by Van Reid
“I have you to thank for it, Mr. Thump,” said she.
Thump was speechless. He would have liked nothing more than to simply look at her, but that would have been indelicate, and he stared at the ceiling. He felt dizzy from his ordeal and quickly fell asleep again. Mister Walton, who had felt better himself, was yet fascinated by what it all meant, and Sundry, too, was curious.
“He is exhausted,” said Eagleton.
“Clearly, you have had some adventures,” said Mister Walton.
“It all started,” said Ephram, “when a piano almost fell on him.
“Good heavens!” said Mister Walton.
Sundry leaned back in his chair, his arms folded.
“We were quite amazed, and even overjoyed, to find you here in Iceboro,” said Eagleton to the both of them.
“We haven’t evaded any pianos,” said Mister Walton, “but, to be truthful, we have had some adventures ourselves.”
“Have you?” Ephram and Eagleton were hardly surprised.
“Mister Walton cured a glum pig,” informed Sundry.
The portly fellow chortled.
“And then we attended an elopement,” said Sundry.
Jacob Lister, who sat nearby, grunted at these references and looked uncomfortable. A similar noise came from Mr. Fern as well as Mrs. Mulligan in the kitchen. Sundry cast a baleful eye at the old man, then let it fall briefly on Aunt Beatrice, who stood at the doorway to the pantry. He thought it inferior behavior to endanger a creature like Hercules, and he didn’t care who knew it.
Aunt Beatrice looked unrepentant. She returned the young man’s gaze with an expression of curdled humor.
And the woman whom they addressed as “Miss Pilican” wondered that the whole lot of them (and the members of the Moosepath League, to be sure) hadn’t walked out of one of her mother’s books.
Later in the day, Ephram and Eagleton realized that somehow, through all the fire and alarm, they had been wearing each other’s coats.
“She’s gone,” they told Thump when he woke again. Actually, it was Mrs. Mulligan who gave him the news, and what she said was, “She’s gone out to join a bucket line,” which was more prosaic than a mere, “She’s gone.” Thump would always remember the moment, or speak of it (on rare occasions) as if some choral they had rendered him the melancholy news, saying simply, “She’s gone.”
“Of course,” he said. Of course she is gone, he thought. She was too like a dream—too potent a force (poise and elegance and beauty) to squander herself upon one single being. From a thousand feet above the earth she propelled herself into thin air and caused hearts to leap with trepidation, then to fill with gratitude as she unfurled her star-spangled parachute and drifted like a flower on the wind in her attractive suit of tights! (Thump wrote something like this, and more, in his journal a few days later.)
She was gone, but she was safe. He knew not how she had escaped her captors, nor were any of them very sure how Clarence Sawtooth and Wallace Poole were connected with the affair (the retired sheriff called them “looters” and kept asking who Henry was), but she had rescued herself, only to flee toward danger in the service of those poor creatures at the livery.
Thump hardly stirred. There was less noise from without, but he was conscious that a crowd was gathered on the street. A clock ticked in the hall. He considered a picture on the wall in which Ruth gleaned the fields of Boaz, and there was an old sampler by the door that he could not quite read in the half-light.
Mrs. Roberto! She was gone, but she was safe. Thump was content in a wistful way. He reached up and touched his beard. She liked my beard! he thought with cautious pride. Ephram and Eagleton slept in chairs nearby. Mister Walton had been given a bed upstairs in which to sleep, and Mr. Moss spent the remainder of the night keeping watch. Thump heard rain at the windows. He nodded to himself, hardly realizing where he was, then nodded off once again.
59. Briefly Associating the Paths of Several Individuals
Dee would be put out (in her mild way) to find her mother and uncle in Iceboro; she was more apt to give lectures these days than listen to them. She was always telling her mother and uncle to be more careful of themselves, not to overdo, and to stay warm and dry. Mother Pili can would laugh; Dee, who was herself so careless, had listened to many a lecture in her youth.
In the darkened parlor that night, Fale had been the first to fret—an old man who had watched his beloved niece rush through the door toward crisis. Mother Pilican had been about an hour behind in worrying but quickly caught him up. “I wish I hadn’t let her go,” Fale must have said a dozen times, and his sister would answer, “I don’t know what you could have done about it,” or, “You didn’t. She’s a grown woman.” Fale had paced the rooms downstairs and they watched the glow of the distant fire shift and brighten and then (they hoped) fade just a bit.
