With sweet-brier
And bonfire
And strawberry-wire
And columbine,”
sang Professor Wisp, and in and out he wound between his pupils — or, rather, not wound, but dived, darted, flashed, while every moment his singing grew shriller, his laughter more wild.
And then — whence and how they could not say — a new person had joined the dance.
He was dressed in green and he wore a black mask. And the curious thing was that, in spite of all the crossings and recrossings and runs down the middle, and the endless shuffling in the positions of the dancers, demanded by the intricate figures of this dance, the newcomer was never beside you — it was always with somebody else that he was dancing. You never felt the touch of his hand. This was the experience of each individual Crabapple Blossom.
But Moonlove Honeysuckle caught a glimpse of his back; and on it there was a hump.
Chapter VII
Master Ambrose Chases a Wild Goose and Has a Vision
Master Ambrose Honeysuckle had finished his midday meal, and was smoking his churchwarden on his daisy-powdered lawn, under the branches of a great, cool, yellowing lime; and beside him sat his stout comfortable wife, Dame Jessamine, placidly fanning herself to sleep, with her pink-tongued mushroom-colored pug snoring and choking in her lap.
Master Ambrose was ruminating on the consignment he was daily expecting of flowers-in-amber — a golden eastern wine, for the import of which his house had the monopoly in Dorimare.
But he was suddenly roused from his pleasant reverie by the sound of loud excited voices proceeding from the house, and turning heavily in his chair, he saw his daughter, Moonlove, wild-eyed and disheveled, rushing towards him across the lawn, followed by a crowd of servants with scared faces and all chattering at once.
“My dear child, what’s this? What’s this?” he cried testily.
But her only answer was to look at him in agonized terror, and then to moan, “The horror of midday!”
Dame Jessamine sat up with a start and rubbing her eyes exclaimed, “Dear me, I believe I was napping. But … Moonlove! Ambrose! What’s happening?”
But before Master Ambrose could answer, Moonlove gave three blood-curdling screams, and shrieked out, “Horror! Horror! The tune that never stops! Break the fiddle! Break the fiddle! Oh, Father, quietly, on tiptoe behind him, cut the strings. Cut the strings and let me out, I want the dark.”
For an instant, she stood quite still, head thrown back, eyes alert and frightened, like a beast at bay. Then, swift as a hare, she tore across the lawn, with glances over her shoulder as if something were pursuing her, and, rushing through the garden gate, vanished from their astonished view.
The servants, who till now had kept at a respectful distance, came crowding up, their talk a jumble of such exclamations and statements as “Poor young lady!” “It’s a sunstroke, sure as my name’s Fishbones!” “Oh, my! it quite gave me the palpitations to hear her shriek!”
And the pug yapped with such energy that he nearly burst his mushroom sides, and Dame Jessamine began to have hysterics.
For a few seconds Master Ambrose stood bewildered, then, setting his jaw, he pounded across the lawn, with as much speed as was left him by nearly fifty years of very soft living, out at the garden gate, down the lane, and into the High Street.
Here he joined the tail of a running crowd that, in obedience to the law that compels man to give chase to a fugitive, was trying hard to catch up with Moonlove.
The blood was throbbing violently in Master Ambrose’s temples, and his brains seemed congested. All that he was conscious of, on the surface of his mind, was a sense of great irritation against Master Nathaniel Chanticleer for not having had the cobbles on the High Street recently renewed — they were so damnably slippery.
But, underneath this surface irritation, a nameless anxiety was buzzing like a hornet.
On he pounded at the tail end of the hunt, blowing, puffing, panting, slipping on the cobbles, stumbling across the old bridge that spanned the Dapple. Vaguely, as in delirium, he knew that windows were flung open, heads stuck out, shrill voices enquiring what was the matter, and that from mouth to mouth were bandied the words, “It’s little Miss Honeysuckle running away from her papa.”
