# Diogenes of London (collection)/The Naiad

pp. 128–137.

### THE NAIAD

WAS ever woman in so distressful a case?' she cried, flinging her hands with a smack upon the water.
I rapped my boot in meditation. 'The devil's in the job,' said I; 'I can see no way out of the predicament. It is certain, then,' I asked, 'that these garments went afloat?'
'Certain!' she echoed. 'No sooner was I sporting in the shallows than this libertine of a river had snatched them in a twinkling; and away they scurried, shooting on the current like a racer. Certain!' she wailed. 'Faith, I chased them down the stream to the brink of exhaustion.'
'I have gone up and down the banks,' said I, 'and there's never a visible vestige.' She lifted a white arm out of the pool and threw back her streaming hair.
'You have been very good,' said she. 'Some kindly providence surely despatched you on this walk.'
'’Twas a vague humour,' I explained, 'an indifferent desire of solitude. I had been used so ill at the manor that the sight of my fellows grew distasteful, and——'
'It is no time for reproaches,' she broke in quickly; 'you had nothing beyond your deserts, I vow.' I shrugged my shoulders. ' The question is,' said she, 'this inglorious position of mine. I pray you, put your wits to work. Oh, that this caprice ever took my silly fancy!'
The river ran in little whirls and singing eddies between its heavy banks; deep buried in the quiet pool she clung distressfully to the osiers of the tiny islet; overhead shone the noontide sun from the depths of a blue heaven; and in the pleasant shadows of the willows I sat and looked at her. 'Let us consider the facts with care,' said I. 'Imprimis: the village lies five miles in the valley. Should I start forthwith, 'twill be nigh two hours ere you shall once more have the liberty of clothes.'
'Two hours in this ticklesome stream!' she cried; 'two hours of chance perils!'
'Item,' said I, 'of chance hopes also. May be at a cottage——'
'None within miles,' she wailed. '’Tis a wilderness, a wilderness. Else I had not ventured on this prank.'
'H'm,' said I. 'Item: your sex, ere this, has masqueraded in knee-breeches. As for myself, even though 'twas not you in the case, two hours in these cool waters were no great penance this midsummer. Such as it be, this poor raiment is at your service.'
'’Twould fit me so ill!' she complained; 'and to be seen so I should die of shame.' Her own whims had reduced us to a quandary, and I stared at a loss for a single suggestion more. Silence fell upon us. Through the ruffled mirror of the pool the contour of her white body wavered and zigzagged. The sun glistered on her golden tresses through the osier branches. A sense of her beauty took me at this absurd time very pleasantly, and I laughed softly at the fancy.
'Those golden locks—' said I; 'what better vesture for you than that glorious hair?'
A pink flush got up in her cheeks; she turned away her head.
'You are unkind,' said she, 'and the jest is in poor taste.'
'’Twas no jest, indeed,' I protested warmly.
'Then,' said she plumply, 'you have taken leave of your wits.'
'Maybe,' I answered. 'They have bid me good-bye these many weeks I have known you; and to have come suddenly upon you thus has robbed me of my remaining judgment. I had dreamed of river-nymphs in such a place. On my soul, you play the Naiad most delicately well.'
She smiled faintly at my speech, but in a moment a shadow leapt over her face.
'Oh, it is absurd!' she cried. 'This odious country! and this is all come of my affectation of the rustic habit! London at her dullest held at least no such embarrassment. Oh! 'tis humiliating. I hate you. Go.'
'I cannot but think,' said I gravely, 'that this adventure is in the nature of a retribution. Yet, for all you have entreated me so evilly for weeks together, my gay coquette, I cannot,' quoth I, 'endure to triumph over you.'
With that I turned to be gone, but ere I had taken a dozen paces a noise in the copse arrested my attention; and next moment a rustic maiden pushed through the underwood and stepped out upon the open patch by the river. She wore a dainty gown that swayed about her ankles as she walked, and her high bodice paused over her bosom for all the world as though she were a shepherdess from Arcady. Her blue eyes stared widely from myself to the water and its pretty nymph.