When he stopped pacing, Deborah Pilican knew what her brother was thinking, and, a moment later, what he had decided. “You’re not going without me,” she had said quite simply, and, “I’m not sitting here by myself,” she hastily added when he began to protest. He knew better than to say more.
The rainy drive was long and wearying for them both. They went to Gardiner for the ferry and then rocked down the muddy road south to Iceboro. The Sproat and Fallow boys drove well enough, Fale supposed, but the carriage was nothing to boast about. It leaked, and the old folk were weary and wet by the time they reached the outskirts of the stricken village.
There was no driving down the main street of Iceboro that morning—the way was choked with people, with rigs and horses and smoking debris. They were surprised that several of the firefighters knew who Dee was and horrified to discover how she came by this notoriety. Their carriage was sent down a backstreet to the home of Mrs. Mulligan, and at her kitchen door Fale inquired after his niece. A building had burned to the ground behind Mrs. Mulligan’s, and Mother Pilican wondered if this was the livery from which her daughter had been rescued. The rain grew louder while she waited, and the wind picked up the spray and sent it in sheets against the carriage.
Fale came back to say that Dee had gone home with Olin Bell and that Mrs. Mulligan insisted they come in and warm themselves with a cup of tea. If she hadn’t been so very tired and damp and chilled, Mother Pilican would have asked to head straight home, but she allowed the Sproat and Fallow boys to carry her into Mrs. Mulligan’s parlor, where she was startled to find two well-dressed fellows sleeping in chairs and a third man in more common attire snoring on the sofa.
“I don’t think you could wake them,” said Mrs. Mulligan when the old woman expressed this concern. “The fellow with the beard is the one who went in after your daughter.”
“Oh?” said Mrs. Pilican. She had seen only a burly, bearded man stretched out on the sofa—he was perhaps a little rough looking—but now she was sure that he exuded, even in sleep, great heroism and kindness.
“He’s a member of the Moosepath League,” added Mrs. Mulligan.
“Whatever is that?” asked Mrs. Pilican. They were speaking in quiet tones, but she was still amazed that the men didn’t wake.
“I don’t know for certain. But these other fellows are, too, and two gentlemen who are resting upstairs.” Mrs. Mulligan pointed to the ceiling.
Fale settled himself in a chair by the window. He glanced over his shoulder at the scene of smoke and ruin outside. “She went off with Olin Bell, you say?”
“I believe so. You should have seen him. He went in right after Mr. Thump, and a line of men guided them all out. It was like something from a book!” Mrs. Mulligan held her hands up before her, as if warding the sight away. “Oh! Oh!” she chirped.
“Mr. Thump?” said Mother Pilican. She liked the name. Mrs. Mulligan pointed out each of the sleeping men as she named them. Mother Pilican liked them very much, and, aside from worrying that Dee would fret when she returned to an empty house, the old woman began to feel less weary and cold. “Thank you so much,” she said when a saucer and
a steaming cup of tea were put in her hands. She put her palms about the warm china and thought about Fale’s hot-wax remedy as the pain in her fingers subsided just a bit.
“Good morning,” said Fale, and she looked up to see that the bearded man on the sofa had wakened. There was a series of expressions that ran through his face, brief studies of recall and puzzlement. They could not know what he had been through the past twenty-four hours, nor that he had been searching for a Mrs. Roberto and found a Miss Pilican. The old woman had no notion that she was seated in the very chair occupied by her daughter when Mr. Thump last saw her.
“I beg your pardon,” said the bearded man. He stood a little shakily
The other men, slumped in their chairs, woke of a sudden and rose to their feet, somewhat staggered by sleep. “Where’s the observatory?” asked the tall, blond fellow. “What?” he piped. “Oh, here we are! Continued rain, I would suspect, but—” His voice fell off then and he simply blinked at his surroundings.
“Hmmm,” said the bearded man. He looked about the room as if he were trying to track a fly.
