“You might ha’ looked long enough,” said Job, in an undertone of contempt, which, however, the quick ears of the sailor caught.
“Not so long, master, in some latitudes, as you think. It stands to reason th’ sea hereabouts is too cold for mermaids; for women here don’t go half naked on account o’ climate. But I’ve been in lands where muslin were too hot to wear on land, and where the sea were more than milk-warm; and though I’d never the good luck to see a mermaid in that latitude, I know them that has.”
“Do tell us about it,” cried Mary.
“Pooh, pooh!” said Job, the naturalist.
Both speeches determined Will to go on with his story. What could a fellow who had never been many miles from home know about the wonders of the deep, that he should put him down in that way?
“Well, it were Jack Harris, our third mate last voyage, as many and many a time telled us all about it. You see he were becalmed off Chatham Island (that’s in the Great Pacific, and a warm enough latitude for mermaids, and sharks, and such like perils). So some of the men took the long-boat, and pulled for the island to see what it were like; and when they got near, they heard a puffing, like a creature come up to take breath; you’ve never heard a diver? No! Well; you’ve heard folks in th’ asthma, and it were for all the world like that. So they looked around, and what should they see but a mermaid, sitting on a rock, and sunning herself. The water is always warmer when it’s rough, you know, so I suppose in the calm she felt it rather chilly, and had come up to warm herself.”
“What was she like?” asked Mary breathlessly.
Job took his pipe off the chimney-piece, and began to smoke with very audible puffs, as if the story were not worth listening to.
“Oh! Jack used to say she was for all the world as beautiful as any of the wax ladies in the barbers’ shops; only, Mary, there were one little difference; her hair was bright grass-green.”
“I should not think that was pretty,” said Mary hesitatingly; as if not liking to doubt the perfection of anything belonging to such an acknowledged beauty.
“Oh! but it is when you’re used to it. I always think when first we get sight of land, there’s no colour so lovely as grass-green. However, she had green hair sure enough: and were proud enough of it, too; for she were combing it out full length when first they saw her. They all thought she were a fair prize, and maybe as good as a whale in ready money (they were whale-fishers, you know). For some folk think a deal of mermaids, whatever other folk do.” This was a hit at Job, who retaliated in a series of sonorous spittings and puffs.
“So, as I were saying, they pulled towards her, thinking to catch her. She were all the while combing her beautiful hair, and beckoning to them, while with the other hand she held a looking-glass.”
“How many hands had she?” asked Job.
“Two, to be sure, just like any other woman,” answered Will indignantly.
“Oh! I thought you said she beckoned with one hand, and combed her hair with another, and held a looking- glass with her third,” said Job, with provoking quietness.
“No! I didn’t! at least, if I did, I meant she did one thing after another, as anyone but” (here he mumbled a word or two) “could understand. Well, Mary,” turning very decidedly towards her, “when she saw them coming near, whether it were she grew frightened at their fowling-pieces, as they had on board for a bit o’ shooting on the island, or whether it were she were just a fickle jade as did not rightly know her own mind (which, seeing one half of her was woman, I think myself was most probably), but when they were only about two oars’ length from the rock where she sat, down she plopped into the water, leaving nothing but her hinder end of a fish tail sticking up for a minute, and then that disappeared too.”
“And did they never see her again?” asked Mary.
“Never so plain; the man who had the second watch one night declared he saw her swimming round the ship, and holding up her glass for him to look in; and then he saw the little cottage near Aber in Wales (where his wife lived) as plain as ever he saw it in life, and his wife standing outside, shading her eyes as if she were looking for him. But Jack Harris gave him no credit, for he said he were always a bit of a romancer, and beside that, were a home-sick, down-hearted chap.”
“I wish they had caught her,” said Mary, musing.
“They got one thing as belonged to her,” replied Will, “and that I’ve often seen with my own eyes, and I reckon it’s a sure proof of the truth of their story, for them that wants proof.”
“What was it?” asked Margaret, almost anxious her grandfather should be convinced.
“Why, in her hurry she left her comb on the rock, and one o’ the men spied it; so they thought that were better than nothing, and they rowed there and took it, and Jack Harris had it on board the John Cropper, and I saw him comb his hair with it every Sunday morning.”
“What was it like?” asked Mary eagerly; her imagination running on coral combs, studded with pearls.
“Why, if it had not had such a strange yarn belonging to it, you’d never ha’ noticed it from any other small-tooth comb.”
“I should rather think not,” sneered Job Legh.
The sailor bit his lips to keep down his anger against an old man. Margaret felt very uneasy, knowing her grandfather so well, and not daring to guess what caustic remark might come next to irritate the young sailor guest.
Mary, however, was too much interested by the wonders of the deep to perceive the incredulity with which Job Legh received Wilson’s account of the mermaid, and when he left off, half offended, and very much inclined not to open his lips again through the evening, she eagerly said—
“Oh, do tell us something more of what you hear and see on board ship. Do, Will!”
“What’s the use, Mary, if folk won’t believe one. There are things I saw with my own eyes, that some people would pish and pshaw at, as if I were a baby to be put down by cross noises. But I’ll tell you, Mary,” with an emphasis on YOU, “some more of the wonders of the sea, sin’ you’re not too wise to believe me. I have seen a fish fly.”
