And Portunus chuckled with delight and his bright eyes twinkled.
“Why,” the widow continued, “I have known him these twenty years. He’s the weaver in these parts, and goes the round from farm to farm, and the room with the loom is always called ‘Portunus’ Parlour.’ And there isn’t a wedding or a merrymaking within twenty miles where he doesn’t play the fiddle.”
Luke, whose perceptions owing to the fright he had just had were unusually alert, noticed that Endymion Leer was very silent, and that his face as he watched Ranulph was puzzled and a little anxious.
When supper was over the maids and labourers vanished, and so did Portunus; but the three guests sat on, listening to the pleasant whirr of the widow’s and Hazel’s spinning-wheels, saying but little, for the long day in the open air had made all three of them sleepy.
At eight o’clock a little scrabbling noise was heard at the door. “That’s the children,” said Hazel, and she went and opened it, upon which three or four little boys came bashfully in from the dusk.
“Good evening, my lads,” said the widow, genially. “Come for your bread and cheese … eh?”
The children grinned and hung their heads, abashed by the sight of three strangers.
“The little lads of the village, Master Chanticleer, take it in turn to watch our cattle all night,” said the widow to Ranulph. “We keep them some miles away along the valley where there is good pasturage, and the herdsman likes to come back to his own home at night.”
“And these little boys are going to be out all night?” asked Ranulph in an awed voice.
“That they are! And a fine time they’ll have of it too. They build themselves little huts out of branches and light fires in them. Oh, they enjoy themselves.”
The children grinned from ear to ear; and when Hazel had provided each of them with some bread and cheese they scuttled off into the gathering dusk.
“I’d like to go some night, too,” said Ranulph.
The widow was beginning to expostulate against the idea of young Master Chanticleer’s spending the night out of doors with cows and village children, when Endymion Leer said, decidedly, “That’s all nonsense! I don’t want my patient coddled … eh! Ranulph? I see no reason why he shouldn’t go some night if it amuses him. But wait till the nights are warmer.”
He paused just a second, and added, “towards Midsummer, let us say.”
They sat on a little longer; saying but little, yawning a great deal. And then the widow suggested that they should all go off to bed.
There were homemade tallow candles provided for everyone, except Ranulph, whose social importance was emphasised by a wax one from Lud.
Endymion Leer lit it for him, and then held it at arm’s length and contemplated its flame, his head on one side, eyes twinkling.
“Thrice blessed little herb!” he began in a whimsical voice. “Herb o’ grease, with thy waxen stem and blossom of flame! Thou art more potent against spells and terrors and the invisible menace than fennel or dittany or rue. Hail! antidote to the deadly nightshade! Blossoming in the darkness, thy virtues are heartsease and quiet sleep. Sick people bless thee, and women in travail, and people with haunted minds, and all children.”
“Don’t be a buffoon, Leer,” said the widow roughly; in quite a different voice from the one of bluff courtesy in which she had hitherto addressed him. To an acute observer it would have suggested that they were in reality more intimate than they cared to show.
For the first time in his life Luke Hempen had difficulty in getting off to sleep.
His great-aunt had dinned into him for the past week, with many a menacing shake of her old fist, that should anything happen to Master Ranulph she would hold him, Luke, responsible, and even before leaving Lud the honest, but by no means heroic, lad, had been in somewhat of a panic; and the various odd little incidents that had taken place that evening were not of a nature to reassure him.
Finally he could stand it no longer. So up he got, lit his candle, and crept down the attic stairs and along the corridor to Ranulph’s room.
Ranulph, too, was wide awake. He had not put out his candle, and was lying staring up at the fantastic ceiling.
“What do you want, Luke?” he cried peevishly. “Why won’t anyone ever leave me alone?”
“I was just wondering if you were all right, sir,” said Luke apologetically.
“Of course I am. Why shouldn’t I be?” and Ranulph gave an impatient little plunge in his bed.
“Well, I was just wondering, you know.”
Luke paused; and then said imploringly, “Please, Master Ranulph, be a good chap and tell me what took you at supper time when that doitered old weaver came in. You gave me quite a turn, screaming like that.”
“Ah, Luke! Wouldn’t you like to know!” teased Ranulph.
Finally he admitted that when he had been a small child he had frequently seen Portunus in his dreams, “And that’s rather frightening, you know, Luke.”
Luke, much relieved, admitted that he supposed it was. He himself was not given to dreaming; nor did he take seriously the dreams of others.
Ranulph noticed his relief; and rather an impish expression stole into his eyes.
“But there’s something else, Luke,” he said. “Old Portunus, you know, is a dead man.”
This time Luke was really alarmed. Was his charge going off his head?
“Get along with you, Master Ranulph!” he cried, in a voice that he tried to make jocose.
“All right, Luke, you needn’t believe it unless you like,” said Ranulph. “Good night, I’m off to sleep.”
And he blew out his candle and turned his back on Luke, who, thus dismissed, must needs return to his own bed, where he soon fell fast asleep.
VI
The Wind in the Crabapple Blossoms
About a week later, Mistress Hempen received the following letter from Luke:
Dear Auntie—I trust this finds you as well as it leaves me.
