Part 2

She had slept a long time when she woke and saw, to her dismay, that someone else was sitting on the bank, quite near. He was a long, thin, pale young man, with lank, untidy hair and shabby clothes, and he was reading aloud to himself out of a book on his knees. As she moved he turned and saw her over the fallen trunk behind which she lay. He shut his book, taking care to keep a finger between the leaves to mark the place, and looked calmly at her. He was the first person she had met who did not seem surprised to see her. All the same, she prepared to run away.

“You needn’t be afraid,” said the student—for that is what he was. “I notice that you are a Water-Nix, and, that being so, you are the very person I should wish to see. This is a poetry-book that I am reading; the writing is fine enough, but there is nothing in it as fine as what _I_ am going to write. I am going to make a poem. Three days, I assure you, have I wandered in this wood trying to think of a subject for it, and now I have it. It shall be no less than my meeting with yourself.”

And he said a long sentence in Latin, which the Nix could not understand; but, then, neither could she understand much of anything else he had said, so it didn’t matter.

“Ah, yes, you are a Water-Nix,” he continued—“_Nixiana Aquatica_.”

And he took a pencil out of his pocket and scribbled down a note on the margin of his book.

It was some time before he left off saying learned things, and began to consider how his companion had come to a place so far from the river, where not even a stream ran through the trees. He listened to the tale she told him with astonishment, and at last he put aside his book and promised to help her to find the way to the mill. He was very sorry for her, though now and then he would forget her presence as he pulled out his pencil to write down the beginning of the poem he meant to make.

When night came the student and the Nix started off. He walked in front, and she went after him, like a dog following its master. In the morning they hid in an overgrown quarry, for she was much too frightened to go abroad in the daylight; and thus they travelled till, after midnight on the second day, they found themselves close to the highroad which ran towards the mill-pool. They sat down to rest. All was so still that you could hear sounds ever so far off, and they soon made out that someone was coming to meet them. Then a man passed on the road; they could not see him, but he was singing to himself. And what he sang was this:

“Out and home and out again, As the tide rolls heavily; With the ship to steer and the fog to fear, By the grey banks near the sea, In the caves across the sea.”

The Nix held her breath as the pedlar—for it was he—went by, and when he began the second verse the thought of everything that had happened went from her. All she could hear or remember was the beating of the grey sea, calling her with its compelling voice.

Without a word she got up and followed the pedlar and left the student sitting by himself in the dark. He sat open-mouthed.

Back to him from the distance came the sound of footsteps and the floating refrain.

“Bless me!” he exclaimed. “Bless me! _Nixiana Maritima!_”

But it was too dark to write that down on the margin of his book.

The pedlar walked on singing, and she kept a little way behind him, treading softly. On they went till the first streak of daylight broke in the sky, for he was on his way to the town; he had sold all his wares and meant to go to sea again in the first ship he could find leaving the harbour. When they entered the streets all the world was asleep, and they passed through the town unnoticed. Beside the quay a forest of masts stood dark against the sky, and here the pedlar halted, looking about him. Then he turned and saw the Nix.

“Hullo!” he cried roughly. “What’s this?”

But before he could get nearer she dived into the water. The pedlar began to shout. In a minute the place was awake, for at the sound of his voice men sleeping in their boats at the quay’s edge leaped ashore to see what was the matter, windows were opened in the houses, and everyone was calling out to know what had happened.

The Nix looked back and saw the crowd collecting. She swam for the harbour’s mouth with all her strength, and she was so afraid that they might put to sea and follow her that by the time the sun rose she was miles out in the clear waters. All was blue around her, sky and wave, and the land lay behind, a faint line in the sunshine. The great ocean was as calm as her own pool by the mill and her heart sang as she went out farther and farther. It seemed to her that the voice’s of the mermaids the pedlar had sung about were resounding from all the caves on these haunted shores. She had never been so happy.

She went on and on. Time and space and distance were as nothing; everything was falling from her but the sense of a great joy.

Far in the distance something was steering fast to meet her, making white splashes on the blue expanse, and soon she could see a face and brown arms rising above the surface. A great sea-kelpie was coming towards her, the seaweed trailing from his hair and his shoulders breasting the water. As they met he held out his hand.

She put hers into it. Then they swam out till the coast was no more, and the remembrance of the world of men was no more, and disappeared together into the mists of the North.

