The Mermaid in the Basement

by Gilbert, Morris

  “I hardly see how a person could learn morality from theatre,” Aunt Bertha said stiffly.

  “Well, ma’am, the first theatre was related to the church, so the history books tell us. Drama began, at least in our part of the world, with little sketches, always biblical. The story of Job and his wife, for example, would be enacted, or perhaps the history of Noah.”

  “That’s true enough,” Septimus said. “I read an account of that once, but the theatre’s come a long way from its religious beginnings.”

  “I’m sorry to say you’re correct, sir,” Dylan said. “But there are some fine plays. Mr. Shakespeare has some rather raw things to say, but basically he causes people to think about right and wrong, God and eternity.”

  Serafina had to speak very little during breakfast. David and Dora continually asked questions, and Septimus and her mother did the same.

  Aunt Bertha, of course, had nothing kind to say. She sat there glowering at Dylan, but he smiled at her as if she were the most pleasant person alive. Between answering questions, Dylan was able to take a few bites, but was unable to finish his breakfast. Finally David said, “Would you like to see my pony? His name is Patches, and you can see my dog too. His name is Napoleon.”

  “I would like to see them very much, if that’s all right with you, Viscountess?”

  “Yes, David, go show Napoleon and Patches to Mr. Tremayne.”

  David looked up, his eyes bright and his face excited. “This way, sir. You’ll like them. I promise you.”

  As soon as the two had left the room, Dora said, “Serafina, he’s the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen!”

  “Don’t talk rubbish, Dora!” Bertha snapped.“He’s not a proper guest for our house.”

  “Dora, don’t talk like that!” Alberta said, shocked.

  “Well, he is. Are all the actors that handsome, Serafina?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Aunt Bertha lifted her voice and filled the room with reasons why it was disgraceful to have an actor in “our” home. She ended by pontificating, “I don’t think we ought to admit him into our family.”

  Septimus very rarely went against the wishes of a member of his family. He was more prone simply to ignore difficulties, but now he turned to face Bertha and said sternly, “Bertha, the man is an actor, and actors have a bad name, but I’ll tell you this—if he will be of any help in setting our son free, I don’t care if he’s the Antichrist!”

  Bertha, for once, was silenced. She sat back, her mouth making a large O like a goldfish gasping for air.

  Serafina watched through the big bay windows in the front of the house as Dylan and David moved from one location to another. She was amused at how, at one point, Dylan simply sat on the ground with David while the two played some kind of a game. She watched as Danny brought Patches out, and saw that Dylan made a great show over the pony, as he did over the big mastiff, Napoleon.

  Finally she glanced at the clock and saw that it was time for her to leave for her appointment with Sir Leo Roth. Leaving the house, she went down and saw that Dylan and David had gone to the trout stream. Dylan was telling a story. He was sitting cross-legged on the ground despite his fine clothes, telling a story, waving his hands eloquently at times. David, she saw, was sitting before him simply spellbound. They did not hear her approach; reluctant to interrupt, she heard David say, “Tell me another story, please.”

  “Well, that I will. I’m just full of stories, me. Perhaps if I tell a good enough story, you’ll take me back to the house and get me a lovely cup of tea.”

  “I will, but tell the story.”

  Dylan smiled and leaned forward, saying, “Well, once upon a time there was a king whose name was Midas.”

  “Was he a good king?”

  “He was a very powerful king, as all kings are. One time, David, he had a chance to do one of the gods on Mount Olympus a favour, and the god said, ‘I’m going to give you one wish.What would you like?’”

  “What did he wish for?”

  “That’s what I’m about to tell you, Boy.He wished that everything he touched would turn to gold.Wasn’t that a powerful wish?”

  “Did it really happen?”

  “In the story it did. The king started back to his house, and he touched a twig, and it turned to yellow gold. He picked up a stone from the path, and it became pure gold. Every clod he handled, every piece of fruit or flower became nothing but heavy yellow gold. He went to mount his mule, but when he touched it, guess what happened?”

