We three sat, "making ourselves scarce," on the topmost of the steps before
the front door. It was only four by the Cathedral clock, which solemnly
struck the hour, but it was almost dark. It was cold and we pressed closely
together for warmth. The Seraph murmured a little song of which I caught
the words:
"The birds! The birds!
He knocked the stuffing
Out of the stuffed birds!"
We watched the slow progress of the lamplighter along the street. Like a
god, he marched solemnly, leaving new stars in his wake.
As he raised his wand and touched the lamp before our house, a new figure
appeared beneath its rays, hurrying darkly towards us. It entered the gate
and came in a stealthy way to where we sat. We recognized the cobbler.
"Little masters," he whispered. "She's flitted."
"Good widdance," said The Seraph, briskly. "She was too comical to be a
nice wife."
"Ah, no," replied the cobbler. "She's weak in her head and bound to come to
something hurtful. I'll not seek my bed this night until I've found her. I
thought mayhap you'd ha' seen her pass!"
"No," replied Angel. "We didn't. But perhaps the lamplighter did."
With one accord, we hurried after the retreating figure. Hearing our
footsteps, he turned and faced us beneath a newly lit lamp. Its serene
radiance fell on his solemn blue-eyed face, surrounded by red whiskers.
"What's the turmoil?" he asked. "Did I forget a lamp?"
"Have ye seen a strange-appearing woman?" asked Martindale. "With a shawl
about her, and mayhap remarking something about the moon, or a evil-minded
canary."
The lamplighter ran his fingers through his red beard. "She warn't saying
naught about canaries," he affirmed, "but she did say as how if she could
once get the moon in Wumble Pool, she'd drown it."
"Wumble Pool. That's where she's gone then. I can't seem to place it."
"It's less nor a mile from here, and since my last lamp is lit, I'll not
mind guiding you so far. Who be she, this woman?"
"My wife. She's fey, and I'm fearing she'll drown herself."
"It's a very bad fing to be drowned," put in The Seraph, as we all set off
together. "'Cos a bath in a tub is wet enough."
What a chill, dark night it was growing! The Cathedral clock struck a
hollow warning note as we passed. We heard the beat of wings as the pigeons
settled for the night.
The Seraph grasped a hand each of the cobbler and the lamplighter, taking
long manful strides to keep up with them. We seemed, indeed, a sinister
company setting out on dark adventure.
Hurriedly we traversed narrow, winding streets, where night had already
fallen in the shadow of clammy walls. Strange and eerie was the path
between wet trees, when we had left the town behind. The lamplighter with
his tall wand alight seemed like some unearthly messenger come to conduct
us to goblin realms.
We spoke never a word till an open common lay before us; then the
lamplighter pointing with his wand to a glimmering surface fringed by rank
grass, said:
"Yon's Wumble Pool."
Wumble Pool! The very name struck a chill to our hearts.
"Yes, and there's the moon," whispered the cobbler.
It was true that the distorted image of the moon floated dimly in the Pool,
as though it had indeed been caught by the mad-woman, and drowned.
"How soft the ground is!" breathed Angel.
"Ay, and the Pool has no bottom," said the lamplighter.
"I can't think she'd have the heart to do it," said Martindale.
The Seraph screamed.
"There she is! I see her! Standing in the Pool!"
We ran to the brink. A cold air struck our faces. Our feet sank ankle-deep
in the mud. The cobbler did not stop, but ran on into the Pool, where the
shawled figure of a woman stood, covered to the waist by the sullen, black
water.
"Ada! Ada!" cried the cobbler, throwing his arms about her.
"Leave me go!" shrieked the woman. "I'm a-goin' to drownd myself!"
The struggle in the water, shattered the reflection of the moon like pale
amber glass. Once they both sank into the water; the lamplighter waving his
wand, and shouting. Then, at last, the four of us bent over them as they
lay, huddled, on the grass at the brink.
"You'd ought to be ashamed of yourself to worrit your 'usband so," said the
lamplighter, sternly.
"'Usband!" cried the woman, shrilly. "I've got no 'usband!"
The cobbler gave a cry of fear. He pulled the shawl from her head and felt
the face and hair.
"God's truth!" he muttered, "I've saved the wrong woman."
"Better fwow her back again," suggested The Seraph.
"Nay, nay, little man," said the lamplighter, holding his light close to
her face. "That would never do. Besides, her be young and winsome."
"I'd keep her," said Angel.
"Whoever are you, lass?" asked Martindale, in a trembling voice, "and why
did you plan to make way with yourself?"
The moon shone wanly on the girl's face and wet hair.
"I'm nobody," she wailed, "and I be tired of life."
"Did you see aught of a strange woman?" asked Martindale. "One who was
talking about the moon, and her head a-whirling?"
"She came right down the road ahead of me," she answered, in a weak voice,
"and ran straight into the pool. When she was in, she grabbed the floating
image of the moon, and she said: 'I've got you, at last, you comical
villain!' And she laughed, and seemed to struggle with it, and she went
down."
"That'd be her, all right," said the lamplighter.
"Ada mine, Ada mine," mourned Martindale.
Angel and The Seraph and I clutched hands, and looked shudderingly into
Wumble Pool.
"That seemed to scare me like," went on the girl, "and I couldn't jump
right in, but I just crept, a step at a time, fearing I'd step on the
body."
"No danger," said The Seraph complacently, "there's no bottom."
"One thing is certain," pronounced the lamplighter, "this young 'ooman
should have some hot spirits in her inside, and be wrapped in a warm
blanket, afore she's starved with the cold."
First we walked all around Wumble Pool, and poked it with sticks, but there
was no sign of the cobbler's wife. Then, slowly, we retraced our steps to
the town, the two men supporting the dripping girl.
A lamp burned with a ruddy glow in the room behind the shop, where all the
birds were sleeping. Martindale put his charge in a chair by the hearth,
and made gin-and-beer hot for everybody. The Seraph kissed the girl, and
she said that she was glad after all that she was safe out of Wumble Pool.
"What is your name, my dear?" questioned Martindale.
"I don't know my name rightly, sir, for I was stole by gipsies when I was
but two days old."
The cobbler gave a cry and set down his glass. "Gipsies--two days' old--"
he stammered. Then he pushed back the thick hair, about her ear. "Yes,
yes!" pointing to a tiny slit in the lobe, "there is the very place,--where
one of my jealous birds pecked her the day she was born!" He caught her in
his arms and held her, mystified but happy--.
The reunion was interrupted by a pounding at the door. It was a furious
Mary Ellen, her night out completely spoiled by the search for us.
Thus we were haled before Mrs. Handsomebody, questioned, upbraided, and
given, at last, a bowl of hot gruel apiece.
"You deserve," she said bitterly, "to go empty to bed, but my conscience
forbids that I relax my vigilance over your health. Tomorrow, we shall see
what can be done in the way of discipline."
We sat on three high-backed haircloth chairs. The steaming gruel slipped
thickly into our stomachs. The hot gin had gone to our heads. Mrs.
Handsomebody's head looked abnormally large to me, and seemed to be
whirling round and round. Surely she was not getting like the cobbler's
wife! Mrs. Handsomebody was still scolding:
"You began the day by introducing a canary of the lowest proclivities into
my case of stuffed birds, where he perpetrated irreparable damage--"