* * * * *

The miller ceased, and little Peter sat spellbound for a while, for he had forgotten everything but the adventures of the Water-Nix.

“And what happened to her?” he said at last.

“I can’t tell you any more,” replied the miller; “and how grandmother knew as much as that I don’t know, though, to be sure, she understood more than most people about everything.”

“The kelpie would take care that she came to no harm,” said Janet.

“You’re right there,” said the miller. “I make no doubt but they’re living happily among the sea-caves hundreds of miles away.”

“But the man with the untidy hair—you haven’t told what happened to him,” said the little boy.

“Ah yes, there’s more to be said about him,” answered the miller. “He wrote his poem, and it made him rich. There was so much Latin in it that people thought it wonderful. That brought him in a heap of money. He married and had a large family, and one of his daughters was my grandmother. She was a fine girl, and it seemed to him a bad come-down in life when she married the miller and came to live here. But they were very happy, for all that, and it was from the miller’s man she heard the story of the Water-Nix.”

“Is it because your great-grandfather was a poet that you can tell stories so well?” asked Janet, with some awe.

“Well, it might be,” said the miller. “Anyhow, it’s a fine notion. I never thought of it before.”

THE KING OF GROWGLAND’S CROWN

It was almost a week before the brother and sister saw the miller again, but one evening as Janet was coming down the road he jumped over the wall from the mill-field.

“Where’s the little boy?” he asked. “I hope your grandmother has not been bad to him again.”

“No,” said Janet, “she’s very cross, but she hasn’t beaten him for more than a week.”

“You go and fetch him,” said he. “I have been looking for the book I told you about—grandmother’s story-book. I’m not busy to-night, and we can sit in the field, and I’ll read him a story.”

“How lovely!” cried Janet. “I’ll run and bring him at once.”

“Yes, and mind _you_ come back, too,” called the miller after her.

In a few minutes she returned, with Peter jumping and clapping his hands beside her, and when they had found a nice place, they sat down to read.

They sat on the roots of a tree by the mill-lead, with the water babbling at their feet. The book was old and tattered, and, unfortunately, there were no pictures in it, but they did not mind that. They could see just as good pictures for themselves, in their own minds’ eyes.

“I will read you a story about three brothers,” said the miller to Peter; “and there’s a magpie in it, too, and a pretty young woman like your sister.”

And he opened his book and began:

There was once upon a time a widow who had three sons; they were fine, strong young men, and the two elder thought themselves more than commonly clever. The youngest did not think much about anything but his business, which was to keep the sheep, look after the horses, and supply the pot with the game he brought home. He was a hard worker, and when he lay down at night, he was glad enough to sleep, though the others would usually sit up scheming how they might grow rich. He thought them rather grand fellows, all the same, and quite expected they would do something wonderful.

One day the widow called them all and told them it was high time they saw something of the world. “To-morrow morning you shall all be off round it,” she said to the eldest. “You must start facing east, your next brother facing west, and when you meet in the middle at the other side you can compare all you have learned. As for you,” she went on, turning to the youngest, “you shall start southward, and no doubt will be in time to fall in with them and profit by their knowledge.” She also had a great opinion of her elder sons.

So off they went, and when they had gone half round the world, the two elder brothers came face to face at the other side in a sandy hollow. They sat down and began to talk.

“Well, brother, and what have you done?” asked the second.

“_Done!_” exclaimed the first brother; “what do you mean? I haven’t made a penny or seen anybody I think as well of as myself. There is nothing to be got by giving oneself all this trouble. The world is an overrated place, I can tell you. What have _you_ got out of it?”

“Nothing,” said the second; “and I agree heartily with every word you have said.”

At this moment they looked up and saw the third brother coming over a hillock. He did not look much more prosperous than themselves.

“We won’t tell him,” they said; “we will pretend we have done wonders and made our mark, and then we’ll get a pretext to be rid of him before he finds out the truth. It would never do for him to lose his respect for us.”

“Hi!” cried the youngest brother, “this is luck indeed!” And when he had greeted them he sat down beside them in the sand.

“Hullo! how are you?” said the eldest.

“Oh, well enough,” replied he.

“And how have you got on, and how much money have you made?”

“Oh, no money,” replied the young man, “but I think I have picked up a little experience.”

