma and Pa’s gone off on their bikes,” said Mrs. Pearce, bringing in the eggs and bacon, “won’t be back till dinner. So I let you have your sleep out. The little ’uns had theirs three hours ago and out on the sands. I told them to let you sleep, though I know they wanted to hear how many shrimps you caught. I lay they expected a barrowful, same as what you did.”
“How did you know they knew we’d been out?” Francis asked.
“Oh, the way they was being secret in corners, and looking the old barrow all over was enough to make a cat laugh. Hurry up, now. I’ve got the washing-up to do – and your things is well-nigh dry.”
“You are a darling,” said Mavis. “Suppose you’d been different, whatever would have become of us?”
“You’d a got your desserts – bed and bread and water, instead of this nice egg and bacon and the sands to play on. So now you know,” said Mrs. Pearce.
On the sands they found Kathleen and Bernard, and it really now, in the bright warm sunshine, seemed almost worthwhile to have gone through last night’s adventures, if only for the pleasure of telling the tale of them to the two who had been safe and warm and dry in bed all the time.
“Though really,” said Mavis, when the tale was told, “sitting here and seeing the tents and the children digging, and the ladies knitting, and the gentlemen smoking and throwing stones, it does hardly seem as though there could be any magic. And yet, you know, there was.”
“It’s like I told you about radium and things,” said Bernard. “Things aren’t magic because they haven’t been found out yet. There’s always been Mermaids, of course, only people didn’t know it.”
“But she talks,” said Francis.
“Why not?” said Bernard placidly. “Even parrots do that.”
“But she talks English,” Mavis urged.
“Well,” said Bernard, unmoved, “what would you have had her talk?”
And so, in pretty sunshine, between blue sky and good sands, the adventure of the Mermaid seemed to come to an end, to be now only as a tale that is told. And when the four went slowly home to dinner all were, I think, a little sad that this should be so.
“Let’s go around and have a look at the empty barrow,” Mavis said; “it’ll bring it all back to us, and remind us of what was in it, like ladies’ gloves and troubadours.”
The barrow was where they had left it, but it was not empty. A very dirty piece of folded paper lay in it, addressed in penciled and uncertain characters
To France
To Be Opened.
Francis opened it and read aloud:
“I went back and she came back and she wants you to come back at ded of nite.
RUBE.”
“Well, I shan’t go,” said Francis.
A voice from the bush by the gate made them all start.
“Don’t let on you see me,” said the Spangled Boy, putting his head out cautiously.
“You seem very fond of hiding in bushes,” said Francis.
“I am,” said the boy briefly. “Ain’t you going – to see her again, I mean?”
“No,” said Francis, “I’ve had enough dead of night to last me a long time.”
“You a-going, miss?” the boy asked. “No? You are a half-livered crew. It’ll be only me, I suppose.”
“You’re going, then?”
“Well,” said the boy, “what do you think?”
“I should go if I were you,” said Bernard impartially.
“No, you wouldn’t; not if you were me,” said Francis. “You don’t know how disagreeable she was. I’m fed up with her. And besides, we simply can’t get out at dead of night now. Mrs. Pearce’ll be on the lookout. No – it’s no go.”
“But you must manage it somehow,” said Kathleen; “you can’t let it drop like this. I shan’t believe it was magic at all if you do.”
“If you were us, you’d have had enough of magic,” said Francis. “Why don’t you go yourselves – you and Bernard.”
“I’ve a good mind to,” said Bernard unexpectedly. “Only not in the middle of the night, because of my being certain to drop my boots. Would you come, Cathay?”
“You know I wanted to before,” said Kathleen reproachfully.
“But how?” the others asked.
“Oh,” said Bernard, “we must think about that. I say, you chap, we must get to our dinner. Will you be here after?”
“Yes. I ain’t going to move from here. You might bring me a bit of grub with you – I ain’t had a bite since yesterday teatime.”
“I say,” said Francis kindly, “did they stop your grub to punish you for getting wet?”