“Eleven minutes past the hour of seven,” said the dark-haired man with the handsome mustaches. He had a pocket watch in hand. Mrs. Pilican and her brother were surprised to see him reach into another pocket and produce a second watch. “Yes,” he said, looking from one timepiece to the other.
“Oh, dear,” said Mrs. Pilican. “Now we’ve wakened you.”
“Not at all,” said the man with the watches. “Not at all.”
“Time to be up and about,” said the blond fellow, though Eagleton was rarely up at this hour.
“We beg your pardon,” said the bearded man again, and the three of them shuffled their feet and bowed and half bowed and nodded their heads to Mrs. Pilican and Fale Field, and the older people were quite entertained.
“Please sit,” said the old woman. “You men are deserving of your rest, by all accounts.” She smiled upon the bearded man with a degree of solicitous regard that obviously embarrassed him. “And, by all accounts,” she said to him, “you deserve our great thanks as well.”
“Mr. Thump?” said Fale.
“Yes?” said that startled worthy.
“Fale Field.” The older man offered his hand with unmistakable gravity. “My sister and I cannot express our gratitude for your rescuing Dee.”
“Dee?” said Mr. Thump.
“My daughter,” said the elderly woman.
“My niece,” said the old man.
“Deborah,” said the mother. “But we call her Dee.”
“Mrs. Ro—?” began Mr. Thump, but he paused, quite visibly thought with his hand on his beard, and said, “Miss Pilican?”
“Deborah,” said Mr. Eagleton, sounding out the name as if he had never heard it before. “It is a very beautiful name.”
“Thank you,” said the elderly woman with a renewed sense of gratitude and warmth. “It is mine as well. I’m Deborah Pilican.” Putting her cup and saucer on the table beside her, she reached out and grasped Thump’s hands in her own, which were cold.
“I beg your pardon!” said Mr. Thump, and he introduced himself and his friends. Handshakes went all around, and the old woman was more delighted still. These three gentlemen were so diffident and yet so gracious that she thought they might have walked out of one of her books.
“Yes, well,” said Mr. Ephram. “We are so very pleased to meet you. Your daughter, you say!”
“We are her great admirers,” said Mr. Eagleton, who then proceeded to blush. “I mean, we greatly admire her. That is to say, she is admirable.”
“You are very kind,” said Mrs. Pilican. It seemed that her daughter had won these gentlemen over in a very short space of time.
“Not at all,” said Mr. Eagleton.
“Hmmm!” said Mr. Thump.
Mrs. Pilican took hold of his hands once more and said, “I could hardly explain to you, Mr. Thump, how much she means to us, and therefore cannot adequately tell you how very grateful we are.”
Mr. Thump seemed to have something in his throat and also his eyes. He allowed Mrs. Pilican to grasp and shake his hands, but he looked uncertain in the light of her sweet smile. There were tears on her face, and soon Mr. Thump was hemming and hawing and blinking and Mr. Ephram and Mr. Eagleton were looking out the windows and making noises as if a billow of smoke had returned to the room.
“Yes, well,” said Mr. Ephram. “Ever in the fore, is our Thump!”
“Couldn’t want a sturdier fellow in dire circumstance!” added Mr. Eagleton.
Mr. Thump barely found his voice, and then only enough to say, “I wouldn’t have been here ... without Ephram and Eagleton.”
“Oh, you poor dear,” said Mrs. Pilican unexpectedly, “here I am clutching your hands and mine are simply freezing!” and she let go of him.
“Not at all!” he said.
“Cold hands, warm heart!” she said with a small laugh.
Mr. Thump appeared touched by the thought.
“Could I get you some tea, Mr. Thump? Gentlemen?” asked Mrs. Mulligan, who had been watching this the scene from the doorway. “Toast and jam?”
“Oh, please! Not to bother!” said Mr. Eagleton. The growl of a stomach could be heard, however, and he looked surprised.
“We couldn’t put you out,” said Mr. Ephram. “You have been so kind.”
“Nonsense,” said the woman. “I’ll be right back.”
There was a lingering moment of silence in the parlor. The three men sat down once again, and each of them took on an expression of deep perplexity.