“Pooh!” cried the others in a breath. “That’s all very well, but it isn’t good enough for _us_.”

“Are you rich, then?” asked the youngest.

“Rich?” cried the eldest, “did you say rich? I am rolling in gold. I have a great shop in which the merchandise of four kingdoms changes hands, and my counting-house is so fine that two Emperors drove up last Sunday and asked if they might be allowed to go over it. I said yes, of course. There was a Bishop in the carriage, too.”

The youngest brother’s eyes grew round. “Well, that’s grand indeed,” he said.

“And I,” broke in the middle brother—“I have no taste for buying and selling; in fact, I think it rather low. But a lady fell in love with me, so I married her. She inherited money from a Duke, who is her uncle, and she asks nothing better than I should spend it.”

“Well, well, well!” exclaimed the youngest.

Then he looked curiously at his companions. “And how is it,” said he, “that such great people as you have come here on foot? I should have imagined you would have arrived on horseback or in carriages.”

“Oh, we live so close by that it was not worth while disturbing the servants,” they replied quickly.

“Then you live in the nearest town and in the same house?” continued he.

“Yes, yes,” answered the second. “My wife cherishes me so that she insisted upon my brother living with us, for fear I should feel homesick. It was very good of her, but what an idea to be homesick for such a hole as our mother’s farm, when I live in the finest house in the market-square!”

“Indeed, brothers,” said the youngest, “I think all this is capital, and so much so that I shall certainly go back with you at once. I will start for home early to-morrow, but you shall give me a lodging for the night, and I promise you that I shall rejoice at the sight of your prosperity. I have slept under the stars every night since I began journeying, and a good soft bed will be a treat to me. Besides which, I shall see my sister-in-law and be able to tell mother all about her.”

At this the elder men’s faces fell, but there was nothing for it but to go back by the way they had come to the nearest town. However, their brother walked behind as they went, so they had time to invent a way out of their difficulties. When they reached their destination, they paused at the town gate, telling him to stay where he was while they went to prepare for his coming.

“All right, then,” said he, “but in five minutes I shall follow.”

They could not help smiling at his innocence, for they intended to escape as quickly as they could.

“How are you going to find the way?” they inquired.

“Why, haven’t you been telling me that you live in the finest house in the market-square? I shall soon find that.”

This was rather a blow to the others, for they knew that he was swift of foot and that they would not get far in five minutes.

“It doesn’t matter,” whispered the middle brother; “I know a fine trick. We will have dinner and a night’s lodging at his expense, and in the morning we will be off before he is awake, and leave him to pay the reckoning. Come, look sharp, or he will be after us.”

With that they ran to a large, handsome inn which stood in the middle of the market-square. It had a tower on it, and an entrance good enough for an Alderman’s family.

“Landlord,” said the middle brother, “I am a gentleman from a distance, and in a most unexpected dilemma. Help me out of it, and I can assure you you shall profit. A great lord, finding that I am in the town, has sent me a message. You must know that he is under heavy obligations to me, and has sworn that on the day I am married he will give me a thousand crowns as a wedding gift. Now, I am not married at all; but if he arrives and can be made to believe I have a wife, he will immediately redeem his word. My plan is simply this: I shall entertain him well at your inn, and, if you have a daughter—or even a decent-looking serving-maid—who will sit at the head of the table during dinner and act as though she were mistress of the house, I will divide the sum with you the moment I receive it. Should he go back from his word, there will be no harm done, and I will pay you liberally for your hospitality. I will give the girl a new gown, too, as a remembrance of her assistance.”

Now, the landlord was the first rogue in the kingdom, and the scheme so pleased him that he nearly died of laughter.

“You are a sharp one!” he exclaimed. “Why, I have a daughter clever enough to act any part in the world, and she shall do her best, you may be sure. Come, I will get ready a good dinner and take down the signboard, so that the place shall appear as a private house.”

By the time he had done this and acquainted the girl with the plan, a loud thumping was heard at the door, and the third brother stood outside.

Now, the landlord’s girl was goddaughter to a witch, and very beautiful; she had also learned some useful things from her godmother, who had brought her up till she was sixteen and obliged to return and help her father with his inn. So, when the plot was explained, she said: “I hope no harm will come of it,” and before getting ready to preside at the table, she took a good look at the two men.

