Part 18 (1/2)
”Well, you do know. And the others know. Who is she?”
Melville met his eyes. ”Won't they tell you?” he asked.
”That's just it,” said Chatteris.
”Why do you want to know?”
”Why shouldn't I know?”
”There's a sort of promise to keep it dark.”
”Keep _what_ dark?”
My cousin gestured.
”It can't be anything wrong?” My cousin made no sign.
”She may have had experiences?”
My cousin reflected a moment on the possibilities of the deep-sea life.
”She has had them,” he said.
”I don't care, if she has.”
There came a pause.
”Look here, Melville,” said Chatteris, ”I want to know this. Unless it's a thing to be specially kept from me.... I don't like being among a lot of people who treat me as an outsider. What is this something about Miss Waters?”
”What does Miss Glendower say?”
”Vague things. She doesn't like her and she won't say why. And Mrs.
Bunting goes about with discretion written all over her. And she herself looks at you-- And that maid of hers looks-- The thing's worrying me.”
”Why don't you ask the lady herself?”
”How can I, till I know what it is? Confound it! I'm asking _you_ plainly enough.”
”Well,” said Melville, and at the moment he had really decided to tell Chatteris. But he hung upon the manner of presentation. He thought in the moment to say, ”The truth is, she is a mermaid.” Then as instantly he perceived how incredible this would be. He always suspected Chatteris of a capacity for being continental and romantic. The man might fly out at him for saying such a thing of a lady.
A dreadful doubt fell upon Melville. As you know, he had never seen that tail with his own eyes. In these surroundings there came to him such an incredulity of the Sea Lady as he had not felt even when first Mrs.
Bunting told him of her. All about him was an atmosphere of solid reality, such as one can breathe only in a first-cla.s.s London club.
Everywhere ponderous arm-chairs met the eye. There were ma.s.sive tables in abundance and match-boxes of solid rock. The matches were of some specially large, heavy sort. On a ponderous elephant-legged green baize table near at hand were several copies of the _Times_, the current _Punch_, an inkpot of solid bra.s.s, and a paper weight of lead. _There are other dreams!_ It seemed impossible. The breathing of an eminent person in a chair in the far corner became very distinct in that interval. It was heavy and resolute like the sound of a stone-mason's saw. It insisted upon itself as the touchstone of reality. It seemed to say that at the first whisper of a thing so utterly improbable as a mermaid it would snort and choke.
”You wouldn't believe me if I told you,” said Melville.
”Well, tell me--anyhow.”
My cousin looked at an empty chair beside him. It was evidently stuffed with the very best horse-hair that money could procure, stuffed with infinite skill and an almost religious care. It preached in the open invitation of its expanded arms that man does not live by bread alone--inasmuch as afterwards he needs a nap. An utterly dreamless chair!