  “The mule turned to gold?”

  “It certainly did. And Midas, he was such a happy man! He went home, tired from his journey, and the first thing he did was to call for some food. The servants brought the plates in. One of them brought a bowl of water for him to wash his hands, and when he put his hands in the water, it froze into golden ice. And so when he sat down to eat,Midas laughed at how his plates and bowls changed to gold.And guess what happened then?”

  “What, Dylan?”

  “He picked up his food and put it in his mouth—but it wasn’t food anymore. It was a lump of cold, hard, yellow gold.He tried to drink, but the water had turned to gold. Everything he put in his mouth turned to gold.”

  “What did he do then?”

  “Why, it was a sad, sad king he was. He went hungry for a long time, and he envied the poorest kitchen boy in his palace when he saw him eating a piece of bread. He knew that if he touched the bread, it would turn to gold. He knew he couldn’t touch his children because they would turn to gold. He became a very sad king.”

  “What did he do?” David whispered, leaning forward, and Serafina saw that his eyes were fixed intently on Dylan.

  “He went back to the god that had given him his wish and begged him, ‘Please take away the gift you have given me.’ And that’s the way it happened. He reached out and touched a flower and saw that it stayed soft and fragrant. He gave a shout, and he ran home and embraced his wife and his children. He called for food, and the plainest fare was better to him than all the gold in the world.”

  “Is that all the story?”

  “That’s all, but we can learn something from King Midas. Sometimes the thing we wish for is something we don’t even need. So,Master David, be careful what you wish for. You may get it.”

  Serafina had listened to the story, and in truth she had become entranced by it. It was a minor miracle to her the way Dylan Tremayne could hold a person captive with his voice, his expressions, and his choice of words. She had never known an actor before, but she was sure that few of them had Dylan’s power.

  Quickly she went forward and said,“David, you’re filthy. You’ve been rolling in the dirt.”

  “Dylan’s been telling me stories,”David said, his eyes bright.“He tells wonderful stories.”

  “You mustn’t call him Dylan. You must call him Mr. Tremayne.”

  “Yes,Mum.”

  “Now, you go up and tell Dora to clean you up. I’ve got to go to town today, and I’ll say good-bye to you before I leave.”

  David turned away reluctantly, then he wheeled and said, “Mr.

  Tremayne, will you come back and tell me another story?”

  “I’ll do that, boy, if it all works out.”

  Serafina watched as her son ran back toward the house, then she turned to Dylan, who said, “That is a fine son you have there,Viscountess.”

  “I’m very proud of him, but—”

  Seeing Serafina hesitate, Dylan asked, “What is it? Is something wrong?”

  “It’s just that . . . well, I don’t tell David stories like the one you just told him. I didn’t want to interrupt, so I listened. I don’t believe in fanciful stories about the supernatural such as the one you just told.”

  “I think it’s innocent enough. There’s a good lesson in the story of King Midas.”

  “It’s just a story. I believe in what I can see or hear or touch.”

  Dylan was examining Serafina closely. Her face was a mirror that
changed often.He saw pride in her, and yet still something seemed to touch her like a dark cloud. Suddenly she was, somehow, alone in the world, as if there were no other thing alive on the planet. It came to him that perhaps her life was composed of a search that she kept concealed—a search for colour and warmth and even for the comfort of some man’s closeness, but instead she had a great solitariness. “I think there must be some exceptions to that, for you I mean.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You’re like the apostle Thomas.”

  “Who was he?”

  “One of the disciples of Jesus. The other apostles saw Jesus after He was resurrected, but Thomas wasn’t there, and when they told him that the Lord Jesus was alive after being crucified to death, he said, ‘I won’t believe it unless I see the scars in His hands and the wound in His side.’

  That’s why people, for years, have applied the name Doubting Thomas to those who have no faith.”

  “I don’t remember that story. I haven’t read a great deal of the Bible.

  Did he ever believe?”