But when they reached the town walls and the west gate, they had to call a sudden halt, for a funeral procession, that of a neighboring farmer, to judge from the appearance of the mourners, was winding its way into the town, bound for the Fields of Grammary, and the pursuers had perforce to stand in respectful silence while it passed, and allow their quarry to disappear down a bend of the high road.
Master Ambrose was too impatient and too much out of breath consciously to register impressions of what was going on round him. But in the automatic unquestioning way in which at such moments the senses do their work, he saw through the windows of the hearse that a red liquid was trickling from the coffin.
This enforced delay broke the spell of blind purpose that had hitherto united the pursuers into one. They now ceased to be a pack, and broke up again into separate individuals, each with his own business to attend to.
“The little lass is too nimble-heeled for us,” they said, grinning ruefully.
“Yes, she’s a wild goose, that’s what she is, and I fear she has led us a wild goose chase,” said Master Ambrose with a short embarrassed laugh.
He was beginning to be acutely conscious of the unseemliness of the situation — he, an ex-Mayor, a Senator and judge, and, what was more, head of the ancient and honorable family of Honeysuckle, to be pounding through the streets of Lud-in-the-Mist at the tail end of a crowd of’prentices and artisans, in pursuit of his naughty, crazy wild goose of a little daughter!
“Pity it isn’t Nat instead of me!” he thought to himself. “I believe he’d rather enjoy it.”
Just then, a farmer came along in his gig, and seeing the hot breathless company standing puffing and mopping their brows, he asked them if they were seeking a little lass, for, if so, he had passed her a quarter of an hour ago beyond the turnpike, running like a hare, and he’d called out to her to stop, but she would not heed him.
By this time Master Ambrose was once more in complete possession of his wits and his breath.
He noticed one of his own clerks among the late pursuers, and bade him run back to his stables and order three of his grooms to ride off instantly in pursuit of his daughter.
Then he himself, his face very stern, started off for the Academy.
It was just as well that he did not hear the remarks of his late companions as they made their way back to town; for he would have found them neither sympathetic nor respectful. The Senators were certainly not loved by the rabble. However, not having heard Moonlove’s eldritch shrieks nor her wild remarks, they supposed that her father had been bullying her for some mild offence, and that, in consequence, she had taken to her heels.
“And if all these fat pigs of Senators,” they said, “were set running like that a little oftener, why, then, they’d make better bacon!”
Master Ambrose had to work the knocker of the Academy door very hard before it was finally opened by Miss Primrose herself.
She looked flustered, and, as it seemed to Master Ambrose, a little dissipated, her face was so pasty and her eyelids so very red.
“Now, Miss Crabapple!” he cried in a voice of thunder, “What, by the Harvest of Souls, have you been doing to my daughter, Moonlove? And if she’s been ill, why have we not been told, I should like to know? I’ve come here for an explanation, and I mean to get it.”
Miss Primrose, mopping and mowing, and garrulously inarticulate, took the fuming gentleman into the parlor. But he could get nothing out of her further than disjointed murmurs about the need for cooling draughts, and the child’s being rather headstrong, and a possible touch of the sun. It was clear that she was scared out of her wits, and, moreover, there was something she wished to conceal.
Master Ambrose, from hi
s experience on the Bench, soon realized that this was a type of witness upon whom it was useless to waste his time; so he said sternly, “You are evidently unable to talk sense yourself, but perhaps some of your pupils possess that useful accomplishment. But I warn you if … if anything happens to my daughter it is you that will be held responsible. And now, send … let me see … send me down Prunella Chanticleer, she’s always been a sensible girl with a head on her shoulders. She’ll be able to tell me what exactly is the matter with Moonlove — which is more than you seem able to do.”
Miss Primrose, now almost gibbering with terror, stammered out something about “study hours,” and “regularity being so desirable,” and “dear Prunella’s having been a little out of sorts herself recently.”
But Master Ambrose repeated in a voice of thunder, “Send me Prunella Chanticleer, at once.”
