[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
"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 humour.
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
Page 44
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
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 parlour. Framed in the
window, against the leafy background of the garden stood, quite motionless, a
Page 45
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
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.
[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]