  “Yes indeed! The next time Jesus came to the disciples, Thomas was there, and Jesus turned to Thomas, and He held out His hands, and He said, ‘Thomas, look at My hands.You see the wounds from the nails. Look at My side that was pierced.’ And Thomas believed!” A warm flush touched Dylan’s face, and his whole countenance seemed to glow. “And Thomas said, ‘My Lord and my God.’ As soon as he said that, Jesus said something I’ve never forgotten.”

  “And what was that?”

  “He said something like, ‘You’re blessed because you see and believe, but blessed are those who don’t see and believe anyway.’”

  Serafina was quick; she understood at once that he was talking about her attitude toward God, her lack of faith. She said defensively, “I’ve seen so many go wrong by blindly trusting in religion. I suppose I am like Thomas. I won’t believe until I see the truth.”

  Dylan shot back at once. “Viscountess, do you think your brother will hang?”

  “No!” She shook her head. “I don’t believe that.”

  “But all your intellect,” Dylan said, pressing her hard,“must tell you that he will. If he were not your brother, you wouldn’t have any hope that he would escape the noose. But you do have that hope, don’t you,Viscountess?”

  Serafina dropped her head and nodded. “Yes,” she whispered, “I do.”

  “You know, Lady Serafina, I’ve often thought that we know very well that people die physically if they don’t have any food or water, but I think a spirit without hope can die just as dead as a body .”

  “How can I hope when I have no faith?”

  “It’s possible.Men and women often have to fight against unbelief. I have myself.” He suddenly asked, “Have you ever heard of a poem called ‘The Darkling Thrush’?”

  “No, I don’t read poetry.”

  “That’s a pity. It was written by a man called Thomas Hardy. Hardy was a man who had great doubts about God, but he wanted to believe.He wrote a poem called ‘The Darkling Thrush.’ I’ve always loved it. Could I say it for you?”

  Speechless, Serafina nodded. She did not know what was happening to her, but whenever she was around this man, everything seemed to be changed. She knew some of it could very well be his good looks. She watched him, his eyes, so intent they held her, it seemed, almost against her will. “All right,” she whispered.

  Dylan half closed his eyes and began to speak, his voice almost a whisper, yet rich with sound:

  I leant upon a coppice

  gate When Frost was spectre-grey,

  And Winter’s dregs made desolate

  The weakening eye of day.

  The tangled bine-stems scored the sky

  Like strings of broken lyres,

  And all mankind that haunted nigh

  Had sought their household fires.

  The land’s sharp features seemed to be

  The Century’s corpse outleant,

  His crypt the cloudy canopy,

  The wind his death-lament.

  The ancient pulse of germ and birth

  Was shrunken hard and dry,

  And every spirit upon earth

  Seemed fervourless as I.

  At once a voice arose among

  The bleak twigs overhead

  In a full-hearted evensong

  Of joy illimited;

  An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,

  In blast-beruffled plume,

  Had chosen thus to fling his soul

  Upon the growing gloom.

  So little cause for carolings

  Of such ecstatic sound

  Was written on terrestrial things

  Afar or nigh around,

  That I could think there trembled through

  His happy good-night air

  Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew

  And I was unaware.

  “I—I don’t understand poetry much.”

  “Why, it’s very simple, this poem,” Dylan said softly. “A man is walking through the woods, and he’s in despair and sees nothing but death and decay. And then he hears a bird sing, and he looks up and sees this old thrush, shivering with cold and probably hungry—yet his song is filled with joy. And man wishes that he had that kind of hope, yes? The last lines are pure beauty, they are: ‘Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew/ And I was unaware.’”He sighed, and his eyes brimmed with tears. “That is beautiful, ay? Hope when all is lost!”

  “I wish I had hope like that,” Serafina said, almost against her will. The poem had moved her greatly, and she knew that part of the emotion that rose in her breast was due to the power of Dylan’s words.

