But nearly every evening this summer his familiar cane and bottle-green hat had been seen in the hall. And his visits they had learned from the servants were not professional; unless it be part of a doctor’s duties to drop in of an evening to play a game of cribbage with his patients, and sample their cakes and cowslip wine.
Moreover, never before had Miss Primrose appeared so frequently in new gowns.
“Perhaps she’s preparing her bridal chest!” tittered Prunella Chanticleer. And the very idea sent them all into convulsions of mirth.
“But do you really think he’ll marry her? How could he!” said Penstemmon Fliperarde. “She’s such an old fright, and such an old goose, too. And they say he’s so clever.”
“Why, then they’ll be the goose and the sage!” laughed Prunella.
“I expect he wants her savings,” said Viola Vigil, with a wise little nod.
“Or perhaps he wants to add her to his collection of antiques,” tittered Ambrosine Pyepowders.
“Or to stick her up like an old sign over his dispensary!” suggested Prunella Chanticleer.
“But it’s hard on Duke Aubrey,” laughed Moonlove Honeysuckle, “to be cut out like this by a snuffy old doctor.”
“Yes,” said Viola Vigil. “My father says it’s a great pity she doesn’t take rooms in the Duke Aubrey’s Arms, because,” and Viola giggled and blushed a little, “it would be as near as she’d ever get to his arms, or to anybody else’s!”
But the laughter that greeted this last sally was just a trifle shamefaced; for the Crabapple Blossoms found it a little too daring.
At the beginning of autumn, Miss Primrose suddenly sent all the servants back to their homes in distant villages; and, to the indignation of the Crabapple Blossoms, their places were filled (only temporarily, Miss Primrose maintained) by the crazy washerwoman, Mother Tibbs, and a handsome, painted, deaf-mute, with bold black eyes. Mother Tibbs made but an indifferent housemaid, for she spent most of her time at the garden gate, waving her handkerchief to the passersby. And if, when at her work, she heard the sound of a fiddle or flute, however distant, she would instantly stop whatever she was doing and start dancing, brandishing wildly in the air broom, or warming-pan, or whatever domestic implement she may have been holding in her hands at the time.
As for the deaf-mute—she was quite a good cook, but was, perhaps, scarcely suited to employment in a young ladies’ academy, as she was known in the town as “Bawdy Bess.”
One morning Miss Primrose announced that she had found them a new dancing master (the last one had been suddenly dismissed, no one knew for what reason), and that when they had finished their seams they were to come up to the loft for a lesson.
So they tripped up to the cool, dark, pleasant loft, which smelt of apples, and had bunches of drying grapes suspended from its rafters. Long ago the Academy had been a farmhouse, and on the loft’s oak panelled walls were carved the interlaced initials of many rustic lovers, dead hundreds of years ago. To these Prunella Chanticleer and Moonlove Honeysuckle had recently added a monogram formed of the letters P. C. and E. L.
Their new dancing-master was a tall, red-haired youth, with a white pointed face and very bright eyes. Miss Primrose, who always implied that it was at great personal inconvenience and from purely philanthropic motives that their teachers gave them their lessons, introduced him as “Professor Wisp, who had very kindly consented to teach them dancing,” and the young man made his new pupils a low bow, and turning to Miss Primrose, he said, “I’ve got you a fiddler, ma’am. Oh, a rare fiddler! It’s your needlework that has brought him. He’s a weaver by trade, and he dearly loves pictures in silk. And he can give you some pretty patterns to work from—can’t you, Portunus?” and he clapped his hands twice.
Whereupon, “like a bat dropped from the rafters,” as Prunella, with an inexplicable shudder, whispered to Moonlove, a queer wizened old man, with eyes as bright as Professor Wisp’s, all mopping and mowing, with a fiddle and a bow under his arm, sprang suddenly out of the shadows.
“Young ladies!” cried Professor Wisp, gleefully, “this is Master Portunus, fiddler to his Majesty the Emperor of the Moon, jester-in-chief to the Lord of Ghosts and Shadows … though his jests are apt to be silent ones. And he has come a long long way, young ladies, to set your feet a dancing. Ho, ho, hoh!”
And the professor sprang up at least three feet in the air, and landed on the tips of his toes, as light as a ball of thistledown, while Master Portunus stood rubbing his hands, and chuckling with senile glee.
“What a vulgar young man! Just like a cheap Jack on market-day,” whispered Viola Vigil to Prunella Chanticleer.
But Prunella, who had been looking at him intently, whispered back, “I’m sure at one time he was one of our grooms. I only saw him once, but I’m sure it’s he. What can Miss Primrose be thinking of to engage such low people as teachers?”
Prunella had, of course, not been told any details as to Ranulph’s illness.
Even Miss Primrose seemed somewhat disconcerted. She stood there, mouthing and blinking, evidently at a loss what to say. Then she turned to the old man, and, in her best company manner, said she was delighted to meet another needlework enthusiast; and, turning to Professor Wisp, added in her most cooing treacley voice, “I must embroider a pair of slippers for the dear doctor’s birthday, and I want the design to be very original, so perhaps this gentleman would kindly lend me his sampler.”
At this the professor made another wild pirouette, and, clapping his hands with glee, cried, “Yes, yes, Portunus is your man. Portunus will set your stitches dancing to his tunes, ho, ho, hoh!”
And he and Portunus