And standing there, stern and square, he was a rather formidable figure.
So Miss Primrose could only gibber and blink her acquiescence and promise him that “dear Prunella” should instantly be sent to him.
When she had left him, Master Ambrose paced impatiently up and down, frowning heavily, and occasionally shaking his head.
Then he stood stock-still, in deep thought. Absently, he picked up from the work-table a canvas shoe, in process of being embroidered with wools of various brilliant shades.
At first, he stared at it with unseeing eyes.
Then, the surface of his mind began to take stock of the object. Its half finished design consisted of what looked like wild strawberries, only the berries were purple instead of red.
It was certainly very well done. There was no doubt but that Miss Primrose was a most accomplished needle-woman.
“But what’s the good of needlework? It doesn’t teach one common sense,” he muttered impatiently.
“And how like a woman!” he added with a contemptuous little snort, “Aren’t red strawberries good enough for her? Trying to improve on nature with her stupid fancies and her purple strawberries!”
But he was in no mood for wasting his time and attention on a half-embroidered slipper, and tossing it impatiently away he was about to march out of the room and call loudly for Prunella Chanticleer, when the door opened and in she came.
Had a stranger wanted to see an upper class maiden of Lud-in-the-Mist, he would have found a typical specimen in Prunella Chanticleer.
She was fair, and plump, and dimpled; and, as in the case of her mother, the ruthless common sense of her ancestors of the revolution had been trivialized, though not softened, into an equally ruthless sense of humor.
Such had been Prunella Chanticleer.
But, as she now walked into the room, Master Ambrose exclaimed to himself, “Toasted cheese! How plain the girl has grown!”
But that was a mere matter of taste; some people might have thought her much prettier than she had ever been before. She was certainly less plump than she used to be, and paler. But it was the change in the expression of her eyes that was most noticeable.
Hitherto, they had been as busy and restless (and, in justice to the charms of Prunella let it be added, as golden brown) as a couple of bees in summer — darting incessantly from one small object to another, and distilling from each what it held of least essential, so that in time they would have fashioned from a thousand trivialities that inferior honey that is apt to be labeled “feminine wisdom.”
But, now, these eyes were idle.
Or, rather, her memory seemed to be providing them with a vision so absorbing that nothing else could arrest their gaze.
In spite of himself, Master Ambrose felt a little uneasy in her presence. However, he tried to greet her in the tone of patronizing banter that he always used when addressing his daughter or her friends. But his voice had an unnatural sound as he cried, “Well, Prunella, and what have you all been doing to my Moonlove, eh? She came running home after dinner, and if it hadn’t been broad daylight, I should have said that she had seen a ghost. And then off she dashed, up hill and down dale, like a paper chaser without any paper. What have you all been doing to her, eh?”
“I don’t think we’ve been doing anything to her, Cousin Ambrose,” Prunella answered in a low, curiously toneless voice.
Ever since the scene with Moonlove that afternoon, Master Ambrose had had an odd feeling that facts were losing their solidity; and he had entered this house with the express purpose of bullying and hectoring that solidity back to them. Instead of which they were rapidly vanishing, becoming attenuated to a sort of nebulous atmosphere.
But Master Ambrose had stronger nerves and a more decided mind than Master Nathaniel. Two facts remained solid, namely that his daughter had run away, and that for this Miss Crabapple’s establishment was responsible. These he grasped firmly as if they had been dumb-bells that, by their weight, kept him from floating up to the ceiling.
“Now, Prunella,” he said sternly, “there’s something very queer about all this, and I believe you can explain it. Well? I’m waiting.”
Prunella gave a little enigmatical smile.
“What did she say when you saw her?” she asked.
“Say? Why, she was evidently scared out of her wits, and didn’t know what she was saying. She babbled something about the sun being too hot — though it seems to me very ordinary autumn weather that we’re having. And then she went on about cutting somebody’s fiddle strings … oh, I don’t know what!”
Prunella gave a low cry of horror.
