“Stop chattering, Jessamine, and let me go,” cried Master Ambrose. “Moonlove is not at the Academy.”
And he found a sort of savage satisfaction in calling back over his shoulder as he hurried from the room, “I very much fear you will never see your daughter again, Jessamine.”
About half an hour later, he returned home even more depressed than when he had set out, owing to what he had learned from Mumchance as to the recent alarming spread in the town of the consumption of fairy fruit. He found Endymion Leer sitting in the parlour with his wife.
Her husband’s parting words had brought on an attack of violent hysterics and the alarmed servants, fearing a seizure, had, on their own responsibility, summoned the only doctor of Lud in whom they had any faith, Endymion Leer. And, judging from Dame Jessamine’s serene and smiling face, he had succeeded in removing completely the terrible impression produced by her husband’s parting words, and in restoring to what she was pleased to call her mind its normal condition, namely that of a kettle that contains just enough water to simmer comfortably over a low fire.
She greeted Master Ambrose with a smile that for her was quite eager.
“Oh, Ambrose!” she cried, “I have been having such a pleasant talk with Dr. Leer. He says girls of her age often get silly and excited, though I’m sure I never did, and that she’s sure to be brought home before night. But I do think we’d better take her away from Miss Primrose’s. For one thing she has really learned quite enough now—I know no one who can make prettier groups in butter. So I think we had better give a ball for her before the winter, so if you will excuse me, Dr. Leer, I have just a few things to see to …” and off she bustled to overhaul Moonlove’s bridal chest, which, according to the custom of Dorimarite mothers, she had been storing, ever since her daughter’s birth, with lace and velvets and brocade.
Not without reason, Dame Jessamine was considered the stupidest woman in Lud-in-the-Mist. And, in addition, the Ludite’s lack of imagination and inability to feel serious emotions, amounted in her to a sort of affective idiocy.
So Master Ambrose found himself alone with Endymion Leer; and, though he had never liked the man, he was very glad to have the chance of consulting him. For, socially, however great his shortcomings might be, Master Ambrose knew him to be undeniably the best doctor in the country, and a very clever fellow into the bargain.
“Leer,” he said solemnly, when Dame Jessamine had left the room, “there are very queer things happening at that Academy … very queer things.”
“Indeed?” said Endymion Leer, in a tone of surprise. “What sort of things?”
Master Ambrose gave a short laugh: “Not the sort of things, if my suspicions are correct, that one cares to talk about—even between men. But I can tell you, Leer, though I’m not what one could call a fanciful man, I believe if I’d stayed much longer in that house I should have gone off my head, the whole place stinks with … well, with pernicious nonsense, and I actually found myself, I, Ambrose Honeysuckle, seeing things—ridiculous things.”
Endymion Leer looked interested.
“What sort of things, Master Ambrose?” he asked.
“Oh, it’s not worth repeating—except in so far as it shows that the fancies of silly overwrought women can sometimes be infectious. I actually imagined that I saw the Senate room portrait of Duke Aubrey reflected on the window. And if I take to fancying things—well, there must be something very fishy in the offing.”
Endymion Leer’s expression was inscrutable.
“Optical delusions have been known before, Master Ambrose,” he said calmly. “Even the eyes of Senators may sometimes play them tricks. Optical delusions, legal fictions—and so the world wags on.”
Master Ambrose grunted. He loathed the fellow’s offensive way of putting things.
But he was sore at heart and terribly anxious, and he felt the need of having his fears either confirmed or dispelled, so, ignoring the sneer, he said with a weary sigh: “However, that’s a mere trifle. I have grave reasons for fearing that my daughter has … has … well, not to put too fine a point on things, I’m afraid that my daughter has eaten fairy fruit.”
Endymion Leer flung up his hands in horror, and then he laughed incredulously.
“Impossible, my dear sir, impossible! Your good lady told me you were sadly anxious about her, but let me assure you such an idea is mere morbidness on your part. The thing’s impossible.”
“Is it?” said Master Ambrose grimly; and producing the slipper from his pocket he held it out, saying, “What do you say to that? I found it in Miss Crabapple’s parlour. I’m not much of a botanist, but I’ve never seen purple strawberries in Dorimare … toasted cheese! What’s taken the man?”
For Endymion Leer had turned livid, and was staring at the design on the shoe with eyes as full of horror as if it had been some hideous goblin.
Master Ambrose interpreted this as corroboration of his own theory.
He gave a sort of groan: “Not so impossible after all, eh?” he said gloomily. “Yes, that I very much fear is the sort of stuff my poor little girl has been given to eat.”
Then his eyes flashed, and clenching his fist he cried, “But it’s not her I blame. Before I’m many days older I’ll smoke out that nest of wasps! I’ll hang that simpering old woman from her own doorpost. By the Golden Apples of the West I’ll …”
Endymion Leer had by this time, at any rate externally, recovered his equanimity.
“Are you referring to Miss Primrose Crabapple?”
