









                        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 despatched 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.
   On his way out he was stopped by Dame Jessamine in the
fretful complaining condition that he always found so
irritating.
   "Where *have* you been, Ambrose?" she cried querulously. 
"First Moonlove screaming like a mad cockatoo!  And then you
rushing off, just after your dinner too, and leaving me like
that in the lurch when I was so upset that I was on the
verge of swooning!  Where did you *go* to Ambrose?" and her
voice grew shrill.  "I do wish you would go to Miss Primrose
and tell her she must *not* let Moonlove be such a tom-boy
and play practical jokes on her parents... rushing home in
the middle of the day like that and talking such silly
nonsense.  She really is a very naughty girl to give us such
a fright.  I feel half inclined to go straight off to the
Academy and give her a good scolding."
   "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?" he asked
in his usual voice.
   "Yes, *Miss Primrose Crabapple!*" boomed Master Ambrose,
"nonsensical, foul-minded, obscene old..."
   "Yes, yes," interrupted Endymion Leer with good-humoured
impatience, "I daresay she's all of that and a great deal
more, but, all the same, I don't believe her capable of
having given your daughter what you think she has.  I admit,
when you first showed me that slipper I was frightened. 
Unlike you, I *am* a bit of a botanist, and I certainly have
never seen a berry like that in Dorimare.  But after all
that does not prove that it grows... across the hills. 
There's many a curious fruit to be found in the Cinnamon 
Isles, or in the oases of the Amber Desert... why, your own
ships, Master Ambrose, sometimes bring such fruit.  The
ladies of Lud have no lack of exotic fruit and flowers to
copy in their embroidery.  No, no, you're a bit unhinged
this evening, Master Ambrose, else you would not allow so
much as the shadow of foul suspicions like these to cross
your mind."
   Master Ambrose groaned.
   And then he said a little stiffly, "I am not given, Dr.
Leer, to harbouring foul suspicions without cause.  But a
great deal of mischief is sometimes done by not facing
facts.  How is one to explain my daughter's running away,
due west, like one possessed?  Besides, Prunella Chanticleer
as much as told me she had... eaten a certain thing...
and... and... I'm old enough to remember the great drought,
so I know the smell, so to speak, of evil, and there is
something very strange going on in that Academy."
   "Prunella *Chanticleer*, did you say?" queried Endymion
Leer with an emphasis on the last word, and with a rather
odd expression in his eyes.
   Master Ambrose looked surprised.
   "Yes," he said.  "Prunella Chanticleer, her school fellow
and intimate friend."
   Endymion Leer gave a short laugh.
   "The Chanticleers are... rather curious people," he said
drily, "Are you aware that Ranulph Chanticleer has done the
very thing you suspect your daughter of having done?"
   Master Ambrose gaped at him.
   Ranulph had certainly always been an odd and rather
disagreeable boy, and there had been that horrid little
incident at the Moongrass cheese supper-party... but that he
actually should have eaten fairy fruit!
   "Do you mean?  Do you mean...?" he gasped.
   Endymion Leer nodded his head significantly: "One of the
worst cases I have ever known."
   "And Nathaniel knows?"
   Again Endymion Leer nodded.
   A wave of righteous indignation swept over Master
Ambrose.  The Honeysuckles were every bit as ancient and
honourable a family as the Chanticleers, and yet here was
he, ready to tarnish his escutcheon for ever, ready if need
be to make the town crier trumpet his disgrace from the
market-place, to sacrifice money, position, family pride,
everything, for the good of the community.  While the only
though of Nathaniel, and he the Mayor, was to keep his
skeleton safely hidden in the cupboard.
   "Master Ambrose," continued Endymion Leer, in a grave
impressive voice, "if what you fear about your daughter be
true, then it is Master Nathaniel who is to blame.  No, no,
hear me out," as Master Ambrose raised a protesting hand. 