“Cut the fiddle strings!” she repeated incredulously. And then she added with a triumphant laugh, “she can’t do that!”
“Now, young lady,” he cried roughly, “no more of this rubbish! Do you or do you not know what has taken Moonlove?”
For a second or two she gazed at him in silence, and then she said slowly, “Nobody ever knows what happens to other people. But, supposing … supposing she has eaten fairy fruit?” and she gave a little mocking smile.
Silent with horror, Master Ambrose stared at her.
Then he burst out furiously, “You foul-mouthed little hussy! Do your dare to insinuate …”
But Prunella’s eyes were fixed on the window that opened on to the garden, and instinctively he looked in that direction too.
For a second he supposed that the portrait of Duke Aubrey that hung in the Senate Room of the Guildhall had been moved to the wall of Miss Primrose’s parlor. Framed in the window, against the leafy background of the garden stood, quite motionless, a young man in antique dress. The face, the auburn ringlets, the suit of green, the rustic background — everything, down to the hunting horn entwined with flowers that he held in one hand, and the human skull that he held in the other, were identical with those depicted in the famous portrait.
“By the White Ladies of the Fields!” muttered Master Ambrose, rubbing his eyes.
But when he looked again the figure had vanished.
For a few seconds he stood gaping and bewildered, and Prunella seized the opportunity of slipping unnoticed from the room.
Then he came to his senses, on a wave of berserk rage. They had been playing tricks, foul, vulgar tricks, on him, on Ambrose Honeysuckle, Senator and ex-Mayor. But they should pay for it, by the Sun, Moon and Stars, they should pay for it! And he shook his fist at the ivy and squill bedecked walls.
But, in the meantime, it was he himself who was paying for it. An appalling accusation had been made against his only child; and, perhaps, the accusation was true.
Well, things must be faced. He was now quite calm, and, with his stern set face, a much more formidable person than the raging spluttering creature of a few seconds ago. He was determined to get to the bottom of this affair, and either to vindicate his daughter from the foul insinuation made by Prunella Chanticleer, or else, if the horrible thing were true (and a voice inside him that would not be silenced kept saying that it was true) to face the situation squarely, and, for the good of the town, find out who was responsible for what had happened and bring
them to the punishment they merited.
There was probably no one in all Lud-in-the-Mist who would suffer in the same degree from such a scandal in his family as Master Ambrose Honeysuckle. And there was something fine in the way he thus unflinchingly faced the possibility. Not for a moment did he think of hushing the matter up to shield his daughter’s reputation.
No, justice should run its course even if the whole town had to know that Ambrose Honeysuckle’s only child — and she a girl, which seemed, somehow, to make it more horrible — had eaten fairy fruit.
As to his vision of Duke Aubrey, that he dismissed as an hallucination due to his excited condition and perhaps, as well, to the hysterical atmosphere that seemed to lie like a thick fog over the Academy.
Before he left Miss Primrose’s parlor his eyes fell on the half embroidered slipper he had impatiently tossed away on the entrance of Prunella Chanticleer.
He smiled grimly; perhaps, after all, it had not been due to mere foolish feminine fancy that the strawberries were purple instead of red. She may have had real models for her embroidery.
He put the slipper in his pocket. It might prove of value in the law courts.
But Master Ambrose was mistaken in supposing that the berries embroidered on the slipper were fairy fruit.
Chapter VIII
Endymion Leer Looks Frightened, and a Breach Is Made In an Old Friendship
Master Ambrose fully expected on reaching home to find that one of the grooms he had dispatched after Moonlove had returned with her in safe custody.
This, however, was not the case, and he was confronted with another frightful contingency. Moonlove had last been seen running, at a speed so great and so unflagging as to hint at some sustaining force that was more than human, due West. What if she were making for the Debatable Hills? Once across those hills she would never again be seen in Dorimare.
He must go to Mumchance at once, and give the alarm. Search parties must immediately be sent to ransack the country from one end to the other.