And here he launched into an elaborate and gratuitous account of all the other farms he had visited on his tour of inspection. But the one that had pleased him best, he said, had been that of a very old friend of his—and he named the farmer near Moongrass with whom, presumably, Ranulph and Luke were now staying.
Here Hazel looked up eagerly, and, in rather an unsteady voice, asked if he’d seen two lads there—a big one, and a little one who was the son of the Seneschal.
“Do you mean little Master Ranulph Chanticleer and Luke Hempen? Why, of course I saw them! It was they who told me to come along here … and very grateful I am to them, for I have found something well worth looking at.”
A look of indescribable relief flitted over Hazel’s face.
“Oh … oh! I’m so glad you saw them,” she faltered.
“Aha! My friend Luke has evidently been making good use of his time—the young dog!” thought Master Nathaniel; and he proceeded to retail a great many imaginary sayings and doings of Luke at his new abode.
Hazel was soon quite at home with the jovial, facetious old cheesemonger. She always preferred elderly men to young ones, and was soon chatting away with the abandon sometimes observable when naturally confiding people, whom circumstances have made suspicious, find someone whom they think they can trust; and Master Nathaniel was, of course, drinking in every word and longing to be in her shoes.
“But, missy, it seems all work and no play!” he cried at last. “Do you get no frolics and junketings?”
“Sometimes we dance of an evening, when old Portunus is here,” she answered.
“Portunus?” he cried sharply, “Who’s he?”
But this question froze her back into reserve. “An old weaver with a fiddle,” she answered stiffly.
“A bit doited?”
Her only answer was to look at him suspiciously and say, “Do you know Portunus, sir?”
“Well, I believe I met him—about halfway between here and Lud. The old fellow seemed to have something on his mind, but couldn’t get it out—I’ve known many a parrot that talked better than he.”
“Oh, I’ve often thought that, too! That he’d something on his mind, I mean,” cried Hazel on another wave of confidence. “It’s as if he were trying hard to tell one something. And he often follows me as if he wanted me to do something for him. And I sometimes think I should try and help him and not be so harsh with him—but he just gives me the creeps, and I can’t help it.”
“He gives you the creeps, does he?”
“That he does!” she cried with a little shiver. “To see him gorging himself with green fruit! It isn’t like a human being the way he does it—it’s like an insect or a bird. And he’s like a cat, too, in the way he always follows about the folk that don’t like him. Oh, he’s nasty! And he’s spiteful, too, and mischievous. But perhaps that’s not to be wondered at, if …” and she broke off abruptly.
Master Nathaniel gave her a keen look. “If what?” he said.
“Oh, well—just silly talk of the country people,” said Hazel evasively.
“That he’s—er, for instance, one of what you call the Silent People?”
“How did you know?” And Hazel looked at him suspiciously.
“Oh, I guessed. You see, I’ve heard a lot of that sort of talk since I’ve been in the west. Well, the old fellow certainly seemed to have something he wanted to tell me, but I can’t say he was very explicit. He kept saying, over and over again, ‘Dig, dig.’ ”
“Oh, that’s his great word,” cried Hazel. “The old women round about say that he’s trying to tell one his name. You see, they think that … well, that he’s a dead man come back and that when he was on earth he was a labourer, by name Diggory Carp.”
“Diggory Carp?” cried Master Nathaniel sharply.
Hazel looked at him in surprise. “Did you know him, sir?” she asked.
“No, no; not exactly. But I seem to have heard the name somewhere. Though I dare say in these parts it’s a common enough one. Well, and what do they say about this Diggory Carp?”
Hazel looked a little uneasy. “They don’t say much, sir—to me. I sometimes think there must have been some mystery about him. But I know that he was a merry, kind sort of man, well liked all round, and a rare fiddler. But he came to a sad end, though I never heard what happened exactly. And they say,” and here she lowered her voice mysteriously, “that once a man joins the Silent People he becomes mischievous and spiteful, however good-natured he may have been when he was alive. And if he’d been unfairly treated, as they say he was, it would make him all the more spiteful, I should think. I often think he’s got something he wants to tell us, and I sometimes wonder if it’s got anything to do with the old stone herm in our orchard … he’s so fond of dancing round it.”
“Really? And where is this old herm? I want to see all the sights of the country, you know; get my money’s worth of travel!” And Master Nathaniel donned again the character of the cheerful cheesemonger, which, in the excitement of the last few minutes, he had, unwittingly, sloughed.
As they walked to the orchard, which was some distance from the washing trough, Hazel said, nervously:
“Perhaps you hadn’t heard, sir, but I live