“They didn’t know nothing about my getting wet,” he said darkly. “I didn’t never go back to the tents. I’ve cut my lucky, I ’ave ’ooked it, skedaddled, done a bunk, run away.”
“And where are you going?”
“I dunno,” said the Spangled Boy. “I’m running from, not to.”
CHAPTER SIX
The Mermaid’s Home
THE parents of Mavis, Francis, Kathleen and Bernard were extremely sensible people. If they had not been, this story could never have happened. They were as jolly as any father and mother you ever met, but they were not always fussing and worrying about their children, and they understood perfectly well that children do not care to be absolutely always under the parental eye. So that, while there were always plenty of good times in which the whole family took part, there were also times when Father and Mother went off together and enjoyed themselves in their own grown-up way, while the children enjoyed themselves in theirs. It happened that on this particular afternoon there was to be a concert at Lymington – Father and Mother were going. The children were asked whether they would like to go, and replied with equal courtesy and firmness.
“Very well then,” said Mother, “you do whatever you like best. I should play on the shore, I think, if I were you. Only don’t go around the corner of the cliff, because that’s dangerous at high tide. It’s safe so long as you’re within sight of the coast guards. Anyone have any more pie? No – then I think I’ll run and dress.”
“Mother,” said Kathleen suddenly, “may we take some pie and things to a little boy who said he hadn’t had anything to eat since yesterday?”
“Where is he?” Father asked.
Kathleen blushed purple, but Mavis cautiously replied, “Outside. I’m sure we shall be able to find him.”
“Very well,” said Mother, “and you might ask Mrs. Pearce to give you some bread and cheese as well. Now, I must simply fly.”
“Cathay and I’ll help you, Mother,” said Mavis, and escaped the further questioning she saw in her father’s eye. The boys had slipped away at the first word of what seemed to be Kathleen’s amazing indiscretion about the waiting Rube.
“It was quite all right,” Kathleen argued later, as they went up the field, carefully carrying a plate of plum pie and the bread and cheese with not so much care and a certain bundle not carefully at all. “I saw flying in Mother’s eye before I spoke. And if you can ask leave before you do a thing it’s always safer.”
“And look here,” said Mavis. “If the Mermaid wants to see us we’ve only got to go down and say ‘Sabrina fair,’ and she’s certain to turn up. If it’s just seeing us she wants, and not another deadly night adventure.”
Reuben did not eat with such pretty manners as yours, perhaps, but there was no doubt about his enjoyment of the food they had brought, though he only stopped eating for half a second, to answer, “Prime. Thank you,” to Kathleen’s earnest inquiries.
“Now,” said Francis when the last crumb of cheese had disappeared and the last trace of plum juice had been licked from the spoon (a tin one, because, as Mrs. Pearce very properly said, you never know) – “now, look here. We’re going straight down to the shore to try and see her. And if you like to come with us we can disguise you.”
“What in?” Reuben asked. “I did disguise myself once in a false beard and a green-colored mustache, but it didn’t take no one in for a moment, not even the dogs.”
“We thought,” said Mavis gently, “that perhaps the most complete disguise for you would be girl’s clothes – because,” she added hastily to dispel the thundercloud on Reuben’s brow – “because you’re such a manly boy. Nobody would give vent to a moment’s suspicion. It would be so very unlike you.”
“G’a long – ” said the Spangled Child, his dignity only half soothed.
“And I’ve brought you some of my things and some sandshoes of France’s, because, of course, mine are just kiddy shoes.”
At that Reuben burst out laughing and then hummed: “‘Go, flatterer, go, I’ll not trust to thy vow,’” quite musically.
“Oh, do you know the ‘Gypsy Countess’? How jolly!” said Kathleen.
“Old Mother Romaine knew a power of songs,” he said, suddenly grave. “Come on, chuck us in the togs.”
“You just take off your coat and come out and I’ll help you dress up,” was Francis’s offer.
“Best get a skirt over my kicksies first,” said Reuben, “case anyone comes by and recognizes the gypsy cheild. Hand us in the silk attire and jewels have to spare.”