'Ho! ho!' said I. 'Good-day to you, young mistress of the roses. You have come in the nick of time to wrest a creature from despair.' I ducked to her and pointed to the osiers.
'For shame!' says she, eyeing me with some scorn.
'Indeed,' said I. 'There's nothing against me. She needs your help, good soul. For by some gross misfortune her pretty robes are all gone a-swimming for the sea; and she is left shivering in the current, with none but me to give her pity.'
'You were better away, sir,' says my Audrey.
'You speak truth,' I answered. 'And I will leave her now in your hands. You shall dress and compose her anew; so shall the mishap be but an adventure to be remembered with laughter.'
She turned a pitying glance upon my lady.
'But, sir,' said she, 'from this 'tis a good hour to my home, and this dimity is all I have. What I stand in, that is mine; and no more.'
I made a gesture of despair. 'Come,' said I, 'let us at least discuss the occasion plainly,' and I drew her to the margin of the stream, where my poor naiad waited expectantly.
'She will procure something?' she burst out.
'Alas, madam,' I answered, 'she has but her own upon her.'
'I shall die of cold—and of shame,' she murmured; 'pray you, be generous,' she begged, 'lend me those garments of yours, and you shall have them back with interest. As one woman may beg of another, so I entreat you.' My Audrey shook her head; she eyed her lady-sister pitifully; glanced at her own pretty gown and then at me; flushed red to her eyebrows and shook her head again. In the embarrassment of the ensuing silence I turned away.
'You shall settle it between you. I'm for the village with all speed,' quoth I hastily, and would have made off.
'No, no,' called her voice from the osiers. 'You would not abandon me so. This wretch will do nothing in my behalf. Think of the perils between now and your rescue. I beseech you,stay.'
In her solicitude she raised herself a little by the osiers, and lifted a pleading face to me; the water washed and rippled over her bosom. So distraught and sorrowful were those eyes, that meeting them I had not the heart to desert her, but took a sudden resolution to hazard all for her release.
'By heaven!' I exclaimed, 'you shall have those garments, or I die.'
She thanked me with her eyes. I turned to Audrey, standing with wonder in the shade of the copse. 'My dear,' said I, 'this is the very devil. I pray you will reconsider your decision. For look you, here is the case. You were plainly come for a dip; let us employ this dimity of yours during your performance in the river. Come.'
Something in my manner may have alarmed her; it was as though she feared I would strip her perforce of her property; and she retired into the seclusion of the copse, peeping over a bush at me.
'Look you,' said I, 'let me speak plainly. I throw myself upon your mercy. For the better part of this day has she borne with this sorry plight; her eyes are wet with tears, not water; she hath wrung her hands until they weary; her heart is aching with despair and shame. I entreat you to show some pity. In a privy coign of this dingle you might ensure yourself against all observation, basking in the comfortable sun. Then in a little you shall be bedecked in the gayest of raiment, and a carriage, to boot, shall take you to your home. Oh, she is the most generous, and her favours are the rarest.'
My Audrey slowly dropped behind the bush. 'And think again,' quoth I, fearful she was to fly off in her alarm; 'she has shivered in this cool stream for hours, and has gotten a cold to perish from. So fair a lady and so vile a death! Shall it comfort you, my little tender-heart, to reflect one day that but for this cold prudery she who now sleeps i' the grave might still be dancing in her royal beauty? Her fate lies in your hands. Be pitiful and she will live; refuse her and she must die.'
I caught a whimper from behind the bush, and as I paused, a hand stole out, reluctant, with a gown. I laid it by me.
'And what,' I asked, 'must be my future if this tragic fate befall?' 'Alas!' I cried to Heaven, 'the world must be a wilderness for me henceforth. For she and I were wed but three months since, and all these days shall I have striven to shield her from harm—in vain; and to think now, that this miserable weakling of a river that might not drown a cat must tear my beloved from me for the sake of one pretty prude!'
'You are married?' she whispered from the bush.
'Is it not so?' I called to the islet.
'Indeed, indeed!' she answered.
She thrust me forth her petticoat.
'But there is worse,' said I. 'Madam, my wife is in the most delicate health. This assuredly were not for mention save to your friendly ears, but hark you——' and I whispered into the bush.