"I happen to know that some months ago Mumchance warned him
of the alarming increase there has been recently in Lud in
the consumption of... a certain commodity.  And I know that
this is true from my practice in the less genteel parts of
the town.  Take it from me, Master Ambrose, you Senators 
make a great mistake in ignoring what takes place in those
low haunts.  Nasty things have a way of not always staying
at the bottom, you know -- stir the pond and they rise to
the top.  Anyway, Master Nathaniel was warned, yet he took
no steps."
   He paused for a few seconds, and then, fixing his eyes
searchingly on Master Ambrose, he said, "Did it never strike
you that Master Nathaniel Chanticleer was a rather...
curious man?"
   "Never," said Master Ambrose coldly.  "What are you
insinuating, Leer?"
   Endymion Leer gave a little shrug: "Well, it is you who
have set the example in insinuations.  Master Nathaniel is a
haunted man, and a bad conscience makes a very good ghost. 
If a man has once tasted fairy fruit he is never the same
again.  I have sometimes wondered if perhaps, long ago, when
he was a young man..."
   "Hold your tongue, Leer!" cried Master Ambrose angrily. 
"Chanticleer is a very old friend of mine, and, what's more,
he's my second cousin.  There's nothing wrong about
Nathaniel."
   But was this true?  A few hours ago he would have laughed
to scorn any suggestion to the contrary.  But since then,
his own daughter... ugh!
   Yes, Nathaniel had certainly always been a very queer
fellow -- touchy, irascible, whimsical.
   A swarm of little memories, not noticed at the time,
buzzed in Master Ambrose's head... irrational actions,
equivocal remarks.  And, in particular, one evening, years
and years ago, when they had been boys... Nat's face at the
eerie sound produced by an old lute.  The look in his eyes
had been like that in Moonlove's to-day.
   No, no.  It would never do to start suspecting everyone
-- above all his oldest friend.
   So he let the subject of Master Nathaniel drop and
questioned Endymion Leer as to the effects on the system of
fairy fruit, and whether there was really no hope of finding
an antidote.
   Then Endymion Leer started applying his famous balm -- a
balm that varied with each patient that required it.
   In most cases, certainly, there was no cure.  But when
the eater was a Honeysuckle, and hence, born with a healthy
mind in a healthy body there was every reason to hope that
no poison could be powerful enough to undermine such a
constitution.
   "Yes, but suppose she is already across the border?" said
Master Ambrose.  Endymion Leer gave a little shrug.
   "In that case, of course, there is nothing more one can
do," he replied.
   Master Ambrose gave a deep sigh and leant back wearily in
his chair, and for a few minutes they sat in silence.
   Drearily and hopelessly Master Ambrose's mind wandered
over the events of the day and finally settled, as is the
way with a tired mind, on the least important -- the red
juice he had noticed oozing out of the coffin, when they had
been checked at the west gate by the funeral procession. 
   "Do the dead bleed, Leer?" he said suddenly.
   Endymion Leer sprang from his chair as if he had been
shot.  First he turned white, then he turned crimson.
   "What the... what the..." he stuttered, "what do you mean
by that question, Master Ambrose?"
   He was evidently in the grip of some violent emotion.
   "Busty Bridget!" exclaimed Master Ambrose, testily,
"what, by the Harvest of Souls, has taken you now, Leer?  It
may have been a silly question, but it was quite a harmless
one.  We were stopped by a funeral this afternoon at the
west gate, and I thought I saw a red liquid oozing from the
coffin.  But, by the White Ladies of the Fields, I've seen
so many queer things to-day that I've ceased to trust my own
eyes."
   These words completely restored Endymion Leer's good
humour.  He flung back his head and laughed till the tears
rolled down his cheeks.
   "Why, Master Ambrose," he gurgled, "it was such a grisly
question that it gave me quite a turn.  Owing to the
deplorable ignorance of this country I'm used to my patients
asking me rather queer things... but that beats anything
I've yet heard.  `Do the dead bleed'  Do pigs fly?  Ha, ha,
ha, ha!"
   Then, seeing that Master Ambrose was beginning to look
stiff and offended, he controlled his mirth, and added,
"Well, well, a man as sorely tried as you have been to-day,
Master Ambrose, is to be excused if he has hallucinations...
it is wonderful what queer things we imagine we see when we
are unhinged by strong emotion.  And now I must be going. 
