“He was making me well,” moaned Ranulph.
“What was that song?” demanded Master Nathaniel, in the same stern voice.
“A very old song. Nurses sing it to children. You must have known it all your life. What’s it called again? You know it, Dame Marigold, don’t you? ‘Columbine’—yes, that’s it. ‘Columbine.’ ”
The trees in the garden twinkled and murmured. The birds were clamorous. From the distance came the chimes of the Guildhall clock, and the parlour smelt of spring-flowers and potpourri.
Something seemed to relax in Master Nathaniel. He passed his hand over his forehead, gave an impatient little shrug, and, laughing awkwardly, said, “I … I really don’t quite know what took me. I’ve been anxious about the boy, and I suppose it had upset me a little. I can only beg your pardon, Leer.”
“No need to apologize … no need at all. No doctor worth his salt takes offence with … sick men,” and the look he shot at Master Nathaniel was both bright and strange.
Again Master Nathaniel frowned, and very stiffly he murmured “Thank you.”
“Well,” went on the doctor in a matter-of-fact voice, “I should like to have a little private talk with you about this young gentleman. May I?”
“Of course, of course, Dr. Leer,” cried Dame Marigold hastily, for she saw that her husband was hesitating. “He will be delighted, I am sure. Though I think you’re a very brave man to trust yourself to such a monster. Nat, take Dr. Leer into the pipe-room.”
And Master Nathaniel did so.
Once there the doctor’s first words made him so happy as instantly to drive away all traces of his recent fright and to make him even forget to be ashamed of his abominable behaviour.
What the doctor said was, “Cheer up, your Worship! I don’t for a moment believe that boy of yours has eaten—what one mustn’t mention.”
“What? What?” cried Master Nathaniel joyfully. “By the Golden Apples of the West! It’s been a storm in a teacup then? The little rascal, what a fright he gave us!”
Of course, he had known all the time that it could not be true! Facts could never be as stubborn as that, and as cruel.
And this incorrigible optimist about facts was the same man who walked in daily terror of the unknown. But perhaps the one state of mind was the outcome of the other.
Then, as he remembered the poignancy of the scene between himself and Ranulph last night and, as well, the convincingness of Ranulph’s story, his heart once more grew heavy.
“But … but,” he faltered, “what was the good of this cock and bull story, then? What purpose did it serve? There’s no doubt the boy’s ill in both mind and body, and why, in the name of the Milky Way, should he go to the trouble of inventing a story about Willy Wisp’s giving him a taste of that damned stuff?” and he looked at Endymion Leer appealingly, as much as to say, “Here are the facts. I give them to you. Be merciful and give them a less ugly shape.”
This Endymion Leer proceeded to do.
“How do we know it was … ‘that damned stuff’?” he asked. “We have only Willy Wisp’s word for it, and from what I know of that gentleman, his word is about as reliable as … as the wind in a frolic. All Lud knows of his practical jokes … he’d say anything to give one a fright. No, no, believe me, he was just playing off one of his pranks on Master Ranulph. I’ve had some experience in the real thing—I’ve an extensive practice, you know, down at the wharf—and your son’s symptoms aren’t the same. No, no, your son is no more likely to have eaten fairy fruit—than you are.”
Master Nathaniel smiled, and stretched his arms in an ecstasy of relief. “Thank you, Leer, thank you,” he said huskily. “The whole thing was appalling that really I believe it almost turned my head. And you are a very kind fellow not to bear me a grudge for my monstrous mishandling of you in the parlour just now.”
For the moment Master Nathaniel felt as if he really loved the queer, sharp-tongued, little upstart.
“And now,” he went on gleefully, “to show me that it is really forgotten and forgiven, we must pledge each other in some wild-thyme gin … my cellar is rather noted for it, you know,” and from a corner cupboard he brought out two glasses and a decanter of the fragrant green cordial, left over from the supper-party of the previous night.
For a few minutes they sat sipping in silent contentment.
Then Endymion Leer, as if speaking to himself, said dreamily, “Yes, this is perhaps the solution. Why should we look for any other cure when we have the wild-thyme distilled by our ancestors? Wild time? No, time isn’t wild … time-gin, sloe-gin. It is very soothing.”
Master Nathaniel grunted. He understood perfectly what Endymion Leer meant, but he did not choose to show that he did. Any remark verging on the poetical or philosophical always embarrassed him. Fortunately, such remarks were rare in Lud-in-the-Mist.
So he put down his glass and said briskly, “Now then, Leer, let’s go to business. You’ve removed an enormous load from my mind, but, all the same, the boy’s not himself. What’s the matter with him?”
Endymion Leer gave an odd little smile. And then he said, slowly and deliberately, “Master Nathaniel, what is the matter with you?”
Master Nathaniel started violently.
“The matter with me?” he said coldly. “I have not asked you in to consult you about my own health. We will, if you please, keep to that of my son.”
But he rather spoiled the dignified effect his words might have had by gobbling like a turkey cock, and muttering under his breath, “Damn the fellow and his impudence!” Endymion Leer chuckled.
“Well, I may have been mistaken,” he said, “but I have sometimes had the impression that our Worship the Mayor was, well, a whimsical fellow, given to queer fancies. Do you know my name for your house? I call