“They have rascals’ faces,” she said to herself.

She then ran to a top window, and looked out to see what sort of a person the great lord who was coming to dinner might be.

It chanced that, as she leaned out, the third brother glanced up.

“If that is my brother’s wife,” said he, “she is indeed a beauty!” And he sighed, wishing that such luck had come his way.

When the girl saw his face, she thought:

“That is no great lord, but he is a handsome fellow, for all that. I will see, at least, that he gets the best of everything in the house.”

So when the table was spread, and before the three brothers came into the dining-room, the girl said to the magpie that hung in a cage behind the window-curtain:

“Take notice of every word that is said to-night, and repeat it to me, or I will wring your neck!”

The magpie promised, and she went forward to receive the guest.

“Here,” said the second brother, “is madam, my wife.”

With that the youngest brother kissed his sister-in-law heartily.

“I knew he was no fool,” said the girl to herself.

As dinner progressed she made herself so pleasant that the room rang with joy and merriment, and she pressed all the most delicate dishes on the youngest brother; nor did she fail to notice that whenever he addressed either of his companions as ‘brother,’ which he did frequently, the two exchanged covert glances of annoyance.

“All is not right here,” she exclaimed under her breath, “for, were he the great lord they say, there are no two men alive who would more willingly call him a relation!” And she smiled rather slyly.

“Why do you smile, wife?” asked the second brother.

“My love,” replied she, “at finding so great a personage a member of your family.”

No one knew what to say, for the youngest brother feared she was laughing at them all, and the two elder were sure of it.

However, time flew, the wine sparkled, the hot roast dishes smoked, and it was hard to say which of the four was in the best humour.

When the feast was done the girl got up, and, taking a silver candlestick from the table, said:

“Husband, I see that our guest is weary with travelling and his eyes heavy with sleep. I myself will show him the guest-chamber, and assure myself that the servants have made his bed well.”

So saying, she led the youngest brother to the room prepared for him, walking before him with the lights. As he went he could not cease admiring the fine plaits of dark hair which hung down her back and regretting that the evening was over and he would be so soon deprived of her company.

When they got to the bedchamber, she made every pretext to remain away from the dining-room as long as possible, smoothing the pillows and drawing the window-curtains close, that the starlight might not disturb his sleep. When she had bidden him good-night, she went downstairs as slowly as she could.

[Illustration: “THEN THE BIRD TOLD HER THE WHOLE PLOT.”]

“I had no notion it was so late!” she exclaimed as she entered. “Now that my part is done, I may tell you two gentlemen that the longer you sit here burning our oil and occupying our best room, the more you will be charged for it. Now, tell me if you are satisfied with my performance, and then take my advice and go to bed for the sake of your pockets. There is a good room ready for you upstairs.”

The brothers congratulated her on the way she had played her part, and went off. Nothing could have suited them better, for they meant to slip out of the house and be gone long before dawn broke.

When the girl had showed them the way, she ran downstairs to the magpie’s cage.

“Quick, quick!” she cried, “tell me everything those knaves said to each other while I was taking the stranger to the guest-chamber.”

“Oh, mistress,” exclaimed he, “we have indeed dined in evil company!”

“You have not dined at all,” she said, “and never shall if I hear not every word of their talk.”

Then the bird told her the whole plot, for the brothers had discussed it openly in her absence. “Besides all this,” he concluded, “they mean to run away in the night and leave the young man to pay the reckoning.”

At this the girl ran straight upstairs and locked the two brothers in; she took off her shoes and turned the key so softly that they heard nothing. Afterwards she slipped out into the yard, and, taking a harrow which lay in the outhouse, drew it under their window and turned it with the spikes uppermost, to deter them from jumping out. She then knocked at the door of the guest-chamber.

“Come out!” she cried through the keyhole; “there is knavery afoot!”

When the youngest brother opened the door she told him all, and when he had hurried on a few clothes he came down to the dining-room to hear what the magpie had discovered.

“I shall be out of this as quick as I can,” he remarked when the bird had finished. “My only grief is that I shall never see you again. I am really very glad you are not my brother’s wife, for I had much rather you were mine.”

“So had I,” said the girl.

So they determined to depart together.

“You are never going to leave me behind!” exclaimed the magpie.