“What is the Moosepath League?” asked Fale suddenly
“Oh, my!” said Mr. Eagleton. “It is our club, you see.”
“Is it?” Fale was interested.
“Oh, yes.”
There was another lingering moment. Mr. Eagleton mouthed the words “Moosepath League” silently, then Mr. Ephram did as well. Thump made a low noise. (The truth was, they had several questions for Mrs. Pilican, most of which concerned information gleaned from the purloined telegram, but it was an awkward business and they hadn’t a notion where to start.) Mrs. Pilican and Mr. Field continued to beam aspects of happiness and gratitude upon them and the Moosepathians seemed to feel the effects of those benign expressions.
“Our chairman, Mister Walton, is resting upstairs,” said Mr. Ephram
“Very good, Eagleton,” said Mr. Ephram.
“Thank you.”
“Not at all.”
This short exchange filled Mrs. Pilican with a strange, almost giddy, emotion that was difficult to index. It had something to do with a great-uncle she had known when she was very young. She did wonder why two of these gentlemen were dressed so expensively (even if their coats showed recent hard use and didn’t seem to fit so well) and the third wore the clothes of a laboring man. She would like to have asked how her daughter was rescued, but clearly these men would be abashed to tell her. She was feeling warmer by the minute, though, and the tea was serving her in good stead. ‘“What a good cup of tea won’t accomplish against the cold and wet may be useless to wish for,’” she said aloud, quoting from one of her own books.
“Hmmm?” said Mr. Thump.
“Good heavens!” said Mr. Eagleton.
“How Far the Dawn!” declared Mr. Ephram, and he stood.
“Good heavens, indeed!” said Mrs. Pilican, for the man had cited the very book. “Do you know it?”
“I have read it three times,” said Mr. Ephram, “and have taken that particular bit of wisdom to heart and practice!”
“Indeed!” said Mr. Eagleton. “Mrs. Rudolpha Limington Harold!”
“Hmmm,” said Mr. Thump.
“She is a great favorite of ours!” said Mr. Eagleton.
“I am sure she would be gratified to hear it,” said Mrs. Pilican, speaking (as she often did) of one of her noms de plume as a separate person.
“Do you know her, then?” said Mr. Ephram with great emphasis.
�
�I suppose as well as anybody does,” she said, almost with a laugh.
“The Atrocious Uncle!” said Mr. Thump. It was one of his favorites. “Gertrude of Aroostook!” exclaimed Mr. Eagleton. “My, but that was marvelous!”
“And you’ve read them all?” she wondered, quite astonished.
“Mrs. Pilican,” said Mr. Eagleton, “we consider Mrs. Harold a master of—I beg your pardon—a mistress of gripping fiction! I beg your pardon,” he said again, looking from face to face. It had occurred to him that the phrase “gripping fiction” was a little unrefined. “I meant no offense.”
“I am sure she would take none,” said Mrs. Pilican honestly.
“Kathleen O’Shea!” breathed Mr. Ephram, and remembering the tale of the Irish lass and her journey from Cork County to the shores of New England gave him great pause.
“‘Who could guess what ancient songs of Erse moved upon the coastal rocks when Kathleen O’Shea explored the granitic shores of her new home or what memory of Ireland not even her own filled her with a faith in greensward and golden sunlight and a faculty for those things that are beyond color and sight, dancing upon the pools of moonlight on a midsummer’s eve?’”
“Oh, my!” said Mrs. Pilican.
It was Mr. Thump, who knew vast passages of Mrs. Harold’s prose by heart.
“It sounds very grand, Mr. Thump,” said the old woman, “spoken in that wonderful voice of yours.”
Mr. Thump looked as if he’d been pinched, but Mr. Eagleton spoke for him. “He is a marvelous reader, Mrs. Pilican! Isn’t it so, Ephram?”
“He is indeed, my friend,” said Mr. Ephram.
“Mrs. Harold has an earnest following in Portland,” asserted Mr. Thump, perhaps in an attempt to veer the conversation from his recitative skills.
“And you say you know her, Mrs. Pilican?” said Mr. Ephram. (He thought he was beginning to make some sense of Mr. Siegfried’s telegram, but what was betokened by that odd phrase—-people-in-pen?)