They pushed the blue serge skirt and jersey through the branches, which he held apart.
“Now the ’at,” he said, reaching a hand for it. But the hat was too large for the opening in the bush, and he had to come out of it. The moment he was out the girls crowned him with the big rush-hat, around whose crown a blue scarf was twisted, and Francis and Bernard each seizing a leg, adorned those legs with brown stockings and white sandshoes. Reuben, the spangled runaway from the gypsy camp, stood up among his new friends a rather awkward and quite presentable little girl.
“Now,” he said, looking down at his serge skirts with a queer smile, “now we shan’t be long.”
Nor were they. Thrusting the tin spoon and the pie plate and the discarded boots of Reuben into the kind shelter of the bush they made straight for the sea.
When they got to that pleasant part of the shore which is smooth sand and piled shingle, lying between low rocks and high cliffs, Bernard stopped short.
“Now, look here,” he said, “if Sabrina fair turns up trumps I don’t mind going on with the adventure, but I won’t do it if Kathleen’s to be in it.”
“It’s not fair,” said Kathleen; “you said I might.”
“Did I?” Bernard most handsomely referred the matter to the others.
“Yes, you did,” said Francis shortly. Mavis said “Yes,” and Reuben clinched the matter by saying, “Why, you up and asked her yourself if she’d go along of you.”
“All right,” said Bernard calmly. “Then I shan’t go myself. That’s all.”
“Oh, bother,” said at least three of the five; and Kathleen said: “I don’t see why I should always be out of everything.”
“Well,” said Mavis impatiently, “after all, there’s no danger in just trying to see the Mermaid. You promise you won’t do anything if Bernard says not – that’ll do, I suppose? Though why you should be a slave to him just because he chooses to say you’re his particular sister, I don’t see. Will that do, Bear?”
“I’ll promise anything,” said Kathleen, almost in tears, “if you’ll only let me come with you all and see the Mermaid if she turns out to be seeable.”
So that was settled.
Now came the question of where the magic words should be said.
Mavis and Francis voted for the edge of the rocks where the words had once already been so successfully spoken. Bernard said, “Why not here where we are?” Kathleen said rather sadly that any place would do as long as the Mermaid came when she was called. But Reuben, standing sturdily in his girl’s clothes, said:
“Look ’ere. When you’ve run away like what I have, least said soonest mended, and out of sight’s out of mind. What about caves?”
“Caves are too dry, except at high tide,” said Francis. “And then they’re too wet. Much.”
“Not all caves,” Reuben reminded him. “If we was to turn and go up by the cliff path. There’s a cave up there. I hid in it t’other day. Quite dry, except in one corner, and there it’s as wet as you want – a sort of ’orse trough in the rocks it looks like – only deep.”
“Is it seawater?” Mavis asked anxiously. And Reuben said:
“Bound to be, so near the sea and all.”
But it wasn’t. For when they had climbed the cliff path and Reuben had shown them where to turn aside from it, and had put aside the brambles and furze that quite hid the cave’s mouth, Francis saw at once that the water here could not be seawater. It was too far above the line which the waves reached, even in the stormiest weather.
“So it’s no use,” he explained.
But the others said, “Oh, do let’s try, now we are here,” and they went on into the dusky twilight of the cave.
It was a very pretty cave, not chalk, like the cliffs, but roofed and walled with gray flints such as the houses and churches are built of that you see on the downs near Brighton and Eastbourne.
“This isn’t an accidental cave, you know,” said Bernard importantly; “it’s built by the hand of man in distant ages, like Stonehenge and the Cheesewring and Kit’s Coty House.”
The cave was lighted from the entrance where the sunshine crept faintly through the brambles. Their eyes soon grew used to the gloom and they could see that the floor of the cave was of dry white sand, and that along one end was a narrow dark pool of water. Ferns fringed its edge and drooped their fronds to its smooth surface – a surface which caught a gleam of light, and shone whitely; but the pool was very still, and they felt somehow, without knowing why, very deep.
“It’s no good, no earthly,” said Francis.