Birth and death, Master Ambrose, they wait for no man -- not
even for Senators.  So I must be off and help the little
Ludites into the world, and the old ones out of it.  And in
the meantime don't give up hope.  At any moment one of
Mumchance's good Yeomen may come galloping up with the
little lady at his saddle-bow.  And then -- even if she
should have eaten what you fear she has -- I shall be much
surprised if a Honeysuckle isn't able with time and care to
throw off all effects of that foul fodder and grow up into
as sensible a woman -- as her mother."
   And, with these characteristic words of comfort, Endymion
Leer bustled off on his business.
   Master Ambrose spent a most painful evening, his ears, on
the one hand, alert for every sound of a horse's hoof, for
every knock at the front door, in case they might herald
news of Moonlove; and, at the same time, doing their best
not to hear Dame Jessamine's ceaseless prattle.
   "Ambrose, I wish you'd remind the clerks to wipe their
shoes before they come in.  Have you forgotten you promised
me we should have a separate door for the warehouse?  I've
got it on paper.
   "How nice it is to know that there's nothing serious the
matter with Moonlove, isn't it?  But I don't know what I
should have done this afternoon if that kind Doctor Leer
hadn't explained it all to me.  How *could* you run away a
second time, Ambrose, and leave me in that state without
even fetching my hartshorn?  I do think men are so
heartless. 
   "What a naughty girl Moonlove is to run away like this! 
I wonder when they'll find her and bring her back?  But it
will be nice having her at home this winter, won't it?  What
a pity Ranulph Chanticleer isn't older, he'd do so nicely
for her, wouldn't he?  But I suppose Florian Baldbreeches
will be just as rich, and he's nearer her age.
   "Do you think Marigold and Dreamsweet and the rest of
them will be shocked by Moonlove's rushing off in this wild
way?  However, as Dr. Leer said, in his quaint way, girls
*will* be girls.
   "Oh, Ambrose, do you remember my deer-coloured
tuftaffity, embroidered with forget-me-nots and stars?  I
had it in my bridal chest.  Well, I think I shall have it
made up for Moonlove.  There's nothing like the old silks,
or the old dyes either -- there were no galls or gum-syrups
used in *them.*  You remember my deer-coloured tuftaffity,
don't you?"
   But Master Ambrose could stand it no longer.  He sprang
to his feet, and cried roughly, "I'll give you a handful of
Yeses and Noes, Jessamine, and it'll keep you amused for the
rest of the evening sorting them out, and sticking them on
to your questions.  I'm going out."
   He would go across to Nat's... Nat might not be a very
efficient Mayor, but he was his oldest friend, and he felt
he needed his sympathy.
   "If... if any news comes about Moonlove, I'll be over at
the Chanticleers.  Let me know at once," he called over his
shoulder, as he hurried from the room.
   Yes, he was longing for a talk with Nat.  Not that he had
any belief in Nat's judgement; but he himself could provide
all that was needed.
   And, apart from everything else, it would be comforting
to talk to a man who was in the same boat as himself -- if,
that is to say, the gossip retailed by Endymion Leer were
true.  But whether it were true or not Leer was a vulgar
fellow, and had had no right to divulge a professional
secret.
   So huge did the events of the day loom in his own mind,
that he felt sure of finding their shadow lying over the
Chanticleers; and he was prepared to be magnanimous and
assure the conscience-stricken Master Nathaniel that though,
as Mayor, he may have been a little remiss and slack,
nevertheless, he could not, in fairness, be held responsible
for the terrible thing that had happened.
   But he had forgotten the gulf that lay between the
Magistrates and the rest of the town.  Though probably the
only topics of conversation that evening in every kitchen,
in every tavern, in every tradesman's parlour, were the good
run for his money little Miss Honeysuckle had given her
revered father that afternoon, and the search parties of
Yeomen that were scouring the country for her -- not to
mention the terrible suspicions as to the cause of her
flight he had confided to Mumchance; nevertheless not a word
of it all had reached the ears of the other Magistrates.
