I’m remembering what you said, and trying to look after the little master, but this is a queer place and no mistake, and I’d liefer we were both safe back in Lud. Not that I’ve any complaint to make as to victuals and lodging, and I’m sure they treat Master Ranulph as if he was a king—wax candles and linen sheets and everything that he gets at home. And I must say I’ve not seen him looking so well, nor so happy for many a long day. But the widow woman she’s a rum customer and no mistake, and wonderful fond of fishing, for a female. She and the doctor are out all night sometimes together after trout, but never a trout do we see on the table. And sometimes she looks so queerly at Master Ranulph that it fairly makes my flesh creep. And there’s no love lost between her and her granddaughter, her step-granddaughter I
should say, her who’s called Miss Hazel, and they say as what by the old farmer’s will the farm belongs to her and not to the widow. And she’s a stuck-up young miss, very high and keeping herself to herself. But I’m glad she’s in the house all the same, for she’s well liked by all the folk on the farm and I’d take my oath that though she’s high she’s straight. And there’s a daft old man that they call Portunus and it’s more like having a tame magpie in the house than a human man, for he can’t talk a word of sense, it’s all scraps of rhyme, and he’s always up to mischief. He’s a weaver and as cracked as Mother Tibbs, though he do play the fiddle beautiful. And it’s my belief the widow walks in fear of her life for that old man, though why she should beats me to know. For the old fellow’s harmless enough, though a bit spiteful at times. He sometimes pinches the maids till their arms are as many colours as a mackerel’s back. And he seems sweet on Miss Hazel though she can’t abear him, though when I ask her about him she snaps my head off and tells me to mind my own business. And I’m afraid the folk on the farm must think me a bit high myself through me minding what you told me and keeping myself
to myself. Because it’s my belief if I’d been a bit more friendly at the beginning (such as it’s my nature to be) I’d have found out a thing or two. And that cracked old weaver seems quite smitten by an old stone statue in the orchard. He’s always cutting capers in front of it, and pulling faces at it, like a clown at the fair. But the widow’s scared of him, as sure as my name’s Luke Hempen. And Master Ranulph does talk so queer about him—things as I wouldn’t demean myself to write to an old lady. And I’d be very glad, auntie, if you’d ask his Worship to send for us back, because I don’t like this place, and that’s a fact, and not so much as a sprig of fennel do they put above their doors.
—And I am, Your dutiful grandnephew,
Hempie read it through with many a frown and shake of her head, and with an occasional snort of contempt; as, for instance, where Luke intimated that the widow’s linen sheets were as fine as the Chanticleers’.
Then she sat for a few minutes in deep thought.
“No, no,” she finally said to herself, “my boy’s well and happy and that’s more than he was in Lud, these last few months. What must be must be, and it’s never any use worrying Master Nat.”
So she did not show Master Nathaniel Luke Hempen’s letter.
As for Master Nathaniel, he was enchanted by the accounts he received from Endymion Leer of the improvement both in Ranulph’s health and state of mind. Ranulph himself too wrote little letters saying how happy he was and how anxious to stay on at the farm. It was evident that, to use the words of Endymion Leer, he was learning to live life to a different tune.
And then Endymion Leer returned to Lud and confirmed what he had said in his letters by his accounts of how well and happy Ranulph was in the life of a farm.
The summer was simmering comfortably by, in its usual sleepy way, in the streets and gardens of Lud-in-the-Mist. The wives of Senators and burgesses were busy in still-room and kitchen making cordials and jams; in the evening the streets were lively with chattering voices and the sounds of music, and ’prentices danced with their masters’ daughters in the public square, or outside taverns, till the grey twilight began to turn black. The Senators yawned their way through each other’s speeches, and made their own as short as possible that they might hurry off to whip the Dapple for trout or play at bowls on the Guild Hall’s beautiful velvety green. And when one of their ships brought in a particularly choice cargo of rare wine or exotic sweetmeats they invited their friends to supper, and washed down the dainties with the good old jokes.
Mumchance looked glum, and would sometimes frighten his wife by gloomy forebodings; but he had learned that it was no use trying to arouse the Mayor and the Senate.
Master Nathaniel was missing Ranulph very much; but as he continued to get highly satisfactory reports of his health he felt that it would be selfish not to let him stay on, at any rate till the summer was over.
Then the trees, after their long silence, began to talk again, in yellow and red. And the days began to shrink under one’s very eyes. And Master Nathaniel’s pleached alley was growing yellower and yellower, and on the days when a thick white mist came rolling up from the Dapple it would be the only object in