“But it’s an awfully pretty cave,” said Mavis consolingly. “Thank you for showing it to us, Reuben. And it’s jolly cool. Do let’s rest a minute or two. I’m simply boiling, climbing that cliff path. We’ll go down to the sea in a minute. Reuben could wait here if he felt safer.”
“All right, squattez-vous,” said Bernard, and the children sat down at the water’s edge, Reuben still very awkward in his girl’s clothes.
It was very, very quiet. Only now and then one fat drop of water would fall from the cave’s roof into that quiet pool and just move its surface in a spreading circle.
“It’s a ripping place for a hidey-hole,” said Bernard, “better than that old bush of yours, anyhow. I don’t believe anybody knows of the way in.”
“I don’t think anyone does, either,” said Reuben, “because there wasn’t any way in till it fell in two days ago, when I was trying to dig up a furze root.”
“I should hide here if you want to hide,” said Bernard.
“I mean to,” said Reuben.
“Well, if you’re rested, let’s get on,” Francis said; but Kathleen urged:
“Do let’s say ‘Sabrina fair,’ first – just to try!” So they said it – all but the Spangled Child who did not know it —
“‘Sabrina fair
Listen where thou art sitting
Under the glassie, cool…’”
There was a splash and a swirl in the pool, and there was the Mermaid herself, sure enough. Their eyes had grown used to the dusk and they could see her quite plainly, could see too that she was holding out her arms to them and smiling so sweetly that it almost took their breath away.
“My cherished preservers,” she cried, “my dear, darling, kind, brave, noble, unselfish dears!”
“You’re talking to Reuben, in the plural, by mistake, I suppose,” said Francis, a little bitterly.
“To him, too, of course. But you two most of all,” she said, swishing her tail around and leaning her hands on the edge of the pool. “I am so sorry I was so ungrateful the other night. I’ll tell you how it was. It’s in your air. You see, coming out of the water we’re very susceptible to aerial influences – and that sort of ungratefulness and, what’s the word – ?”
“Snobbishness,” said Francis firmly.
“Is that what you call it? – is most frightfully infectious, and your air’s absolutely crammed with the germs of it. That’s why I was so horrid. You do forgive me, don’t you, dears? And I was so selfish, too – oh, horrid. But it’s all washed off now, in the nice clean sea, and I’m as sorry as if it had been my fault, which it really and truly wasn’t.”
The children said all right, and she wasn’t to mind, and it didn’t matter, and all the things you say when people say they are sorry, and you cannot kiss them and say, “Right oh,” which is the natural answer to such confessions.
“It was very curious,” she said thoughtfully, “a most odd experience, that little boy … his having been born of people who had always been rich, really seemed to me to be important. I assure you it did. Funny, wasn’t it? And now I want you all to come home with me, and see where I live.”
She smiled radiantly at them, and they all said, “Thank you,” and looked at each other rather blankly.
“All our people will be unspeakably pleased to see you. We Mer-people are not really ungrateful. You mustn’t think that,” she said pleadingly.
She looked very kind, very friendly. But Francis thought of the Lorelei. Just so kind and friendly must the Lady of the Rhine have looked to the “sailor in a little skiff” whom he had disentangled from Heine’s poem, last term, with the aid of the German dicker. By a curious coincidence and the same hard means, Mavis had, only last term, read of Undine, and she tried not to think that there was any lack of soul in the Mermaid’s kind eyes. Kathleen who, by another coincidence, had fed her fancy in English literature on the “Forsaken Merman” was more at ease.
“Do you mean down with you under the sea?” she asked —
“‘Where the sea snakes coil and twine,
Dry their mail and bask in the brine,
Where great whales go sailing by,
Sail and sail with unshut eye
Round the world for ever and aye?’”
“Well, it’s not exactly like that, really,” said the Mermaid; “but you’ll see soon enough.”
This had, in Bernard’s ears, a sinister ring.
“Why,” he asked suddenly, “did you say you wanted to see us at dead of night?”