'Is it so?' she asked, weeping.
'Is it not the truth?' I asked across the water.
'I'll swear to it,' says my naiad.
She thrust me forth her smock.
'My dear,' I said, 'those dainty shoes and elegant hosen; and we will leave you under the heaviest of obligations.'
She put them forth with a pretty dimpled arm, and I rose to my feet with my spoils, triumphant.
'And now, my tender Audrey,' I continued, 'I wish you joy of the sunshine and your rest. A bed of soft leaves and cool fern will suffice for slumber, and if you be tempted there is the water purling at your feet. Anon you shall dress and drive with the most ravishing lady at His Majesty's Court.'
I ran down to the water's edge, and exhibited my burden to my lady's sparkling eyes.
'I vow,' she said, 'you are the best of men. I am sorry I have used you badly. Begone, begone, sir,' she cried, laughing. 'I will give you thanks and to spare hereafter.'
'Softly,' I murmured, 'softly, my naiad. I have bought this wardrobe at a heavy price of lies; my conscience quails and shrivels at the recollection. And what has cost me so dear—my soul's salvation, must surely go to the sale for its worth.'
She regarded me doubtfully, fearfully.
'What would you have?' she asked.
I dangled the smock before her. 'This,' I said, 'should fetch a precious price, no doubt, but I am content to dispose most cheaply of my wares. We shall walk home together to the manor.'
'Agreed,' says she, smiling.
I took another garment from the heap.
'By all tradition in the knowledge of men,' I resumed, 'this hath a value beyond estimate. 'Tis indispensable. But I am in a melting mood. You shall take my arm and use me most sweetly?'
'If it must be so,' said she.
'And this,' I said, 'I must suppose you would not be without. Well, you shall redeem it likewise. A price, a price, not overhigh in respect of your needs, but high enough I grant you. For the intrinsic value of this thing I care not a jot; I am to reckon from your penury. It is yours, but you shall give me what I have begged in vain these many days—you shall permit me to salute you.'
'Sir,' said she angrily, 'you have put all your virtues to the hammer. But if you demand it and will act thus scurvily by my troubles, in God's name have your way and be done.'
I laughed and left her; and in the briefest space we were on the road for the manor. But now, although she took my arm and walked beside me she was openly traversing the second article of our bargain; for she maintained a sullen silence all the way, or at the most replied to me in monosyllables. This breach was beyond my toleration, and though I did not rally her upon it by the way, her conduct weighed upon me all that afternoon. It seemed that we had fallen further apart than ever, and at last I sought her later in the day and reproached her faithlessness.
'I have kept the letter,' she retorted. 'I have none but literal obligations to one who would presume on my misery,'
'It was a scurvy trick,' said I cheerfully; 'but I have not yet taken advantage of your consent. Indeed, there was no word of time in our conditions, you will perceive.' She looked up at me.
'You will not exact it?' she asked quickly.
'I said not so,' I answered. 'Let us come to a conclusion. Will you marry me?'
I confronted her seriously. She laughed.
'Marry you!' she said, and laughed again.
'And why not?' I asked, 'I have long been at your feet. Come, dear, will you love me?' She put back her head and laughed in her chair. 'If you knew,' I said roughly, 'how much you have sworn to this day, you would scarce laugh so heartily.'
'Sworn to?' she said, stopping suddenly, 'what do you mean? Have you said——'
'Well,' I explained, 'I had the purchase of your garments, you will recall.'
'Those lies—what were they?' she cried, a flash of colour in her cheeks.
'We were man and wife,' I replied, 'and——'
'Well?' she urged.
I wavered, and my eyes sought the ground.
The red burned in her face; she made as though she would cry out with passion; but meeting my beseeching gaze her eyes fell, and she was mute.
'Come,' I said hotly, 'I will only exact that article upon your consent to this petition. See, I tear the contract into pieces. Now, sweet, be my wife,' and I put out my hand.
She gave me hers, half smiling, half frowning, and the third clause was fulfilled on the instant. Suddenly I started back. 'Good Lord,' I exclaimed, 'I had forgot poor Audrey!'
She stared for a moment, and then burst into laughter.