Then he went up to say goodbye to old Hempie.
“Well, Hempie,” he cried gaily. “Lud’s getting too hot for me. So I’m off with a knapsack on my back to seek my fortune, like the youngest son in your old stories. Will you wish me luck?”
There were tears in the old woman’s eyes as she looked at him, and then she smiled.
“Why, Master Nat,” she cried, “I don’t believe you’ve felt so lighthearted since you were a boy! But these are strange times when a Chanticleer is chased out of Lud-in-the-Mist! And wouldn’t I just like to give those Vigils and the rest of them a bit of my mind!” and her old eyes flashed. “But don’t you ever get downhearted, Master Nat, and don’t ever forget that there have always been Chanticleers in Lud-in-the-Mist, and that there always will be! But it beats me how you’re to manage with only three pairs of stockings, and no one to mend them.”
“Well, Hempie,” he laughed, “they say the Fairies are wonderfully neat-fingered, and, who knows, perhaps in my wanderings I may fall in with a fairy housewife who will darn my stockings for me,” and he brought out the forbidden word as lightly and easily as if it had been one in daily use.
About an hour after Master Nathaniel had ridden away Luke Hempen arrived at the house, wild-eyed, dishevelled, and with very startling news. But it was impossible to communicate it to Master Nathaniel, as he had left without telling anyone his destination.
XX
Watching the Cows
In the interval between his two letters—the one to Hempie, and the one to Master Nathaniel—Luke decided that his suspicions had been groundless, for the days at the farm were buzzing by with a soothing hum like that of summer insects, and Ranulph was growing gay and sunburned.
Then towards autumn Ranulph had begun to wilt, and finally Luke overheard the strange conversation he had reported in his letter to Master Nathaniel, and once again the farm grew hateful to him, and he followed Ranulph as if he were his shadow and counted the hours for the order to come from Master Nathaniel bidding them return to Lud.
Perhaps you may remember that on his first evening at the farm Ranulph had wanted to join the children who watched the widow’s cows at night, but it had evidently been nothing but a passing whim, for he did not express the wish again.
And then at the end of June—as a matter of fact it was Midsummer day—the widow had asked him if he would not like that night to join the little herdsmen. But towards evening had come a steady downfall of rain, and the plan had fallen through.
It was not alluded to again till the end of October, three or four days before Master Nathaniel left Lud-in-the-Mist. It had been a very mild autumn in the West and the nights were fresh rather than cold, and when, that evening, the little boys came knocking at the door for their bread and cheese, the widow began to jeer at Ranulph, in a hearty jovial way, for being town-bred and never having spent a night under the sky.
“Why don’t you go tonight with the little herdsmen? You wanted to when you first came here, and the Doctor said it would do you no harm.”
Now Luke was feeling particularly downcast that night; no answer had come from Master Nathaniel to his letter, though it was well over a week since he had written. He felt forlorn and abandoned, with a weight of responsibility too heavy for his shoulders, and he was certainly not going to add to that weight by allowing Ranulph to run the risk of catching a bad chill. And as well, any suggestion that came from the widow was greeted by him with suspicion.
“Master Ranulph,” he cried excitedly, “I can’t let you go. His Worship and my old auntie wouldn’t like it, what with the nights getting damp and all. No, Master Ranulph, be a good little chap and go to your bed as usual.”
As he was speaking he caught Hazel’s eye, and she gave him an almost imperceptible nod of approval.
But the widow cried, with a loud scornful laugh, in which Ranulph shrilly joined: “Too damp, indeed! When we haven’t had so much as a drop of rain these four weeks! Don’t let yourself be coddled, Master Ranulph. Young Hempen’s nothing but an old maid in breeches. He’s as bad as my Hazel. I’ve always said that if she doesn’t die an old maid, it isn’t that she wasn’t born one!”
Hazel said nothing, but she fixed her eyes beseechingly on Luke.
But Ranulph, I fear, was a very spoiled little boy, and, into the bargain, he dearly loved annoying Luke; so he jumped up and down, shouting, “Old maid Hempen! Old maid Hempen! I’m going—so there!”
“That’s right, little master!” laughed the widow. “You’ll be a man before I am.”
And the three little herdsmen, who had been watching this scene with shy amusement, grinned from ear to ear.
“Do as you like, then,” said Luke sullenly, “but I’m coming too. And, anyway, you must wrap up as warmly as you can.”
So they went upstairs to put on their boots and mufflers.
When they came down Hazel, with compressed lips and a little frown knitting her brows, gave them their rations of cheese and bread and honey, and then, with a furtive glance in the direction of the widow, who was standing with her back turned, talking to the little herdsmen, she slipped two sprigs of fennel into Luke’s buttonhole. “Try and get Master Ranulph to wear one of them,” she whispered.
This was not reassuring. But how is an undergardener, not yet turned eighteen, to curb the spoiled son of his master—especially when a strong-willed, elderly woman throws her weight into the other scale?
“Well, well,” said the