  The poem suddenly seemed to take form in Serafina’s mind. She seemed to see the man in the gloomy, hopeless land, held in the iron hand of winter that reflected his own gloom, and then she saw the bird—not much better off than the man physically, but singing a happy song. “I think I understand the poem,” she said slowly. “The man wants to have faith and hope as he sees it in the bird.”

  “Right, you! That’s what you need, Lady Serafina—hope!”

  She noted that for the first time he called her by her first name, not Lady Trent or Viscountess, and it did not occur to her to protest. She was moved by the encounter, and it disturbed her. She had been taught all of her life to believe in the scientific method, but Dylan Tremayne insisted that there was another and better world, which confused her. “We’d better go,” she whispered. “I have to see Mr. Roth about Clive’s defense.”

  “And I have to go find the woman that could save his life.”Dylan hesitated, then said, “I like your family—especially your son.”

  Serafina looked up at him and smiled wryly. “How about Aunt Bertha?”

  “Well now, she’s a hard morsel to swallow, but I’ll turn on my charm.

  I can charm the birds out of the trees, ay!”

  “You looked like a small boy yourself sitting on the ground with David.What were you playing?”

  “One of my favourite games—marbles.” His eyes gleamed, and he said, “But, of course, you have to give up your dignity and sit on the ground.”

  She knew he was saying something to her that she could not grasp.

  She turned quickly and said, “Come along, Dylan.”

  He joined her, and the two walked back toward the house. Neither of them spoke, but Serafina knew that something had passed between them that she would think about for a long time.

  TEN

  James Barden, the butler of Trentwood House, was a man of intense dignity. There was a rigid solemnity about him that exceeded even that of other butlers. No one ever saw him in anything except perfect dress, but now as he sat in the kitchen, he found himself more relaxed than was usual. He had come in to talk with Mrs. Rachel Fielding, the housekeeper, about the meals for the day, and she had invited him to sit down and have a cup of tea with her. The two knew each other well as far as outward appearances were concerned, for they ha
d served the Newton household for years. Barden was a strict taskmaster, although not unkind, but he could not remember a time, as he sat there, when he had had to correct Rachel for any reason.

  It was a warm, delicious-smelling kitchen, and the kettle began to steam, singing its little song. Mrs. Fielding took a black-and-white china teapot out of the cupboard, rinsed it with boiling water, then spooned tea out of the caddie and poured in the rest of the water from the kettle and let it steep. She brought out cups, then milk from the larder.

  “I hardly slept at all last night, Mr. Barden,” she said as she set the cups down. She took a seat beside him and pushed a dish filled with sweetmeats toward him. “This matter of Master Clive has me so upset I just don’t know what to think!”

  “Neither does anyone else, I expect,” Barden said. “It’s most difficult for all of us.”

  Mrs. Fielding sighed. She was a fine-looking woman of forty-nine with black hair and brown eyes, a little heavy but still attractive. She had lost her husband many years ago and had never remarried.Her whole life was centered around her position as housekeeper for the Newton family. “Has that detective talked to you?” she asked.

  Barden frowned and nodded.“Yes, he has. I don’t like the fellow much.”

  “He’s rather harsh, isn’t he?”

  “Unnecessarily so, I think. At a time like this, with the whole household disturbed as it is, you’d think they’d send a man who would have a little more tact. But we’ll have to put up with him, I suppose.”

  “Who is he talking to now?”

  “He’s questioning Grimes, and little enough good that will do him!”

  “Why in the world does he think a footman could tell him about this terrible thing?”

  “I don’t know, I’m sure.What did he ask you?”

  “Mostly he asked about Mr. Clive.What sort of man he is.”

  “He asked me the same thing. I think he’s asking everyone that.”

  The two sat there talking quietly until the tea was ready. Mrs. Fielding poured for both of them, and Barden added lemon and cream and sipped it carefully. “You make the best tea I’ve ever had, Rachel.”

  Her face glowed suddenly, and she said, “Anyone can make tea.”