MASTER AMBROSE KEEPS HIS VOW
At first the Crabapple Blossoms felt as if they had awakened from an
evil dream, but they soon found that it was a dream that had profoundly
influenced their souls. Though they showed no further desire to run
away and roam the hills, they were moody, silent, prone to attacks of
violent weeping, and haunted by some nameless fear--strange melancholy
denizens, in fact, of the comfortable, placid homes of their parents.
One would not have imagined that a daughter in this condition
would have met with much sympathy from Master Ambrose Honeysuckle.
Nevertheless, his tenderness and patience with Moonlove proved
boundless. Night after night he sat by her holding her hand till she
fell asleep, and by day he soothed her ravings, and in her quieter
moments they would have long intimate talks together, such as they had
never had before she ran away. And the result of these talks was that
his stiff but fundamentally honest mind was beginning to creak on its
hinges. And he would actually listen without protest when Moonlove
expressed her conviction that although fairy fruit had robbed her of
her peace of mind, nevertheless nothing but fairy fruit could restore
it to her, and that at Miss Primrose Crabapple's she had either been
given the wrong kind or not enough.
The reign of winter was now established, and Lud-in-the-Mist seemed at
last to have settled down into its old peaceful rut.
Master Nathaniel had turned into "poor old Nat," and was to most people
no more than a lovable ghost of the past. Indeed, Master Polydore was
thinking of suggesting to Dame Marigold that two empty coffins should
be placed in the Chanticleers' chapel bearing respectively the names of
Nathaniel and Ranulph.
As for the Senate, it was very busy preparing for its annual banquet,
which was celebrated every December in the Guildhall, to commemorate
the expulsion of the Dukes; and it was kept fully occupied by such
important questions as how many turkeys should be ordered and from
what poulterers; which Senator was to have the privilege of providing
the wine, and which the marzipan and ginger; and whether they would be
justified in expending on goose liver and peacocks' hearts the sum left
them in the will of a late linen-draper, to be devoted to the general
welfare of the inhabitants of Lud-in-the-Mist.
But one morning a polished conceit of Master Polydore's concerning
"that sweet and pungent root commonly known as ginger, a kindly snake
who stings us that we may better enjoy the fragrant juice of the
grape," was rudely interrupted by the sudden entry of Mumchance, his
eyes almost starting out of his head with terror, with the appalling
tidings that an army of Fairies had crossed the Debatable Hills, and
that crowds of terrified peasants were pouring into Lud.
The news produced something like pandemonium in the Senate. Everyone
began talking at once, and a dozen different schemes of defence were
mooted, each one more senseless than the last.
Then Master Ambrose Honeysuckle rose to his feet. He was the man that
carried most weight among his colleagues, and all eyes were turned to
him expectantly.
In a calm, matter of fact voice, he began thus: "Senators of Dorimare!
Before the entry of the Captain of the Yeomanry we were discussing what
dessert we should have at our annual feast. It seems unnecessary to
start a fresh subject of discussion before the previous one has been
settled to our satisfaction. So, with your permission, I will return
to the sweet and pungent (I think these were his Worship's well-chosen
words) subject of dessert; for there is one item I should like to add
to those that have already been suggested."
He paused, and then he said in a loud challenging voice, "Senators of
Dorimare! I propose that for the first time since the foundation of our
annual feast, we should partake at it of ... fairy fruit!"
His colleagues stared at him in open-mouthed amazement. Was this some
ill-timed jest? But Ambrose was not given to jesting ... especially on
serious occasions.
Then, with a certain rough poetry breaking through the artificial
diction of the Senate, he began to speak of the events of the year that
was nearly over, and the lessons to be learned from them. And the chief
lessons, he said, were those of humility and faith.
He ended thus: "One of our proverbs says, 'Remember that the Dapple
flows into the Dawl.' I have sometimes wondered, recently, whether
we have ever really understood the true meaning of that proverb.
Our ancestors built the town of Lud-in-the-Mist between these two
rivers, and both have brought us their tribute. The tribute of the
Dawl has been gold, and we have gladly accepted it. But the tribute of
the Dapple we have ever spurned. The Dapple--our placid old friend,
in whose waters we learned as lads the gentle art of angling--has
silently, through the centuries, been bringing fairy fruit into
Dorimare ... a fact that, to my mind, at least, proves that fairy
fruit is as wholesome and necessary for man as the various other gifts
brought for our welfare by our silent friends--the Dawl's gift of gold,
the earth's gift of corn, the hills' gift of shelter and pasturage, and
the trees' gift of grapes and apples and shade.
"And if all the gifts of Life are good, perhaps, too, are all the
shapes she chooses to take, and which we cannot alter. The shape she
has taken now for Dorimare is that of an invasion by our ancient foes.
Why should we not make a virtue of necessity and throw our gates wide
to them as friends?"
His colleagues, at first, expressed themselves as horrified. But
perhaps they, too, though unknown to themselves, had been altered by
recent events.
At any rate, this was one of the crises when the strongest man
inevitably finds himself at the helm. And there could be no doubt that
the strongest man in the Senate was Master Ambrose Honeysuckle.
When the Senate rose, he addressed the terrified populace from the
market-place, with the result that before nightfall he had quieted
the panic-stricken crowds and had persuaded the citizens, with the
exception of such models of old-fashioned respectability as Ebeneezor
Prim, to accept with calm passivity whatever the future might hold in
store.
His two most ardent supporters were Sebastian Thug and the disreputable
Bawdy Bess.
Only a few months ago what would he have said if someone had told him
the day would come when he, Ambrose Honeysuckle, would turn demagogue,
and, assisted by a rough sailor and a woman of the town, would be
exhorting the citizens of Lud-in-the-Mist to throw wide their gates and
welcome in the Fairies!
* * * * *
So, instead of repairing its walls and testing its cannon and laying
in provision against a siege, Lud-in-the-Mist hoisted its flags and
festooned its windows with wreaths of Duke Aubrey's ivy, and flung the
west gate wide open; and a throng of silent, expectant people lined the
streets and waited.
First came the sounds of wild sweet music, then the tramp of a myriad
feet, and then, like hosts of leaves blown on the wind, the invading
army came pouring into the town.
As he watched, Master Ambrose remembered the transfigured tapestry in
the Guildhall, and the sense they had had of noisy, gaudy, dominant
dreams flooding the streets and scattering reality in their wake.
Behind the battalions of mail-clad dead marched three gigantic old men,
with long white beards reaching below their girdles. Their long stiff
robes were embroidered in gold and jewels with strange emblems, and
behind them were led sumpter mules laden with coffers of wrought gold.
And the rumour passed through the waiting crowd that these were none
other than the balsam-eating priests of the sun and moon.
And bringing up the rear on a great white charger was--Master Nathaniel
Chanticleer, with Ranulph riding by his side.
* * * * *
The accounts of what took place immediately after the entry of the
fairy army read more like legends than history. It would seem that the
trees broke into leaf and the masts of all the ships in the bay into
blossom; that day and night the cocks crowed without ceasing; that
violets and anemones sprang up through the snow in the streets, and
that mothers embraced their dead sons, and maids their sweethearts
drowned at sea.
But one thing seems certain, and that is that the gold-wrought coffers
contained the ancient offering of fairy fruit to Dorimare. And the
coffers were of such miraculous capacity that there was enough and to
spare, not only for the dessert of the Senate, but for that of every
household in Lud-in-the-Mist.