“It’s the usual time, isn’t it?” she asked, looking at him with innocent surprise. “It is in all the stories. You know we have air stories just as you have fairy stories and water stories – and the rescuer almost always comes to the castle gate at dead of night, on a coal-black steed or a dapple-gray, you know, or a red-roan steed of might; but as there were four of you, besides me and my tail, I thought it more considerate to suggest a chariot. Now, we really ought to be going.”
“Which way?” asked Bernard, and everyone held their breath to hear the answer.
“The way I came, of course,” she answered, “down here,” and she pointed to the water that rippled around her.
“Thank you so very, very much,” said Mavis, in a voice which trembled a little; “but I don’t know whether you’ve heard that people who go down into the water like that – people like us – without tails, you know – they get drowned.”
“Not if they’re personally conducted,” said the Mermaid. “Of course we can’t be responsible for trespassers, though even with them I don’t think anything very dreadful has ever happened. Someone once told me a story about Water Babies. Did you ever hear of that?”
“Yes, but that was a made-up story,” said Bernard stolidly.
“Yes, of course,” she agreed, “but a great deal of it’s quite true, all the same. But you won’t grow fins and gills or anything like that. You needn’t be afraid.”
The children looked at each other, and then all looked at Francis. He spoke.
“Thank you,” he said. “Thank you very much, but we would rather not – much rather.”
“Oh, nonsense,” said the lady kindly. “Look here, it’s as easy as easy. I give you each a lock of my hair,” she cut off the locks with her shell knife as she spoke, long locks they were and soft. “Look here, tie these round your necks – if I’d had a lock of human hair round my neck I should never have suffered from the dryness as I did. And then just jump in. Keep your eyes shut. It’s rather confusing if you don’t; but there’s no danger.”
The children took the locks of hair, but no one regarded them with any confidence at all as lifesaving apparatus. They still hung back.
“You really are silly,” said the sea lady indulgently. “Why did you meddle with magic at all if you weren’t prepared to go through with it? Why, this is one of the simplest forms of magic, and the safest. Whatever would you have done if you had happened to call up a fire spirit and had had to go down Vesuvius with a Salamander round your little necks?”
She laughed merrily at the thought. But her laugh sounded a little angry too.
“Come, don’t be foolish,” she said. “You’ll never have such a chance again. And I feel that this air is full of your horrid human microbes – distrust, suspicion, fear, anger, resentment – horrid little germs. I don’t want to risk catching them. Come.”
“No,” said Francis, and held out to her the lock of her hair; so did Mavis and Bernard. But Kathleen had tied the lock of hair round her neck, and she said:
“I should have liked to, but I promised Bernard I would not do anything unless he said I might.” It was toward Kathleen that the Mermaid turned, holding out a white hand for the lock.
Kathleen bent over the water trying to untie it, and in one awful instant the Mermaid had reared herself up in the water, caught Kathleen in her long white arms, pulled her over the edge of the pool, and with a bubbling splash disappeared with her beneath the dark water.
Mavis screamed and knew it; Francis and Bernard thought they did not scream. It was the Spangled Child alone who said nothing. He had not offered to give back the lock of soft hair. He, like Kathleen, had knotted it round his neck; he now tied a further knot, stepped forward, and spoke in tones which the other three thought the most noble they had ever heard.
“She give me the plum pie,” he said, and leaped into the water.
He sank at once. And this, curiously enough, gave the others confidence. If he had struggled – but no – he sank like a stone, or like a diver who means diving and diving to the very bottom.
“She’s my special sister,” said Bernard, and leaped.
“If it’s magic it’s all right – and if it isn’t we couldn’t go back home without her,” said Mavis hoarsely. And she and Francis took hands and jumped together.
It was not so difficult as it sounds. From the moment of Kathleen’s disappearance the sense of magic – which is rather like very sleepy comfort and sweet scent and sweet music that you just can’t hear the tune of – had been growing stronger and stronger. And there are some things so horrible that if you can bring yourself to face them you simply can’t believe that they’re true. It did not seem possible – when they came quite close to the idea – that a Mermaid could really come and talk so kindly and then drown the five children who had rescued her.