   So, when the front-door of the Chanticleers was opened
for him, he was greeted by sounds of uproarious laughter
proceeding from the parlour. 
   The Polydore Vigils were spending the evening there, and
the whole party was engaged in trying to catch a moth --
flicking at it with their pocket-handkerchiefs, stumbling
over the furniture, emulating each other to further efforts
in the ancient terms of stag-hunting.
   "Come and join the fun, Ambrose," shouted Master
Nathaniel, crimson with exertion and laughter.
   But Master Ambrose began to see red.
   "You... you... heartless, gibbering idiots!" he roared.
   The moth-hunters paused in amazement.
   "Suffering Cats!  What's taken you, Ambrose?" cried
Master Nathaniel.  "Stag-hunting, they say, was a royal
sport.  Even the Honeysuckles might stoop to it!"
   "Don't the Honeysuckles consider a moth a stag, Ambrose?"
laughed Master Polydore Vigil.
   But that evening the old joke seemed to have lost its
savour.
   "Nathaniel," said Master Ambrose solemnly, "the curse of
our country has fallen upon you and me... and you are
hunting moths!"
   Now, "curse" happened to be one of the words that had
always frightened Master Nathaniel.  So much did he dislike
it that he even avoided the words that resembled it in
sound, and had made Dame Marigold dismiss a scullery-maid,
merely because her name happened to be Kirstie.
   Hence, Master Ambrose's words sent him into a frenzy of
nervous irritation.
   "Take that back, Ambrose!  Take that back!" he roared. 
"Speak for yourself.  The... the... the cur... nothing of
that sort is on *me*!"
   "That is not true, Nathaniel," said Master Ambrose
sternly.  "I have only too good reason to fear that Moonlove
is stricken by the same sickness as Ranulph, and..."
   "You lie!" shouted Master Nathaniel.
   "And in both cases," continued Master Ambrose,
relentlessly, "the cause of the sickness was... fairy
fruit."
   Dame Dreamsweet Vigil gave a smothered scream, Dame
Marigold blushed crimson, and Master Polydore exclaimed, in
a deeply shocked voice, "By the Milky Way, Ambrose, you are
going a little too far -- even if there were not ladies
present."
   "No, Polydore.  There come times when even ladies must
face facts.  You see before you two dishonoured men --
Nathaniel and myself.  One of our statutes says that in the
country of Dorimare each member of a family shall be the
master of his own possessions, and that nothing shall be
held in common but disgrace.  And before you are many days
older, Polydore, your family, too, may be sharing that
possession.  Each one of us is threatened in what is nearest
to us, and our chief citizen -- hunts moths!"
   "No, no, Nathaniel," he went on in a louder and angrier
voice, "you needn't glare and growl!  I consider that you,
as Mayor of this town, are responsible for what has happened
to-day, and..." 
   "By the Sun, Moon and Stars!" bellowed Master Nathaniel,
"I haven't the slightest idea what you mean by `what has
happened to-day,' but whatever it is, I know very well I'm
not responsible.  Were *you* responsible last year when old
Mother Pyepowders's yapping little bitch chewed up old
Matt's pet garters embroidered by his first sweetheart, and
when..."
   "You poor, snivelling, feeble-minded buffoon!  You
criminal nincompoop!  Yes, *criminal*, I say," and at each
word Master Ambrose's voice grew louder.  "Who was it that
knew of the spread of this evil thing and took no steps to
stop it?  Whose own son has eaten it?  By the Harvest of
Souls you may have eaten it yourself for all I know..."
   "Silence, you foul-mouthed, pompous, brainless,
wind-bag!  You... you... foul, gibbering Son of a Fairy!"
sputtered Master Nathaniel.
   And so they went at it, hammer and tongs, doing the best
to destroy in a few minutes the fabric built up by years of
fellowship and mutual trust.
   And the end of it was that Master Nathaniel pointed to
the door, and in a voice trembling with fury, told Master
Ambrose to leave his house, and never to enter it again.
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